These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.5

Here, there's relief from the summer heat. Cool, crisp air circulates near the forest floor, damp earth fighting against the humidity, evaporating into a blanketing mist. Sound is dampened, muffled against rotting leaves and fallen twigs, captured between close trees. Above, where healthy green leaves rustle in the June breeze, birds chirp. Animals move. A thud sounds here and there as smaller creatures leap from tree to tree.

A glow surrounds the trees here, haloes of magic giving off gold and silver hues to match the electric undercurrent humming through the air. It's unexplainable to most, an odd feeling that raises the hairs on the arms and back of the neck. Makes them uncomfortable, on edge; keeps them away.

Crouched near some low brush, Dean Winchester watches as demi fae fly from tree to tree, laughing as they dance in the air to music he can't hear. Luckily. Most children had Dr. Seuss books and censored versions of the Grimm tales; the Winchester boys had gruesome legends of supernatural creatures and the raw German of the Grimm stories. Mortals who heard faerie music often succumbed to their doom, their fate decided by the temperament of the celebrating fae. Like his Sight, hearing and replicating their music was never meant for humans.

When a slight melody floats through the cooling air, Dean resists the urge to cover his ears. Block it out before he becomes entranced by its spell and forgets the reason he's been sitting here for hours. Instead, he focuses on his dad sitting a few trees away, across a small gap in the collection of trees, on the demi fae and their dance, on the off chance Stewart Hall will show up.

He can end it all, here and now.

The fever's gone away in the two hours they've been scoping out the forest in search of the owners of the Glamour dotting the area; Dean suddenly feels stronger and more alert, the aches from his injuries normal -- tolerable. This, he can live through. Handle. Rise above. And here, he has the upper hand, can prove his worth to his father by using his handicap to their advantage.

The music grows louder. Dean turns to his father, finding the gap in Glamour his father creates -- training in this area was always difficult for John when they were younger, when the wounds from war came floating to the surface -- and signals to him. Wonders if he can hear it, too.

Not that he can see any sort of response. There's a rustling of greenery, a few soft footfalls Dean can hear because of all his new practice at
listening, then the hushed breath of his dad behind him.

"What is it?" he asks in a whisper.

"You don't hear that?"

"Hear what?" John says. "What is it, Dean?"

Dean listens for a moment, past the steady shifts of nature around them, to the musical tune falling down from above. Wood flute and perhaps some harp; Dean's never listened to classical music, never tried to distinguish between anything other than guitar and drums and the thump of a bass.

"Music," is all he can say, is the best he can describe it. "Some of that classical shit Sammy used to listen to." It lilts up and down, bouncing around like the group of demi fae.

There's a rush of breathe at his side. "Damnit." A hand on his shoulder. "We should leave."

"What?" Dean shoots back. "I haven't sat here and let my damn legs fall asleep so we could just leave when a bit of music plays." He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving."

"There will be other chances." John almost reads his mind. Reads that Dean needs this to be over now, that he can't take being blind and weak and helpless for one more day. It's too much to ask of him, but John does anyway. "It's not worth the risk."

"The risk? Like it can get any worse. What are they gonna do, pull my hair?"

"After they lure you back to their home," John comments. "Demi fae might be small, but they can be vicious. You still have blood, Dean, and they might not be so kind as to wait for word from their Queen about the geas."

"I thought those things were, you know, etched onto you. Like magic tattoos or something."

"You need to do more reading, Dean, if you're going to continue to insist on running into things without the proper preparation."

Dean scoffs, eyes wandering back to the flying creatures above. "Yeah, okay."

"Demi fae and fae don't get along very well. Unless they've already been attacked by Hall, they might ignore the Seelie Queen's geas just in spite her."

"Peachy." The music's louder, now, pounding in his over-sensitive ears. He wouldn't mind it so much, but he can't ignore it, can't find a discernable tune to follow.

It reminds him of Estrella's dance.

