The Laundromat

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Kripke does. Also in no way affiliated with or garnering a profit from Monty Python.

A/N: So this is just some harmless fluff – posted elsewhere as a series whose only point is to get the boys out of those damn layers!

No slash or wincest…

The Laundromat

Sam cringed, frowning slightly and glancing furtively up through his shaggy hair every time he heard a noise and thought someone was trying to come in. He shot his brother yet another angry sideways glare.

"Seriously, Dude. Just relax. Who's gonna come in here at this hour? We're the only ones wacked out enough to be doing our laundry at 3 in the morning." Dean didn't raise his eyes from the magazine he was pouring over. He was completely relaxed, which was really pissing Sam off.

Sam was the complete opposite of relaxed. How the hell did Dean do that. Just tune out the world. Including every freakin' social convention known to society. If Sam sat on this bench for the next six months, he knew there was still no way that he was going to be comfortable sitting here in nothing but an old motel room towel that Dean had scored somewhere. Sam crossed and uncrossed his legs. Then he did the same with his arms. He glared at Dean again. Dean turned the page of his magazine. Sam was convinced that Dean's towel was slightly bigger than his own.

"God. And you say I have ADD!" Dean grinned at his brother. Truth be told, he was quite enjoying his evening. Payback was a bitch, and Dean was pretty sure his brother would never shirk his little brother duty to do the laundry in a timely fashion ever again…

That afternoon

"You're sure that's the house you saw in the vision?" Dean was frowning out the window of the Impala at a house in an older neighbourhood, both of which had seen better days. Sam had to duck his head slightly to be able to see out of Dean's window.

"Yeah, Dean. How many times do you want to hear it?"

"Until it actually makes any sense. Damn it, Sam. Your visions always have something to do with that yellow-eyed bastard, and we can't find the connection. This looks like nothing more than a vengeful spirit. It doesn't add up." Dean was pissed. Given his obsession with always 'balancing the books', Sam considered that Dean might have made a fine accountant, but he kept that observation to himself. What he couldn't help was the smirk that passed across his face.

"Glad you're finding something to be amused by," Dean snarked.

"What do you want Dean? You know the visions can be tricky. I'm sure there's a connection somewhere and we'll find it eventually, but for now, can we just concentrate on getting rid of this spirit?"

"We'd better wait for dark. This neighbourhood is a bit too busy for my liking. Should we do some more research while we're waiting or grab a bite to eat?"

"Eat. We're as prepared as we're going to be. We just have to be back here well before midnight if we're going to alter my vision and save those kids."


"Dean. What's the point of pouring over the entire menu when I can tell you right now what you're going to order?"

"Is that so, college-boy? Or should I say psychic wonder? I might just surprise you. It never hurts to make sure I'm not missing something."


The waitress finally appeared to take their order. She was young – probably her first job - and seemed a bit overwhelmed. Sam had the special – meatloaf and all the trimmings, and Dean had…… a cheeseburger, fries, and a coffee. The same meal he'd been having almost every day – either for lunch or dinner – since they'd started eating in diners. The diner was busy, but the waitress reappeared fairly quickly with their order. Unfortunately, she tripped just as she was getting to the table and the coffee pot she was carrying to refill Dean's cup slid off of the tray. Miraculously, the pot didn't shatter when it hit the table; it simply toppled over in slow motion, splattering Dean with hot coffee. He gasped and jumped up.

"Oh my God!" the waitress gasped. "I'm so gonna get fired over this."

"Hey. Don't sweat it." Dean immediately took pity on her. He tried valiantly to grin instead of wince as the coffee soaked through his shirt and burned his stomach. Luckily, the coffee wasn't nearly as hot as it could have been. The waitress placed their food on the table and attempted to help Dean.

"I'm so sorry," the young girl apologized yet again and swiped at Dean with a cloth that she had tucked in her apron.

"Really. It's ok." Dean ducked his head down trying to catch her eye and finally managed to get the girl to smile back at him and return to her other tables.

"I'm gonna go out to the car and get a clean shirt, Sam. Be right back."

