A/N: Spoiler warning – spoilers from "Shadow" (and the pilot, I guess), which make me repeat my claim that these are not my characters, I'm just having a bit of harmless, profit-free fun with them.

Also, a little playing around with the timeline, but I think it's not too messy, or at least, I hope so.

A/N #2: I think there's something wrong with my mail, because I didn't get any alerts or any mail messages myself. I'm trying to have it fixed, but in the meantime, thanks a lot for all the reviews, and sorry I didn't reply. I actually finished the story, now all that's left is editing and getting some more internet time... So, read, enjoy, and keep reviewing!

John Winchester came close to losing his children more than once.

Chapter Eight: The distance – Part One

John Winchester sat on the bed, his hands still shaking. He forced himself to his feet, walking heavily towards the bathroom. He frowned at the sight of himself in the mirror. He would definitely require some stitching. He hated to do that by himself. It always turned out too messy. He looked closer at the cuts on his face and hands. No, he had no choice, he had to stitch those up. He took the first aid kit out of his duffle bag and heaved a long sigh. They were right there, right next to him. He held them in his arms again. That hurt much more than the stitches. He nearly cried when they walked in that motel room. They were so close, for the first time in what seemed like forever, they were in his reach. And Sammy was there.

To hold him again, the both of them… Just the thought made John tear up again. He quickly ran his hand over his eyes, wiping the tears away. The look Dean gave him when he told him he had to leave without them… The boy was barely standing, and he was telling him they would be alright? And Sammy… Sammy begged him not to go. It tore his heart apart. It hurt so much more than anything those Daevas had done to him. Leaving his boys again… But he had to.

He knew, when he got Dean's message, that he shouldn't go, but he couldn't help himself. It was a trap, he knew it, he could taste it. The only thing he didn't know for sure was if the trap was just for him, or if it was meant for his sons, too. That, he couldn't risk.

John knew leaving again was the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell. He had to do it. For Mary. For his boys. He had to leave, so that they would be safe. He just hoped that it would work, that he had pissed the demon off enough for it to follow John, and not his boys. John cleared his throat, looking at the first aid kit. God, he needed a drink.


John walked slowly into the boys' room. Dean was there alone, sitting on his bed with his back turned to John as he cleaned his guns. Sam was sitting in the tiny kitchen of their tiny apartment, working hard on the last of his homework. Dean straightened at the sound of the nearing footsteps, but didn't stop working. He could always tell when it was one of his family members, as opposed to a threat. John sat down on Sam's bed, looking at his son work for a long moment, saying nothing.

"Aren't you supposed to be graduating sometime soon?" John asked at last. Dean looked up, looking questioningly at his father.

"I already did." He said simply, returning to his work. John watched him.

"Yeah, but isn't there supposed to be a ceremony or something?" he asked. This time, Dean didn't even look up.

"Yeah, last week." He said, making John raise a brow. "What?" Dean sighed, "We were hunting that Wendigo." He said, as if it explained everything.

"You should have told me." John said. Dean half-shrugged.

"Nah, only geeks want to be seen in that stupid hat and that stupid dress." He said, "I'm way too cool for that." He added, flashing John his grin. John stared at him, trying to determine if his son was joking, or trying to hide something from him.

"So, now what?" John finally asked the question he'd been trying to avoid for months. The inevitable question. The one that he was so scared to ask. Dean looked at him, wrinkling his brow.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You're eighteen now, son. You graduated from school. What do you want to do now?" John asked again, suddenly feeling like the room was getting so much smaller and suffocating. John knew full and well his son's answer could turn his life upside down. If Dean left, Sam, in time, would follow. John wasn't sure he was ready for that. That any of them was ready for that.

"I don't know." Dean said, putting the gun he was holding down and leaning back on the bed. "Beer sounds like a plan." He said, flashing another grin.

"Dean, I'm serious." John said.

"So am I." Dean said back.

"I went to see your teacher last month." John started, studying Dean's reaction. Dean picked up another gun, cleaning it all too thoroughly.

"What for?" He asked, doing his best to avoid John's eyes.

"Because she wanted to know why you wouldn't send any college applications out." John said slowly. He thought he saw Dean flush, but he couldn't tell for sure.

"Like I have the grades for that." Dean said, still avoiding John's stare. Up until a month ago, John would have believed that.

"She said you could get into NYU easily." John said. Now he was sure Dean was blushing. "She said if you repeated some of your courses, you could try applying for Harvard next year." John went on. It had been quite a shock for John to find that out. Dean was never one to sit and study like Sam. He used to skip school as often as he could and do the minimum he could get away with. And still, he had the grades to go to college, and a good one at that. John couldn't help but wonder what Dean's grades would have looked like if he'd actually studied every once in a while. John had no idea why Dean kept underplaying how smart he was, why he insisted on hiding it. He knew Mary would have hated it. "Dean, are you listening to me?" John asked, seeing Dean ignoring his last sentence.

"We can't afford college, dad." Dean said simply, still not looking at his father. John felt a little stab of guilt.

"Forget that for a moment," he said, "What do you want?" he asked.

"A beer, I already told you that!" Dean tried to joke, but John didn't think it funny.

"Dean!" Dean sighed, looking up at John.

"You know what I want, dad." Dean said, putting the gun down and looking John in the eye. "We're low on silver bullets."

And with that, John knew. The choice had been made. His family was going to follow in his path.


John was pacing the empty room, going back and forth, like a caged lion. He was angry as hell. The fight kept playing back over and over in his mind. John felt angry, betrayed, by his own son. He had no right to leave, John kept thinking to himself. How could he leave? He knew what was out there, how could he possibly leave? John cried out in rage, smashing a chair against the wall. How could he expect me to protect him, if he just leaves? He isn't ready yet, doesn't he know that? He isn't ready to be out there, to be alone! We always protected him, always shielded him… Well, maybe we shouldn't have shielded him so well. Maybe we should have let him see more of what was out there. Maybe then, Sammy wouldn't have left.

