If there was just one thing John'd learned in Vietnam, it was that you could almost always tell when things were going to go wrong.

He hadn't been superstitious back then, hadn't known enough to be, so he'd snickered along with all the other greenhorns when their commanding officers talked about knowing when a mission was destined to go sideways. He'd been forced to accept it was a real thing, though, when evidence kept popping up right in front of his face. There was a feeling in the air, against your skin. A flavor on your tongue that wasn't like anything else. Like the universe was trying to give you a heads-up.

It might've saved his life over there, and it definitely came in handy with hunting. Of course, on rare occasions, you didn't get a warning. The last night of John's first life, when he'd lost his Mary and everything'd changed forever for him and their boys, there'd been nothing at all. And, even more obvious, it wouldn't do you any good if you got a warning and ignored it

Like tonight.

John's alarm bells had been ringing since midafternoon. Icy prickles crawling up and down his arms had him absentmindedly brushing off bugs he knew weren't there, and a taste sour enough to turn his stomach sat heavy in his mouth no matter what he ate or drank. He thought about loading the boys up with books and holing up in the room for a night of research, as he laid out rubber gloves and knives long enough to reach a man's heart. He should've done that. God knew it'd've made Sammy's day. But they'd managed all the research that was necessary, and this thing was rapidly racking up a body count higher than a line of faulty spark plugs. And all the feeling and the taste did was tell John things were gonna go to shit at some point. Not when. Not how. And there was no way to tell what'd fix it and what'd make it worse.

So John passed out gear to Sammy and Dean. He gave a rundown of what they were doing, a few warnings ("Don't let anybody touch you. No skin-to-skin contact, not even anything casual. And no drinking. Dean? I'm looking at you."), packed them up, then headed for the dive bar they'd nailed down as their target's hunting grounds. It was John's fault.

Well. Him and that damn incubus. Not like he'd gotten that shit all over his sons.

They'd just gotten back in, just barely. John had seen enough cheap two-bed motel rooms over the last fourteen years for them all to blend together into one in his head, and it looked exactly like this one. Ratty carpet. Chipping paint. Stained bedding. Tiny bathroom with exposed plumbing John had just handcuffed his oldest son to.

One of the bracelets rattled around the rusty pipe, the chain snapping taut as Dean lunged, fighting just as hard now as he had while John'd been trying to wrestle him in here. John, hands in gloves and a bandanna hastily tied over his mouth and nose, backed up, out of his son's reach. He was sucking win. The rough fabric snapped taut across his lips, catching on his stubble, then billowed back out.

Muscles and tendons stood out all over Dean's lean teenage body as he strained, bulging veins showing black under the bathroom's one weak bulb. Beads of sweat, like another layer of freckles, covered his bare skin where he'd ripped off his jacket and flannel and Zeppelin concert tee. Literally ripped, in the shirt's case. He was sure gonna be broken up about that when he came down.

Dean threw himself forward again with a frustrated little groan, the arm John'd cuffed stretched out painfully behind him. His pupils were blown wide, a hair-thin glimmer of green only showing up around them when he moved his head. John didn't let himself look below his waist. He'd already seen the bulge in his jeans and was trying to pretend it wasn't there.

"Dad." Dean's voice was a growl. John'd heard him talk to girls like that before, kinda. Not quite so deep. "Lemme go. Gotta..." He trailed off into a clenched-teeth snarl as he kept struggling mindlessly against the cuffs. He grabbed for John with his free hand, and John was glad he'd pressed his back up against the flimsy door. Which was shaking in its frame, a small body rhythmically ramming into it over and over, but he'd deal with that in a second.

"You're gonna thank me for this once this whole thing's blown over," John told Dean in a growl of his own. "And you better believe me and you are gonna have a long talk about what happened tonight."

The door thumped again. It probably would've held even without John on the other side, but he wasn't about to let his youngest batter himself bloody and bruised on it. He counted to a slow three after the hit, turned, and barged through the door to catch a charging Sammy hard at the stomach with one arm. The breath spilled right out of him, just like John'd intended, but he still managed to muster up a thin, high voice to cry, "De!"

"Sammy!" Dean bellowed before John kicked the bathroom door shut behind him. He hadn't searched him before sticking him in there, wondered if he should've. There was a real good chance he had lockpicks on him. Actually, he better have some. But John was more or less positive he couldn't even remember what they were right now, much less how to use them.

John wrapped his other arm around Sammy and picked him up, small, kicking feet lifting off the nubbly carpet. Sammy didn't weigh a whole lot more than John's weapons-filled duffel. He had yet to hit a real growth spurt, but the baby fat that'd filled him out for the first dozen or so years of his life was already gone, cheekbones and tiny, scrappy muscles showing through. Sammy had a lot of hard angles these days, and he did his best to drive every single one of them into John's chest and stomach, writhing and squalling as he carried him across the room. Not that it did any good. John stepped over his clothes, puddled on the floor, and thanked his lucky stars (not God, never God) that he couldn't feel any of his son's naked skin. The hard thing poking into his thigh, though, leaking warm and wet on his jeans, was a different story.

He felt the bite coming before Sammy's teeth could touch him, fourteen years of instinct and experience in action. He snatched a handful of sweaty hair the same color as his own and dragged Sammy's head back. He howled his frustration, eyes as junkie-wide as Dean's as his jaws worked uselessly at the air.

"Thought I told Dean to give you a haircut last weekend. Again." Sammy's hair had grown out, long enough to flop over his ears and hang in his eyes. "You better not've thrown another fit about it."

"No! Lemme go!" Sammy kicked wildly at John's shins, toes curled. When John tossed him down on the bed furthest from the bathroom, he bounced hard on the squealing spring mattress, then immediately tried to scramble off. "I need it! I need him!"

"You don't know what you need." John grabbed Sammy's bony shoulder and flipped him over onto his back. Grabbing another pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket, he slung one bracelet around the surprisingly-sturdy bedpost and clapped the other onto Sammy's thin wrist, ratcheting it down until it fit him. "You never do."

