somebody tryin' just to stay alive

[[ooc; Just a wee bit after this.]]



It's a good day.

It's still morning.  The rave is over, the candy-high is gone.  He doesn't have to worry about having pawned off anything valuable just to get a fix.  Sammy's MIA, but Castiel came back from wherever he went.  Probably escaping the techno music.  Speaking of music - there isn't any playing, but there is someone singing.

It's slightly off-key, barely muted by the sound of running water, and very clearly a tribute to The J. Geils Band.  Then the shower shuts off, and every single lyric is discernible for any and all listening in.

"-I was shy, I turned away, before she caught my eye.  I was shakin' in my shoes, whenever she flashed those baby-blues!  Something had a hold on me when angel passed close by."

He slides out of the bathroom and into view like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, sporting a towel and a shampoo bottle-microphone...

...and then promptly dives back into the refrain, hop-skipping across the floor like a man who just got laid.

Because guess what? 

He did.

Never you mind the trench coat draped over the desk chair haphazardly and the clothes all over the floor.  Never you mind at all.

An extremely heavy, loud bass-beat is thumping down the hallways and spewing out of the library.

Dean has acquired a boombox.

He's also legitimately doing research, for once in his life, plucking books here and there and stacking them in a rather haphazard fashion on the nearest table, all the while singing along to Separate Ways by one of the classic 80's bands, Journey.

Don't judge, you sonsabitches.

"Troubled times, caught between confusion and pain...pain...pain," He bobs his head along with the music, chucking another leather-bound book onto the desk.  "Distant eyes-" Dean spins around, boots skidding along the wood floor, "Promises we made were in vain - In vaaaain, vain."

Never mind how well the lyrics appear to mimic some bits of his own life - they don't matter.  What matters is how he can't find any information on skinny dudes with tentacle-arms in any books relating to supernatural subjects.  "Most of this shit doesn't even make sense," Dean grumbles, leaving the volume up on his music-maker and taking a seat in the nearest armchair.  "Stake a vampir- Who the fuck wrote this?!"