FIC: First Time
Summary: Dean nurses Sam through his first hangover.
Words: 1202
A/N: I'm shitty at titles. Whatever. I'll have something new up today or tomorrow, also.
Most of the night he doesn’t remember.
The earthy smoke of the bonfire mingling with the vapors from a blunt he’d taken one hit too many off of, amateurly burning his tongue and causing a string of coughs to bubble up within his chest. A nameless girl’s sour, beer-tinged lips mashed against his and the ground becoming all too unsteady while a throng of teenagers cheered beside him in the darkness.
Some time just past three in the morning, or maybe it was before, he’d been able to hitch a ride home with the unexpectedly kind-hearted girl who had brought him to the party in the first place. She’d had far much more to drink than Sam had, but still assured him that she was okay to drive.
“We won’t make you stay if you’re having a bad time,” she had said to him as she helped him into what he later learned was her mom’s Sedan, a car that her parents didn’t even know she was borrowing for the night. “Besides, you look pretty beat and I don’t think there’s a quiet place to crash. I didn’t know you were so new to this. You holding up okay?”
Sam’s world was spinning, and he leaned his head against the upholstery. It didn’t help much. “I’m good,” he’d answered. “I’m good. I’m okay. Thanks. Thank you.”
“Try to drink a lot of water. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning,” she chided as she pulled into the motel parking lot.
The rest of the evening - the early morning - is hazy. Sam is still dizzy when he wakes up, but uncomfortably so, and the anxiety from his brother’s (expected) displeased response to his state is making his stomach turn. He waits for the feeling to pass. It doesn’t.
He takes a deep breath or three before gingerly getting out of bed, holding on to the nightstand between his mattress and Dean’s, and then (pathetically) staying close to the wall for support on his way to the dingy yellow bathroom.
Sam doesn’t even have time to close the door before he retches, strong and painful and unproductive while an abundance of thin, pre-emetic saliva pools underneath his tongue. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d only had a couple of beers. Dean goes out all the time, and isn’t alcohol tolerance supposed to be genetic?
He gags again, this time bringing up an unproductive amount of beer and bile. The nausea doesn’t subside, but Sam does realize that his head is pounding; feeling like someone is squeezing right at the base of his skull hard enough to make his brain pulsate. This figures. Dean had told him not to go out, warned him against the smoke and the chilly air but not against the consequences of intoxication.
When Sam vomits a second time, he instantly feels better despite the audible splash that’s sure to wake his brother, and the sour dryness in his mouth. He coughs, unsure if it’s coming from his throat or from his lungs, and sinks down against the frame of the tub.
“Sammy?” He hears Dean call, his voice hoarse from sleep and signaling alertness.
“I’m fine!” Sam calls, weakly, unsure if Dean had even heard him. This is stupid. It’s early and it’s a Saturday and they should both be asleep.
“Bullshit,” Dean dismisses casually, flipping on the bathroom’s florescent lights and making Sam wince noticeably. “Must’ve been some party.”
“Shut up,” Sam retorts. So lame. But his head is killing him, and he doesn’t have the energy to come up with an excuse or something better. Dean already knows.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed. Can you stand?”
Sam doesn’t have an answer. Although the rolling waves of nausea have passed, he still feels heavy-headed and unsteady. His lungs still burn from the smoke and he feels as if the overhead bathroom lights are stabbing at the tender spot right behind his eyes.
“Turn the lights off,” he insists at last, and through squinting hazel eyes he sees Dean grinning. Totally inappropriate.
But of course switches them back to idleness, of course he does, and then bends down to wrap Sam’s limp (skinny) arm around his (strong, why can’t mine be that strong) shoulders and pull him to his feet.
While he’s being lead back to bed like a five-year-old with the flu, Sam tries to apologize, but vertigo trumps guilt and he falls back onto his unmade comforter as soon as he’s able.
“They kept… uh, thrusting stuff into my hands,” he tries to explain, and yeah, maybe he’s still a little buzzed. He contemplates defending himself against oncoming accusations of false judgment, admitting to only having a couple beers, but hesitates at the last second to prevent his brother from thinking that he’s a lightweight.
