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They buy a front loader.
A completely legal fifty dollar transaction from a deceased estate auction, going cheap because no one really wants to be in possession of a dead person’s belongings. Tough for them to be superstitious, however, when they were the ones that dug up and burnt the body of the owner.
Dean had suggested stealing it, call it payment for a job well done. But this was their clean slate, their new era, and there was something intrinsically satisfying about buying furniture for a house they’re proud to call home. Never mind that that money had come from the pocket of a hustled cowboy in Amarillo, Texas. They’re allowed a little fun.
Man-hauled up the basement stairs without a trolley, the sharp edges cutting into their fingers. They’d sat it on a towel in the backseat because it was too bulky for the trunk, Sam turned to the side to balance it so it wouldn’t slam into the back of his head every time Dean hit the brakes on the way home.
It’s rusty between the divots, screams on the spin cycle and needs a good kick twenty-two minutes in, but it’s not about the state of the thing. It’s the fact that it’s theirs. And that they no longer have to make the trip to the Lebanon coin laundry with two weeks worth of suspiciously stained washing splitting out of plastic bags.
There is something to be missed in late night laundry runs, though. The otherworldly, liminal space assisted by two am neon. The sticky faux leather couches and flat coke from the vending machine. Sachets of washing powder bought with spare change from the glove box, being forced to watch Gulliver’s Travels for the umpteenth time because the DVD got stuck in the player a year ago and well, hey, it still works so why replace it.
However, Sam is approaching forty, Dean is going grey at the temples, and they’ve done enough coin laundry runs for that times five. Sometimes you spill a little lamb's blood on your favourite shirt and the thought of being able to toss it into the wash immediately instead of at the bottom of a duffle is genuinely exciting.
They even have fabric softener.
Dean rounds the corner in his pyjamas despite it being well past midday.
“Am I too late?” he asks, clutching a bundle of clothes to his chest, looking out of breath, like he’d ran through the hallways to make it on time. Miracle skids to a halt beside him, tongue lolling, looking up at Dean, ready to start off down the corridor again. He’s not a puppy but he’s young at heart. Birds of a feather, Sam thinks.
“Nah, give ‘em here.”
The machine beeps shrilly at him when he unlocks the door to toss Dean’s clothes in with his own. Sam slams it closed with his knee. There’s a nervous five second pause where the machine sits silent - his clothes soaked and soapy and still - and Sam thinks maybe he’s treated the poor thing a little too harshly, before it kicks itself off again with a metallic clunk.
“Got wind of some vamps down south, you interested?” Dean asks, slouching out of his robe to drape it over the table.
“I dunno,” Sam sits against the washer, thumbs his book back open to where he left off. “Exam’s on Monday.”
Dean moves in front of him to snatch it out of his hand, kicks Sam’s legs out to get all up in his space. He’s taller than him with Sam on a lean. “Like you don’t know it all already.”
It’s a different kind of knowledge. He’s got the first hand experience in ancient world studies and classics, sure. But he lost the skill of being able to write essays within time frames, all academic prose shot the moment he resigned himself to being on the road. His world narrowed back down to his brother and violence instead of deadlines and readings.
He had considered law again. He wouldn’t need to start from the beginning, all his A's still attached to his legal name. However, the reason he had gone down that path in the first place was so that he’d have the ability to bust Dean and his father out of bad situations, if it ever came down to it. A way of feeling important, a scramble to keep some kind of worthiness in his estranged family.
That feeling is far from relevant now. Tucked away alongside the very different version of himself he’d left in California. The life of a Sam Winchester he doesn’t feel like he had actually lived. They’ve been through so much, that angsty, twenty year old wreck of himself might as well have been from one of Chuck’s alternate realities. Maybe his life started when Dean had pinned him to the floor in his dorm. Maybe it had started when he’d put his mouth to his brother’s for the first time a year later. They’re the only parts really worth remembering.
“It’s fine, Claire and Jody said they could deal with it.”
“You already passed it on?” Sam asks, wrapping a loose thread dangling from the hem of Dean’s shirt - or is it his? - around his finger, and pulling so it snaps, smoothing a hand down to iron out the fabric.
“Maybe I wanted you for the weekend,” Dean confesses, winding a hand around the back of Sam’s neck to bring their lips together.
Sam laughs, kisses him back with the same dedication, sliding his hands under his brother’s shirt, resting where his pyjama pants sit low on his hips. His thumbs circle warm skin. “You have me every day. What’s so special about the weekend?”
“Celebrating,” Dean says muffled against his mouth.
“Huh?” Sam pulls back to look at him.
Dean grins toothily at him, his hands on either side of Sam’s face, squashing his cheeks so his lips fish-pucker. “I got the job.”
Sam stands abruptly, breaking Dean’s hold. His textbook falls forgotten to the floor. “Holy shit, Dean!”
“We can still hunt, it’s the part time position. I’ve asked for Monday and Tuesday’s off so -”
Sam cuts him off, kisses him - can’t help himself. The rest is fine-print. Sam’s rushed with the tangible view of their future. They’ve got their hands at ten and two on the wheel, driving towards something honest and completely of their own making.
“Calm down, it’s not that big of a deal,” Dean lies and knows it because he’s shoving Sam back against the washer and his hand is halfway down Sam’s pants.
“Honest work, Dean. Are you sure you’re gonna be able to handle that?”
“Please, I was working full time to pay for your school field trips when you were twelve.”
“This is different.” It’s not about survival, they’ve got that down to an art. Dean had once worked to keep Sam fed, keep Sam from being bullied for having shirts with holes in the sleeves, keep Sam up to date with textbooks and stationery and everything else he needed so that Sam could finish school for the both of them.
This is Dean doing something for himself, with a new life they’ve spent so long bleeding for.
Jack had said he’d take a hands-off approach, but Sam prays as he usually does; keeps Jack up to date as though he’s not omniscient. And if the sun shines brighter on his morning jog and the washer runs a full cycle without needing to be kicked then who is to say that’s not Jack’s influence? It’s a comfort, and Sam reminds himself to thank Jack again, for giving them the chance to have this too.
The machine beeps obnoxiously once it’s finished it’s cycle, making Sam jump and Miracle bark. Dean laughs into Sam’s mouth.
“Help me hang these out,” Sam says, arms looped loosely around his brother’s back, his cheek against his collar, not making any actual attempt to move.
“I think I’ll buy a dryer with my first paycheck.”