The longer he waited for Rufus to call back, the more irritated John got.

There was a list of reasons as long as his arm that he didn't want to have to work with the short tempered, paranoid son of a bitch.

The main reason was the knowledge that it would get back to Bobby Singer, who already had way too many damn ideas about how John should be raising his children anyway.

The second was that part of him really didn't want to know what he was pretty sure Rufus was going to tell him. But Rufus was the best at finding out anything and everything about anyone, which is why John had asked him to check up on Dean's teacher.

Because although Dean didn't say anything, John had learned to read that boy like a book over the years. Hell, he'd had to, after Mary died, when Dean wouldn't speak to anyone for months and then only Sammy for almost a year. Dean had gone rigid and quieter than usual when Sam mentioned the teacher. Then there was the fact that Dean hadn't mentioned that he was working for the teacher. Sam was the one who brought it up, even though Dean had been proud of himself for finding jobs in the past.

Dean was hiding something. John thought he wanted Rufus to find out what, but the longer he waited for the call back, the less sure he was that he wanted to know.

Rufus finally called back the morning after John burned the bones of the most recent vengeful spirit, two days after he had originally told the boys he would be back, one day after he had called to tell them it would probably be a few more days.

"So what we got?" John asked, grabbing the motel notepad and scrounging for a pen.

"Adrienne Michelle Newman. Gonna be 32 years old the first week of January. No criminal record, of course. She came from a well to do upper middle class family, who had the police called on them twice for reported domestic violence, although nothing was ever done about it. Parents still living in the area, two sisters, but she basically sees them for holidays and birthdays and that's about it. Brilliant student by all accounts, but B- average grades. Never married, no serious long term relationships except her cats. She's been Teacher of the Year twice. She volunteers with an at-risk youth organization, and frequently mentors her students one on one, especially the ones with chaotic home lives, and especially good looking teenage boys with bad attitudes. She spends a lot more time with kids than she does people her own age. Her students think she's cool, that she acts more like one of them than the other teachers. She's a member of a non-denominational mega church, one of those kind where people recognize each other's face but couldn't call someone by name if their life depended on it. She's friendly with everyone, but has basically no close friends. Everyone says she's dependable and available to help anyone, anytime. She does charity work, but not a lot of charity work. Got kind of a martyr complex, the 'I'll do it because no one else will and you should all tell me what a wonderful person I am' kind of attitude. You couldn't find someone who fits the description better if an FBI profiler wrote the biography."

"What description? What are you talking about, Rufus?" John huffed into the phone.

"What I'm saying, is that if it was a man, I'd bet you everything I'd ever owned that he was a sexual predator. I'm not convinced that she's not just because she's a woman. I guarantee you that she's got heavy duty psych issues. She's using kids to fulfill what's missing in her life, to make her feel powerful and in control. She's gone to bat for a couple boys with the Juvenile Justice system, convinced a judge that petty crimes were cries for attention, that showing them someone cared about them and raising their self esteem and helping them do better in school would turn their lives around."

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing." John said.

Rufus snorted into the phone. "Have you not listened to anything else I've said? These kids have no one else to turn to. She's putting herself into a position of control over not only their schoolwork, but also whether or not they end up in juvie. She's the only one showing them any affection. It's called grooming, John. I'd bet you twenty bucks to a mouthful of piss that she's fucking those boys."

"Didn't you ever have a teacher you wanted to keep you after class when you were a hormonal high school boy?" John asked.

"When the boy wants the teacher, it's a fantasy." Rufus said. "When the teacher wants the boy, and puts him in a position where he can't say no, or he's afraid to say no, it's sexual abuse." Rufus sighed. "I can't prove that's what Adrienne Newman is doing. But I'll tell you, if it was my kids, I wouldn't even want either of them in her class. Especially since your kid fits her victim profile to a T."

"My kids are good kids!" John shouted.

"Dean has been arrested twice and he's not even sixteen yet!" Rufus reminded him. "I've seen his picture, and he's pretty for a teenage boy. They're alone a lot of the time, and whether you want to admit it or not, they don't exactly have the sitcom home life."

"My boys do just fine!" John snapped. "Dean's arrests were both hunt related! He's not some future serial killer! He's not starving for affection! You and Bobby Singer don't either one have any kids, so you both can keep your fucking mouths shut about the way I raise mine."

"You wanted to know, chief." Rufus said. "Can't help it that you didn't like the answer."

John sighed and shoved his hand through his hair. "Yeah, Rufus. You're right. I owe you one."

"I like the blue label." Rufus told him, and hung up.

John checked the time again - 10:22, just over half an hour to checkout. He took a quick shower, grabbed a takeout double cheeseburger, and started the five and half hour drive back to the boys.

Rufus was wrong.

Rufus had to be wrong, because otherwise, that meant John had set Dean up to let someone abuse him. Someone had hurt his boy while John wasn't there to protect him.

John had let Dean down just like he let Mary down.

The road in front of him suddenly blurred, and John had to pull over to press the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Dean wouldn't have been taken in by some teacher offering him attention. Dean didn't even need a lot of attention. Dean was more mature than that. He certainly had never acted out to get attention the way Sam had a few times. Besides, Dean had half the girls at school throwing themselves at him, half the boys trying to be like him, and Sam still worshiping the ground Dean walked on.

Sam.

Dean would let someone hurt him to protect Sam. The teacher could have threatened to have Sam taken away, if she had found out anything about their home life. She could have set Dean up to be caught doing something shady to take care of Sam, and held it over his head.

John would kill the bitch if she had hurt his boy.

But the facts were that Dean wasn't going to volunteer any information, and Sam, bless his innocent little heart, was apparently oblivious to the situation.

