"I can make it stop you know," Sherlock said.
Dean jerked. He hadn't heard the other man enter the room. Dangerous, he berated himself, focus. He turned slowly, his face a mask of calm, "What?" he implored the consulting detective.
"I said, I can make it stop," Sherlock repeated.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said turning back around to dismiss him. Maybe if I keep my back to him he won't be able to do that creepy thing where he reads your entire history in your clothing.
"But you do Dean, you do. You put on this smile like armor and it fools everybody." a pause, "but I'm not everybody." Dean half wanted to slug the pompous bastard.
"You don't know what you're talking about", Dean snarled
"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed, "you don't hide it that well. The pain. Your strained relationship with your brother. Your guilt. Your fear. The things you try to drown in a bottle of Jack."
Dean didn't bother to give a response. He continued to steadfastly ignore him with his examination out the darkened window, but Sherlock heard everything he needed to in the hunter's changing posture. "I get it. Sometimes there's too much. A never-ending deluge of feelings," he snarled the last word. "I've learned to cope. John wouldn't approve. He'd kill me if he knew actually, but he doesn't always understand. How can him. He's so normal. It's just something to take the edge off faster than a bottle of whiskey. Something to shut the emotions down; make the voices stop. Make things go quiet; calm. The relief is instant. Incredible. The high glorious, and the nothingness that follows, divine"
Dean had turned around to appraise the detective sometime during his speech, looking him up and down in attempt to judge his sincerity. He was about to open his mouth and agree when Sherlock interrupted him, "Great, perfect. I knew you'd be up for it. This is going to be so much fun"