"Lisa, please tell me you still got some of that stash lying around. I desperately need a joint right about now," Dean groaned, unceremoniously collapsing into a heap upon the wrinkled shitshow of a mattress, blankets thrown astray, crumbs littering the sheets from late night pizza endeavors and beer stains lining the fabric.

"That mechanical engineer teacher has seriously got to get laid. Major stick up his ass." Dean huffed, flipping onto his back, hand tucked under his head, threaded in unruly strands that’d grown since he booked it like a bat out of hell from his father—packed Sam in the backseat of the Impala at the poor ripe age of 14 and drove like hell West to some shitty suburb in Cali, fueled on Dad’s scam credit cards.

A throat cleared from across the room—masculine, deep, certainly not emitted from the pretty picture of his roommate. Dean’s eyes narrowed, peeking sideways at the figure standing awkwardly at the adjacent bed who looked like he wandered out of a government conspiracy film.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked, propping lazily up onto his elbows, brow raised in a minimal effort to display distaste. "The church send you?" he questioned, condescending smirk taunting his lips as he tilted his head. "Look, choir boy, this ain’t a confessional, and if you’re here to lecture me on sin; if Jesus wanted me saved, he’d send someone hotter than a pale guy in a trenchcoat during California heat."

Silence. No crack of a smile. Just blank stoicism with hints of confused concern staring back at him.

"Jesus, do you got the whole damn cross shoved up your ass? How ‘bout a smile there, angel?" Dean grumbled, pushing himself to fully sit up. Uninterested eyes ran over his form, apathy fraying with subtle peeks of amused curiosity sparking in his irises.

"I knew that chick was a minimalist but seriously, where’s all her stuff?" he asked, nodding to the pristine and unoccupied side of the room. "Oh for fuck’s sake, did they seriously take away my smoke show of a roommate for an up and coming priest?"