A little over a week moping in the house was a little ridiculous, but it didn't change the truth of it. One of his more memorable birthdays and not for a good reason. Dean didn't often make mistakes, but he wasn't infallible either and he wasn't afraid to admit when he fucked up. He'd fucked up bigtime. He was normally so careful and controlled and it hadn't worked when it mattered.

Reading three books in a week was probably good for him, even if he'd never been this reclusive in his entire adulthood. Part of him didn't expect Dempsey to come back, but there was a small, hopeful part that kept him home on the sofa with another adventure novel and a glass of whiskey just in case. The urge would fade eventually, or so he kept telling himself anyway. This was worse than last time, at the root of it. Last time Dean hadn't quite known what had caused Dempsey to leave, but the attachment hadn't quite been so obvious either. He still didn't know what to do about that, didn't know how to reconcile what was different about Dempsey or what had changed;he was still stuck in the unknown and that might be the worst part.

Tonight he was lounging on the sofa in the sitting room in nothing but pajama pants, half of a glass of whiskey left, a book in the other hand, looking a little rumpled, hair tousled from running his fingers through it. He'd dismissed the staff early because they kept looking at him like he'd lost his mind and frankly, they deserved some paid time off. He was just self-sabotaging, nothing worse than that.

He eased himself down on the sofa, setting his book down as he held the rocks glass in one hand, dangling from his fingertips, wondering if he should just go upstairs for the night. Which if course was when the floo lit up green, causing him to sit up quickly, just barely managing not to slosh any booze from the glass. "I wondered if I would actually see you again," he admitted as he set the whiskey on the table, but didn't move any more than that.