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: No matter how much I love the Winchesterverse, apparently no amount of it is enough to see my name on the papers of ownership of Supernatural and everything related to it...

COGITATIONS
120: Dead Man's Blood
by Sade Lyrate

He leaves. Hesitant, uncertainty stretching in his heart.

But he's been given an order, they're on a timetable and he doesn't want to aggravate the eldest of them. So with a careful glance at Sam, he leaves them, both, at the door of their motel room.

The way to the funeral home is filled with silent wishes and quiet pleas clamouring for attention in his mind.

Stepping out of the car, he ushers them away, dons a persona that doesn't have a powder keg for a father and a match for a brother.

Getting inside...not really a problem. His charm still works, his lies still ring true. Trying to get rid of all the would-be chaperones, though, sends his sweet-talk sparring with a wall of rules and standards and required forms. He takes his time, and finally they relent.

After that, it's cakewalk. Find a jar of blood bled from a corpse and smuggle it out without getting caught. On his best days, he could easily walk out of a military base with a tank in tow, and no one would look at him twice.
Granted, this isn't one of those days, but on the other hand, a little inconspicuous jar is a whole lot easier than a tank.

He bites his lip as a clock called a heart tells him how little effort it takes to light a match.

On the way back to the Impala, his worries catch up to him as his facade's cast away, needless now. It's way too easy to remember that one incident nearly five years ago. Just as easy as the one over five hours ago.

He tries to assure himself that him going was the right thing to do as he guides the Impala out of the parking lot. Two would have had more trouble getting in, and neither Sam nor their father would have necessarily been able to pull it all off. All the thoughts that drift through his mind are tainted by the flutter of fear. Angry at himself, he tries to shrug it off.

Patting the jar in its paper wrapping in his coat pocket, Dean curves to park the car in front of their motel room, eyes intent upon the single window. Light's against him, though, and all the comfort he can find is the fact that the place's still up, their father's truck still parked in the same spot.

There's an idea that maybe he should let the two fight, get it out of their systems.

In that case, what would be the worst case scenario?

He doesn't want to think about it. Hasn't before. No reason to start now.
After all, their father has never crossed that line with them. Not with Sam. He remembers the threat being there, whispering in the depths of John's dark eyes, but he never acted upon it, never let it surface. Never took that last step over the invisible boundary.
He sparred with them, trained with them, showed them moves. Grabbed Sam by his shirt that last day. Last night. But he never struck out at them in anger. Not sober. Not with fists.

But Sam is no longer a boy. No longer a kid. He is a grown-up, and taller than their father. As much a hunter as their Dad or Dean. Capable and willing to take care of himself, his years at Stanford just letting a little rust touch the edges.
Unfortunately, the blaze he'd left with that one day hadn't died out. The embers are still hot, ready to spring to life at the smallest slight.

Dad couldn't be blind to that. Couldn't let Sam goad him into a fight when there were things more deserving of punishment.