Maytag Eclipse
Title: Maytag Eclipse
Author: girlguidejones
Rating: PG-13; 1000 words
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: None
Warnings: non-graphic wincest, a scoopful of schmoop
Disclaimer: Aside from a pile of wet laundry, nothing in this story belongs to me.
Author’s note: Another section of the large fic that apparently intends to only write itself in non-linear drabble-chapters. Companion piece to (but can be read without) “State of the Union” which can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/wincest/413470.html
There was only one laundromat in this most recent of tiny, pass-through-able desert towns, and two of its three dryers had “Out of Order” signs on them.
The third one should have.
Dean supposed that most locals probably didn’t bother with the dryers anyway- just laid their underwear out on their egg-fryingly-hot patios and pool decks and came back in five minutes to get them before they melted. But he and Sam were already checked out of their motel, and were working with a deadline. They’d have to pack the wet clothes back into the basket -its handle was duct-taped on and Dean considered its chances of holding the wet jeans dubious at best- and worry about it later.
Sam, of course, had a face for this news, and it wasn’t one of the happy ones. Not that Dean expected it would be. “Sam. What the fuck do you want from me? I’m not the Maytag man.”
“Can’t you…you know…do your thing?” Sam gesticulates idly, long fingers indicating either pantomimed tool-repair or possibly some seriously fucked up ASL. Goddammit if Sammy wasn’t giving him those eyes...the same shiny-eyed gaze that got him extra candy when he was five and Dean’s share of the orange juice when he was thirteen and the side of the bed without the wet spot last night.
Dean fought to keep control of the situation, choosing to channel the first memory, struggling to ignore the distraction posed by the third. He whipped out his Big Brother it’s okay-ing voice. “Even if I could, we don’t have time, Sammy. Need to hit the road, dude.”
“But I don’t have any dry clothes.” And that was eerily close to the little brother whine-voice. He should have expected it.
“What the hell do you have on?” Exasperated, Dean swore he was channeling Dad at that point.
“Dry dirty clothes, Dean.” For a second Sam sounds nine again, sounds it and looks it, giving him that “It’s so obvious and evenyoucannotbethatfuckingthick, Dean” tone. It’s a Sliders moment, and as usual Dean’s plopped out of the vortex on his ass. He always wondered why none of those Sliding people ever puked, ‘cause everytime Sam does this to him, he sure as hell feels like throwing up. He’s catapulted back to when he was still the only constant in Sam’s whole world and his baby brother earnestly believed Dean could shit shiny new Whirlpools if Sam pleaded and pouted and little-boy-blinked enough. And if Dean didn’t? It only meant he didn’t want to, not that he couldn’t. Because to that Sam, there was nothing beyond Dean’s reach.
He only wished he was still that Dean.
“Sorry Sam.” It grates him. For every time he’s ever had to say that word to Sam he feels the weight of it, a hundred thousand sorry-bricks stacked up on his shoulders, making him feel like an old man hauling a huge hunchback of sorry, whose spine won’t ever be straight again. “Cheer up. Grunge is a good look for you.” The corners of his mouth feel like glass, and he thinks they will crack and bleed under the onslaught of Sam’s glare. He turns and lets go of the grin as soon as he knows his brother can’t see him.
Sam stuffs the waist of one pair of heavy-wet jeans and the hem of a sopping, long-sleeved t-shirt in the trunk lid and slams it shut, defiant and daring Dean to comment. Dean just ignores him, watching one of the sleeves drip into the dust, making its own tiny mud-puddle that is dry and vanished when they drive out of the lot. They are the only living creatures traveling the long desert highway, so there is no one to mock, or to wonder if someone’s suitcase bound for SeaWorld has popped open by mistake. By the next pit stop the madly flapping clothes are dry; probably were long before that but Sam was too stubborn to ask Dean to pull over and Dean was still busy fiddling with the radio and pretending he doesn’t notice a single one of Sam’s amazing variety of pouts. Gas is purchased, pisses are had, and Sam emerges from the sandy-floored bathroom in different clothes than when he went in.
The jeans came out okay, but Dean watches Sam walk (he knows all of his brother’s walks...the happy one and the tired one and the hurt one and the horny one) and knows the uncomfortable walk means the waistband must still be wet and chafing him. Shoulda put the legs in, Sammy. The shirt though… It’s distended beyond what physics would seem to allow, making Sam look for all the world like he let Stretch Armstrong borrow his clothes. The armpits are nearly at his waist, and the hem to his knees. The sleeves are easily three hands past Sam’s knuckles.
Dean struggled to maintain his casual lean against the pump, watching his brother approach while his stomach muscles twitched from the sheer effort of caging laughter. But then there must have been some kinda solar eclipse, because suddenly his Sammy’s throwing back his head, laughing at himself, and at his shirt, and at Dean, and that big, dazzling, dimple-puppy smile blots out everything else in a world that seems to humbly dim itself in reverence to something brighter than it is. Ducking his head, Sam puts one sneaker in between Dean’s two boots, nudging, and hot-presses him to the sizzling car, happily wrapping himself and all his sleeves around Dean. Dean grins back, grabbing the ends of the floppy arms and straight-jacketing him as close as he can, making room between his thighs to pull Sam closer. Sam tries to say he’s sorry with chapped lips rubbing under Dean’s ear, but at that moment Dean can’t remember a single thing in their entire lives that Sammy needs to be sorry for. No. Not even for that. Not anymore.
Laughing a kiss into Sam's mouth, Dean thinks that the sun itself must be blinded when Sammy’s shining.