Sam had managed – quite valiantly he thought – not to grin throughout the entire little scenario. However, as soon as Dean left to go to the car, Sam snorted and grinned from ear to ear. He shook his head and turned his attention to his meal, which was surprisingly very good. Sam didn't look up again until Dean huffed into the booth across from him. Sam recognized that sound and the look on Dean's face that always accompanied it. Dean was seriously displeased about something. Probably the fact that he'd been gone long enough for his food to be pretty cold by now.

"What?" Sam asked. He didn't have to play the innocent card 'cuz he honestly couldn't even begin to imagine what he could have done to piss off his brother. No. It had to be some other entity that had pissed on his brother's Lucky Charms. He doubted his brother would hold a grudge on the poor waitress.

"Sam." Dean paused for dramatic effect. Damn, Sammy thought, he's pulled out the big I-could-have-been-a-marine-just–like-my-dad voice. "Who was on laundry duty?"

"I … I … had to get the research done..." Sam stammered and tried valiantly to get his best kicked-puppy face up and running.

"Does this shirt look clean to you?"

"Um. Is that a trick question, Dean?"

Dean just glared. He might not care if his clothes were a little wrinkled – given his preference for rolling his clothes rather than folding them when packing – but Dean was fastidious about cleanliness. He hated to be dirty.

"Imagine my surprise, Sam, not to be able to find a truly clean shirt in either of our bags."

"Dude! What were you looking in my bag for?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Anyway, after your last vomit-fest, you promised you would do the laundry. In fact, as I recall, you were supposed to have done some last night."

"Dean, you did get dressed this morning. Did you count how many clean shirts you had?"

"Thought you might have put them all in your bag. You will be doing laundry as soon as we finish up tonight, so eat up and let's get this job done."

Back at the house

"Sam! Have you planted that damn gris-gris bag yet?" Dean shouted.

"Trying, Dean. I'm meeting just a little resistance," Sam shouted back. He ducked and winced at the same time. He was trying to avoid a lamp that just launched itself at his head, and he winced at what he could only surmise was the sound of his brother bouncing off of something on the floor above him.

"Dean? Are you ok?"

"Just hurry up, ok?"

Sam managed to punch the final hole into the wall and shove the gris-gris bag in. Suddenly, there was a fierce wind and howling swirling through the house, a bright flash of light, and a loud bang. Then – nothing.

"Think we got it!" Sam called triumphantly. Not seeing his brother trotting down the stairs or hearing an answering whoop, Sam's grin faded to be replaced by a look of concern. "Dean?"

"Yeah. Comin' Sammy." Dean's voice sounded strained and too quiet. Sam was up the stairs two at a time. Dean was just trying to peel himself from the floor. Sam moved quickly to his brother's side and quickly looked him over. He had a small gash on the right side of his forehead up by the hairline which was weeping a bit of blood. It probably wouldn't need stitches but he was gonna have a helluva bruise. He was also coated in dirt and cobwebs – as was Sam from being dragged and thrown around the abandoned house. Sam reached down and grabbed his brother's arm to help him to his feet.

"You ok, Sammy?"

"I'm fine Dean. I'm not the one who is spirit catnip after all."

"I'm fine. It's hard to be popular, Sam," Dean smirked.

Sam shook his head, smirking back, and put his hand on his brother's back to guide him from the room and was surprised when his brother flinched and hissed.

"Dude. What's up with your back?"

"Dean! Enough! It's NOT fine. You're busted, so just save the time and tell me what happened."

"Easy there tiger. It's my back – not like I got eyes in the back of my head…"


"Ok, ok. I might have gotten tossed into something sharp…"

By this time they had made their way back to the first floor and their duffle bag of supplies. Sam rooted out the extra flashlight. In the excitement of getting rid of what had turned out to be a poltergeist, both boys had managed to bust the ones they had. Well, the spirit had managed to bust them. Sam quickly turned the light on Dean's back. Whatever it was that his brother had collided with had sliced cleanly through his jacket, flannel shirt, t-shirt, and finally, his skin. Sam gingerly raised Dean's clothes up to get a closer look at the wound.

