Ficlet: Laundromat, 1/1, Gen, Sam, Dean, [PG]
Ficlet: Laundromat
Author: sandymg
Summary: It’s laundry day.
Spoilers: Through S06x11 Appointment in Samarra
Wordcount: 500 - one-shot
Genre: Gen, comment fic
Characters: Dean, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
A/N: Written for spnroundtable Prompt-and-Fill Session #5 -- Hangin' Around for jesseofthenorth's prompt here
Laundromat
Dean slams the door on the washer and sits on the bench watching the swirl of random colors. It’s momentarily dizzying.
“You own too much plaid.”
Sam’s lips purse. “You have just as much plaid as I do.”
“No I don’t.”
Sam sighs. It’s quiet again aside from the churn of the washing machine.
Someone enters. She’s an African American woman in her forties, maybe fifties, with striking high cheekbones and as she turns and spots them - a beaming bright smile. “G’ morning.”
“Good morning,” they both reply in unison.
Her smile gets impossibly bigger and Dean meets Sam’s eyes, lips curving up chagrined. She loads her machine quickly and then turns back to them. “Gonna take care of some chores. I’ll be back.”
Dean nods because really she hardly owes them an explanation of her actions but there is an odd Laundromat dynamic that kicks in sometimes. Like washing one’s dirty clothes in the same place creates an instant intimacy.
As soon as she leaves Dean turns to Sam. “Teacher.”
Sam studies the door before returning his gaze to Dean. “Nah. I think housewife.”
Dean doesn’t expect the surge of something that hits him just then. The words escape before he can stop them. “You answered.”
“What?”
They played this game all the time. Thousands of Laundromats all over the country. They’d see people and guess their occupations and if they were able to find out then the winner would buy the loser a drink. Except. They hadn’t played this game or any other for the past six months. Sam … the other not-so-soulful Sam said he didn’t get the point.
But habit is hard to break so every time Dean would still blurt out a profession. And every time Sam would turn those blank eyes on him in silent dismissal. After the first time when Dean had explained and Sam said it was pointless, Sam had simply stopped answering.
At the time Dean had asked, but what’s to do while we wait? Sam’s stare was so pointed that Dean had to look away. “We just wait,” he’d said matter-of-factly. His tone intimating his ongoing impatience at all things Dean.
“Dean?” Sam looks concerned now.
Dean absorbs that look, storing it up greedily like a squirrel hoards nuts. The door opens again interrupting the moment.
A skinny, tall young man enters. His hair is unruly and too long and Dean’s immediate impression is that he reminds him of Sam as a teenager. The boy looks briefly at the two of them with a wary stare before quickly lowering his gaze and moving to a machine in the back. In the moment when their eyes met Dean could see that they are light. A pale blue. He thinks of Adam and digs his fingers into his palm to fight the wave of guilt.
Sam leans in. “Student.”
Dean blinks.
Sam.
He stares blankly a moment until Sam urges, “You playin’?”
Dean can’t fight the smile. “7-Eleven clerk.”
“Well, yeah. That, too.”
fin
Author: sandymg
Summary: It’s laundry day.
Spoilers: Through S06x11 Appointment in Samarra
Wordcount: 500 - one-shot
Genre: Gen, comment fic
Characters: Dean, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
A/N: Written for spnroundtable Prompt-and-Fill Session #5 -- Hangin' Around for jesseofthenorth's prompt here
Laundromat
Dean slams the door on the washer and sits on the bench watching the swirl of random colors. It’s momentarily dizzying.
“You own too much plaid.”
Sam’s lips purse. “You have just as much plaid as I do.”
“No I don’t.”
Sam sighs. It’s quiet again aside from the churn of the washing machine.
Someone enters. She’s an African American woman in her forties, maybe fifties, with striking high cheekbones and as she turns and spots them - a beaming bright smile. “G’ morning.”
“Good morning,” they both reply in unison.
Her smile gets impossibly bigger and Dean meets Sam’s eyes, lips curving up chagrined. She loads her machine quickly and then turns back to them. “Gonna take care of some chores. I’ll be back.”
Dean nods because really she hardly owes them an explanation of her actions but there is an odd Laundromat dynamic that kicks in sometimes. Like washing one’s dirty clothes in the same place creates an instant intimacy.
As soon as she leaves Dean turns to Sam. “Teacher.”
Sam studies the door before returning his gaze to Dean. “Nah. I think housewife.”
Dean doesn’t expect the surge of something that hits him just then. The words escape before he can stop them. “You answered.”
“What?”
They played this game all the time. Thousands of Laundromats all over the country. They’d see people and guess their occupations and if they were able to find out then the winner would buy the loser a drink. Except. They hadn’t played this game or any other for the past six months. Sam … the other not-so-soulful Sam said he didn’t get the point.
But habit is hard to break so every time Dean would still blurt out a profession. And every time Sam would turn those blank eyes on him in silent dismissal. After the first time when Dean had explained and Sam said it was pointless, Sam had simply stopped answering.
At the time Dean had asked, but what’s to do while we wait? Sam’s stare was so pointed that Dean had to look away. “We just wait,” he’d said matter-of-factly. His tone intimating his ongoing impatience at all things Dean.
“Dean?” Sam looks concerned now.
Dean absorbs that look, storing it up greedily like a squirrel hoards nuts. The door opens again interrupting the moment.
A skinny, tall young man enters. His hair is unruly and too long and Dean’s immediate impression is that he reminds him of Sam as a teenager. The boy looks briefly at the two of them with a wary stare before quickly lowering his gaze and moving to a machine in the back. In the moment when their eyes met Dean could see that they are light. A pale blue. He thinks of Adam and digs his fingers into his palm to fight the wave of guilt.
Sam leans in. “Student.”
Dean blinks.
Sam.
He stares blankly a moment until Sam urges, “You playin’?”
Dean can’t fight the smile. “7-Eleven clerk.”
“Well, yeah. That, too.”
fin