All You Gotta Do is Put a Drink in My Hand

Summary: The morning after: Dean drinks a wee bit too much and Sammy gets to deal with the joys of jello.

Warnings: language, adult content (legally, 21+ content I suppose), and a somewhat graphic description of a hangover. Don't handle puke well? Might not want to read.

No canon spoilers, set in one of the earlier seasons. Just a little brotherly fluff mixed with an unusual idea of mine, and a hurt Dean, of course. Title is from the country song Drink in My Hand by Eric Church.

A/N: I'm officially (happily!) calling myself an SPN addict. Plugged in my computer and shifted the cord around tonight and the other cord to the beside lamp was loose, so the light flickered. My first thought, of course: oh shit, there's a ghost in my room, and I don't have any salt.

:D

I definitely should be sleeping, which has been in short supply over the past few weeks, but since fic writing has also been cut short I can't seem to help myself.

Paying for this in the morning…oh well.

Disclaimer: Title of this piece respectfully borrowed with no intentional copyright infringement. SPN and all associated with it: not mine. Cruelty towards fictional characters is mine, however, sorry boys!

"Dude…what….?"

"Mnargh….ugh…"

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Mmmmm…bleh."

Sam continues to stare at the curled up lump of blankets on the motel room couch that currently houses his brother. It's almost noon. Dean had been out late, reassuring Sam with a call that he was safe and sound at the bar and probably would be home far later than Sam would be awake and that he should just go to sleep and not wait up like a jilted lover, you big girl. They had a rare break in their jobs, with no imminent danger and no hunts lined up for them, so Sam figured it was alright to let his brother go out and enjoy himself. He had happily done his own thing in the room, gotten to sleep early, and woken up early to the sound of a very snorey Dean. Wanting to be productive and to get away from the stampede of elephants cascading their way out of his brother's mouth, Sam had left a note and gone out to the library to see about a new hunt.

And had come back to this.

He approaches cautiously, not wanting to startle the lump that doesn't seem to have taken much notice of him; it continues to make noises of discontent as it shifts around.

"Dean? Y'alright?"

The lump may appear slothlike, but apparently can move with cheetah-like swiftness when necessary. With no warning the blankets are thrown up into the air and in a blur Dean blows by his brother, knocking him on his unsuspecting behind as the former lump races to the bathroom.

Sam sits for a moment, trying to process why he's suddenly on his ass, and listens to what sounds like an exorcism in the bathroom. Although Dean does know quite a few exorcisms by heart, there are no Latin words in the background, so Sam assumes Dean's stomach is the one being exorcised. While feeling the sting in his butt, he finds a little something extra on the floor by the couch, looking suspiciously like pulverized strawberry jello, and putting up one hell of a stink too. Dean is currently manufacturing a repeat of what's on the floor in the bathroom. Ew.

Not pleasant for a Friday morning.

He gives his brother a minute or two; Dean doesn't really like being mother henned over, and Sam knows not to get in between his brother and the toilet—or wastebasket, or the occasional sink—so instead he grabs a water bottle and a few ibuprofen and waits outside the door.

Silence on the frontlines. He slowly pushes open the door to find Dean in an intimate embrace with the toilet bowl.

"Hey, man. Givin' the toilet some loving? Didn't know you swung that way."

"Nnnngh…'m jus' that good, Sammy, ev'rybody wants a piece of…BLEHHHHHH—" Dean turns to vomit once more into the toilet, although from the sounds of it there isn't much left to expel. When he's finished he slumps his head up closer to the edge, feeling the cool porcelain seep into his hot skin. This is what professional fighters must feel like after twelve rounds in the ring, except they probably don't have as much vertigo.

"Wow." Sam says nothing else, just kneels by his brother and offers him the water and pills. Dean takes the water but forgoes the pills, knowing they'd just make their reappearance in a little while anyway.

"Mmm…toilet's gotten a lit'l possessive over me, I guess."

"I'm assuming you had a good time last night then?"

Dean tries to lean back up to look Sam in the eye. It's a valiant effort, a quest fit for Monty Python's King Arthur for sure, and he almost succeeds—until his limbs decide to mimic a baby lambs' and he slumps forward, nearly knocking his head on the toilet before Sam makes a quick grab for him.

Oh joy. Dean's being coddled by the Sasquatch. He should be protesting. Will protest, just as soon as he can lift his head up off of Sam's chest. Except…well…he's tired. And Sammy's cozy. Like a Sasquatchy teddy bear with muscles. Not that he'd ever say that out loud, because honestly that's actually a disturbing image, but…

Eh, screw it. Dean didn't care much for consciousness anyway.

Ah, what the perfect thing to wake up to. Dean's in heaven. He's wrapped in a tender embrace, and snuggles into the soft caress all around him. Every sore muscle is relaxed and enveloped in a warm cocoon. A cool hand on his forehead, touch soft and firm, offering a wonderful measure of comfort for his poor, tired self. He lets himself sink into the soft bubble of happiness for a moment. Wriggles down a bit more, smiles to himself. Such bliss, what a way to be, and Dean opens his eyes to see the paradise he has found himself in…

…also known as dirty motel sheets, and Sam.

Dean bucks up, catching his brother in the chin with his fist when he's too slow to pull away the hand from Dean's forehead.

"Ah! Jesus, dude, what the hell?!" Sam lunges back, clutching his face.

Dean stares for a moment, dazed, trying to figure out why his hand hurts and why Sammy's holding his face. It takes a second, but the scattered pieces of his brain click together enough to figure it out. "Oops." Dean tries to give an apologetic smile, but is pretty sure his face has contorted into something else, more like a lopsided drunken sneer. Ugh. Drunken. Drunk. Drink…and Dean's up and running to the bathroom again.

