somebody tryin' just to stay alive

Dean is slumped in one of the easy chairs in his room, seemingly completely oblivious to the camera he's left on the bedside table.  It's at enough of an angle that half his face is obscured by the shadows in the dimly-lit room, and the only sources of illumination are the floor lamp off in the far corner, and the soft electric glow of the radio's face.

The only thing it's been playing today are Journey's greatest hits, but it's been stuck on a loop of Faithfully and Open Arms, which made Dean think, and thinking is always a bad idea when he's convinced that he's fucked up almost every close friendship - or relationship - he's had with anyone since coming here.

Dean is starting to see a pattern, and if the expression of grim pain on his face isn't enough of a giveaway that something is wrong, then the beer bottle dangling from his fingertips over the left arm of the chair ought to be.  Reaching down, he tugs off one of his heavy biker boots and chucks it at the radio, which clatters to the floor and fizzles out of whatever reception it was getting.

He knows he should be happier.  His brother is here.  Sam, Sasquatch that he is, is here - albeit older - the the guilt he feels over moping when he should be catching up with Sam is...really awful, actually.

But everyone has those days, right?

Right?