Here ya go! The next chapter, and a favorite of mine -- then again, I love this entire fic, so they're all favorites! Sorry about it being late -- work has been crazy, and I got attacked by a migraine this weekend, so wasn't able to go over my beta's notes until last night. Many thanks to Koyote19 for the beta, as always, and Scout27 for her unwavering support.

If you're enjoying this story, let me know. You don't have to be elegant or loquacious -- just a little note's fine! I use them to keep me from running from the office shrieking -- can we reboot today?

These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.2

Black pieces stick out against the white of the man's robe.

They sit across from him, shoulder to shoulder, Dean's good arm pressed against John, stuck between him and his dad. It's uncomfortable, being so close when tensions are running high. Dean hasn't forgotten his dad's impromptu late-night training session and the intent behind it; just because he's blind doesn't mean he can't see what his dad's struggling with -- hell, he's having problems accepting things as well. He feels slighted, punished for something he can't control, has no explanation for -- thinking about it only feeds his anger, but the source is warm against his side and he can't escape it.

"We go first," announces Dean solemnly, attention turned to the board as distraction. The pieces glow their colors atop the board, just as the man and the forest do. Here, he can see clearly, even his father sitting next to him. John looks tired, worn down by duty to Dean, and the latter feels guilty for putting his dad through all this. Guilty and angry, so he returns his eyes to the board.

For lack of anything else, he slides a pawn from in front of a knight two spaces.

"So," he starts conversationally, hand slowly rising from the piece, "you're the official chess guy or something?"

The man slides forward a pawn one space. "You could say that." His voice rumbles the clouds above.

John shifts on the bench and reaches to touch a pawn over Dean's arm, sliding it forward without a word. Dean studies the board. Two moves in and he has to think six past that. He's a bit rusty, but manages to calculate four during his turn.

"They just send you out when mortals want to see this queen?" he asks of the man, ignoring his dad.

Another move. "I play whoever comes my way."

Dean nods and hums through his lips, taps a finger against his chin. He reaches out to move the knight -- forward two, over one, right behind the pawn John moved -- and collides with his hand over the board.

"Where'd you learn to play chess?" his dad drawls from beside him. His tone's more accusing than anything, demanding an answer to assert Dean's right to play on their behalf. Their hands sit above the board, neither moving until one relents.

"Remember that summer Sam couldn't talk about anything else?" Dean says coolly. "Who do you think he played against?"

"He was that demanding, huh?"

Sam, as always, defuses the situation, if only for the duration of the game. "When isn't he?"

"Don't break the pattern, it's your turn," speaks the man.

Something shifts, just a bit. John removes his hand and sits back, as relaxed as a military man can be when his senses are alert. Truth with proof is different than Dean's continuing stance that he has done nothing to bring the Sight on artificially. He remembers that summer, when Sam carried a chess board under one arm or tucked into his backpack, the green cardboard corner of the board's underbelly sticking out past the zipper. He was intolerable until Dean started challenging him to games. The requests stopped, and John was almost hurt his son no longer begged for his attention.

He lets Dean focus on the game, lets him lean forward but keeps contact.

The forest shifts and changes as the game progresses. Trees skitter away, sliding from view behind one another, the forest denser yet empty. Clouds crack overhead, crashing together each time the cloaked man speaks.

It's all surreal. The game has become much more than a chess match between opponents; it is a clash of wills -- win versus lose, power against request.

"What kind of place is this?" asks Dean, sliding a piece across the board. Here, the magic is different; no conflicting images hitting against each other.

"Other than a place of Faerie?" The cloaked man uses the term in the traditional sense. A place of magic rather than that of the fae folk most picture. Once, it referred to all those supernatural forces roaming the Earth, when people spoke of them, gave them life through stories.

"Yeah. Other than that," Dean bites out, leaving off the obviously at the end of the retort.

"It exists next to the forest instead of within it."

Dean frowns, and it's not because of the game. It's progressing much like those he played against Sam on those nights they slept without their father under the same roof. Thunder and lightning never frightened them, but being alone did. A bit of pride swells inside Dean, that maybe, just maybe, he'll win this one.

