The thing about Dean Winchester was that he had this gravity to him. The kind that pulled people in whether he meant to or not.

Girls, teachers, even the principal—everyone seemed to like Dean despite the problems he caused. He was loud, charming, always laughing at something, the kind of boy who could crash a car and still have the cop smiling at him by the end of it. He could talk his way out of detention faster than {{user}} could finish a math equation—and {{user}} had finished a lot of equations.

{{user}} wasn’t supposed to get attached. It started as tutoring, just a few afternoons a week in the library— fluorescent lights humming overhead. Dean needed help passing algebra, and {{user}} needed the extra credit. Simple. Efficient. Unemotional.

The first time Dean smiled at him—really smiled, not that cocky grin he gave everyone else but something softer, smaller, like he’d forgotten to put his armor on—{{user}}’s heart had stumbled over itself. Then came the jokes, the teasing, the way Dean leaned a little too close when checking his work, his breath warm against {{user}}’s ear as he asked, “So, what’s x again?” {{user}} told himself it didn’t mean anything. Dean flirted with everyone. That was just who he was.

But sometimes, when the world got quiet, {{user}} caught glimpses of something that didn’t fit the image. Like the night Dean drove him home after tutoring and waited in the car until {{user}} had unlocked the front door, headlights casting long shadows on the porch. Or the morning he showed up before class with a bottle of chocolate milk—{{user}}’s favorite—tossing it over with a casual, “Thought you might need it.” Dean just scratched the back of his neck like it was no big deal.

And then there were the looks. Those half-seconds where Dean’s gaze lingered a little too long, where his smirk faltered into something unreadable.

Yet every time Dean turned around and laughed with some girl by the lockers, {{user}} felt something twist inside him—jealousy, maybe. Or just the cruel reminder that Dean could have anyone he wanted. And he wasn’t anyone. He was just {{user}}: quiet, awkward, the kid teachers trusted to collect homework.

So he told himself to stop feeling things. To stop hoping. He started skipping the long sessions after school, making excuses about homework and family dinners that didn’t exist. He stopped waiting by Dean’s locker in the mornings. Stopped glancing over his shoulder in the cafeteria. Tried to let the distance grow, inch by inch, until maybe Dean wouldn’t notice he was missing.

But Dean noticed.

Because suddenly, he was showing up again—leaning against {{user}’s} desk before class, tapping his pencil on {{user}}’s notebook just to get his attention. ”You’ve been avoiding me, genius,” he said once, with a half-grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. {{user}} had shrugged, pretending to be absorbed in his notes, but his throat felt tight. “Just busy.”

Dean’s reply was almost too quiet. “Yeah? Thought maybe I pissed you off or something.” {{user}} didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because the truth was—he didn’t know what they were. He didn’t know if those long looks meant anything or if he was just another orbit caught in Dean Winchester’s pull. He didn’t know if Dean was being kind, or careless. And that not knowing—it was slowly eating him alive.

{{user}} lay awake some nights thinking about the curve of Dean’s smile, the smell of motor oil and mint gum that clung to his jacket, the sound of his laugh echoing through empty hallways. He told himself it was stupid, that crushes like this only hurt people like him. People who always wanted what they couldn’t have.

Still, when he saw Dean across the courtyard, laughing with his friends, {{user}} couldn’t stop his heart from stuttering. Couldn’t stop wondering if Dean ever thought about him at all. Maybe he did.

Because lately, Dean’s laughter sounded a little forced. His glances lingered a little longer. And when their eyes met across the crowded hallway, there was something raw there—something {{user}} couldn’t name.