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"Oh, God," Dean groaned, his stomach rolling. He didn't want to open his eyes, sure the light would cause his head to explode. "How much did we drink last night?"
Seamus, who had apparently got out of bed, sat down at the edge. "Not that much. I only found three empty bottles of whiskey."
Three sounded like a lot.
"Hungry for breakfast or shall we go for the Cure? I've got a few bottles of Jameson around here somewhere."
"Toast," Dean croaked. "Some nice, plain toast. And tea."
"Toast it is." Seamus patted his arm and disappeared.
Dean drifted off again but woke to the smell of sausages and eggs.
He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. How had no one invented a hangover potion?
"I've brought toast and tea for you," Seamus said as he set a tray down on the bed. "And a full Irish for me."
Dean nibbled on his toast and didn't look at Seamus's plate.
"Sláinte," Seamus said as he lifted a pint of Guinness.
Dean took a sip of his tea and swore never to drink with Seamus again.
The fucking, though? He was looking forward to more of that.