"Sixteen, actually," Yukio concedes with a tilt of his head, surprised that Dean's managed to guess his age so well. Most people back home assumed him older. Then again, maybe he used Rin's age to guess, Yukio supposes. "In any event, you've aged surprisingly well. Father Fujimoto's skin was a little... leathery."

He sits down next to Dean, giving the beer a dubious look before tilting it back against his lips. It doesn't burn, like the drink Dean offered him last, the drink that had been more to ease pain than enjoyment.

"It's bland. I feel like I'm drinking... air," Yukio assesses, pausing after the swallow and turning the cold can in his palm, condensation sliding down his fingers. He takes another swig. "It's not bad."