At least, he tries to. Turns out Sammy's a fan of the cocoon hold and has tucked Dean into the sheets nice and tight, so the end result is Dean flopping around on the floor like a fish trying not to gag while Sam continues to gather his bearings.

"Dude…gemme outta here. 'M gonna puke, man…"

Sam finally gets with the Dean-vomit program and while he doesn't try to untangle his brother from the web of sheets, he does manage to grab a wastebasket before Dean loses it all over again.

When he finishes he finds Sam has found a way to once again coddle him…jeez, the kid must be lonely or something because all this hugging is just weird. Dean doesn't pull away though, just slumps down again. He guesses that adrenaline-fueled dash to the bathroom earlier was a one time thing, because now his body feels just like the jello shots he had last night. Goddamn jello, nothing with jello ever ends well. So yummy and jiggly and deceptively innocent. That stuff is evil. If he had the strength he'd go to the nearest jello manufacturing plant and shoot it full of rocksalt.

Sam feels the slight burn left in his chin. Even hungover as all hell and disoriented, Dean knows how to pack a punch. He guesses it's luck that landed Dean in Sam's I'd-rather-not-sleep-with-sharp-knives-right-under-my-head bed after he'd passed out in the bathroom, or else Sam probably would have been dealing with a weapon-wielding Dean instead.

He feels a little annoyed, mostly from the punch and partially from the blob that his brother seems to have coalesced into today, but taking in the image of a 6 foot 1 older brother reduced to leaning up against him—and he's definitely doing a little cuddling, the supposedly too-macho for any type of affection man—has dulled his anger down to a soft pity for Dean. He just looks so…little, curled up into a ball like that.

After a few minutes, Dean manages to gather enough strength to go for another stand up attempt, except he's still stuck in the goddamn sheets. Sam helps him navigate his legs through the labyrinth and is met with success: his legs are out. Getting them under him properly is another question. He decides to give himself another moment and deflects back to Sam.

"'M not a friggen caterpillar, why'd you do that with the sheets?"

Sam snorts. "You were shaking like a leaf, dude, I figured it'd help. And don't—" Sam cuts Dean off as soon as he opens his mouth, "—don't even say you're fine, you look like death warmed over, man."

Dean's too out of it to come up with a witty retort, so he just huffs instead. "Well, fine, but next time you decide to get touchy-feely with me, you better be ready to learn how to write with your toes."

"Tough talk for a guy who just made love to a wastebasket. How much did you have, anyway?"

Dean shudders. "Don't even bring it up, man, I swear I will upchuck in your lap." He realizes then that he's actually still residing in his brother's lap, and since puking again is a very real possibility and he'd rather not do it where he sits, he starts to shift his weight, inching up while fisting his hands in Sam's shirt for support.

Victory! He's up. He slowly steers his way back onto his bed, looking like a baby giraffe with legs too long for him trying to stand for the first time. He reaches the head of the bed and grabs the bottle of water from the nightstand. Sam eyes him warily, waiting for the fall, but Dean still has a little pride left—he hopes—and manages to stay upright. For a few seconds anyway, then a crushing sense of exhaustion overtakes him again and he lets himself plop down, head hitting the pillows.

He doesn't notice a set of blankets being pulled over him, or the light turned down. He does hear an accompanying snicker, but it's got a smile hidden in there too, so Dean lets it go. Just this once.

He wakes up a few hours later, mind significantly clearer and stomach relaxing on the Olympic-worthy backflips a bit. Sam strolls back into the room, plate of dry toast in hand, and places it on the stand next to the bed. God, he loves that kid sometimes.

He watches his brother lower himself onto his own bed, grabbing a book and leaning back against the wall. Dean realizes he's probably blown the whole day getting sick and sleeping, but Sam hasn't voiced a single complaint, not about the wasted day, or the previously wasted Dean, or the vomit on the floor by the couch that's been cleaned up since he last remembered being too out of it to get off of the couch early this morning. Okay, he really loves that kid sometimes. He should buy him one of his healthy pansy smoothie latte things. You know, when he's back to feeling somewhat less zombified.

He manages to slouch up enough to grab the toast, taking a few tentative bites to see if his stomach has decided to like food again. Apparently it does, because the toast stays down. He grabs the water bottle and manages a few sips as well.

"So, you gonna tell me how your night went?"

"Heh. Shoulda been there, man. Girls outdoor volleyball team came around after a win…damn those ladies can drink. I tell you man, they gave me a run for my money."

"Yeah, I can kinda see that."

"Hey, don't hate. I officially believe in the man upstairs now because that, phew! That was a godsend."

"Alright Casanova. Just, next time lay off whatever that red crap is you had last night? I swear, you did full-on Linda Blair exorcism in the bathroom."

"Ugh. Yeah, sorry about that. And don't worry. Jello shots off-limits for a few weeks. Jello in general. Hell, anything remotely jello-like gets its own safety radius."

Dean leans back, lets the water and toast settle his stomach a bit more. He looks over at his brother and says, quietly, "Thanks, by the way."

Sam smiles. Sure, the day is pretty much gone, the smell of puke is still permeating the room a bit, but Dean's alright, he's alright, and he's got 'you owe me' material for a few weeks. And awesome jello blackmail if that card doesn't work.

"No problem. By the way, that big red stain on the floor by the couch? The room's paid in cash, so you get to pay for the damages because I am not going near that again."