So, today I got really bored and decided that I wanted to write another one. I took a look at the list and decided to fill madebyme_x prompt, which was:
A quiet day in the bunker doing chores (who does the washing up? Does the bunker have a laundry room? Do they hang their clothes outside to dry? Do they have an old vacuum cleaner or any other vintage cleaning products? How many bathrooms need cleaning? Do the boys have a chore rota?)
And this is mainly just a small love-letter to chores you enjoy and the old wringer washer that lived in the basement of my cottage...
“Watch your fingers!” Dean snapped, for possible the millionth time since they moved in.
“I know!” Sam snapped back, as usual.
“Maybe you should just let me do it?” Dean argued. Sam sent him a glare, and reached into the laundry tub to pull out another shirt. Dean just wanted to do it because it was the fun part. This was why they took turns.
Sam carefully fed the shirt through the wringer, making sure that the buttons lay flat before they went through – they’d had a few mishaps when they first moved in and had since learnt their lesson on not just stuffing the shirts into the rotating press. Dean was waiting on the other side to pick up the shirt and hang it out the line. Really, Sam could do this chore on his own, but it’d take twice as long. It was also the only chore they did together. The kitchen was Dean’s domain. Sam kept the library tidy. They took turns on the bathrooms, because no one on earth enjoyed cleaning bathrooms.
They both loved the wringer washer though – they could probably buy themselves a new modern washing machine and a dryer, but why waste money when this thing still worked and the novelty hadn’t worn off yet.
They hadn’t put a dishwasher in the kitchen either. Sam didn’t ask about that - he’d walked in on Dean singing along to the hits of the 70s once and shaking his hips with his hands buried elbow deep in the kitchen sink, and Sam decided that there might be a reason that Dean had never brought it up.
The wringer pressed thick creases into the shirts – most would come out once the shirts were dried on the line that stretched across the laundry room. The ones that didn’t, Dean would take care of with a pass under the iron – an iron that he’d haul up to the kitchen to use for some reason. Possibly, because that’s where his stereo was, possibly because there was a greater likelihood of Sam walking in and stopping for a chat, possibly, because Dean just really liked the kitchen.
Sam picked up the next shirt, only to find that it was one Dean had been wearing on the last hunt – an older one that had already been mended in two places, even before it was sliced open across the back and sleeve by claws. Thankfully, they’d been shallow cuts on Dean’s skin, but the shirt hadn’t really been worth the wash.
“Why didn’t you just through this one out?” Sam asked.
Dean looked over from where he was hanging the shirt on the line and grimaced.
“I can use it for rags,” Dean answered with a grimace. “It’s a shame, that was one of my favourite shirts – but, it’s really been through the wringer.”
Sam blinked at his brother, and looked at the ancient laundry machine, and then back at his brother.
“I can’t believe we just put that together.”
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