Dean was sprawled across {{user}}’s bed like he owned the place, one leg hanging off the side, the other crooked at the knee. The threadbare quilt beneath him was warm from where they’d both been lying for the better part of an hour, the fabric reeking of weed, old cologne, and something distinctly them.

He had a joint balanced between two fingers, the cherry burning slow and steady, casting tiny flares of red across the underside of his jaw every time he took a drag. The smoke curled lazily around his face like it belonged there—like it was an extension of him. And maybe it was. He looked good like this: mussed up, shirt riding high over his hipbones, lips pink and parted, eyes half-lidded and soft in the glow bleeding through the half-closed blinds.

Beside him, {{user}} lay on his back, hair crushed into the pillow, a lazy sprawl of long limbs and quiet energy. His T-shirt had ridden up slightly, baring a stripe of stomach that kept catching Dean’s eye, no matter how many times he looked away. That skin looked soft. Touchable. Dangerous.

It wasn’t like Dean needed the high—not really. He liked the buzz, sure, but what he liked more was this. The silence. The low murmur of some half-forgotten song playing from a shitty speaker. The weight of {{user}} lying next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean tilted his head, watching him with a soft kind of curiosity. The joint was now tucked between {{user}}’s lips, smoke trickling from the corner of his mouth as he exhaled without looking at Dean. That made something tighten in Dean’s chest.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, voice gone husky and low, like the air in the room had thickened. He grinned, lazy and a little crooked. “You’re hogging it.”

He reached over and poked {{user}} in the ribs—not hard, just enough to make him twitch—then swiped the joint with fingers that brushed knuckles on purpose. Their skin met, lingered, parted. Dean took a drag, slow and deliberate, letting the ember burn down to the curve of his smirk.

His gaze drifted again, this time to {{user}}’s hips, his jeans. The waistband had dipped just enough to give Dean a look he probably wasn’t supposed to be having, not here, not now—but that never stopped him. He let his hand slide, unthinking, to rest against the edge of the denim. His fingers curled there.

Something stitched into the fly shield caught his attention: Lucky you.

Dean’s breath hitched before he laughed, low and rough. “You serious?” he muttered, thumb brushing the text. “That’s real subtle, man.”

He didn’t really mean to start unzipping the jeans. Not consciously. His fingers just moved, slow and curious, like the zipper had asked him a question and he wanted to hear the answer.

The room was warm. His pulse was louder than the music. And {{user}} wasn’t stopping him.

Not yet.