The motel room was a modest space, decorated in fugly colours that had seen better days. The flickering neon light from the 'VACANCY' sign outside cast an eerie glow through the thin curtains, illuminating the room just enough for you to see the worry on Dean's face — which he was desperately trying to hide.

You sat on one of the lumpy beds, cradling your injured shoulder. The hunt had been a nightmare from start to finish, and, of course, you got hurt. Badly.

Your shoulder was dislocated, and the pain was a throbbing pulse that shot through your body with every movement. Your breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. You stayed calm, almost stoic, despite the intense discomfort.

You didn't want to worry Dean more than he already was, and you didn't want to seem weak.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Dean said, his tone firm but not unkind. He set the medical kit on the small bedside table next to you and handed you a half-empty whiskey bottle, which you gladly accepted. "It'll help with the pain."

You took a swig of the whiskey, the amber liquid burning down your throat and offering a momentary distraction from the pain.

Dean sat by your side, his hands steady as he prepared to work on your shoulder. "I'm gonna pop your shoulder back into place. This is gonna hurt."