![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Majestic Domestic
By: kellifer_fic
Fandom: SPN
Rating: G
Category: Sam, Dean (humour/angst)
Words: 1,402
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no money!
Spoilers: None
Notes: Thanks to my beta *superfox*
Summary: Domesticity, Winchester style.
~ Laundry ~
“I can’t believe you.”
Sam had found there was only one Laundromat in the whole of the small town they were passing through and every dryer in the place was busted, bar one. He’d tossed his clothes in when they were done and snorted awake from his uncomfortable pretzel-like sleep on a garish orange chair to find his still-damp clothes tossed unceremoniously on the floor and Dean standing by the machine.
“What?” Dean’s whole face nearly disappeared in a jaw-cracking yawn before he scratched the back of his head and gave Sam a furtive look. “Julie back there needed to use the dryer,” he said, canting his head in the direction of a petite red-head who was wearing headphones and snapping gum, possibly in time to the music.
“I’m going to have to re-wash these,” Sam snapped, stooping to rescue the clothes off the floor and discovering they’d landed in a puddle of bleach. He held up his favourite navy sweatshirt which now had a pastel blue sleeve. “Oh just perfect Dean,” he grumbled, flinging the ruined shirt at Dean’s head.
“Sorry, she just… she has her tongue pierced,” Dean offered, as if it explained everything.
“You’re unbelievable,” Sam sighed, exasperated and Dean grinned.
“Thanks.”
~ Groceries ~
“Okay, quit doing that.”
Sam paused in the aisle of the supermarket, leant over the shopping cart with one wheel that pulled to the right and rolled his eyes. “What am I supposed to be doing?”
“You keep taking things out.”
“We’re not made of money, Dean.”
“Okay Dad,” Dean snorted. “It’s just that I noticed that you have been taking out everything that’s good.”
“We don’t need four boxes of cereal,” Sam pointed out, holding up the one that was left in their cart after he’d already removed three. “The box is almost as big as the trunk.”
“I know but…” Dean coloured a little and Sam stared at him and then looked more carefully at the box. He’d missed it when he was putting the boxes back on the shelf but scrawled on the side in garish green letters was One in four chance of a prize inside!.
“Oh my god, you dork,” Sam laughed.
“When did they stop putting prizes in every box anyway?” Dean grumbled.
~ Housework ~
A white bathroom.
A white fucking bathroom.
Where was the dungy green, dark brown tile when they needed it? Dean swiped the back of his hand over his forehead, knowing that he was probably leaving a streak of his brother’s blood behind but the motel desk had had a security camera and Sam had been the one to check them in so Dean couldn’t…
He couldn’t just leave the bathroom looking like someone had been murdered in it.
“Can I help?” Sam asked from the doorway, chest strapped up and stitches in his temple and Dean turned and glared at him, trying to ignore how pale he was and the awful purple bruising under his eyes.
“No, you can get your bony ass back to bed is what you can do,” he snapped, not wanting to sound angry, but knowing if he let in another other emotion, it would probably be blind panic and paralysing fear.
“I just-“
“You apologise and I’ll…” Dean let the threat linger, not really able to finish it. He could promise to kick Sam’s ass, if it hadn’t already been well and truly kicked already.
“Okay, Dean, okay,” Sam mumbled tiredly and a moment later there was the sound of the box springs protesting as six foot four of Sammy dropped on them, probably from a height. Dean switched his focus back to the floor, pink now instead of red, his only consolation out of this whole thing that when Sam was more coherent, he’d realise that there was a Hello Kitty bandaid on every scratch on his body.
Dean smiled to himself as he worked, thinking alive and safe.
~ Car Wash ~
“Stop your bitching. Troll blood is corrosive. I had to get it off”
“Yeah, to people as well as cars Dean,” Sam grumbled.
“Look, I forgot okay?”
“You forgot you wiped troll blood off your precious car with my sweatshirt and put it back in my duffel?” Sam asked incredulously, wincing when he turned over on his bed.
“Dude, you should check your clothes before you put them on,” Dean said, though there was sympathy in his tone, looking over Sam’s angry red back. “How could you not notice anyway?”
“I did notice, when the troll blood had eaten through the three other shirts I was wearing.”
“Do you want me to go out and get you some calamine lotion and a box of tissues to dry your tears you big girl?”
“Fuck you,” Sam grumbled, closing his eyes.
When Sam woke up four hours later, there was a brownie sitting on a napkin on the side table by his bed. They’d been baked by a nice old lady who’d had a troll problem and had been grateful to be rid of it. Sam had devoured his share all at once but Dean had been saving his and this was the last one.
This was how Dean said sorry.
Sam was okay with that.
