Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.
It's kinda hard to accept that you're lusting after a guy if you're still picking up and washing his dirty Underoos.
Written for the 7th Annual Spring Fic Exchange (2018) at SPN BigPretzel on LiveJournal. Vexed_wench's prompts were:
*The first warm day in months. That can only mean one thing...
*I swear I followed the instructions
*My favorite spring/Easter memory
*In my defense, I had a plan
*What's the worst that could happen?
~#~
Adventures in Washing Machines (and Dreams of Domestic Bliss)
"Morning, Baby," Dean called, running his hand in a loving caress along the smooth, black exterior of the Impala. The first and most important part of his daily routine was to check on his one true love before breakfast.
He threw open the garage doors to reveal the dazzling blue sky of a glorious spring day. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it played across his features. It was especially welcome given the mausoleum-like chill of the rest of the bunker.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs in a tranquil moment that came dangerously close to communing with nature. Still, what the Hell, why not kick back and relax a little? They were on a rare break between hunts and for once all was well in the world.
His calm was short-lived when, turning back to the room, he spotted an all-too-familiar pile of discarded granola wrappers. They were like the well-documented droppings of some strange, enormous beast. He muttered a curse of irritation. Would it kill Sam to pick up after himself once in a while? This isn't a hotel. He didn't even know why Sam had been in here yesterday. His brother had sat and watched while Dean changed the oil in the Impala. Yet, Sam had always made it crystal clear that he had no interest in car mechanics. It makes no sense... Oh well, he was probably just bored. Heathen.
Still, Sam had also mentioned that he might go check out the New Age store that had opened in the next town over (huh, a new new age store!) so that would at least keep him amused for a while and out of Dean's hair.
"You hear that, sweetheart?" crooned Dean to the Impala, because the years had convinced him that at least she, if no one else, was receptive to his thoughts and moods. "It's just you, me, and a big ol' tub of premium grade wax."
"Ew, dude. I'm sure that'll still chafe," echoed Sam's sarcastic chuckle from the doorway.
Dean jolted in alarm at the unexpected interruption and his heart pounded, which it seemed to do a lot around Sammy these days. He blushed, shamefaced that someone, and such a great big galoot at that, could creep up on him.
"Ah, so there he is, the other great love of my life," he added, his own tone no less sarcastic in return. If there was many a true word said in jest, well, Dean wouldn't be confessing anytime soon if he could help it.
He ignored Sam's gleeful accusations that it was age making him lose his touch in favor of declaring that, as a point of principle, it was clearly Sam's slovenly habits that were at fault for driving him to distraction.
Plus, for such a massive, hulking moose, the guy sure is light on his feet. He sniggered to himself at the double meaning, content to willfully ignore how the jibe might apply more to himself.
The thought was lost in the blink of his eye and his mind clamored that it needed another moment, and possibly some serious backup, before it could even begin to process his brother's appearance. Figures. The first warm day in months. That can only mean one thing...
"What are you wearing?" Dean cried, allowing his affronted gaze just one more lingering sweep from head to toe across his brother's body. Another ritual, the car wasn't the only beloved thing Dean checked with care for signs of wear and tear each day.
Sam's hair was getting a little too long, Dean decided, although he didn't like to admit he actually kinda liked it. Their dad had always ordered them to keep their hair short so it couldn't be used against them by an enemy, so it had been an obvious target for Sam's rebellious nature. Dean itched to run his hands through those locks; while a wicked voice in his head whispered how tugging on them would be a useful means for keeping a bad boy in line and reminding him who was in charge.
As someone who immediately exploded into freckles shortly before burning to a crisp at the slightest hint of sun exposure, Dean felt a stab of jealousy at how the too-tight, white V-necked T-shirt emphasized the toned, bronzed complexion of Sam's chest and neck. Without doubt, Dean hadn't been any more sensitive to sunlight during his brief stint as a vampire. To this day, he still had no idea how his brother managed to tan when they spent most of their time either in the bunker or only going out at night.
Sam was also wearing an unbuttoned green flannel over the Tee. Points for layering, thought Dean, plus it brings out the green in his otherwise hazel eyes. And his brother's recent, extra sessions in the gym were obviously paying-off, judging from the way those broad shoulders filled out the shirt nicely and his torso tapered down to a trim waist and flat stomach. Okay, thought Dean, I think I should definitely skip over the next, er... part... for the sake of my own sanity...
Then there were those legs: long, shapely and seeming to go on forever. Dean couldn't have salivated more if he'd been thirsting after a cool drink of water on a hot day.
He belatedly realized he'd been silent for too long. Trying to compose himself, he swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Cut-off denim shorts again?" he croaked.
