Dean's pants don't fit.
"Okay," he says to himself, staring in the direction of his own knees. "We're good," he says. "This is fine." This is just a misunderstanding between him and some fabric. This is only a slight delay on Dean's Morning Train to Awesometown. He is going to be eating a cheese bagel fifteen minutes from now and laughing about this. He looks down at the waistband and tugs the zipper, then looks around at the floor, where he found them in the first place. Hey, they could be somebody else's pants: there could very well be an invisible dude that's slightly smaller than Dean, leaving his similar jeans in similar places. Stranger things have happened. Dean mulls over the possibility of an invisible pants bandit, then rejects it. He stands there for a second, boxers hanging out, hands dangling at his sides, and then pulls his jeans back down. He bends over to read the label, but it's too faded. He takes them off and holds them up, like seeing them in better light's going to help. And then he tries all over again, like maybe the first time was a fluke: he slides his legs in one at a time, tugs his jeans up, and pulls on the zipper. Nothing happens. Okay, something humiliating happens: the zipper won't budge. Dean stares at his stomach like his stomach knows something he doesn't, and is being a dick about it.
"What," says Dean, "the actual fuck."