The Word: Tentatively
Sam had the opportunity to crash at a lot of his friends' houses, but there was only one where he ever took up the offer. His best friend, Dean, had no problem with him spending the night whenever he wanted (which was becoming quite often). It was far more comfortable to hunker down on the spare, rock-hard futon than be in his own bed listening to his parents yell downstairs.
Dean only had a vague idea of Sam's home situation. He knew it wasn't ideal, but his friend wasn't exactly forthcoming with details. All he could really do was offer a place for him to stay whenever he wanted to get away. It's not like it was any trouble, really. Who wouldn't want to hang out with his friend, eat funyuns, and play video games all night? And if he started coming over more and more often, Dean pretended not to notice.
It had gotten to be routine. Sam wouldn't even knock when he got there. He could just waltz on in, call a greeting to the parents, and head up to the game room. Fancy people would probably call it a den, but Dean's family wasn't exactly fancy. That was where Dean usually played video games, so it was eventually deemed the game room. It consisted of a TV, whatever gaming consoles Dean had collected, a ratty couch, a rattier futon, Dean, and Sam. The only time they left it's comfortable clutter was for the bathroom or more food.
Dean fell asleep on the couch sometime toward the end of watching Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. The ending was one of Sam's favorite parts, but he found himself distracted by the sleeping boy laying just a few feet away, within reaching distance. But then, eighteen wasn't exactly a boy.
Singers and writers always wax poetic about people looking angelic when they sleep. Dean was far from that. His mouth was slightly open, snores drowning out half of the movie dialogue. Hair, badly in need of a trim, stuck out at wild angles. And his positioning—the way he had somehow contorted himself could give chiropractors nightmares. He hadn't shaved, of course, and at some point he had spilled Pepsi on his wrinkled t-shirt. Sam didn't care. He was transfixed.
His hand reached out tentatively, seemingly of its own volition. It inched closer and closer toward his sleeping friend's hair, his face, his cheek.
His lips.
A particularly loud snore half woke the teen, making him shift halfheartedly before going limp once again. Sam's hand shot back so fast he nearly hit himself. He sat bolt upright on the futon, hands in his lap, eyes fixed blindly on the TV. At some point the credits had started to roll.
He would never tell Dean the real reason he stayed over.
