Work Text:
Okay, so between them, they owned a lot of plaid.
It's not like they ever planned it that way – or like Dad had, because truth is it probably started with him. It just... happened. Sam didn't like plaid any more than he liked other patterns or plain colours, and he was sure Dean didn't either. Maybe it was because no one else seemed to wear plaid anymore, and it was always on special? They were never picky about their clothes.
Dean sniffed at the duffle full of laundry and quickly jerked his head back. "Jeez, Sammy, what've you been doing lately, cleaning toilets?"
"It's Sam."
Dean rolled his eyes and started shoving handfuls into the washing machine; it was impossible to tell them apart. "Uh huh, well, Sam, your clothes stink worse than a high school locker room."
"Half of that is yours, you know," Sam retorted and started counting coins. The laundromat was pretty empty, so as a peace offering he added, "It was probably the lake water. We churned up a lot of mud looking for Lucas. And it didn't really dry properly last night."
"Yeah, I guess so. Hey, that's my red one!" Dean tore one of the shirts back out and held it up. "Been missing this for ages! I thought Dad chucked it. You had it?"
He sounded scandalised. Sam's brow furrowed. "Uh... yeah, I had it. It's yours?"
"What, you think it's yours?" Dean held the shirt against his front, even though it made his nose wrinkle up again. "Look, fits me. A bit long, just how I like it."
"It's a bit short on me," Sam admitted. He spread his hands. "Sorry, man, I just always thought it was mine."
Dean shrugged and threw it in with the rest of the Winchester Plaid Supply. "Haven't seen you wear it, that's all." He turned the dials and started the wash.
"No, I... I don't think I've worn it since before..."
Before Jess. Sam bit down on his feelings before they could choke him again and focused on something else. The red-plaid shirt. Yeah, he'd worn it on the Thursday just before Halloween. So it would've been in their wash basket, which must've been getting full because that was the only time it got stashed by the front door instead of the bedroom, and Dean said he hadn't managed to save anything from their bedroom. Most of the stuff he'd grabbed after the smoke cleared was from the living room. Sam hadn't been able to look at any of it yet.
He bit down but Dean saw it anyway. He wavered, moving slightly forward and back a few times. "You want it?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, I hate the damn thing – can't imagine why I even remembered it. Fits you better anyway."
Sam smiled and shook his head. "Nah, it's all right."
"You sure there, Sammy? We've swapped stuff often enough anyway; I don't care. Well, most of the time. Don't you touch my AC/DC shirt."
Sam laughed. Five minutes later, when the other machine was loaded with jeans and coats, they were back to their usual laundry-day bitching about who got to go and get food while the other stuck around waiting to load the dryers, and Dean was mercilessly mocking Sam's obsession with folding things neatly. It was just like old times.
Except, it never would be.