a;

[ freshly lei'd and pissed, a scowl is etched deeply into Dean's forehead as he sulks somewhere near the pool, a very fruity cocktail in hand. Exploration and attempts to jump ship have led him nowhere, and while this is certainly a fascinating case to solve, he's mostly just low-key pissed that he can't get out.

No one likes feeling trapped.

Still, Dean's a friendly enough guy if approached - he's never a dick without reason (usually), so by all means, approach. ]

b;

[ The casino seems like a good place to hang out, even if the smell of cigarettes isn't his favorite thing. What creeps him out the most is the cards dealing themselves, and currently, he can be found bent nearly in half trying to look under a blackjack table, trying to figure out how the hell it works.

When approached, he'll jerk, caught red-handed, banging his head on the table in his hurry to straighten. ]

Ow.

[ Things Dean has assumed are correct at this point: the place is friggin' haunted, and it's probably by a whole lot more than just a seriously pissed off spirit.

A poltergeist, maybe. Maybe even more than one.

That particular assumption is from blatant evidence he's gathering as he goes - the plates shattering when he walks by, the deck chair skittering when he tries to sit and finds himself ass up instead, the soup that's dripping off his jacket and from his hair.

Also, the voices. That makes it pretty damn obvious, in his book. Get out, get out-- ]

Yeah, yeah, [ he mutters, drying his soup drenched hair with a pool towel. ]

I am trying!