The Pay-Off For Having Faith

12

"Dean."

John paused in the kitchen doorway. It was 2:13 in the morning, according to the red glowing numbers on the microwave, and Dean was rifling through a drawer. His oldest son raised his head when John spoke his name, gave him a once-over, before dismissing him and returning to his search of – John didn't know.

And to think, he had come into the kitchen for a simple glass of water.

"Looking for something, Dean?"

"Silver." The young man closed the drawer and opened the one beneath it to begin searching through it, "Don't you have any silver in this damn place?"

John stared at him, brow furrowed in concern and confusion. His eyes fell on the kitchen table, and the small collection of items sitting on it: a box of salt; several boxes of matches and a lighter; a box of chalk; a two-foot, decorative iron sword which had been hanging on the living room wall last night.

"Why do you want silver?" he finally asked, turning his gaze back to the young man across the kitchen.

"Protection."

John ran a hand across his face and moved further into the kitchen.
"Protection from what?"

Dean raised his eyes to him at that question, stared at him with a look that screamed 'you have to ask?'
Yes, he did have to ask. He hadn't any idea what his oldest would need protection from that involved silver.

Dean stared at him for a moment before telling him, "Anything with silver as a weakness, John." His eyes returned to the drawer through which he was rifling; he shut it with a soft bang and jerked open a third.

"Dean, have you been taking your medication?"
"Not taking that poison you're trying to feed me."
"We had a deal," John sighed and moved to inspect the items on the table, eyes flicking to his son every few seconds, "You agreed to take your meds when I brought you home."
"Didn't seal it with a kiss, so it doesn't really count, does it?"

John stared, completely perplexed by the statement. He was even more perplexed when Dean raised his head suddenly and, glaring in the direction of the fridge, said,
"Doesn't matter what you used to do, because you don't run the place anymore."

"Where's Sam?" John finally asked, watching as Dean pulled what appeared to be a small silver butter knife with a round-ended blade out of the back of the drawer. His son smiled triumphantly, then glanced at him and answered,
"Sleeping. It's 3 in the morning, John, where did you expect him to be?"

When Dean crossed to add the silver utensil to the pile on the table, John reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "Dean – " he started. He drew back, surprised, as the other jerked away from his touch and growled,
"Don't touch me."

He watched, brows creased in more than a little concern, as Dean gathered the items up off the table. His son paused as John commanded, "Leave the sword."
The young man hesitated but obeyed, leaving the decorative sword lying on the table. John watched as he carried the remaining items out of the kitchen, into the hall. Muttering a low curse beneath his breath, he followed his son into the hallway, in time to see Dean enter his bedroom. When he reached the bedroom door and peered inside, he saw the young man placing the items in the drawer of the bedside table. Dean finished what he was doing and turned to stare at John. After several moments, he sat down on his bed and scooted back against the wall. John heard him mumbling as he glanced toward the room's closet, before grabbing up a notebook and a pencil, eyes flicking back to John.

John exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm: he had been aware that he was wading into unfamiliar territory when he had signed Dean out of the hospital, and freaking out wasn't going to change that. He ran a hand through his dark hair before telling his son, "Goodnight, Dean. Get some sleep." The young man stared at him in silence, and John shook his head and headed back toward the kitchen.