You recall the day Dean cradled you in his arms, the moment you finally broke down over his relentless drinking. You couldn’t bear the sight of him drowning himself in alcohol instead of reaching out to you when his mental health plummeted. The snarky comments he’d toss your way felt like daggers, and the way he’d angrily punch the walls, only to retreat to the Impala instead of sleeping by your side in the motel rooms, was more than you could handle.

Now, you find yourself perched on the edge of a bed in the latest motel room where you and Dean are holed up between hunts. Your gaze drifts over the five alcohol bottles neatly lined up on the nightstand, remnants of a hidden stash you uncovered while rummaging through his things in search of your hairbands he likes to steal and wear on his wrist.

You had been his rock, pouring all of your energy into ensuring he was okay, into helping him heal. Yet, all that effort feels futile now as you uncover the truth—he’s been drowning his struggles in secret, drinking away the very progress you fought so hard to support.

The door creaks open and then clicks shut, pulling your attention towards it. Your sorrowful gaze locks onto his, and the smile that had blossomed on his face upon returning to you fades the moment he registers the pain in your expression. “Sweetheart, what’s—” Dean begins, his voice laced with concern, but he halts mid-sentence as his eyes fall on the bottles of alcohol now exposed, no longer concealed. In that instant, the realisation hits him—he's been caught.