"Instead of on top of it?" Because that's his understanding of Glamour; layers on top of layers.

"Is that how you see it?"

"Yeah," Dean admits. "Like two pictures on top of each other."

"Most Glamour relies on a basis of human reality."

They move their pieces throughout the conversation, eyes never leaving the board. Their voices bounce from it, snake between the pieces that represent them in this place. John sits to the side, an outsider in a game that has as much impact on his life as Dean's.

He leans forward and watches his son's hands move the pieces. "And this place doesn't," John remarks, then adds: "You're an angel."

"An angel?" Dean asks, turning to face his father. For the first time in a week, he can see; focuses his eyes and gives a half-smile. He wonders if his eyes have turned back to their natural color, or if the work of Estrella stretches this far.

"I've seen one before, before you were born. Didn't know it at the time."

"We're the Fallen," the cloaked angel states.

"Like the sidhe," John continues. It depended on which myth you believed, really. "Why would they send you to play us?"

"I am an angel of chance, of game. I enjoy playing."

"So do others."

"But I am here. Every night, I seek a worthy opponent."

"We're hardly worthy," John half-laughs. "Neither of us are chess players."

"This one is," the Fallen motions to Dean. "He hides much."

"He is waiting for you to take your damn turn," Dean grumbles.

John presses on. There's something he's missing. "You never said where this was."

"Beside, around, under, above. We are neither here nor there. Nothing is as important as the game. The game exists for itself."

Dean pauses, hand still on the top of a knight's head. "I'm getting the feeling this is no ordinary game. No pressure or anything, right?" Stallis' warning rang in his head -- Losing, well, that's when you want to pull out your guns.

Sacrifice one thing to save you from another.

John lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, the touch not dismissed as usual. "Just focus on the game."

"Easy for you to say; you're not playing." Dean plucks his hand from the knight and turns to face John. "When did that happen?"

"It is not wise to take your eyes from the board," warns the Fallen.

Sweeping his eyes across the board, Dean finds the Fallen's move and smirks -- he predicted it three moves ago -- then catches himself. Can this fallen angel read minds? Is cheating in a game of fate allowed? Is it like poker or pool; the slightest show of your cards a death wish if you're playing seasoned veterans?

Sammy never took his concentration from the board. Loss after loss caused that, Dean's smirks and whoops of victory par for the course and not something the competitive kid wanted to deal with. 'Just face it,' Dean had told him, 'you've got a head for reading, not strategy.'

And then would proceed to rub Sam's face in the loss.

How unfair, Dean thinks, that the first time he can see his dad is the time when he can't look at him?

The game continues. John can't tell if it's night or day; the light here spilling over from some unseen force doesn't change or waver, just exists for purpose of the game. Dean fell silent a half hour ago, as did the Fallen, both moving their pieces around in a delicate dance.

He remembers the basics from high school, though he rarely played unless asked to by relatives during holiday get-togethers. A knight moves up two, over one. A queen can move in any direction. Pawns can only capture on the diagonal. But basics can only take you so far; John begins to think in terms of tactics, moves on a battlefield.

Assembled on each side of the board are the captured pieces, standing together for protection though John knows they're just carved ivory or jade or something else and don't have feelings. He can't help feeling for them, though, sitting there out of play. They remind him of Dean the last week or so, sitting off to the side, taken out of the game by someone else's move.

Dean slides a piece closer to the Fallen's king.

"So," John clears his throat. "How's it going?"

"Fine, okay, spectacular."

"Your son is a fine contender," the Fallen remarks, taking his own turn.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"You're doing fine, son. Just keep concentrating on the game." Throws his support behind Dean, wonders if he should give his advice, help Dean chose where to move. John's not a man to sit idly by on the sidelines, a trait he's obviously passed onto his son, but takes the forced position with grace.

The idea of a Fallen being sent to play against them bothers him, and if the damned creature didn't speak in riddles, he'd have a straight answer now. Fae are notorious for loving games of chance or intelligence, especially when playing against mortals; those willing to gamble against the Winchesters wouldn't be hard to find.