Jesus, how short has he cut them?
Having said that, the effect was kinda ruined by the calf-length black socks and the ratty white sneakers. Dean shook his head. No matter how many times he tried, he didn't seem to be able to instill even the faintest trace of style into his brother. I just have to accept the dude dresses like the stereotypical straight guy he clearly is.
"I thought I'd made you throw those out," he added, trying not to wince at having given away where he'd been staring.
Sam's eyebrows had meanwhile, Dean noticed, set forth on an epic journey up across his stupidly massive forehead until they now almost touched his hairline.
"I like them," smirked Sam.
And now I know you like them too, purred Sam's imagined voice in Dean's fervid mind.
"Besides, it's laundry day," continued the actual, real-life Sam, unaware of his brother's internal turmoil.
Dean groaned as reality came crashing in. "Dude, you know you don't really do domestic, so please don't tell me you broke the washer," he complained, running his hands through his hair.
Sam crossed and uncrossed his arms several times, simultaneously demonstrating both his anxiety and well-muscled arms to good effect. "I swear, I followed the instructions," he said at last.
Dean wondered fleetingly if somewhere in the bunker there might be a set of instructions for Sam. He could picture it now: 101 ways to get the best out of your moose and other tips for domesticating majestic wild animals. There was a time he would have imagined such a thing to be a well-thumbed and dog-eared pamphlet. Now it seemed more likely to be a thick textbook still untouched and pristine in its protective plastic wrapping.
Lately, it seemed they were forever butting heads. Thorny edges long-since worn smooth from years of cohabitation had returned with a vengeance like sharp, spring buds after a long winter. Dean was self-aware enough to know he was the likely source of much of that recent awkwardness.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," added Sam, breaking Dean from his thoughts.
"Yeah?" asked Dean with a Titanic-like sinking feeling.
"It might be flooding the storeroom as we speak," admitted Sam.
Dean trudged off to get the mop while Sam trailed along behind like an overgrown puppy. Dean couldn't prevent himself from letting out a dramatic sigh; he'd only cleaned and polished the floors the day before.
~#~
Dean couldn't keep his eyes off Sam, who sat on top of the dryer swinging his long legs, his sneakers crashing against the metal body making a rhythmic, drum-like sound. His brother looked so young and boyish, the innocent youngster shining through from within the thirty-year-old man.
That, and the surroundings, reminded Dean of one his favorite spring memories; of a run-down boarding house they'd stayed in one year. John had been away on one hunt after another - nothing unusual about that - but in this case his absence had been more than made up by one of the longest continuous periods they'd ever stayed in one location.
He'd earned extra cash from doing chores around the place, while Sam inevitably trotted along after him like a vision of coltish gangly limbs in the first, fresh beauty of adolescence. While exhausted by the backbreaking work, he'd felt important and grown-up from the first money he earned with his own muscle and sweat. It was also the first time he'd experienced the satisfaction from a job well done from domestic duties.
More importantly, it meant they had still had money left over when the little John had left them had run out. It was the first time Dean could relax somewhat about money and enjoy the process of playing house with Sam. Not that his brother had been much help around said house back then either. Sam, tiny squirt that he was, ate like the moose he would later turn out to be, clearly stockpiling for what ended up as one hell of an impressive growth spurt.
Now, as then, Sam sat by and watched as Dean mopped and rinsed, and mopped and rinsed. Dean continued his struggle to ignore the long, well-muscled legs and their hypnotic swinging backward and forwards.
"Can you stop that?" he snapped at last. He flushed at his outburst.
Recovering his cool, he pointed at the piled sacks of various herbs and provisions (it was good to buy in bulk) that Sam's kicking feet had up-ended. Mandrake, wolf's bane (oh, so wonderful aconite that's poisonous to every damn thing except werewolves), dream root, deadly nightshade, and hemlock. The last which they hadn't even needed but, once Sam had mentioned it had once been used to poison some old philosopher, Dean couldn't resist. Petty, he knew, but he had one serious hate-on for translating ancient Greek texts.
"All soaked through," he complained, "they're ruined."
Something worried away at his mind-hadn't Sam flooded the room before?-but since Dean despised being nagged he pushed it firmly to one side.
"Sorry," shrugged Sam.
Since all time and thought ceased for Dean in the slow, rolling rise and fall of those alluring, broad shoulders, it was difficult for him to assess the sincerity or level of remorse asserted in that statement. A change of subject was needed, Dean decided, besides...
"How much soap did you put in here?" he wondered aloud as the machine disgorged yet another sudsy tsunami across the area he'd just mopped. It wasn't the change of topic he'd been intending.
