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Dean feels sick almost as soon as he wakes up, his stomach rolling in protest of all the eggnog and rum from the night before. He groans and tries to swallow down the acid threatening its way up his throat and into his mouth.
He should go to the bathroom, but when he rolls over onto his back his head starts to actually fucking vibrate. It's a steady annoying tingle behind his temple that doesn't stop until he shifts and lifts his head from his pillow. It stops vibrating and starts pounding; it's like someone jack hammering his skull from inside and, Jesus.
Seriously, he fucking hates Christmas. Seeing Sammy smile is not worth this shit. Except… it really is. It's worth this and more and if it wasn't for this fucking hangover Dean could have held onto the small burst of happiness he had gotten when Sam looked across at him last night for just a little while longer.
He groans, rolls back onto his front and buries his nose in the pillow; if he suffocates at least the pain will go away.
It only gets worse though, and Dean pushes himself up reluctantly. He presses his palm against his temple and digs his fingers into his pressure points. It barely takes the edge off.
He looks across the room. Sam's still asleep on the other bed, mouth slightly open and a wet patch on the pillow. There are two glasses of water on the table between them and Dean's eighty-five percent sure they weren't there the night before when he finally crashed out. One of them is half empty, and the open pack of Advil next to it tells Dean that Sam's at least been up at some point and was feeling the morning after as bad as Dean.
Worse probably, because Sam can put more away than Dean before it really hits him. He gets that from their Dad.
He gets at lot from their Dad. These days Dean sees John in almost every twitch of Sam's face. He's got the same focussed determination of their Dad too. That, more than anything else, scares the hell out of Dean. John could never let go after Mary, and Dean doesn't want Sam to end up on that same road and he can't see him taking any other path. He grimaces and the headache makes itself known in new parts of his head and face.
He looks at Sam, the tilt of his features while he's sleeping and remembers a thousand different rooms and waking up to his brother opposite. He doesn't regret it, just like he doesn't really regret the eggnog last night, but that's not to say he wouldn't change things if he could.
He reaches across and grabs the untouched glass of water and tablets. He pops a couple out of the packet and swallows them with a healthy swig. There's a moment when he's not sure they'll stay down, but the he swallows and the acid recedes enough for him to take another sip, more cautious this time.
He puts the glass back down once it's empty, stands up with the intention of hitting the bathroom, but he pauses and looks down. Sam snuffles in his sleep and Dean smiles, bends down and pushes the hair back off his face. He steps away before there's any chance of Sam waking up and catching him, swipes his phone from the table and heads into the bathroom to take a piss.
Dean shakes off and thinks about the fact this is his last Christmas morning. He thinks about where Sam will be this time next year; if he'll go to Bobby's. If he'll go back to school. He tries not to think of the more likely possibilities because it's easier that way. And maybe Sam will be okay, maybe he's worrying over nothing because Sam coped fine without him before, during Stanford. Not like Dean.
He sits down on the edge of the bath and pulls his phone from the edge of the sink. He flips it open and closed, tries to force himself to scroll through his contacts and find her name.
He hasn't told her and he knows that's not fair. She deserves to know; deserves to hear it from him.
"Merry Christmas," she says as soon as she picks up.
Dean can hear the smile in her voice. His head still hurts, but his stomach feels a little easier from the warm, soft lilt to her voice.
"Yeah, you too," he replies and traps the phone between his cheek and shoulder, bracing a hand against his thigh. He rubs the other over his forehead, fingers pressing on his temple and causing a groan.
"Are you hung-over?" Hermione asks.
She sounds freaking amused by the prospect and Dean scowls. "Shut up!"
"You feeling a little delicate there, hmm? What was it? Too much brandy butter?"
"Eggnog," Dean grudgingly admits.
Hermione laughs, light and carefree and Dean rolls his head against the moulding of the shower/bath stall and smiles, the humiliation of the admittance suddenly more bearable.
"Where are you? You should drop by, let me mix you a little cure up, make you feel all better."
She says the last suggestion in one of the dirtiest fucking voices Dean's ever heard; low and sexy in a way that makes Dean want to get in the car and drive.
"Tempting," he says and licks the pad of his thumb, thinks of the possibilities, thinks of the way her skin tastes and how he can't remember her without ink stained fingers and a pencil stuck in her hair. "You even going to be around in the five and a half hours it would take me to get up there?"
"Five hours?" Hermione asks.
"Yeah, we've been working a job here in Vermont - Burlington, but -"
"It's okay, I know. I wouldn't be around anyway, I'm taking a Portkey out to see my parents at twelve."
Dean's lips curl in a wry smile and he remembers the year before Sam came back, waking up Christmas morning tangled up in Hermione's sheets, her smooth, warm skin pressed up against his side.
"You should come by soon though."
She leaves the sentence there, complete, but unfinished and it's not hard to hear the things she leaves unsaid with the way her voice draws out, soft and sad.
"I will. Soon." Dean pauses, drops his forehead against bent knees and tries to push the words to the surface. "Hermione, I -"
There's a noise from the other room, a low groan followed by a clatter and two loud thumping footsteps. "Dean? Hurry up, man gonna -"
"I gotta go. Sam's up."
"And he's in worse shape than you, huh?" Hermione laughs, light and free and Dean wants to see her face like that. Wants at least one day of her, of someone who doesn't know about his deal, isn't weighted down by it.
"Yeah, he's a fucking pussy when it comes to handling his liquor."
Hermione laughs, goes quiet. "It's been too long, Dean," she says. She doesn't say she misses him, never would, but the sentiment comes through loud and clear.
"Hermione," Dean starts, his chest heavy and tight.
"Dean!" Sam shouts, banging on the door again, his voice trailing off into a hiccup and Dean really hopes he didn't just hurl on the floor.
"I've gotta go," Dean says instead, swallowing down words he has no idea how to say. "But I'll come by soon, okay. January. I'll come by soon."
"I'll be here," Hermione replies. "Take your time." She pauses and when she speaks again her voice has dropped, low and seductive, "Not too long though, alright."
Dean breathes. Counts his breathes from one to five. "No not too long, been long enough as it is," he says, eyes closed and head rolling back against the tiles. "Take care, Hermione."
"You too," she replies. "Lay off the eggnog and get Sam some ginger biscuits. Oh and Dean, Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas," Dean replies and flips his phone shut.
~Nox~