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“Jesus Christ!” John Winchester collapsed on the lone motel bed, kicking off his filthy boots as soon as he got his back on the duvet and eyes shut. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He had just flushed out a nasty nest of vampire children—and wasn’t that just the bees knees of his existence. It stung for sure. Seven vampires all under the age of twelve, in appearance at least, and John had gone in swinging, not letting his silver machete falter even once.
Killing evil things that had the faces of the innocent—it would fuck with a weaker man’s head, make his stomach writhe with disgust. Fortunately, John had seen it all and his constitution held up better than just about anyone’s in the face of adversity.
He still fucking hated cutting off the heads of baby-vampires. One of the worst hunts of his life.
But there had been a lead on the yellow-eyed demon, and John followed where the trail led him. In fact, after he dealt with the vampiric box car children, John inspected the home and found traces of sulfur.
But, as John’s luck resulted in more often than not, he inspected the surrounding area and no dice. The demon was gone.
With no real choice, he retreated to the Flamingo Motel, where he had stayed all week while strategizing, where everything was just a bit too cheerful and pastel after such a hunt, and took what felt like his first breath in days.
The unfortunate side effect of taking a breath was now his mind was calm enough, devoid enough of adrenaline, to wander into even more unpleasant territory.
His sons.
More specifically, his youngest, Sam, whom he had barely seen or heard from in the last decade, aside from a rare photo or phone call. Seeing those vampire children ignited memories in John. Times before his life had become even more screwed up than it already was. Times when his boys played alphabet road games in the back seat of the Impala while a driving John cracked a window to let out the cigarette smoke, T. Rex droning on in the background.
Times when he had begrudgingly let Sam join his sixth grade soccer team, and watched from the edge of the trees, a ways away from the other parents, as Sam scored a goal and his teammates came over to congratulate him. Sam didn’t even know John was there until after the game, and the way his kid’s eyes widened and the way he almost couldn’t stop smiling when he saw his dad evoked a deep sense of shame and joy within John. Even then, John knew he was a fuck up parent. No kid should be surprised to see you at their game. That should be a given.
But John couldn’t dwell on that. Nothing else outweighed his mission. No matter how bad his boys got, there was always evil out there that needed to be put down. He was doing a service that needed to get done, and he wasn’t going to let his own personal life get in the way. The way he raised those boys, he couldn’t regret it. He couldn’t or it would break him.
John, thinking of all these memories, knew he could never get back there. Not to that happy place before his life fell apart a second time. Not after what he saw. Not after what he let happen.
Because John, while he may not be the most astute or cunning of men, was no fool. He knew he bore the brunt of what his kids decided to do. What became of them.
John has spent endless days, drunk and sober, tired and awake, lonely and in the company of others, contemplating his boys. Reliving that day over and over again until it took on an almost unreal quality. The memory was always in the back of his mind. That one awful day that changed their lives forever.
John remembers walking into the motel room, exhausted much like he is now, grateful the hunt was over and ready to check in on Sam and Dean, his boys, make sure they were fine, and get some rest before the next case inevitably started up again.
Walking in and seeing his oldest hunched over little Sam, hand where he should never have ever had it on his baby brother, obviously having just finished—
John was sick every time he thought about it. Sick with anger. At himself. At Dean. At that fucking demon who took away his wife and left him to deal with this mess of a life.
John lost his mind that night. He never hit his children. They were spanked when they were younger when they acted up. As they got older John made them run and do exercises as punishment. Spar.
But he raised his hand to Dean that night, out of fury, out of fear, out of pure animal desperation. John knows he could have killed him, had half a mind to act on those urges until Sam jumped on him from behind, begging and pleading for him to stop.
What followed was a bit of a blur, his heart and mind racing, having no idea what to do. Utterly helpless.
John did the only thing he could think of in that moment and called Bobby. He was the one who knew the boys the best after John.
He doesn’t remember what he said to Bobby, exactly, but by the time he had hung up the phone, his breathing had slowed and his mind calmed and he felt utterly miserable.
Sam had sobbed and sobbed. He remembers that. Remembers the hysterical cries from Sam as he explained he was being sent away. Rejecting the weak comfort John tried to offer as he reached for his youngest son. Dean passed out on one of the beds, unconscious but breathing—John made sure of that.
Sam trying to climb onto Dean to make sure he was fine, and John furiously yanking him back and telling him to stay where John put him.
When Dean finally awoke, John confessed.“Bobby will be here within the hour. Sam is going to live with him now.” John couldn’t look at Dean. He felt disgusted and sick with grief. How could his son—his loyal, golden son—“You’ll stay with me, Dean.” He sighed, and then contemplated that for another moment. If he had been home even half an hour later he would have never known about this—this abuse. John feels ill. “Maybe this is all my fault—leave you boys alone too much. God.” John still can’t look at Dean. A strong emotion rises in his throat, and he doesn’t know if he is going to puke or cry until the tears well up. Last time he cried was when Mary died. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. “This can’t go on.”
John finally looked at Dean and it was as though his son’s soul had left his body. He looked completely devastated. He looked at his brother. “B—but—Sammy—I can’t—“
John felt a well of vindictiveness swell up in him against his oldest at those words. How dare Dean. How dare he. Sam, a child, being—god—being touched like that by his brother—who was also a child, in so many ways.
If Dean wasn’t his son, and if it weren’t for Sam, he would be dead right now. But, as it was, John hated himself more than his boys, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t punish them.
He had to fix them.
“You’ll never see Sam again if I have any say in it.” John meant it.
There wasn’t a day that passed that John forgot that day or the days that followed. Missing Sam, checking in with Bobby and hearing the struggles that his youngest was going through without his brother and father. It was inevitable. John knew he had made the right decision but it wasn’t an easy one.
Navigating his new relationship with Dean was painful. He saw Dean in a completely different light now. It took time to get accustomed to silence in the car, a more reserved boy by his side than who he was used to. No more singing along to AC/DC at the top of his lungs or telling lewd jokes to get a laugh out of John and Sam. No. Dean was a different boy after John sent Sammy away. But John couldn’t regret that.
Eventually, not too long ago actually, John and Dean completely fell out of touch. It became too hard on both of then to put up the charade of father-son camaraderie.
Dean was an adult and John had to let him go. Sam was an adult now, too—he had talked to Bobby a year back and his youngest son was in college at Stanford.
Thinking about this, John knew he made the right decision sending Sam away. The boy had landed on his own two feet.
John couldn’t exactly say the same for Dean, who was never really right after that night, but that was no longer his problem. Dean was his own man now. That familiar grief welled up, but John was accustomed to it and let it in. He had long learned to face the truth and knew that it hurt like a bitch. He relished in the feeling.
John stretched his arms above his head and slowly sank into the darkness of his mind, let his thoughts go, and his worries find home in the emptiness of sleep.