>"Dean, it is me... Remember at the hospital. I told you something..."
“You- he did, yeah, but... that doesn’t mean you’re-” He shook his head, fingers curling around his phone tighter, as if it were the hilt of a knife, as if it were some kind of weapon he could use to shut this thing up (get those words out of his head), make it stop pretending to be his father when it couldn’t be.
“You... stole his memories...” But a shifter needed a live source for that, didn’t they? Shapeshifters took memories, but they only took memories when the person was alive, they couldn’t get them once someone died - they formed patterns off the memories and then killed the victim once they were redundant, which meant this one had to have been in John’s form for years... “How long have you been using his shape, you son of a bitch?”
>"Where were you Dean, before you followed my coordinates."
Why did it matter? Dean wasn’t sure what he - it - was getting at, frowned and shifted in place, “Morgue.” He wasn’t going to clarify, wasn’t going to explain because he wasn’t even sure what had happened, himself. “Why does that even-”
>"I'm your father Dean. I can't tell you why I've been brought here, I don't know. Look around Dean. Something is happening that brought us together."
Part of him wanted to believe that - because something really was wrong, something was going on and he didn’t know what it was, what was happening, why everyone he saw on the street looked like scared animals, like they were halfway to feral (and it wasn’t bright enough to be sure, but their eyes had looked... dark). Something was wrong, and he wasn’t supposed to be in Lawrence, and there was someone, or something standing in front of him that looked like Dad and talked like him and he really, really wanted it to be real.
But he couldn't. He just, this was some kind of trick, it had to be, there was no way it was anything else.
“Silver.” His voice was rough, sharp, “I’m not going to believe you until you can prove it.”