Props, as always, to Koyote for her amazing beta skills. ;) I wouldn't sound so elegant without her.

These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.4

Five a.m. in any state is quiet. After years of living across the nation, in every type of town, from speck on the map to great urban centers, John Winchester enjoys waking up early and going outside; sometimes walking around the wherever he's currently calling home. His internal clock wakes him just after sunrise; he grabs his journal and cell phone before donning his jacket and slipping out of the room where Dean still slumbers somewhat peacefully after only a few nightmares that night, one bad enough to wake both of them.

It was enough to convince John of the severity of their situation. He finds a secluded picnic table between two dying trees, forgotten by the summer patrons that no longer arrive during vacations that never happen, and takes a seat. Flips open his journal to one of the first telephones number written down – Caleb, one of his earliest friends as well as his exclusive ammunition dealer. He gave John a considerable discount after he confessed, teary eyed, that all he had was four hundred dollars, the last of his sons' depleted college fund.

They're on the east coast and Caleb's on central time, but men like them don't sleep through the night. There's a moment's hesitation before he dials – the story he's concocted during those hours of the night when Dean tossed and turned and mumbled in his sleep runs through his head one more time – then he types in the number and waits for it to ring.

Three rings, then a click and the rusty croak of a sleepy voice. "Yeah?"

"Caleb, it's John."

There's a rustle of blankets before Caleb replies. "Hey, John, what's up? Haven't heard from you in awhile. You running out of ammo?"

"When am I not?" John jokes. "Always got something to hunt taking up my bullets."

"Told you to switch to hand weapons. I still favor the bayonet. Sure, they went out of style a hundred years ago, but hey, so did what we're killing."

"After the last few weeks, I'm ready to consider anything."

"That doesn't sound good," Caleb says. "It's not just anything that'll sway the mind of John Winchester. So why don't you tell me why you really called."

John runs his free hand through his messy hair and sighs, looking off into the distance where mountains loom ominously. Time to get that story straight; a man as experienced as Caleb can tell a lie even over the phone.

Good thing there isn't much lie to his story.

"It's Dean, Caleb. He got caught up in something big, and isn't looking too good."

"What kind of something?"

"It's fae, Caleb. They were looking for some hunter who's been after them, someone with the Sight."

"And what? Dean's got it?"

How much does he reveal? "Yeah. He's got it. Don't know how, but they messed him up good."

"And you're looking for whoever it was set for, right?" Caleb asks. There's a pause on the other end, a shifting. "What are you planning to do?"

"You know how it works. They realized their mistake, let him go. Going to keep tabs on him, make sure he doesn't start using it against them." That wasn't what Caleb was asking, but John hopes it's enough to quell any questions of revenge running through his friend's head. "Listen, Caleb. They," -- and here, he's all emotion -- "they blinded my boy. He can't hunt like he used to. I need help, help from someone who knows what they're doing."

"God, John, how's he coping?"

"How do you think he's doing? Running into furniture and swearing all the time."

"Got that from his old man," Caleb laughs. "Listen, I can make a few calls. I've sold some ammo to a few guys that could be used for what you're thinking about; I'll find out who's out there hunting fae. Just be careful, John. You play this the wrong way, people are going to think you're gunning for revenge."

"When am I not?"

"That's not what I meant."

John sighs. "I know. Thanks, Caleb. I owe you one."

"Naw. Dean's a nice guy. Cute kid, you know? Tell him to keep his chin up."

John nods, though Caleb can't see him, and hangs up without a goodbye. He flips through his journal, looking through years of research for anything to grant him inspiration; he's still uncomfortable with their whole plan of action, and despite Dean's claims that he's being set up for failure, that this will never go the way it sounds, John can't stomach the idea of hunting a human, a fellow hunter.

The hits keep on coming. John reads through the chronology of his life, then slides the pen from the rings in the center and turns to a blank page.

--

Dean's still sleeping when John returns two hours later. He hasn't moved an inch; still wrapped up in the scratchy covers he became entangled in during one of his tamer nightmares, Dean snores softly. With a week's time limit placed on them, there's little time for sleep, and Dean should know better. John closes the door behind him and drops his journal -- rather loudly -- on the dresser across from the beds.

When Dean doesn't move, John's heart skips a beat. From surprise or worry, he doesn't know. All he does know is the training he's given his sons never included being heavy sleepers. John takes a moment, watches the sunlight drift up the headboard, then looks at Dean's face. In the yellow light, his son is pale, skin no longer attempting to keep color in his cheeks.

"Dean, time to get up," John orders sternly from the end of the bed. He gives Dean a moment; he's always taken a bit longer than him or Sam to completely wake up, and shrugs out of his jacket before flipping on the coffeemaker.

