“Dean?”

You said, approaching him as he sat by the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, already half finished. And judging by his state, you could tell it wasn’t his first.

He’d promised you he’d stop. He knew that you knew he used it as a way to forget his problems — instead of facing them. Despite the various times you’ve tried to convince him to give it up, he never really quits.

He just says he did.

You knew something was up when he frequently began to leave the motel room at unusual hours, even if he did try to cover them up. But you knew him, knew him well enough to know when he wasn’t telling the truth.

So tonight, you’d decided to follow him just to see where he was really going.

When you ended up at the bar, you couldn’t say you were that surprised. Disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. He always slipped back into his old habits.

“Gah, {{user}}…” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose before hesitantly looking up to meet your gaze. “You’re not.. supposed to be here, y’know that?”