AN: Thanks to all my reviewers! I'm going to post the last chapters now because I'm going on vacation and didn't want to leave people waiting. I actually think I had the most fun writing this chapter, but it's hard to explain why. I guess I just enjoyed slightly hysterical!Shawn. xp

Disclaimer: Much as I wish I could claim Shawn or Dean, I can't. I don't care quite as much about Sam, but I wouldn't mind having him either. John, you guys can keep. Although, I'm trying to write him as being kind of cool.

Shawn barely slept that night. He was out for maybe half an hour, but was rudely interrupted by a nightmare about running from the ghost of a werewolf-demon who kept yelling that vampires weren't real.

When he woke, he began to consider his future very seriously.

He wouldn't stay in Mississippi. He had stuck around for Nate's sake, but now... He could go to Texas. Still hadn't been to Austin yet, though he had been heading that direction when he ran into Nate. Or he might head back to Santa Barbara and spend the rest of December with Gus.

Except he might run into his dad. And spending Christmas with his dad? Now? After only seven months away from his whole messed-up training and so-called 'fathering'? No way.

East coast might be nice this time of year...

Dang it—he had killed a werewolf! A friggin' werewolf! How was life supposed to move on? Where was he supposed to go to forget this whole night ever happened? He knew he wouldn't forget though. And it wasn't just because he had photographic memory so sharp he could almost reach out and touch things. No, tonight had been unforgettable and insane.

Insane! That was it! Maybe the Winchesters were insane.

The serial killer had been wearing false teeth—he had grown his nails out longer—and he was just an ordinary psycho. And he had seemed to move so quickly because Shawn was just thrown and distracted by the teeth and the...and the nails that had looked so, so much like real claws. And the headshot. It had gone wide. Shawn had missed—probably only by a few inches, but he had definitely missed.

Shawn cursed and sat up in his bed. There was no way he had missed that shot. It had been perfect. He had practically felt it hit the guy—thing—right between the eyes. And it hadn't gone down. The thing (guy?) had only seemed to waver in its attack as Shawn jumped away.

Only the bullet to its heart made it stop. And when he shot it in the heart, it dropped immediately.

Crap. He had killed a werewolf.

He could see it now—Shawn Spencer: werewolf killer.

A hysterical laugh burst out of Shawn before he could slam a hand over his mouth to stop it.

It took him a moment to calm himself. But slowly, he found he could breathe normally again. And his memories were no longer plaguing him with every horrifying thought from his nightmare anymore. Too bad his brain refused to do the same for his memories of the werewolf.

It was like a video set on a loop in his head—the kid with the gun...telling the kid to get behind him...pushing him out of the way...firing...diving...falling, landing, hurting, firing, staring. The thing dropping. Then a fuzzy layer of shock covering him. Swallowing him... Then hiding behind a tree again, watching the kid with the gun...

He sat in his bed for a long time, watching the mental video over and over. He couldn't stop it.

As he watched the mental replays, he tried to think of how to fix his messed-up life. If it wasn't beyond repair already. Seriously! He was a werewolf-killer now? What next—a ghost-hunter like the Winchesters?

When the clock showed 5am, he gave up all pretense of ever falling asleep again, and began to pack up his meager belongings. What he couldn't keep on the road, he put into a box to be sent to Gus. His friend back home would keep the stuff in a storage unit Shawn was paying for in Santa Barbara. Anything he didn't want was put in another box for donations to a local thrift store.

By 7am, he was packed and ready to go. He got breakfast and drove his boxes to the thrift store and post office, then headed over to return the borrowed car to Jenna.

It was hard to tell the woman goodbye. She cried on his shoulder, but understood his reasons for wanting to leave. And Shawn explained about the backseat being a little damp by saying he had to clean a stain off of it that morning. Fortunately for him, he knew a homemade formula that he had been able to use on the blood stains. The seat looked almost as good as before.

He stepped inside only long enough to slip Nate's gun back into the lockbox in the upstairs bedroom (while Jenna went to wake her son). Then he told Jenna and Simon goodbye, making the kid laugh when he promised to mail them a souvenir if he ever got to live in a Native American reservation like planned.

