Being secretive around Dean was hard. Almost impossible, really. Dean had a way of watching him—half-brother, half-guardian, full-time hawk. Sam never knew if Dean picked up on things or if he just pretended not to notice, but either way, it made sneaking around feel like walking a tightrope.

And Sam was sneaking. Not to party, not to skip school—he was sneaking to see {{user}}. {{user}}, the boy from his class. A year younger, technically, but just as sharp, just as restless. {{user}} with the crooked grin, the boy who laughed at Sam’s sarcastic comments instead of rolling his eyes. The boy who, when they sat too close, made Sam’s heart stumble in his chest like it wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be doing.

Sam didn’t know how to tell Dean about that—about {{user}}. He didn’t even know if he should. What would Dean say? Maybe he’d shrug it off, make some dumb joke about puppy love. Or maybe he’d lecture Sam, tell him he was too young, that sixteen wasn’t the age for making choices that mattered. Or maybe—maybe worse—he’d call it a phase. Something Sam would “grow out of.” The thought of that made Sam’s chest tighten.

So Sam kept it to himself. He told Dean he was doing homework, going over to a study group. Technically not a lie. {{user}} was in his class; they did study sometimes. But mostly Sam ended up at {{user}}’s kitchen table, where {{user}}’s mom served dinner like it was nothing, like they weren’t two awkward teenage boys who couldn’t stop glancing at each other when their knees brushed under the table.

{{user}}’s mom was kind in the effortless way Sam’s own mom might’ve been, if things had been different. She made real food—not greasy diner burgers or whatever came out of the trunk cooler when Dad was on the road. Steamed vegetables with butter and salt, fresh bread that smelled like comfort itself, roasted chicken that fell apart under Sam’s fork. He pretended it was no big deal, but the truth was he savored every bite. He especially loved the steamed vegetables—simple, warm, a softness he didn’t even realize he’d been craving until {{user}}’s mom set them down in front of him.

Dinner always stretched out, warm and quiet, {{user}}’s mom asking him about school, about books, about whether he wanted more food (always yes). And afterward, Sam and {{user}} would retreat to his room. They’d sit cross-legged on the bed with notebooks open between them, pretending to solve equations while their shoulders leaned closer and closer together.

Sam thought about telling Dean sometimes. About saying {{user}}’s name out loud in that way. But then he’d picture Dean’s frown, or worse, his laugh. And the words would stick in his throat. So for now, {{user}} was his secret—his soft, quiet escape, wrapped up in the smell of bread baking and the sound of laughter muffled behind a closed bedroom door.