( Believe it or not, he knows a little. It's pure practicality — you can't always talk on a hunt. She still fires off at him way too fast, like a freshman Spanish student in friggin' Mexico, he picks up on about one out of every thirty words through maybe pure sentiment alone given how many damn sign languages there are, and looks about as visibly lost as he feels.

That last question he gets, though, and he makes the effort to finger-spell back in ASL. Pointer finger up, four fingers to thumb, fist, two fingers over thumb. D-E-A-N, spelled out as he says it. Not a single damn clue whether she can hear or she's reading lips, so he figures it's probably good to cover all the bases. )

Dean. Look, sorry, lady, but you're gonna have to slow that down and alphabet me like a Kindergartener. I'm operating on a dónde está el baño level.