Sammy rolled his head to the side to stare fuzzily at the cuffs, whimpering as he tried to pull his hand free. The metal was already digging into his soft skin. His wrist'd probably be a red, raw mess by the time the cuffs could come off, and John felt awful about it. The last thing Sammy needed was more scars. Hadn't exactly had time to wrap his arm with gauze or anything, though.

Dean was still banging and rattling and yelling in the bathroom, and it didn't take long for Sammy to stop trying to figure out the handcuffs and start just trying to yank himself free, but at least they were both locked down. For now. John grabbed a blanket, rough and faded, off the foot of the bed and tossed it over Sammy to try and give him the privacy he was so fond of these days. He kicked it off in seconds.

John figured he could risk a breather. He dropped heavy onto the other bed. There were only two, just like always. Just like always, he'd started out with Sammy in his bed when they'd rolled into town, because it'd occurred to him a few years back that maybe it wasn't right for the boys to keep sleeping together, with Dean going through puberty and all. And just like always, he'd lasted less than one night before he kicked Sammy out, sending him over to Dean. The kid was a squirmer. So much of one not even whiskey before bed could let John sleep through it. He got nightmares, too, and they all did, but Sammy's were loud, and Dean was better with that.

"De," Sammy whispered. His narrow chest heaved as he panted, and his knuckles were bone-colored where he was clutching the edge of the mattress with his free hand. His eyes, black puddles of pure wanting, flicked from the bathroom door up to John. "Please...he...I gotta - "

His hand came off the mattress, jittered towards the middle of his body. John cleared his throat loudly and rocked himself to his feet as he looked away. He needed some air. They were on opposite sides of the room and there was no way they were getting loose, wasn't like he needed to stay in here and babysit them.

He snagged a beer out of the beat-up minifridge on his way out of the room. He wanted something harder, needed something harder, but his last couple fingers of Old Crow had mysteriously disappeared out of the bottle (Dean, of course) and while he was fine stepping out of the room, running down to a bar was outta the question. Especially because the nearest bar was the incubus one.

Outside, John slumped against the dirty cinder blocks and yanked the bandanna around his neck. Drinking in fresh, clean air was nearly as good as the booze would've been. Nearly. The October-in-Illinois cold was nice as a woman's touch against his sweaty face, soothing the headache that'd been building behind his eyelids all night. He twisted the cap off the beer, thick gloves making it easy, and killed more than half of it in one pull.

He wasn't even sure he needed to be covered up like this. Yeah, Sammy and Dean were (or had been) covered in sex pollen, that powdery bullshit incubi and succubi used to get their victims hot and bothered so they could feed. It came off their bodies like dandruff on humans. Pheromones, Sammy'd speculated while they were researching, hormones, chemicals. John didn't know what those were and didn't care.

The pollen might be gone by now, dead or in his boys' bloodstreams. John sure as shit wasn't taking any chances, though.

He thought about hosing the two of them down. Might be too late on the pollen, but the cold would probably help, at least. But only Dean was in the bathroom, and the shower head was just a naked pipe coming out of the wall, so he'd have to get him in the stall, and...yeah. Not worth it.

He put the bottle to his mouth again, the cold stinging his lips, and nursed what was left rather than chugging it like he wanted to. He was craving a cigarette nearly as much as he was hard liquor. He'd been young when he stared smoking, just for fun. He'd picked it up real heavy in the service, quit when he met Mary because she couldn't stand it, started again after she died even though he knew it wasn't good for Sammy. He quit again, for good this time he told himself, when he started hunting, knowing he couldn't afford to get any shorter of breath than he already was. He hadn't craved nicotine in years. And he told himself it was willpower, rather than how much more he was drinking.

Tonight, though. Shit. Tonight, he would've taken weed. Never mind that he hadn't been able to stand the stuff any of the times he'd tried it.

The beer was gone. It was miles away from being enough, but there was more in the fridge. In the room. John spun the neck of the bottle slowly in his fingers as he weighed staying sober out here against going back in there, with Dean snarling and groaning and Sammy mewling and pleading, both of them straining towards each other. Shrieking metal and the solid whud of flesh hitting wood pulled the empty bottle right out of his hand. It shattered between his boots.

No time to clean it up, and wasn't like it was the only broken glass out here. John swore, adrenaline and fear forcing him straight into a dead sprint. First to the car, to grab a coil of rope out of the trunk, then to the room, barely remembering to pull his bandanna back up before he burst inside.

His eyes went to Sam very first, and yes, he was still alone. Thank you. Up on his knees, whole body taut and trembling, leaning forward so that the handcuffs at the end of the knobby arm he had stretched out behind him were the only thing keeping him from faceplanting straight onto the floor. His eyes were fixed on the bathroom door. John doubted he even noticed him.

The bathroom door, they were gonna wind up paying for if he didn't sneak them out of here before the owner saw it. It was buckled in the middle, splinters jutting out like changeling teeth, and one of the hinges had ripped free from the frame so the upper half just dangled. When Dean hit it again, of course he burst right through.

At least he'd had the sense to use his shoulder, seeing as that was red and scraped up rather than his face. The handcuffs dangled useless from his wrist, one bracelet empty, blood dripping off his fingers where he'd cut himself up. The cuffs weren't broken so the pipe had to be. Goddammit, Dean.

He looked exactly like he had when John'd put him in the bathroom. Sweaty, flushed, eyes a couple of dark pools of desperate need. John only had a second or so to look at him, though, 'cause as soon as he'd gotten his balance back after smashing through the door, he went straight for Sam. John caught him right before he hit the first bed. Barely.

John clotheslined him, snapped the hard edge of his forearm across Dean's throat. Something sort of popped and crackled, and Dean choked, then he went down hard, helped by the hand John slammed into his bare chest. He felt his lungs go flat when he hit the ground, air ripping itself out of him. John had done this exact same thing to a revenant a couple months back.

