He doesn't need discount anything, not anymore. Shockingly, hunting pays actual money here — and a damn decent amount, too. He's just always gonna be of the opinion that discounted booze is superior to overpriced booze, whether or not he can afford it. He likes a bargain, sue him.

But never mind that right now, new guy says is this not Earth? and Dean lets out a low, sad whistle. It sounds an awful lot like, wow, you poor son of a bitch. He gives Blake a moment or two to have his crisis, before muttering lowly, "Boy, they sure are skimping on the orientation these days."

Usually somebody way better at this has at least a light version of this conversation with the newly summoned well before Dean every talks to them.

Alright, intervention time, before the guy spirals out. Dean leans forward a little, resting is elbows on his knees. Back sloping, body language angled Blake's direction — some solid bedside manner, instinctively reassuring. Clearly well-practiced; might be easy to pick up on the fact that he's in the business of giving bad news to victims, to civilians.

"Alright, man. Take a breath. What's your name?"