a/n: title from ccr's "run through the jungle". i haven't been into or written for spn in years but i wrote this some months ago for a friend, and as we're no longer in contact i decided to post it here

sam is 16, dean is 20. neither of them do anything with john but there's still a weird-ass dynamic going on between the three of them; i guess you could say it's one-sided john/dean and one-sided john/sam

Summers in south Louisiana were fucking brutal, John had learned years ago. It felt like Vietnam, the same sluggish heat, the same stale unmoving air, the same number of blood-sucking fucks—mosquitos, not people, though there were a fair amount of them, too—leeching off his skin, the same slick, oily sweat-like humidity. Some days it was all he could to do just walk out of whatever motel room and breathe, the air was so thick. Thunderstorms came up suddenly and without warning. At night the cicadas were so fucking loud John couldn't sleep; he'd wander to the ice machine and buy a Coke for Sammy and then over to whatever bar was closest for a beer for him and Dean. Usually he ended up drinking both beers himself, and more besides, then passing out in the backseat of the Impala where Dean would find him the following morning, but this particular night something made him bring the drinks back to the motel. They were in some pissfuck town outside of New Orleans called Violet—and John remembered that because the whore he'd fucked trying to get information about the banshee had said she was named for the town—and it was ninety degrees even though the sun had gone down hours before, and John was halfway to drunk and sleepy and he wanted to sleep in his own damn bed tonight, and not wake with a crick in his neck and Dean's quiet, haunted eyes staring him down through the back window. He'd cracked that son of a bitch across the mouth once or twice for those looks. At least he wasn't Sam, though, mouthing off every chance he got about John's drinking habits, and his gambling, and the way he fucked through half the towns they stopped in. At least he was fucking, though. Sammy never looked at chicks, never talked about them, never brought any over from the schools John used his hard-stolen money to get him into. With his long hair and his delicate features, more and more like Mary every day, he was probably a fuckin' fag. Sometimes John wondered if Dean wasn't a fag, way his mouth looked—blowjob lips, people would've said back in 'Nam—but Dean brought girls back. Dean fucked them in the alleys. Hell, John had even shared a whore with Dean once or twice, loaning them out once he was done, this is my son, he'll show you a good time, g'on Deano, let 'em see you. But Sammy… fuck, he wondered. He parked the Impala by their darkened motel room window and he wondered. He took a long swig of whiskey and wondered. He got out of the driver's seat, dropped the keys on the pavement, cursed softly under his breath—and wondered.

When he slumped into their motel room at last he was hit by a wall of insane heat—the A/C had crapped out two nights ago, and the maintenance guys couldn't come in their room on account of the guns and knives and demonic possession books and their suspect board pinned to the back wall so they'd opened the window a crack, the usual salt line at the base, and a couple charms to ward off mosquitos, and it had to be enough. Sam had been bitching as usual and John had told him if he didn't like it he could go sleep in the fucking car. Most of Sam's grumbling was centered around how fucking hot it was under the sheets at night, because he and Dean were still sharing a bed. They really were getting too old for that shit; John was considering giving Dean his old army cot to sleep on, because fuck spending money on another room, but he wasn't gonna do it here, Sam would think he was responding to his griping and think John was going soft on him. Dean was already way too fucking soft on the kid; John thought he was due for another lecture about it.

After recovering from the initial blast of stale, humid air, John looked around. He found a lump under the bed and the bathroom light on, the shower going. One of them asleep, the other washing up. Good. He looked at the time; it was nearly midnight. Did Sam have school tomorrow? Fuck if John could remember the day of the week. If he didn't, it didn't matter, anyway. The case was almost wrapped up, and—

Aw, fuck. It was summer. Of course Sammy didn't have school in the morning. John snorted to himself. He kicked off his shoes and set one of the beers on the TV table. The other he brought back to his own bed—the sheets stale, and sticky with heat—to nurse on top of his whiskey on top of the Jack on top of—whatever else he'd drunk. The fruity little thing Roxanne, or Shelley, or Kristi, or Shauna had pushed on him at the bar. Aw, honey, you look lonely… aw, sure, I heard about the murders, that was the Duplantises, over in Chalmette, huh?

He was still nursing his beer five minutes later staring at the blank TV screen wondering if he should get up and turn it on or if it would disturb Sammy—he was sure it was Sammy sleeping, because there was no sound from the bed, and Sammy always slept hard—when he heard voices from in the bathroom. After a minute he realized he'd been hearing them for a while but hadn't registered it because he was so pissdrunk. He was going to have one hell of a fuckin' hangover in the morning. He needed to piss, too, fuck it. He thought it was Dean and some whore fucking around in the shower and was struggling to his feet to go piss—in and out in a flash, boy, don't stop on my account—when he heard what the voices were saying. And nothing, no amount of alcohol, could have made him hallucinate what he heard:

"Dean, fuck—" That was Sam. There was no fucking mistaking that was Sam. John fell back onto his mattress, gut-shot, stunned. Even over the shower—and the stream was weak, because the pressure in the motel was absolute shit—he could hear that it was Sam. And then Dean's response, rough, quieter, but no less urgent:

"Be quiet, Sam, fuck—"

"Fuck you, Dean," Sam spit back, "you've made me wait a fucking week—"

"Dad's gonna hear."

"Fuck Dad." For no reason this sentence, or the way Sam said it, vitriolic and poisonous, made John's spine curl. He discovered he was still holding his beer and pressed it to his temple. His hand was trembling. The glass was still cool despite the heat of the room, and it was beading sweat against his skin.