"The whole box?" replied Sam, the oblivious attitude somewhat negating the impact of the earlier shrug. It wasn't clear if he was asking a question or making a statement; it had the feeling that it had the potential to go either way.
Dean rolled his eyes. Why was it always up to him? It's not like Sam helped with the shopping. There was only so much arugula and avocado a man could eat, and that was just what Sam had returned with the last time he'd been sent out for pie and cleaning supplies.
Dean slumped in defeat. He knew he only had himself to blame, he'd babied Sam.
A chill ran down his spine as he was struck by an awful thought. I'm not perving over my brother; it's worse. I'm perving over my child. He wondered if an actual lightning bolt would strike him next, some terrible-but deserved-judgment from the gods.
"What? They were all kinda grubby; covered in dirty fingerprints," complained Sam, not noticing how Dean cringed at his words. His face hardened as he added, "Last time, you moaned I didn't put enough in."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose at the pounding announcement of the onset daddy of all headaches. "I said, you hadn't put any in," he growled.
He remained unmoved as Sam shrugged those exquisite, Herculean shoulders once more. Oh, there, looks like I'm now immune, thought Dean, always willing to find the silver lining.
Dean suspected that Sam considered himself too good to do household chores. He'd always had the car, but Sam had never had anything to be proud of. What was the point? All their lives, until now, they'd moved on every couple of weeks and there'd always been someone to pick up after them and take care of things.
Things like this didn't help convince Dean that the snot-nosed kid was a thing of the past and that Sam was now a strapping, big-ass man.
Okay, maybe that was a poor choice of words.
Awesome mental image though, his mind whispered.
Yeah, maybe not so immune after all.
~#~
"Listen, I think I've figured out," said Sam, having watched Dean the whole time through narrowed eyes. "I can take it from here," he added.
Not for the first time, Dean suspected his brother could read his mind... when it suited him. It was Dean's turn to shrug. Maybe Cas was right when he kept going on about them needing to let go of the guilt of their past.
He should let Sam make his own decisions and give him the space to make his own mistakes. And maybe laundry was a good place to start to loosen those apron strings? He's already flooded the basement twice now, what's the worst that could happen?
Dean nodded and turned to leave, the long walk to the door stretching out forever.
"Wait," called Sam.
Dean paused at the threshold, not quite daring to turn back to look at his brother.
"Have you got anything you want to put in?" asked Sam, his voice tentative in an almost-teasing tone.
Dean had a strong sense that wasn't what Sam had meant to ask him. "If it's laundry day," started Dean cautiously, "are you sure you've got room?"
"I don't have much," said Sam. He smiled with a joy that drove the shadows from the basement room. "But I've always got room for you."
Dean swallowed past a now-dry throat, frozen in place as Sam moved closer with all the formidable grace of a big cat. It was like watching a nature documentary as some apex predator went in for the kill.
Sam leaned in and casually wrapped his hands in the collar of Dean's unbuttoned flannel shirt, using the material to pull him in closer and closer still. Dean's arms flailed by his side as he knew where he desperately wanted to put his hands but at the same time not quite daring.
"It's stained," noted Sam, his grip tightening on the cloth while his hot, laser-beam gaze scanned down and across Dean's body.
"I hadn't noticed," whispered Dean, though he'd long suspected this was the case. He was filthy, unworthy. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It'll all come out in the wash," said Sam, nostrils flaring as he slowly peeled off the shirt, running warm hands down Dean's back. The action brought them still closer until they touched, their chests pressed together.
Dean couldn't breathe. It's too good to be true. He could barely discern his own thoughts over the sound of his pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Sam had him in a firm grip and was, Dean hoped, about to manhandle him against the nearest hard surface. Head spinning, Dean surrendered himself to the welcome physical and emotional onslaught until he stumbled over something.
He glanced down at a burlap sack, still sopping wet from the earlier washing machine leak.
Dream root, his mind supplied automatically as it proceeded to join the dots. His eyes stung, watering he assumed from the pungent mix of soap and herbs. Even in my dreams, I'm still sabotaging my own happiness, he snorted.
His surroundings swirled around him.
Son of a bitch...
~#~
"Dean."
Sam produced a wrench, so absurdly large it was almost comical, and pressed it against Dean's chest. "Do you need to fix it?" he asked, gesturing to the washing machine as he moved ever-closer into Dean's personal space. "Is it even really broken?"
Dean gulped wide-eyed as Sam's cheek slid across his face with a faint rasp of stubble.
"Perhaps it's you that's been doing it wrong this whole time," Sam whispered.
"Dean?"
