A/N: A prompt from Chrissie0707: "Laundry day." Blame her.

Laundry Day At The Batcave

Years and years of their lives had been spent in crappy motels and worse laundry facilities, if the motels had any such thing. If not, it was cruising the streets until they came across a laundromat. And always late at night, because it was easier to avoid stares and frowns as they dumped into machines clothing reeking of lighter fluid; or gas, smoke, and flame (or the stench of dead bodies), if no one else was in the laundromat other than the bored attendant watching late-night TV.

Torn clothes. Shredded clothes. Soiled clothes. Since usually they needed money for food and gas and ammo, they never threw out clothing unless there was simply no saving them. And all the years of stitching flesh back together made it a simple matter to sew up ripped cloth. At least the clothes didn't complain, or demand whiskey to dull the pain.

But now it didn't matter. They could dump clothing, regardless of state or stench, into a washer and not have to worry about stares and frowns and curiosity. Because now they had a home, and their own washer, their own dryer. Permanent access any time they wanted it with no witnesses at all, other than one another.

They'd decided within the first week of inhabiting the bunker that while it offered many wonderful things, it was also outdated with regard to appliances. So they had, over weeks and months, when funds allowed, updated and added. A decent coffee maker. A microwave. And a mismatched washer/dryer pairing Sam tracked down online via Craigslist.

The acquisition of modern washer and dryer had required renting a pickup, since as glorious as the Impala was, she was not exactly capable of carrying a washer and dryer (and since the bunker was a secret lair, they couldn't exactly ask for delivery); digging out a dolly from a back room to move the machines from pickup to laundry room, which briefly resulted in Sam attempting to skateboard on it because he said he could (he was wrong); and then Dean, with his mechanical know-how, rewired power to support the increased draw, hooked up the machines, had them running within an hour, and informed Sam that he had laundry duty for the next week because not only had he fallen off the dolly while Dean was attempting to pull it by its tow-rope, which resulted in a sudden acceleration of the dolly into the back of Dean's ankles (who had not been wearing his boots, but cheapo flipflops), but he also hadn't helped Dean with the rewiring or hooking up of the washer and dryer. All he'd done, in fact, Dean claimed (as he balefully inspected bruises on the back of his ankles), was surf the internet, which Sam did all the time anyway, so he really hadn't done anything at all to aid in the addition of a washer and dryer to the batcave.

Sam said he'd forked over half the money and that ought to count for something.

Dean said that since he, Dean, had won the money playing pool, then presented Sam with half of those winnings, that Sam claiming Sam was paying for half of the washer and dryer was in fact inaccurate. Dean was paying for all of it. So maybe Sam should have laundry duty for a month.

Sam said he'd do it if Dean sorted his clothes and placed them in the laundry room in specific piles.

Dean pointed out he had never sorted his clothes and wasn't going to start. And anyway, he wasn't the one with OCD tendencies.

Sam explained rather prissily that sorting clothing into proper piles for darks and lights was hardly OCD behavior, that it was recommended by washing machine, detergent, and fabric manufacturers because it prolonged the lifespan of said clothing, and that's why he did it with his own.

Dean reminded him that he'd done just fine prolonging the life of his own clothing, regardless of never sorting them or reading recommendations, because he had jeans and shirts dating back over ten years.

Sam suggested that was a sad commentary on their lives that they were still wearing clothing they'd been wearing ten years before. And actually, he'd had to buy a few new shirts along the way because he'd put on some muscle. What, he inquired, had Dean done lately about that sort of thing? Dean ate greasy burgers, pie, drank lots of booze, and he was now of an age where such vices added pounds that were not muscle.

Dean contemplated that for a couple of seconds. It was true the kid had put on some bulk since leaving Stanford. Then he pointed out that since he, Dean, could still comfortably wear 10-year-old clothing, it meant he hadn't added any pounds, and he had every intention of continuing to eat whatever he wanted to eat, and drink whatever he wanted to drink, whenever he felt like doing either. Or both. At the same time.

Sam warned it would catch up to him one day.

Dean said as long as he could outrun monsters, he doubted any pounds would catch up to him. And if they did, he'd just shoot them. In the meantime, he had a pile of clothes that needed washing, and Sam had better get busy doing laundry.

Sam apparently decided it wasn't worth arguing over, because usually Sam lost these kinds of arguments anyway, and said with resignation that his brother should bring his dirty clothes to the laundry room.

Dean said he wouldn't sort them. Sam said he knew that.

Later on, while Sam was doing the laundry, Dean pulled the dolly out of the bunker to the long asphalt driveway and attempted to skateboard on it.

He was, to his chagrin, spectacularly more unsuccessful than his brother, who had merely hopped off the dolly when it became obvious he was about to fall off. Which is why the sudden lack of Sam's 200+ pounds on the dolly had sent it hurtling into the back of Dean's bare ankles.

In Dean's case, a collision of dolly wheel with rock had propelled him forward, rather than the dolly, which had come to a sudden halt, and he ended up with road rash on both elbows and the tops of his feet, a torn tee-shirt, shredded flipflops, and (probably from the rented pickup, since Baby never leaked) a long oil slick down the right leg of his jeans.

Dean snuck into the laundry room when his brother wasn't there, stripped out of the jeans, hesitated momentarily upon noting that the Sam-sorted load currently underway was of light colors, then shrugged and stuffed the oil-stained jeans into the sloshing machine and limped hastily and stealthily through the hallways in hopes of making it to his room before Sam saw his brother barefoot in torn tee and boxer-briefs, with bloodied elbows and feet, and asked him what had happened to his pants.

Some things you don't even tell your baby brother.

end

A/N: It has always amused me that Sam and Dean are still wearing many of the same shirts they wore in S1. One would think that with all the ick and goo and fights, they'd have lost those shirts long ago. But no. I guess Wardrobe is very good at clothing upkeep. At any rate, Chrissie's prompt gave me a chance to meditate on this a little. 8-) Hope you enjoyed!