He'd never used these moves on either of his sons before, not even when he sparred with them. He'd never had to. There wasn't time to think or worry now, though, because all that mattered was keeping them apart. Protecting Sammy. Saving Dean.

Sammy howled. It was a raw, animal noise, wanting and grief and worry. Crouched over Dean, rope in his hands, trying to figure out how best to tie him up, John looked at his youngest. He was back to struggling, writhing on his back with his feet planted against the headboard as he tried to pull himself free, motions so frantic you'd've thought he'd die if he didn't get to his big brother right that second.

It was his face, though, that really gave John pause. Brought him up short as a chop to the throat had Dean. He'd seen that expression on Sammy dozens of times, maybe hundreds, whenever he lost something. When he made him ditch the books weighing his backpack down. When he told him they were heading out again after he'd managed to settle himself in. When he left him with a friend or on his own and took Dean with him on a hunt. John only ever saw slivers of it, though, because Sammy was learning to hide more of what he really felt every day. Part of growing up.

Right now, his face was upside down, head bobbing and weaving as he tried to get a look at Dean beyond the empty bed, all panicky, whining high back in his throat. And it was all on display. Fourteen years' worth of pain, resentment, confusion, and about a million other feelings John couldn't sort out and wasn't sure he wanted to, all tangled up together and bleeding into each other.

There was a lot going on. John wanted to look away. And he should've, because while he was gaping at Sammy, Dean swung a knee up into his groin.

Not like he could get much momentum going, but he came from behind, so he nailed John directly in the balls. He dropped onto his knees and doubled over, hands flying to his crotch, and tried to keep the beer from coming up as the pain rose through him.

Dean didn't waste any time. He pushed himself up and towards the bed, scrambling over it like it was a way bigger obstacle than it was, wheezing through his injured throat. John watched him from the floor.

"'m comin'," he assured Sammy raggedly. Sammy'd stopped fighting his cuffs and was just reaching for Dean with his free hand. His face'd changed, too, something damn near worshipful spreading over it. "Gonna be okay..."

He tacked something on the end, "baby" or maybe even "baby boy." John shoved the bruise-y ache in his balls and stomach to the back of his mind, like he'd learned to in the service, and forced himself to his feet. He kept his thighs as far apart as he could while he grabbed the back of Dean's belt. Dean spun, viper-fast, and his amulet hit John in the face. It split the skin on his nose and there was a warm wetness as blood welled. He jerked back, which was why the punch Dean threw only clipped him right below his mouth.

He saw stars anyway. He'd always had a glass jaw, a trait he was relieved he hadn't passed on to either of his sons. He powered through it, though, snapping his head down and bringing the rest of his weight with it, pinning Dean against the mattress. It creaked loudly. Dean had twisted at the waist, so John forced his chest to the covers, yanked his arms behind his back, brought the rope out.

It was the rough stuff, cheap, hairy. He would've preferred to use their good nylon rope, but their last witch'd sliced it to pieces and he hadn't gotten around to replacing it. Dean'd have some nice burns to go with the cuts on his wrist. But he could take it.

As John lashed Dean's arms to each other, parade-rest style, Dean bucked hard against the bed, making it scream some more. He swung his head from side to side and kicked furiously, toes of his boots drumming on the floor. It was like putting a coat on him when he was three years old. Except he was stronger now. And bigger.

His biceps bulged and rippled as he fought John and the rope, shoulders broad and corded. Blood dripped off John's nose, dotting the hard lines of Dean's back. Looked like his own in the mirror when he was trying to doctor himself. Paler, fewer scars, but otherwise the same.

John wondered how Dean'd turned into a man without him noticing. It'd been pretty recently that he'd been wondering if puberty'd straighten out those bandy little legs of his, hadn't it? When had all these grown-up shapes appeared on him?

He wasn't acting much like a man now, though. More like a monster, twisting and jerking and roaring for Sammy as John dragged him up off the bed and back towards the bathroom.

And of course Sammy was screaming bloody murder, too, voice cracking on his brother's name every few seconds. For the first time, John started worrying about the people in the rest of the motel making a noise complaint, or just calling the cops.

He'd deal with that if it happened, though. Wasn't like he didn't already have enough on his plate without worrying about possibilities.

John took Dean over the shattered remains of the door. Sure enough, the pipe he'd cuffed him to was broken, but he had no idea what it was even doing in the bathroom, seeing as not a single drop of water had come out of it.

What remained of the rope was long enough for John to tie Dean to the toilet and the sink both, looping it tight around the stained porcelain pedestals. As he built up a lopsided spiderweb of rope around Dean, John looked at him. The amulet that'd cut his face hung heavy right below the hollow of Dean's throat. God only knew where he'd got it, but he'd been wearing it for years now. Refused to take it off no matter how many times John pointed out something could strangle him with it. It was one of the few things he dug his heels in on, these days.

He must've been biting his lips, 'cause they were wet, and even bigger and pinker than normal. Dean's mouth was just way too damn pretty for a boy. John'd been worried about it since he was little, worried about other kids making fun of him once he started school, but if they had, Dean'd never said a word.

His lashes were too long for a boy, too, fringing eyes fixed desperate and hungry on his keening little brother. John really wished there was a door still between them. Even if it had been about as sturdy as a discount condom.

Bad comparison. John focused on finishing up with the rope.

"Lemme go to him." It was a throaty mumble. John wouldn't've even heard it if his head hadn't been so close to Dean's, just out of biting range. "Won't hurt him. Never hurt him."

"Like I don't know what you want at him for," John growled back. His balls and nose and chin ached.

Dean's tongue swiped slow over his puffy mouth, and his eyes didn't break from Sammy. There was a smirk in his raspy voice. "Like you don't know he wants it, too."

John didn't even think before he hit him. Not a punch, more like a slap, just an open-handed strike across the face. Dean's head snapped to the side, cheek bloodless white and then burning pink, scrape marks on the ridge of bone near his eye. It was from the textured grip on the thick winter gloves.

