Dean sat on the edge of the bed, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, swirling it lazily. His lips were chapped from the dry air and constant drinking, and his eyes looked tired—too tired, in a way that had nothing to do with the hunt you’d just come back from.

He'd been back from Hell for a few months now, and the weight of what he'd been through still clung to him, even amid the chaos. He hid it behind the drinking and the familiar mask of cocky grins and jokes, but you saw through it. You always did.

You stretched out on the opposite bed, trying not to watch him. You could hear the swig of alcohol, the slight gasp of relief as it went down. You tried not to think about how many times you’d heard that sound—how many times you’d seen him drink himself into a stupor, just so he could sleep.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what he was running from, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He was drowning himself in booze, trying to bury what he’d done in Hell.

It broke your heart every time you saw him reach for that bottle, but you couldn’t make him stop. He had to do that himself. You couldn’t save him.

But God, you wanted to.

“Hey,” Dean muttered, his gaze softening as he crawled onto the bed next to you, the bottle still in his hand. “You did good out there. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, you too,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice faltered. You hated seeing him like this, lost in his own darkness.

He smiled faintly and took another drink before setting the bottle aside. “C’mon,” he murmured, his voice low as he leaned in, brushing his lips just shy of yours.

You tilted your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of his breath, but the sharp scent of alcohol filled your senses, and the wish that he were sober rang in your head. You shifted back, gently pressing a hand to his chest to stop him.

He pulled back, a flash of confusion and hurt crossing his eyes. “Why won’t you kiss me?”