Crapulous
Characters: Dean, Reader, OC Patsy
Word Count: 2700-ish (whatttt?? that’s it??)
Warnings: Language, alcoholic consumption, sass
A/N: The morning after an alcohol-soaked case, the reader is doing her best to recover with little-to-no help from Dean. I wrote this for @seenashwrite‘s 200 followers celebration. Prompts are bolded throughout the fic. I also managed to sneak in the Hiatus Challenge prompt from @thing-you-do-with-that-thing. *Nash, although I didn’t sign up for it, there’s a bonus prompt in there, too!! Many thanks to @idreamofhazel and @kayteonline for being fabulous and helpful betas. As always, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated!
I groan as I feel sleep drifting away from me. My head is rocking and bouncing with the potholes in the road, but I fight it, desperate to hide away from consciousness and the hangover that would come with it. The beginnings of it already start to creep in on me, my body sore and achy, the foul taste of hard liquor remnants coming alive as I lick at my dry mouth. My eyes scrunch further shut and my nose crinkles in displeasure as the heat from the sun beats down on me.
“Nooooo,” I moan, feeling the immediate jack-hammering to my skull, making my brain throb as I start to wake. “Oh. Bad.”
A feeling of nausea rolls through me, my stomach quivering as it threatens to heave up its contents.
“Well,” Dean says, gratefully gently, “Good morning, starshine.”
“No,” I grunt, cutting him off and making him chuckle.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m dying. I don’t ever want to drink again.”
“Aww, come on. Can’t be that bad.”
“Shut up.” I whine. Completely pathetic.
“Hey. Don’t pass out on me again.”
I wave him off as he chuckles to himself again, and once I swallow the nausea back down, I resettle myself to pass back out. I’m just finding the sweet spot when I feel the car swerve then start to shake and rattle, the loud thundering from beneath us jolting me upright as I cling to the dashboard.
“Ohmygod!”
Dean turns the wheel, pulling the Impala away from the rumble strip along the side of the highway. “You gotta wake up, we’re almost in Hays.”
“Ugh, again?” I look at him, my face scrunched up in pain. “Can’t we just go home so I can die in peace?”
He purses his lips, at least pretending to think it over. “No can do. I’ve got a date with a plate of bacon and a sweet, sweet woman.”
“Dean, it’s unhealthy.”
“Look, leave the bacon alone-”
“No, not the bacon - Patsy. Because you - prolapsed rectum that you are - are infatuated with her, whose cobwebby old snooch, by the way, I can smell from here.”
“Pshh,” he shook his head at me, “You sound jealous.”
“You. Wish.”
Twenty minutes later, Dean pulls off the highway and into a lot overgrown with weeds and rogue patches of grass. The restaurant lacks a sign out front, and if it weren’t for the huge, dingy windows, no one would have known people were inside. Dean quickly hops out, waiting as I force myself from the car, every bit of me protesting as I go.
He pulls open the creaking screen door, following as I walk through first, and lets it slam shut behind him. The short, leather-skinned waitress pushes through the kitchen door, mouth curved into a wrinkled frown.
“There’s my special lady!” Dean shouts from behind me, making me cringe. I glance to my left, noticing a group of college kids looking like they’re still going from the night before, and on the other side, a few other stragglers who seem just as confused as I am as to why they are there.
“Well hey Dean, Y/n. Go on, sit down, you’re blockin’ the breeze,” she says, shooing us away from the entrance and the swiveling fan that pulls in nothing but dry, hot air from outside.
Dean shoves me into a booth, just settling in as she places down two waters, condensation already dripping down the sides of the slim glasses.
“Didn’t expect to see you so soon. You keep up with all these visits and you’re gonna make my husband jealous,” she croaks. Her sandpaper voice, perfected by about 80 years of smoking at least 2 packs a day sends my skin crawling with irritation.
“Which husband is that - number four or number five?” I ask, rubbing my head on my palm.
She tilts a hip, setting her hand on it. “Four. And if I have my way, Dean will be my lucky number five,” she responds matter-of-factly.
“Ohhh, Patsy, I’m yours. Just as long as you vow to make me that pie of yours.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she scolds him. “You’re gonna be my trophy husband. Can’t let you go and get all plump on pies.”
“More like consolation prize,” I mutter.
“Please honey, this boy is arm candy and you know it,” she emphasizes with a bony finger pointed at me. Dean sits up a bit straighter, pleased to be so blatantly objectified as I roll my eyes, regretting it immediately as the movement strains my eye muscles.
“So what am I in this whole situation?”
Patsy eyes me up and down for a moment, clumpy mascara chunks sticking together as she lazily blinks.
“I’ll let you be his mistress. I’m sure he’s got the stamina for it, and Lord knows you ain’t got the brains to lock him down before someone else does.”
I bark out a laugh, setting off a fresh wave of pain in my head. “More like I’m too smart for that.”