And yet...

"How many have you played?" John tries. "Mortals, that is."

"A few. A hundred. I've lost count."

"A creature like you, losing count. I can't imagine that happens very often."

"The exact number is not important."

"I'm sure it is, at least to you."

"Angels, even Fallen, do not have pride as you mortals do. Or Fae."

"If ever there were people with too much pride," Dean mutters under his breath. They've been playing for over an hour now, perhaps two, and even in this place of magic, Dean's not at his best. Sweat glistens on his face, hands tremble when he pulls them off the pieces. He flattens them against his jeans and rubs them dry.

"You okay?" John asks.

"Wonderful," is Dean's clipped reply. He makes a circle with his head, cracking his neck, and absently rubs the base with his free left hand. "Just, you know, mentally tapped from this geek game."

"If you dislike it so," the Fallen inquires, "how have you developed such skills?"

"My brother's a geek." Dean shrugs and fails to hide the wince from John.

John frowns. "You want to take a break there, Dean?"

"There are no breaks. The game continues until it is finished," speaks the Fallen.

"And when will that be?"

"Four moves," Dean sighs, "maybe five."

"You're sure about that?"

"Unless this angel does something completely wacky, yeah."

"If you see that, you've already won." The Fallen fingers his own king's piece. "Would you like to play it out, or shall I concede?"

Dean just leans back on the bench and grins. A wide, proud, happy grin that almost splits his face in two. "Oh, you can concede all right."

"As soon as you leave this place, your sight will not return. It is not the prize for completing this game. Only the Queen can grant you such clemency. But she has promised to see you at the Court should you win."

It clicks into place in John's mind. All those theories swirl into one until the only unacceptable one sticks out clearly. He finds himself questioning everything and nothing at the same time in those seconds before the words leave his mouth.

"The Court? Only Fae can enter that realm."

"Yes," the Fallen now smiles wider than Dean. "Why else would I entertain an audience with you?"

--

They thought they had time. Time to mull over words spoken and things stolen. If things began with a bang and ended with a whimper, this was the intermission -- set aside from the story as a stepping stone, no less important, but out of tone. Their lives were motel rooms and creepy monsters often seen in urban legends, not fairy tales.

Faeries belonged in Welsh and Irish stories told by musty professors or hippies in swishing skirts with long hair. Like vampires, they weren't supposed to exist, at least in North America; just fragments of a time long past when the Earth was worshipped and there were several Gods instead of one. Despite recent encounters, believing still came like grasping at straws.

Even when the Fallen stood and motioned for them to do the same, the forest morphing around them as the table and chess game disappeared into green foliage. It snakes up and around them, thick vines of ivy swirling around the tree trunks, constricting branches and free leaves, slithering across the ground around their feet, ensnaring their ankles.

They thought they had time.

"Good luck," the Fallen says, holding up a hand. "May God gaze kindly upon you."

With a jolt, the vines tug against them, pulling the pair through the ground into thick dust and dirt. Dean likens it to the sensation of being drowned in Earth, though this time he can see his tormentor. He shuts his eyes against the dirt only to feel them burning underneath his lids. Everything is dark and suffocating just like the world he's been living in for the past week, except he can feel it all and see it all around him.

A trick. Asking the Fallen to concede had been a mistake -- Dean knew the moves, knew there was a chance the angel could have won the game, if willing to take a few risky chances. Dean's an unorganized player, relying on intuition instead of studied moves of established masters, but that doesn't mean he can't be predictable.

Or a fool.

The fact that neither of them saw this coming comforts Dean a bit, but he's suffocating again and hates that sensation, so there's little to make him feel better unless it's the sudden disappearance of the dirt sinkhole they've been pulled in to. His ankle is still being squeezed by the vines, and half his calf; he's still traveling downward, though the end destination is unknown.

