"No, Sammy, I'm not dead; would I be talking to you if I was dead? Jesus", Dean balanced his phone between his shoulder and his cheek, pushing his dirty clothes into the too small washing machine. He's hated washing machines all his life; why were they always so short and so small and costed so much more than drying? Sam was talking at him still, about disappearing and all that. He rolled his eyes, popping the quarters into the machine, "Last time I skipped laundry day, I endured the bitchface for a week. Not into it. Now hang up and eat your damn sandwich. I'll see you later", he took the phone and hit the end button, simultaneously watching his jeans fall out of the machine because he stopped holding them in. He kneeled down, picking them all up, when he noticed that they there were significantly smaller pair compared to the others. Small and blue with really shallow pockets and strangely familiar stains; was that slime?

Confused, he picked his head up, canvasing. He'd picked this place specifically because it was a hole in the wall that he'd passed often and hadn't seen anyone in. Whose jeans were these?

That's when he saw her; standing at a whopping 5'1, dark crinkled hair the only thing he could see above the short row of washing machines. Maybe he was used to giants and exaggerating, but she was freakishly tiny. These had to belong to her. "Miss?" No response. She was turning her pants inside out; how thoughtful. "Miss? Hey, lady?" Still no response. He circled the machines, impatient (as was his disposition), and stood a few feet away, head angled and waiting for her to see him; he's been snuck up on and almost killed people. He'd hate to be that asshole.

She turns around and, Dean's got to say, it was worth the wait. Beautiful aint the beginning of the words he could use to describe her, and it'd be cheap anyway. But there are only a few people that shock you with their faces, in a good way, and she is definitely one of them. Full lips, prettiest skin he's ever seen, and eyes like shiny, brown stars. Her mouth is moving and his brain is not computing; is he staring? Dear god.

"Sir? Hey, you need something?", she plucks her headphones out, head turning in a way he recognizes; she's getting impatient and he's still not talking, "uh, yeah, hi...sorry-here, I think these belong to you", he sticks his arm out, pants in hand, and curses the clumsiness because who is he, Sam?

The wry smile she gives him matches the rest of her in beauty, and she takes the pants, examining. He takes the time to look at her face some more before she smiles up at him and he tries hard to not look caught, "thank you-I have no idea how they got over there, sorry about that."

He smiles, nods, and gulps because his fight or flight reflexes are kicking in and he's usually not this bad at flirting. But it's been a while. He's rusty. Rusted. Broken, maybe? Maybe hanging around Cass and Sam has broken him, "no problem." She smiles up at him, like she can see it and he's sure he can go toe to toe with Sam for how stupid he looks. "Well, enjoy your wash", he says and regrets, turning heel on her amused "thank you". Enjoy your wash?

He went back to his machine, filling it and swearing to himself.

Seriously, what was that?

He tried to ignore it and go back to washing his clothes but both machines were full, so all he could do was wait. The laundromat was right outside of Columbus. He'd been working a case while Sam helped Kevin with some translations. He and Sam had just finished a case in Illinois, but Kevin had called and needed some help. Sam went along and Dean decided to take on another case; no breaks, so no time to think about the drama with Benny, or everything else he was trying to avoid. He was tired. So he was going to do his laundry three states away.

Even though he was bumbling his way around this girl, he had to admit it felt nice to do something normal again. The laundromat is tiny, the linoleum is all but rotted, but he can tell that there are some hardworking people in here, doing their best. Just like him. There are four machines; two near him, and two at the back of his machines. There is a wall of dryers to his right, the door, coin machine, and concession stand to his left, and the prettiest girl he'd seen since purgatory at his ten o'clock. And he was bumbling. He wondered if it was normal, to lose touch like that. Maybe it was.

She looks up, catching his eye, and they widen because did he just get caught for real? Her lips spread into another wry smile, and she holds up a rolled up pair of white tube socks, "pretty sure these aren't mine." He smirks, catching them when she tosses, and unrolls; they are his, "You sure?", he tosses them in the basket beside him, "these definitely look your style."

She grins, "Last time I checked, I'm not a size 20 in shoe size. So, nope.".

He smirks, "touché. Where do you shop, the kids section?"

She nods, smiling at him and he feels like he's won a prize, "nice."

"Hey you started it", they grin, good naturedly. She leans against the opposing wall, and her eyes float up to him. They hold gazes for a while, faces breaking into smirks. "What's your name?"

"Dean."

"Abbie"

"Well, Abbie", he leans over his machine, outstretching his hand, "I'll take back the little-guy jab if you take back the giant thing."

She smirks, shaking his hand, "you're right; I have seen bigger."

"You talk to all your friends like that?" It rolls off the way water does from a ducks back, the comfortability; he just met this girl and she's the first person to get him to laugh in a long time. You don't laugh where he's been. This is nice, and he hopes it doesn't end.

That wry, flirtatious smile is back and he wants it to stay, "Oh, we're friends?"

Those smirks turn into grins.

"Can we be?" The words are strangely vulnerable. They've been talking for all of five minutes and he's ready to trade numbers and braid her hair? He needs to get a grip. But her earnest eyes keep his mind on track. Her honesty keeps him present.

"Only if you promise not to steal anymore of my jeans", her grin is just as easy as his when he says, "scout's honor; they'd make my ass look big anyway." She holds her stomach at that one. He folds his arms and lets them lean on the top of the machine, "seriously. I wouldn't be able to fend em off."

She brings her fingers up to the edges of her machines, "I don't know, you are a giant. You telling me you can't run?"

He snorts, "Not in your jeans".

She's laughing still and he joins her, "I'd have to agree. Though, I would love to see that."

His brows arch, humor thick in his voice, "that's kinda kinky, Abbie."

She pauses, and then laughs again. Why was this so easy? When was the last time that he had this kind of conversation with a person, a random person? Since he left purgatory, a fear had begun to creep up in him that he'd not only carried Benny, but that kill-or-be-killed world mentality out with him. It picked away at him, made him fear for his humanity. But Abbie was here, random and new and reminding him that he was still very human (and needed some practice).

Their machines began to ding; they both returned to them, tossing wet clothes into carriers and carting them over to the two dryers on the wall. Her's were up top. His was low. This was hilarious. "Wanna switch?"

Her brow arched in challenge, "I think I can manage just fine. Unless you're looking out for those knees; I'll be happy to help."

He wore the shock, dramatically (that he'd learned from Sam), "you calling me old? Giant, old, big foot, what else you got?" They worked in unison, sorting through their respective carriers.

"Hey, not all of it was bad; I've called you cute at least once." She is stretching, standing on her toes and it is adorable.

"You think I'm cute?"

She was about to respond, but they both stop short, his hand going to the back of his pants and her hand going to her left hip because, "why do you have a gun?"