Damn it all. This was going about as spectacularly as it could. He'd had to bite his tongue to prevent things, regrets, apologies from spilling from his lips even as he tripped on the cobblestones. The hand around his arm had his breath hitching. Memories flooded his brain, unbidden and vivid and he had to refocus on the street before him, blinking away the pictures in his head. Just two more streets, he could do this. Then he could go drown himself in a bottle of whiskey and embarrassment.

Heat flooded his cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbled as he straightened up, trying to ignore the unfamiliar smell of cigarette smoke (not the vanilla he was used to?) wafting from Dempsey's direction. His thoughts were going a mile a minute; why wouldn't Dempsey just let him stumble his way home in peace? What was that smirk that had sent Dean careening off course? Why had their next meeting had to go like this, him making a fool out of himself like a blubbering idiot?

Dean tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling too warm for the night air, even though his jacket remained unbuttoned for a lack of the dexterity.