There was a second where John didn't feel anything but good. Then he started wishing he hadn't done it, even though Dean didn't seem all that bothered. Was still looking at Sammy, at least. But it was a point of pride for John, how little he hit his boys. And this right now? Wasn't Dean's fault. Okay, was, actually, but what he was saying wasn't. He'd regret all this soon. Once he was back to hanging "sir" on the end of every sentence, proper, like he'd been taught. They all would.

It was John's job to make sure Dean regretted as little as possible.

And right now was the same as it'd always been: he couldn't let weakness surface.

"You don't talk about him like that," he told him, voice low. "He's your brother. Your little brother, and it's your job to take care of him. Always has been, always will be. And it's my job to take care of both of you. Which is why you're staying here..." He jabbed a finger at Dean. "And he's staying there..." He pointed to Sammy. "'Til this shit's outta your systems."

Dean, panting softly, the side of his face starting to puff, didn't even seem to have heard him. He was tied in tight, so John swung himself up out of his crouch, groaning when his knees popped. Then he went to check on Sammy.

John'd heard him growl, ferocious and protective, when he hit Dean, but hadn't hardly registered it. He was still trying to wrench himself off the bed and to his brother with every cell in his body - maybe he was even trying a little harder now, though John wouldn't've thought he even could. When he got close, Sammy's eyes cut from Dean to him, a rainbow of blues and greens and browns and grays sparkling around those huge pupils. He bared his teeth. Being a full-blooded human, it wasn't all that impressive.

"Easy, boy." John held his gloved hand out. He added, "You try and bite me again, you can bet I'm shaving your damn head."

That didn't bother Sammy like he'd expected it to, even though he seemed to like his hair long, for some stupid reason. Maybe the same stupid reason that had Dean wearing a necklace all the time. Putting themselves in danger.

John swore when he came around the bed, able to see Sammy's little wrist. It was scraped raw, cut up. It wasn't bleeding too bad yet, but there were red smears all over the covers and pillows where he'd been flopping around. His shoulder didn't look quite right, either. Not dislocated, but not far from it.

"Christ, just look at how you tore yourself up." John reached for him, but Sammy shied away, moving like some feral thing that'd just been let out of its cage after years and years.

"No! Don't touch me! Stay away!" Sammy pressed his knobby spine against the headboard, glaring at John with loathing so raw it should've been able to burn. "I hate you!"

It was the first time John'd heard him say it, but probably not the first time he'd thought it. He knew he meant it, too, in that hot, impulsive teenage way. Every day, John felt like he recognized his youngest less. It seemed impossible that the baby who'd napped on his chest and played with Mary's golden curls for hours on end had turned into this skinny little thing in front of him, whip-smart and shaggy-haired and a growing pain in his ass.

He hadn't gone through anything like this with Dean. Had no idea where Sammy's spitfire rebellious streak had come from.

"Sammy!" Dean hollered. Sammy's head jerked towards him, straining red-faced against his ropes in the bathroom, and a needy little whine dribbled out of him.

"De..." John's stomach turned.

"Two choices, Sam." John snapped his fingers, quiet in the gloves, to get his attention. "Either you hold still and lemme patch you up, or you can sit there and deal with it 'til you come down."

Sammy clenched his toes and feet, digging them into the covers that were all twisted up with his kicking and writhing, and grabbed at his dick with his free hand. John looked before he could help himself. Sammy was swollen a dusky red, bigger than he would've thought, more in the way of length than girth. And he was slick wet, wiry dark hair around his base matted with what'd leaked out of him. John moved his eyes away quick as he could.

"I want my brother," Sammy said passionately. Dean murmured in the bathroom, husky and low, but John didn't even try to figure out what he was saying.

"Fine." John turned his back on both his sons, not sure which cut deeper: the disgust or the realization that he didn't think he could do this.

He didn't know how long this thing was gonna last. He didn't even know for sure what it'd do to them, since pretty much everybody who got hopped up on sex pollen wound up dead. He didn't know if there was anything he could do to cut the effect short. It felt like he didn't know anything, because he'd only focused on killing the incubus, not taking care of its victims. He hadn't been counting on a problem. Especially not this problem. Not even when he got the feeling.

He was gonna have to call somebody. He hated asking for help at the best of times, and with this, there was only one person who could help him.

He walked to the front of the room, where a blocky beige phone sat on a rickety table. There was a sagging chair next to it, but he didn't sit down as he dialed. His balls were still killing him from Dean's knee. He wasn't quite sure which number to use. So he just punched in the one a normal person would.

"Singer Salvage." Bobby picked up on the second ring despite how late it was, voice gruff and short. Like he wanted his midnight caller to make damn sure what they wanted was important before they said anything.

John was sure. "It's me."

There was a long, long pause, and he let it stretch out. Gave Bobby a chance to just hang up. Turn his back on him, on them, again, like so many other people had.

"John Winchester." Bobby cleared his throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Need your help," John ground out. The hardest words he knew, and he found himself saying them all the time, seemed like.

"Figured," Bobby replied dryly. "You ain't exactly the type to call just to apologize."

"Apologize?" John's hand clamped down on the phone without him wanting it to, and plastic creaked and popped. What the hell'd he have to apologize for, when Bobby was the one who'd run Dean off or let him go? Hardly made a difference when what'd happened was that he hadn't taken care of him like he'd promised. When he'd fucking shot at the car as John peeled out, Sammy and Dean in the back seat? The fact it'd been rock salt didn't matter, either. A gun was a gun.

None of it mattered now, though, and it was the creaking of the mattress behind him, the wet noise of Sammy licking his lips around a breathy moan, that reminded him of it. He cooled off. The anger settled back down into queasiness and concern. "It's my boys, Bobby."

Bobby didn't say anything right away, but John heard his whole bearing change, or maybe felt it. "They okay?"

