College was never Dean’s thing. Books and lectures, professors droning on about things he’d rather punch than memorize—hell no. He’d barely survived high school on attitude and charm alone, and not much had changed since then.

But college did have one thing he could get behind.

Freedom, baby.

No curfews. No Dad breathing down his neck. No monsters—well, not the kind that needed salt and shotguns, anyway. Just the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whoever was lucky enough to catch his eye.

Parties? Not really his jam—unless there were girls. Or guys. Or just someone worth wasting the night on. Lucky for him, there were always plenty of someone’s. Booze flowed cheap and fast, and as long as he didn’t blow smoke in the wrong face, nobody gave a damn if he lit up.

His little brother, Sammy—Sam, if you asked him nicely—fit in here like a puzzle piece. Nose in a book, always studying. Dean called it wasting good beer money on paperbacks. But it worked in his favor—Sam’s dorm was a free hotel, and Dean? He was just a ‘visitor.’ No tuition, no homework, all perks. Work smarter, not harder. He didn’t need a professor to teach him that.

Now he’s kicked back in a cheap white plastic lawn chair out on the dorm balcony, legs spread just wide enough to make himself look bigger—like he even needed help with that. His Led Zeppelin tee strains a little over his shoulders when he shifts, forearms flexing lazily as he takes the cigarette from his lips.

And you—standing there in the soft spill of yellow hallway light—are holding the lighter for him, thumb still pressed to the metal wheel. The flame flickers out as he leans back, smoke curling from his lips like a secret.

He smirks at you—cocky, effortless. That grin that says trouble and worth it all at once.

“You’re too kind,” he drawls, voice low, all rough edges softened by the nicotine rush. He gives you a look—slow, appreciative, a hint of mischief glinting in those green eyes.

The cold plastic creaks beneath him as he shifts again, legs brushing yours as he plants his boots firm on the railing. He taps ash off the cigarette, flicking it carelessly into the night air. Somewhere inside, Sam flips another page. Dean doesn’t even glance back.

Out here, he’s king—unbothered, untamed, and for a moment, all that freedom he loves so much is yours too, tangled in the lazy curl of smoke and the half-smile he aims right at you.