This is nothing but silliness and an attempt at something light-hearted, since my other fics are some what dark and angsty (although the last one I did had some fluff in it).

Warning: No plot, so if you want a story with a plot, do not continue reading. No spoilers. Features pissed-off! Sam and Dean

Setting: Sometime in season one or two, or whenever Dean wears that leather jacket of his. I don't remember seeing it in season four. *Shrugs*

This has happened to one of my sisters before; that is where the idea came from.

Subsequently, this fic is dedicated to Wicked Rebel.

This was proofed by Twilightrayne and Wicked Rebel.

Sam stands there, head lowered, slightly mussed-up bangs mercifully veiling his mortified face.


Poster-boy for miserable.

Epitome of failure.

'Cause seriously, "How the hell did I mange to fuck up something so damn simple?"

A sigh bursts through his lips, and he shifts his feet while staring at the tiled floor. Sam can feel the eyes of strangers on him, the gaze so intense he feels as if their eyes are burrowing into him, carving him out like Swiss cheese. "Yeah, yeah… screw you guys," he mutters under his breath. A giggle from the far corner of the room slices into Sam's ear like a knife and a tinge of pink pans out across his cheeks. The familiar burning sensation is unwelcome and, flustered, Sam immediately straightens his spine. Balling his hands into fists, he turns his head slightly to send a heated glare in the direction of the offending giggle: a last stitch attempt to hold on to his steadily declining dignity.

Another giggle --although muffled-- catches his ear from the other side of the room, effectively trumping his glare: last line of defenses broken. Attempt to maintain dignity failed. Sam deflates as he feels said dignity drain from him; his eyes drop to stare at the floor once again, but the sound of his brother's strangled sigh grabs his attention instantly, pulling his eyes to rest on Dean's back, whose stance is tense, irritated.

"Sam," the word is gritted out of clenched teeth, voice ruff and thick, heightening the air of annoyance shrouding over Dean like a shadow. Sam's eyes, once again, crash to the floor.

The metallic clang of the clothes dryer's door slamming shut reverberates throughout the small Laundromat; Sam flinches, but does not look up.

The giggling stops; silence hangs in the air, its oppressive weight bears down upon Sam, suffocating him. "How the hell can silence be so fucking loud?" he wonders resentfully; the eyes burning into Sam's back makes him feel like he'll combust. "That would be better than dealing with this." Sam is brought out of his inner seething when the soft rustle of Dean's clothes catches his attention, and he watches as his brother's shadow slides into his field of vision; he feels Dean's eyes on him, but refuses to meet his gaze, keeping his eyes glued to the tiled floor as if it were going to be his salvation.

No such luck: Dean is in front of Sam now, and Sam can tell without looking at his older brother that he's pissed, wordlessly commanding Sam to look at him and deal with the issue at hand.

"Sam." Dean lets a hand drop to his side, gripping the bane of Sam's existence in his fist, knuckles white. Sam keeps his eyes locked to the floor, refusing to look his brother in the face. "Sam!" Dean's voice thunders throughout the Laundromat, and Sam swears that he hears the windows rattle from the outburst as his eyes instantly shoot to his brother; he is startled to find that Dean is no more than three feet from him, eyes squinted as if studying a specimen through a microscope. Dean's mouth is drawn into a thick, pink line, and as he shifts his stance he holds up his fist and yanks the busted pen into Sam's line of sight. Sam feels the muscles in his mouth stretch into cringe. "Damn it."

"What the hell, Sam? What. The. Hell."

"Dean, I --."

"Don't even," Dean spits, and Sam pulls his mouth shut instantly, unsure of what to say, of what to do, to somehow make the situation better. Nothing comes to mind. The silence of the room continues to bear down upon him, causing him to take a quick and tentative look around to make sure that, yes, there are still other people around, and, yes, said people are still watching him and his brother as if they were animals displayed at a zoo. Dean's eyes follow his brother's and he sends an unsettling glare towards the strangers watching them, "Picture'll last longer," he hashes out sarcastically, venom dripping from his voice. Sam feels his shoulders slump slightly, relaxing a fraction, once the eyes skitter instantly away from him and his brother; the strangers hurriedly go back to attending to their laundry. The cloud of relief that settles upon Sam is swiftly blown away as Dean's gaze lands on him, and the comfortable slump of Sam's shoulders straightens automatically. "Well, at least no one is watching anymore," Sam thinks in a feeble attempt to comfort himself.

Dean continues to stare at Sam, and Sam, trying not to give into the urge to fidget, stares back at Dean. Sam's eyebrows twitch as Dean lets loose a soft string of obscenities, and his reflexes automatically fire as Dean half-heartedly tosses the splintered pen in Sam's direction; he effortlessly catches the item, wincing as he feels the spurt of ink splash against his hand, sprinkling his clothes.

"DEAN!" Sam wipes at the ink, smearing it into his clothes. "Damn it, Jerk..." Sam feels a wave of annoyance crash inside of his stomach, bubbling with frustration, welling into his esophagus and pushing against his mouth, fighting for freedom. "What the hell, man! These are the only clothes I have left that--."

