Two days later, Adam was back on his feet.
Not fully, not comfortably—but faster than anyone expected. The fever broke overnight. The bruises faded too quickly. Cuts that should've needed stitches were almost gone.
Kate called it a miracle.
John called it something else.
Adam watched his father from the corner of his eye as he moved around the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the top shelf. His muscles protested, but not as much as they should have. The wound on his leg that had been inflamed and angry just forty-eight hours ago now looked weeks old. He'd checked it that morning, peeling back the bandage to find pink, healing skin where festering infection had been.
John noticed too. Adam could feel his father's eyes tracking him, cataloging every movement, every wince that came too late, every stretch that shouldn't have been possible yet. John Winchester hadn't survived twenty years of hunting by missing details.
"Hungry?" Kate asked, sliding a plate of pancakes across the counter. She'd called in sick for her shift, something she never did. The worry lines around her eyes had eased, but not disappeared.
"Starving," Adam admitted, piling three pancakes onto his plate. Then two more. Then another.
John raised an eyebrow as Adam drowned the stack in syrup. "Quite an appetite."
Adam shrugged, mouth already full. "Growing boy."
"Mmm." John sipped his coffee, expression neutral but eyes sharp. "You're recovering well."
It wasn't a question, but Adam answered anyway. "Yeah. Feels better today."
"The cut on your leg—how's that looking?"
Adam hesitated, fork halfway to his mouth. "Fine. Healing up."
"Mind if I take a look at it later? Just to make sure there's no infection?"
The real question hung in the air: How are you healing so damn fast?
"Sure," Adam said, focusing on his pancakes.
Kate moved between them, refilling John's coffee with forced cheerfulness. "The doctor said he just needed rest and antibiotics. Kids bounce back fast."
"This fast?" John's tone was casual, but his eyes never left Adam. "That's some recovery."
"Just got lucky, I guess," Adam said with a shrug.
John's mouth quirked. "Lucky's not the word I'd use."
Kate shot John a warning look. "Well, whatever you want to call it, I'm just grateful he's better."
The rest of breakfast passed in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of forks against plates and Kate's too-bright attempts at conversation. Adam watched his parents orbit each other with careful distance—Kate's lingering resentment, John's quiet assessment. They were strangers sharing blood and history and nothing else.
As soon as Kate left the room to fold laundry, John leaned forward.
"What really happened out there?" he asked, voice low.
Adam kept his expression neutral. "Fell down a ravine. Hit my head. Got lost."
"In the woods. At night. During a full moon." John wasn't asking. "With a silver letter opener."
Adam's heart stuttered, but he maintained eye contact. "How'd you know about—"
"I found it when we brought you in. Hidden in your jacket lining." John's eyes narrowed. "Pretty unusual equipment for a twelve-year-old."
"Thirteen next month," Adam corrected automatically.
"Doesn't answer my question."
Adam pushed his plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "I found it lying around and figure it would be of use."
"For what, exactly?"
"Anything."
John studied him with the intensity of a man who'd stared down monsters and lived to tell about it. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." Adam stood up, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Thanks for breakfast."
He felt John's eyes on his back as he left the kitchen, the weight of unasked questions pressing against his shoulders.
That afternoon, Kate left for her shift at the hospital, reluctant but unable to miss another day. Adam retreated to his room, pretending to read while listening to John move through the house.
John Winchester was a hunter in every sense of the word—patient, methodical, thorough. And right now, Adam was his quarry.
The soft creak of floorboards told Adam when John entered his room. He'd left his backpack conspicuously on the desk chair, a calculated risk. Better to let John find the surface-level oddities than dig deeper for the real secrets.
Adam strained to hear what his father was doing. The rustle of papers. The zip of his backpack being opened. The soft thud of books being removed and replaced.
It wouldn't take long for John to move beyond the decoys.
Adam counted minutes, waiting. The house fell silent. Then footsteps approached his door.
He quickly picked up a comic book, feigning absorption as John appeared in the doorway.
"Find anything interesting?" Adam asked without looking up.
John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Should I have?"
"Depends what you were looking for."
The corner of John's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Smart kid."
"So they tell me." Adam turned a page he hadn't actually read.
John didn't move, didn't speak. The silence stretched between them, a test of nerves that Adam refused to lose. Finally, his father shifted his weight.
"You wanna tell me why you've got a salt ring under your mattress?"
Adam barely flinched. "For bugs."