~ Walking the Dog ~
“It’s like those people that get gators and keep them in the bathtub,” Dean mused, looking down into the basket in his arms of four puppies all squirming against each other, little red eyes blinking sleepily.
“Except those people know that they’re going to have a problem when the gator grows up,” Sam said, opening the back door of the Impala so Dean could lean in and set the basket down.
“How many more?” he asked.
“Pet store guy said six in total.”
“Where’d he get his hands on Black Dog puppies anyway?” Dean grumbled, relieved that it had been Sam who had suggested they find somewhere remote and let them go, not really relishing the idea of adding killing puppies to his list of things he never wanted to do but did anyway. One of their Father’s old friends who they’d known specialised in evil of the four legged variety had agreed that Black Dogs only became a problem when they stumbled into populated areas. He’d then started ranting about deforestation and habitat destruction and Dean had handed the phone off to Sam.
The trip to the next address on their list only took ten minutes and when a little blonde girl with big blue eyes answered the door, Dean let out a small groan.
Taking puppy away from small girl, he mentally added to his list.
~ Babysitting ~
“Werewolf when I was nine, Black Dog when I was eleven and car door when I was eight,” Sam said, pointing to each scar in turn. “I don’t know what this one is though,” Sam added, fingers tracing a raised line behind his ear.
“You don’t remember?” Dean asked, flipping his paper down.
“No. Wait, you know? It’s always bugged me.”
“Well, you know that saying don’t run with scissors?” Dean asked, biting his lip. “They should add to that don’t chase someone who is running with scissors.” When Sam raised his eyebrows, Dean plunged on. “You were making something and I don’t even remember why but I stole the pair of scissors you were using and you were chasing me all over the house and you tackled me.”
“You’re kidding. How old were we?”
“You were six, I was ten. The scissors caught you under the ear and you bled a lot. I’m man enough to admit that I freaked out. When Dad got home you had so much bandaging wrapped around your head you could hardly lift it.”
“He must’ve kicked your ass.”
“Actually,” Dean said, face solemn. “He got real quiet and we left town that night. Two towns over he got a job in a garage and we stayed put for six months.”
“I remember that,” Sam said thoughtfully, fingers still tracing the scar. “I kept waiting for him to tell us we were moving again and he didn’t… for so long I thought maybe we’d stopped.”
“Yeah, I think he meant to but then Caleb called needing help and you know Dad, he couldn’t say no to that.”
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “I think I finally do.”
By: kellifer_fic
Fandom: SPN
Rating: G
Category: Sam, Dean (humour/angst)
Words: 1,402
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no money!
Spoilers: None
Notes: Thanks to my beta *superfox*
Summary: Domesticity, Winchester style.
“I can’t believe you.”
Sam had found there was only one Laundromat in the whole of the small town they were passing through and every dryer in the place was busted, bar one. He’d tossed his clothes in when they were done and snorted awake from his uncomfortable pretzel-like sleep on a garish orange chair to find his still-damp clothes tossed unceremoniously on the floor and Dean standing by the machine.
“What?” Dean’s whole face nearly disappeared in a jaw-cracking yawn before he scratched the back of his head and gave Sam a furtive look. “Julie back there needed to use the dryer,” he said, canting his head in the direction of a petite red-head who was wearing headphones and snapping gum, possibly in time to the music.
“I’m going to have to re-wash these,” Sam snapped, stooping to rescue the clothes off the floor and discovering they’d landed in a puddle of bleach. He held up his favourite navy sweatshirt which now had a pastel blue sleeve. “Oh just perfect Dean,” he grumbled, flinging the ruined shirt at Dean’s head.
“Sorry, she just… she has her tongue pierced,” Dean offered, as if it explained everything.
“You’re unbelievable,” Sam sighed, exasperated and Dean grinned.
“Thanks.”
“Okay, quit doing that.”
Sam paused in the aisle of the supermarket, leant over the shopping cart with one wheel that pulled to the right and rolled his eyes. “What am I supposed to be doing?”
“You keep taking things out.”
“We’re not made of money, Dean.”
“Okay Dad,” Dean snorted. “It’s just that I noticed that you have been taking out everything that’s good.”
“We don’t need four boxes of cereal,” Sam pointed out, holding up the one that was left in their cart after he’d already removed three. “The box is almost as big as the trunk.”
“I know but…” Dean coloured a little and Sam stared at him and then looked more carefully at the box. He’d missed it when he was putting the boxes back on the shelf but scrawled on the side in garish green letters was One in four chance of a prize inside!.
“Oh my god, you dork,” Sam laughed.
“When did they stop putting prizes in every box anyway?” Dean grumbled.
A white bathroom.
A white fucking bathroom.