That’s what he is, though, isn’t it? Unsteady and destructible. Flimsy and small. I’m sorry, Dean.
“What kind of stuff?” Dean prompts. Sam feels the space next to him on the bed sink with Dean’s weight as he sits down next to him.
“Beeeeeers.” Sam draws out the word, embarrassingly. “Weed. Pot. I don’t know,” he continues, flipping over onto his stomach.
Dean chuckles, and somehow, a bottle of water materializes close to Sam’s face. “Drink this,” Dean instructs. “You’ll feel better. Sit up, just for a second.”
Sam tries. It takes a few seconds, and his stomach’s still uneasy, but he manages to sip the drink. It doesn’t help much with the sour taste in his mouth, but it does relieve the dryness. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Oh my god.”
“Trust me, I’ve been there,” Dean says easily, taking back the bottle and recapping it before setting it on their shared bedside table. “You got a headache?” He stands before Sam can respond, and starts rummaging in the med kit. “Why am I asking? Of course you do.” He pulls out a bottle of aspirin and shakes two into his hand.
“Best to just sleep it off,” he instructs, handing the pills to Sam and giving him back the water bottle. “Here.”
“I could’ve gotten them,” Sam protests, but takes the medicine anyway.
“Yeah, well, now you don’t have to,” Dean rationalizes. “You alright if I run out and grab some breakfast?”
“You shouldn’t, uh, it’s still really early-” Sam stammers, digging a knuckle into his eye as if the thought of morning had just occurred to him.
“I’m already up,” Dean counters. He’s putting on his jacket. “Eggs sound okay? Get some protein into you. Greasy food isn’t actually the best thing for a hangover, you know. It coats your stomach beforehand, but afterwards, with your stomach all sensitive-not the best idea.”
Sam’s surprised at the lesson; he had expected Dean to shove bacon and hash browns down his throat.
“Drink the rest of the water before I get back, okay?” Dean tells him. “I’ll pick up some Gatorade while I’m out.”
And although the tinny jingling of Dean’s keys should exacerbate Sam’s headache, their signaling of his brother’s closeness and associated familiarity take off enough stress to draw Sam into a quiet slumber before he can even hear the door shut.
Words: 1202
A/N: I'm shitty at titles. Whatever. I'll have something new up today or tomorrow, also.
Most of the night he doesn’t remember.
The earthy smoke of the bonfire mingling with the vapors from a blunt he’d taken one hit too many off of, amateurly burning his tongue and causing a string of coughs to bubble up within his chest. A nameless girl’s sour, beer-tinged lips mashed against his and the ground becoming all too unsteady while a throng of teenagers cheered beside him in the darkness.
Some time just past three in the morning, or maybe it was before, he’d been able to hitch a ride home with the unexpectedly kind-hearted girl who had brought him to the party in the first place. She’d had far much more to drink than Sam had, but still assured him that she was okay to drive.
“We won’t make you stay if you’re having a bad time,” she had said to him as she helped him into what he later learned was her mom’s Sedan, a car that her parents didn’t even know she was borrowing for the night. “Besides, you look pretty beat and I don’t think there’s a quiet place to crash. I didn’t know you were so new to this. You holding up okay?”
Sam’s world was spinning, and he leaned his head against the upholstery. It didn’t help much. “I’m good,” he’d answered. “I’m good. I’m okay. Thanks. Thank you.”
“Try to drink a lot of water. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning,” she chided as she pulled into the motel parking lot.
The rest of the evening - the early morning - is hazy. Sam is still dizzy when he wakes up, but uncomfortably so, and the anxiety from his brother’s (expected) displeased response to his state is making his stomach turn. He waits for the feeling to pass. It doesn’t.
He takes a deep breath or three before gingerly getting out of bed, holding on to the nightstand between his mattress and Dean’s, and then (pathetically) staying close to the wall for support on his way to the dingy yellow bathroom.
Sam doesn’t even have time to close the door before he retches, strong and painful and unproductive while an abundance of thin, pre-emetic saliva pools underneath his tongue. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d only had a couple of beers. Dean goes out all the time, and isn’t alcohol tolerance supposed to be genetic?
