Dean had expected the bar to smell like most bars of this type did. A little food, cigarettes, and beer. It was a comforting sort of smell - he’d been in more bars like this than he had almost anywhere but motel rooms in his lifetime, after all, and he knew the environment. It was a safe one, if you knew what you were doing as well as he did. This didn’t feel safe, though, and he couldn’t smell anything except smoke, and he couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that even somewhere like this couldn’t make him feel anything like his own particularly screwed up brand of normal again.
Dean shook the offered hand without losing a beat, without letting the fake smile fade - grip starting out cautious, but firming up once he realized he couldn’t really feel the blisters on his hands. It didn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected it to. “Hey. Thanks for,” he gestured a little with his other hand, not finishing the sentence (coming out with “thanks for either giving me a place to crash or an excuse to get myself killed” really wouldn’t sound right, would it?) and shrugging one shoulder slightly.
The offer of food made his stomach lurch unpleasantly. It was probably at least partially from hunger (when had he eaten last? Sometime before he’d gone to bed and had the dream, he was pretty sure - which put it at over two days now), but it was combined with the sick feeling that the idea of actually eating anything pulled along with it - everything smelled like smoke, and Sam was dead; he couldn’t even think about eating when all he could smell was fire and death - and he shook his head slightly, managing another smile.. “Nah. Thanks, but I’m good. Ready to go whenever you are.”