A/N: It's really a good thing I don't do this for a living. I started this story back in March (yes, 2008) when the angst of S3 and Dean's deal got to be too much. And then the mojo/muse took a hike…And now, since I'm not coping much better with the angst of S4, I decided to finally pull myself together and finish this.

It's pointless fluff.

Thanks to Kati and Swanseajill for the beta and the feedback!

And thanks to stealthyone for all the past betas and banging my stories into shape – this one's for you, sweetie.

This is set in season 2, sometime after "Croatoan" and "Hunted."

xxxxx

"Charade"

Dean lost the toss. After a heated argument, with neither of them backing down an inch, they'd finally settled on flipping a coin because Dean absolutely refused to do rock-paper-scissors. Not that it mattered, apparently. The fates obviously hated him.

So with a sour grumble he bundled up their dirty laundry – the usual complement of jeans and t-shirts covered in bloodstains, splatters of assorted monster gore, ground-in graveyard grime, and with an underlying smell of sweat and smoke – and stalked out of the motel room. He slammed the door on Sam's smugly victorious grin, threw the bag into the Impala's backseat, and headed out to find a laundromat.

He thought he'd spotted something that looked promising over at a little strip mall just off the freeway exit, so he backtracked a few miles from their motel, wearily grateful when it turned out he was right. Sandwiched between a pet store and a discount haircut salon, the laundromat was the only business in the mall still open besides a movie rental place. Dean pulled into a parking place right in front of the brightly lit windows and contemplated the ninety or so minutes of quiet boredom ahead of him.

Not that quiet boredom would be so bad right now. They'd pushed themselves relentlessly in the past month. Too many hunts back to back with barely a moment to catch their breath before gearing up for the next one, and the last job, thankfully a simple salt-and-burn to send a lonely, grieving spirit to rest, had nevertheless seen them running raggedly on empty.

Happened like that sometimes. A dry spell, then suddenly it was like all the spirits in the freakin' neighborhood decided to go crazy at the same time. Dean had solemnly suggested a theory to Sam involving solar flares and Mars in retrograde, managed to keep a straight face for about fifteen seconds, then totally cracked up at Sam's expression, which clearly wondered what the hell Dean knew about solar flares. Not to mention Mars in retrograde.

That had been a week ago, and Dean didn't think he'd laughed since. He'd just been too damn tired. While neither of them had gotten hurt in the last few days – well, not enough to worry about, anyway – they both had a nice collection of the usual variously healing bruises, cuts, scrapes, and strained muscles. They'd been damn lucky, really. But they needed a break. Before it all caught up with them, bit them in the ass, and they made some stupid, careless mistake.

But for now, mostly, they were just…tired. Dean sighed and his shoulders sagged. Tired, irritable, and snapping at each other during too many long nights in a row filled with too much bad coffee, greasy food, and the stench of burning bones. So he honestly didn't mind getting out of the motel room for a little while before the bickering escalated into something raw and hurtful. It wasn't as though they ever stayed mad at each other for long, but fighting was harder if both of them weren't in the same room. Or digging in the same grave.

Dean sighed again and eased himself from the Impala with a quiet groan that only slipped out because Sam wasn't there to hear it. The twinge in his back did not go unnoticed when he reached in to haul out the bag of laundry.

With the duffel slung over his shoulder, Dean pushed through the double doors, stepping from the cool night into bright warmth filled with the familiar scents of detergent and dryer heat. He quickly scanned the room, then made his way over to a line of washing machines in the far corner, away from the few others in use. No one in the mostly deserted premises paid him any attention, not the two college-age girls – roommates, probably – studying together at a table. Not the older guy, flipping cards in a game of solitaire. An ignored television, tuned to CNN, droned quietly in the background.

Evidently, the local laundromat was quite the hotspot in the middle of the week.

Dean dropped the bag on the floor and started pulling out muddy jeans and bloody t-shirts.

"Need any help, hon?"

God, that voice. Low, throaty, and sexy as hell. It was Kathleen Turner – hell, make that Lauren Bacall – working in a strip mall laundry in southeastern Nebraska. Who woulda thought?

Dean swung around, a smile already curving his lips. And then one eyebrow went up as he glanced down.

