Room 511, Saturday Morning
Dean was curled up on his bed, or at least as curled-up as he could get, staring at the wall. Depressing music flooded the room from his stereo, and he clutched a picture of Rory, the edges wet and ragged from his sweaty hands. He was hopeless. Behind in classes (he hadn't even managed to remember to go get the work he missed from Mr. Winchester, that's how dumb he was), homesick (that week in Stars Hollow had only made it all worse), lonely, lost without his Rory (who no doubt thought he was insane or a big fat liar). He screwed everything up. Everything. He shouldn't be allowed to live. Wallowing in his pain and torment was clearly the only answer.
He may have groaned depressed-ly from time to time, or flailed weakly. He didn't know. Or care. About anything. What was the point?
[[ooc: Definitely open, as if anyone would really want to subject themselves to Dean's Emo...]]
He may have groaned depressed-ly from time to time, or flailed weakly. He didn't know. Or care. About anything. What was the point?
[[ooc: Definitely open, as if anyone would really want to subject themselves to Dean's Emo...]]