If Dempsey wasn't going to put him out of his misery, Dean was going to combust. For fuck's sake. He was winded and it wasn't because he was trying to do this as quickly as possible. He was doing an admirable job of walking in a straight line, keeping the stumbling to a minimum. The swaying was unavoidable; he had a lot to him to maneuver, but he was consciously aware to keep a good distance between them.

Not getting a lecture was a small mercy. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, and it was taking more willpower than he was willing to admit to keep his trap shut. Now wasn't the time or place to dredge up everything that had happened. Dean thought the ship sailed, the window for a reconciliation was closed, even if he thought about it more than was reasonable. In every moment of weakness he had to remind himself of why he'd done it in the first place and while Dempsey was perfectly sober at the moment, he'd caught glimpses at other social events (when he was holding his liquor better) where that wasn't the case. Dean had to remind himself of what had happened that night everything fell apart and then he had another glass of something strong to will the thoughts away.

The silence was maddening, but Dean still didn't know what to say. This internal struggle was murder and he couldn't help the little huff that he exhaled at the thoughts running rampant through his head.