Sam swam to semi-awareness with a groan. Champagne was evil, his bleary mind decided as his stomach rumbled ominously. He really shouldn't have drank that much at the party, but it seemed to be the only way to tolerate Gerty's wandering hands and leering suggestions. What was it with dirty old women?
Turning his head out of the soft pillow, he smacked his lips and grimaced at the cottony taste of week-old roadkill. No doubt Dean was going to razz the hell out of him for getting drunk off champagne, of all things. Didn't matter, as Sam vowed darkly to himself that he'd get revenge. Next time Sam would commit the grand larceny and Dean could get groped by a horny spinster.
His stomach roiled again, and he took a deep breath to try and settle it. Huh. He was half-expecting the faint scent of mold from the old mattress they'd found in the house Dean had found to squat in on this job. But for some reason his brain was telling his nose he was smelling lavender and rose hips. Did hangovers fuck with your sense of smell too? He'd have to look that up.
Later. Right now, Sam needed water before his pounding head got any worse. Reluctantly he rolled over and pried his eyes open. Huh. In the morning light the ceiling didn't look nearly as bad. Almost looked cared-for, instead of abandoned. He blinked. And again. Had the mattress gotten softer overnight as well?
Wait a minute . . .
A movement off to his side, then a warm hand landed on his chest and caressed lightly. Sam froze. Oh shit . . .
A throaty giggle, then a head of tangled white hair rested on his shoulder as her hand drifted down over his bare stomach. "You really are firm all over, aren't you, stud?"