It’s 11pm in the evening. You have just gotten back from your long shift and walk into the kitchen to get something to drink.

To your surprise, Dean is sitting at the table, glass half empty of some sort of alcohol in his hand, and a nasty looking bleeding wound on his forehead, following with a fresh cut on his lower lip.

“What the hell happened to you?” You ask, furrowing brows as a grimace for his injuries. His knuckles are slit open, dried blood covering them.

“Nothing.” Dean brushes it off annoyed, clearly not wanting to talk about it. He takes another sip from his drink, looking away from you.