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?

[ooc; Double-date is for Dean, Castiel, Santana, and...the mystery date.]

"She was a black-haired beauty with big, dark eyes," Dean mumbles somewhat in-key, flicking his BIC lighter open and touching the flame to the candles settled on the table.  He's done his best, really - someone as unromantic as Dean Winchester trying to plan anything remotely sexy (And not in the raw, natural way) is almost destined to fail in a spectacular fashion, but at least he tried.  He's commandeered one of the unused studies on the first floor, yanking a table into the middle and arranging four chairs around it.  There's plenty of food - the kitchen provided well: some fancy salad for whoever his date would be, something Italian (with breadsticks) for Santana, a burger for Cas, a steak for himself.

God, he's starving.

"...out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy," Dean chuckles, tucking his lighter away, "Out in the back seat of my '60 Chevy...workin' on our night moves."  He hums through the chorus, poking a plate on the table to one side to make it just right.  He adjusts his tie with a little grimace.  Dean doesn't look bad; in fact, he looks really good*, but it's only because the closet wouldn't give him anything else.  Dean had asked it for something 'nicer', and after four times asking the same question he decided to take the goddamn striped shirt and tie and wear it.

Cas is supposed to show up soon.  Before the dates arrive.  Dean checks his watch and makes a face.  "...c'mon, Cas.  It's show time."  Shuffling over to the chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, he throws himself on fine, silk fabric with a little sigh.

With any luck, he might get some action tonight.

Finally.

*Exhibit A: