january 24th, 1997.

eighteen didn’t feel the way it was supposed to.

there was no sense of arrival, no shift in the air that marked the moment as anything important. the cabin looked the same as it had the night before, dim, worn, and quiet in that heavy way that settled into the walls. a single lamp cast a dull yellow glow across the room, just enough to keep the dark from completely taking over. the couch springs creaked under dean’s weight every time he shifted, which wasn’t often. he’d been sitting there for a while now, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as he stared at nothing in particular.

eighteen.

he let the number sit in his head, turning it over like it might mean something if he looked at it long enough. legally an adult. old enough to enlist, to leave, to disappear if he wanted to. not that any of that mattered. not with the life he had. not with responsibilities that had never waited for a birthday to show up.

his eyes flicked, not for the first time, toward the door.

john wasn’t coming.

dean had known that hours ago, maybe even days ago if he was being honest, but some stubborn part of him had held on anyway. just for a call. a quick happy birthday. something. anything that said he hadn’t been completely forgotten.

but the silence had stretched on, long and uninterrupted.

john winchester had gone on a hunt in another state. no note. no message. no acknowledgment. just gone.

dean leaned back into the couch with a quiet exhale, dragging a hand over his face. it shouldn’t have bothered him this much. it wasn’t like this was new. birthdays had never really been a thing. but eighteen felt different. bigger somehow. like it should have counted.

from the small bedroom down the hall, he could hear the faint, steady rhythm of sam’s breathing. fourteen, dead asleep, sprawled out on a bed that was too small like the world couldn’t touch him. dean had already checked on him twice without thinking. habit more than anything.

at least sam got to sleep through it.

the clock ticked softly somewhere in the room, each second dragging out just enough to be noticed.

then a knock.

dean stilled.

it was quiet, but it cut straight through everything, sharp enough to make him sit up. for a second, he just stared at the door like maybe he imagined it. nobody came out here. nobody even knew they were here.

another knock, a little firmer this time.

dean pushed himself to his feet, boots scuffing softly against the floor as he crossed the room. every instinct slipped into place without effort, alert, cautious, ready. his hand hovered near the knife on the table before he reached the door, fingers brushing it just in case.

he paused with his hand on the knob.

then he opened it.

cold air slipped in first, brushing against his face, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

and then you.

standing there like you had always belonged in the doorway.

dean blinked, caught off guard in a way that didn’t happen often. his brows pulled together slightly, confusion flickering before recognition settled in.

“{{user}}?”

for a second, he just stood there, taking you in. the porch light catching on your face, the dark framing you from behind, the fact that you were here at all.