Just a little Christmas drabble I wrote a couple of nights ago. If you've read any of my other stuff, then you know how much I love non-slashy Seamus & Dean. I figured they deserved a bit of seasonal randomness.

Standard disclaimers apply.

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"On the eleventh day of Christmas... my true love gave to me... eleven – thingies – "

Dean opened his eyes a crack and peered blearily at the dull red digits on his ancient alarm clock.

3:14 AM.

"...Nine partridges – oof – "

There was a loud thud followed by a series of clatters. Dean guessed that Seamus had tripped over the coffee table and knocked a weeks' worth of dirty dishes onto the floor.

"Seven swimming ladies – "

Seamus was apparently unhurt and still convinced that he should fill the otherwise-silent flat with enthusiastic song.

Alright, Dean thought resignedly. I'm up.

He swung his feet onto the floor and half-rolled upright. Running his hand along the wall in the dark, he made it safely into the hall without tripping over his dresser or the loose end of the rug, and followed the tiny white lights of their miniature Christmas tree into the living room. Seamus was sprawled on his back in the space between the couch and the coffee table, still tossing off tuneless notes but quieting a little until he saw his roommate.

"Dean!" He shouted, sounding pleased. He tried to get up by grabbing one of the cushions for support, but it slid off the couch. "Dean! Help me get up!"

Dean clasped one of Seamus' flailing hands and hauled his roommate to his feet. Seamus staggered forward a little from leftover momentum and succeeded in causing Dean to lose his balance for a second before he righted himself.

"Haha," said Seamus, grinning into Dean's face. "You're drunk."

"Nope, you're drunk," said Dean, edging away from his friend's whiskey breath. Seamus tried to sit but misjudged the distance down to the couch and landed rather hard.

"I'm drunk," he repeated.

"Yup," said Dean. "Want some water?"

Seamus turned to watch his friend go into their shared kitchen. Dean took a glass off the counter and inspected it. Deeming it acceptably clean, he ran the tap and rinsed out the glass once before filling it with water and taking it over to Seamus.

"That has floaties in it. I don't want water," Seamus complained. He looked hazily up at Dean. "Do you want water?"

"No," said Dean.

"Yes, you want water," Seamus insisted. "You're ninety per cent water!"

"So are you," said Dean reasonably.

"No," Seamus replied, very agreeably. "I'm ninety per cent Jack. And beer. Beer before liquor, get drunk quicker!"

"Beer before liquor, never been sicker," Dean corrected. "You should drink that." He indicated the glass of water, which he had deposited on the table.

"No. Just going to sleep now." Seamus leaned over and put his head on the mismatched throw cushions at the end of the couch, without taking his feet off the floor.

"Put your feet on the couch or you're going to fall off," Dean warned. Seamus twitched his legs but otherwise did not respond. Dean knew that he wasn't sleeping yet because of the way he was grinning.

"Look, I don't care if you fall off, you git," he said impatiently. "You won't like it if you fall off."

Seamus flopped one leg onto the couch, but the second one didn't quite make it. "Dean, you smell," he mumbled into the cushions. Apparently convinced that he had won that argument, he added generously, "You're my best mate forever, though."

"You're such a sweet-talker, Finnigan," Dean muttered, jerking Seamus' shoes off one by one and tossing them in the general direction of the door. He went into Seamus' room, dragged the bed-spread off, and went back into the living room to drape it over him. He had gone back inside his own bedroom before he heard Seamus' voice again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

There was a pause. "Merry Christmas, okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes in the dark. "Merry Christmas, Seamus."