This chapter's for carocali and lemmypie since I was mean and teased them with the ending to this at lunch. hugs Sorry, girls! It's all typed up, now, though…. wink
These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.3
There is a simple definition John Winchester lives by, one created the day he decided to seek vengeance – no, revenge – against the demon that took his wife's life. At first, his vendetta was aimed only at those who allied themselves with the demon, with evil. And as his anger and sorrow grew, so did his definition. Those he hunted were not human. Any creature, any monster that possessed abilities outside the realm of normal soon became evil to John, and he hunted them down without mercy to make sure no more innocents died.
A line had been established, one that separated killing those who have killed and those who were human – to kill humans would make him no better than the monsters and demons lurking in the dark.
And yet, did this revelation make him one of the monsters, according to his own definition? A being with abilities outside what normal humans should have? He couldn't discount his own acceptance of Missouri Mosley, a friend from the days when everything was colored in shades of black, with her odd psychic powers. She so clearly represented good; John recognizes the lack of parameters set in his skewed definition.
Only, this time, it wasn't an outsider with such powers or abnormalities, or a distant friend, but himself. His family. How do you fight something you might become?
In that case, how do you know what you will become, if anything?
"You didn't know," the Queen deduces from John's silent brooding and Dean's shocked expression. Her face is a picture of calmness, serenity radiating from her gold and silver clad frame. Whatever abilities she possesses, and John is sure the list is longer than those compiled through myths and local legends, she gives the impression of a human woman listening intently to his grievances. Royalty comes only from her posture and soulful eyes.
Dean shakes his head to John's left; one glance at those odd, light eyes gives John the impression the Queen isn't the only one withholding some kind of ethereal knowledge. "Is this something we were supposed to know? 'Cause I'm sure I missed the message -- "
"Dean," John says, voice close to a growl.
"What? You're just going to take this? Believe her when she says that?"
"Are you accusing the Faerie Queen of lying?" asks the Queen. "When you come at my invitation?"
"I'm finding it hard to believe," Dean stutters, "I didn't mean – aww, shit." He takes a deep breath and ignores that tickling at the back of his throat, still clinging to his illusion of strength in the Queen's presence. "You can't lie, right? Just...if you say that, it's true, then." Dean runs a hand over his face. "So, what? I get this and no one else does? How's that selection process work?"
The Queen visibly collects herself, shines pity upon them. "Like any other trait of genetics. I am sure there are others in your family with abnormal abilities, gifts of the fae." John remains silent, and she casts him a reassuring smile. "It is why darker spirits and creatures are drawn to you, to your family. Why you are hunters of the highest kind."
"Are you saying..." but John trails off, unable to complete the sentence. Are you saying Mary's death was my fault? Was it this unknown family secret – and damnit, did anyone know? -- that drew the demon to their family, to Sam, and ultimately caused Mary's death?
"Don't you go there," Dean says. "I've had to deal with Sam and his stupid guilt; I'm not going to deal with yours, too." His face colors with anger, red flush rushing to his cheeks, and he gestures with his left hand; letting go of his right arm allows it to slip down a bit, and he grimaces, but doesn't give any ground.
He turns his attention to the Queen, catching his arm but not his temper. "Don't say that's the reason like it's something simple. Like my mom was just 'misplaced.' I've got to believe there's something more."
"Did you learn nothing from Fallen?" she asks, unaffected by Dean's anger. "We are all merely pieces on a game board, controlled by fate. No one knows the end, but we all can know our lives are advancing the game towards completion."
"No, that's not good enough. We go through all this shit so, what? Someone else down the line can reap the rewards? Where's our thanks? Who's watching out for us?"
"At the moment, I am." Her voice has risen, his yelling and accusations finally slipping under the calm exterior. "And you would be wise to remember as much."
Their argument, to John, is a movie, something he's watching passively, not actively participating in. Dean moves to stand, to advance toward the Queen, fueled by anger, and John knows he should say something, should move to stop his son from doing something he may later regret. Yet despite all his training, all he's said and done for the last twenty years, he finds himself paralyzed by words, mind unable to move past the idea that he'd drawn the demon to their home all those years ago.
What had Dean said? That he'd dealt with Sam's guilt for years? How could Sam even begin to believe it was his fault? The poorly-formed thoughts of a child living under a canopy of evil led Sam to many odd conclusions about life, but this one?
Where had John been when Sam formed this idea, and how could he not have noticed?
