The butcher shop smelled of iron and salt, raw meat piled high behind the glass. Sam leaned his elbows against the counter, waiting for {{user}} to finish wrapping a paper bundle of pork chops for an older customer. His old friend still looked the same—that lazy half-grin, the way he carried himself like nothing in the world could make him tense.

The bell on the door jingled closed, leaving the shop quiet except for the hum of the cooler. {{user}} leaned on the counter, tossing the twine spool from hand to hand.

“So,” Sam said, voice low. “How long were you gonna hide it from me?”

{{user}} smirked, raising a brow. “Hide what? That I give the best cuts in town? Not really a secret, man.”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t do that. I saw you. The eyes. The shift. You’re a werewolf.”

The word landed heavy in the stale air, but {{user}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just shrugged, turning to tear a strip of jerky from a bag on the counter. His teeth sank into it with an audible rip, and he chewed like Sam had just told him the sky was blue.

“Yeah. And?” {{user}} mumbled around the bite. “I’m not out there ripping joggers apart under the moonlight. I eat beef, pork, lamb—stuff I already cut up for a living. Easier that way.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, a dozen hunts flashing through his mind—blood, screams, things with teeth that didn’t stop. “You should’ve told me. I’ve known you since we were seventeen. Hell, I trusted you.”

“You still can.” {{user}} tossed the jerky wrapper aside, finally meeting Sam’s gaze with those unmistakable wolf-gold eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light. “I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t think it mattered. I’m not dangerous. Not unless someone makes me be.”

Sam’s hand twitched near the pocket where he kept a silver knife, but {{user}} caught the movement and just laughed.

“Relax, Winchester. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t waste time playing butcher. You think I care if you know? I don’t. Never did. You’re still the same guy I ditched class with, and I’m still me. Only difference is now you know I get a little hairy once a month.”

The silence stretched. Sam’s hunter instincts screamed one thing, but his gut—the part that remembered bonfires, cheap beer, and {{user}}’s reckless grin—said another.