The Martins’ house pulsed with music, lights flashing over a crush of high-schoolers. Dean Winchester moved through it like he owned the place—everyone greeting him, shoving drinks at him, laughing at his jokes. He kept the grin on, kept the act going.

He wasn’t here for fun. Not with Lindsey on his arm these days, and not with the knot in his chest that tightened every time he thought about the one person he shouldn’t.

And then he saw {{user}}.

{{user}} was leaning against the kitchen doorway, his cheeks were flushed; his smile unfocused.

Dean felt his stomach drop.

He shouldn’t go over there.

He was already pushing through the crowd.

“{{user}}? Dude, you good?”

{{user}}’s head lifted, and his whole face lit up. “Deeean Winchester,” he said, like it was his favorite name. “You came! Thought your girlfriend killed your social life.”

Dean winced at girlfriend. “Lindsey’s just tired. Cheer stuff tomorrow.”

{{user}} nodded with exaggerated seriousness, then leaned too close, eyes narrowing. “You smell like mint. Like… fancy mint.”

Dean snorted. “Alright, how much have you had?”

{{user}} held up fingers in a sequence that made no sense at all. “Enough.”

Dean shook his head. “Let’s get you some water.”

But {{user}} didn’t move. His expression softened in a way that made Dean’s pulse jump. “You’re nice,” he said, voice suddenly warm and unguarded. “Everybody thinks you’re just the cool guy. But you’re… actually really kind.”

Dean’s breath caught. He stepped back, too quickly. “You’re drunk, man. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” {{user}} blinked slowly. “And it sucks that your girlfriend never looks at you the way you look at—”

“Don’t.” Dean’s voice came out sharp.

{{user}}’s confusion was immediate and painful. “Dean…?”

Dean exhaled hard. The room was too hot, too loud, too full of {{user}}. “Come on. Air.”

{{user}} followed him to the back porch, stumbling a little. The cold hit them instantly, {{user}} shivering in his thin hoodie. Without thinking, Dean shrugged off his jacket and draped it over him. {{user}} looked down at it like he’d been handed something sacred.

“Why are you doing this?” {{user}} whispered. “You act like you don’t… like me. But you do.”

Dean froze.

Before he could answer, a voice cut in from inside.

“Dean?” Lindsey called, bright and impatient. “Where’d you go? I wanna leave!”

Dean felt {{user}} shrink beside him. His heart twisted.

“{{user}}’s wasted,” Dean called back, not meeting {{user}}’s eyes. “Just making sure he doesn’t eat concrete.”

“Okay! Hurry!” Lindsey disappeared.

The porch went quiet except for the muffled bass from indoors.

{{user}}’s voice was small when he finally spoke. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Dean swallowed hard. The truth clawed at him, desperate to get out.

“Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I do.”

{{user}} looked away, shoulders hunching under Dean’s jacket.

And Dean wished—more than anything—that {{user}} would argue.