With a snap, Dean's un-casted right arm is pulled free from its sling, dragged above him with a painful tug against it. He opens his mouth to cry out and catches himself too late. God, it's happening all over again, he thinks as the dirt crushes him and slides past him, and fuck, why did he ever have to take that walk in the first place?

--

John lands with an oof on fern-covered ground, the thick undergrowth enough to cushion his fall. Dirt falls through with him, skittering onto his head until the flow tapers off and leaves him listening to that silence he's come to expect in these other realms created by magic. So foreign yet comforting; John stands and brushes himself off, using the absolute silence of a world untouched by humming electrical machines to listen for any sign of Dean.

He can't be far. The glen isn't large, no wider than the clearing found earlier, surrounded by old trees, older than John's seen in a long while. His ankle gives a bit under him as he takes a step, tender from the vines' grip, but he ignores the pang of pain that runs up his leg. First, Dean.

There's no telling where he is, or what could be lurking behind the thick trunks of the ancient trees. John closes his eyes and thinks while listening. Dean was standing next to him when the vines pulled at them, so why hasn't he appeared yet? If the properties of space acted differently here, and John had the impression they did, then Dean couldn't be too far off.

Separated by feet or miles, Dean had to be somewhere in this forest.

Make a sound, boy. Anything to clue him in. There are no markings on the ground other than the indentation made by his own fall, no footsteps to indicate Dean arrived earlier and wandered off.

There aren't stars, but there is a sun hanging in the sky. John smiles. It's setting in what he has to assume is the west, though that doesn't matter. His sons have been taught well; when lost or separated, John told them to head to the north and wait to meet up with their father.

John orients himself and heads south.

The glen slopes near the south end into the trees, giving into the foliage. Here, the forest grows denser; John keeps the sun to his right and heads into the darker forest, the canopy thick overhead.

No animals tromp around. John hasn't seen a single insect climb the barks of the trees or skitter under his feet. The heat and dense green around him reminds him of the jungles of Vietnam; his eyes keep darting to the trees and the snakes that would fall from them, phantoms dropping from above to bite his fellow soldiers. Or gunshots from nowhere. He expects a pop pop from somewhere, but knows the waiting game. Days without sound, without a sign of anyone else.

He brushes those memories away. That was another life in another time. Monsters are no longer fellow men but creatures with less feeling than other soldiers.

A crack of a twig is his only warning; John whirls around --

"Man, there you are," Dean says. He stands behind John cradling his right arm tightly against his chest, enough sweat on his brow to mat his hair to his forehead. "Where the fuck are we, now?"

"I don't know."

"God damnit," Dean swears, walking in a circle and squinting up at the sky through the leaves. "That angel guy, he really screwed us over big time, didn't he?"

"I don't know why he would, Dean. What motive would he have?"

"Motive? Since when do these things need motives?"

John nods; Dean has a point. Humans rarely recognized their own motives for actions, and they had a moral compass. At least most did.

"I say he tossed us off somewhere and is having a good laugh with his regular chess buddy," Dean continues. He stops pacing and stares at the sky. "You hear me, you angelic son of a bitch?"

"Stop shouting," John implores, eyes searching the forest for unknown foe attracted by Dean's tantrum. "We don't know what's out there, Dean. Keep your voice down."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"Have you seen anything? Any landmarks that might let us know where we are?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, nothing. Hell, I'm glad I can see at all."

"Save that for later; we don't know how long it'll last."

"Way to deflate my joy, dad. You see anything?"

This time, John shakes his head. "I started in a clearing a few hundred feet back."

"Lucky. Hit a few branches on the way down."

"Is that how you hurt your arm?"

Dean looks down at it and shakes his head, hugging it tighter against himself. "Naw. Dirt did this. Hurts like a bitch."

"Is it bleeding?"

"Never stopped to check," Dean admits. John moves in to check, but Dean waves him off. "Later. We've got to find out where we are and how to get out of here. East or west?"

John finds Dean's attitude surprising, but not unwelcome. The results of the training given over the last twenty or so years has paid off; Dean stands in front of him waiting for an answer, some indication of which way they should head. Father clashes with hunter again – it's been happening too often lately, a weakness John knew he had but dislikes at inopportune times – but he pushes Dean and his pale face aside.

