Summary: A collection of snippets, depicting possible scenes either never taking place in front of a camera, or ideas/thoughts/emotions hard to relay via that media...
Warning: The tense may vary from piece to piece, as will the length and POV. Spoilers about for each and every episode so far released in the USA.
Disclaimer: It's the fans' job to put the object of our idolatry through hell and back (occasionally literally), but that doesn't mean we get to own anything of Winchesterverse.

COGITATIONS
118: Something Wicked
by Sade Lyrate

Something changes, and it's almost palpable the moment Dean sees the rotten handprint. The lines of his face harden, his eyes darken, shutting Sam off.

There is fear in the air, and the jokes turn to sarcasm and silence.

He cannot remember Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. He remembers the hum of the engine, snuggly fitted into the car, safe and warm and with Dean. He remembers the streetlamps as they flicker by in the night. The mornings, the evenings, the days on the road. The interchangeable motel interiors, drabness. Pastor Jim and Latin. But not Fort Douglas, not by name, not within that timeframe.

There is a flutter, a shadow, something intangible just beyond recollection. A ghost of a dream of a memory. Enough to unsettle.
Just like Dean's seeming, words, are enough to spook him. Mighty John Winchester losing his prey?

And he thought that was the worst of it.

That night, they sneak into the hospital, their plan flawed, agreed, but Dean is so tense they need to do something. It's a small surprise the whole deal doesn't blow up in their face. And that Dean walks out without the crone's blood on his hands.

He walks out more uptight, though.

Their way back to the motel is jokes and lures, deflected by the stone wall his brother's erected.

The moment they see the boy, forlorn, his own laughter curls up and hides, his unease grows.

The light dies in Dean's eyes, his toleration zero. Teetering on the edge, as haunted as anyone they've ever helped. Just like Dad...

When they get together again, it's all getting onto his nerves, too, and he snaps at Dean who quietly, uncertainly, catches the moths of memory, pins them with needle-like words.

That night, he pins the shtriga with consecrated iron rounds, vivifying its victims.