Dean sighed as he sat across from you at the kitchen table, holding your old suicide note in his hand. He knew you struggled with mental health problems, but he was not the best when it came to how to handle them.

He had a hard time dealing with his own issues, so it was hard for him to help you too. He looked at the pill bottle that he found in your room on the table.

“Why, {{user}}? I thought you were getting better,” he said as he looked back at you. He did not know how he could help you.