Dean almost snorted out loud when he finally heard his "real" name. Rick Derringer. Cute. It was almost a name he would've used as a cover way back when. The corner of his mouth did quirk at the name, amused, as he leaned back in his chair, not quite slouching, and wondered if he'd get away with kicking his feet up on the desk. Dean half-expected her to slap his feet off if he did try. Did look damn tempting...
"Eric's good," Dean said smoothly; it wasn't the first time he'd had to pretend to be someone else, although usually he had some kinda warning before he had to start winging it. "I'm feelin' okay, I guess. Except for this whole mummy thing," he motioned at the bandages on his arms and part of his neck, flicking a glance at her for her reaction: he didn't expect pity but he did wonder what they told her, if anything. "Or were you asking if I was bouncin' off the walls psycho? I mean, y'know, seein' where we are," he added, gesturing at the walls.
If there was anything he was used to, it was people acting like he was crazy: funny, wouldn't you know it, but they didn't really like being told that what did go bump in the night was real and could chew you up and spit you out in the time it took to say "oh hell". By now, Dean had settled himself into the stiff plastic waiting room chair as if he owned the thing, legs sprawled out and his head tilted a little, his lip curling a little sarcastically. Going through the "you're crazy, son" speech seemed almost laughably normal and out of place.
no subject
"Eric's good," Dean said smoothly; it wasn't the first time he'd had to pretend to be someone else, although usually he had some kinda warning before he had to start winging it. "I'm feelin' okay, I guess. Except for this whole mummy thing," he motioned at the bandages on his arms and part of his neck, flicking a glance at her for her reaction: he didn't expect pity but he did wonder what they told her, if anything. "Or were you asking if I was bouncin' off the walls psycho? I mean, y'know, seein' where we are," he added, gesturing at the walls.
If there was anything he was used to, it was people acting like he was crazy: funny, wouldn't you know it, but they didn't really like being told that what did go bump in the night was real and could chew you up and spit you out in the time it took to say "oh hell". By now, Dean had settled himself into the stiff plastic waiting room chair as if he owned the thing, legs sprawled out and his head tilted a little, his lip curling a little sarcastically. Going through the "you're crazy, son" speech seemed almost laughably normal and out of place.