OH BROTHER
WOW: bucket. Dean has had a really, really good night. How is it, then, that Sam's paying for it?
Disclaimer: don't own them, never will.
xxxxx
Sprawled inelegantly across his memory-foam mattress, Dean was unconscious; snoring wetly into his drool-stained pillow. His grey, clammy countenance was perfectly complimented by the limp fringe which clung damply to his forehead and the sweat-stains under the sleeves of his T-shirt.
Grimacing as he glanced into the bucket he'd left beside Dean's bed, Sam recoiled from his brother's toxic breath; a miasma of stale alcohol and puke that sent him reeling across the fetid room.
Sam scowled; how the hell was it that Dean's dates all thought he was Mister Perfect?
Because they never got to see him like this, that's how.
xxxxx
end