"Sam—"

"No, seriously, fuck him. He's not even fucking here, probably, he's out somewhere getting wasted again—and I don't fucking want to talk about him right now." Then Sam must've—done something—because John heard Dean grunt, a low surprised noise, and then Sam said, "Give me the shampoo."

"Dude, no, we need—"

"We're all fucking filthy all the fucking time, Dean. Put it—here, let me—" There were soft scuffling noises. More grunts. John closed his eyes. His spine curled again, and then heat spooled down, and he was twitching in his pants. Amber or Bailey or Tiffany or Candy had sucked him off behind that bar not half an hour ago and he was already getting hard again, his stupid fucking body. Whiskey-dick had never been an issue with him and Dean had bragged before that it wasn't with him either and John wondered now suddenly if he was referencing times when—when—

Something smacked into the wall. There was the sound of flesh slapping on flesh. John pressed the beer tighter to his forehead, and it tilted a little, and splashed onto his shoulder. Aw, fuck. Fuck, all over his sheets. He stood up and felt the urgency of his bladder again, all that fucking alcohol, shit. He couldn't wait and there was no way in fuck he was going in the bathroom so he pulled his dick out listening to his sons fucking each other and pissed hard into the carpet between their beds. He staggered a little from the force and relief of it and it splashed onto his ankles and onto their sheets but fuck it. They were—fags, queers, homos, cocksuckers, and they were fucking brothers, and brother-fucking, and—

"Shit, Sam," Dean said, panting, "I'm fuckin' close—"

John finished pissing and his dick twitched again. This time without the constraint of his bladder it was not difficult at all to feel the desire and it only took a couple piss-slick jerks to get hard. He sank back onto his bed and curled his fingers around himself and stroked, listening to the boys' breathing tangled up together, the low grunts from Dean and the animal snarling from Sam—and fuck if John wasn't surprised what Sam sounded like when he fucked, little alien fucker—and wondering who was fucking who. He knew Dean liked to fuck his whores—and the whores they shared—from behind, he'd watched a couple times, hell, wasn't anything wrong with it, no privacy in Vietnam, either—but that might not mean anything. Man liked to fuck a girl from behind sometimes. Girls could get weird about it, but it wasn't like you were fucking them in the ass. Sam was taller, but he was also younger. Dean was stronger, but Sam's wiry strength was coming into itself, last hunt he'd taken down a kappa all by himself, John had taken them to get a big dinner after to celebrate, and Sam hadn't even seemed annoyed by anything, and John wondered if this was why—

Dean made a noise that John knew really, really well, because he'd heard it before, when Dean fucked his whores and came, he was coming now, and John knew what he looked like when he came, his toes curling and his teeth clenched and those high spots of color on his cheeks, and oh fuck it was so hot in here, the air sludgy, felt like moving through water as his hand slid faster on his sweat- and piss-slick dick, the head moving in and out of his palm, rose-colored, his groin tingling, the ache starting up, swelling, inching up his legs and down his spine and fuck, building in his stomach, fuck—

He heard Sam gasp, and then Dean made a pained noise that turned into muffled unmistakable tongue-kissing, and then Sam was panting, saying, "Fuck, Dean, fuck it's so hot, let's get out of here—" and John's hand flew over his dick, he thumbed the slit, he thought of Mary, he thought of Sienna or Ruby or Carol or Jacqueline or Tiana or Jasmine, he thought of Sam inside of Dean that tall lanky frame the knobby shoulders and spine and those corded legs digging into the shower floor slamming into Dean biting his freckled shoulder Dean's eyes closed his mouth on Sam's arm and oh fuck he was coming, his own toes curled against his sheets, the horrible damp sheets, his heels pressed against the mattress then flattened out and his come jetted out of his dick and over his stomach. He heard the shower water shut off and two sets of feet clattering on the tile and he was still coming, shuddering, jerking his hips upwards, and barely had time to get his hand out from his pants and under the sheets before the door opened and Sam slipped his head out. John had shut his eyes except for a little crack so he saw Sam look around and see him, wince, then slowly tiptoe out of the bathroom and make a motion at Dean. The bathroom door shut again, quietly, and John watched Sam go to his duffle and get a fresh pair of boxers and slip into them. He crawled into the bed, pulled the sheets straight. He lay on top of them and stared at the ceiling without moving. John could tell he didn't know that he was awake because he wasn't talking and he wasn't looking over at him.

Five minutes later Dean emerged as well. He got in bed without dressing. John heard the boys settling against each other. Then Dean whispered,

"Sam, what the fuck's that smell."

John closed his eyes all the way. His dick twitched, and he pressed his palm against it, hard.

"Dunno," Sam whispered back. "Probably you left some food in your bag and it's molding."

"Yeah, or maybe it's just your fucking feet," Dean whispered. There were scuffling noises and snickering. The sheets rustled and John wondered if they were kissing again. He had to press his hand harder on his dick to try and quiet it. He grunted like he was just waking up.

"Go to sleep, boys."

The sounds stopped. There was a pause, heavier than the air. Then Dean said,

"Yes, sir." When John dared to open his eyes again—fifty breaths later—Sam was still staring at the ceiling, jaw tense, and Dean had rolled over. John could see the pale expanse of his freckled shoulders in the streetlight coming through the window. He thought he could see the shadow of a bruise there, too, and he sighed.

Tomorrow he would make them spar, and he would watch.