Where was the dungy green, dark brown tile when they needed it? Dean swiped the back of his hand over his forehead, knowing that he was probably leaving a streak of his brother’s blood behind but the motel desk had had a security camera and Sam had been the one to check them in so Dean couldn’t…
He couldn’t just leave the bathroom looking like someone had been murdered in it.
“Can I help?” Sam asked from the doorway, chest strapped up and stitches in his temple and Dean turned and glared at him, trying to ignore how pale he was and the awful purple bruising under his eyes.
“No, you can get your bony ass back to bed is what you can do,” he snapped, not wanting to sound angry, but knowing if he let in another other emotion, it would probably be blind panic and paralysing fear.
“I just-“
“You apologise and I’ll…” Dean let the threat linger, not really able to finish it. He could promise to kick Sam’s ass, if it hadn’t already been well and truly kicked already.
“Okay, Dean, okay,” Sam mumbled tiredly and a moment later there was the sound of the box springs protesting as six foot four of Sammy dropped on them, probably from a height. Dean switched his focus back to the floor, pink now instead of red, his only consolation out of this whole thing that when Sam was more coherent, he’d realise that there was a Hello Kitty bandaid on every scratch on his body.
Dean smiled to himself as he worked, thinking alive and safe.
“Stop your bitching. Troll blood is corrosive. I had to get it off”
“Yeah, to people as well as cars Dean,” Sam grumbled.
“Look, I forgot okay?”
“You forgot you wiped troll blood off your precious car with my sweatshirt and put it back in my duffel?” Sam asked incredulously, wincing when he turned over on his bed.
“Dude, you should check your clothes before you put them on,” Dean said, though there was sympathy in his tone, looking over Sam’s angry red back. “How could you not notice anyway?”
“I did notice, when the troll blood had eaten through the three other shirts I was wearing.”
“Do you want me to go out and get you some calamine lotion and a box of tissues to dry your tears you big girl?”
“Fuck you,” Sam grumbled, closing his eyes.
When Sam woke up four hours later, there was a brownie sitting on a napkin on the side table by his bed. They’d been baked by a nice old lady who’d had a troll problem and had been grateful to be rid of it. Sam had devoured his share all at once but Dean had been saving his and this was the last one.
This was how Dean said sorry.
Sam was okay with that.
“It’s like those people that get gators and keep them in the bathtub,” Dean mused, looking down into the basket in his arms of four puppies all squirming against each other, little red eyes blinking sleepily.
“Except those people know that they’re going to have a problem when the gator grows up,” Sam said, opening the back door of the Impala so Dean could lean in and set the basket down.
“How many more?” he asked.
“Pet store guy said six in total.”
“Where’d he get his hands on Black Dog puppies anyway?” Dean grumbled, relieved that it had been Sam who had suggested they find somewhere remote and let them go, not really relishing the idea of adding killing puppies to his list of things he never wanted to do but did anyway. One of their Father’s old friends who they’d known specialised in evil of the four legged variety had agreed that Black Dogs only became a problem when they stumbled into populated areas. He’d then started ranting about deforestation and habitat destruction and Dean had handed the phone off to Sam.
The trip to the next address on their list only took ten minutes and when a little blonde girl with big blue eyes answered the door, Dean let out a small groan.
Taking puppy away from small girl, he mentally added to his list.
“Werewolf when I was nine, Black Dog when I was eleven and car door when I was eight,” Sam said, pointing to each scar in turn. “I don’t know what this one is though,” Sam added, fingers tracing a raised line behind his ear.
“You don’t remember?” Dean asked, flipping his paper down.
“No. Wait, you know? It’s always bugged me.”
“Well, you know that saying don’t run with scissors?” Dean asked, biting his lip. “They should add to that don’t chase someone who is running with scissors.” When Sam raised his eyebrows, Dean plunged on. “You were making something and I don’t even remember why but I stole the pair of scissors you were using and you were chasing me all over the house and you tackled me.”
“You’re kidding. How old were we?”
“You were six, I was ten. The scissors caught you under the ear and you bled a lot. I’m man enough to admit that I freaked out. When Dad got home you had so much bandaging wrapped around your head you could hardly lift it.”
“He must’ve kicked your ass.”
“Actually,” Dean said, face solemn. “He got real quiet and we left town that night. Two towns over he got a job in a garage and we stayed put for six months.”
“I remember that,” Sam said thoughtfully, fingers still tracing the scar. “I kept waiting for him to tell us we were moving again and he didn’t… for so long I thought maybe we’d stopped.”
“Yeah, I think he meant to but then Caleb called needing help and you know Dad, he couldn’t say no to that.”
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “I think I finally do.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
x.