Dean was sprawled out on {{user}}’s bed, his body draped across the faded quilt as if he had no place to be and no one to please. He held a joint between his fingers, the red ember pulsing rhythmically every time he took a lazy drag, breathing in that familiar, hazy warmth. Smoking was practically second nature to him now; with {{user}}, it felt as easy as breathing.

Beside him, {{user}} stretched out, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other casually resting against the pillow. His shirt had ridden up a little, exposing a strip of skin that caught Dean’s eye more than he’d care to admit.

School sucked—that was a given—but somehow, hanging out with {{user}} made everything feel a little easier. It wasn’t just about the high, though that helped; it was {{user}} himself, the way he knew exactly when to talk and when to let Dean be. They had an understanding, a rhythm, as though Dean had found a small refuge on the mattress where they shared lazy afternoons and shared secrets wrapped in smoke.

“Hey,” he mumbled, his voice low and soft, almost swallowed by the room’s quiet. He noticed the joint now rested between {{user}}’s lips, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched him exhale a thin ribbon of smoke. “You’re hogging it all.”

Dean nudged him playfully in the ribs, stealing the joint back with a grin that was equal parts cheeky and fond. It wasn’t that he minded sharing—hell, that was half the fun. Something about their lips touching the same joint, trading lingering warmth, made his stomach twist in that way he wasn’t sure he wanted to analyze too closely.

His gaze trailed down again, this time stopping at {{user}}’s jeans. His hand, slid down almost unconsciously to rest at the waistband, his fingers brushing over the worn fabric. He noticed, for the first time, the little stitched words on {{user}}’s fly shield: Lucky you. The words winked at him, taunting.

“Nice jeans,” he drawled, voice a touch lower, the words a little slurred, not even realizing he was unzipping the jeans.