She was tiny, just over five feet tall. Probably somewhere around fifty or so, with short, dark hair beginning to turn a little gray. But she gave him a grin, all the same, a trifle wry, as though his reaction was not at all unfamiliar.

Dean shook his head, still smiling, a little wry now himself, and answered her question. "Nah, been through more laundromats in the past few years than I even wanna think about. Thanks, though."

"Well, give a holler if these cranky machines give ya any trouble," she said, somehow making the words sound like a torch singer husking them out in a smoky nightclub.

He blinked, and cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Thanks, I will."

She nodded and headed over to the counter that ran along one wall, sat down on a tall stool, and picked up a battered paperback.

Dean turned back to the rather pungent pile of clothes he'd just begun sorting and wrinkled his nose, hoping the woman hadn't noticed the smell. He fished out the heavy-duty pre-wash stain remover and, with a grimace, got to work. Sam would sulk for days if Dean put his shorts and precious whippet t-shirt in with the monster gore, so he very considerately made two piles, and reminded himself to tell Sam he had an awesome big brother. Blood – and other – stains soon treated, Dean stuffed the clothes into their respective washers and studied the machines in front of him. He poured in the detergent, plunked in the requisite number of quarters, and – What the hell, live it up – threw in an extra twenty-five cents for the super cycle, then hit "start."

For a moment, Dean thought about going over to talk to the two girls, indulging in some casual conversation, a little harmless flirting to help pass the time. But even the clothes he was wearing were none too fresh, and what with the three-day-binge look and the dark bruise on his jaw, he'd probably only scare them. On top of that, he doubted he had the energy for it.

So instead he sank into a nearby chair, an ugly plaid monstrosity that actually turned out to be more comfortable than it looked, and rifled through the newspapers and magazines piled on the table next to him. Picking a random, outdated issue of People, Dean stretched out his legs and settled in to catch up on all the earth-shattering celebrity gossip he'd missed while out digging up graves and taking care of a few restless ghosts.

Thirty-three minutes later, he decided he really hadn't missed anything, and his head was beginning to nod heavily forward. Dean tossed the magazine aside to stand and stretch before wandering over to the vending machines in the opposite corner. By the time he'd snagged a can of Mountain Dew and a bag of peanut M&Ms, his two loads of super cycle wash were done.

"Oh, forget this," said a voice behind him, laced with disgust and frustration.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw one of the college girls thump her textbook shut with an air of finality. She got up and flipped through channels on the TV before stopping at something that flickered black and white on the screen, turning up the volume a little.

Dean grinned and transferred both loads into one of the big dryers, dropped in his last five quarters, and sat down again for another round of waiting. He flicked a glance at his watch and smothered a yawn. Forty minutes. He just had to stay awake forty more minutes…

The girls left soon after, gathering up baskets of freshly folded laundry, books, and backpacks. The woman who ran the place called out a cheerful goodnight to them on their way out the door.

The guy playing solitaire had taken off earlier, around when Dean had been reading about some blonde starlet's most recent meltdown, and so he now had the place to himself. Well, except for the lady with the drop-dead sexy voice.

He resumed his sprawl in the ugly plaid chair and actually zoned out for a few minutes, eyes closed, mind drifting.

"I hate this nightgown. I hate all my nightgowns. And I hate all my underwear, too."

"My dear, you have lovely things."

"But I'm not two hundred years old! Why can't I wear pajamas?"

The familiar voice with its upper class British accent filtered into his consciousness. Blinking out of his near-doze, he squinted over at the TV, still tuned to whatever station the college girl had been watching.

Dean's knees melted when he saw her appear on the screen. Just like they always did. He couldn't seem to help it. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he sat up a little straighter to get a better perspective. Oh, yeah. This part. It had just started…

When the television suddenly sounded louder, it took him a moment or two to notice it was because the background hum of the dryer had clicked off into silence. Dean levered himself stiffly to his feet and, with one eye still on the TV, began to sort and fold their motley collection of faded jeans and mended shirts. But clean, at least, he thought, studying his handiwork as he held up a t-shirt that had been liberally spattered with…something really gross from one hunt or another during the past week.