"Both alive," John assured, "both whole." He wanted to turn around to check on them but was afraid of what he might find. They were both making noises he never should've heard from them. "Got a problem here anyway, though."

"Tell me what happened," Bobby ordered, all business.

"Incubus in Illinois." John rubbed his free hand over his covered face. "Body count isn't too high, so I know it's just one, but that one must be - "

"This relevant?" Bobby interrupted. John had to kill the anger again.

"These things aren't usually too dangerous," he told him. "Sammy's fourteen, he did good with the werewolf and all the ghosts, so I thought this'd be a good hunt for him." Silence from Bobby. John knew all about his feelings on the matter and didn't care. They weren't his sons. "And they knew, I told them. They helped me with the research. They weren't gonna touch anybody unless it was to stab that thing through the heart."

"What happened?" Bobby repeated.

"I lost track of 'em," John admitted. "That's on me, I get that. But I found 'em again pretty quick. They were together. They looked weird, but I figured they were just spooked. Sammy told me what happened." Speaking of Sammy, he was calling Dean's name over and over again, almost sobbing it. John wondered if Bobby could hear him. "A guy grabbed Dean. No idea what the hell he was doing, it never should've got that close. Sam ran it off, thought it went out the back door, but the little shit didn't bother going after it. Just stayed with Dean, checked him out. Must've touched him a lot." Just remembering how goddamn stupid they'd both been pissed John off all over again - he'd really thought he taught them better. "Of course I wanted to find it and put it down before it got too far, but I figured they'd do less damage back at the room and I couldn't make Sammy walk. We're halfway back when he says he feels off. I heard some things, so I look in the back and they're - "

He'd meant to say exactly what he'd seen. Intended to. But the words curled up and died in his throat, choking him. He couldn't say it out loud. How could he tell a guy who'd known his kids since they'd wet the bed every night that his older son's mouth'd been on the younger one's? That the younger one'd been pulling him closer? Or that they'd both been scrambling to get their pants off?

"So you think they got some pollen on 'em, huh?" Bobby asked after another long pause, apparently waiting for him to continue and then realizing he wasn't going to.

"Obviously," John said grimly. "Monster got it on Dean, Dean got it on Sammy."

"I'm gonna assume you got 'em secured."

"Sammy's cuffed to the bed and Dean's tied up in the bathroom. I just brought 'em back to the room, didn't know what else to do...got my hands and face covered, too."

"That ain't necessary at this point, I'd say. All either in them or worn off by now." Bobby grunted. "Anyway. So what you want's a five-minute fix."

"Sure be helpful," John agreed, pulling his bandanna down around his neck again.

"Well, then, you're just gonna be pleased as punch to hear there ain't one," Bobby practically announced. "Not one I know about, at least, which probably means it don't exist. What you do got here is options. Couple of 'em."

"Yeah?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"First one's just to...wait it all out," Bobby said. John could almost hear the shrug. "Let their systems flush the pheromones. Which they will, eventually. 'Til then, they're gonna be a bigger pain in your ass than usual. They ain't gonna be interested in eating, or drinking, or sleeping, and they'll be willing to literally rip themselves apart to get what they do want in the meantime."

"And how long's it gonna take? To wear off."

"Depends," Bobby replied. "On how strong the incubus was and how much of his pollen they picked up. Might be just a couple more hours, but...you might be in for a few days of this."

John's jaw clenched, closing so tight all the teeth on the right side started to jolt with pain. He'd had to get them capped after a rawhead's fist shattered them a couple years ago. In the bathroom, the heels of Dean's boots drummed dully on the peeling linoleum. He was trying to rip himself free, probably.

"What's the other option?

"You ain't gonna like it," Bobby warned.

"Just tell me."

"Give 'em what they want," Bobby stated. "What the pollen's making 'em want. If they get that, it'll be over a hell of a lot sooner."

For a second, John thought he'd clenched his jaw so hard his teeth'd locked together. Then he realized he could open his mouth just fine, although he wasn't sure he wanted to, afraid he'd be sick. He'd just been shocked into silence.

"I know you're not suggesting what I think you are." John said it so quietly he nearly breathed it into the phone, which he knocked himself in the head with when Sammy and Dean started up again and made him flinch. They were yelling for each other, full throttle, throwing themselves hard against what was holding them back. He guessed the past few minutes had been them taking a break.

"Toldja you weren't gonna like it." Bobby didn't sound surprised.

"Okay, so." John squeezed his eyes shut. "There are girls around here I could pay to do this. We interviewed some 'cause the incubus is taking their johns. I'll bring a couple back here, give them enough so they don't ask questions, make sure there's...protection..."

Twenty years ago, he had no doubt he'd've punched out anybody who told him he'd be wondering how much he'd need to pay a couple prostitutes to satisfy his teenage sons. Since Mary'd gone, though, he'd done a lot he'd've punched people out for talking about. He wasn't even sure this was the worst thing.

"Sure, that could work," Bobby agreed. It came as a surprise. John'd expected him to shoot the plan down. "Lemme ask you a question first, though, John. They goin' after you, or just each other?"

John did not think of himself as having a weak stomach. He'd come close to wetly, violently losing his dinner more times tonight than he had in the past year, though.

"Don't think I could handle it if they were comin' at me," he muttered once the urge had passed. "No. Sammy tried to bite me and Dean threw a punch." He didn't see fit to mention the ball-busting to Bobby. "'Cause I was...pulling 'em away from each other."

"Uh huh. So they ain't interested in anybody else?"

"I'm the only one here."

"Can't say I'm all that surprised." It sounded like Bobby was talking to himself. He cleared his throat. "How much you know about incubi and succubi, John?"

"Enough."

"Uh huh," Bobby said, in that sassy, condescending quit-your-bullshit way that John hated. He was convinced that half of Sammy's brand-new attitude had come from Bobby, even though it'd been a while since he'd seen him. "So you got no idea how their pollen works. Sam knows, probably. I reckon you'd know, too, if you just listened to him for once."