He shivers at the memory, finds himself feeling her hands pressed against his, pulling him around, feet stumbling to remember a pattern taught in the kitchen while dinner cooked and the sun caught his mother's golden hair. Swaying to the music; the sounds of the forest fade away, his dad's breathing fades, and he's -- fuck -- back there, dancing with her.

Whites and blacks blend together; her face is there, in front of him, and she smiles that toothless grin. "Did you think you could kill me? That my spirit would die along with my body?"

She runs a finger down his face, along his neck, to where cuts are still healing -- healing? Had they happened yet? -- across his chest. Her long nail slashes into him, deep, and he lets out a surprised cry before remembering he won't give in this way, not this time. Clamps his mouth shut, tries to pull away, but finds he can't move. Dean stands frozen, trapped within his own mind as Estrella's nail digs deeper and blood wells up around it. Bright red, cheap nail polish for this bitch tormenting him. As she digs, his mind goes fuzzy, those blacks and whites blending together into shades of grey he's never really accepted --

"Dean!"

He blinks. Estrella's smile falters.

Another hand grabs his shoulder and jerks him away --

-- a flicker of his dad's worried brown eyes --

-- Estrella rushing away, as if pulled by a string at her back. The room pulls with her until it turns green, gold, silver, blacks against bright glows.

"Dean!" His dad's voice, loud and urgent with no regard to the demi fae above.

Pain jolts up his sides, across his chest where Estrella stabbed him with a sharpened nail. He's being shaken; beyond the sounds coming from his father, Dean hears muffled shouts, the swish of a knife moving through the air. Blinking doesn't help -- his father's still a blank spot against the Glamour --

"Thank God," his dad breathes. There aren't many things capable of upsetting his dad into thanking a savior he's never really believed in; Dean struggles to sit up -- when did he fall? -- and leans against the nearest solid object.

It moves beneath him.

Dean allows himself the moment of weakness, leaning there against his dad even though he can't see him. It's the closest he's been to John for weeks -- hell, months, even -- and that undeniable solidity behind him gives moderate comfort, tells him his dad's really there. That for once, since Sam's departure, he's not off taking care of something else.

Fluttering wings float into Dean's field of vision, pinks and golds with strands of purple that give the appearance of unraveling lace. The demi fae is small, but proportionate; hands, body, eyes -- they all match each other, like someone miniaturized a human. The demi fae's beautiful, as he'd come to expect, but angry. Her teeth resemble a vampire's, at least from what Dean's seen in books.

She sneers, spreading her lips to show off a mouth full of sharp, bloody teeth. "That was delicious. It has been a long time since I've tasted the fae in a mortal."

"Wonderful," Dean says. "What, do I have some kind of invisible tattoo on me or something?"

John shifts under him at the response, curiosity radiating from him as Dean converses with something he can't see.

"You both, but your have a geas from the Queens. Both Queens. It is...unusual."

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

The demi fae laughs. "As do my friends."

The way she says it, Dean momentarily feels sorry for felines before remembering exactly how many times he himself had been attacked by them. Without the ability to see, he can only feel the blood dripping down his chest from where the pain in his muscles radiates. He pulls an arm free from his dad's uncharacteristic grasp and brushes past the torn fabric of his t-shirt to the wound below.

He hisses in pain as soon as his fingers make contact. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Dean," his dad speaks into his ear, voice low and tense, "what did you see?"

"Yes, pet, what did you see when I drank your power? Did you see the fae you killed?" The demi fae, an enemy of the fae who treat their kind with such disrespect, they've grown angry and hungry for the blood of fae or any creature that might quench their thirst, seems angered by such an idea.

Dean's instantly on guard, defensive. "Who says I killed a fae?"

"I can taste it," the demi fae licks her lips. What Dean thought was natural lipstick is only his blood coating pale pink lips. "And see it. How could you kill one of them and make an agreement with their Queens, a geas?"

"Why? Looking to be absolved for attacking me?"

