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“Vinegar?”
Dean looks horrified at the idea, but Seth insists that vinegar on a cold cloth will cure a hangover. As a result, Dean is stretched on the couch, a vinegar-soaked cloth over his eyes, sucking back some hideous concoction that Seth found online. At this point, he’ll try anything.
Try Coca-Cola and cayenne pepper, Seth said. It’ll help your hangover, Seth said.
Try potatoes and milk, Seth said. It’ll help your hangover, Seth said
Try asparagus in coconut milk, Seth said. It’ll help your hangover, Seth said
Dean is starting to think that Seth has no goddamn idea what he’s talking about. Dean’s always held that a shot of whiskey and a couple of ibuprofen followed by a cup of black coffee is the best way to do it, but even that hadn’t worked. Neither had his attempts to talk Seth into giving him a blowjob- didn’t sex cure hangovers? An orgasm would definitely do it.
But Seth had insisted that a fruit smoothie with a raw egg would help. He’s in the kitchen now, the blender roaring away, and Dean feels like knives are stabbing through his eyeballs because of all the goddamn noise and what the hell is that banging in the closet?
He sits up, the cloth falling into his lap with a wet splat, leaving vinegar dripping from his eyebrows. The closet across from the bathroom, the door was moving.
Dean is pretty sure doors aren’t supposed to move on their own. He reaches for the nearest weapon, which is another failed hangover cure- a bottle of vitamin C- and discards it in favour of the TV remote.
He holds it over his head as he edges toward the rattling door, fairly confident that he can manage to brain a small monster with it, since it’s a fairly heavy remote. If nothing else, he can stun it and throw it into a chinlock.
Slowly, he reaches out a hand- which is not shaking, thank you very much- and grips the handle between two fingers. Dean takes a deep breath, adjusts his grip on the remote, and flings open the door. “ON GUARD, FOUL BEAST!”
A small, fluffy black cat looks up and him, gives an unimpressed meow, and ambles past to go investigate his dish for any leftover morsels. Dean lowers the remote with a relieved sigh. Just Dante, back from Narnia again. Dean had spent a full forty minutes one day trying to convince Seth that all cats knew the secret ways to Narnia, and that they nipped off to visit Aslan, which explained why you just couldn’t find them sometimes.
He drops the remote on the table and flops back down on the couch, replacing the cloth over his eyes and giving an exaggerated moan of pain, trying to elicite some sympathy.
“You did this to yourself,” Seth calls from the kitchen. He knows Dean’s tricks too well, the unsympathetic prick.
Dean sighs. He might have a hangover, but he’d had fun getting it, and there were no monsters in the closet, so they could relax. For now, anyway. The place was infested- Dean had spent even longer explaining that to Seth- because how else could you explain the loss of every left sock from the dryer?