"I am in the position to offer you a deal," continues the Queen. Dean's standing, but frozen in place by her declaration. "If you are finished ranting about your place in the grand scheme of things."
Dean gulps. "Yeah. Sure."
"There is a being, not unlike yourself, hunting down our kind in your world," she explains. "A human with the ability to see Glamour. I am willing to restore your normal sight and offer my protection, and the Unseelie Queen will release her geas upon you for slaying her kin."
"If?"
"You slay him."
John feels his sadness turn to anger, that definition imprinted deep within him screaming for him to move, to stop this. To kill a human is to cross that line separating them from that they hunt, that they've sworn to hunt and kill – their purpose is to protect humans.
Yet if they are more than human, where does that line now lie?
Beside him, Dean's mouth is a hard, thin line, eyes impossibly dark where no color exists. He doesn't speak, doesn't move other than to take shallow breaths, mind considering her deal.
Considering the death of a human! At his own hand!
"Dean, look at me," John commands. Dean moves as if he's controlling his body from somewhere else; a slow, mechanical movement more out of memory than actually hearing the words. "You don't have to do this. There's got to be another way. We'll find it."
"The Unseelie Queen will continue to hunt your son until she has his blood. She is not as kind a negotiator as I," chimes the Queen. "If it is the human that causes your apprehension, he is a perversion of humanity, one who hunts our kind without mercy, or honor. He must be stopped."
"And how's that make him any different than us?" John counters, picking himself up from the ground. "We hunt your kind."
"You don't understand. There is a natural balance to the world, one of good and evil. Hunting those who disturb this balance is necessary, hence your kind, the hunters among the humans. This human kills without allowing any crimes; many he slays are good beings, pure innocent beings who have done no wrong." She takes a breath and softens her voice. "You fight with mercy, with honor; you have purpose and standards. You kill only those who have killed first in order to save innocents. How is this any different?"
"We've never killed a human."
"If you met a serial killer, would you hesitate? A monster of a man who hurts children?"
"No."
"Then tell your son to take the deal. He will regain his sight without losing the ability to See. And no longer will worry about the Unseelie creatures hunting you."
"And if he doesn't? He won't be able to see, right?"
"Or live without fear of discovery."
"I'll do it," Dean croaks at John's side. He clears his throat and repeats himself.
"Son," John almost begs. Is this how he'll lose him? Will the task of killing another human take what good he possesses to leave him evil? God, the lines are so blurred, he feels they'll fall off the side of the balance beam at any second.
And accepting her deal will cause a huge earthquake beneath the beam.
"You accept. Understand your terms. You have one week to complete this task – neither side is willing to lose many more fae. And your father cannot assist other than to help with locating this man and backing you up, understand? His blood must be on your hands."
Dean nods weakly.
Hardly able to watch, John focuses on how the light plays through the leaves of the forest's canopy. He hears all that is exchanged, but feels one glance in Dean's direction will leave him in tears – of all the things asked of Dean, unfairly asked of the boy, John never expected something such as this. He wonders if the rewards are worth the price.
And if Dean will emerge with his soul intact.
Morning has come and gone by the time they emerge from the forest, thick summer heat causing the blacktop around the Impala to waver, creating the impression of a mirage. Dean puts a hand on the car just to make sure it's really there, that none of this was a dream. That for a few hours, he could see without the complications of Glamour, could enjoy the beauty of the forest and know for sure his father was there, next to him, at every turn.
Now, outside the forest and glade created by the Seelie Queen, his father's a ghost, quietly moving through the motions of starting the car and backing out of the space. If it weren't for the underbrush snapping beneath his dad's feet, Dean would never have found his way back, and all attempts at conversation have been met with stern silence. Dean shifts in the leather passenger seat and leans his head against the window. Even in this heat, the glass is cool against his forehead, and he enjoys it while it lasts.
"Can you turn on the AC?" he ventures to ask before reaching out to follow the curve of the dashboard. His dad's hand comes up to block his, and a second later, a stream of cool air flows from the vent in front of him. It fights against the mid-day summer sun and gives a bit of relief.
Dean feels this silent treatment will go on forever when his father clears his throat and asks: "How's your arm?"
"Fine," Dean replies. "She healed it up good."
"Good," John grunts back.
