Max’s eyes get this predatory gleam in them when he looks down into the Impala. Big guns; they’ve always impressed people. It’s a look Dean recognizes in his own face, the same youth-bright passion for really cool shit. He can’t help smirking a bit as he watches Max lean over the trunk.
“So. Bartender’s number, huh?” Dean says.
Max smirks too, still drinking in the Impala’s arsenal in all her splendor. “Oh yeah. Got a date tonight, in fact. Wouldn’t mind showing him the backseat of this baby,” he purrs.
Dean blinks. “Him?”
Max straightens, frowns at him. “Uh, yeah,” he scoffs. “Problem?”
Dean shakes his head, so fast that the world tips on its side for a minute. “Just making conversation,” he coughs.
Max still looks kind of hesitant, though. He takes a step back from Dean and ducks his head to inspect the rims.
Dean watches the back of his head as he does. Young guy, sister that loves him and sticks with him, a mother he adores and doesn’t have to worry about so much. A hot dude bartender’s number.
Dean swallows past a sudden lump in his throat.
This is everything I could have had.