"I called you for help," John began, not trying at all to keep how close he was to losing it out of his voice.

"I know you did," Bobby replied. "Which means you're just gonna have to put up with me, ain'tcha?" The cheek dropped out of his tone after that, which was the only reason John didn't hang up or break the phone. "Only reason I'm talking to you's your boys, John. Got it? I'll try and make it quick for their sake."

John didn't say anything. He was mad, he was tired, and he was freaked out, and it wasn't helping, how bad he needed Bobby right now.

"Ideal victim for an incubus is a loner," Bobby began. "Single people, people whose relationships are starting to fizzle out. That's why they hang around bars and strip clubs and the like. When the pollen hits, those people'll go for knocking boots with literally anybody, and closest one's usually the monster. That'd be what this one tried with Dean."

"They don't seem to want just anybody, though," John pointed out, frustrated. "Thought we covered that. They're only interested in each other."

"I'm gettin' to that," Bobby replied, sounding annoyed. "Sex pollen don't work the way it's supposed to if the vic's in love. I'm talking real, true, fairy-tale love, here. They're in love, they won't give the incubus, or anybody else, a second glance. All they want's that one person."

It took John much longer than it should've to understand what Bobby was saying. There was a whole lot muddling his thoughts right now that could explain the delay. Or maybe there was a big part of him that just didn't wanna get it.

John sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. He clutched the handset, feeling like he had his heels on the edge of a bottomless pit that'd been growing for years, toes out in the void, the phone the only thing that might keep him from falling.

And it'd be easy to fall, he knew. The only thing easier'd be getting mad.

"What kinda fuckin' bullshit is that?" he demanded. His voice dropped, even though there was no way Sammy and Dean could hear him over the racket they were making. "You seriously expect me to believe my kids are." He stopped dead, had to spit it out. "In love with each other?"

"I didn't say that," Bobby said calmly. "Just gave you the facts."

"Well, that ain't a fact." More of John's rural Indiana accent slipped out than he liked when he got pissed enough. "I know I haven't been a perfect father, I'm the first to admit I've made mistakes, but I raised them right. They're good boys. There's nothing like that going on, no way. If something'd started happening, don't you think I would've noticed? Don't you think I would've put a stop to it right outta the gate?"

Bobby's silence just made John madder.

"That why you stopped taking care of 'em?" he demanded, acid and heat churning in his guts. "You thought you saw this? Thought you had it all figured out?"

"I never stopped." There was steel in Bobby's voice. "Dean ran off looking for you, and you took 'em away and never brought 'em back. Just like always, you thought you knew best and nobody could do better than you, just 'cause you're their blood."

"That's all that matters!" John exploded. He slammed a hand down onto the table in front of him, and one of the cheap goddamn thing's legs snapped, so it listed to the side. He grabbed the phone before it could slide off. Behind him, Sammy sucked in a sharp breath, and a low, angry growl started rolling out of Dean.

"Be out soon as I can, Sammy," he promised his little brother. "Don't be scared, 'kay?"

"Hurry, De, please hurry," Sammy begged back. "Need you so bad."

John tuned them both out as he yelled into the phone: "Family's all you can count on, all you need! I figured that out real early and I've been telling them for years, I know it. They know it, too."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "I 'spect they do."

"Fuck you," John snarled. "You sick bastard. There's nothing, nothing like that going on between 'em, hear me? I know what you want. You think I should just let my sons screw each other, but guess what? It ain't gonna happen." He swallowed a mouthful of spit that tasted like old pennies. "If you were standing in front of me, I'd shoot you right in the face. Use the whole clip."

"Don't doubt it," Bobby replied with a cough. "Guess I don't blame you too much, either. For this right now. I wouldn't exactly be thrilled if somebody tried to tell me this 'bout my boys, either." There was silence, only Sammy and Dean pleading and promising and panting in the background. "I know you ain't gonna do it, but lemme ask you for a favor anyway, John: make sure both of 'em know I'm here if they need anything."

"Fuck," John repeated through gritted teeth, "you, Singer."

"Gotcha." Bobby didn't sound bothered or shocked. "Sure they know already, anyway." Actually, he mostly just sounded tired. "Don't know why you called me if you weren't gonna take my advice."

"I wanted real advice and you know it. Not a bunch of insults and sick bullshit."

"You better get ready to lay in that bed you made real soon, John," Bobby told him flatly. "Someday, you ain't gonna have a choice."

He hung up with a quiet click, the phone going back into the cradle. John pulled in a slow, measured breath. Then he rammed his phone back into its own cradle, punching it down, numbered keys scattering like teeth, plastic casing cracking and shattering under his knuckles. He smashed through the base, hit the palm of his other hand, then whipped what was left of the phone at the wall. The handset, tethered to a mess of wire and metal and plastic shards by its cord, dented the drywall and chipped the paint. Then it clattered to the floor.

John grabbed his head, dragging his hands back over his hair as he started to pace, keys and pieces crunching under his boots. They felt like sticks, or dry bones. His hand ached. It'd bruise but wouldn't bleed, thanks to his gloves. More pain to add to his balls, his face. Something way back in him that didn't even feel like part of his body.

He could see Sammy out of the corner of his eye. He was focused on the headboard now, trying to rock it apart from the bed, throwing fevered glances at Dean in the bathroom every other second. Ribs and muscles fanned out from his spine like stunted little wings, dusted with moles and scars. So many scars. All over both of them. All of them.

John had a beer in his hand. His gloves were gone, misshapen fighter's knuckles already swelling. He didn't remember taking them off, or walking over, or opening the fridge. He guessed he didn't care. But before he could rip the cap off, a voice had him glancing at the bathroom just like Sam.

"Don't you dare fucking touch him."

Dean'd managed to loosen the ropes some, somehow. Enough to get his legs under him and squat, shoulders yanked back by the rope pulling on his arms. His voice was even rougher now from the blow to his throat earlier, one eye squinting with the swelling on that side of his face, full lips pulled back from white teeth.

