Disclaimer: Not only do I not claim to own Supernatural, I don't claim to know anything either. And when I say "anything," I mean anything.
Left Alone
John pulled the Impala up to the house. He shut the motor off and stared at it for a while, still trying to reassure himself that his boys would be all right. He could trust Dean. He could look out for the both of them.
Besides, there was nothing special about this job. A rumor of haunting, is all. Simple, routine. Go in, find out what you're dealing with, get out, burn the bones. Go back, just to check.
Then, John could get back to his boys, who would be there, waiting for him. Like the good little soldiers they were becoming.
He read over the report one last time before he fished out his badge. Single father, traveled a lot, two sons, died on the job about a week ago. No apparent cause of death, it seemed. No witnesses. Nothing. Just a lifeless body.
They said it was a heart attack, but John had been to the coroners that morning. No real reason his heart should have given out. None at all. No one could explain it, but it looked as if the man had died from malnourishment, but that's not what they told his sister, because that didn't made less sense than an inexplicable heart attack. Besides, John already had a pattern.
He knocked on the door. A woman in her mid-thirties opened the door. "FBI," said John.
"I don't understand," she said. "My brother had a heart attack."
"Yes, well," said John, clearing his throat. "Just procedure."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, no one would have wanted to hurt him." She ran a hand through her hair. "Well, except me."
John raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
She laughed. "I'm kidding," she clarified. "But he worked himself too hard. That's all. He was always working. Too hard, too long, too far from home." She shrugged. "I didn't mind watching the boys," she said. "But they missed him."
John smiled over at them sadly. They were playing with legos over in the other room.
"Do you have kids?" she asked politely, following his glance. John nodded.
"Two boys," he said. "Eight and four." John cleared his throat. "What did your brother do, exactly? For a living?"
"Developer," she answered. "Died while he was looking at the place. She looked up at John. "Why are the Feds involved, anyway?"
John smiled sympathetically. "Well, there's a connection."
"A connection?" she asked incredulously. "You think Arthur was murdered?"
"Something like that."
John Winchester, flashlight in one hand, EMF-reader in the other, gun tucked away, filled with salt-rounds, made his way slowly through the dimly lit hallways of the dilapidated house, waiting for anything that might be just a little supernatural.
It wasn't hard. The EMF was all over the place, enough for John to be sure there was definitely a ghost in the house, a super pissed ghost. So when the temperature dropped so low he could see his breath and his flashlight flickered, he put them both away and grabbed his gun.
The ghost shimmered into sight and John almost dropped his gun. His hands were shaking so much that he couldn't aim properly. Far too much for a seasoned hunter.
"You left us," the ghost said. The ghost of a boy, twelve-years-old at the most. "You were gone."
Next to him, another little boy, only six or seven, grabbed his hand. Brothers. "We were alone. How could you?" the older one asked.
John felt his knees begin to weaken. He couldn't focus, but he cocked his gun and shot blindly.
"Danny!" screamed one of the boys and John felt his consciousness slowly ebb back into him.
He didn't look back all the way back to the motel.