Dean hissed. "Easy there, Florence. How's it look?"

"Well, for a change, you aren't bleeding like a stuck pig, but this is gonna need a couple of stitches."

"Let's get the hell outta here then and get cleaned up."

"No arguments here."

Truck Stop half hour later

Dean had a plan. He hated to be this dirty for this long. They'd already checked out of their motel, and Dean was eager to hit the road for the next town. But first, he wanted to get cleaned up. Dean's first stop was a full service truck stop – one complete with showers.

"Yahtzee!" Dean pulled the Impala in and parked.

"What the hell, Dean? I'm really not hungry."

"I'm not hungry either, but I'm tired of being dirty, and I'd prefer not to bleed on the seat of my car for much longer." Dean pushed open his door and moved to the trunk of the Impala. He pulled out a couple of towels that they'd "borrowed" from some motel, grabbed the first aid kit, and stuffed both in his duffel, handing Sam his own duffle.

"C'mon. Let's get this over with. I'll shower first, then you can stitch me up, and then you can shower. Sound ok?"


"Hey Sam?"
"Actually, I am kinda hungry. Why don't you grab us a couple of sandwiches to go? We don't really want to look like we're going to the can together, right?"

"Whatever, Dude. Just remember that it was your idea to go to the can together…." Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the diner part of the complex.

Dean smirked to himself. Sammy, Sammy, you're never even gonna see this comin'. Dean made his way into the showers and quickly stripped off his filthy clothes. He hissed as his t-shirt stuck to his latest wound. Grabbing the soap and shampoo from his bag, Dean slipped into the closest shower stall. Quickly adjusting the water temperature, he let it cascade over his tense and battered muscles. His breath caught slightly as the water ran down his muscled back and seared the wound, cleansing it. Dean pressed his hands into the wall in front of him, letting his head hang down, just enjoying the sensation of coming clean. Finally, he raised his head and lathered up with the soap, doing his best to get some soap in the vicinity of his wound. After rinsing off the soap, he lathered up his short cropped hair and then rinsed out the shampoo. Dean remained under the soothing water until he actually heard Sam re-enter the bathroom.


"Yeah. Right there, Sam." He turned off the water and grabbed his towel, pulling it around his waist. Water was still beading off his finely muscled torso and clung to the ends of his hair and eyelashes. Sam was fiddling with the first aid kit, getting out the suturing materials. Dean sighed. Another scar. Good thing chicks dug scars….

Dean leaned against the sink while Sam cleaned the wound with iodine soap and stitched him up and then placed a bandage over the wound at Dean's insistence. He was so not chancing blood on his baby's seats.

Once he was done, Sam stripped off his own dirty clothes, grabbed soap and shampoo and a towel, and jumped into the shower stall vacated by Dean. Dean made a pretence of cleaning up and fiddling with his clothes as Sam mimicked Dean's earlier pose. Leaning against the wall in front of him, Sam luxuriated in the warm water as it sloughed the dirt from his muscled frame, sliding down his finely chiselled abdominals and relaxing his tense and battered back muscles. Sighing, Sam lathered up and rinsed off and then tackled his unruly mop of hair. That's when Dean struck.

Shaking the excess water out of his hair, Sam turned off the taps and grabbed the towel to dry off. He quickly secured it around his hips and reached for his duffle and the cleanest clothes he could find….. What the hell? Where the hell were his clothes?

"DEAN!!" Sam bellowed. "SO NOT FUNNY." Sam was tired and not in the mood for another prank war. Not to mention he was virtually naked in a damn truck stop.

Dean's lanky frame appeared in the doorway. He was also still clad in only his towel. He had his trade mark shit-eating grin firmly in place.

"Time to do a little laundry, little brother."

"Ha, ha. Give me back my clothes, Dean." Sam used his best scowl. It was lost on Dean.