The walls are a dark brown, almost mocha, not dark enough to make the room feel claustrophobic, but solid in color to act as a good backdrop to the kind of research organization John's used to. While hot water drips through into the waiting coffee pot, John pulls a folder from his bag and starts ripping pieces of tape from an old roll to stick papers onto the walls forming the corner near the table. Four papers, two handwritten earlier that morning in his journal, dot the wall at eye level when the coffee finishes and John snaps back enough to realize Dean still hasn't moved.

There haven't been many instances of Dean sleeping late, or not responding at all; John never experienced that rite of passage so many parents complain about, trying to wake his children for school. Never allowed them to sleep into the early hours of the afternoon, or ask for five more minutes over the noise of a blaring alarm. For him, his struggles came from more difficult conflicts, the weight of weapons or target practice.

So his methods are a bit improvised. John stands on the side of the bed closest to his son and reaches out a hand to prod at Dean's shoulder. Once. Twice. On the third try, Dean's eyes flash open and his hand flies under his pillow for the knife he now keeps there as protection against fae.

"Hey, Ace, it's dad."

Dean hesitates, then relaxes against the pillows. Wipes a hand across his forehead and closes his eyes again. "Man, what's up with you poking me?"

"What have I told you about sleeping through a door opening and closing? Or someone standing over your? Just because you can't see anything doesn't mean you get a free pass."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, voice scratchy with sleep.

"Don't let it happen again."

Dean nods. He stares at the ceiling, or whatever he can see above the bed, lacing his hands behind his head before catching the scent of coffee permeating the room.

"You made coffee?"

John doesn't answer. Dean's awake, so he moves back to his stack of papers and the roll of tape on the table, ripping off pieces and tacking things to the wall. Half the papers concern recent fae sightings, articles about the Sight published by others in their profession combined with his own notes. The others are maps and newspaper clippings, internet print outs and copies of official reports, all related, in some way, to the death of his wife. Unexplained fires. Odd storms. Infant and mothers' deaths.

All collected over the last month, studied as Dean slept or did investigating on his own. An invisible pathway, connect-the-dots between himself and the demon; finally, a trail to follow. He's gone too long with crumbs to sustain him, small clues or second-hand accounts. Every time he got close enough to smell a trail, it disappeared in a puff of smoke, sending him in a downward spiral. Each time hurting like the first loss.

There's a crash behind him, a yelp; the smell of coffee grows stronger in the room. Dean's stumbled, John thinks, stumbled because he only took a shower the night before and went to sleep before stepping out the layout of the room. Two papers left in his hands, and he chooses to let Dean figure this one out on his own while he finishes laying out his map to the demon on the walls. He steps back and looks it over in its entirety, secretly thankful Dean can't see a thing, can't see this, can't know what his father's been up to, or the obsession that kept him from searching Dean out.

"God damnit," Dean finally annunciates after a string of swears. He pounds a fist on the dresser; John's turned now to watch. Dean's body is rigid with frustration as coffee drips down the side of the dresser and plops onto the floor from the knocked over pot. "We've got to find this guy, dad, or I'm going to end up killing myself with a lamp or something."

"I'll clean it up," John says. Dean shakes his head.

"I've got it."

"Dean, leave it. I'll make a new one."

"Damnit, dad, I can clean up spilled coffee on my own," roars Dean uncharacteristically, swinging out with a hand to punch at anything the fist can find. It whooshes through empty air before smacking into the old television set. "Shit."

"Punching the TV isn't going to accomplish anything."

"I just..." Dean shakes his head as it drops to his chest. He looks up at John -- a fraction of an inch too far to the right, enough to remind John of his condition -- frustrated and angry with an undercurrent of fear. "How am I supposed to hunt like this, dad? How the hell am I supposed to hunt a trained, and let's not forget ruthless, killer, when I can't even get myself a cup of Goddamn coffee?"

"With backup," answers John. Plain and simple. "I made a call this morning. We'll have something to work with this afternoon."

"Good," Dean says. "'Cause I really need some coffee."

--

John's phone rings around 2 p.m., the shrill ringing winning over the hum of the air conditioner as background noise to Dean's musings. It rings twice, vibrating against the surface of the table, before Dean grumbles and pushes off the bed. The trip to the table's without incident -- he spent hours after spilling the coffee mapping out the room in his head, walking around alone. John left once the coffee was cleaned up -- Dean's claim he could do it turning out to be nothing more than lip service, his own brand of hope -- to do his own research, hit the library, grab some supplies.

And yet, his cell phone sits moving across the table, rattling against the wooden surface with each ring.

It's peculiar, but Dean doesn't pause to ponder the implications of the handout; just picks up the phone, thankful for the vibrate feature, and flips it open with his thumb.

"Hello?" Uncertain; he'd never take caller ID for granted again.

"Hey, that you, Dean?"

