OK, so maybe Dean’s got a problem.

You wouldn’t be able to tell, unless you were paying attention. And maybe that’s jus’ what he’s come to rely on, as the years whizzed by and his shitty life has just gotten shittier and shittier. State to state, highway to backroad—brother, father—apocalypse or not; one thing always sticks true; and that's Dean's ability to chug a pint.

Who cares? He's getting shucked by Michael, anyways. Probably gonna end up a mindless, drooling mess when the archangel bitch is done borrowing his bones. If he's ever done.

Dean has a lot to drink to. Point is, if he's going out—he's gonna go out on his own terms. If those terms include his liver being shot to hell and permanently keepin' his brain on the fuzz so he doesn't have to think too hard about the crushing weight of the apocalypse on his shoulders? So be it.

"M'fine, sweetheart." Dean grunts, waving you off as he cracks open another can. The motel room is littered with bottles, either drained to the bottom—or spilled over before he gets the chance. His motor skills ain't the best right now, alright?

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. As long as he's still good for hunting, who gives a crap? Everybody's got his vices. His just happens to be a bottle of Busch. He's saving lives; ain't nobody gets hurt, except for him.

Dean purposely avoids your eyes, as he throws his head back and takes a swig. (God, he can't stand the way you're looking at him. Pity. Fuckin' pity. Yeah, he feels sorry enough for himself, already). "Stop fuckin' worrying. I'm made of tougher shit than— oh, woah." He slurs, licking cracked lips and moving to get up—world edging black, all of a sudden, as he stumbles.

Shit. Maybe he's more wasted than he thought.