Dean turns eleven today. I left him and Sammy in Naples, Florida, at the request of a couple I befriended and sometimes do cases with—Louis, and his wife, Estee Delacour. Louis and I will be doing a hunt out-of-town while Estee takes their daughter and the boys to celebrate at the local beach.

When I get back, I'll take Dean out to do something with just us boys.

Dean asked for his own gun, and I got him one. A Seecamp LWS .32 automatic, the smallest gun I could find that offered any kind of stopping power. Dean and I poured silver slugs for it ourselves, and we loaded it with alternating silver and Winchester hollow-points. He's got it in his pocket now.

John Winchester's Journal

Barefoot Beach, Naples, Florida

January 24th, 1990

Three children, a pair of boys and a girl, run across the shoreline, with ocean waves rising and falling in the backdrop.

Sam Winchester, the youngest of the three, a boy that is roughly seven years old with short, shaggy brown hair and green eyes full of vitality, rushes around smiling as his feet kick up seashells and sand hits against his green and black tartan swim trunks. He takes off his sandals and sits near the water.

In the distance, his older brother, Dean, and Rosalie, a girl the brothers had been good friends with over the years, sit across from each other in the sand. Sam smiles as he sees them build a sandcastle.

"I'm not sure, Dean," Rosalie stops mid-sentence to smile at the sandy structure in between them: a miniature sand reproduction of the Winchesters Chevy Impala. "This is becoming more like your father's car and not a sandcastle."

"Hell yeah, it does!" Dean stands up and spreads his arms wide. He's grinning ear to ear. "And Dad promised when I'm older Baby will be my car."

"Baby?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, that's her name."

"If you say so, Dean."

He sits back down.

Rosalie turns to face Sam, who is lying in the sand with the ocean splashing across his legs. On cue, a wave rises and crashes onto him, throwing the small child backwards and soaking him thoroughly. Dean turns just in time to see it and bursts out laughing, his first real laugh in months.

Rosalie joins in the laughter, moving a long strand of hair away from her face.

Sam rolls over and dashes over to the duo, a flip flop in each hand and water falling from his hair. "Dean, Rosie! The water is so cold!" He tells them all through his teeth chattering.

"Ma said it would be." Rosalie answers back.

Rosalie's mother, Estee, is setting up lunch on a nearby picnic table in the background, wearing a floral-print sundress and flip flops. Her beautiful red hair is pulled back into a low ponytail and fastened in place by a white ribbon. "Alright, children, lunch is ready!" She calls out to the three children.

Dean rises and extends a hand, assisting Rosalie to her feet before wiping the sand from the back of her own sundress. The younger Delacour looks a lot like her mother up close.

"Thank you, Dean," Rosalie says with a blush on her cheeks as she grins at the blond kid. "I assisted with lunch. Instead of a birthday cake, there will be homemade fried chicken, potato salad, lemonade, and my mother's homemade cinnamon roll apple pie."

Dean's face lights up when fried chicken and pie are mentioned. Particularly pie. "How about we have a race to decide who gets dibs on the chicken?"

"I'm game." Rosalie nods once. She never shied away from a challenge, even if it came from her best friend. "Just so you know, that last chicken breast is all mine."

Dean laughs. "Well, alright then! On the count of three we go."

"..One."

"...Two."

"...Three!" They yell out simultaneously before taking off across the sands, the sounds of laughter and their shadows trailing behind them.