You’d known Dean Winchester since the fourth grade, when his family moved into the house next door. You’d been the one to march up with a plate of snickerdoodles, grinning ear to ear while he stood there like you’d handed him a live grenade.

Back then, you thought he was just shy. You waved at him every morning, saved him a seat at lunch, passed him notes in class with silly doodles in the margins. He never gave much back, but you didn’t need him to — just seeing him crack the occasional smile felt like winning.

As the years rolled on, you baked for him every other week. Muffins, cookies, little tarts your grandma taught you to make. He’d take them at the door, mutter a gruff “thanks,” and vanish inside. You used to imagine his family sitting together around them, and it made you warm all over.

Then came the lemon bars. You’d spent hours on them, staying up too late and burning your fingertips on the pan because you wanted them just right. And for the first time, you didn’t walk away right after you gave them to him — you lingered at the edge of their porch, pretending to tie your shoelace.

You saw him walk out moments later with the same plate, now dumped into a black trash bag full of food scraps. Heard his dad’s voice from inside the house:

“Don’t eat that. Could be poisoned. Hunters don’t take gifts.”

Dean froze when he saw you. Like a deer in headlights. You didn’t say a word, didn’t cry. You just turned and walked away.

Since then, things changed. Your bright “hi”s died on your tongue, and you stopped leaving anything on their porch. You stopped looking at him at all.