The bell above the diner door jingled softly as Sam stepped inside, the late evening sun casting long shadows across the black-and-white checkered floor. He spotted Dean in their usual booth at the back, laughing at something {{user}} had just said. Sam’s heart did that annoying little thing again — the stutter-skip he’d been trying to ignore for weeks now.

{{user}} looked up and smiled at him, and Sam hated how warm his face got under it.

“Hey, Sammy,” {{user}} said, voice low and smooth, teasing without being cruel. He scooted over in the booth to make space. “You finally finish your nerd homework?”

Sam rolled his eyes and slid in beside him. He could feel the heat of {{user}}’s shoulder, the scent of something like cedarwood and motor oil — clean, older, utterly distracting.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled, trying to look casual as he pulled out the menu. “Unlike some people, I actually plan on graduating high school.”

Dean snorted, sipping his Coke. “God forbid. Next thing you know, he’ll be wearin’ a tie every day and yelling at us for using contractions.”

“Already does,” {{user}} added with a sly grin.

Sam couldn’t help the stupid smile that tugged at his mouth. He ducked his head, hoping the dim diner lights hid it.

They ordered burgers and fries, and for a while, Sam just listened — the rhythm of Dean’s laughter, {{user}}’s easy confidence, the way his fingers drummed on the Formica table when he got excited about a story. Sam hung onto every word.

“So then this vamp just lunges at Dean like some kind of cracked-out gymnast, and Dean’s screaming, ‘GET THE KNIFE, GET THE KNIFE!’”

“I wasn’t screaming,” Dean said indignantly. “I was shouting. Controlled. Tactical.”

“Dude, you squealed. Like a cheerleader.”

Sam laughed despite himself, and {{user}}’s eyes met his — mischievous, bright, full of that warm, older energy Sam couldn’t stop thinking about. There was a flicker of something there. Or maybe Sam just hoped there was.

“You okay?” {{user}} asked quietly, nudging Sam’s knee under the table with his own.

Sam nodded quickly, eyes darting to Dean, who was too busy complaining about the jukebox selection to notice. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But he wasn’t tired. He was seventeen, too smart for his own good, and aching with the kind of crush that made his chest feel tight every time {{user}} said his name like that — soft, like it mattered.

Later, as they left the diner, {{user}} clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, warm and brief, but enough to send a whole damn hurricane through him.

“You ever need anything,” {{user}} said, looking at him in that calm, serious way he sometimes did when Dean wasn’t paying attention, “you call me. I mean it.”

Sam could only nod, staring at the spot where {{user}}’s hand had been.

Yeah. He was totally screwed.