The demi fae flies in close to his nose, so close, he can feel her Glamour melting into his skin. It gives off a momentary glow, spreading through his arms and hands; for the first time in over a week, Dean can see his own body, take stock of his injuries, and fuck, did he really resemble an accident victim that well? No wonder his dad's been alternating between the John he's used to and the one he remembers from his childhood, before everything became complicated and his hands developed calluses from hours of target practice holding a handgun; when he needed to care for his children, even if it was only an illusion, or risk losing them.

It saddens Dean, his need for such attention, even after all these years. Such affection is cold, hard evidence that, at times, his family loves him just the way he cares for them. Consider it a depressing absolution, one that comes and goes and gives him hope for a few years before the memory fades and he forgets just exactly how it feels to be protected.

And that's what his dad's doing at the moment, with his thick arms wrapped around Dean from behind, supporting his weight as Dean tries to push past the dizziness accompanying his open wound. The bleeding's stopped, blood thickened under the surface, but he feels no better.

"I do not need such a thing from the Queens of fae. They took our kingdoms because of their size, not their power. We are just as powerful as they. Do not insult my kind by believing we answer to such tricksy and deceptive creatures." The demi fae huffs, then flies back; the glow across Dean's skin fades until all he sees is the Glamour put in place by watchful demi fae. The wound isn't the only hole he feels; the loss of personal identity hits him hard -- why, as part fae, does he not have any Glamour of his own?

"They have not told you everything," she continues, anger fading from her voice. "They tricked you into drinking of our world, pet. Do you feel it when you stay away too long?"

Dean hesitates. "Yes."

"It will kill you unless they remove it. It will be hard. I tasted the power when I drank of you, and took some of it. Be wary, pet. Be watchful at all times. Not all is as you believe."

"I had the feeling."

She smiles. "It is the fae in you. Listen to it. Don't let them use you."

"What about Hall? Isn't he, you know, killing everything in sight?"

"Yes. But why? Doesn't a human need motive for such horrible acts? Would they not be righteous in his mind?"

Dean nods. It is a topic he knows much about; how something terrible in the past can color the world in different shades. Like rose colored glasses make everything seem perfect, tragedy marks the world black and white, right and wrong. Morality is subjective to experience.

The demi fae doesn't wait for his answer, and Dean figures she doesn't have to; her "attack" reminded him of his own painting of the Unseelie, showing him what those he's now allied himself with have done to him. Solutions should never come from those who have wronged you, not in the way he's been tortured, and as the demi fae joins the others and disappears into a bright enclave of golden light, Dean smiles.

Not everything is as it seems in this world, nor any other.

John shifts behind him, his arms relaxing as Dean moves to stand. "What did she say?"

"What I needed to hear to find Hall."

--

John doesn't like the new arrangement, but accepts it as his son's way of proving his worth in the face of adversity. And of all the lessons he's taught his sons, stepping up even when everything's working against you has been the most important. All the research and experience in the world won't help one bit if the will isn't there to back it up, and over the last few days, Dean's proven the strength of his convictions.

While students and leisure patrons search the library archives for stories on their hobbies or relatives, John types in 'Stewart Hall' and hits enter. There isn't much to go on; Dean's only said something happened to Hall in the past, like them, that set him off in this direction, and he wants to know exactly what it is before he faces the man to exchange Hall's life for Dean's sight.

"Who knows what the real motive is for those Queens. First, they insult us after," -- Dean had motioned to himself, as if that explained everything -- "then, they're all nice and giving us what we want. Maybe Hall's not as bad as we thought."

A valid point, but John wonders if discovering the secrets of Hall's past will change Dean's mind about honoring the geas upon his head.

The search results come up, a long list of all the Stewart Halls in the country and their various contributions to society. Dean leans in close, head almost resting on his shoulder -- touch and sound have changed the dynamics of their relationship, the former taking longer for John to adjust to after years of being a teacher, not a father.

"What does it say?"

His voice booms in John's ear, not from volume, but proximity.

"Hall's a common last name."

"Aaron said he's young, right? What if it's something that happened recently?" Dean suggests. "Or," he continues, thinking out loud, "he just found out what happened. You know, figured it out."