John smirked. "Silver knife hidden under the loose board. Latin exorcism notes on your desk."
"Homework," Adam said. "We had to translate church texts for extra credit."
John raised an eyebrow. "And the drawing of 'creatures' in your sock drawer?"
Adam turned a page slowly. "I like monsters."
They locked eyes for a beat too long.
John broke first, surprisingly. He pushed off the doorframe with a sigh. "You know, this would be easier if you just told me the truth."
"Would it?" Adam set the comic down. "What's your truth, then? You show up after—what, twelve years?—and suddenly you're worried about what I keep in my sock drawer?"
Something flashed in John's eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. It was gone before Adam could be sure.
"I didn't want you to follow in my footstep," John said quietly. "Your mother would never allow it, I will never allow it."
"Would it have made a difference?" Adam couldn't keep the edge from his voice.
John's jaw tightened. "It's complicated."
"It always is." Adam looked away. "Look, thanks for coming when Mom called. Really. But I'm fine now. You can go back to... whatever it is you do."
"Hunting," John said, the word hanging in the air between them.
Adam's head snapped up.
"That's what I do," John continued. "I hunt things. Bad things. Things that hurt people." He studied Adam's face. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
Adam swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" John moved into the room, closing the door behind him. "The salt lines. The silver. The Latin. That's not random, Adam. That's hunter knowledge." He paused. "That's my world. And somehow, you're in it."
Adam's mind raced. Deny everything? Admit some of it? He hadn't planned for this confrontation—not yet. Not before he was ready.
John didn't press. He could've pushed, broken the kid's cover. But he saw something familiar in Adam's face—something hard and quiet and tired.
So he let it go.
For now.
"You ever wanna talk about this stuff," John said, voice low, "you come to me. Don't go chasing things you don't understand."
Adam nodded, still not looking at him. "Sure…."
John stood there a moment longer, then turned away.
Adam listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall, then let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands were shaking.
John Winchester was nothing like the TV Show. This John was sharper, more focused. More dangerous.
And he was staying. Adam could tell by the way John had settled in, the way he was systematically searching the house. He'd stay a few more days at least. Keep an eye on things. See what else slipped through the cracks.
The kid was hiding something. But whatever it was… it wasn't evil John thought
Just dangerous.
That night, after Kate had gone to bed, Adam found John sitting on the back porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at the darkness beyond the yard.
Adam hesitated in the doorway, then stepped outside. The night air was cool against his skin.
"Can't sleep?" John asked without turning.
"Not really." Adam sat on the other end of the porch step, keeping his distance.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets and the occasional distant car.
"What was it?" Adam finally asked. "That got you into hunting."
John took a slow sip of whiskey. "You know I can't tell if you're fishing for information or if you already know and are testing me."
"Maybe both."
John's laugh was short and without humor. "Definitely my kid." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "It was a demon. Killed... killed my wife. Your half-brother Sam and Dean's mother."
Adam nodded, not surprised but still feeling the weight of the confirmation.
"I've been tracking it ever since," John continued. "Yellow-eyed bastard. Left a trail of families just like mine—mothers pinned to ceilings, burning alive. Nursery fires."
"Did you ever find it?" Adam asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
"Not yet." John's knuckles whitened around his glass. "But I will."
Another silence fell between them, more comfortable than the last.
"What about you?" John asked. "What got you into... whatever this is you're into?"
Adam stared at his hands. "Just... had some weird dreams. Started researching. One thing led to another."
"Dreams." John's voice was careful, too neutral. "What kind of dreams?"
"Just... monsters. Demons. Stuff like that." Adam shrugged, trying to look casual. "Probably just read too many horror comics."
"Probably." John didn't sound convinced. "These dreams... they ever come true?"
Adam's head snapped up. "What?"
"Premonitions. Visions. Things you dream that happen later." John was watching him intently now. "It happens sometimes. To certain people."
"No," Adam said quickly. Too quickly. "Nothing like that."
John studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. That's good."
But the way he said it made Adam's skin prickle.
"What would it mean?" Adam asked. "If someone did have dreams like that?"
John drained his glass. "Nothing good, usually." He stood up, his movement suddenly fluid and final. "Get some sleep, Adam. We'll talk more tomorrow."
Adam watched him disappear into the house, feeling like he'd just passed some test he hadn't known he was taking.
Or maybe failed it. With John Winchester, it was hard to tell.