[The plan itself wasn't terrible: Cain needed to back off the whiskey some. It was Dean's graceless execution and the fact that he knows he was being petty about it that caused the problem. He's able to joke about it now, though, and he'd never been all that angry with Cain except for how hard it was to brush his teeth for several days, and the natural crankiness he fosters when he has to be woken up every two hours to make sure his brain hasn't swollen enough to put him into a coma.

And just that quickly, they're back to awkward.] Uhhh...

[Because Dean knows he's not the champion of healthy coping mechanisms, not by a long shot, and that's before Hell. He has no idea what the version Stiles is dealing with now has gone through, has no idea what would have helped if he'd just sat in that farmhouse and rotted along with his dead brother instead of finding a crossroads and forcibly putting it all back like it should have been. He'd wanted to be left alone. He hadn't wanted to eat, or talk, or be touched, or breathe. He'd wanted to burn the entire place down, wedge a knife into Jake's spine in turn, start punching and not stop until every bone in his hand was broken.

Somehow, he doesn't think any of that is helpful. Chewing his lip, he shakes his head, and squints at Stiles.]

I'd have to know more. I... [He blows out a breath, reaches up to rub the corner of one eye with his hand, as though having an excuse not to look will make it easier to admit somehow.] I don't... do well, losing people. I mean, I know no one does. I know it's not easy for anyone. But...

Most people don't go looking to sell their souls to avoid it, you know? Like, actually go searching for anything that'll take a deal for anything. I don't know how long that takes to get over. I didn't have to find out.

[He glances again over his shoulder, finds Sam's silhouette through the back window of his car, and remembers to be grateful for that again.]