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Seamus Finnigan (openbottle) wrote in finnigans_rpg,

Seamus returned some time later, looking a little less like death warmed up. As well as taking care of his bladder, he'd splashed cold water on his face in the hopes it would wake him up a little, and brushed his teeth - unable to remember if he'd done it that morning or not. As a result he felt a little, though only a little, more human. "Paddy's arse, I'm still so tired," he complained as he headed towards the soup-smell, and Dean.

He'd heard the comment about his sheets, and that combined with Dean making him soup resulted in a flicker of a smile. "You might be an angel," he remarked. "Don't see any wings, though. Where're you hiding them?" He rubbed a hand over his eyes and propped himself against the counter. That he felt well enough to tease and invent curses was probably a good sign, but it all felt dim and distant compared to the heaviness in his head and the hollow sick feeling in his stomach. "How long until it's ready?" he asked, more out of duty than interest.