Dean had been more distant, more cold then usual. You never saw him unless he was clutched to a Corona bottle like it was the last amount of liquid on earth. He was angry, tired. You were worried, to say the least.

Dean was sitting on the couch of the bunker, slouched back. A half empty beer was in his hand, a few empty bottles on the floor in front on him. Mindlessly flipping through the TV channels at 1:35 in the morning, he heard your footsteps and turned his head to look at you.

"What?"

He asked, his words slurred and his tone impatient.