It's been long forty years.
Dean never thought he'd make it this far. Half the hunters don't. Let alone one so knee-deep in big guns' shit as him.
But somehow there he is. Alive.
A forty-year-old man's body.
A soul twice as old.
He grumbles when teens call him an old man. They don't know. They couldn't. They only see the wrinkles around his eyes, the glints of gray beginning to sprinkle his temples. They've no idea how close they are.
And how far.
Sometimes, he'd wish he was so much older. Put as much distance between that and him as he could before the lights go out.
But he's here now. Forty to forty. A half to a half. Now he knows. It's a damn long time.
He pours whiskey to a glass as the clock strikes twelve. The sound strikes a cord it hasn't in a decade. He forces down the feeling, the nagging memory. It doesn't matter. Not today.
Today he balances it out. A memory for a memory. A year for a year. A breath for a cry. Like those forty years were a debt he had to pay to himself.
He raises the glass in the quiet of his bedroom, sips the drink slowly, savoring each drop as it falls on his tongue. There's no rush. A lazy smile plays on his lips.
"Happy Birthday."