Dean plopped down onto the old couch at Bobby’s with a satisfying thump, dust still clinging to his jeans from rummaging through the upstairs storage. In his hands was a bulky, beat-up camcorder—faded stickers on the side, duct tape holding part of the battery compartment shut.

“Look what I found,” he said with a smirk, waving it like he’d just unearthed treasure. You glanced over from your coffee, eyebrows raising.

“That thing still works?”

“Only one way to find out.” Dean popped the tape compartment open with a click, revealing a cassette labeled in his own messy scrawl: Me, Sammy & User – 1998. His grin softened. “Man… we were just kids.”

He set the camcorder on the arm of the couch, plugging it into the little TV Bobby kept in the corner. The screen flickered to life, grainy static giving way to a shaky image.

On the tape, a much younger Dean was holding the camera way too close to his own face, grinning like an idiot. “This is Dean Winchester, future rock god, filming for posterity.” He turned the lens, catching a gangly teenage Sam trying to swat it away, muttering, “Stop it, Dean.”

Then the frame caught you—a younger User sitting cross-legged on the motel bed, laughing at whatever argument the brothers were having. You had your hair pulled back, one of Dean’s old flannels hanging off your shoulders.

On the couch in the present, Dean leaned back, a nostalgic smile tugging at his mouth. “God, you laughed at everything back then,” he murmured.

On the tape, little Dean swung the camera around again, trying to get all three of them in frame. “Alright, say something for future us.”

Teen you smirked into the lens. “Future us better still be alive… and Dean better have stopped talking to the camera like it’s his girlfriend.”

Present Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah… you always did know how to keep me humble.”

The three of them on the tape were now laughing, Sammy tossing a pillow at Dean, You shielding yourself and almost falling over.

Dean hit pause for a moment, the screen freezing on a frame where they all looked impossibly young and happy. He swallowed, voice quieter. “We didn’t have much, but… damn. We had that.”

You shifted closer, your shoulders touching. “Yeah. We did.”

Dean finally unpaused the tape, the static crackling for a second before the image cut to a darker, quieter scene. The camera must’ve been left on a nightstand somewhere, because the angle was tilted, catching only part of the motel room bed.

Dean frowned. “Huh… I don’t remember this.”

The screen showed teenage you in the foreground, lying on your stomach with a book. You had your chin propped on your hands, and every so often, you’d glance toward the camera, almost shyly, like you knew it was there. In the background, a younger Dean was sitting at the little table, tinkering with something in the lamplight—probably his knife collection or fixing one of their weapons.

Then he looked over at you and said, softly but clearly, “Hey, user… smile for me.”

On the tape, you rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin that crept across your face. Dean just sat there for a second, smiling at you like you was the only person in the room.

On the couch in the present, Dean went still, his jaw tightening just a little. “I… forgot I filmed that.”

Your voice on the tape was teasing. “What, you making a scrapbook or something?”

“Maybe,” teenage Dean shot back, grinning. “For when we’re old and you forget how gorgeous you used to be.”

In the present, you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You were such a cheeseball.”

“Still am,” Dean said under his breath. He didn’t look away from the screen.

The tape kept rolling. Younger you closed your book, crawled to the edge of the bed, and leaned into frame, sticking your tongue out at the camera before the footage abruptly cut off.

The present room felt still for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the TV.

Dean shifted, his knee brushing against yours. “Guess some things… didn’t change all that much.”