Afterness by bloodwrites

The phone rings. Sam jerks awake. He's still sitting at the table in the library and there are 300 year old pages stuck to his face, but he fumbles for the phone.



"Dean. What's going on? Where are you?"

"Sammy, help. It's bad, Sammy, it's bad. Come now."

The call cuts out. The chair tips back onto the floor as Sam leaps to his feet.

Sam finds the Impala in the parking lot of Dean's favorite bar. He approaches carefully, gun held out in front of him as he scans for movement.

"Dean," he hisses.

There's an answering groan from the drivers side. Sam circles quickly, afraid of what he might find.

Dean's on the ground.

Sam looks around, but he doesn't see anything. He tucks the gun into the back of his jeans, drops to his knees. "Dean." Puts his hands on his brother, searching for injuries. "What happened? Dean? Wake up." His hands come away wet and warm.

Expects them to be dark with blood as he lifts them to the glow from the streetlights.

They're not. Just slick, shiny, and stinking of booze and stomach acid. "What the—?"

Dean groans. "Sammy? Need help, Sammy."

Sam pulls away, disgusted. "Jesus, Dean. Really?"

Dean's hunched over the table in the bunker kitchen. His hair is still dripping from the shower Sam put him in, fully clothed.

"And what have we learned?" Sam asks.

"Tequila is evil," Dean whispers.

Sam sits opposite. "I thought you were hurt."

Dean winces. "Not so loud."

Sam lowers his voice. "Get some sleep. I'll make you something greasy for breakfast."

Dean lifts his head. His eyes are bloodshot. "Bacon?"

"Yeah, Dean. Eggs?"

Dean shakes his head, then clutches it in pain. "No eggs." His throat contracts, and he makes a kind of gulping sound.

"If you throw up here," Sam says, "you're cleaning it up."

Slowly, very slowly, Dean rises to his feet. He keeps his mouth tightly closed as his throat contracts again.

Sam leans away. "Dean?"

Dean swallows. "I'm just gonna—" Shakes his head, then leaves the room.

His footsteps quicken as he gets down the hall.

A door slams open, and Sam cringes as he hears Dean, hunched over the toilet again, wonders that there's anything left for him to throw up.

"Serves you right," he calls.


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I'm bloodwrites, and I've been knocking around the fandom internets since the early 2000s. I write fic, almost exclusively slash. I like Dean Winchester, vampires, pirates, and CSS. Some people know me as vamp.

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