clothes make the man

Some people sort their memories by color. You had a really old teacher in first grade. She was so old, you wondered how she was able to still be standing, and you were curious to know if she were actually alive. That memory was gray. Or, your mom used to make cookies for you on Sundays, and she’d always wear that same blue apron. That memory was blue.

But for Dean Winchester, he didn’t sort his memories by color. His memories weren’t tied to holidays, particular dates or even by scents.

His memories were sorted by clothes.

He and Sam each carried a large duffel bag with them. It contained their clothes, their toiletries, maybe even a few weapons. Sam also carried a worn leather messenger bag that held his laptop and other personal items, like pictures of Jessica. Dean knew that Sam didn’t really like to focus on his memories. Most of them were too painful, but Dean enjoyed reliving certain moments of his own whenever they did their laundry.

They were at an all night Laundromat, and while Dean fought with a machine that wouldn’t take his quarters, Sam pulled clothes from their bags and sorted them into piles.

“Is this even dirty?” he asked, holding up a dark red button down shirt.

Dean glanced up, spotted the shirt and hurriedly reached for it.

“Nah, man, but it probably smells because it’s been in the bottom of my bag.”

“I haven’t seen you wear this recently,” Sam said.

“What, you’re keeping track of my clothes now?” Dean asked. “Noticing what I wear?”

Sam shrugged and went back to pulling clothes from his own bag. “Hey, you’re the one that insists on wearing that same stupid gray t-shirt with everything.”

“That stupid gray t-shirt happens to go with everything. It’s a classic.”

“You’re pathetic,” Sam said with a grin, then his expression turned to disgust. “Ugh, dude. What the hell is your underwear doing mixed up in my stuff?”

“If you wanted in my drawers, Sammy, you’d only have to ask,” Dean teased.

Sam flipped him off and stepped away from the clothes pile. He extended his hand to Dean and said, “Give me the quarters. You sort.”

“What? Why?”

“Because washing machines and you don’t get along. Or have you forgotten the one in Tucson you shot because it ate a pair of your jeans?”

“Hey, I still say that bitch was infested with an evil spirit.”

“It was not. You just overfilled it. Now give me the quarters.”

Dean thrust the coins at Sam and began sorting through the pile of clothes.

The jeans with the back pocket ripped off by some demon. That was a good night, Dean remembered. Not that getting attacked by a demon was good, but it was the night that he shared stories with Sam about their mother. How she loved to sing and read, and how she loved it when their father surprised her with flowers, even if they were from her own garden. Sam had thanked Dean for telling him.

The navy blue hooded sweatshirt with the holes in the elbows. This had originally been Dean’s, but one night, when Sam was 16 and they were out hunting a spirit in a graveyard, Sam had been shivering. Dean remembered how Sam wouldn’t admit to being cold, but he accepted Dean’s sweatshirt anyway. Sam kept it until he grew out of it, then gave it back to Dean. The sleeves were a little short and frayed at the ends, and there were holes in the elbows of course, but Dean kept it and even wore it sometimes. Because it still made him feel warm.

The green sweater with the red horizontal stripe across the front. This piece of clothing had magically appeared one day in Dean’s bag a few months ago. Dean hadn’t bought it, and he knew Sam hadn’t either. When Dean asked Sam about it, Sam shrugged and blushed, and finally confessed to stealing it from another dryer.

“Why’d you do that?” Dean asked.

“Remember the guy that was there at the Coin-o-Mat when we were? He was giving you crap because his girlfriend kept making eyes at you. He said you looked like some kind of Abercrombie model or something.”

“So?”

“He said you were pretty. A pretty piece of ass with no brain.”

“When did he say that?”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “When you left to get more laundry soap. Then he left, and I reached into his dryer and swiped this sweater because he kept telling his girlfriend how it was his favorite.” Sam looked up. “I’m the only one that gets to call you pretty.”

The sweater ended up being a bit too big for Dean, so Sam kept it for himself, but every time he wore it, Dean knew that Sam had stolen it for him.

“Hey, you about done with the clothes?” Sam asked.

Dean blinked and picked up an armful, throwing everything at Sam.

“Asshole,” Sam muttered as it all fluttered to the floor.

Dean chuckled and turned back to their bags. He reached into his and pulled out a blue t-shirt with a picture of a dragon on the back. He’d been wearing that when Sam hugged him and left for college, one of the worst memories in his entire life.

He didn’t know why he kept it. This wasn’t exactly a fond memory. He tossed it over his shoulder at Sam, ignoring the annoyed, “Hey!” as it hit Sam in the face.

But then there was the dark red button down shirt. Dean looked at it for a moment. He’d been wearing that the night that Sam left with him on their search for their father.

This shirt represented one of the best memories in his entire life. Sam was back with him, and they were doing what they did best, hunting demons and spirits. Together. It wasn’t until Dean came face to face with his brother, that he realized how much he missed him, missed the bantering and the closeness. It was like he was whole again.

Smiling, he carefully folded it and tucked it into his duffel bag. He hadn’t worn or washed the shirt since then.

He didn’t want the memory to fade.

~end