Epilogue

A/N: Okay, I lied a little. Not the end. This part's the end though, for sure. The bar scene coming up was actually one of the first I had written as a conclusion to this fic. A little random, I know, but come on, this is the all-knowing John Winchester. And I am a firm believer in the principle that he does not let anyone screw with his kids. And since the boys weren't likely to take anyone on in the immediate future, some almighty force had to intervene. So, cue John Winchester style ass-kicking.

He kept an eye on them after they parted ways. It can't be expected for a father to just abandon his sons completely, and he had never done that. Whether it was surreptitiously checking up on one at school or sending a few hints here and there to the other on solo hunts, he tried to remain just out of eyeshot but close enough.

They were his boys, after all.

So the cards were privately flagged and the word was set out quietly to other hunters, and he watched for a bit. Always keeping up with his own investigation, but stopping every once in a while to just breathe in the memory of his kids.

And then the premium credit card and top class insurance came up at a hospital in the Midwest, and the father dropped everything and sped to it as fast as his truck would take him.

It had to be his oldest. It was always his oldest, always the one trying so hard to save the world and everyone in it. So much on his shoulders and always with a smile on his face, ready to jump into the fire whether it was to save his family or the next Joe off the street. Made him so damn proud and so damn terrified at the same time.

He couldn't go in. His youngest never left, of that he was sure. Kid never did like seeing his brother hurt, and made damn sure to always be around for him. No, it wasn't safe to go in, not for him or the boys.

But he kept tabs, sweet talked to doctors and nurses to get the status updates on both boys. One in particular kept him the most informed, a nurse, who saw to it that the boys would be alright. She cared for them, both of them, and for that he was eternally grateful.

It killed him knowing how much his sons were hurting. Knowing they were so close to him, but he couldn't, couldn't just go up and hug them and hold them and rock them to sleep until the monsters went away like he wanted to.

Monsters.

Nothing that he could do directly for his boys, he turned his attention to the monsters that had caused this, the ones so careless as to sink their teeth into his son, his family.

It didn't take him long to figure it out. Humans. Figured it would be ordinary people capable of such acts of evil. It disgusted him more than the supernatural ones he had cut down in his years. People as monsters. He'd never understand it, not if he managed to live a thousand years and a hundred lives.

So he watched, kept close eyes on his boys, on his family, watched them crack and break and, amazingly, heal themselves and move on together.

You'd be proud of them, honey. I know you can't approve of so much that I've done, but be proud of that. Be proud of your boys.

And he watched, just out of eyeshot as they took off to another nameless town in another nameless part of the world. His boys, picking up the pieces to glue them back together and moving on.

He kept guard a little while longer, to see that they were indeed alright, and then turned his sights back to the monsters. He had his mission, and it was one he would enjoy.

He would make sure his timing was perfect.

The bar is smoky, filled with good humor and rowdy music and lots of beer. A few poker games take up the back, pool and darts towards the front. The scene would be a fun one if not for that posse that head in every few weeks. They're a black spot on the place, always looking to screw over some newcomer or take someone out back for a brawl. The bartenders would kick them out, but they're smart; they never break any rules while they're actually in the building. They're here tonight, too, loud and obnoxious as all hell, spilling their drinks and hitting on the waitresses a little too much.

There's a man, up on a stool, who's keeping to himself, nursing a beer with his eyes down. He's got an old leather jacket on, worn down from years of living. He's comfortable in this kind of place, even with the loud crowd next to him. They carry on with their night, pushing and shoving at each other and getting ready to set up a game of pool for the next poor bastard who heads in and looks at them funny.

They don't know they're being watched, that their conversations are being overheard. That man, up on the stool, he's got pretty good hearing for his age.

They start to prattle on about an incident a few weeks ago. A proud moment for them, apparently, a time of triumph. Getting back what was theirs, enjoying the sport of it.

Beating the sap out of some poor kid who couldn't do much more than duck his head.

"Eight on one, huh. Doesn't exactly sound like a fair fight, does it." The voice comes calmly, not shouted, but loud enough to reach the ears it is intended for.

The men sneer, unused to being chastised. "Hey, the little brat got what was comin' to him. Screwin' us over like that. Cheatin' kid got away with more'n half a grand, but I think we got back enough in return." They share a laugh, drunk off of cheap beer and cocky attitudes.

They don't realize what they've set off in this man.

They don't realize it when they slap a few dollars down on the bar and one gives a corresponding slap to a waitresses' behind, ignoring her squeal of protest. They don't realize it they start their game of pool, no one wanting to push them with a game so they play each other for laughs.

They don't realize it when the man steps off the stool and towards the pool table, offering a game for them. They see he's older and think it's an easy mark, so one sets up while the others watch, drunken grins on their faces.

They don't realize it when he wins five games in a row, though the smiles have slid off their faces at this point. He takes the money with a nod and a tight jaw, leaving the bar as they seethe after him. With a quick turn of his head he says, in that same calm tone, "Maybe you should pay a bit more attention to who you're going up against."

He heads to the back alley. He knows what to expect, and he's ready for it. But they don't know.

They don't realize it as they stumble out the back to follow him, eyes darkened with anger and fists rearing to go.

No, it's only after they've surrounded him in a half circle as he backs towards a wall, jeering and insulting and spitting at his feet and just waiting for him to drop his shoulder so they can tear into him, only after they see him raise his head and look into his eyes.

Only then to they realize what an enormous mistake they've made.

Five minutes later, all eight men lie in a heap in the back alley, bloodied and bruised. He was ruthless, punch after punch fired in rapid succession, fury-filled blows rained down on them as they swung out wildly and tried to regroup and failed. It was a massacre, but not the one they had been expecting. One man on eight, and he had taken them down with barely a blink of his eye.

A few of them are still a little bit conscious, so he leans forward to the jackass who tried to gut him with his little pig sticker, and pulls his face up. One eye's swollen shut but the other one can see just fine, and the man's blood runs cold as he looks into the eyes of the man who managed to take them all out with barely a scratch on him.

"I want you to listen, very carefully. I know the stunts you pull on the people who come into this place. If I catch wind that you or any of your buddies are pulling crap like this again, I'll be back. And trust me, a busted rib and a black eye will be the least of your worries."

He abruptly releases the guy's jaw and takes a step back. He adjusts his jacket and wipes the blood off his split lip.

"Wh-what the hell?" the man manages to sputter out through broken teeth.

"You should pay a little more attention to the kids you mark for a beating. Particularly when they're mine."

With that he turns to leave, not a glance back at them. He rubs his fingers over his knuckles, feeling the split skin there, but it was more than worth it.

No one screws with John Winchester's boys, after all.