Christ, all this jumping up and down was making him about two seconds away from hurling just on sheer principle. Dean's pale face twisted into a grimace, both from irritation and trying his damnedest to keep it down, feeling cranky and wishing Samaritan would've just left him on the floor instead of trying to be so friggen helpful. "Yeah, jus'...yeah."

Dean flopped more than sat down on the bed, despite his stiffening muscles. As far as he could tell, it didn't feel much more comfortable than the floor, so why had Samaritan even bothered hauling him up and not just left him on the carpet so he wouldn't be wondering if he should just puke on the guy and see if that made him leave him alone? It was around when he was thinking that one over, maybe even honestly debating the pros and cons, that the guy asked him his name. Dean was too disoriented and tired to remember to come up with his AC/DC alias and instead said flatly: "'s Dean, you?"

It took a while to remember that wasn't actually the important question he'd just been asked, which he'd apparently glossed over in his hurry to get everyone introduced. Dean pursed his blue lips, and finally it clicked. What he was supposed to do. Dean wished he didn't have to go saying this to anyone, much less another man, but fact was he was barely holding it together as it was and while he had no idea if that witch's magic might still screw him over even with warm dry clothes, he had to at least try to get better. Or WhateverHisName had to, 'cause Dean doubted he could tie his shoelaces at the moment, much less get out of his own clothes. As it was, it was already tempting to just push away the other patient, roll over, and go to sleep, Dean swaying as he sat on the mattress. He closed his eyes, seemed to be steeling himself, and then went on:

"Gotta strip me. Get me outta wet clothes," he said, voice slurred, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "Need t'get dry first an' then warm."