[For John Winchester]

[my_wayward_son]

Dean was sitting in the hut he shared with Sam, tilting his head back as he looked up at the rafters - they were done well enough. If he believed what his brother said, which he did, his prior self had done a good job of putting the place together. He'd thought about messing with the roof a bit so when it rained Sam's bed would get soaked, but he'd

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[wayward_dad]

Sammy had split after showing him the way to the hut, off to look for Dean. Although part of John had wanted to go with him, he would be glad to have a few minutes alone to collect his thoughts. Climbing out of Hell, John hadn't known what to expect. Oh, he'd had a few ideas, but ending up in this situation hadn't been one of them. Some strange island with no demons, not to mention the demon? It made his stomach roil with unease. He'd been hunting that demon for some twenty years now. John didn't know how to not be on the hunt.

Pushing open the door to the hut, John's gaze immediately fell on Dean.

One hand still on the door, John peered over at him. Pride and relief and pleasure welled up in his eyes; he never thought he'd see either of them again.

"Hey, son."

[my_wayward_son]

The hair along the back of Dean's neck rose and he stiffened, hand going to the small of his back where he usually kept at least one of his guns. Damn island. He'd gotten used to not really needing his guns here - at least, not in the hut, anyway. Sloppy. A minute later and he had the knife out from under his pillow. Jesus - this won't do me any good.

"What are you?" He'd heard rumors of people who looked like other people, but he'd been through this once before - in that cabin up in the middle of freaking nowhere. It seemed like it had been a hundred years since then, but it all came flooding back as he looked at this person - this thing - standing before him.

He'd seen his father's body - burned it right along with Sammy. Built the pyre themselves. He'd felt the weight of it - Dean knew the truth. He remembered the words his dad had said to him about his brother, knew that he should be dead and that his dad should have still been alive. It's my fault - damn it - my fault. He's burning in hell and I'm sitting on some desert island.

[wayward_dad]

John's eyes followed Dean's movements, watching carefully as he reached behind his back and came up empty before moving to rifle beneath a pillow tossed on an old pallet. Dean looked tanned, healthy. Judging from the length of time it took Dean to get himself armed, John knew he'd somehow let down his guard. While John couldn't remember how long Sam had said Dean was here, or if Sam had even told him at all, John knew it had to be a while. There was no other reason Dean wouldn't have had a weapon trained on him faster otherwise.

"Dean."

Holding one hand out to show he meant no harm, John continued, "It's me." Lifting his chin, John met his son's eyes intensely. "It's your dad."

[my_wayward_son]

"Yeah - right. Like I'm gonna believe that - answer my question. What are you?" Dean kept his knife ready as he moved slowly, carefully, toward the table where he'd left his .45. "You've got about three seconds and then I'm sending you right back wherever you came from." He was pretty sure he could hide a body here - if the thing even left a body. Shapeshifter. He'd gotten in enough trouble with those things before.

But that didn't make any sense. Sam's voice kept playing through his head, telling him there was a whole lot more that was weird about his place than just the fact that they were there - that strange things happened here. You can't just go around shooting everyone. Well, Dean figured he'd been really good when it came to not shooting people on this damn hung of sand. This thing was just asking for a bullet right between the eyes - pretending to be his dad. Where did these evil assholes get off?

[wayward_dad]

"I'm your father and you damned well better give me more than three seconds." John swung his other hand around to the front, showing both empty palms to Dean. "I'm not armed, I'm not a demon, and I sure as hell am not a shapeshifter, so you put down the knife, son."

Eyes flashing challengingly, he took another step toward Dean. "On your mother's thirty-fourth birthday, we were in Tulsa. The Super Motel, remember? The pool was drained and full of chairs and Sam was bummed out because he wanted to learn how to swim. You came back to the room but I wasn't alone. I told you to take your brother, get in the car, and drive. I asked you if you remembered where to go and you did, so you went." Cocking his head to the side, he said, "Still wanna knife me?"

[my_wayward_son]

Dean froze, his free hand inches from his .45, his other trembling just the slightest bit - imperceptible, really, but he knew it was. "Doesn't prove anything." Only it sort of did. Cause shapeshifters had to have a live body to steal the memories from. But demons don't - if he's burning in Hell - no, he wouldn't have told them anything, even down there.

Flipping the knife so the blunt edge rested against the inside of his wrist, he lowered his hand, eyes still caught on the thing in front of him - his dad? He couldn't believe it. Years of training told him to - that tone of voice was so familiar. Sometimes, it'd been the only thing that kept him in line.

Yes, sir. He'd done everything his father had ever asked him to do - everything but kill Sammy when things started looking off. "What was the last thing you said to me. If you're really him, you'll know." You'll know what it was you made me promise.

[wayward_dad]

John's chin dropped to his chest. His last few minutes alive came flooding back. How he'd made the deal with the demon. How Sam and he had butted heads until John couldn't take it anymore, not when it would be the last conversation he'd ever have with his youngest. How he'd leaned in close to Dean after Sam went to get him coffee and gave Dean instructions he hoped to God Dean would never have to follow.

Exhaling slowly, John steeled his nerves and straightened to his full height. After a precursory glance around, John closed the door to the hut before closing the distance between Dean and himself.

Leaning in close, he said in a low voice, "I told you to watch out for your brother and take care of him. I said you had to save him. Nothing else matters than that. Then I said if you couldn't save him, you had to kill him. 'Don't tell your brother.' That's the last thing I said." Taking a step back, John merely stood there and waited for the words to sink in all over again.

[my_wayward_son]

There was a long pause between those words and when Dean next spoke - he couldn't get anything to come out. His chest was so tight, his throat all clogged in that awful way that only ever happened when he was feeling too much too fast. It was better than that empty feeling he'd had right after - but that didn't explain this.

"Dad?" His tone was confused, voice rough around the edges.

[wayward_dad]

"It's really me, Dean," John murmured, his voice a low rumble. His head tilted the minutest degree to one side. "You look good, son." A beat, and then John couldn't stand it any longer. Not giving a damn about the knife Dean still held, John pulled him close. Strong arms enveloping his oldest, this moment was the most real John had felt since he'd climbed out of Hell not more than a few hours earlier.

[my_wayward_son]

"Jesus, Dad," Dean said, trying to ignore the way his voice choked as he spoke. "What - how did you..." If anybody could get out of hell after everything that happened, it'd be dad. He stopped trying to talk, stopped trying to understand it. His dad was alive. Somehow, against all odds, against the rules and the laws of physics... John Winchester was alive.

He hugged his dad back hard, careful to keep the knife held a little away from him. It felt like he couldn't breathe but he knew that was stupid.

[wayward_dad]

"I don't know," John said, and then he laughed because everything was so real. For months or years or, hell, decades he'd been torn apart over and over as people he cared about - Dean, Sam, Mary, Ellen, Bobby, all of them - paraded in front of him and lied like demons. Here and now, with his son solid and warm and genuine, it was a damned miracle.

Disentangling himself from Dean, John wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand but didn't look away. He wasn't ashamed of it.

"A door opened, Dean. I saw the opportunity so I took it. I climbed out."