Author: girlguidejones
Rating: PG-13; 1000 words
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: None
Warnings: non-graphic wincest, a scoopful of schmoop
Disclaimer: Aside from a pile of wet laundry, nothing in this story belongs to me.
Author’s note: Another section of the large fic that apparently intends to only write itself in non-linear drabble-chapters. Companion piece to (but can be read without) “State of the Union” which can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/wincest/413470.html
There was only one laundromat in this most recent of tiny, pass-through-able desert towns, and two of its three dryers had “Out of Order” signs on them.
The third one should have.
Dean supposed that most locals probably didn’t bother with the dryers anyway- just laid their underwear out on their egg-fryingly-hot patios and pool decks and came back in five minutes to get them before they melted. But he and Sam were already checked out of their motel, and were working with a deadline. They’d have to pack the wet clothes back into the basket -its handle was duct-taped on and Dean considered its chances of holding the wet jeans dubious at best- and worry about it later.
Sam, of course, had a face for this news, and it wasn’t one of the happy ones. Not that Dean expected it would be. “Sam. What the fuck do you want from me? I’m not the Maytag man.”
“Can’t you…you know…do your thing?” Sam gesticulates idly, long fingers indicating either pantomimed tool-repair or possibly some seriously fucked up ASL. Goddammit if Sammy wasn’t giving him those eyes...the same shiny-eyed gaze that got him extra candy when he was five and Dean’s share of the orange juice when he was thirteen and the side of the bed without the wet spot last night.
Dean fought to keep control of the situation, choosing to channel the first memory, struggling to ignore the distraction posed by the third. He whipped out his Big Brother it’s okay-ing voice. “Even if I could, we don’t have time, Sammy. Need to hit the road, dude.”
“But I don’t have any dry clothes.” And that was eerily close to the little brother whine-voice. He should have expected it.
“What the hell do you have on?” Exasperated, Dean swore he was channeling Dad at that point.
“Dry dirty clothes, Dean.” For a second Sam sounds nine again, sounds it and looks it, giving him that “It’s so obvious and evenyoucannotbethatfuckingthick, Dean” tone. It’s a Sliders moment, and as usual Dean’s plopped out of the vortex on his ass. He always wondered why none of those Sliding people ever puked, ‘cause everytime Sam does this to him, he sure as hell feels like throwing up. He’s catapulted back to when he was still the only constant in Sam’s whole world and his baby brother earnestly believed Dean could shit shiny new Whirlpools if Sam pleaded and pouted and little-boy-blinked enough. And if Dean didn’t? It only meant he didn’t want to, not that he couldn’t. Because to that Sam, there was nothing beyond Dean’s reach.
He only wished he was still that Dean.
“Sorry Sam.” It grates him. For every time he’s ever had to say that word to Sam he feels the weight of it, a hundred thousand sorry-bricks stacked up on his shoulders, making him feel like an old man hauling a huge hunchback of sorry, whose spine won’t ever be straight again. “Cheer up. Grunge is a good look for you.” The corners of his mouth feel like glass, and he thinks they will crack and bleed under the onslaught of Sam’s glare. He turns and lets go of the grin as soon as he knows his brother can’t see him.
Sam stuffs the waist of one pair of heavy-wet jeans and the hem of a sopping, long-sleeved t-shirt in the trunk lid and slams it shut, defiant and daring Dean to comment. Dean just ignores him, watching one of the sleeves drip into the dust, making its own tiny mud-puddle that is dry and vanished when they drive out of the lot. They are the only living creatures traveling the long desert highway, so there is no one to mock, or to wonder if someone’s suitcase bound for SeaWorld has popped open by mistake. By the next pit stop the madly flapping clothes are dry; probably were long before that but Sam was too stubborn to ask Dean to pull over and Dean was still busy fiddling with the radio and pretending he doesn’t notice a single one of Sam’s amazing variety of pouts. Gas is purchased, pisses are had, and Sam emerges from the sandy-floored bathroom in different clothes than when he went in.
The jeans came out okay, but Dean watches Sam walk (he knows all of his brother’s walks...the happy one and the tired one and the hurt one and the horny one) and knows the uncomfortable walk means the waistband must still be wet and chafing him. Shoulda put the legs in, Sammy. The shirt though… It’s distended beyond what physics would seem to allow, making Sam look for all the world like he let Stretch Armstrong borrow his clothes. The armpits are nearly at his waist, and the hem to his knees. The sleeves are easily three hands past Sam’s knuckles.
Dean struggled to maintain his casual lean against the pump, watching his brother approach while his stomach muscles twitched from the sheer effort of caging laughter. But then there must have been some kinda solar eclipse, because suddenly his Sammy’s throwing back his head, laughing at himself, and at his shirt, and at Dean, and that big, dazzling, dimple-puppy smile blots out everything else in a world that seems to humbly dim itself in reverence to something brighter than it is. Ducking his head, Sam puts one sneaker in between Dean’s two boots, nudging, and hot-presses him to the sizzling car, happily wrapping himself and all his sleeves around Dean. Dean grins back, grabbing the ends of the floppy arms and straight-jacketing him as close as he can, making room between his thighs to pull Sam closer. Sam tries to say he’s sorry with chapped lips rubbing under Dean’s ear, but at that moment Dean can’t remember a single thing in their entire lives that Sammy needs to be sorry for. No. Not even for that. Not anymore.
Laughing a kiss into Sam's mouth, Dean thinks that the sun itself must be blinded when Sammy’s shining.