somebody tryin' just to stay alive

[ooc; Just for Dean and Dickface Karofsky, guys. c: ]

"A long, long time ago...'nd I can still remember, when that music used to make me smile..."

Dean is usually singing, or humming, something from his "headbanger repertoire", as Sam so aptly tends to put it.  Metallica isn't on his mind today, though - most of the mullet-rock isn't, as a matter of fact.  He's feeling rather Don McLean, and that tends to happen when Dean's hungry, just as a general rule.

Meandering down to the kitchen in search of the ever-elusive perfect slice of pie, he sidles into the empty room on a mission from God, Hellbent - Well, isn't that ironic? - to procure some quality comestibles to keep his stomach from digesting itself.  Deftly sliding open a drawer and whipping out a fork, he scrutinizes the majestically magical food-cabinet carefully, considering his options.  He usually gets apple.

Time to be adventurous.

Thinking really hard about a steamin' hot slice of peach pie, he's pleased to find as much when he opens the little door, and Dean leans up against the counter in the far corner of the kitchen, digging in.

[There's an unhappy growling sound, a few switches clicking, and the low buzz of electronics warming up.]

C'mon, you fucker.  Jesus, you- Okay. There.  God damn it, didn't think I'd have to leave my own message like a bad zombie apocalypse movie.

[The screen flickers and it clears up to show a man's torso before he bends down to squint into the camera. He's ruggedly good-looking, albeit a little angry at present with the set jaw and furrowed brow. He narrows green eyes at the lens and prods it experimentally before shuffling to one side and scraping a chair across the floor to the table, settling on it and propping his feet up before speaking.]

No goddamn clue where I am.

[He groans, rubbing the back of his neck.]

'M in a room, in a house, and Sammy if you get this broadcast you come and find me, you hear?  For all I know it's the freakin' trickster again tryin' to screw around with me, and this time I don't wanna die chokin' on a taco or getting a desk dropped on my sexy head.

[The man glares at the camera before digging into his leather jacket, pulling out an IMI Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol and checking the weight and munitions cartridge.  Prying one of the bullets out, he holds it up to the camera briefly.]

See that? Wrought iron.

[Looks rather pleased with himself as he replaces it in its case and reloads the gun.]

If any demons or ghosts come around lookin' for me I'll be ready.

[Quirks a little smile at the gun before tucking it back into his jacket and fingering the amulet around his neck, lost in thought for a moment before mumbling hoarsely.]

...you gotta find me, Sammy. S'not like I had much time left, anyway.

[He reaches over, and there are a few seconds of muffled, bumping noises before he hits the switch and the screen goes black.]