Dean wakes up with a pounding headache and a churning stomach. He can barely crack his eyes open, his vision blurry, the world swirling in foggy waves.
The walls are spinning around him as he gingerly plants his feet on the ground, his shaky legs guiding him to the bathroom where he instinctively drops on his knees and empties the contents of his stomach in the toilet bowl. When he's done, he's out of breath but feels his brain slowly reawakening.
He stays like that for a few minutes, trying to piece together the events from the night before. He remembers messing his shoulder up in a match, but still managing to catch up with the boys at a local bar. He remembers feeling miserable and angry at the world, a feeling he'd grown much accustomed to, needing the familiar burn of alcohol travelling down his throat and filling his body with a warm ooze. He remembers downing drink after drink, and that's where the rest of the night starts fading into excerpts of strewn and forlorn memories.
He can recall some yelling. He can recall hearing Roman's voice, probably attempting to calm him down. He can recall some stumbling - which would explain the throbbing around his ribcage area. He doesn't, however, recall how he got back to the hotel, much less back to his room, save for a strong arm wrapped around his back and a firm hand pressed against the side of his face, nestling his head against his shoulder. He faintly remembers seeing long, dark locks dangling in front of his hazy eyes. He sets a reminder in his head to give Roman a call to thank him for his help and question him about the night's events.
Dean heavily sighs and gets back up on his bare feet, the cold white tiles sending a slight shock through his body. He turns on the sink faucet and gargles on some water, haphazardly washing his teeth to rid himself of the bitter aftertaste left on his tongue. He goes to wipe his mouth on the back of his wrist before a certain scent freezes him in place. His already tired brain goes into short-circuit as a realization dawns on him.
This isn't his sweatshirt.
Dean frantically looks at himself in the mirror. The blueish bags under his bags skid over his head entirely, but it's the loose, dark grey sweatshirt covering his torso that captures his attention and sends him reeling. He absentmindedly traces over the red lettering over his chest, as though the words 'Quad City' would vanish beneath the brush of his fingers once they were gone.
This isn't his sweatshirt. It's Seth's.
The wheels in Dean's head screw loose as a floodgate of memories opens and leaks all over the place, because this was Seth's favorite sweatshirt. It was the one sweatshirt he brought along with him everywhere, the one he'd slip in after excruciatingly tough matches, the one he could lounge around in for days without fail.
It smells just like him. It smells of Seth's spicy shower gel and his musky perfume. It's that distinctive scent that jumpstarted the realization, because it was the same scent he'd been surrounded with for years. It was the same scent that would linger on his own skin for hours, the same scent that would envelop him like a warm blanket in Seth's embrace, the same scent that would lull him to sleep countless nights, the same scent that still haunts his dreams to this very day.
Beyond the nostalgia, Dean is confused. Seth never goes anywhere without this sweatshirt. So why is it with him? Why is it on him?
Dean's brows furrow as he makes his way out of the bathroom, plopping down onto the side of the bed. He's thrown in for a loop, desperately searching for answers in the recesses of his mind, trying to figure out how Seth had factored himself into this. As the fog settles, memories burst through like sharp sparklers.
Amidst the pitch black locks of hair he'd tucked his head into on his way to the room, he recalls scarce, bleach blonde highlights peeking through before his eyes. He recalls a jittery hand roaming over his jeans to fish out his keycard and a nasally voice calling him an idiot over and over again.
More importantly, in a moment that suddenly sticks out like a sore thumb, he can recall Seth telling him to stop scaring him like that all the time, that he hates watching Dean breaking down like that from afar, that he hopes to god that he never has to find him in this state again. The recollection is enough to almost drive Dean up the wall. It seemed too unreal, too dreamlike, even though it sounded way too real in his head, like echoes bouncing off the wall.
Dean pulls up the hem of the sweatshirt, finding nothing but his skin underneath. His brows crook even further, almost certain that he hadn't been shirtless at any point during that forsaken night. His eyes wander across the floor before falling upon a familiar black shirt rumpled in a corner. Dean picks it up only to find it torn from the collar down. He assumes his night must've taken a turn for the violent, that detail lost on him. What's not lost on him, though, is the thought of Seth having to help him out of his shirt and giving him his most beloved item of clothing to cover him up. Seth had literally taken the shirt off his back just for Dean.
Seth is supposed to hate him. Not look out for him. Not save him. Not whisper in his ear like he still cared for him. He's supposed to hate him and be his enemy and never want anything to do with him until the end of time.
Dean is tired. His head is pounding even more than it had when he'd woken up, and he knows his hangover is only half of the explanation. He'd never expected to wake up in somebody else's clothes, much less Seth's favorite sweatshirt. But he's tired, too tired to lie to himself to deny that it feels good to snuggle in Seth's sweatshirt, to be wrapped in his presence, to pretend, if only for a minute, that nothing's ever really changed.
He knows he'll have to face reality in due time, that he'll have to confront Seth about this, that he'll have to fight tooth and nail to get answers out of him. But it can wait. It can wait. For now, he'll gladly give into the comfort of Seth's scent and let it shield him away from the heartache and pain of years past.