"West" John answers. "We're losing sunlight."

Dean gives a curt nod and heads for the failing sunlight, steps barely making any sound as he walks across undergrowth. John pauses a moment, then follows.

--

The second time Dean falters, they've been walking for over an hour. The sun's already dipped behind the tops of the never-ending forest of thick trees, leaving them with the light of dusk; purple and blue and black that casts an uneasy shadow over everything. He tumbles over his own feet, his dad catching him inches from the ground.

He sinks down, rolls over, and sits up against a nearby tree. "Sorry. Just give me a second."

"Take your time, son," John says. "I don't think we've gone very far."

"First time moves in a loop, then space? I'm getting sick of this stuff. What happened to straight forward time and space?" Dean shakes his head. "Too much physics." He leans his head back against the tree and closes his eyes for a moment. The back of his throat tickles with the memory of inhaled dirt and he gives in, coughing and sputtering whatever's left from the encounter he didn't leave on the ground next to where he landed.

Gives it due time, then lets it pass. There's never enough time to dwell on things that slow you down, just on getting back up to speed. Bruised and battered all over again and it's just the same old injuries jostled by this messed up attempt at a meeting.

"Better keep moving. Who knows what's out there, huh?" he says, pushing himself up with the help of the tree behind him.

Manages to get to his feet without assistance, something he applauds himself on; nothing brings smiles like small victories. It isn't the forest that raises goosebumps along his arms, nor the queasy feeling deep in his stomach from the pain in his arm; Dean feels something else entirely, not unlike that plaguing him since leaving Estrella's layer. They are somewhere within the realms of fae, and the fact that no one's shown their face since they arrived only intensifies his feeling that this is all a huge mistake.

He's never valued anything above his life, not since Sam left, and his sight, while appreciated and missed, isn't something he's willing to walk into the preverbal fire for. Holding not only his own life, but that of his dad -- of a man with so much more importance in the grand scheme than himself -- only digs that well of guilt deeper.

Surely, his dad trusted his contact, or else he wouldn't have set up a meeting with a recommended contact. Though the cloud of doubt had followed his dad around for a few days after the initial call, like he had done something he didn't wish to do and was living with the consequences. It was a look and feeling Dean knew well, and when his father would finally turn in for the night, Dean searched as best he could for some clue as to what was given up for such a shady meeting in the first place.

So far, he's without any answers. Simply more questions.

Which he'll never voice, at least he never intends to do so; what's exchanged during an argument in a cloud of angry haze is something you can't really control. Then again, what is intention but carefully constructed ties to get you out of a promise? Fingers crossed behind the back?

The same could be said for motive, though a stretch of the imagination. Whatever the purpose behind the Fallen's betrayal, it's clear he intended to allow them to see the Queen, but never said he would. Alluded to it, but never clearly stated, 'Winning this game will give you access to the Queen.'

"Damnit," Dean mutters under his breath. How could they be so damn foolish?

"Don't worry," says his dad from beside him, "someone must have told Stallis if we won, we'd see the Queen. Fae might be keen on tricks, but they can't lie."

"Yeah, well, Stallis is human. He's got no restrictions on lying."

"Comes back to motive. What would he gain by lying to us?"

Intention. That's what it all comes down to. Dean sees his opening and can't resist. "What would he gain, dad? What did you give Martin in exchange for setting up the meeting?"

The question catches John off-guard, not the words themselves but the person who's asking. He looks at Dean, asks him why he's doing this now, here, when there are so many other things to be wondering about. Never says a word, but then, he doesn't have to; all his looks and glances are carefully labelled and categorized in Dean's head from years of tandem hunting.

"What makes you think I had to give him something?" John counters. "He owed me."

"That's why you've been moping around the last few days. C'mon, dad."

"You don't need to bother yourself with the details. Martin wouldn't have sent Stallis if he were going to lie, end of discussion."

If Dean were Sam, he'd question further.

