Title: Need a Little Help Here
Summary: AU one-shot. Ah, the weekend ritual a third of the single male population sometimes will wake up to. Or, are the numbers higher than that?
Disclaimer: I don't want to own it. I have barely even watched it since season two, so there's enough evidence in that statement on how I will feel if I'm sued over this.
Warnings: AU, drunkenness, three males snuggling, hints of slash.
Dedication: To my dear sister, the corrupting influence of my life, whom agreed to loan me her JtHM only if I wrote this. PS, Stack of Pancakes: I HATED writing this; but it was at least better than Bruce/Terry….gross. Now, on with the—whatever…*walks off in a huff*
There can be something said about waking up in a dewy ditch when the rooster crows atop the bridge in Central Park you had been sleeping under with two others lying next to you.
The first thing would be, "Wow, first time I've woken with the sun since that summer at camp. Good for me."
And the second thing, much less enthusiastic than the first, "Oh, shit, how many trucks ran me over?"
Bracing himself against his arms and slowly removing himself from the rock he had been using as a pillow like some asshole, Dean Winchester felt the first few pangs of a hang-over—a very big one, he'd bet—wash over him and immediately felt like he was back on that cruise his brother and best friend had dragged him on last year after tax season and they had finished that double murder case in flying colors. Like he was going to vomit all over himself and fall backwards so he could crack open his own skull while doing it.
"If you throw up on me, I won't help you pay for the cab home," said the voice to his right that sounded almost as crappy as Dean felt.
"That's supposing you didn't lose your wallet when we swam in that fountain on Tenth Street," the voice to Dean's left, snuggled into his stomach, responded carelessly, and a little too nice to be fully sobered up yet.
The detective of New York's Thirteenth precinct groaned lightly in the back of his throat, leaning over to the side to find his brother's ass lying next to him; the lawyer's—damn him for being taller than Dean; it wasn't fair—head perched atop Dean's scuffed leather boots. It would have been cute, like when they were kids, but instead it was very awkward, seeing as his pants had found their way down his ass and Dean was looking at oddly red skin, bruising similar to five fingers on the younger man's hips.
Blinking, the gruff young man stopped looking at Sam, because, quite frankly, he didn't want to know. So he looked to his other side and found Castiel; the rather naïve little assistant that followed Sam around very seriously, but Dean couldn't help thinking of as a puppy that needed training—half of the only reason he made it a point to keep an eye on the man—and a good master. No matter that such a thought was so creepy that he would blame it appearing on account of the alcohol still showing traces in his system.
To his disappointment, Cas didn't look much better than Sam. He was snuggled comfortably into Dean's side with no shirt on, pants also ridden down showing his neon white skin, the same marking on his hips that Sam had and…his tie wrapped around one wrist.
Let's see…three friends, a night of drunken celebration, five hours of not being able to remember much and…
Looking up at the sky and then taking a deep breath, Dean looked down at himself.
It really wasn't much better than his friends' condition. His shirt was missing three buttons, jacket snug underneath him like a bedspread, and though his pants hadn't ridden down, he took note that his fly and button were both undone.
With no preamble, the oldest of the lot of them removed himself from the ground and zipped up.
"Okay, guys, no more drinking without a handler."
"I second that," Sam groaned, one hand reaching behind and rubbing a decided very sore ass.
"Third it," Cas chimed, a little put out at being removed from Dean, but more or less ready to get the tie away. His wrists were chaffed for the love of…