The dim light from the motel lamp flickered softly over the scattered papers on the table. Dean Winchester leaned back in his chair, pretending to focus on the lore in front of him, though his mind was miles away. Sam had taken off for a food run, leaving him and {{user}} to sift through books and notes about the latest hunt.

But Dean couldn’t concentrate, not with {{user}} sitting across from him, their quiet presence making him feel more distracted than the case ever could. Every so often, he'd catch their eye as they flipped through pages or scribbled down a note, and damn if it didn’t hit him like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t fear exactly—he wasn’t afraid of how he felt about them. Hell, he could face down a demon without blinking, but this? This was different.

It was like being a teenager again, all tongue-tied and ridiculous. The way {{user}} laughed under their breath at some random comment, or how their fingers absentmindedly twirled the pen—they didn’t even know the effect they had on him. Dean found himself smirking, shaking his head at how pathetically soft he was getting.

He shifted in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, trying to focus on the pages in front of him. But instead of research, all he could think about was how close they were, just him and {{user}}, alone with nothing but the hum of the overhead lights and his stupid, teenage-crush feelings.

"Sam’s really taking his sweet time, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anything, but he knew he was just stalling for time—trying to keep his cool.