Thanks to my beta, K.

John Winchester frowned in the darkness as he fumbled for the phone that was irritating the hell out of him. Who the "What!" he yelled into the receiver once he figured out which end was supposed to be at his mouth and which at his ear.

"You better be goddamned sober," a voice hissed out of the speaker.

"What? Bobby Singer?"

"Winchester, I'm gonna take a leap of faith and actually believe you give a flying fuck about your son and tell you he's with me. What you do with the information, I don't give a damn."

The phone went dead, leaving John to look at it in utter bafflement. His son? Sam was in the room next door and Dean wasDean was with Nick Hurley learning how to track. They weren't supposed to hunt so... John's stomach did a somersault. Dean had called two days ago, complaining about something. But Dean had been complaining about one thing or the other ever since he'd turned fourteen back in January. John had shuttled him off to Hurley's as soon as the school year ended just to get a couple weeks of peace (well, semi-peace because Sam's complaints were just background noise which he was kinda used to).

So, when Dean had called, John hadn't listened; he just told him to suck it up and not to call again. Sam had been pissed because John hadn't even let him to talk to Dean-he hadn't wanted Sam to have the chance to champion Dean's cause. But maybe Dean had a legitimate concern. After all, Dean was a damn good hunter. His instincts were on-point, his actions quick, his aim deadly. Fuck.

Although he'd been in a slightly post-alcoholic haze when the phone rang, he was perfectly sober now. "Sam! Get up. Get packed."

"Daaaadd."

"Something's happened to your brother."

He could hear Sam's feet hit the weak wooden floor of the hovel they were staying in. The rent was cheap because the city was threatening to condemn it, and it had a phone. If he could keep his kids from crashing through the floor, it was fine for the summer.

Sam appeared at his door, his young body thrumming so violently that John could feel the vibrations from across the room. Or maybe it wasn't Sam's tics but his own.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Your Uncle Bobby just called-he has him at his house."

To give Sam credit, there was no more hesitation. He got dressed, collected both his and Dean's stuff and was in the car before John.

John tried to imagine what had gone wrong while he drove the six hours to South Dakota. A hunt? An attack? Dean had the Winchester luck-had probably just stumbled upon something in the middle of a tracking exercise. Witches seemed extraordinarily attracted to the kid. He was also eerily good at pissing off every other fucking supernatural entity as well. Mouthy and loud described Dean at his best.

Five hours and five minutes later, he and Sam pulled into the salvage yard. Singer stood on the porch and Sam was out of the car long before John could set the parking brake. He got out in time to hear Singer tell Sam not to ask his brother any questions. Sam nodded solemnly and scooted into the house.

"Don't come any closer," Bobby warned as he headed down the steps. "What I got to say, I don't want the boys hearing, and it ain't something that's gonna come out all quiet like." He led the way deeper into the forest of wrecked vehicles and scrap metal.

"This can wait" John started.

"It can not," Bobby said deliberately.

"If something's happened to Dean"

"Oh, now you give a fuck." Bobby took off his hat, scratched his head, and replaced the cap firmly. "Funny that. Considering you couldn't spare five minutes to listen to your son when he called to tell you what was going on."

"Dean's been difficult lately, Bobby, mouthy, moody and"

"Being a goddamn fourteen-year-old, which shouldn't be surprising considering he is fourteen years old. But maybe I shouldn't be surprised by you either-assholes tend to be assholes."

John saw red. "Enough with the name-calling, man, and tell me what's wrong with my son!"

"Other than spending a week being sexually molested and having his father tell him to 'just do what the man says, Dean, and stop whining about it'?"

"What?" John shook his head furiously. "No! I've worked with Hurley before. There was never"

"You ever leave your sons alone with him before?"

"No, but...This is crazy, Bobby."

Bobby gave a pained laugh. "Yeah, about as crazy as Dean's broken wrist and the bruises around his neck where Hurley hurt him trying to get into his pants. Maybe nearly as fucked up as Hurley's dead body."

"You killed him?"

"No, I didn't."

It took John a moment to digest the emphasis on the "I". Since it was probably a good bet that Hurley hadn't committed suicide, if Bobby wasn't the killer, then... "Oh, fuck, no."

"Yeah, kid gets this close to getting raped and the thing that's stressing him out? That he killed a human. That his dad's gonna kill him because he killed a human."

"No, I'm not gonna-Are you sure Hurley was human?"

"What the fuck difference does it make and yeah, I'm sure. The place was warded against the devil himself. The only pervert in residence was Hurley, the completely human piece of shit. And if you ask Dean did he stop and make sure before he offed the fucker, I will personally call DSS and have those kids taken away from you." Bobby shoved a hand against the aging metal of one of his makeshift garages. "Goddamn it, Winchester. The man was a fucking pedophile, and if you make Dean doubt his actions, I will kick your ass before I shove your dick down your throat."

From the moment John had met Bobby Singer, he'd known the man was wicked smart and could beat him in a drawn out battle by using some esoteric bit of knowledge. But he'd always figured that in an out-and-out brawl between the two of them, Bobby Singer would lose handily. But as the man's eyes flashed angrily at him, he reconsidered that and took a step back. Then he took a step forward because maybe he needed his ass kicked.

John sighed and rested against a rusting wreck. "Tell me the whole story."

