Here are some scenes 1) I do not remember writing, and 2) I do not plan to do anything with!
untitled suicide kids convo, written February 12, 2012
Dean's reading over his shoulder again. "Sounds like fun," he says, of the two boys in Sam's magazine. They're flying down highways in 1972, alcohol-loose and breathing life like air.
"They die at the end."
"Suicide pact. They crash the car through a guardrail on a mountain hairpin."
Dean considers this. "Well, I'm willing to try anything once."
"Driver lives," Sam only half-says. Words stick like extra teeth in his gums. "His leg gets torn off in the crash. He's in the hospital a month. He's in jail for almost three years before they can even figure out what to do with him--no legal precedent, and all that. They let him off eventually, but it never gets better. He never--"
Dean's busily burning eggs the next morning when he asks, "Sam, why do you read shit like that?"
I don't remember who the "she" even is in this one, written January 10, 2018
The question you should never and always ask of Sam Winchester, and the one she always does: Are you okay?
He likes it when you ask. He doesn't particularly enjoy answering.
I also don't remember what "context" Dean is referring to here, written July 22, 2015
The most powerful weapon Dean owns is his own self-loathing, and he's not really sure that's applicable in this context.
omg I DID burn the bunker down?, written August 27, 2014
"Well, it always was kinda warm," Dean says. It's as though he's turned over a new leaf, these past five seconds, and it's his schtick now to look for the silver linings in things. Come fall the leaf will turn brittle and dwindle, like all the rest, like both of them expect. Whatever.
"Like a fucking furnace," Sam agrees.
"You just need a gel pillow." Dean smacks smoky flyaway away from his face. "They're an investment, but you know. Why wouldn't you invest in your home?"
The bunker burns like everything else. They don't bother waiting for embers.
Sam, dreamwalking, January 5, 2014
Flash of Meg's teeth. She's rising from the water like a leviathan, but not the kind they know already; she is something new, foreign, liquid. He can't see her eyes, obscured as they are by shadow, or hair, or artistic license. Sharp cutaway. A field of grass. Small white flowers that run into white fabric, become the hem of Mary's (mommy's) favorite dress. Then the hallway from The Shining. Sam always thought Kubrick had gone a little tacky with that, but he shields his eyes and flinches away from the surge nonetheless. Then silence. A scream of silence.
Sam's been in Dean's head at least once before, but this is not the mind that he remembers.