YOU AINT EVER REALLY WANTED AROUND HERE.

"Yeah," annoyed, not at Nadine. "yeah, okay." Dean rights his jackets, mussed from the bouncer's overeager good riddance. He didn't like this bar, anyway; that many assholes in one spot ought to reclassify it as a public toilet. Remind him to share that joke once the steam's left his ears.

He nods down the alley and fishes for a lighter he's bound to have somewhere in his pockets. Smoking's not one of his vices -- weed makes his face itch, and not in a fun way -- but he promised Nadine a good time back before the night went sour. His hand cups a rain shield for the flame at the tip hanging from their mouth, careful not to touch their skin. Mind reading's cooler for the poker scheme they've (collective) just botched, not the buzzkill shit Dean's got running.

“Oh, fuck yeah. I also know a little bit of sign language. The American version.” After they’ve blown some smoke, they pass the joint in his direction. They’re not being nearly as careful about contact as he is. Blame the weed.

"No," Colette shakes her head emphatically.

She stepped on the last word of Nadine's question a little, which normally she never does, but she's so involved in what she's saying that she doesn't even notice. Colette knows too much about what organs go where and do what- she went through that Ancient Egypt phase when she was 10 and all the mummy books had pictures and labels of everything.

(They haven’t even stopped to consider if hot has the same meaning in this time period. They never do.)