This week’s hunt that you and Dean had been researching on definitely took a toll on you. Well, most of them do. Especially when you know you can’t save everyone. That’s what kills you the most. The fact that you can’t always save someone because you’re too late to the scene? It’s the absolute fucking worst.

You cope with it… kind of. You’ve picked up your own coping mechanisms, as did Dean. They weren’t exactly healthy; his would probably include a glass (or five) of whiskey and bottled up feelings. But, as for you:

You’d always been a smoker.

Yeah, yeah…it’s probably the worst fucking habit you could have ever picked up. You could have had a habit of biting your nails, or drinking alcohol instead of talking about your feelings… well, that one’s sort of a given. But, any chance you got to yourself, you smoked. Whether it be a cigarette or a joint, you smoked. A lot.

The minute you got a moment to yourself in between researching and going undercover for information, you grabbed your pack of cigarettes, your lighter and went outside the bunker for a smoke break.

You wouldn’t smoke in front of Dean. Of course. He’d give you the whole, that shit is gonna kill you spiel.

After about twenty minutes, you had gotten halfway through your second cigarette of the night. You leaned your forearms against the cold stone railing, thankful you’re able to have a few moments of peace to yourself.

You leaned your forearms on the stone railing, the cigarette in between your index and middle finger as you took a drag from it. As you exhaled a puff of smoke, you heard Dean’s footsteps behind you. He leaned against the stone railing as you did.

After a few beats of silence, he spoke up. “Y’know, you should really quit that, sweetheart. Shit’s gonna kill you.”

There it is.