She gives me a pointed look, droopy eyelids hanging down despite the eyebrow she’s raised.
“What? I am,” I insist.
“Right, because you walked into ‘Stripper’s Discount Warehouse’ and said, ‘Help me showcase my intellect.’”
I drop my mouth open, amusement and shock hitting me in equal measure. Dean slams a hand down onto the table, making the silverware rattle as he tries to contain his laughter.
“Patsy, go easy on her, she’s had a rough night.” He gestures at me and I glance down at myself, assessing whether or not I look as awful as I feel. I’m still wearing my ‘bait’ outfit that helped me blend in with the rowdy, drunk crowd from the night before. It’s more than a little off-kilter; I wipe under my eyes, pulling away the residue of eye makeup.
“Well, Dean, if that’s how you leave the ladies the morning after, I might have to reconsider our relationship.”
“Please, Patsy, you know I’d treat you like a queen.” He grabs her hand, holding it tenderly.
“And I’d never let you out of bed to see the outside world again.” She winks. “Now, let’s get some food in y’all before Y/n here goes green.”
Dean smiles and shakes his head in awe. “I love you.”
She pats his shoulder condescendingly as she walks away humming ‘Looking for Love,’ refilling a few coffee mugs and jotting down an order for the cook waiting at the griddle.
“So, fill me in on last night. I’m guessing the bloodsuckers didn’t give you too much trouble?” I ask, sipping the water and letting my fingers trail along the condensation.
“Nah, it was pretty easy to get the location of the nest. However, you...at last call, that’s a whole other story.”
“Yikes.” It’s as much of an apology as I can give at the moment, but he accepts it. I dig an ice cube from the glass and pop it into my mouth, “Next time, I’m dangling you for bait.”
“What? I don’t get an encore?” He smirks.
“An encore of what?” I ask with a tilt of my head. Desperate for the pain to go away so I can focus on remembering what happened.
His smirk spreads into a wide smile, his eyes shining with mischief. How he looks so good while I feel so terrible just makes me more frustrated and ready to backhand him. A flash of red and green zooms past before I hear it plunked onto the table, drawing my attention away from our staring contest.
“Quit makin’ eyes at my man and drink up,” Patsy interrupts.
I turn to her, getting a stern look in reply as she nods at the table. A short glass of thick, red tomato juice with a huge celery stalk sticking out of it rests before me, which I stare at suspiciously.
“Hair of the dog, hun. It’ll perk you right up.”
My stomach rolls and Dean laughs at the gurgle.
“Oh, well, I hope that’s got some whiskey, and some tequila, and let’s see - does rum sound right to you?”
“I'll be...ugh….bathroom,” I mumble and gesture as I scramble out of the booth, tripping on anything and everything on my way. A watery belch escapes from my stomach, burning on the way up.
“Gross,” I whisper at myself, trying to ignore the giggling from the table of college kids that got an earful.
The bathroom smells like piss, and wet dog, and more piss - not helping my uneasy stomach, but at this point I'm sure puking would make me feel worse. I hover over the seat, weakly tugging at the fabric at my hips to pull it down, until the urge becomes too much and I shove them down, letting out an ahhh of relief, followed swiftly by a confused, “What the -?”
After taking a moment to wipe some cool water over my face and clean up the smudged makeup and drool marks, I do my best to walk back without wobbly legs, barely making it before collapsing back into the booth, sliding across the vinyl to unflattering noises, grateful to have to put little to no effort into sitting.
“Dean?”
“Yup?” he asks, popping the ‘p’ harder than necessary. His bottom lip is stiff and trembling as he tries to hold onto a straight face.
“Whose underwear am I wearing?”
Before I get two words out he's folding over in laughter.
“Fucking tequila,” I spit, angry at drunk me, and more angry at Dean for enjoying it so much.
He's trying to form words between laughter, but only gets out snippets that don't make any sense. “The band...and these paper hats...he had beef jerky...and you...and you…” He gives up as I stare at him flatly, not following a damn bit of it but certain I had violated at least a few local ordinances by his reaction.
“And what did you do that whole time?”
He digs his phone from his pocket, wiggling it in his palm. “Surveillance.” He winks.
My head hurts more. My brain rattles in my skull with every hard beat of my heart, the blood struggling to pump through my dehydrated body. I close my eyes and wrap my hands around the glass of tomato juice, hoping what's in there is enough to provide relief until we get back to the bunker. If Dean’s this thrilled, I must have done something good, but it's all blank, hours lost to a haze of alcohol and loads of blackmail. God Damn it.
“For I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God.” I attempt to sound repentant.
“Prayers won't help you with this one.”
I open my eyes, staring at the cocktail in my hands and the absurd celery stalk standing in it like it's a Magic 8 Ball, ready to provide me with an answer as I continue my prayer. “Bloody Mary, full of vodka, blessed are you among cocktails. Pray for me in the hour of my death, which I hope is soon. Amen.”