"Aren't covered in ink!?" Dean finishes for Sam as he jabs a finger in the direction of the dryer Sam had been using, "You mean like the rest of our damn clothes!?"

"Yeah, and you just fucked up the rest of mine," Sam dead pans.

The muscles in Dean's mouth give way and he gapes at his brother, not expecting such a frank remark, "You little bitch," he curses mentally. "You know what? Good: you freakin' deserve it; I mean seriously, man: how the hell could you not know a pen was in there when you took our shit from the washer??"

Sam rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension accumulating in his upper back, at the base of his spine; "Damn it, he's acting like I meant to fuck up our clothes." Opening his palms, Sam tries, "I don't know…" A pause. "It must have been in one of our pockets."

"Oh. Great. Yeah. So, you forget to check your pockets before putting your clothes in the bag. Peachy." Pulling his hand over his hair and down his face, Dean glances back at the dryer containing his and his brother's now ink covered clothes; signing wearily, he turns back to face his brother and points, "You are paying for this. And I mean literally. That ink is permanent: we need new clothes. Thanks."

Sam's mouth flies open in disbelief, "DEAN! It wasn't like I wasn't going to deal with this; I was going to pay for new clothes, anyway: I know it's my fault!"

"Oh, really," Dean states suspiciously as he arches an eyebrow at Sam, intentionally egging his brother on; both brothers lock eyes, trapping each other in a heated glare that would make the Sahara seem temperate. The stare down lasts a good fifteen seconds, and Sam blinks in surprise as he watches the corner of Dean's mouth rise slightly. Sam's brows completely furrow as Dean turns away from him, chuckling.

"What, Dean?"


"Yeah? Bullshit." Sam rolls his eyes, "Dean. What?"

"Oh, Nothing," the amused tone lacing Dean's voice causes Sam's skin to crawl with irritation. "Just tell me how it is that you're so smart that you got a free ride to Sanford, but you can do something as stupid as fucking up laundry." Dean stares at Sam, unspoken words passing between him and his brother: "Sam Winchester, one of the greatest hunters to ever walk the planet, defeated by a pen and dryer."

Low blow.

"That's it." Sam's annoyance with Dean snaps and surges forward in order to pummel his brother, "Like you never made a mistake, Dean!?" Dean jabs a finger violently in Sam's direction, retaliating against the expected onslaught, "Hell yeah, I have: but it's LAUNDRY, Sammy: not much room there to fuck up, man!" Throwing up his arms, Sam exclaims, "You know what? Fine! Whatever. I said I'll take care of it, so I'll take care of it; so, just lay off 'cause you're seriously pissing me off."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You're pissed off! You!? You ruined my clothes, Sam. If my leather jacket had been in there--." Whipping around, annoyance quickly bubbling into anger, Sam grits out, "Well it wasn't because you never take the damn thing off--," Sam cuts his tirade off as he feels the pen crush further in his hand, the feeble instrument unable to withstand the pressure in his fist; coolness spreads out in his palm as the rest of the ink is squeezed from the pen. Growling, Sam opens his fist in order to wipe away the ink, but pauses as he stares quizzically at the object.



"This is the pen you swiped from the motel lobby. It's yours."

Dean's brows draw together, eyes falling to the broken object gripped in his little brother's hand. Realization pans across his face, "Oh, shit." Dean's eyes flicker back to his brother; a chuckle from the far corner of the room slices into Dean's ear, "Uh--."

The pen bounces off of Dean's shoulder and then clinks to the floor. Dean feels air brush against his face as his brother whirls around, moves past him in a few quick strides, and heads straight for the door.

"How could you do something so stupid, Dean?" Sam mocks, "Why don't you do us both a favor and, next time, check your pockets before you put them in the bag!" Sam's fist flies up, punctuating the end of his rant with his middle finger.


The bell above the Laundromat's door chimes, signaling Sam's exit.


No answer.

"Little brother has left the building."

Dean lets loose a sigh as his eyes are pulled to the pen by his boot, and he stands there, head lowered, but no bangs to cover his face.


Poster-boy for miserable.

Epitome of failure.

'Cause seriously, "How the hell did I mange to fuck up something so damn simple?"

He feels the eyes of strangers settle upon him, their glare burning against his back; he lets a snarl cut through his lips and the eyes automatically skitter away, "Bastards." Another sigh pushes through Dean's lips as he turns his gaze to the dryer his brother had been using.

"Damn it… I don't wanna pay for new clothes."

Notes: And that was it. I just did it for the hell of it. I also wanted to try a fic that isn't in the past tense. Honestly, it came out too long for a fic that is just about laundry, but the reason why I didn't shorten it was so I could practice extending a short story (well, this fic is short in itself, but whatever). I may do a second chapter in which Dean makes it up to Sam, but I don't know (suggestions?); anyway, as of now this is completed.

Constructive reviews are welcomed and appreciated.

Now I suppose I will get to work on the modification of "I Don't Care that I'm Dying"; it will be my first multi chapter fic, and it will feature a drunk, limp! Sam and big brother! Dean, fluff and angst will ensue. Oh, it will also be under a different name than "I Don't Care that I'm Dying," obviously.