Dean slunk to his room. This had been a disaster, this day, this mission, or whatever it could be called.
Catastrophe would be more like it, he thought. They had managed to get only one fallen angel back to the bunker, a minor player named Caleb, who warily, though voluntarily came with them after a group he was…wandering with scattered, attacked the trio of himself, a bandaged Sam and a de-powered Castiel, calling him an abomination (to wit the former angel was now in a funk, and with Dean needing to not deal with this right now, left the welcoming committee duties to Sam) and requiring Dean to manage a shot with the newly acquired angel gun ("Patent pending" intoned Crowely, or rather Fergus, now that he had been mostly rendered human, although still something of a douche) fetching the bullet from the corporeal celestial in order to conserve ammunition, as angel blades to melt down were hard to come by.
Hurling his bag into a corner, he vaulted himself on to his bed, relishing the comfort of what had become as close to home as Dean could expect. Upon impact, however, he felt something hard beneath him. Ignoring the slew of dirty jokes that popped into his mind, he rolled over, and fished beneath the covers searching for his proverbial pea in the mattress.
Instead of a pea his efforts produced a book. Frowning heavily, he found the leather cover, the worn, dog eared pages and the odd half finished, unpolished familiar: it was journal.
Had he left dad's journal in his bed? No. Of course not. In fact Castiel was punctuating his moping with studying from the resource, when Sam and Dean pointed out there wasn't much he didn't already know, Cas had countered that, without his powers, he had to learn to think like a human hunter if he wanted to be of ay use, John Winchester's compulsive writings would help him do that.
So, what the hell was this? Garth's, perhaps? No Garth hadn't been about for quite some time, and sure as hell not in Dean's room. Kevin wouldn't start a journal, would he? Dean figured Life sucks, want to die, was not conducive to writing that would fill an entire book, like this would. The best way to find out would be to open it, but the eldest Winchester was apprehensive- being a hunter, worn, personal things like this often carried 'baggage' that involved possession to curses to obsession. Dean had had enough of that last one. eciding that the bunker was warded against anything evil, and if they were going to question the integrity of the bunker, what was the point of staying threre, or getting their grandfather killed to secure the key.
Dean shrugged and opened it, eyes snapping to the Enochian indented on the inside cover, which slightly glowed, cuing Dean on the fact that something had happened, what, even in general, he didn't know, but it was most definitively trouble.
Fuck my life…