THE MORNING AFTER

WOW: time. It's not such a happy new year in the bunker

Disclaimer: I don't own them

xxxxx

Dean sat, hunched over the table and kneaded his temples. What had he been drinking last night? He wasn't sure who decided that the brothers should see in the new year completely hammered beyond belief, yet here they were. Dean's head was pounding like there was a hellhound living in it, and that certainly would account for his sandpaper throat and the morning breath straight from the infernal pits of hell. He grimaced as his belly made a noise like a pissed-off camel. As hangovers went, this one was the Chuck almighty; the Mother of all; the Prince of Hell.

Before him Sam sat hunched, miserably staring into a fizzing glass of seltzer, bloodshot eyes at half-mast. Dean knew he must be feeling like crap; he'd been hurling half the night – Dean had lost count after the third time. Or at least he thought it was the third time, he was having trouble counting past one right now.

Last night when he went to bed, Dean actually thought he might croak it. Now, this morning, he just wanted to.

He looked up at Sam, wallowing in his head pounding, nauseous misery and allowed himself a watery smile.

"Happy New Year, Sam," he groaned.

xxxxx

end