Title: Drunk and Irish

Author: TearsOfEcstasy

Summary: St. Patrick's rolls around, and inevitably, Seamus gets drunk and, as always, Dean has to clean him up.

Rating: PG13 for gay/bisexual relations.

Pairing: Dean/Seamus

WARNING: Yes, two males are going to engage in romantic activities. You have been forewarned. Any anti-slash flamers will be met with my personal wrath.

Disclaimer: If I owned, then god dammit this would have happened a lot sooner.

Dedication: To... well, the reader.

A/N: St. Patrick's day present. A little late, but whatever.

Drunk and Irish

"Seamus Finnigan, you will be the death of me," Dean said, pulling the drunken heap of flesh that was his dorm mate through the portrait hole. They'd all been drinking, sure, but Seamus, he'd gotten wasted. Bottle after bottle after bottle, followed up with shot after shot after shot, he simply couldn't stop. It was like seeing alcoholism in it's earliest form, the underage drinker.

The only way he had even put down the flask at all (aside from Ron wrestling it from him briefly) was because the bartender had cut him off. Old Eddie was willing to sell to the underage, but he knew his limits. Some kid getting alcohol poisoning would ruin his Hogwarts business and probably put an end to his career as a bartender, if not completely taint it's memory for the rest of his life.

But now that Seamus had stopped drinking, there was another problem. Seamus's drinking charisma was fading fast, and now they were left with a blubbering, drunk mess that someone needed to take care of.

They'd lost Neville a ways back, and god knew where he'd gone. Hermione had reserved herself to tutting in the corner (she wasn't a drinker in any meaning of the word) and had retired to the library earlier. Luna (who'd been dragged along by Ginny) was last seen wandering back towards the village, and Ginny had left to go find her. That left only Seamus, Dean, Harry and Ron. With the way things had been going lately, Dean had hardly expected Harry or Ron to volunteer themselves to escort the drunk back to the castle. That left one alternative, and a wretched one at that. Once again, Dean was left to clean up Seamus's mess.

"Come on," Dean said, guiding Seamus as gently as he could over to the dorm couch, "You're done for tonight."

"What are you talking about? The night's only begun!" was the slurred response. Despite all his boasting, Seamus couldn't hold his liquor for crap. Within the hour he'd be heaving in the toilet, moaning and crying all the time. And the next day it'd be worse, with a hangover to kill he was guaranteed to lose at least thirty-points for Gryffindor, if not fourty. Even if (especially if) it was their day off.

"No, Seamus," Dean said, "I think you're done." Pushing him down onto the couch, hoping that he would get the obvious message it's time to go to sleep.

"It's St. Patrick's Day! I can stay out all night!"

Dean rolled his eyes, typical drunk Seamus. If Professor McGonagall didn't realize that his friend was obviously intoxicated the moment they crossed paths (and they surely would, she always checked for things like this), then Dean would venture to guess she may have very well gone blind, deaf and dumb.

"Shh, Seamus, just go to sleep, mate." Dean said, throwing a blanket over Seamus's pale, shivering form.

"The room's spinning," he mumbled in return to this kind act.

"Well, that's an easy fix," Dean replied, "Seamus, give me your foot." From there, he began tugging Seamus's leg off the couch. He seemed slightly confused, but didn't have the energy to respond and instead allowed Dean to place it firmly on the floor.

It was an old trick Dean had learned from Ron, who'd learned it from Bill, and god knew where Bill had learned it from. But in any case, it was guaranteed to do away with drunken nausea. In most cases, or at least in every one so far.

"Room still spinning?" Dean asked, pulling a trash can by the head of the couch, just in case Seamus was going to be that one case that screwed up the who "every case so far" bit.

"No, not really," He admitted, the slurring in his voice falling away a little as sleep started to take over. Immediately, Dean felt his shoulders slacken.

"Alright then, go to sleep," Dean said, standing up to take his leave. Perhaps he'd go and study, or practice some Wizard Chess. Better yet, he'd probably just go to sleep. What else was there really to do? It was St. Patrick's Day, and they'd had their fun but all Dean really wanted to do was go and sleep it off, to be completely truthful. He'd had enough for one night.

Of course, as he should have known, things didn't turn out like that.

"Oh," Seamus's low moan was soon accompanied by a painful heave, and then another.

Dean had two choices, leave, or stay. Leave and go to sleep (which he desperately wanted to do), or stay and take care of Seamus. He wanted oh-so badly to keep walking and collapse into his bed, but he was Dean. Good old Dean, who always took care of other people's messes. From Ron's book pile to Harry's broom kit and basically everything Seamus did, it was his job to clean up. So he had to do it. He had to stay and take care of Seamus, it was what he was suppose to do.

"Here," He said, kneeling down by Seamus, who was puking in the trash can. He handed him a napkin which had been left on the end table (most likely it was Hermione's coaster), which Seamus immediately took and wiped his mouth off on.

"Thanks," He mumbled, curling back up on the couch, where he would hopefully go back to sleep.

"You okay?" Dean asked, putting a comforting hand on Seamus's shoulder.

"Not really," Seamus said with a yawn.

"Still nauseous?"

"A little," he moaned.

"Anything I can do?" Secretly thinking, please let me get back to bed.

"I don't think so," Seamus answered, and just as his eyes closed and everything seemed to be coming to an end, Seamus began to turn a very sickening shade of green. Anyone could guess what was coming after that.

With some quick maneuvering, Dean managed to shove the trash can back under Seamus's chin just as breakfast came up. Even when the brownish coloured bile had ceased, Seamus's guts seemed to go into overdrive as the painful dry heaving began. Typical drunk Seamus, dry heaving was very nearly his trademark.

"I'm sorry," Seamus muttered when his stomach had finally settled, cradling his head in his arms.

"It's okay," Dean said, because that was what he was suppose to say.

"Dean?"

"Seamus."

There was some incoherent, drunken, slurred mumbling that followed, but nothing Dean could understand.

"What?" Dean asked, pulling himself closer to Seamus in an attempt to hear better. He could feel Seamus's breath against his neck, and hear his quiet breathing. They were only inches apart, and Dean could positively feel Seamus's hair tickle his arm.

"I said," Seamus pull his head out of his arms, "thanks." His eyes were big and dopey and glazed over, in the almost-cute (but not really cute, because Seamus wasn't at all cute) way that they got when he was drunk.

"No-" Problem, he was about to say. But he was cut off in mid-sentence, by Seamus. Who was kissing him.

Does that sound right? "By Seamus. Who was kissing him." Which meant that Seamus was kissing him, or he was kissing Seamus. He couldn't really tell which anymore.

"Seamus?" He said when they broke apart.

"Yes?"

"You know you just kissed me, right?"

"Yes."

"Seamus?"

"Yes?"

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because."

Well, that seemed like a good enough reason for Dean, who leaned in for a second one.

A/N: The first Seamus/Dean I've ever written. (I usually write Harry/Ron, which I hintedat in here.)I'm not crazy about this piece (cliche to no end, I know), but I thought I'd put it up anyways. Feedback loved.

Happy St. Patrick's day!