(and no, it's not a typo)
WOW: pour. I love the idea of a hopelessly sloshed and hungover Dean. This probably means I need to enter group therapy and talk about my feelings or something.
Sam's making coffee because someone really, REALLY needs it.
Rated T for one teeny-weeny little naughty word.
Disclaimer: I don't own them and this is a source of constant frustration to me.
Sam sighed, glancing at the gruesome, bedridden wreck as he poured boiling water over the four heaped spoons of coffee in the mug.
All the signs were there:
T-shirt inside-out and pair of ladies panties on the head - check.
Puke bucket beside the bed - check.
Limp arm dangling into said puke bucket - check.
Blearily squinting eyes like piss-holes in the snow - check.
Breath that could corrode steel at ten paces - check.
Complete inability to utter one coherent word - check.
All the signs that Dean had enjoyed a good, good night.
All of which meant that Sam was in for a bad, bad day.