what if i said i liked you (and i always have)

Dear Diary

CONTENT WARNING: implied/'offscreen' violence and homophobia (external and internal) in flashback. if you do not wish to read this, stop reading at "He was quickly snapped out of his daze" and if you wish, finish reading at "When John died, that part of Dean died too"
check end notes if you want a summary of what you skipped. be kind to yourself and your mind <3

•••••

That was three years ago. Cas, Sam, and Dean now lived together in a decent-sized apartment just off campus. Sam was applying to law schools, and Cas was looking into masters programs at every school Sam applied to. Dean had finished his degree a year ago, having been a part-time student since he started college. He now worked Monday through Friday at an auto shop near the apartment, putting his love for cars to good use while he looked for something a little more permanent that would also put his English degree to good use.

Sam and Cas sat at the kitchen table, typing furiously while Dean hummed along to Metallica behind them. He stirred the pot of pasta, now boiling as rapidly as Sam and Cas were typing. He scooped the tomatoes he had chopped up into a pan sizzling with olive oil and spices. Moving to college taught Dean two things: caffeine is one hell of a drug, and he loved cooking. Every Friday night, Dean would look for a new recipe to try. Tonight was a bruschetta-style pasta that he had been looking forward to all summer. He had a garden. An honest to god garden, with tomatoes and jalapeños and freaking cucumbers. The tomatoes were finally perfectly ripe for cooking, and he felt a sense of pride cooking with something he grew in his own apartment.

Although Dean would love to take credit for becoming a functioning adult with healthy habits and, again, an honest to god garden, he couldn't. It was his therapist's idea. The recipes, the garden, and his journal. John Winchester had kept a journal. He traveled for work; a new month meant a new job and a new motel for Dean and Sam to live in. He wrote in the journal every day about his work and whatever else it was he did when he left his sons alone in a shitty motel. Dean was never allowed to touch that journal. But he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. It was bound in leather, with scraps of paper and receipts and a rosary sticking out of the sides. As a kid, Dean wanted nothing more than to have one just like it, to write his adventures with Sammy and when he was a little older, with Bobby, too. When his dad died, Dean could have looked at the journal. But something stopped him. He put it in the casket next to John's favorite guns, and it went six feet under with the rest of his old man. Dean didn't cry that day.

Bobby knew Dean needed help, but was in no condition to be helping him. What did he know? When Dean moved to college, Bobby helped him talk to one of the university's counselors, who helped him find a therapist. Dean was skeptical at first but after a few months, he realized what a difference it was making in his life.

"Why don't you start your own journal?" his therapist had asked. He was a soft-spoken guy, but listened to Dean like no one had before. "I think it'll help you sort out your thoughts, and you can bring it to our appointments if you need, so it's easier to talk about what you're thinking."

Dean didn't get a leather-bound journal, but instead got a spiral-bound sketchbook. He wrote his thoughts, his ideas, what he was worried about, and even his secrets. It also became his recipe book. It sat next to the stove on the counter now, flipped open to a page that Dean had filled earlier in the week, his little doodles of tomatoes acting as a header.

"I'm hungry," Cas grumbled.

"Well, you'll just have to wait, sunshine," Dean said. This was a usual exchange. "Unless you wanna help."

"No."

"Then you can wait."

Sam cleared his throat, closing his laptop. "We need more coffee."