Dean came across the box completely on accident. He'd avoided Cas' room for the past few weeks, only now venturing in to look for the red shirt he'd leant him. His chest ached as he ran a hand over the perfectly made bed, looking around at the sparsely decorated room. Cas had a desk upon which the typewriter Dean gave him rested. His bedding was a soft gray and nothing hung on the drab, white walls. Sam had cleaned out the closet a while ago, knowing full well Dean wouldn't be able to. Despite the lack of personalization, Dean couldn't help but feel a slight comfort from the simple fact that it belonged to Cas. He sighed, shaking his head clear from the fog that had settled and knelt down, reaching a hand under the bed. His blind search had lead him to knocking his hand into a cardboard box. Curious, he pulled it out and simply stared at it for a few heartbeats, unsure whether or not he was allowed to look through personal belongings.

He pushed down the apprehension that clawed its way up his throat, telling himself it was just a box, for Christ's sake. He opened it, and was greeted with a heap of a papers stored face-down. Dean reached down to the bottom and pulled out the impressive stack and flipped it over, so as to inspect what the typed pages contained.

His own name jumped out from the first page, making his stomach drop. He began to read, knowing full well that it was going to hurt, but he was desperate for some sense of closure after months of finding none. Day one, or if you prefer a more detailed description, day nine since the fall. Dean swallowed the lump that was beginning to choke him, feeling his eyes prick. This was Cas' sort-of journal that Dean suggest he keep. He'd forgotten about it. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he let out a breath he wasn't consciously holding, steeled his resolve, and read on.


Day one, or if you prefer a more detailed description, day nine since the fall. It was your brother who suggested I keep a record of these mundane events that occur daily as a sort of therapy. I doubt your limited knowledge in the field of psychology could really benefit me, but that's no fault of your own. You've always had a fascination of how the human mind works, but you've no way to further pursue that interest as your dedication to hunting takes precedence. I believe I am getting distracted. Can it truly be considered a distraction if I'm simply doing as instructed and writing down my thoughts? I doubt you intended for me to write down my every thought as that would be both tedious and an overwhelming amount of information. Currently, I'm feeling a little stiff in my lower back from sleeping in what I presume to be a bad position, I can't tell if my stomach is cramping from that last cup of coffee or if I'm hungry, my head aches and, to be completely honest, you're talking quite loudly currently and I find it rather obnoxious. Again, I feel that I am getting beside the point and that's not what should be happening.

Your instructions were less than clear, you said to write down things I find important throughout the day, lending me your typewriter for the task. You suggested that I format these entries as a letter to a specific person. Therefore, I find it only natural that I address you, Dean. But I suppose the audience isn't necessary to specify as these pages won't be read by anyone other than myself. Not that I really foresee myself going back to reread the things I've wrote. I don't consider myself one for sentimentality. I believe you're singing now. Sam's telling you to sit down and get back to helping him. I doubt you'll comply. Truthfully, these past few days haven't been as difficult as I had originally thought.

It was of course a shock to be thrown into humanity, but it was slightly softened by you and your brother's considerations. Following the fall, I heard you calling for me and I simply followed your voice to the church. Sam was in obvious pain and lost consciousness a few minutes later, but I can't be sure as to why. That's probably the most difficult adjustment for me to make, not being able to precisely know anything. Sam's suffering, that much is obvious, though I'm in a position where I am unable to help. I feel as though I should apologize. I'm sorry.

Dean, I'm not sure keeping a record of my life is really benefitting me. I find it making me feel worse. But I suppose there are not many other options for me. You just called me down, saying that we need to talk. This concludes today's entry.