Title: Complications
Fandom: Supernatural

Author: DJ Sparkles
Rating: FRAO (language, mostly, so far)

Disclaimer: I no own, you no sue. I'll put them back when I'm done.
Spoiler Warning: Um, possible spoilers for all seasons so far… don't want spoiled, don't read. BIG spoilers for In My Time of Dying, Heart, All Hell Breaks Loose, Parts 1&2, and season 3.
Timeline: Diverges from Canon after episode 3x03, Bad Day at Black Rock. This means it's AU, folks. Alternate Universe. Some facts, features, and faces might be different than in canon. Don't like? Don't read. You've been warned.

Beta: Ithil-valon, River, and StMatt. You ladies just ROCK, you know that?
Pairings: None so far.

Part Seven

They pulled into Bobby's yard several hours later. It had taken some doing to get Dean back into the car after his change. For some reason, he'd decided he needed a run through the woods and it had been all Sam could do to keep up with him. At least he hadn't killed anyone; Sam had seen nothing between leaving the car and finally running him down. Dean was completely in wolf form, which meant he wasn't talking; and that meant Sam would have to wait until he changed back to find out what he'd been hunting.

He had been hunting, too. There had been a moment of alarm, a tensing, a pricking of the ears, and a flat out silent run, definitely looking for something. Definitely searching; every few hundred yards he'd stop and scent the air. There was something out there, something Dean desperately wanted to find. Another werewolf, maybe? Sam didn't know, and there was no way to find out before dawn.

"Hey, Bobby," he greeted the older man right off when Bobby stepped onto the porch, the usual flask of holy water in hand. He took a sip and grinned. "Want me to pour some in a bowl for Dean?" He got the hoped for response; Dean turned that muzzle in his direction with a barely lifted lip and a growl.

"Wouldn't hurt, but I doubt anything'd want him in that condition," Bobby returned with a half smile. "Come on, let's get inside. Few hours yet until dawn, and we need to get some stuff in place before other hunters find out about this. They'll be of the same mind I was, that he'll have to be put down. We'll need to keep it as quiet as possible for as long as we can."

Sam nodded as Dean padded past into the house. "If we thought Gordon was bad, coming after me, this…" He gestured at Dean, who'd settled on the couch to stare at them. "This'll put the hunters like him into orbit trying to find us. Werewolf equals evil, no questions asked."

Dean watched the two of them plan, feeling a little left out. So he was wearing a wolf skin, did that mean he wasn't there? He was a little annoyed. Then he thought a little more about it. He was controlling this, so far. He knew who he was and what he was doing. He'd learned to recognize certain scents. He'd know Sam anywhere, of course, and Bobby, but the one that had sent him into the woods, well, he wasn't so sure about. It had reminded him of his dad, and that was just plain weird. His dad had been gone for almost two years now.

He called his thoughts back to order and did a little more thinking while Bobby and Sam were involved in talking about what the two of them had and hadn't learned during the few hours they'd been apart. He knew now that he could handle this, but he wasn't sure how far his handling would go. He could keep his mind while he was in wolf form, but the one that had bit him had been kind of human. It had walked upright and looked like a big guy with a fur coat, until you got up close and personal and saw what it really was. He was considering an attempt at something like it when he saw a movement outside the window where there should be none. He came to his feet, his hackles up, growling softly.

The motion didn't go unnoticed. Sam and Bobby spun, one headed for his shotgun while the other drew a 9mil from his waistband. "Dean?" Sam questioned softly.

Dean threw him a disgusted look with his wolf face and stalked toward the door, plainly demanding to be set loose. There was that scent again, the one he'd gotten in the woods. It couldn't be his father. Just impossible. And he was GOING to catch up this time and find out for sure. He just needed someone to open the damn door.

Someone knocked on it.

Dean and Sam looked at each other, considering. It was full dark outside. If it was a demon, it would be strong; but Bobby had some seriously strong protections in his house. They both stepped back as Bobby went to the door, but didn't open it. "We're closed!" he shouted through the wood. "Come back tomorrow!"

"Cut the crap and open the fucking door, Singer," was the snarled reply. Dean and Sam again regarded each other, this time with nearly identical expressions of astonishment. Dean scented the air again, carefully, fixing it in his mind so he'd be able to track it if necessary. He knew that voice, knew it from the cradle, and there was nothing in it to suggest anything was wrong. Still, the hair on his neck was rising and he let out another growl.

Bobby shrugged at the boys and opened the door. There was salt spread across the threshold. If it was a demon, it wasn't coming inside. Unless it was a major demon, and then the salt wouldn't even slow it down. And he had to blink a couple times to be certain of what he saw on his doorstep.

John. John Winchester. A very much living and breathing John Winchester. And that was, simply put, impossible. John had been dead for a long time.

