A/N: I had all sort of intelligent things to say. Like, yesterday, I got Sam sick, and today, I'm sick. I think it's definitely karma. What I do to John in this chapter...I hope karma doesn't need to reflect everything a writer publishes...

This is the second to last chapter, so to the people who gave this a chance in the first place, you're amazing. To anyone who's reading this now, you're doubly amazing. And you're just beyond amazing if you read the next chapter. (And review.)

If you don't care, skip everything in bold.

About John: I can understand why you wouldn't love John, because of what he did to his boys growing up, especially Dean, but I just can't find it in my to hate him. Obviously, he moved them around so much, and trained them like warriors because he loved them and wanted them to be prepared for anything, and while maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, he did it because he couldn't stand the thought of his boys not being able to protect themselves. I think sometimes, John realizes what he's doing, and he knows it isn't what he should be doing. Except, because he's a Winchester and has to be difficult and stubborn, he likes his idea better, and doesn't do a thing to change his sons' lives. You probably already knew all this though, didn't you?

About Dean: I have this theory about Dean, and because I hate obnoxiously long author's notes, I think I'll write it here, that he grew up to a point where he could take care of Sam. Meaning that, at four, he had the maturity of a mature sixteen-year-old. And then, when he turned sixteen, he just didn't grow up after that, because he never had a chance to be a kid when he was a kid, so he'll make up for it now. Of course, I have a younger brother who I'm pretty sure will just act like he's twelve for the rest of his life, so what do I know?

Disclaimer: John Winchester are not mine. However, I'm 99% positive Daniel and Andrew Mason are.

Left Alone

John parked outside the run-down house for what he hoped would be the last time that week. He fought the urge to turn back, leave this job to someone else. Someone the ghosts wouldn't go after until the bones were already burning.

But hunters don't turn back. You pick up a job, you finish it, and you don't leave others to pick up the pieces. That is, if you needed anything down the road. A favor, an extra set of eyes, a partner, even a babysitter, hunters were willing to lend a hand to each other, but only if they thought you could help them when the time came.

Paranoid jackasses.

John snorted. The doors squeaked slightly when he opened them, and he grabbed his gear out of the trunk. Rock salt, lighter fluid, matches, gun, flashlight, shovel, everything one needed his typical ghost-hunt.

He pulled out his gun and slung his duffel bag onto his back. He took a deep breath and he started on his hunt.

He though about going around, straight to the back where he knew the boys were buried, but a giant brick wall had been put up around the property. Too high for John to climb.

So, he pushed the front door, which was barely hanging on by its hinges and stepped inside, the floor boards groaning in protest, dust clouds forming when he took a step. John cocked his gun nervously, and continues through the house, searching for a door to the backyard.

He'd been there for about fifteen minutes and even though he hadn't found the door (which troubled him greatly, as the house wasn't that big) there had been no sign of the boys. Maybe, thought John, allowing himself to hope just a little, he'd been lucky this time.

But John was a Winchester, a family with bad luck since the beginning of time (although he thought it was a pretty safe bet that none of them had luck so bad as his) and he had married a Campbell, who had worse luck than the Winchesters, like all hunters do. (John still could help but laugh a little when he thought of his Mary fighting ghosts all her life.)

John's luck ran out just as he found the backdoor. One of the ghost boys appeared in front of him, blocking his path. The younger one, John guessed, Andrew, his name had been. He raised his gun just as the ghost called out to his brother.

"Danny! He's home!" he called, and his voice was so happy, so relieved at the sight of John, that John almost felt bad for wanting to shoot him. He was only seven after all, even if he was "only seven" for the rest of time.

But Daniel appeared next to him. He frowned at John and then at his brother. "He's never coming home, Andrew," he said coldly. "He left us," said Daniel, stepping toward John. "He didn't care."

And John shot without a second thought. Daniel disappeared and Andrew's image flickered and followed him. But John couldn't shake the image of pure terror that had crossed his face as John shot his brother, seemingly mercilessly.

Without wasting another though, John kicked open the door and cast his light over the entire yard. Which was stupidly big. And John couldn't see a damn thing from where he was standing.

John stepped into the yard. The grass, brown and hard, crunched under his feet. John started to scour every inch of the back, convincing himself he'd dig up the whole yard if he had to.