He gags again, this time bringing up an unproductive amount of beer and bile. The nausea doesn’t subside, but Sam does realize that his head is pounding; feeling like someone is squeezing right at the base of his skull hard enough to make his brain pulsate. This figures. Dean had told him not to go out, warned him against the smoke and the chilly air but not against the consequences of intoxication.
When Sam vomits a second time, he instantly feels better despite the audible splash that’s sure to wake his brother, and the sour dryness in his mouth. He coughs, unsure if it’s coming from his throat or from his lungs, and sinks down against the frame of the tub.
“Sammy?” He hears Dean call, his voice hoarse from sleep and signaling alertness.
“I’m fine!” Sam calls, weakly, unsure if Dean had even heard him. This is stupid. It’s early and it’s a Saturday and they should both be asleep.
“Bullshit,” Dean dismisses casually, flipping on the bathroom’s florescent lights and making Sam wince noticeably. “Must’ve been some party.”
“Shut up,” Sam retorts. So lame. But his head is killing him, and he doesn’t have the energy to come up with an excuse or something better. Dean already knows.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed. Can you stand?”
Sam doesn’t have an answer. Although the rolling waves of nausea have passed, he still feels heavy-headed and unsteady. His lungs still burn from the smoke and he feels as if the overhead bathroom lights are stabbing at the tender spot right behind his eyes.
“Turn the lights off,” he insists at last, and through squinting hazel eyes he sees Dean grinning. Totally inappropriate.
But of course switches them back to idleness, of course he does, and then bends down to wrap Sam’s limp (skinny) arm around his (strong, why can’t mine be that strong) shoulders and pull him to his feet.
While he’s being lead back to bed like a five-year-old with the flu, Sam tries to apologize, but vertigo trumps guilt and he falls back onto his unmade comforter as soon as he’s able.
“They kept… uh, thrusting stuff into my hands,” he tries to explain, and yeah, maybe he’s still a little buzzed. He contemplates defending himself against oncoming accusations of false judgment, admitting to only having a couple beers, but hesitates at the last second to prevent his brother from thinking that he’s a lightweight.
That’s what he is, though, isn’t it? Unsteady and destructible. Flimsy and small. I’m sorry, Dean.
“What kind of stuff?” Dean prompts. Sam feels the space next to him on the bed sink with Dean’s weight as he sits down next to him.
“Beeeeeers.” Sam draws out the word, embarrassingly. “Weed. Pot. I don’t know,” he continues, flipping over onto his stomach.
Dean chuckles, and somehow, a bottle of water materializes close to Sam’s face. “Drink this,” Dean instructs. “You’ll feel better. Sit up, just for a second.”
Sam tries. It takes a few seconds, and his stomach’s still uneasy, but he manages to sip the drink. It doesn’t help much with the sour taste in his mouth, but it does relieve the dryness. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Oh my god.”
“Trust me, I’ve been there,” Dean says easily, taking back the bottle and recapping it before setting it on their shared bedside table. “You got a headache?” He stands before Sam can respond, and starts rummaging in the med kit. “Why am I asking? Of course you do.” He pulls out a bottle of aspirin and shakes two into his hand.
“Best to just sleep it off,” he instructs, handing the pills to Sam and giving him back the water bottle. “Here.”
“I could’ve gotten them,” Sam protests, but takes the medicine anyway.
“Yeah, well, now you don’t have to,” Dean rationalizes. “You alright if I run out and grab some breakfast?”
“You shouldn’t, uh, it’s still really early-” Sam stammers, digging a knuckle into his eye as if the thought of morning had just occurred to him.
“I’m already up,” Dean counters. He’s putting on his jacket. “Eggs sound okay? Get some protein into you. Greasy food isn’t actually the best thing for a hangover, you know. It coats your stomach beforehand, but afterwards, with your stomach all sensitive-not the best idea.”
Sam’s surprised at the lesson; he had expected Dean to shove bacon and hash browns down his throat.
“Drink the rest of the water before I get back, okay?” Dean tells him. “I’ll pick up some Gatorade while I’m out.”
And although the tinny jingling of Dean’s keys should exacerbate Sam’s headache, their signaling of his brother’s closeness and associated familiarity take off enough stress to draw Sam into a quiet slumber before he can even hear the door shut.