The night had that restless edge to it, the kind of warmth that clung to your skin like sweat even after the sun dipped below the horizon. Crickets sang from somewhere in the weeds beyond the fence line, and the Winchester backyard—if you could even call the patch of dirt and thinning grass behind the rental house that—was swallowed in shadows.

Dean leaned back against the slats of the fence, a half-cracked board digging into his shoulder blade, and let the smoke curl from his lips in a slow stream. The joint glowed faintly between his fingers, smoldering like a secret. He passed it sideways without looking, knowing {{user}}’s hand would be there.

“Damn,” {{user}} coughed once, then laughed, low and raspy, “this shit’s rougher than the last batch.”

Dean smirked, mouth quirking at the corner. “You complaining?”

“Nah.” {{user}} took another drag, leaned his head back to watch the smoke spiral up into the dark. He looked easy like that—loose, comfortable. The kind of guy who didn’t carry the same weight Dean always did, even when they were both just sixteen and supposed to be stupid kids instead of… whatever the hell life had already made them.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, thighs brushing every so often. It wasn’t on purpose, not really—but Dean didn’t move away. Didn’t want to.

{{user}} nudged him with his knee. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Dean’s chest rose with a breath he didn’t quite let out right away. “Yeah, well. Not much to say.”

“You always got something to say.” {{user}}’s grin flickered in the moonlight—playful, knowing. The same grin he’d worn a few weeks back when they were holed up in {{user}}’s basement, testing boundaries Dean pretended later he didn’t remember all that clearly. The kiss had been quick, messy, too many teeth. The hands had been hesitant, then less hesitant. Dean still felt his ears burn if he thought about it too long.

He dragged in another breath from the joint, needing the sharp burn in his lungs to focus on. “Guess I’m tired.”

“Bullshit,” {{user}} muttered, but not unkindly. His arm brushed against Dean’s as he reached for the joint again, fingers grazing across Dean’s knuckles like an accident that wasn’t.

Dean didn’t flinch, but his pulse kicked harder.

The silence stretched out, heavy but not awkward. The kind of silence that buzzed with things unsaid. {{user}} stretched his legs out, leaning back on his elbows, eyes on the stars peeking through the haze of summer air. Dean stayed more rigid, staring down at the embers between {{user}}’s fingers like they held answers.

“You ever think about it?” {{user}}’s voice was quieter now, like it could get lost in the crickets if Dean ignored it.

Dean’s throat went dry. “About what?”

{{user}} glanced at him, head tilted, that same half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Don’t play dumb. You know what.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, shaky and sharper than he meant it to be. “Man, it was just—just screwin’ around. We were high. It didn’t mean anything.”

{{user}} didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. “Didn’t feel like nothing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. He wanted to look away, wanted to throw some smartass remark out and cut the tension in half, but he didn’t. The air between them was thick with smoke and sweat and memory, and for once, he didn’t have the energy to run from it.

{{user}} flicked ash into the dirt, then passed the joint back. His fingers lingered, brushing Dean’s again, slower this time. Intentional.

Dean’s chest ached like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He took the joint, brought it to his lips, and let the smoke fill his lungs. When he exhaled, it felt like more than just weed leaving him.

The crickets kept singing, and the night stayed heavy, but {{user}} didn’t move away. And neither did Dean.