It was whatever.
They were staying at Uncle Bobby's because his dad had anticipated the hunt taking more than a few days. Bobby had been called away to assist a fellow hunter earlier in the day, promising that he'd try his best to make it back by tomorrow, and he was usually pretty good on his word. But Dean wasn't naive enough to hold his breath waiting for him to get back; he knew first hand how hunts almost never followed a set schedule.
Dean understood.
Sam was mad at their dad. The 7 year old had the attitude of a teenager. He didn't know what their dad actually did, so Dean couldn't really blame him. Sam just thought Dad liked to drop them off at Bobby's sometimes because he "sold stuff," an explanation that neither satiated nor placated his quest for more information about what Dad did. So by default, Sam was now mad at Dean, or at the very least frustrated, and had avoided him all night. It wasn't Sam's fault. He was just a kid and Dean knew Sam would try to make it up to him as much as he could tomorrow.
But still.
It's not like Dean expected his dad to be there, anyway. He was busy hunting whatever was terrorizing Windom, Minnesota. He'd mentioned over the phone a few days ago about something desecrating graves, so his dad's guess was that it was ghouls or something similar. He'd be probably be back some time next week.
That was more important, of course. Dean understood. Saving people by hunting down the things that went bump in the night. That had priority.
So why did he feel so bitter?
He glanced up to the clock in Bobby's living room. Sam was asleep in the makeshift bedroom upstairs. The time read 11:59. Dean picked up his silver lighter that he'd laid next to him on the couch, flicking it open and staring as the flame flickered before him.
The clock ticked another minute. It was 12am, January 24, 1990.
"Happy birthday, Dean," the 11 year old said to himself before blowing out the light.