It was as if the sounds of the fight still resonated in the small apartment. "Is that what you really want?" john yelled at his son.

"Yes!" Sam yelled back at him. "I'm going, dad, and you can't stop me!"

"Don't you dare get out that door, Sammy! You hear me?" John screamed, "If you walk out of here now, don't bother to come back!" and Sam left. John couldn't believe how wrong it had all went. How dare Sam choose school over his family? John thought bitterly. That wasn't the way he was raised. That wasn't the example he was given by his brother.

John kept pacing back and forth, his mind racing. That ungrateful bastard! What about Dean? How could he have just walked out on his brother like that? Walk out on his family? Didn't he see the look on Dean's face? That foolish little boy! Those things in the dark didn't just go after other people! He had proof enough of that, how could he leave? He would be out there, far away, alone. Vulnerable! That thing, whatever it was, it could get to him, and I won't be there to stop it! I won't be there to help! John roared in rage, throwing an empty beer bottle at the mirror, smashing both the mirror and the bottle to pieces. Sam wanted to leave? Who gave him that right? Who gave him the right to decide he could put his life at risk like that? Who gave him the right to decide that it was okay to get himself hurt, and not have anyone around that could help him? John nearly punched the wall with his fist. He kept pacing, fuming, letting out an enraged cry every now and then.

And then Dean walked in the apartment. He looked at John for the slightest of moments, and took all the mess around their latest apartment in. John thought he was going to say something; tell him that he was right about being upset, tell him that Sam should never have left, should never have turned on his family. Dean cleared his throat.

"I'm tired." He said, "I'm going to bed." John looked at his watch. It was only a quarter to six.

It has been quite around the apartment after that. Too quiet. But when John finally picked up the phone and called Sam, there was no answer. Sam didn't pick up.

It was just the two of them after that. Just Dean and John. John rarely spoke about Sam, knowing how sore the subject was to Dean. John made it a point to make a trip to Stanford every couple of months, to keep an eye on Sam, make sure he was safe and keeping out of trouble; supernatural or otherwise. He read the local news religiously, looking for any sign of the paranormal and making sure it was no threat as soon as humanly possible. John had a couple of his old friends keep an eye on Sam, too, just to be on the safe side. Sam may have walked out on his family, but that didn't mean John stopped worrying about him. In fact, the opposite was true.


John woke up drenched in cold sweat. He was shaking, trying to remember how to breathe. The air in the stinky motel room was suffocating, and John crossed the salt circle he had drawn earlier, opening the window and relishing at the cool night air coming in the room. He bee-lined to the bathroom, flopping down on the toilet seat, and washed his face in cold water. He was still shivering when he made his way heavily back to bed. There was a half-eaten burger on the nightstand. He had saved it for later, but now the smell of it made him sick to his stomach. He gagged, nearly throwing up, and forced himself to calm down, to breathe slowly.

That was one heck of a nightmare.

He dreamt of Mary, of the day they met, their wedding day, the day she came to him and told him they were going to have a baby… He dreamt of her pinned to the ceiling, her stomach dripping blood down onto six-months-old Sammy's crib. He dreamt of the flames engulfing his wife as she looked at him, mouthing something he could never hear, could never understand. That was usually when he used to wake up.

But not this time. This time was worse. This time, he dreamt about the days after the funeral, when they were staying at Mike and Kate's. He dreamt about little Dean, parading him around the house to show him how clean it was, and then telling him someone had been at the house, with his children, when he himself had beendownstairs, sleeping instead of protecting his family.

John dreamt about twelve-year-old Sammy after the hunt that went wrong, lying in that hospital bed, looking at him with those glazed, fearful eyes, and telling him that the thing that killed his wife was still after his children.

He dreamt about the night Dean had the accident, of the phone call that nearly gave him a heart attack, and worse; of the man leaning over him at the hospital, doing God only knows what to him.

It still haunted them. It was still after his boys.

John took a deep, ragged breath. Dean was gone, chasing something down in New Orleans. Sammy was still at Stanford, and doing very well, last time John checked in. The most scary, gut-wrenching thought occurred to John, and this time he couldn't hold himself back. He rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

He sat there on the cold, tiled, bathroom floor for a long moment, the thought still nagging him, poking at him, refusing to let go.

All these years, his biggest fear had been that once he got close enough, the damn thing that killed Mary would use his children against him. Hurt them to get John to back away. But now, it occurred to John that he might have been wrong all along. That maybe the demon didn't give a rat's ass about him. That it wasn't afraid of him whatsoever. That it was using John – to get to his sons. It was them that the demon truly wanted, for whatever reason. John was just the one standing in its way. No, worse than that, John was the one showing him where to look. That thought made him throw up again.

He thought that leaving would be the hardest thing. He was wrong. God, was he wrong. Holding the ringing phone in his hand, seeing his son's name on the caller ID, and not picking up; that was the hardest part. Hearing his son pleading and worrying, leaving him message after message - that was what really hurt. Not being able to explain, not being able to hold them and let them know he was just doing what was best for them – that was the thing that broke his heart. He was doing everything he could to protect them. To keep them safe. He just prayed that it was enough, that he had taught them enough to survive on their own. He turned the phone off, taking the battery out. It was best, at least for the time being. He was afraid that hearing the worry in Dean's voice would make him change his mind, go back. He couldn't do that. Not until he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the demon was dead. Not just banished or vanquished or whatever. Dead. And that his sons were safe. This wasn't just about Mary anymore.

TBC