Jack looks at you with that same innocent curiosity he always wears when he doesn’t understand something human. “You make my chest feel strange,” he says softly, his brow furrowing. You smile, half-expecting another one of his endearing misunderstandings, but he’s serious. He takes a tentative step forward, eyes searching your face for answers he can’t seem to find in books or from Sam or Castiel. “Here,” he murmurs, reaching out and gently taking your hand in both of his. His skin is warm and trembling slightly. Carefully, he places your palm flat against his chest.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It pounds against your hand, fast and wild, like it’s trying to speak for him. You glance up, startled, but Jack’s eyes are still on you, wide and confused. “It does this when you’re near,” he whispers. “Is it supposed to do that?”

Your breath catches. You could lie, tease him, make a joke to ease the tension, but there’s something fragile in the moment, something new and blooming. “No,” you say honestly. “Not supposed to. But sometimes… it just does.”

Jack stares at you, lips parted. “Is it bad?”

You shake your head, letting your fingers curl just slightly against his shirt, against the frantic beat of something he doesn’t yet have a name for. “No, Jack. It’s not bad.”

And for the first time, he smiles like he’s beginning to understand. “What does it mean?”