Finally, he found the grave, only after almost resolving to take his shovel into the dirt. There was just one headstone, marked, "Daniel And Andrew Mason, March 18, 1922 – January 24, 1935; November 2, 1928 – January 24, 1935."

John pulled out his shovel and started to dig, once again appreciating how damn hard it was, and how unsatisfying-ly long it took to dig up a damn grave. And of course, it was dangerous to dig up the grave of the boys who currently were out for you on their own hunting property with no one to watch your back. John felt instantly grateful that Sam and Dean had each other.

Of course, it was at that moment that the ghosts appeared. Like the mention of his boys' names summoned them. Just as John thought he found the wooden box that held one of the bodies.

"Daddy," cried the little one, and John tried his best to ignore him, pounding his shovel through the rotting wood. "Daddy, how could you leave us?"

The older one laid a hand on Andrew's should. "He left us," he said simply. "Because he doesn't love us."

John grabbed his duffel and ripped it open. Ignoring the boys standing above ground looking down at him, he grabbed the salt and poured it over the corpse.

Daniel flickered down into the hole with John. "Take a look," he whispered. "Look what you did to us."

Suddenly, John felt his knees give out beneath him and he fell to the ground. John had felt helpless before, but never had he felt so weak. Like his body was dying, every muscle was working overtime just keep him going. His vision blurred, but he was near enough to his duffel to grab the lighter fluid and poured it over the bones, when John gasped.

It had nothing to do with the sudden fatigue the spirit had put over him. His heart ached at the sight of it.

Two bodies, two skeletons, rather, of children, twelve and seven, together in one coffin. Daniel and Andrew Mason.

"When you left," said Daniel coldly. "I had to take care of him. And I couldn't even do that."

Sports appeared before John's eyes, and even as he slowly slipped from consciousness he thought of Dean taking care of Sam, like it was his job. Even when they were looked after, even when John was home, Dean's sole concern was Sam, like it had somehow ingrained itself into his head the moment John handed Sam to him during the fire four years ago. And the more they grew, the more they grew together. Dean was only eight, but he learned to change Sam's diapers within six months after the fire, fed Sam since he'd been six months old, and comforted him when he woke from nightmares. Dean only had the body of an eight-year-old, but really, John supposed that Dean hadn't been a kid in nearly four years. And he wouldn't be a kid ever. Not as long as he had Sammy to look after.

John realized it was his fault. Because hunting, these past four years, had become his obsession. He knew his kids were just that, kids. But John couldn't bear the thought of losing his boys his boys, and so he trained them to be soldiers, and even now he realized he wasn't fulfilling his role as caregiver properly. That role, unfortunately, fell to Dean, who was left with very few people to take care of him.

John knew that he was going to die here. He just felt so tired and weak. He hoped that when he was gone, Sam would return the favor and take care of Dean. Maybe his boys would be all right without him. There was Bobby, who would watch them, and they could take care car of each other. That's what brothers were for, after all.

But John, even after just four years, was an expert hunter and a thorough hunter. So even if it killed him, John was going to finish the job. He groped around blindly for his gun and shot it without looking. He grabbed his matches in the few seconds of relief the ghost's absence granted him and lit the whole damn box with shaking fingers. He didn't even have the strength to climb out of the hole he was about to set on fire, ready to go with the bones.

Just before he could drop it though (as hunters –even dying hunters, apparently –liked to hold burning matches dramatically a few seconds) the boys reappeared. Daniel took him by his shirt collar and dragged him out of the grave and John, though he'd never admit it, was saved by pure luck. When he was pulled forcefully from the hole in the ground, he was so surprised he dropped the whole damn box.

Andrew's image started to shimmer, and he screamed. Daniel's eyes widened at the sight of his brother bursting into flames. "You killed him," Daniel whimpered as the tip of his head erupted. "I have to protect him." The boy disappeared calling his brother's name, and John vaguely wondered if he died doing the same.

But the job was over, and John regained his breath, lying flat on the dead grass next to a burning hole in the ground.

More obnoxious A/N: Yes, I did purposely make Daniel as much like Dean as possible, and yes, I did their date of births and deaths like that on purpose. You could obviously pick up on that, but I just kind of like the way it looks in writing.