Dean worked slower and slower, trying to make the simple chore last. He glanced from the neat stacks to the dwindling messy pile on the table, and his efforts soon became a last-ditch desperate measure that involved matching Sam's socks. Just a few more minutes, and it would be that scene where –

"I'm sorry, hon, but it's ten o'clock and I'm gettin' ready to close up."

Dean turned, startled, a sock in one hand. "Oh." He blinked. "Uh, yeah." He tossed the unmatched sock back into the pile. "Sorry about that. Guess I lost track of time."

She gave him a genuinely apologetic smile, then tilted her head toward the television. "It's a good one. Don't blame ya for wanting to watch."

He ducked to hide the blush that suddenly warmed his cheeks. Busted. Watching a chickflick. A classic, but still… Then he looked up and grinned at her. "She's just kinda hard to resist, you know?"

After an astute, considering stare, she nodded as though reaching a decision. "Well, here's my offer," the woman said, the smile growing a bit mischievous. "Unless you've got other plans, why not stick around and finish the movie with me? I'll even make popcorn."

There was a hint of wistful longing in her voice. A touch of loneliness in her eyes that Dean recognized. Too similar to what he'd seen staring back at him from too many grimy bathroom mirrors over the last few years. Those bleak months after Sam had left, and then when Dad had the two of them split up, sending Dean off on his own…

He wondered what she saw in his eyes.

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse. Not because she was fifty years old and he was twenty-eight, or because he looked and felt like total crap, but… He wavered.

Why not stay and watch a movie? Why go back to yet another dreary motel room and a tired, crabby Sam? They were damn well sick of each other, Sam wouldn't miss him, and his brother could survive without clean sweatpants for a couple of hours.

"I promise not to get you drunk and molest you," she added, her smile dimming just a little when he still hadn't said anything.

Dean shook off the brief melancholic reverie and mustered a quick grin. "Who says I'd mind?" But he nevertheless pointed out, "I could be a serial killer, for all you know."

"I kinda doubt serial killers would pre-soak their bloodstained t-shirts," she said with raised eyebrows. "I think they'd throw away the evidence instead."

That brought another embarrassed blush to his face. So much for her not noticing the state of his laundry… "Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. He slanted a glance at her. "Okay."

"Okay? Yeah?" Her face brightened.

He nodded. "And I like my popcorn with lots of butter."

She laughed.

"Dean," he said, putting out his hand.

"Lola," she said, taking it. "Nice to meet you." She turned her head to catch sight of the television. "We'd better hurry or we're gonna miss the part where he figures out who she is. So drag a chair over and make yourself comfortable while I lock up."

"Need help?"

"Nah." She made a shooing motion. "Go on, sit down."

"Yes, ma'am." Dean grinned again and turned back to what he had begun to think of as The Comfy Chair. He hauled it over in front of the television in favor of utterly ignoring the remainder of his laundry piled on the table. He found another chair for Lola as she went about closing the place down for the night.

The bright overhead lights flickered off, the window blinds rattled down, until nothing but the glow from the television screen and a single desk lamp on the front counter lit the big room.

"Can I miss the next three minutes?" Lola called out, her voice muffled.

Dean glanced up at the screen as he positioned the chairs. "Yep, it's safe."

She had disappeared into what was probably an office, and now stuck her head out the door. "Want a beer?"

"What happened to not trying to get me drunk?" He wandered over to lean against the doorframe and peered in. Big desk, a clunky older computer, neatly stacked trays and files. Framed photos of smiling people. A small refrigerator took up one corner, a coffeemaker and a microwave sat on a counter next to it. The microwave was already in use.

"Oh, I lied." Lola gave him a wink before turning around to open the fridge.

Dean huffed a quiet snort of laughter, the smile lingering on his face. Then shook his head, and said, not without some regret, "Think I'm gonna have to pass on the beer tonight." Not adding that it wouldn't go too well with the painkillers he'd grudgingly admitted to needing a couple of hours before, he just said, "I'll stick with Mountain Dew."

"Well, I'm gonna live it up and indulge," she said, grinning, a bottle dangling from her fingers as she shut the fridge door.

"No molesting, ma'am," Dean said solemnly. "You have my word."

She sighed as she popped the cap off the beer bottle. "Just my luck. A gentleman."

