You never really quit. You just said you did. For years, you'd been stuck in this endless cycle. You'd try to give up smoking, just to revert right back to square one when things got tough.

Dean knew about your cigarette problem, and he didn't really blame you — for him, it was alcohol. Working as a hunter was detrimental on one's mental health, and he understood the need for that sweet relief, even if it slowly destroyed you overtime. Ever since you joined him and Sam, he'd tried his best to encourage to stay away from the cigarettes. But it was hard, so hard. Especially after a hunt like the last.

The neon sign of the shitty motel you were staying at flickered, casting colored shadows across your face as you hovered underneath the awning outside the motel room. A light rain trickled down, coating the black pavement and making the night even chillier. A cigarette was perched between your fingers, the smoke clouding around your face as you exhaled. It was a sight that was painful for Dean. You'd told him just two days ago that you quit for good, for real this time. With a clenched jaw, he paced down the row of rooms like a man on a mission. Though, he slowed as he got closer, eyes trained on the back of your head. You'd told him you were going out to get a snack from the vending machine, but when you didn't return within a few minutes, an awful feeling in his gut told him exactly what you were doing: smoking.

“I should've known,” Dean spoke almost bitterly, grabbing your attention. His eyes flickered down to the cigarette before he met your gaze. The hunter ran a hand over his face, fingers digging into his eyes. It was growing tiring, this game of back and forth.