A Wash
MK
Supernatural


	Dean is big picture. Dean is everything at once, hit me, toss it to me, I don’t give a 
damn because I can take on the world if I have to.
	Dean just washes everything all together on cold.
	“Uh… what are you doing?”  
	“Washing my shit.”  The duh is silent, but Sam can still hear it.  “No way am I 
stitching these back up with…” he pauses, and Sam fills in the blank with words like 
blood and exploded giant rat-demon and puss, “…stuff all over’em.”  And stuff has never 
been more of an epithet than when used to describe the things that wind up on their 
clothes.
	“You can’t just toss them all in together, like that.”
	“Hate to break it to you, Sammy,” scowl, “But I have been for years.”  Sam 
doesn’t even have to say anything.  He just stares his brother down so that maybe he’ll 
remember what kind of stuff happens to people who do something the wrong way just 
because nothing bad has happened yet.  
	Okay, so laundry’s not as serious as say, blood rites.  But it’s still important.
	“I’m serious, shove over.” 
	Dean rolls his eyes but moves back to slouch in a squeaky, orange plastic chair 
with one leg shorter than the others, rocking back and forth, squeek, squeek, squeek.
	Sam ignores him.  Slimy colours in one washer, darks (mostly Dean’s, and maybe 
the only reason his clothes don’t look like crap is because they’re all black) in another, 
and the rare whites (mostly socks that have gone the pale brown of socks that have been 
inside boots on long hunts where disgusting things have soaked through them and right 
into the sweaty skin of his feet) in a third.  
      “You’re wastin’ money, Sam.” Dean says that like they don’t commit fraud on a 
weekly basis, like he doesn’t play pool shark for kicks instead of cash.  “Could’ve fit all 
that in one machine.”
      Ignoring Dean is easier than arguing with him, so Sam makes sure to toss in the 
detergent, a load of stain-remover, some bleach-alternative in one of the machines, colour 
protecting goo in the middle one and darks-protecting goo in with Dean’s.  
      “Fuck, when did you become such a girl?  You honestly carry all that crap around 
with us?”  Squeek-squeek.  
      Sam closes the round windows on the machines, sets the timers, and pulls Dean’s 
over-sized sewing kit out and throws it at his brother’s head.  Just to be an asshole 
(probably), Dean catches it one-handed.
      Like Dean doesn’t have the neatest, tiniest stitches and the best hand for needle-
work in the whole family.