The silence continues, extending past the edges of the forest preserve to the highway beyond; Dean can hear the cars, feels the jolt of speed as his father turns out onto a busier road. Things were so much easier when he could see, could use John's facial expressions as an indicator of his dad's mood. But in the blanket of black that's become his home, a world of sound and touch, he can't tell. He's tried placing a hand on his dad's shoulder, but it's shrugged off before he can sense what's boiling under the surface.
So he shifts and lets his head settle against the chilled window, the air conditioning aimed at his face. His right arm, repaired by the Seelie Queen before their departure, lies in his lap. Dean moves it once and awhile, when he feels his uneasiness build, drumming his fingers on his thigh in time with the music pouring from the Impala's speakers. It fills the silence as best music can when such strains hang heavy in the air; even with the air conditioning running, Dean feels the car is stuffy, and runs a hand over the interior of his door to find the window lever.
"What are you doing?" John says when Dean has the window open a crack. The breeze he missed on the trip into the state has returned, and he's closed his eyes to feel it tickle his eyelids and brush his hair back from his forehead. "Dean?" he continues when there's no answer.
"Nothing. Just need some fresh air."
"After all that time we spent out in that forest?" John counters.
Dean shrugs. How can he explain it? There's something comforting about the air rushing past them; it reminds him there are things larger than himself, and with all he's learned, all he's agreed to do, he needs that reminder if only to quell some deep-set anger. The impossibility of the situation isn't lost on Dean, the choice he's made one he's been taught to work against since he first received a gun at nine.
Icy air mingles with the heat outside, but instead of closing the window, he feels a bit chilly and closes the vent. He leans back in the seat and frowns.
"What? Now I'm cold. You didn't have to turn it on high."
But he knows why he's all hot and cold on the flip of a coin, and it has nothing to do with the open window or setting of the A/C. His arm may be healed, but the Queen was right; Estrella's crimes were far worse than what can be seen on the outside, and Dean wonders if the Queen knew his head swims when he does more than walk a few feet, or feels the cold sweat break out when he wakes up in the middle of the night. The damage is deeper, and he has a strong feeling it had to do with whatever he drank out of desperation.
"I don't understand it," John says. "Why can't they just send one of their own?"
Dean considers this for a moment, tagging it onto his thoughts. "Doesn't matter, either way."
"Oh?"
"She set us up to fail," Dean declares. He rolls the window down farther and leans an arm out onto the edge as a pillow for his head. "There's no way I'll be able to track and hunt without being detected, dad. This guy's going to see me coming and who's to say he's not crazy enough to kill me after a faerie massacre?"
John's quiet for a moment, mulling it over. "We can always find another way."
"Naw. I already said I'd try. Can't turn your back when you make a deal with their type." For the Sight, he was only tortured and blinded; Dean hated to think what would happen if both he and his dad ran off to find a better deal. With packs from both sides hunting them, how long would they survive before faerie caught up and decided to extract revenge?
"Why did you make that deal in the first place?" John asks. "You know we draw the line at humans."
The million dollar question. John's voice wavers just a bit when he says humans like maybe he's not so sure himself. Is there ever a worthy reason to cross lines? Or are they set in concrete, marking a point of no return? Dean's sure the Queen told him about the man's crimes to help sway his mind, depending on his deeply-rooted sense of right and wrong hero complex to kick in and tell him it's okay as long as the man's evil.
So Dean takes a deep breath and weeds it out the best way he knows, by talking it out without thinking first. "It's either him or me," he says slowly. "It comes down to that. He's doing bad; I'm doing good. Guess we'll see who wins in the end, huh?"
Dean shivers, and doesn't know if it's the rising fever or the words he's spoken.
A new place means Dean needs to learn the layout all over again, their transient lifestyle not designed to accommodate a blind man. John grabs a room and unpacks his bags before the passenger door opens with a creak of metal against metal and Dean steps out onto the baking blacktop, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Where are we?" he asks. His head moves back and forth like he's taking in the sights, but John knows those icy eyes aren't seeing anything anymore, and Dean's eating up the sounds surrounding them. "Went a bit far from the highway, didn't you?"
If anything, Dean will come out of all this with sharper hearing, John's sure of that.
"A little ways. Figured you needed some peace and quiet," he admits. Grabs Dean's bag from the back seat and slams the door a little harder than he intended, and Dean gives him a sharp, if unfocused, look.
"Yeah. Thanks. You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Dean snorts. "Right. Takes one to know one."
He's right, but John doesn't reply. The room's on the first floor, a few doors down from where the Impala's parked; he hefts both bags onto his shoulders and starts off, expecting Dean to follow.
