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Upping my wordcount for the day...
Title: One Red Sock
Rating/Warning: G
Wordcount: 531
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Summary: You can spend your lifetime doing laundry.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
There are some things Sam knows and he has no idea where the knowledge has come from.
The average person spends approximately twenty four years asleep in their lifetime. They spend two years on the phone and eat thirty five thousand cookies.
They will spend two weeks kissing although Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s reached that hallmark already because c’mon.
However, Sam is also pretty sure that he has spent about eleven million years in a laundromat and experiences a time-shift every time he enters one to accomplish this. It would explain why the décor never changes. The clocks start going backwards as soon as the machine clicks on, eating your change and not really guaranteeing clean clothes or that they will come out the same colour they went in, or at all. Sometimes they will still vaguely smell like swamp creature no matter how much bleach you dump in with the load because that shit is nasty.
He also knows, without fail, that Dean will –
“Hey, I forgot about these!”
Yep, right on time.
Sam watches Dean lift the lid on the machine that’s nearly done and dump a whole stack of t-shirts in that have probably been in the footwell of the Impala for two months, zombie guts congealing and making an unmovable stain. “Dean, those were nearly clean,” Sam snaps when Dean drops the lid again.
“You can just start it up for a second go-round when it finishes,” Dean says, shrugging and helping himself to the neat stack of coins Sam has placed on the next machine, wandering over to the vending machine in the corner to see what’s on offer. Sam’s stay in the laundromat extends by five point eight million years.
Fifty percent of Americans have grey hair before they reach fifty and Dean Winchester can drive his little brother up the wall in under three seconds.
“You could’a just started another machine,” Sam says, exasperation colouring his tone and arm sweeping to indicate that they are indeed completely alone and there are twenty machines sitting idle.
Dean Winchester will allude to the fact that Sam Winchester is indeed a female at least eighty seven times in a single twenty-four hour period. “Do you have your period or something?” Dean asks.
“Just can’t you… I don’t know. Be a little more considerate?” Sam huffs and can see Dean’s expression melt into a you’re kidding right? frown.
“Well sor-ry your majesty,” Dean snorts and opens the machine back up, digging into it for the offending t-shirts that are now hopelessly tangled with Sam’s jeans and two hoodies. Dean pulls the entire lot out and dumps it on the floor, an arc of sudsy purple foam that smells like death and kitty litter hitting Sam square in the chest and soaking his single clean shirt. Dean half-turns and then bites his lip to fight back the smirk that really wants to break free.
Sam stares down at his sodden shirt for a moment in abject disbelief before looking back up at Dean.
He’s pretty sure that by the end of the day the murder rate for Wisconsin is going to go up by one.
Title: One Red Sock
Rating/Warning: G
Wordcount: 531
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By:
kellifer_ficCategory: Gen
Summary: You can spend your lifetime doing laundry.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
There are some things Sam knows and he has no idea where the knowledge has come from.
The average person spends approximately twenty four years asleep in their lifetime. They spend two years on the phone and eat thirty five thousand cookies.
They will spend two weeks kissing although Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s reached that hallmark already because c’mon.
However, Sam is also pretty sure that he has spent about eleven million years in a laundromat and experiences a time-shift every time he enters one to accomplish this. It would explain why the décor never changes. The clocks start going backwards as soon as the machine clicks on, eating your change and not really guaranteeing clean clothes or that they will come out the same colour they went in, or at all. Sometimes they will still vaguely smell like swamp creature no matter how much bleach you dump in with the load because that shit is nasty.
He also knows, without fail, that Dean will –
“Hey, I forgot about these!”
Yep, right on time.
Sam watches Dean lift the lid on the machine that’s nearly done and dump a whole stack of t-shirts in that have probably been in the footwell of the Impala for two months, zombie guts congealing and making an unmovable stain. “Dean, those were nearly clean,” Sam snaps when Dean drops the lid again.
“You can just start it up for a second go-round when it finishes,” Dean says, shrugging and helping himself to the neat stack of coins Sam has placed on the next machine, wandering over to the vending machine in the corner to see what’s on offer. Sam’s stay in the laundromat extends by five point eight million years.
Fifty percent of Americans have grey hair before they reach fifty and Dean Winchester can drive his little brother up the wall in under three seconds.
“You could’a just started another machine,” Sam says, exasperation colouring his tone and arm sweeping to indicate that they are indeed completely alone and there are twenty machines sitting idle.
Dean Winchester will allude to the fact that Sam Winchester is indeed a female at least eighty seven times in a single twenty-four hour period. “Do you have your period or something?” Dean asks.
“Just can’t you… I don’t know. Be a little more considerate?” Sam huffs and can see Dean’s expression melt into a you’re kidding right? frown.
“Well sor-ry your majesty,” Dean snorts and opens the machine back up, digging into it for the offending t-shirts that are now hopelessly tangled with Sam’s jeans and two hoodies. Dean pulls the entire lot out and dumps it on the floor, an arc of sudsy purple foam that smells like death and kitty litter hitting Sam square in the chest and soaking his single clean shirt. Dean half-turns and then bites his lip to fight back the smirk that really wants to break free.
Sam stares down at his sodden shirt for a moment in abject disbelief before looking back up at Dean.
He’s pretty sure that by the end of the day the murder rate for Wisconsin is going to go up by one.
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Poor Sammy.
From:
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