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Although John's no expert on ectobiology (or even plain old biology, for that matter), he knows enough so that seeing Dad leaves him gaping. He knows, logically, that this isn't his dad, but at a first glance he looks exactly the same.
(or so he thinks. it's been three years since he's last seen his dad stabbed, dead, lying on the checkered tile while oil rained from above and mingled with the blood on the floor, and he tries not remembering it. but sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and he can't remember dad's face, either.)
At a second glance, he can notice some major differences. The man in front of John is shorter, and his skin is darker. The shape of his eyes is all wrong, oval rather than almond-like, and his mouth is wider.
John's supposed to care about the differences. He's supposed to pick his jaw from where it's fallen, to not feel the fluttering in his stomach that makes him want to retch. He's not supposed to walk closer to the man who's not his father on shaky legs, or wrap his hands around him in a hug that leaves them both breathless.
(he's definitely not supposed to say, half-choked and crying, "dad", because that's not his dad and his dad has died long enough ago that john should've already gotten over it.
(but he does, and he can't breathe, and there's snot making its way out of his nose, and suddenly there's a hand wrapping around his middle and another tangling itself in his hair.
(he might not be john's dad, but for the moment, he's enough.)