Dean looked up from the journal. It'd taken a bit longer to get back into the groove again, but when he looked up this time, he had on that kind of lazy, self-satisfied smirk like he got a home-brewed tattoo all the time. Infection? What infection?
Yeah, Dean didn't believe it himself, but it didn't matter what he thought. The only thing that mattered was that Sam didn't think anything was wrong, aside from that incident with the possession, and he thought Dean was his usual self.
"Working on getting some numbers, but the chicks here are real prudes," Dean said with a shrug. He didn't push it too far, knowing that hugging Sam and jerking his leg too much got him asking uncomfortable questions. He motioned at the open pages. "Been working on getting some notes together, but it's not much. Tracking where the attacks were, stuff like that. What we need is some obits or something on these spirits."
He turned the journal toward Sam and pushed it across the desk over in his direction with one hand. There wasn't anything in there he'd want to keep to himself - he'd be damned if he started turning it into a friggen diary - though the fact he had a missing page was confusing. He remembered exactly how many pages he'd filled out and that was one too many: why would someone rip out a blank page from a journal? Couldn't be that they were that strapped for paper? Or had the nurses been snooping? Why leave the rest of the writing, which looked a lot more crazy than just blank paper? Hell, why hadn't they done any searches? It was like the broken locks, missing equipment, and blood on the floors here didn't exist, didn't happen? Dean was used to a lot of shit not making sense by conventional standards. This was starting to take the cake, though.
no subject
Yeah, Dean didn't believe it himself, but it didn't matter what he thought. The only thing that mattered was that Sam didn't think anything was wrong, aside from that incident with the possession, and he thought Dean was his usual self.
"Working on getting some numbers, but the chicks here are real prudes," Dean said with a shrug. He didn't push it too far, knowing that hugging Sam and jerking his leg too much got him asking uncomfortable questions. He motioned at the open pages. "Been working on getting some notes together, but it's not much. Tracking where the attacks were, stuff like that. What we need is some obits or something on these spirits."
He turned the journal toward Sam and pushed it across the desk over in his direction with one hand. There wasn't anything in there he'd want to keep to himself - he'd be damned if he started turning it into a friggen diary - though the fact he had a missing page was confusing. He remembered exactly how many pages he'd filled out and that was one too many: why would someone rip out a blank page from a journal? Couldn't be that they were that strapped for paper? Or had the nurses been snooping? Why leave the rest of the writing, which looked a lot more crazy than just blank paper? Hell, why hadn't they done any searches? It was like the broken locks, missing equipment, and blood on the floors here didn't exist, didn't happen? Dean was used to a lot of shit not making sense by conventional standards. This was starting to take the cake, though.