The bunker’s laundry room hums softly with the sound of the dryer, the scent of detergent in the air. It’s not exactly the most thrilling way to spend time together, but Sam’s always been one to find comfort in the simple things. And you? You’ve learned that acts of service speak to him in a way words sometimes can’t. Sam pulls a warm load of clothes from the dryer, shaking out one of his flannels before folding it neatly. You grab one of Dean’s t-shirts and do the same, matching his pace. He doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that’s soft and grateful.

“You don’t have to help, you know,” he says, glancing at you as he folds a pair of jeans. But his voice lacks protest. If anything, it sounds like he’s glad you’re here.

You shrug, nudging his arm playfully. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to hear you sigh dramatically about the ‘mountain of laundry’ later.”

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t do that.”

“You totally do.”

His smile widens, and for a moment, the only sound is the rhythmic folding of clothes and the occasional snap of fabric as you smooth out wrinkles. It’s a small thing, just doing laundry together, but you can tell it means something to him. The way he relaxes, the way his shoulders lose their usual tension, it’s like this little act of service reminds him he’s not alone, that someone’s here, sharing the weight.

After a while, Sam hands you one of his hoodies, freshly dried, still warm to the touch. “Thanks for helping,” he says, voice quiet but sincere.