"Payback's a bitch, Sam. If you won't do the laundry like you're supposed to, I'm forced to take matters into my own hands. I'm gonna make sure that everything we own is nice and sparkly clean. We'll start tomorrow with a fresh slate, and then maybe next time, you'll remember to do your chores…"

"You're kidding me right? You aren't punishing me like I'm five?" Sam's face looked a little like he'd been sucking on a lemon.

"C'mon Sam. Sooner we get going, sooner we get the clothes done, and the sooner we can find a motel and crash. And by the way, if you don't want to be treated like a five year old, don't use the pouty puppy face." With that Dean turned on his heel and climbed into the Impala.

Sam tentatively stuck his head out to make sure the coast was clear before sprinting for the Impala – being very careful to keep his towel firmly in place with one hand.

The Laundromat

Sam sat side by side with his brother on the bench seat waiting for the clothes to be finished in the dryer. The only article of clothing that hadn't gone from the locked trunk of the Impala directly into the wash was Dean's leather jacket. To his credit, Dean could have put that on, but he didn't. Of course, Sam always knew that Dean was a closet exhibitionist at heart. Hell. Who was he kidding – there wasn't any closet involved.

One good thing was that there really wasn't anybody else in the 24 hour Laundromat, so they'd been able to get all the clothes into washers and then directly into dryers as they were all free. This also meant that it was getting pretty warm in there. At first Sam had found it a bit chilly. It was ok in the Impala as Dean graciously turned the heat up, but getting from the car to the Laundromat and then the Laundromat itself had been quite chilly. Now, however, there was a thin film of sweat glistening off of both boys' torsos.

"So, it was lucky we were able to get those kids out of that house tonight before that poltergeist really got rock'n and rollin'." Sam needed a distraction. The tension of living the nightmare of being naked in public was starting to wear on him.

"Yeah. What is it with kids? Don't they watch the classics anymore? If you know the house is haunted, don't go in. How complicated a rule is that?" Dean just shook his head in exasperation. He absent-mindedly wiped the perspiration from his upper lip.

"It's getting warm in here. Might have to take another shower when we get to the motel. You know, Sammy, I've been thinking that that poltergeist reminded me an awful lot of the one in our old house. I wonder if it is related in some way? That could be your vision connection right there."

"Yeah, maybe…" Sam's thoughts were cut short as the unthinkable happened….

The door to the Laundromat opened and two women walked in. They were probably in their early to late fifties. Both wore housedresses and had their hair scooped up into untidy buns. They also shared a common accent – lower-class British if he had to guess. They must have just met up outside the door as they were in the process of greeting each other as they came in the door.

"Ooohh, hello Mrs. Conclusion!"

"Good day, Mrs. Premise. Busy day?"
"Busy? Just spent four hours burying the cat…."

Everyone froze. Dean and Sam stared at the women – who takes four hours to bury a cat? Who buries a cat in the middle of the night? The two women stared at Sam and Dean. What were two half naked men doing in their Laundromat?

Thankfully everyone blinked and the moment was broken. The women moved off to find vacant machines. Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Witches?" Dean mouthed at his brother. Sam shrugged.

"We are never doing our laundry anywhere else, ever again." The two older ladies kept stealing furtive glances at the boys.

Sam was never so glad to hear the dryers stop. Saved by the bell. Thank the powers that be, he thought. Now I can get dressed and get the hell out of dodge. By this time even Dean was uncomfortable having the two older ladies oogle him, and helped Sam gather up their clothes as quickly as possible. They each grabbed a set of clothes and sprinted for the car. The now filled-with-clean-clothes duffles went in the trunk, and Dean and Sam slid into the front seat each clutching a clean change of clothing. Wriggling about, they managed to get their clothes on. Dean had a little more trouble sliding his underwear and jeans up over his hips because of the steering wheel.

"Well, Sammy, the best laid plans and all that. What with sitting beside those damn dryers and fighting my way back into my pants, I'm thinkin' another shower is going to be in our future… So. Tell me Sam. Think you'll "forget" to do the laundry again any time soon?"

A/N 2: So? If you like this, there is more…