New places means re-learning. Behind him, Dean clears his throat.
"Hey, you going to help me out? Or should I just find a twig and feel my way?" His voice holds impatience and frustration under the playful tone, using humor to defuse an awkward situation as he has since starting kindergarten. John loops back and stands beside Dean, wondering how this is going to work. He's used to Dean following the sound of his footsteps, weaving back and forth in a serpentine line but ultimately getting to where he's going.
He's surprised when Dean starts patting his arm, and almost moves defensively before Dean grips his elbow and smirks. "Lead on," he says, motioning with his other hand.
John manages to keep his anger in check until he unlocks the door to the room and steps inside. He flips the light on, finds an armchair, and throws the bags into it, bypassing the beds completely. Dean flounders in the middle of the room, cursing when his shins knock into the edge of one of the beds; he reels backwards only to find the dresser with his back, and swears again. The moves do little to dissuade John, instead, it only reminds John of everything that's happened, all the decisions made and things asked of them, and it only helps to fuel things.
"Damnit, Dean," he half-shouts, mindful of his voice in a crowded motel. "There's always another way, a better way."
Dean freezes halfway between the beds and the dresser, hand rubbing his right shin coming up slowly as he straightens up. His face is blank, confused.
"Why couldn't you tell her you'd think about it? There's nothing wrong with taking some time to think things over, weighing the pros and cons, going into the deal with some background."
"You're back on that?" Dean asks. "I thought we already discussed it."
"We discussed it, but weren't finished." John shakes his head. "I just don't understand it. You're being foolish, going into this half-cocked. I know you want to get your sight back, son, but is this worth it? Crossing this line?"
He wants Dean to reply, to yell back at him and tell him what he needs to hear – that it is worth it, this time, that they can be flexible. The greater good should win out. But Dean won't – Dean isn't his brother, isn't the one who argues and talks back, makes John want to rip out his hair from frustration. Dean is the good son, the one who will keep everything to himself and run blindly into the face of danger if his father tells him to – even if he disagrees.
Dean just shakes his head and takes a few careful steps backwards to lean against the dresser. Takes John's shouting without defending himself in any way. Has he truly convinced his oldest he's always right?
"Dad," says Dean softly. "You think she's right? That..." He hesitates and takes a deep breath before rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, wouldn't someone know or something? There'd be some sign, right? You hit puberty, you sprout wings?"
John laughs at that. Takes the moment and holds it close because there aren't very many times he can feel his anger melt away. Anger in general; he totes it around close to his heart next to revenge and those lingering tendrils of love left from the last time he felt Mary. She could make him forget the troubles of the world, and Dean inherited that gift. When John looks up, Dean's smirking, a real smile spreading up through those odd eyes, and John can see a hint of Dean in them.
The glimpse is gone, though, Dean leaning heavier against the dresser than he was a moment ago, eyes half-closed. Despite his humor and the smirk still lingering upon his lips, he looks tired, exhausted even, the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders and pushing him down.
"You mind if I take a shower?" asks Dean. He rubs his eyes with closed fists, much like he did when a toddler and staving off sleep to play with his brother just a little longer, please, daddy? Dean takes his silence as an okay and pushes off the dresser only to pause, wavering on his feet in the center of the room. "Uhh..."
"Six steps, turn left," John answers. It's clinical instead of emotional; he could very well walk over and take Dean's hand as he did when leading his son across the street, but doesn't. Just gives him specific directions and leaves him to fend for himself.
Dean takes it in stride, as always, and it's enough to warm John's heart. The part still beating, at least, fueled by revenge, running off patterns ingrained in him during ten weeks of boot camp. He watches his oldest son walk towards the bathroom, carefully measuring his steps as to avoid bumping into furniture – John's seen the countless bruises added to the fading ones of green and yellow leftover from Dean's imprisonment – and disappear through the door. It closes, but there's no click of the lock.
Whether it's for Dean's safety or a way to quell his own fears, John doesn't know. He just wonders when such a thing became normal, and God, would the rest of their lives be like this? Dean relying on audio or tactile clues to move around, re-learning each hotel room only to move onto the next, his body taking on shades of blue and purple as he tries – and never complains – to learn everything so he can move without hindrance? John claimed Dean wasn't useless, that he still served a purpose, but as the shower starts up and John looks down at Dean's bag, left on the chair next to him, he can't help but feel maybe his words of comfort were a bit premature and not at all true.