Although he looked like he'd been through the wringer. His hands were bloodied up past the wrists, there were deep scratches along one cheekbone, and a nasty cut right near the hairline. There was blood on his jeans from an indeterminate source, and another nasty slice along his ribcage, visible through the corresponding tear in his shirt. He looked like he'd been run through a blender. On high. And he was barely keeping his feet.

Sam got under one side as he stepped through the door and Bobby got the other. It didn't look like John was going to be on his feet too much longer, so they steered him to the sofa and sat him down, stepping back to stare incredulously. Then Bobby handed him the flask.

It wasn't a foolproof test. Major demons, demons like Azazel, they didn't even blink at holy water and salt. That had been proven when Azazel had possessed John before. But it would at least rule out the lesser ones. They'd worry about the major ones later. And the couch sat within a Key of Solomon, which meant even if it WAS a major demon, it would be trapped and powerless.

Dean padded forward slowly, watching, studying. He could find no hint that this was anything other than his dad, and the thought had him seriously confused. Demons couldn't resurrect people, not unless a deal was made. Or could they? Demons lied, too. All the time. Maybe Azazel had lied all along. He didn't know. And he STILL couldn't tell any difference from his dad. The man looked the same, sounded the same, even smelled the same way Dean remembered, right down to the Irish Spring soap overlaid by sweat. Dean's nose wrinkled a bit at that; the guy was downright pungent. But as far as he could tell, it was Dad. Right down to his boots. And that was another problem.

Dad was going to kill him for letting himself get bitten.

Dean slunk under the table as John finished the water in the flask and handed it back to Bobby with a frown.

John hadn't seen Dean. Bobby, Sam, and whatever that mutt was that had just hidden under the table, but no Dean. The Impala was outside, so if he was alive, he was here. The thought just wouldn't leave him, though, that something had happened to his oldest son, and he voiced it as soon as he was able. "Where's Dean?"

Sam knelt next to him with the medical kit, but he glanced up at Bobby when John spoke. How the hell were they supposed to tell him that Dean was a werewolf? He'd start demanding a gun and silver bullets. Sam couldn't say it. "He's around. Probably out in the yard checking the protections or something."

It was such a normal thing for Dean to do that John relaxed slightly. Until the antiseptic hit the cut on his head and he let loose a string of foul language that would have made his drill sergeant proud. He jerked his head away and Sam pulled it back just as quickly.

"Hold still," Sam said quietly. He finished up the cleanup on that one and tied it together with a couple of sterile strips and moved on to the cheek. Deep, nasty, but not lethal. He cleaned those out also. "Okay, lose the shirt, Dad." He wanted to see if the gouges there were as bad, and possibly what had made them. He was also fishing to see if the scars he remembered were there. He still wasn't totally convinced that this person was his father.

John shrugged out of the shirt with a hiss of pain and used it to wipe his hands. It was fit for the trash anyway. Little things were starting to add up, though, and while he let Sam tend his wounds in relative silence – he couldn't help cursing when Sam hit a particularly painful area – he wondered just exactly what it was they weren't telling him. It was something about Dean, he was sure. He hadn't missed the quick look passed between Sam and Bobby when he'd asked about Dean; and he hadn't missed the minute pause between the look and Sam's words that said his son was lying to him. Still, if Dean was dead, there would have been no need for the subterfuge. It had to be something different.

He waited until Sam was finished patching him up and sat up, although he didn't go any farther than the edge of the couch. No, he'd have to get up and move to prove he was himself. He knew about the key, of course. He and Bobby had put a lot of those protections in together to protect the boys. So he stood up, grabbed the arm of the couch for support, caught his breath, and headed for the kitchen. He needed a drink. Preferably Jim, Jack, or Jose, but he wasn't going to be particular.

After careful thought, he grabbed a beer instead. He needed to be as clear as he could to try and unravel this. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here. He remembered dying. And he remembered helping his boys destroy Azazel. He remembered… nothing else. But he sure remembered Hell, and if he was out of there, it was enough. How he'd gotten here would be the first priority.

He sat at the table with the beer because his legs didn't want to hold him up. He wasn't really tired; but his injuries were sapping his strength and he wanted to be awake so he could think. That meant sitting quietly for a while.

The mutt was under the table. John was actually glad to see another dog in this place. He knew Rumsfeld had died in that mess with Meg, and he knew how Bobby had felt about the big Rottweiler.

He was just considering trying to make friends with it when Sam and Bobby followed him into the kitchen. They took up flanking positions on the sides of the table and sat with their own drinks.

Bobby regarded John steadily while Sam kept looking at the table. Nobody spoke until Dean moved quietly out from under and used the dog door to go out in the yard.

"Glad you got another dog, Bobby," John remarked evenly as he put his bottle down. He looked up as Sam coughed suddenly and said something about looking for Dean before bolting from the kitchen like he'd been stung. John filed the incident away as one of those telling points. They were hiding something from him and he meant to get to the bottom of it. "Okay, now that the boys aren't around. What the FUCK is going on, Singer?"

TBC…