Windom, Minnesota
January 24, 2000
The snow was still falling outside, soft and steady, when Adam Milligan turned ten.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room, tearing wrapping paper with quiet curiosity. His mom, Kate, watched from the couch with a warm smile, still in her scrubs from the hospital. She'd picked up an extra shift just to afford the stack of gifts beside him.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," she said, nudging a mug of cocoa toward him. "Double marshmallows."
"Thanks, Mom." He gave her a tired smile. Something felt off today, but he couldn't explain it. Like his brain was tuned to a wrong frequency.
Kate tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, stifling a yawn. "Sorry about the cake. Store-bought isn't the same as homemade."
"It's chocolate. That's all that matters," Adam replied, picking at the frosting with his finger. He'd seen the exhaustion in her eyes when she'd trudged through the door an hour late. Three back-to-back surgeries, one of which hadn't made it. She never said it outright, but Adam could always tell when she lost a patient—her eyes got this faraway look, like she was mentally retracing every step, searching for what she could have done differently.
The small TV in the corner played quietly, some sitcom with a laugh track that felt like it was mocking their modest celebration. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees, creating shadow puppets on the walls. Their little house at the edge of town always seemed to catch the worst of the winter storms.
"Can I open the big one?" Adam pointed to a rectangular package leaning against the wall.
Kate nodded, her smile brightening. "Save the best for last, right?"
Adam tore into the paper with newfound enthusiasm. A telescope. Nothing fancy—definitely secondhand—but it was perfect. He'd been obsessed with astronomy ever since his science teacher, Mr. Phelps, had done a lecture on the star.
"This is awesome!" He jumped up to hug his mom, nearly spilling his cocoa in the process.
"Careful there, rocket man." Kate laughed, steadying the mug. "Maybe when the storm clears, we can set it up. The field behind the house should be good for stargazing."
Most of the other gifts were standard—books, a winter jacket, some new sneakers—but two stood out.
The first was a hunting knife. Not a toy. Real steel, maybe too real for a ten-year-old. The blade had small, carved symbols near the hilt—odd swirls and straight lines that looked vaguely familiar, though Adam had no idea why.
"I found it at a pawn shop," Kate said, noticing his expression. "Looked...cool, I guess."
Adam turned it over in his hands. "Is this even legal to give to a kid?"
Kate snorted. "Probably not. But considering I've taught you how to suture a wound since you were seven, I figure you can handle a knife. Just don't tell anyone at school, or Child Services will be knocking." She winked, but there was something in her expression—a momentary shadow of worry.
"Why does it have these weird markings?" Adam traced the symbols with his fingertip.
Kate shrugged. "No idea. The shop owner said it was very old. Called it 'protective.' I just thought it looked unique." She paused, then added softly, "Maybe it reminded me of your father a little."
Adam's head snapped up. His mom never mentioned his father. It was an unspoken rule in their house—don't ask, don't tell. All he knew was that the man had been passing through town years ago, and that was it.
"Was he into..." Adam gestured to the knife, "...weird stuff?"
Kate laughed, but it sounded forced. "He was into a lot of things, honey. None of which matter now." She tousled his hair. "Come on, one more present."
The second unusual gift was a leather-bound journal. Worn but empty.
"I thought you could write in it. You're always daydreaming anyway."
Adam flipped through the blank pages. The paper was thick and had a yellowish tint, like it had aged before anything was even written on it. The smell of leather and something else—something earthy and old—filled his nostrils.
"It's cool. Thanks, Mom." He placed it carefully beside the knife, feeling strangely drawn to both objects.
"Well, that's officially the lamest reaction to a birthday gift ever," Kate teased, playfully throwing a crumpled piece of wrapping paper at him.
Adam grinned. "Sorry. I meant: OH MY GOD, MOM, A JOURNAL? NOW I CAN WRITE DOWN ALL MY DEEPEST, DARKEST SECRETS LIKE A TOTAL DORK!" He clutched the journal to his chest in mock ecstasy.
"Much better." Kate laughed, standing up with a stretch. "Alright, birthday boy, it's getting late. School tomorrow, storm or no storm."
"But it's my birthday," Adam whined, though he was already gathering his gifts.
"And tomorrow it won't be," Kate countered with the practiced ease of a parent who'd heard every excuse. "Besides, double marshmallows means double sugar crash."
As Adam placed his gifts on his desk later that night, he couldn't help but feel drawn to the knife and journal. He ran his fingers over the leather cover, wondering what he should write in it. His life wasn't exactly journal-worthy. School, home, repeat. The occasional fishing trip with Mr. Phelps and his son. Nothing like the adventures in the books he read.
That night, Adam couldn't sleep. The snowstorm thickened outside, and the house creaked under the wind. He turned the knife over in his hands, tracing the symbols. His breath slowed. The world around him dimmed—and then cracked.
It wasn't a sound. More like a shudder through his bones. And then the memories came.
Images. Feelings. Voices.
Dean yelling, "You don't have to do this!"