"You hurt him, I'll chew your goddamn face off."

John chuckled. It didn't sound or feel like he was the one who'd made the noise. "You really wanna talk to your father that way, boy?"

"I'm gonna get loose," Dean said with rock-solid surety. "I gotta get loose. I'm gonna get to him, and we're gonna get what we need. I got - " His eyelids fluttered, he groaned. With his knees spread, the wet spot on the front of his jeans was on full display, and it kept drawing John's unwilling eyes to it like a magnet. "I got no problem killing you first if you hurt him, though."

"You even know who I am right now, Dean?" John uncapped the beer and chugged hard from it. The cold, bitter fluid rushing past the insides of his ears didn't drown out Dean's response.

"Know I need him." Sammy's "Need you, too" was breathless. "Don't need you."

John took one last swallow, then lowered the mostly-empty bottle, licking his lips. He tasted blood from the cut on his nose. "You sure 'bout that?"

"Lemme go. Now." It was just like Sammy: no filter right now. Everything Dean might've ever held back pouring fast out of him in a hot, wet, steamy mess. "Do what you're good at after that." Dean's torso arched, stretched, hips rutting the air as he pinned John down with one-and-a-half eyes. "Leave us alone."

John smirked humorlessly, looking down at his bottle as he swilled around the beer left in it. It was foamier than he would've liked. They were a little strapped for cash lately, so he'd had to buy a cheap brand. He'd been thinking about asking Dean to sell his tape player and headphones for food and supply money. He already knew what the answer'd be.

"You know why I do that?" he began quietly. "You know how much I've done for the two of you over the years?" His voice started to rise, and he let it. "How I've kept you safe? Taught you how to protect yourselves? All about what's out there?" He'd been wanting to say this for a while now. Especially with Sammy bitching constantly, acting like the truth and training he'd been given were a burden, thinking him riding out the whole year at one school was somehow more important than the dozens of lives they might save. He got Dean to bitch for him, too. John'd bled for these boys, over and over again, them and so many other people, and none of them cared. Not even the ones he'd raised and taught and worked beside. "You know what I've gone through to keep us all together? I never had that when I was your age. You know what I've done to keep you two fed and warm? Jesus Christ, you realize where you'd be if I hadn't pulled myself up after your mother - after she - " He was shouting. "If I hadn't got us moving and talked to Missouri and bought guns and knives and started learning? You know how much you owe me? You know why I do it all, you ungrateful, snot-nosed little brats?"

Silence, John's furious voice ringing off the sickly yellow walls and the cheap prints hanging on them. His throat hurt. Felt tight. He polished off the beer, which didn't help much, and lobbed the empty bottle into the wastebasket. He went to grab another.

"I don't care." They said it at the exact same time. Sammy's was angry and fierce, seething with that same teenage hate like heat rising out of the jungle, but it was Dean's that John really heard. Because there wasn't much feeling at all in it. It was low, matter-of-fact, like he meant it and had for a long time.

John turned towards him, slowly. Dean wasn't looking at him. His eyes were back on Sammy, leaving no doubt as to what he did care about.

John wasn't sure when it'd started, but Dean was the exact opposite of Sammy: he'd seen more and more of himself in Dean lately, until it came close to looking a mirror. Not physically; the boy favored his mother, with his light hair and eyes, and his fair skin. But otherwise, he worked hard, hit harder, was always looking for the next hunt. The next life to save. He followed orders and John had seen a budding bloodlust in him when he killed a monster, and much as it worried him, even that was familiar. He was a good soldier.

John wondered when he'd stopped seeing Dean as his own person. Even more, he wondered when he'd become his own person, and when that person had decided to build his whole identity around his baby brother.

"Lemme go," Dean said. Sammy echoed him a second later: "Let him go."

"Lemme go to him."

"I need him."

"We're all gonna sit right here," John started, grabbing that third beer he'd wanted, "'til you've both burned through this."

He took a step away from the fridge then, on second thought, went back for the rest of the six-pack and took it with him to the chair, the one next to the little table that had, up 'til recently, held the telephone. He slung himself into it with a grunt. He'd forgotten about his balls, but they reminded him. He cracked open the bottle, brought it to his mouth, and thought, looking at his boys.

Take care of your brother.

He thought about booting Sammy out of his bed in the middle of the night, not able to take it anymore. Watching him shuffle sleepy and wild-haired through the dark to Dean's, skinny frame collapsing right into it, Dean grunting complaints and threats he never followed up on. Finding them in the morning, tangled up together like puppies. Carping at them 'cause they were both way too old for that. Then doing it all again the next night.

You two look after each other.

He thought about leaving them alone together for weeks, sometimes months. He either got too busy to call or figured it wasn't safe enough, didn't wanna risk pointing what he was after in their direction, and he knew Dean could take care of Sammy. They'd always be together when he came home. Dean leaning over Sammy's shoulder, trying to help with homework even though he'd long since outpaced him. Sammy helping Dean out with dinner. The two of them on the couch, Dean watching TV, Sammy reading a book with his feet in his brother's lap. They just looked at John when he walked in the door. Like they couldn't believe he was back, like they hadn't expected it. He always spent at least an hour trying to shake this ridiculous feeling, just stupid, that his sons were strangers to him.

Family's all you got. You remember that.

John thought about bringing Dean home to Sammy from a hunt, Sammy hollow-cheeked and dull-eyed but lighting up like an ember in a gust of wind when he saw his big brother. He thought about the dark-haired, tan-skinned girls Dean liked. He thought about Sammy stitching Dean up, mouth and eyes tight and hands gentle as butterfly wings. He thought about birthday parties, hand-me-down clothes, skinned knees, haircuts, summer afternoons, comic books, pie, loose teeth, motel pools, fireflies, snowstorms, gummy candies, queen beds, Legos, pocketknives, classic rock tapes, secondhand notebooks, broken shoelaces. He thought about all the things he'd seen over the years without understanding. All the times he'd looked away. All the times he'd left.