Bobby scratched at his beard. "Apparently the boy fended off a lot of inappropriate touching and only called you after Hurley attempted a kiss. When you didn't interfere, I guess Hurley got bold. Dean hadn't really slept in days and was still pretending at sleep when Hurley came into the room. Dean heard the guy's zipper rasp and grabbed the knife he'd stuffed beneath his pillow. He jumped up and told the man to get the fuck away from him. Hurley's your size, John. Dean got in a couple of cuts, but Hurley broke his wrist and disarmed him. He pinned Dean to the floor and put his hands around his neck to subdue him. Dean knee'ed him in the balls and made it to the living room. Hurley tackled him from behind and they crashed into a table. There was a pistol on the table and Dean managed to grab it as they fell.

"Dean had the breath knocked out of him and when he could finally breathe again, he realized two things-Hurley had managed to pull his boxers down, and that he was lying on the gun. When Hurley bit his neck, Dean said everything went white and the next thing he knew, he was on his back, Hurley was sprawled across him, and they were both in the middle of a pool of blood. It was only after he'd shimmied from beneath the man that he realized the blood came from the center of Hurley's forehead."

"Shit." John physically ached for his son. He flashed back to his first kill. He was a grown, trained Marine. In a war. And the dead enemy was twenty yards away. No blood. No seeing the dead guy's face. No- "Tell me the bullet got lodged in his brain."

Bobby grimaced. "It was a large caliber weapon. Dean's taken three showers since I got him out of there."

John shivered and closed his eyes. "I need to see him, Bobby. I need to see my son."

"Yeah, c'mon."

John could hear Sam's nervous chatter as they approached the bedroom Bobby had basically given the boys. Some stupid story about one of the kids Sam had gone to school with. John knew that the story didn't matter; Sam was just using his voice to ground Dean like Dean did for him when he was hurt. Sam learned a lot of useful things from Dean.

"Hey, boys," John called softly from the doorway.

"Dad." Dean sat up sharply, wincing as his wrapped wrist pushed against the bed.

"Dean," John acknowledged.

"Come help me feed the dogs, Sam," Bobby requested gently.

Sam looked at Dean and received a slight nod. He walked over to the door and gave John a hard glare before leaving the room. John accepted the warning graciously before walking to the bed and taking a seat beside Dean.

"Sorry I called Bobby...but I didn't know if you'd answer."

That stung, as it should have. This whole monumental fuck up could be laid at John's feet. "I'm not mad at you, son. Not for anything you've done."

"He was human."

John snorted and bumped Dean's shoulder. "That's debatable. But it doesn't matter."

"You said-"

"Dean, I'm going to give you a-prime directive." He smiled faintly, remembering the times they'd sat in front of the television watching sci-fi and rolling their eyes at the cliched lines. "I know that I always tell you to watch out for your brother, and this goes hand-in-hand with that. No matter whatever else bullshit I throw out at you, this is what you need to remember, okay? You have one obligation to me and your brother-to come home to us, no matter what you have to do, no matter who you have to hurt, no matter what or who you have to kill. You come home to us. You understand?"

Dean nodded and his eyes glittered as he faced John. "I didn't want to. I tried to stop him without... He just wouldn't let it go, Dad. He just kept looking and touching and..."

John opened his arms and his son fell into them, sobs hushed against the well-washed cotton of John's shirt. John wished like hell that Dean hadn't had to go through the experience, that he didn't have to live with what he'd done. It was a burden he'd have gladly bore for his son. But when Dean had asked for help, John had ignored him. He hadn't been there for him because he'd wanted a break from a kid who was fighting hormones and growing pains, a kid who was just acting his age for once. "Don't you apologize, Dean. You did what needed to be done, and I'm proud of you. Proud of you for protecting yourself."

Later, long minutes after Dean had cried himself to sleep and John had relished supporting the weight of a son who hadn't needed him for far too many years, he kissed the top of his boy's head and carefully laid him back on the bed, covering him with a blanket despite the early summer warmth. The danger of shock was long past, but he couldn't help himself as he fit the blanket around him. Adding protection and comfort way too late.

As usual.

Sam jumped up from the kitchen table when John walked into the room. "He's sleeping."

"I'll go sit with him."

John nodded as if Sam needed his permission. The boys were rapidly learning to rely completely on each other and shunt him aside whenever possible. As they should.

Bobby shoved a jelly jar glass in his direction. He took it and threw back the entire contents. He reveled in the burn of the liquor as it scorched his throat as he remembered the bruises on Dean's.

"You clean up?" he asked hoarsely.

"Burned down the whole fucking cabin. If the law decides to investigate, which they probably won't considering how isolated the place was, they'll only find a few charred remains covered in booze and maybe a cigarette butt."

"I fucked up badly."

"Yeah, you did."

"You gonna take 'em from me?" He knew Bobby could. There was a whole trail of aborted DSS investigations the law could follow. Hadn't been a single school the boys attended that hadn't had some questions.

"Just for the summer. Dean needs to get his feet back under him. They can train and yet be away from the life-and-death shit you drag them into."

"This isn't what I wanted for them."

"Cut the bullshit, John. You and I, for perfectly good reasons, chose this life. But those boys...you're the one who chose this fucked up existence for your children. They've had no say in the matter. It's gonna get all three of you killed-and it's all your fault. It has been since the moment you shoved them into the back of the Impala and drove head-on into the fight. Everything that happens, everything that has happened, it's on you, John. Just so we're clear on that." Bobby refilled their glasses and sat heavily on a wobbly chair.

"Yeah, we are." John sat opposite of Bobby and stared at amber liquid in the glass.

Yeah. It was perfectly clear.