John rushed back, thankful for straight, empty country roads where he could open up the throttle. He made it back almost half an hour before the boys usually arrived home from school, stashed the car behind a print shop two blocks down, and walked to the motel office.

The old woman behind the counter regarded him suspiciously when he told her he wanted the room next to the one he had already rented, until he told her "I got two teenage boys who think I'm working tonight. I want to see what they get up to when they think I'm not looking."

She had broken into a sad smile then, saying "Oh bless you. Most men in this neighborhood wouldn't care what their kids were up to. Hell, most men around here wouldn't even be able to pick their kids out of a police lineup."

He paid for the room, pocketed the key, and slipped out quickly, the woman's nominations for Father of the Year and sainthood still ringing in his guilty ears.

He stationed himself in front of the window, sitting in the shadows and arranging the curtains so that cracks fell where he could clearly see the parking lot and anyone who approached the boys' room, but not be seen easily by anyone outside.

Ten minutes later, the boys trudged up the sidewalk. As usual, Dean opened the door and kept Sam behind him while he scanned for threats. Apparently not spotting anything out of the ordinary, he pulled Sam into the room after him, and John heard the deadbolt slide into place.

The tv came on in the next room, and someone banged around in the bathroom.

After maybe fifteen minutes, John heard Dean's voice. The motel walls were thin, but not thin enough that John could make out all the words with the tv on, especially the deep tone his older son's voice had become. Still, he heard "door locked", "don't", "no", "ring twice", and "I mean it, Sam!" followed by higher pitched, nasally "I know, Dean! I'm not two years old!" Dean answered something along the lines of "No, two year olds are probably taller." and something was thrown across the room.

Silence descended for a moment, and then John heard a car pull up in front of the motel about the same time a shadow passed in front of the window.

The door of the room next door opened, and Dean stepped outside at the same time that the car door opened and a woman stepped out.

Whatever he had expected from Adrienne Newman, this wasn't it.

She wasn't an imposing figure, not a towering Amazon like female who could physically overpower or mentally intimidate Dean. She was maybe 5'4", just slightly overweight, dressed in a twirly short skirt and tank top with a jacket over it and high heeled short boots. Her hair was highlighted, and cut like that Jennifer-somebody woman from that sitcom who was on the front of the tabloids nearly every week.

She didn't look like a child molester. From this distance, without the fine lines on her face that might be visible at a closer angle, she looked like a college girl trying a little too hard on a first date.

And she was looking at Dean like she had found God.

Dean walked straight to her, slipped an arm around her waist, and walked her around to the other side of the car, putting her into the passenger seat. He came back around and got behind the wheel. She tugged on his arm, and Dean looked toward the motel room, apparently to see if Sam was watching, before leaning over and giving her a quick kiss. She reached across the center console to lay a hand on Dean's thigh. They drove away, momentarily distracting John as he wondered when Dean had learned to drive a stick shift.

This wasn't at all what John was expecting. He thought he would see Dean practically dragged from the room, or at least some reluctance on his part. He didn't expect his son to look like he was going on a date.

John watched the golden afternoon fade into twilight and the twilight fade into dusk. He didn't move from his place in front of the window, waiting to confront the woman when she brought Dean home.

It was just after nine o'clock when the little Honda returned. The car pulled into the parking space somewhat between the two motel rooms, rather than the one directly in front of the boys' room. Dean got out and walked around to the passenger side of the car. The woman in the passenger seat handed him a two liter soda, which he tucked into the crook of one arm and held against his side. She then gave him two beers, which dangled from his fingers, and helped balance two styrofoam takeout boxes in his hands. She stepped out of the car and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Dean said something John couldn't make out, and the woman laughed. She followed as he walked around the front of the car, grabbing his ass once. Dean turned to look at her and she laughed again. She got into the driver's seat of the car, and waited until Dean entered the room before starting the car.

John watched it all in silence, unable to make himself move.

Next door Sam exclaimed over their dinner and oohed at the beer. Dean said something John couldn't hear, and a minute or so later, the shower started.

Rufus was wrong. Rufus had to be wrong.

If she was abusing Dean, she wouldn't have bought him and Sam dinner. She wouldn't wait to make sure Dean got inside safely.

Dean didn't act like he was being hurt. His shoulders had been a little slumped when they came back, but he just looked tired. He looked like he did after a hunt, after he had done what he needed to do and was ready to rest.

Dean was a con artist. He had taken to running scams like no one John had ever seen. He was so smooth that hardly anyone ever questioned him, and when they did, he didn't get flustered, he kept calm and never broke character.

Dean must be playing her. That was the only explanation. This teacher was apparently a little immature for her age. Dean had seen that she had a crush on him, and he was working her for what he could get out of it; money, dinner, good grades. Maybe he was actually doing something for her at her house, or maybe he was just dating her and talking her out of some cash in the process. She was cute, not Dean's usual type, but cute. If she had offered herself up to John when he was that age, he would have taken the offer.

He thought of calling Rufus and telling the man that his assumptions were wrong, that the teacher wasn't taking advantage of Dean but more the other way around. He didn't, because he knew he would never convince Rufus, that once that stubborn asshole had his mind made up about something nothing would change it, and there wasn't much point in arguing about it.

Rufus was wrong. Period.

Rufus might know how to find out any information on anyone and all about psychological profiles and all that, but Rufus didn't know Dean.

It didn't mean anything that the shower was still running. Maybe Dean had been moving furniture or raking leaves or something at Miss Newman's place and had stiff muscles. Or maybe he was trying to wash off the smell of sex because he didn't want Sam to know what he had been doing.

Dean was fucking his teacher and he was embarrassed about it because she wasn't his usual type.

It had to be something like that. It couldn't be that Rufus was right.

It just couldn't be, because John couldn't live with himself if it was.