[ Dean sets the bottle back down after another few moments of inspection, quietly hoping it might manage to refill itself through hopefulness alone. As if they truly need more to drink - they don't, he knows it, knows that he didn't need more to drink the second he stepped foot in this bar - but that's not the point. Dean still wants to drown himself until nothing is left, until he doesn't have to wonder what it would be like here without Sam, without Cas, without these feelings nagging under his skin and laying to waste the reputation he's built of himself, walls he constructed that were meant to keep everything out and more.

But the comment makes him grin - perhaps, unusually. He's the rebel, the asshole, the guy without a plan, and he's laughing about the idea of the mess of teenagerdom. It's weird he knows, and he knows he's off the cuff about it in some screwball way, but Dean can almost think of nothing more ordered than when he was a teenager. Perhaps there was the inevitable chaos, the realm of girls he didn't understand and places he didn't yet know but there was a simplicity in the world in he occupied, in the body he held. His life was his father's and nothing more, and while the happiest of times held order and a life he could not believe in, with regularity he knew nothing more than what his father laid out in front of him.

A better source of chaos? Hell, maybe. The apocalypse. The Mark. He's not sure. But being a teenager? Still earns a grin. ]

I dunno, I can maybe think of a few. But gotta give 'em credit for pulling in a group of kids who know how to keep their head. I mean- just think'a the prom crowd in this place. The Heathers would lose their shit.