Dean relaxes and feels around with his free hand for a chair, falling into the nearest one as soon as he finds it; despite hours of sleep and silent contemplation, weariness taints his every movement. Slow and sluggish, it takes him a moment to recognize the voice on the phone, but he does, and leans back in the chair.

"Yeah. What's up, Aaron? Still losing against Pastor Jim at archery?"

"Hey, that was a one-time thing. No need to go making a pattern out of it."

He smiles at the memory, Pastor Jim duking it out with his fellow hunters during one of those rare occasions when they all gathered together; Aaron Masterson's loss at archery -- a sport he'd mastered years.

They rarely saw each other anymore, the men who'd forged friendships through a common fight against the shadows of the world, creatures and monsters stepping out into the world more often now. Phone calls and emails were their method of communication, asking for advice and knowledge when in a tight spot. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it," he laughs. It feels good until he realizes he might not see it, even if Aaron does -- and probably would -- beat everyone out at archery.

Aaron must be thinking the same thing; Dean can hear him breathe on the other end -- it's amazing what he can hear these days, from a fly buzzing around inside the motel room to what kind of car has pulled up outside. He can't stand silence, not when there's someone to talk to after hours of listening to the television or talking to himself (a sign of oncoming insanity, he's sure), and clears his throat.

"You've heard, huh?"

Aaron's words come out in a rush. "Yeah. I'm so sorry, Dean. That's got to be tough."

Tough doesn't even begin to describe it. "Naw, I'm doing fine."

"Sounds like something your dad would say. Always fine. Bet he'd say that if he lost a limb. 'I'm fine, Aaron. Just missing a hand.'"

He's glad Aaron's the one who's called, and not Mac or Bobby. They've never made him laugh like Aaron does; as Aaron has, in the past. Older than John by a handful of years, Aaron Masterson knew more people in their kind of work than anyone else, contacts collected over sixty years of hunting. He approached hunting much like John -- a reason the two got along so well -- hands-on after a moderate amount of research. Musty books and hours in a library weren't for him; Aaron, like so many others, depended on Pastor Jim when needing specific information.

But he was experienced, a fellow military man with a family he rarely saw in Arizona, and his call could only mean he found something worthwhile.

Dean wants to plead, tell me you found something, tell me you found the man I have to kill, but doesn't ever want to sound as weak as he is in his head out loud. Leave all those insecurities and pathetic whimpers inside where he could berate himself in solitude.

"So," he says instead, "what's up?"

"Your dad anywhere around?"

"Got a problem telling me what you've got?" Dean shoots, suddenly defensive. Of what he can do, speaking on the phone is the most useful, and to be cut out of this loop leaves him with little to offer.

"Now, Dean, you know I don't mean it like that. Just wanted to catch up."

Aaron's right, and Dean knows it. Knows he's clinging to whatever he can. Overly-sensitive, reading things wrong. There's so much to body language Dean has to re-learn by listening carefully to tone and volume, replacing a shift of weight to a subtle change underneath what someone says.

Not that there's body language over the phone. A lack of contact with anyone's left Dean's nerves on edge.

"Yeah. He's out. Left me here to ponder the answers to the universe," Dean remarks. "Give me something, I'll let him know. Anything's better than daytime television."

"And he left his phone?" Aaron asks.

"His way of giving me something to do."

"Don't think he's giving a handout or something, Dean. He knows your strengths; it's his way of dealing with everything."

"His way of dealing is leaving for most of the day," grumbles Dean. But this isn't the time for that. Information is what he needs. "Anyway, what do you have?"

"Caleb called, said your dad was looking for someone who deals with fae. I only know of a few, but when he told me about what happened to you, well, it made me think of one man in particular."

Dean wishes he had a pad of paper and a pen. He concentrates on the conversation instead, soaking in every detail.

"His name's Stewart Hall. He's a young guy, maybe thirty-five, been hunting for only a short bit. Came through and got all the weapons like he knew what he was doing. Gave himself away when he asked why he'd need silver rounds."

"Damn."

"Yeah. That's what Caleb said. Hall knows what he's doing, though. Has a kill count higher than, well, most of us. But he, well, he just kills. Most of us have the mind to go after evil, but Hall, he just -- "

"Kills the good and the bad."

"If these things were human, I'd call Hall a serial killer. Likes to make a show of it. Leave things so the fae know it's him coming after them. Never asked why he does it -- "

"That's kind of how things work, isn't it?"

Aaron sighs audibly through the phone. "It shouldn't, damnit. We're here for each other when things get bad. Hunting shouldn't be to just kill every odd creature out there. How does that make us better than them?"

"It doesn't," Dean says. "You know where this Hall guy is?"

