Laundry Drabbles

by Vanzetti


Sam still dreams about Jess. He doesn't tell Dean, because how can he explain waking in tears from a dream of Jess folding their clothes at the laundromat? Or that just for a second, before he opened his eyes, he could still smell steam and starch and fabric softener? Dean probably doesn't even know what fabric softener is.

In the dream she complained about losing a sock; she made him check the dryer again, but it wasn't there. Now he thinks, the lost sock was safe all along. The other, home in her dresser drawer, tonight it's nothing but ash.


Hot water for whites; cold water for bloodstains. When Dean was twelve he turned three loads of laundry pink. After that it was only dark colors for a couple years; they show less dirt anyway. He still hates doing laundry. Wait for the wash to finish, feed quarters into the dryer, fold everything like Dad showed him. It can't be rushed; you can't stuff damp clothes into the duffel and dump them in the trunk while you go hunt werewolves. He learned that five years back, somewhere in Kentucky. No, you have to wait; wait, or leave it all behind.


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