The whole time, Sammy and Dean were talking to each other. Crying, calling, whispering, promising, asking. And always, always struggling towards each other, fighting handcuffs and ropes, burning their arms and cutting their wrists just to kill an inch or two of the distance John'd put between them.

The beer was gone when he got to his feet, bladder and stomach both tight and full. John's feet stayed steady as he crunched over pieces of the telephone again to dump the empty bottles and their cardboard holder. It'd been a six-pack, yeah, but it was only beer. He was barely past buzzed.

John didn't know a whole lot about sex between two men. Years ago, the very idea'd made his skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with that warning feeling. That'd been before he found real evil, real sin, and all the old biases fell away like dead skin off a sunburn. (Good thing, too, with the boys Dean went after every once in a while, thinking he was just being so sneaky.) He knew which hole was used, though, and that it didn't make its own lubrication. He unzipped Dean's duffel, took out the bottle he pretended not to know about. He took out the age-whitened baggy of little foil packets, too, and dropped both on the bed next to Sammy, who just stared up at him with big eyes.

All John could do was put them out and hope they'd use them. Because there was no way in hell he was lubing up his youngest's asshole, or rolling a condom onto his eldest's chubby.

"I'm sorry," John told Sammy roughly. "I'm so goddamn sorry." Then he went to the bathroom.

It didn't feel like he was a real person as he stumbled over the door. It didn't even feel like he was in his body. More like he was sitting in a dark theater, watching himself on a screen. And it was a horror movie. He'd lost all taste for them when Sammy was a baby, but he remembered how they went, how the characters were idiots and the audience knew better. Everybody was screaming at the nearly-naked young blonde in front of the basement door, everyone was screaming at John in front of his son. They knew there was a killer in the basement, and they knew what Dean was gonna do to Sammy. But it never made a difference. It was all set in stone, they couldn't hear them, and it wasn't their story, anyway. It was the killer's. The blonde was just a tool. She couldn't stop if she wanted to.

So she turned the doorknob. Even though she might've known all day long something bad was gonna happen, or had a feeling even longer than that, one she'd ignored. And John pulled his knife out of his jeans.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he told Dean, feeling like he'd gotten a chop to his own throat as he began to saw through the rope.

John went to the incubus bar. He doubted the son of a bitch'd come back, but if it had, so much the better. He'd cut its dick off before he stabbed it through the heart.

"Jesus," the bartender said when John knocked back his third whiskey. He'd been staring at him since he came in, and John knew he had to be a mess. He hadn't bothered wiping the blood off his face. "You even tasting it?"

"Tasting ain't the point." John slammed the highball onto the scarred wood of the bar. "Gimme another."

"Rough night, buddy?" Amber liquid burbled into the glass. John watched it the whole time.

"You could sure fuckin' say that."

He stayed until last call, just to be sure, then walked back. Hadn't bothered with the car because he wasn't stupid - he'd gone to get drunk. Which he definitely was. The moon swam above him and he felt half like crying, half like puking. The cold air seemed to sober him up some, which was too bad.

The room was quiet. He'd been dreading the opposite, so a knot of tension went loose in his chest. They were together, just like they always were when he came home. He went over to them, kicking jeans and shoes out of the way.

There was sticky white all over, slowly drying up and breaking down. On them, on the bed, even on the walls and nightstand, somehow. John tried not to look at that, though, or at the places it'd come from. He did one lightning-quick take to make sure they were spent and hadn't hurt each other. They were and they hadn't. Looked like they'd definitely used the lube, too, and maybe the condoms. Wonderful. Bile rose in John's throat.

He looked at them, cuddled together, tangled up. Dean folded protectively around Sammy and Sammy tucked in close. He wanted to separate them, but wasn't sure how. They looked peaceful, sated. The sweat was gone. Their chests rose and fell, slow and synced up.

John looked over their wounds. Bloody wrists on both, Sammy's twisted shoulder, Dean's rope-torn forearms, his scraped and swollen face. All of them inflicted by him. Beyond them, and the come, they could've been one of those paintings Sammy had a thing for. The medieval ones. Soft, nearly glowing. Perfectly composed. What was the word? The one they used for saints? Beatific. Like the awful, twisted thing they'd done hadn't even happened.

It was all John's fault. And he must be even drunker than he thought, because he caught himself wondering if it was even that bad.

Sammy was still cuffed, so John dug up the key and let him out. Soon as he was loose, his hand ghosted dreamily down, shoulder popping back into place. He folded his long, thin fingers loosely around Dean's amulet. John looked at it, at that, then down at the wedding ring on his finger, which he'd never taken off and never would. He wished he could stop figuring stuff out.

He covered them up with the blanket Sammy'd kicked off earlier and went to sit on the other bed, almost missing the mattress on his first try. He watched them sleep and breathe and realized that feeling hadn't ever been stupid: he didn't know them. Not like they knew each other. They'd grown up into strangers without him catching it. More than strangers, even, further out.

They weren't his anymore. His boys. They belonged to each other, and it must've been a slow shift, glacial, Sammy'd say. So how had he not noticed?

He knew. He'd never admit it sober.

John called up Mary out of his memories. He liked to remember her when he was drunk, liked the hurt of it, like poking a split lip with a tongue. He missed her, knew instinctively it wasn't like the boys missed each other when they were apart, wouldn't ever be that deep. He wished she were here. And he wondered what she would've done, because no doubt it would've been so much better than what he had.

For the first time since his world had shattered around him and cut him into bloody ribbons of flesh and bone, John not only didn't know what to do or where to go, he couldn't pretend for the sake of Sammy and Dean. Tonight was like November second, 1983 all over again: a loss, of something he'd never get back, one that'd change him forever.

"You boys," John whispered. His eyes burned and his sinuses ached. "You two're gonna be the death'a me." He swallowed past the bitter, stubborn cramps in his throat. "What the hell'm I gonna do with the two'a you...?

"What the hell'm I gonna do?"