Sam-another, different, Sam-ran into the room at full pelt. It was difficult to judge his expression as the current Sam had his tongue wedged firmly in Dean's ear.
"What are you doing?" New Sam's voice was a mixture of horror and anger.
Dean wondered that himself, only dimly aware that he was now standing surrounded by vast towering peaks of dirty clothes. He plucked a dirty flannel shirt from the floor, clutching it tightly with both hands as he glared at its label. The tag still didn't make any sense no matter how much he angrily squinted at it.
Since when is an anti-possession sigil a washing care instruction?
If there was an answer it was lost during the realization that the huge, looming piles of washing were about to topple. He watched in a dumb, hypnotic trance as the mountains tipped and started to fall.
"Dean!"
Taking a running jump and diving to one side, he barely avoided being swept away by the crushing avalanche of falling laundry. Breathing heavily, he collapsed forward with his hands resting on his knees while he waited for his heart to recover.
A discreet cough from the orchestra pit caught his attention and he glowered at the silently waiting, judging audience.
"Washing your dirty laundry in public!" came the stage-whispered prompt.
"What?"
"Your line," hissed the shadowy figure. "You keep missing your cue."
"Dean!" called a familiar voice once more.
"What?" Dean cried, finally sitting up out of the great lake of the flooded basement as if born again from some unconventional baptism. He rubbed the streams of water from his eyes, feeling washed clean. He blinked and the hallucination faded.
Not water, his eyes were crusted with sleep. He was dry and in bed.
Sam's bed.
~#~
"What am I doing here?" Dean rasped.
"I was worried about you," said Sam, from his position in a straight-back chair by the side of the bed. "By the time I'd found you, you'd soaked in so much of the dream root I wasn't sure if you'd ever escape from it," he added his voice cracking. From the purple bruising under his eyes, it looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"No, I meant in your bed."
"Oh," Sam blushed. "It was nearer," he added at last. He bent forward and, with his giant fingers, smoothed Dean's hair from his brow. The cool, gentle caress was soothing and Dean couldn't stop himself from leaning into it to prolong the contact, even though it felt like he had one hell of a sizable lump on his skull.
"You head-butted the washer on the way down as you collapsed," explained Sam, demonstrating the depth and effectiveness of his mind-reading once more.
Dean wondered if that was proof this was just another dream-within-a-dream until his gaze revealed that Sam wasn't wearing the too-short denim cut-offs.
"Long pants, thank god," he sighed. It was just a little white lie.
Sam looked down at himself, his giant forehead furrowed as if surprised by his own regular state of dress. "I almost threw them out the last time you bitched about them. I wouldn't mind but I'd only kept wearing them because you seemed to like them."
"Oh," Dean didn't know what to say to that, but he filed the information away for another time. He wondered what Sam would do if he turned the thermostat way up.
~#~
"So what, you had a dream about doing the laundry?" asked Sam incredulously. "After all the things you've seen and done and that is what you dream about?"
Dean shifted in the bed. "Well, I guess it's kinda relaxing and it's nice putting everything right."
"I guess it a control thing," Sam mused, "given how much we moved around as kids I guess it's only normal that you'd want to take control of your environment somehow."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't psychoanalyze me," he complained.
"Why not? Someone clearly needs to," snorted Sam with a wide grin to take off any sting from the words. "I should know, I came in after you."
Dean's blood froze at the thought of what his brother would have seen. "That probably wasn't a great idea," he squeaked, automatically grasping at Sam's arm.
"Well, I wasn't expecting it to be so distracting," agreed Sam, his eyes twinkling.
Dean concluded he must have done the mind-reading thing himself because somehow he knew it was all okay between them.
"In my defense, I had a plan," added Sam, taking the clutching hand in his own.
"Which was?" asked Dean, now able to breathe again, but just not sure he dared.
"That I'd wing it," smiled Sam, reaching out to cup Dean's cheek in his palm. "You forget I learned from the best."
Dean let his middle finger take care of his witty reply. "Anyway," he said, "the laundry still needs doing and given how technically I've already done it, I think it's definitely about time for your turn."
He dropped his gaze in a coy smile. "Also, the place is a bit of a mess," he added, pointing to the state of the floor in Sam's room. "You could give the place a proper mop through. When you do, don't forget to put a little Van Van Oil in the water; it gives spirit protection, a nice smell, plus an amazing shine once you buff it up."
The look of horror on Sam's face was worth the disquiet of considering what a horrible mess he'd probably make of it.
Dean grinned, sometimes it was important to 'treat them mean to keep them keen'.
And boy, was he keen enough for the both of them.
(;,;)