"Last time I checked, he was making his way up the east coast. I'd keep my eye on the paper, look for odd murders or signs of animal attacks. Hall's been after the Hunt -- God in Heaven. One of these days, the fae Queen's going to send someone after him, and I wouldn't be surprised if no one helps him out."

Dean nods, but no one can see. "Gotcha. Damn. The Hunt?"

"Like I said, he goes after anything, no matter what it is. You use your Sight enough, find some fae, and Hall will probably show up."

Hit or miss. For some reason, Dean likes the idea; running in head-first is his style, and wandering around the East Coast searching for fae hanging out in forests seems an appealing alternative to sitting in shapeless hotel rooms, listening to the air conditioner cycle on and off with clicks that should be his dad walking around the room. See some sights, meet new, interesting people.

The deep rumble of the Impala's engine approaches from the east -- he memorized the directions by listening to traffic reports while sitting next to the open window.

"Hey, hang on, Aaron. Dad's back."

"Sure thing, Dean."

Dean holds the phone against his shoulder and stands, feeling a bit more energized by the new information, and crosses to the door. After the failure of the knife in the doorframe, John put down lines of salt, hoping what repelled spirits would keep out fae. Neither were naive enough to believe salt would keep the more aggressive hunters at bay; the temporary reprieve offered by the Seelie Queen guaranteed safety, but neither Winchester was willing to take a chance, especially on the word of one of those they'd have no apprehensions about hunting should the situation arise.

The door clicks open, then sways shut with a slight sweep of sticky summer air. His dad past him, all dirt and grime mixing with the musky scent of old books. Dean lives in a world of smells and sounds; the slight off-beat of his dad's steps give away his exhaustion, the smell of library research and a bit of interviewing outside. Dean has yet to recognize the difference between city and rural musk, so he can't say exactly where John's been.

He'll ask later. "Dad, Aaron's on the phone."

"Thanks," John grumbles. He takes the phone the swipe of his large, calloused hand and turns away -- shift of jacket and rustle of jeans. Footsteps take him halfway to the door before he speaks over his shoulder, "I'll be outside," and the door snaps closed again.

Dean knows when he's being shut out. His dad adopted the same behavior after his failure with the shtriga, leaving Dean alone for hours while he worked on training with Sam. Hours outside practicing aim with a variety of weapons, the smaller ones, until John was confident Sam could defend himself if left alone again.

He's being tossed aside, a failure John has no use for. Dean lashes out, kicking a chair as far as he can, and falls to sit on the bed -- tired, aching, and almost wishing Stewart Hall was standing there, in front of him, so he could kill him.

Almost.

--

Six hours later, John packs up the room and holds out his elbow for Dean to take. Just stands in the center of the room waiting for Dean to pick up on the auditory clues and get moving. Staying in one place for too long makes him uneasy, reminds him of those months they'd spend in a city here or there so the boys could go to school, get a traditional education. Remembering things then, when he split his life evenly between his children and his obsession, only reminds him of how he's failing now.

After a few seconds -- he counts off twenty-six -- John clears his throat. "Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Dean rambles off from near the bathroom. "Just give me a second."

"You've had thirty."

There's no reply. John sighs, annoyed, and turns around.

His son stands at the bathroom door, hand braced against the frame as he takes wild gulps of air -- head ducked to minimize sound. The pallor of his face matches the paisley pale yellow wallpaper, minus the patterns etched into it, a sickly shade that make Dean's eyes look dark blue. In the dying light, sweat across his face giving off a glow -- he looks like an angel.

Biblical and moral implications aside, John recognizes the symptoms for what they are -- fever and exhaustion -- and wishes, oh, does he! wishes he could see such a sight under better circumstances.

"What's wrong?" he asks. It's innocent, a question more to figure out what's going on rather than a reprimand, but Dean takes it as such. Straightens up and closes his eyes to help force his breathing under control.

"Nothing, just got up too fast."

He lurches forward on his feet, leaning a bit too much like a teetering toddler, and falls into the other side of the frame just in time to catch himself.

If Dean's going to deny anything's wrong, then John won't acknowledge it. He turns and retrieves their bags from where they've fallen to the floor, dropped when he turned, and waits. Counts off nine seconds before growing impatient, again, and briefly considers leaving Dean until he's got a solid lead on Hall.

Managing a situation like this requires patience, something John has in short supply. He pivots to the left, around, and frowns. "How long have you been feeling like this? All day?"

"Maybe you'd know if you'd been around," says Dean, eyes cast at the ground.

The idea of leaving Dean evaporates. Doing such would crush him, solidifying the notion he's useless, no longer a soldier fighting at his father's side. And if there's any hope of getting Dean's sight back, of getting his son back whole, he needs to keep what pieces are left together.

He helps Dean to the car and drives in silence, focusing on the soft breaths of his sleeping son; in, out, in, out, and God, when did everything get so fucked up?