"On occasion."

He really liked the sound of her laugh.

Soft explosions began to emanate from the microwave as Lola set two bowls on the counter and checked the timer. "Almost there," she said cheerfully. "Less than a minute."

The smell of hot popcorn suddenly had Dean's mouth watering and his stomach rumbling.

"Go sit down and watch the movie," Lola said, giving him a nudge on the shoulder. "You're my guest. I'll bring it out."

Dean ducked his head, suddenly and oddly shy with the situation, with her kindness, and jammed his hands into his pockets. "All right, all right," he said, rolling his eyes and backing away when she gave him another poke. "I'm going."

Retrieving his can of pop, he slouched into the chair with a sigh. He fumbled for his phone, stuck in a pocket of his jacket, and flipped it open to call Sam, to let him know he wasn't coming back right away. For a long moment, Dean stared at the little screen without hitting Sam's number. Sam would probably just snap at him, Dean would give it right back, and he was just too damn tired to deal with another stupid argument over nothing. Besides, Sam would no doubt eventually reach the obvious conclusion that Dean had hit a bar for a few drinks and some pool hustling. The usual.

Anyway, if he called now, he'd miss part of the movie. Sam could yell at him later. Dean closed the phone again, turned off the ringer, and stuffed it back into his pocket. Slumping a little lower, mindful of bruises and sore back muscles, he got as comfortable as he could and stretched out his legs.

The scent of hot buttered popcorn wafted over.

"Here you go, Dean," Lola said, handing him one of the bowls as she sat down.

"Hey, thanks." He balanced the bowl on his stomach and at once began to munch, trying not to moan as the salty, buttery bliss hit his taste buds.

"It's just microwave popcorn, hon," she said, amusement evident in her voice.

"It's wonderful," he said around a crunching mouthful.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"Oh, yeah."

An easy silence fell as they sat in the near-darkness watching the movie, a silence broken only by the sounds of quickly disappearing popcorn and their bursts of shared laughter.

Dean sighed, just a little, his gaze on the screen, caught up in her sparkling dark eyes and impossibly elegant, slender throat. His knees did that melting thing again when she smiled.

He had never heard of her, not at age fourteen. No surprise there. But thanks to a nasty bout of flu that took a turn for the worse into a case of pneumonia, his dad had left him and Sam with Pastor Jim for a couple of weeks to let Dean rest and regain his strength after getting out of the hospital. Though Dean fretted miserably over Dad hunting on his own, and Jim being the one to look after Sammy, there was little he was allowed to do at Jim's beyond reading or watching TV from bed.

When he wasn't sleeping, that is, or getting brief visits from an unusually subdued Sam, no doubt severely warned by Pastor Jim's part-time housekeeper to behave himself.

One particular rainy afternoon, exhausted, listless, and utterly fed up with being sick, Dean woke up enough to turn on the three o'clock matinee, then shuffled back to bed with barely energy to spare to squirm under the covers again. Due to Jim's ancient TV and equally ancient rabbit-eared antenna, there was only one station that even came in clearly. Dean had the choice of whatever was on or no TV at all.

The movie was in black and white. He watched it with bleary, drooping eyes, and, quite unexpectedly, fell madly in love.

A quick peal of laughter startled Dean out of his thoughts, and he came back to the here-and-now in time to see Gregory Peck pretend to lose his hand in the mouth of the old stone face built into the city wall.

"I love that part," Lola murmured between quiet giggles, sounding about fifteen. She sighed dreamily. "You can have the princess – I'll take Gregory Peck any day of the week." She sighed again. "Not that I didn't want to be her when I grew up…"

"Yeah," Dean deadpanned. "Me, too."

She snorted, threw some popcorn at him, and focused again on the screen.

Dean grinned in the dark. It was different than watching a movie with Sam. When it was the two of them, it was all snark and critical running commentary and intoning memorized bits of dialog along with the actors.

He tried to remember the last time he'd taken a girl to a movie…

Dean finally shoved that thought firmly aside and simply let himself fall in love with Audrey Hepburn all over again.