Sam bleeding, chanting Latin through clenched teeth.
A dark church, wings unfolding behind him.
Fire. Screaming. A cage.
"What the—" Adam gasped, dropping the knife. It clattered against the hardwood floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
More images flooded in:
A diner. His mom smiling across the table, her face suddenly melting, revealing something monstrous beneath.
A motel room, two men arguing while he sat forgotten on the bed.
"We're actually your brothers." The taller one—Sam—explaining with that puppydog look in his eyes.
"Yeah, well, you're still a prick." His own voice, bitter and angry, talking to... Dean?
The blinding light of an archangel, filling him, burning away his consciousness.
Centuries of torment in the Cage while his so-called brothers lived their lives above.
Adam shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded as scenes from a life he hadn't lived tore through his mind. But he had lived them—just not here. Not in this world.
Supernatural. A TV show. A fiction. Except now it wasn't.
He remembered everything.
John Winchester. His father. A name his mom never spoke.
Dean and Sam—his brothers.
The ghouls. His death. His mother's death. The Cage. Michael.
"This is insane," Adam whispered to the empty room. "I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming."
But the knife on the floor was too real. The symbols that had seemed foreign just hours ago now made perfect sense—Enochian sigils for protection and warding.
Adam's hands trembled as he picked up the blade. How could he know that? How could he suddenly understand a language that wasn't even real?
Except it was real. All of it.
He scrambled for the journal, nearly knocking over his new telescope in the process. Flipping open to the first blank page, he hesitated. If he wrote it down, that made it real. But if he didn't...
"I'm either going crazy or I've been given a second chance," he muttered, grabbing a pen from his desk. "And if it's the second one, I'm not wasting it."
Adam stumbled out of bed, grabbed the journal, and began to write. He filled page after page with everything he could remember—dates, names, lore, warnings. His handwriting shook, but he didn't stop.
May 2006 - Ghouls attack Mom and me. Tom and Steve Benson. Revenge against John Winchester. They eat us alive.
Adam paused, the horror of writing his own death making him nauseous. This was completely nuts. And yet...
He continued writing.
2007 - Sam dies, Dean makes demon deal
2008 - Dean goes to Hell
2009 - Angels vs. Demons. Lucifer rises.
2010 - Michael and Lucifer need vessels. I say YES to Michael. We fall into the Cage.
The pen trembled in his hand. Years of torture compressed into a single line on the page. The memories weren't fully formed—more like highlights from the world's worst highlight reel—but they were enough. More than enough.
Outside, a branch snapped against his window, making him jump. The storm was getting worse. Adam looked at the digital clock on his nightstand: 3:17 AM. He'd been writing for hours.
"This is ridiculous," he said, but he kept writing.
He sketched devil's traps, angel banishing sigils, and protection symbols. He listed the ways to kill vampires, werewolves, djinn, and dozens of other monsters he shouldn't know existed. He wrote down the names of powerful demons: Azazel, Lilith, Alastair, Crowley.
Angels: Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, Gabriel, Castiel.
When he finally stopped, his hand was cramping and dawn was breaking through the clouds. The storm had passed, leaving a pristine blanket of white over everything outside. The world looked innocent, untouched—a stark contrast to the horror story filling the pages of his journal.
Adam closed the book and rubbed his eyes. What was he supposed to do with this information?
Tell his mom?
"Hey, Mom, guess what? Dad's a hunter who fights monsters, and in a few years, we're both going to be eaten alive by ghouls! Oh, and I have two half-brothers you never told me about!"
Yeah, that would go over well. Straight to therapy, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
He could try to contact John Winchester, but what would he say?
"Hi, Dad, it's your forgotten son from Minnesota. Just wanted to let you know I've had visions of the apocalypse. By the way, your parenting skills suck across multiple realities."
Adam flopped back onto his bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. They'd lost most of their glow years ago, but he could still make out the constellations he'd arranged with his mom's help.
"Think, Milligan," he muttered to himself. "If this is real—if any of this is real—you've got a ticking clock."
Six years until the ghouls. Ten until the Cage. Ten years to prepare for an apocalypse that he wasn't even sure was coming.
He glanced at the knife on his desk. The symbols seemed to shimmer in the early morning light. A gift from a pawn shop, his mom had said. But what were the odds? What were the odds that on his tenth birthday, he'd receive a knife with Enochian symbols and a journal perfect for recording supernatural lore?
It couldn't be coincidence. Someone—or something—wanted him to know. Wanted him to be ready.
Adam sat up, a new determination settling over him. He didn't know if he'd been reborn, dropped into an alternate reality, or if he was just having the most elaborate psychotic break in history. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he remembered, and that gave him a chance.
No one was going to save him.
So he'd save himself.
And maybe, if he was smart enough—strong enough—he'd save them all.
Adam Milligan, the forgotten Winchester, picked up the journal again. On a fresh page, he wrote in careful, deliberate letters:
Plan A: Survive.
Below it, he added:
Step 1: Learn everything.
It wasn't much of a plan. But it was a start.