DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural. I wish I did. Or at least had a joint-custody agreement and got to spend time with it every other weekend with supervised visitation. Oh well…
This is a cracky story… but owleyes333 gave me this word for our challenge *is still pissed*
SPN Crack Day 1:
Word: Carrot
Pairing: Dean/Cas; Sammy; Bobby
Rating: PG-13 [for grumpy Dean and schmoopy boy-kissing]
Setting: Mid/Late Season 5
Dean Winchester woke up that morning knowing that he was totally and utterly screwed. An impending Apocalypse (of Biblical proportions, no joke) at his doorstep and he had just woken up with the world's worst hangover.
He did not even dare to open his eyes at first, wanting to remain in the darkness for as long as possible. That ended up not being very long.
"Dean!" God, Sammy's – Sam's – voice was so annoying.
He let out a pained groan that probably would have been more at home coming from Chewbacca and he rolled over in bed. His hands blindly reached up to rub his forehead and temples.
But Sam did not let up.
"Dean! You okay in there?"
Dean had to summon up all his willpower to stop himself from attacking Sam, which ended up being much easier when he found it was impossible to stand on his own.
"'m fine, Sammy! Just… remind me never to get that shitfaced again, okay Sammy?"
There was a chuckle on the other side of the door and Dean knew that he would never hear the end of this for the rest of his natural life.
"You – I mean, are you hungover?" came Sam's giggly reply. Like a freakin' teenage girl.
The only coherent reply Dean could give was a prolonged moan as his face sunk deeper into the soft white pillow-top mattress. God bless Bobby Singer and his hospitality.
Sam opened the door slowly, trying not to disturb his ailing brother. But the slow creak of the ancient door hinges made Dean wince.
"Dammit, Sam. Just open the door!"
Sam flung the door open and approached the bed with caution, crouching down beside his brother's face.
"You need some aspirin or something?"
Dean looked up at his younger brother, his green eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Doesn't work. Myth," he mumbled – his mouth mostly obscured by the bedding.
The giant man sighed, standing upright, and rolled his eyes. "I'll be back."
The hunter was not alone for very long before Castiel, his Angel, appeared in the room.
He turned to his charge, a look of concern on his face, "Sam says you've taken ill?"
Dean groaned into the mattress, not wanting a lecture on temperance from one of Heaven's messengers, "I'm a little hungover. I'll be okay."
Castiel's eyes flickered with doubt but he nodded and, before the hunter could say anything else, the Angel was gone.
Sam walked back in a few minutes later, a glass in his oversized hand.
"Sit up, Dean. Breakfast time."
After a few moments of pained flopping, Dean found himself sitting upright. "Breakfast?" he asked, blinking in futile attempts to clear his vision.
The glass was shoved at him and he eyed it with contempt, "Sammy… this isn't breakfast. This is one of your fruity little smoothies."
Sam flashed one of his trademarked bitchfaces and snapped, "It's not fruity. It's carrot juice."
Dean mumbled, "Not what I meant by fruity, Princess…"
He rolled his eyes and decided to humor the younger hunter, praying that he might be relieved of the incessant pounding in his head. He drank the whole glass without pause.
But, almost an hour later, he found that Sam's hippie smoothie did not help at all. His forehead was still building pressure and his temples felt like they were going to cave in on themselves. Plus, every little noise was making him nauseous.
He was lying on the bed, eyes closed tight, when Castiel reappeared.
The low, gravelly voice was not as grating as Sam's. "Dean? How are you?"
Dean's heart would have skipped a beat at how – precious? – concerned the Angel sounded, but he was in too much pain.
He felt Castiel come closer and sit on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry I can't heal you…"
Dean felt a smirk come to his lips and he opened his eyes to look at the Angel on his bed.
"You know… We could always try one of my favorite hangover remedies."
The Angel looked up, his head cocked to one side like a curious puppy, "Which is?"
The hunter sat up and cupped his Angel's face in his hands, "This."
Bringing their lips together, he gently pulled the smaller man down on top of him.
Sex had always been his sure-fire way of dealing with a hangover…
Until now.
An hour later and Dean's head was still throbbing.
His hangover remained the vicious elephant in the room – a room which also included a thoroughly sexed-out Angel of the Lord laying in a post-coital daze at his side.
That is something that will never get old...
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, "Damn."
Sam knocked at the door, not bothering to be discrete as he practically yelled, "Dean? You both decent in there?"
The hungover hunter sighed, throwing blankets over the interesting parts, and called out, "Yeah, Sammy – we're decent." Bitch.
The gargantuan man walked in carrying an ashtray and a glass of chocolate milk.
Dean watched with interest as his brother set them down on the bedside table.
Sam looked down at Castiel, who had begun to snooze peacefully at Dean's side, "You sure tired him out…"
This was met with Dean's wide-eyed mortification. Oh, hell…
Sam laughed, "Oh come on, man, Bobby an' me knew. We're not stupid."
Dean swallowed his pride and changed the subject, "What's the chocolate milk for? And the ashtray?"
Sam's eyes flashed with something that Dean would have said was pain. "Jess used to say her best remedy for a bad hangover was cigarettes and chocolate milk. I mean, I figured what the hell – give it a try."
Even through his hellacious pounding head and the fact that he still could not see clearly, Dean appreciated his brother's help. "Thanks, Sammy." He gave him a sturdy pat on the forearm, which was as high as he could reach at the moment.
Sam nodded, "No problem, man."
He coughed through the first few puffs – he had never been much for smoking – and he almost choked trying to drink. Sammy might be the one person on the planet who could screw up a glass of freakin' chocolate milk.
He sighed, wriggling out of Castiel's unconscious death-grip of affection, and he managed to stumble downstairs.
Bobby wheeled over from the kitchen, "Damn, boy, you tryin' to kill yourself? Come on, grab a-hold…"
Dean nodded and grabbed the back of Bobby's wheelchair, shuffling behind the old man as he returned to the kitchen.
The smells immediately awakened his senses. "Bacon? Eggs?"
Bobby smiled, a rarity, and nodded, "Nothin' fixes a hangover better than a greasy breakfast. We got the works – bacon, eggs, sausage, hashbrowns… and black coffee."
Dean fell back into a chair, "Bobby, you are a saint."
The man who had been a surrogate father to both Winchester boys only smiled brighter as he wheeled over to the table with a plate that was piled high with the cholesterol-causing foods that Dean loved so much. He set the plate on the table and wheeled away to fetch a cup of coffee.
As he wheeled back, he noticed Dean had already plowed a quarter of the plate's contents into his mouth and he shook his head. "Idjit. Learn how to hold your liquor next time… Whole day was wasted on trying to get you outta bed."
It was then that Castiel appeared, clothed in his usually suit and trench-coat – though both were more disheveled than normal. He looked to Dean, who was definitely in much better spirits.
Sam walked up behind the Angel and saw that his brother was conscious and coherent.
Dean's ears got hot and he smirked, "Bobby's cooking is definitely the best hangover remedy…"