But he isn't. So he backs down and mutters a respectful response. Pushes forward and wonders if the Fallen didn't lie, and had no ill motives, then where the hell was the Queen?

"Hell has nothing to do with it."

The quip, uttered by someone unseen and unheard by both experienced hunters, causes the pair to turn around and face the visitor, pride wounded by the surprise they managed to pull on them.

Or rather, she.

Unlike Estrella, a woman of contradicting images, Dean finds himself face to face with a woman whose beauty transcends the Glamour he can see through. Even with her magic striped away by his eyes, Dean finds her attractive, a woman he'd seek out in a crowded bar. He has no doubt the light that's risen above her helps to illuminate her golden hair just so, but she's a being that would look heavenly in any light.

Blue eyes look over them with otherworldly-wisdom. For her appearance of only twenty-so years, this being carries the grace and knowledge of someone much older – older, Dean's sure, than many things on Earth.

"Not fair," is all Dean can manage – is there something wrong with the wiring in his head? All he can manage is a fourth-grade retort?

"You think too loud," the woman replies. "Loud enough for me to seek you out instead of allowing you to find me."

"You're the Queen," John breathes. He sounds as astounded as Dean, though age must have helped form a semi-intelligent comment.

"It is not obvious?" she pouts. Dean swears she did that on purpose.

"No, no," he backpedals for mankind. "It's obvious. Yeah. Really obvious."

She smiles. A beaming, bright smile he could melt into. If she could do that without Glamour; damn, Dean wishes he couldn't see through it.

"I didn't believe them, at first," the Queen begins. Behind her, a stump grows from the ground in a twist of brown twists of wood, and she sits upon it just as it moves up and fully forms. Doesn't offer them a seat, but there's ample ground and the undergrowth of moss is soft.

Neither take a seat.

"Believe what?" asks Dean.

"Your Sight. I know what happened, and it is regrettable, but not without precedent. It has been our way of keeping our secrecy since a time before time, when our people roamed the Isles freely. I don't know what you wish to accomplish."

"Accomplish? Hey, I didn't ask for any of this. I was just out taking a walk, minding my own business, when that bitch kidnapped me," Dean says. His voice rises to a dangerous level, echoing through the thick trees as it would in a stone tunnel.

The Queen nods patiently. "I understand this was a condition bestowed unwittingly upon you."

"Bestowed? You want to tell me exactly how that happened?"

This time, the Queen frowns, and it isn't an act like before. True confusion blossoms across her golden face; catching her so off-guard gives Dean pause, and he mirrors her expression on his own face. The pause gives his anger a moment to simmer, for the reality that the Fallen was merely playing with them – his version of life-sized chess – and he wavers on his feet.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat, rest a bit. The Unseelie Queen picks her tormentors well; even a week of the best rest would leave you aching," the Queen offers, holding out a slender hand. Gives him an opening to sit without appearing weak.

Dean groans as he sits, pulling his legs to sit cross-legged on the moss, relaxing as it gives beneath him. Something about the forest gives him a renewed sense of strength, without it, he believes he'd be asleep and useless. John takes a seat next to him, putting Dean just slight of his left shoulder, a protective move Dean would normally complain about but now just appreciates it silently.

"You don't sound like you're willing to help," John says, filling the gap in the conversation. "Makes one wonder why you'd go through all this."

"To answer your questions. I feel I can at least do that, if not anything more. I would not like you to have an inaccurate opinion of our kind based on this experience."

There are times to speak, and times to stay quiet. Dean holds his tongue even as questions and retorts fly through is mind at amazing speed. Anger wells up again, anger at all this, but understands allowing it to vent will only keep him from learning why. Why beyond all the possible answers he's formed in his mind through days and nights of darkness.

His heart aches when he realizes this sight, this ability to see, will be gone as soon as this meeting finishes.

The Queen rests her hands folded in her lap. "The fae who captured you did not tell the Unseelie Queen everything, and for that, she would have been punished. She presented you as a full human -- "

John leans forward, voice coarse with underlying anger. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Because you carry fae blood. How else would your son have inherited such a gift?"