When all was said and done, Shawn grabbed his motorcycle from the Lane garage and drove back to Tom's motel. He still had someone to see.

John blinked against the sunlight that came through the window so very early that morning. Daylight had come too quickly. Now they needed to get out of this motel before they attracted any attention. He would have to get Sam bundled up in the back of the Impala before many other people were up and about to see them. Once they got to the next town, they could let Sam rest for a few days before finding the next hunt. For now though, he wanted out of here.

He got up and began to pack their things, glancing over at his boys every now and then to make sure he wasn't waking them.

Sam slept in the bed, no longer pale and shivering like the night before. The only sign that he was injured was the slight frown of pain on his forehead as he slept, and the very edge of a bandage poking out from under the covers that were pulled almost to his chin. Dean slept on the floor, seemingly as comfortable there as anywhere else. His face was turned towards his brother, constantly in watch over Sammy, even in unconsciousness. As usual.

They would be okay. The three of them would be okay.

He had come startlingly close to losing Sam the previous night. He had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the werewolf lunge at his younger son in the woods. He hadn't even been able to raise his gun and aim. A sickening sense of shock and disbelief settled over him, and he just...froze. If it hadn't been for that random stranger—maybe the only kid besides Dean who could shoot with such accuracy—he might not have his baby boy with him this morning. It was a sobering thought. He didn't know what he would do if they lost Sammy. Or, heaven help them, what Dean would do...

There was a knock at the door. John knew it wasn't housekeeping, because the knock was too hesitant, but he wasn't sure who else it could be. Carefully, he double checked that any and all weapons were out of sight before slipping a gun into the back of his pants and moving to the door. He opened it just a crack. And of all the people he might have expected to see standing outside, he didn't guess Shawn Spencer.

The kid was back, watching him with serious eyes.

John glanced at the boys and decided to let them sleep. Stepping out of the room, he closed the door quietly behind him. "What can I do for you, son?"

Shawn seemed to hesitate for a moment, then plunged in. "Um, last night you kind of said it was your job to uh..." He glanced around, and decided not to finish that sentence. "And with my boss gone now, I don't really have a job here anymore, so I was kind of just wondering if you guys, uh, might need an extra set of hands? Maybe just until Sam's feeling better?"

The kid was serious. He was actually seriously asking...

John shook his head. "You don't want to do that, Shawn. Trust me, you don't want this life." Get out while you still can...

Shawn looked him straight in the eye, surprisingly. "It's not really something I think you can judge, sir. Besides, you saw what I can do with a gun. I'm quick on my feet, I've been trained in different types of combat, and I know as much first aid as your older son, if not more."

John crossed his arms.

The kid sighed. "I just...now that I know there's stuff like that out there, I can't sit here and pretend it's not real. I'd rather know all I can about what I'm up against than go on, blissfully unaware, and get plowed down by a ghost later. You know? And I want to stop that from happening to other people, too. You guys keep stuff away from everyone else. I want to help."

John studied the boy for a long moment. Surprisingly, he didn't squirm like most people would. The boy was serious. Very serious.

"You're sure you want to do this," John said, only half asking it.

"Positive."

He pretended to think about it for a moment before folding. "Okay then. You can come with us for a little while. We owe you for saving Sam's life anyway. You got a car or something to follow us in?"

"Motorcycle," the kid said. It was only then that he noticed the helmet Shawn was holding behind himself.

"That'll be pretty uncomfortable for the longer drives," John said with an amused smirk.

Shawn only shrugged. "Once did a fourteen-hour drive, only stopping for gas. Can't get much worse than that."

Guess not.

"Okay then," John said. "The boys are still asleep, but you can come on in while I finish packing. We'll get breakfast then hit the road in an hour."

Shawn smiled and entered the motel room.

AN: Just the epilogue left!

A 14-hour motocycle drive might have paralyzed Shawn for life. And I'm not sure John should have agreed quite so easily to take him in, but...creative license! *flashes a cheap sticky-note with a grainy picture on it*