“That was very moving.” I look up, surprised to see Patsy there with a tray of food and a smirk on her face. She sets the food on the table in front of us, moving things as she pleases to make room.
“It was something,” Dean laughs, shaking his head back and forth, staring at his phone screen.
“I'm too hungover for this.” With a groan and all the speed I can muster, I reach across the table, barely snatching the phone from his hand before he can react and dropping it right into the thick, red juice sending it splattering across the table.
I pick up the glass and hand it to Patsy. She takes it gingerly between her fingers, eyebrows lifted in disbelief.
“Patsy, dear sweet angel that you are, can I please get another? There's something in this one.”
“Waste of vodka,” she grumbles, walking back into the kitchen.
Dean has his head resting on his fist, a bored look in his face instead of the angry one I expected. “Feel better, sweetheart?”
“Maybe.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“Sammy’s got everything backed up. The cloud, ya know,” he waves a hand in the air, “Now all you did was piss off Patsy.”
“Whatever, she knows you're an ass.”
“Blue ribbon ass.” He takes another bite, talking through his food. “Don’t forget, I’m a prize.”
“You sure are honey,” Patsy croons at him. “But darlin’, you mistreat this girl right here and I don’t care how sweet that ass is, I will beat it up and down main street.”
Patsy sets another drink down in front of me, sending a nod of solidarity my way as she sets Dean’s napkin-wrapped phone in front of him. I finally take a sip, only slightly gagging as I push more alcohol into my system.
“Careful, Patsy, I might like it,” he calls over his shoulder as she walks away.
“So would I,” she hollers as she pushes through the kitchen door.
“Could you be any louder?” I whine, grasping my head in my hands, wanting nothing more than to sink down into the seat and go to sleep again. “Next time you’re the bait.”
“You just wanna see me in a skimpy outfit.”
“I’m gonna puke.”
“So, the case,” his picks up, muffled by a mouthful of food, “There’s good news and bad news.”
“Lord, take me now.” I pinch my nose in frustration.
“Okay, ignoring that. So, good news, the plan worked and we drew out the nest.”
“How could there be bad news?”
“We still gotta take them out.”
“Excuse me? H-how? I mean. Why?” I watch as he shoves more food into his mouth, ignoring me.
“Yeah, so it looks like we’re still on clean up, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
“Oh, I liked that show,” Patsy chimes in, breaking the tension as she fills up Dean’s half-empty coffee mug. “And, ya know, I like them Twilight vampires, too.” She walks away, not adding anything further to the conversation.
Dean’s face curls in displeasure, his voice dropping low, “Oh, Patsy. No.”
“Patsy, yes.” I smile sleepily. “You know, opposites attract. I can see why you like coming here so much.”
“Shut up.” He wipes his hands and face.
“So,” I gulp down more of the cocktail, “Where are they?”
He stares down at the egg residue on his plate, swirling it with the tines of his fork. “They’re, uhhh, West. Just over the Colorado border.”
I squint. “Dean. That’s where we just came from.”
He glances up at me, lips pinched shut as he chews. His eyes wide with a fake look of surprise.
“God damn it, Dean!” He freezes and I lower my voice. “You mean to tell me you just dragged my hungover ass two hours away from our hunt for some breakfast.”
“Not just breakfast,” he insists, shaking his head. “Patsy.”
“You’re seriously obsessed. Are we sure she isn’t a siren or a witch...or mayyybe some kind of rogue leviathan hybrid -”
“Please don’t ruin this for me, Y/n.”
“What if she’s got the whole town under a spell, and we’re screwed because she’d dumbed us down with food…”
“Please stop,” Dean begs, eyeballing the skillet in front of him.
“Oh no no no. Just imagine, we’ve got her cornered, torching this godforsaken place, but we’re too dumbed down to move, and like, a big sweaty fireman carries you out of the burning building and you think - Yeah, okay, he’s gonna give me mouth-to-mouth - but instead he just starts choking the shit out of you, and the last sensation that you feel before you die is he’s squeezing your throat so hard that a big wet blob of drool drips off his teeth, and just - flurp - falls right onto your popped-out eyeball.” I finish describing the scene with my hands clenched around the air.
Dean stares at me blankly, chewing uneasily on the food in his mouth. “That was cruel.”
“What was cruel? Something wrong, hun?” Patsy stops, nodding at Dean’s unfinished plate.
He gives her a skeptical up-down. “No, no, just gotta, you know, hit the road again.”
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Typical.” She shakes her head as she slaps down the bill. “Til next time, darlin’.”
He watches her shuffle away, eyes shifting between the waitress and me. He leans in, whispering, “You don’t really think? I mean, it’s Patsy.”
“Seriously. Grossly. Infatuated.” I shake my head in disbelief, “If we check her out and she’s clean, I won’t come between you again, I promise. Now let’s get back out there and you can tell me about what happened to my underwear before this vodka wears off.”
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