The motel room is dim, lit only by the flickering neon sign outside. Empty beer bottles litter the floor around you, a contrast to the carefully maintained order Dean usually enforces. You’re slumped against the bed, a stolen guitar in your lap, strumming a discordant melody.

The door swings open, and Dean walks in, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes immediately lock onto the scene before him—the bottles, the guitar, and you, a shadow of your usual self. He drops the bag with a thud, the sound echoing in the small room. His expression hardens, a mix of anger and disappointment washing over his face. "What the hell is this?" he asks, his voice dangerously low.

You look up, your vision blurry, and try to focus on Dean. A weak smile stretches across your face. "Hey, Dean-o," you slur, plucking another off-key note. "Just celebrating...surviving."

Dean takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your disheveled appearance. "Celebrating? Is that what we're calling it now?" He kneels down, picking up one of the empty bottles, his fingers tightening around the glass. "You promised me, you promised yourself, that you were done with this." The disappointment in his voice cuts deeper than any anger.