This crack fic was inspired by a conversation on Facebook between some friends of mine. I have recreated it here, deleting names, but if you ever see this, you know who you are!

A: I just found out that it was my son that put together the sewing machine, with the help of the instructional video he insisted upon watching.

B: I don't like this tendency in your boy to want to read or watch instructions. What are you doing to the lad? Don't you want to raise him to be a man?!?

A: First of all, he was building the sewing machine, not sewing. And even if he were, sewing is an important skill for doing things like, say, field dressing wounds, fashioning roofs with animal hides, or attaching Megadeth patches to jeans jackets. In any case, I'm sure he was evaluating the device for its use as a weapon. As for instructions: I assume he was more fascinated with the DVD, DVD player operation, and the features of the instructional video genre from the directorial perspective.

B: *apologizes*…

A: Its a good thing your are mollified. I told my son about your comments and he was planning to send a flaming sewing machine through your window.

After reading this, I was like, "Oh, Dean and Sam totally have to have this argument." Not quite how I thought it would turn out, but boys will be boys, and if the Winchesters always did what I want them to, well...hur hur…

Disclaimer: I don't even own the idea for this story, much less Supernatural.

The tiny motel radio wasn't really made to be turned up that loud: Sam could hear it blaring Guns n Roses before he unlocked the door. Sure enough, the culprit sat as accused, his back to the door but facing the window. He had seen Sam coming that way, which was why he hadn't moved for the Colt 1911 that lay on the table beside him. They had finished the salt and burn late last night, but Dean was nursing a bruised-possibly-fractured knee that prevented him from driving, so he had decided another night in Podunk, Alabama would hurt less than letting Sam drive his baby and would give them some time to catch up on sleep and other things. After sleeping in until ten, Sam had taken the opportunity to make a much-needed supply run, although he knew Dean would probably insist on stopping by again on their way out of town for ammunition or something.

"Hey," Dean said, not looking up from his task. The TV was on as well, and after Sam set the groceries on the table, sliding Dean's gun aside so it didn't end up beneath the plastic Wal-Mart bags, he muted the television and turned the radio down a few notches.

"Hey yourself. Trying to go deaf?"

Dean shrugged, still intent on what he was peering at in front of the light of the window.

"…And blind while you're at it? It's not light enough in here."

Dean continued to ignore him, but grunted a thanks as Sam flipped on the light. Honestly, he was sure his brother was actually allergic to modern conveniences—at least the ones that didn't produce music, porn, or food. Sam sighed and was about to shrug off his jacket and begin putting away groceries when a double-take caused him to really look at Dean.

"Dude. Are you sewing?"

"Yeah." Dean straightened, blinked the cross-eyed out of his corneas. His knee was wrapped and his leg extended in the other chair across the table. He inventoried the pile of laundry on the table before him. "Couple of bullet holes in my favorite shirts, belt loops coming out of these jeans. And I think I can save this jacket if I find a button…" Then he looked up at Sam for the first time. "You got anything you want me to do while I'm at it?"

Sam continued to stare.

"What?"

"You're sewing, Dean."

His brother sure drew his no-chick-flick-moment lines in strange places.

"Yeah. So?" He studied Sam's face a moment before realizing what he was implying. "Oh, look, dude, don't give me that crap. Sewing is a manly—okay, important skill. I'm saving us thirty, forty bucks here by fixing these."

Sam now approached the table. Dean even had a sewing kit: three spools of different colored thread, four needles of different sizes, a plastic thimble that he wasn't using, a tiny pair of scissors that made the scissors on his pocket knife look almost full sized, and a couple of safety pins. "Dude, seriously? There's a Wal-Mart just up the road, and it's not like it's your money. Normal people just get rid of stuff like this when it gets to this point."

"You know the shapeshifter lore: I don't want to throw away perfectly useable clothes!"

"Dean, this shirt has three holes in it! Just give it up, already!"

Dean snatched the shirt back defensively. "It's my only Metallica shirt, dude, bite me."

"I'm sure they'll have one at the Wal-Mart. Or we can swing by a thrift store or something."

"See! That's why it's manly," Dean beamed with a sudden idea: "While you other poor dumb bastards have to suffer the humiliation of shopping, I am exercising my survival skills."

"Hey, you like shopping! Remember that music store in Kentucky?"

"That was like twelve cassette tapes for a dollar. Hell yeah I'm gonna like shopping for that! Twelve albums for a dollar! That's not shopping—it's more like armed robbery!"

"They were a bunch of outdated albums no one wanted and no one had the equipment to play, Dean."

"Shut up, Pop Rocks. I scored 'Toys in the Attic' from that place, and 'Fire of Unknown Origin.' Anyway, I didn't hear you complaining when I had to stitch up your shoulder last week. Bet you were glad of my skills then, huh?"

Sam threw up his arms, only remembering the painful pull in his shoulder, he was sure, because Dean reminded him about it. "Okay, whatever. I don't need to argue about this." Falling silent he left Dean to his work as he moved around the room, throwing the drinks and food in the cooler, pulling the tags off of the new hoodie he'd bought and stuffing it in his bag (feeling only a little guilty), going outside to put the emergency liter of motor oil in the back of the Impala. Returning to the room, "I'm gonna go grab some food. You want me to bring you back something?"

"Uh…" Sticking his tongue out and holding his breath until he threaded the needle, he considered as he set upon the garment. "Yeah. Bacon cheeseburger. Extra onions, if they'll do that. And a really big coke. Thanks." Sam watched as Dean repaired the Metallica shirt with only a few clean stitches: about as expertly as he had stitched up Sam's shoulder. "Oh!" Dean looked up now. "And see if they got some pie!"

Sam grinned. "Sure."

"Wallet's on the table," Dean added, frowning now as he tied off the stitches. "Angus Young's buying."

"No, it's all right, Malcom's got it," Sam said with a laugh that was half a sigh. Then he paused, thoughtful, and went to his duffle. He returned and threw a flannel button-down on Dean's lap. "It's missing, like, two buttons. I don't know why I kept it."

Dean flashed him his characteristic smile. "Because you have an awesome brother with mad manly sewing skills, that's why."

Manly skills or not, Sam couldn't resist the "Honey, I'm home," upon his return. He managed only with great care not to drop the bags of food when his now fully-buttonable flannel came back to hit him in the face.