Title: Dean's Diaries 'Hunting' Journals
Words: 590 words
Warnings: Just references Season One
Author's Notes: Based on a idea from a reply by Relativity1953 (I'll give you credit for the idea, unless the story sucks, then I'll take all the blame.) Also, I've got some other entries written out, but it might take me a little while to work them into a story.
Dean's Diaries cough 'Hunting' Journals
In all the ways Sam and Dean are different, there are as many ways they are the same. Just like Sam, there are some things Dean just had to keep to himself. Like the time he went to Tijuana and drank all that tequila and jumped over that one fence into that . . . well, you get the picture.
Dean had some 'hunting' journals he kept hidden away in the trunk of his precious Impala, right next to his precious revolver and his precious rock salt. These 'hunting' journals held his 'thoughts' on various creatures and supernatural stuff they had encountered over the years. At least that's what he told Sam that time he made the mistake of pulling the journals out to show his brother a picture from their past.
The truth? They held his thoughts and feelings. The whole truth? If any doctor found them, Dean might find himself with a one-way ticket to crazy town and a brand-new white jacket. And those just get dirty so fast.
Of course he probably deserves what's coming to him. He made another mistake when he pulled out those journals: He told Sam not to look at them.
It was 3:45 in the morning, and Sam Winchester was on a mission. It would probably get him killed, but he didn't care. He was going to read Dean Winchester's journals.
Using the years of training drilled into him by his father, Sam moved stealthily out of their cheesy hotel room. No, seriously, they were in the Swiss Cheese Capitol of the United States: Monroe, Wisconsin. The hotel was an homage to cheese and all products having to do with cheese. There were freaking cows on the door handles —that mooed. It didn't matter; however, because he doused Dean's dinner with crushed up sleeping pills. And no, he didn't feel bad about it . . . yet.
He eased the door closed behind him and moved out to the car. Turning the key in the lock, he opened the trunk where the forbidden books lay waiting for him. He pushed the revolver and rock salt out of the way and lifted the flap that hid the journals from sight. Glancing over the covers he noticed they had dates written on them. 'That's so girly,' he thought. Although, he also knew, he would do it, too.
Sifting through the books, he found the earliest journal. The first page held only one sentence:
Sam left today.
The simple sentence, in shaky handwriting that hardly seemed like his brother's, held so much inside its twelve letters.
Turning the page, he began reading. It was dated a couple of days later.
Dad acts like he isn't even here, but I think it's just his way of dealing with stuff. I'm sure he'll blow up eventually.
At least there aren't any more fights over who gets shotgun.
The entries were short and sweet.
After a few pages, Sam realizes that none of the entries mention his name. He is just 'he'. He guesses it must mean something, but he is too tired to analyze it. He flips to the last page of the journal in his hands.
It holds only one sentence:
I got Sam back today.
Somehow, Dean managed to put two some odd years of his life into one journal, and yet the past year took three. Not wanting to make his brother suspicious, Sam put the trunk back like he had found it and went back inside the hotel room. The rest of journals would have to wait for another night.