Not really a Christmas story, but Merry Christmas! -KHK

Dirty Laundry
K Hanna Korossy

It was Sam's turn to do laundry.

Even if he was feeling upset and betrayed over Dean handing him over to Gadreel and Kevin's murder, even if Dean had been an idiot and taken on the Mark of Cain with consequences Sam increasingly feared, even if a Knight of Hell was threatening to burn the world down, they still needed clean clothes. And so there was Sam, collecting all the dirty laundry Dean had tossed around his laundry basket, because that was his chore. Like Dean manned the kitchen, cooking more of Sam's favorites than his own these days. Not that Sam would give him the satisfaction of noticing.

Just another day with the Winchesters.

Sam picked up a black-and-white flannel shirt, and it squished in his hand. Ew. Sam screwed up his face and dropped it into the basket, then rubbed his hand clean in another shirt. He wasn't going to think about what that could be. The blood stains were bad enough and, yep, there was another tee that was going in the trash. You could only sew up so many claw marks.

Okay, that had to be most of Dean's clothes right there, Sam thought as he straightened. Even though they had actual dressers and closets now, they could each fit all their clothes in two duffel bags. Sam could've listed his brother's shirts on two hands if he wanted to. Came with living in each others' pockets, even if they had their…own rooms…

Huh.

Sam poked gingerly through the pile of laundry he'd collected, then, not finding what he was looking for, strode over to Dean's dresser. Just as he expected, it was almost empty. The closet just held his robe and a couple of jackets. That was weird. Sam headed to the laundry room. Maybe it had been ruined and Dean had to toss it? Sam mulled that over, trying to remember when he'd last seen it as he stuffed clothes into the washing machine and started the first load.

He found Dean in the storeroom, taking inventory and making a shopping list. His brother glanced up at his arrival, then returned to his list. "What kind of fruit do you want?"

"Whatever looks good. But bananas and grapes would be great."

Dean nodded and made a note, then poked through the cans of beans, counting.

"Hey…" Sam crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. "What happened to that shirt Lisa gave you?"

"What shirt?" Dean asked absently. The moratorium against mentioning Lisa and Ben had passed; there had been too many wounds since then on top of that one for it to still burn.

"You know, the blue Carharrt. The one she said 'looked great with your eyes.'" The teasing fell flat, as it usually did these days. "I thought you loved that shirt."

Dean had paused. Sam couldn't see his face, and wasn't sure if he was trying to remember or trying not to.

"Tossed it," was all Dean finally said, and he added something else to his list.

Sam's arms loosened. "Why? Did it get messed up on a hunt? I don't remember."

"Why does it matter?" Dean still hadn't turned around. "We go through clothes like toilet paper, dude."

Sam made a face. There was a pleasant image. And it was true; they regularly cleaned out the men's section of the local thrift shops. Sam hadn't let himself get attached to any item of clothing since the dog shirt Jess gave him met an ignominious end.

At this point, though, he was more curious about why Dean was dodging his question. Not that they didn't have far more important fish to fry, or that Dean wasn't more impatient in general since gaining that stupid Mark. But he'd also been trying to make things right with Sam, Sam had to give him that, and usually seemed relieved Sam was even talking to him. This was setting off alarm bells.

"It doesn't really matter," Sam said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I was just doing laundry and wondering why I hadn't seen it in a while."

"Don't use those foofy dryer sheets this time, okay? I don't wanna smell like a freakin' garden."

And still Dean didn't turn around.

Sam waited in silence.

His brother finally sighed. "You're not lettin' this go, are you?" Dean turned, finally, eyeing Sam, but his expression was wary.

Sam raised an eyebrow in silent response. It had been an idle question, but he was pretty sure now it was an important answer.

Dean shook his head and dropped the pen and notepad on the nearest empty shelf. He faced Sam squarely now, and it felt weirdly like a confrontation. "Three bullet holes and a bucket of blood. Wasn't even good for shop rags after that."

Sam blinked, hands falling out of pockets. He hadn't been expecting that. "You…?" and at Dean's grim nod, Sam stammered, "When? What happened? Where…?"

"Remember the werewolf hunt in Tulsa a few months back?"

Sam thought quickly. "Sure. We took down the werewolf couple that was killing homeless people downtown. You didn't—"

"I did. Security guard came out when he heard the gunshots, saw me leaning over the bodies, and figured he would play hero."

Sam searched his memories. He remembered shooting the werewolves. There was some confusion; they needed to make sure the two were dead and had turned back to human, but they were also worried about witnesses. Sam was looking around. There was yelling…

And then Dean was shoving him urgently into the Impala, telling him they had to go. And Sam, at that point used to getting fuzzy sometimes as an aftereffect of the Trials—or so he'd thought—hadn't questioned it. Neither of them seemed injured. And he didn't happen to notice what Dean was or wasn't wearing.

Sam went still. "Gadreel."

Dean nodded, gaze hooded. "I was bleeding in the street like a stuck pig. He fixed me up."

Sam swallowed, turning away on a nod. Gadreel again, taking over his mind and body, hiding memories.

And saving Dean's life.

Sam knew Gadreel had saved Sam, both from the damage of the Trials and at least twice on hunts. He'd even pieced together that the angel had brought Charlie back from the dead, which had at least given Sam pause. But he'd reasoned that he and Charlie might not have been in those positions in the first place if Gadreel hadn't gotten them there.

Dean, though. It had been Sam's job to watch his brother's back, and he'd failed. Dean had been injured, badly. And Gadreel had risked himself to save Dean. And that…

Sam wasn't sure what to do with that.

"I wanted to tell you, man. I did," Dean said quietly, guiltily behind him. He'd taken Sam's silence for censure, and he wasn't completely wrong. What he'd done was such a violation, Sam didn't know if he'd ever fully get over it. But it had saved Dean's life, not just Sam's, and it was hard to be mad about that.

"I know," Sam said quietly.

An awkward quiet stretched over a handful of seconds.

"Pick up some nachos and queso," Sam finally said. They hadn't had movie night in…a really long time. Maybe it was time to accept at least one of Dean's olive branches.

"Uh. Okay," Dean said behind him, still uncertain.

"And the good creamer."

"Right. The princess coffee crap you like."

Sam snorted, a tiny bit amused. He met Dean's eyes for a long moment, then headed back to the laundry room.

Worry over the Mark had replaced some of the rage he felt toward his brother. Time was slowly eroding the rest. Moments like this, though, reminded Sam why he wanted to move past this in the first place.

He pulled out his phone. First off, he was ordering Dean a blue shirt for Christmas.

The End