At some point, he sort of drifted, still watching with half-mast eyes but the voices blurring and the black-and-white screen bleeding into the darkness of the room. When he blinked away a brief moment of disorientation that almost had him reaching for a weapon, the credits were rolling. Covering a yawn that nearly cracked his jaw, he rolled his head to the side and saw Lola watching him with a faint smile.

"You awake there, Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, still a little groggy. He pushed himself upright from his slightly tipped over slump and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm awake." He glanced at the TV with a mock scowl. "Think I missed the ending, though."

"Well, it didn't change, and it still made me cry." She laughed and swiped a finger beneath her eyes. "Never fails."

"Aww," Dean teased.

Lola reached out and swatted him on the arm. "I'm a hopeless romantic. I cry at everything."

Dean laughed, but as he got to his feet, it quickly turned into a stifled groan. He stood and stretched out stiffened muscles for a moment, then flicked his gaze to meet hers, feeling that strange shyness steal over him again. "Thanks," he said. "I had fun."

"You fell asleep, hon," she said, teasing right back as she stood up "Hope you don't do that a lot on dates."

"Uh…" he fumbled, looking away. Dates? Not exactly what he'd call them… "Sorry."

She took one of his hands in hers and tugged until he glanced over again. "Dean," she said gently. "I had fun, too. I mean that. Thanks for staying."

"Glad you asked." He gave her a wry grin. "I'd never hear the end of it if my brother caught me watching an Audrey Hepburn movie."

"It'll be our secret, then," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "And, hey, they're showing Breakfast at Tiffany's tomorrow night at nine…"

"Really?"

"Yeah, this station's showing one of her movies every night for the next couple of weeks."

"Huh." He looked at Lola's small hands, still holding his. "Tempting," he drawled, raising his eyebrows and giving her a smirk. "Gotta say, this was the best threesome in a laundromat I've ever had."

"Had a lot of those, have you?" Her eyebrows went up too as she gave his fingers a quick flirtatious squeeze before letting go.

"Actually, you and Audrey are my first." His smirk turned into a good-natured leer.

Lola sniffed and rolled her eyes. But he caught the grin before she turned off the TV, then bent to gather the empty popcorn bowls and beer bottle from the floor.

Dean yawned again, and made a vague gesture toward his half-sorted piles of laundry. "Getting late. Guess I'd better finish this up and let you go home…"

"Take your time, hon," she said, heading for the darkened office. "I still have a few things to wrap up for the night myself."

"Okay." He put the chairs back before returning to his interrupted sorting. But first… Dean dragged out his cell and gave it a glance, swearing quietly. Three missed calls. No doubt each one a little more tense and frantic than the last. Sam would be pissed, and Dean couldn't blame him.

All dreamy fantasies of Audrey Hepburn on a Vespa disappeared. Dean sighed, aware all over again of the burn of exhaustion behind his eyes, the tight ache of bruises on his shoulders and back. But with the automatic economy of long practice, he quickly finished folding and packing the clean laundry into the bag. Turning as he slung the duffel over his shoulder, he looked up to see Lola leaning against a washer, watching him.

"Just like my boy in the service," she said with a smile. "Always fast and neat when it comes to packing up his gear."

Dean ducked his head. "My…dad – he…was a marine." Car keys in one hand, he started for the door.

"Ah, no wonder then. Can't help yourself." Lola fell in step beside him.

"My brother and me, we're just passing through," he said awkwardly, pausing as she unlocked the door. "We're heading out early tomorrow. If we weren't…"

"Well, Audrey and George and I will certainly miss you. Just make sure you find yourself in front of a TV at nine tomorrow night, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'll do my best." Dean shifted the bag on his shoulder, trying to find a spot that didn't hurt. "Thanks for…this." For a night off, he wanted to say. For a kind face and a friendly voice. He cleared his throat. "For the movie, I mean. And the popcorn."

"Anytime, sugar." She winked. "And thank you. Best date in a laundromat I've ever had. Come back anytime. Laundry and popcorn, on the house."

Dean found himself grinning back. "It's a date," he said as he pushed open the door. Stepping out into the darkness, a warm draft of dryer-scented air followed, and Lola gave him a last little wave before locking up again.

He climbed into the Impala after tossing the duffel on the backseat, and thoughtfully tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

Breakfast at Tiffany's. Tomorrow night. Hmm.

TBC…