"That doesn't restrict the search much, Dean," John grumbles, highlighting the terms in the text box.

Contemplation. "He's going after fae, right? All of them. So, what if all he knows is that magic was involved? Don't most people think magic and faeries go together? Well, witches, too, but you can't mistake them for fae; just one look and you'd know."

John can't help but agree. An encounter with an enclave of witches -- hags, really, from the Old Country -- four years prior flickers in his mind, pulling up images of mutilated faces and hair like straw. No, witches capable of doing such damage as to prompt a man to such violence could never be mistaken for a fae.

"What we need to figure out," Dean says, continuing, "is what kind of thing a dumbshit newspaper reporter would mistake for something weird."

The words cause John to whip his head around, facing Dean just over his shoulder. The eyes can't see -- just look off into space -- but there's thought behind the phrasing. He can't tell if Dean's grasping for full understanding, or just incredibly lucky, but it worries him all the same. Searching for the creature responsible for Mary's death has always been their ultimate goal, these smaller jobs simply practice runs, but the father in John continues to protect his sons from the worst of it. From all the deaths since Mary's, from his own obsession.

Secretly, he worries Dean will leave him once he discovers his father's obsession has become more important than him.

But he's safe, for now. Without sight, Dean doesn't see the expression playing on John's face, and continues to think through things. It's a crutch he can't possibly grow to depend on, and yet...

No.

They will find a solution, a way out of all of this, and continue on the hunt.

While John has an idea of what sorts of events are often mistaken for odd, unexplainable accidents, his come from flames and dying children, not unseen magic. Search terms are guesses, at best, depending on lines of code and keywords strung together -- it's a mixture as delicate as poultices made to ward off spirits, each ingredient carefully measured out.

"Try his name with accident. Or murder. Something violent, right? You don't go out to buy silver bullets out of the blue unless it was something really bad." Dean grumbles and runs a hand over his face. "Damnit. I'm no good at this stuff. Give me people to talk to, maybe. At least they're easier to read."

"We have to accept the possibility that whatever happened to Hall was never reported in the paper, son. Not in a paper we can search from here."

"Great." The prospect of searching through his dad dwindling, Dean leans back in his chair, balancing it precociously on the back two legs. "Can we get to birth records? Find out where this guy's from?"

"Maybe. But there are hundreds of people with the same name. It'd take days to look through them all."

"We know he's, what? Mid-thirties?"

"Dean..." John starts.

The chair snaps forward with a thud. Frustration radiates from Dean just as strongly as his exhaustion, both lining his face with conflicting emotions. He lays his arms across his knees, head hanging.

"You're always saying I just rush into things. I'm no good at the pre-hunt stuff; you know that." Dean pauses, and when he lifts his head, something new is written in those eyes, breaking through whatever spell's been put into them. Conflict. "But what if this guy's not as bad as everyone says. Just a normal guy trying to find -- " He breaks off, shakes his head.

"Find what, Dean?"

"Whatever hurt his family. His friend. Hell, his damn dog. This isn't something you just 'get into;' everyone hunts for a reason, and it's usually a pretty good one."

Dean sees people where John and Sam see fact or history. Words on the page jump out to his eldest son, forming a picture in his mind. And for the most part, it works in his favor, allowing Dean to figure out the motivations of whatever they're hunting. Now, it's only working to hold him back. John pushes back from the computer and swivels in his chair.

"Maybe we're looking at the wrong things," he tries. That look of despair, or conflict -- whatever it may be -- eats away at him. He may not be up for father of the year anytime soon, but he does try to appease his sons when possible.

"Such as?"

The answer's staring him back in the face, and John can't believe he hasn't thought of it until now. "His Sight."

"How's that help?" says Dean.

"He's not experienced, right? You think someone that green could've gotten out of a fae's lair without help?"

"You're saying it was given to him."

John nods. "If they hadn't, he wouldn't be prancing around killing every fae in sight. He'd be hiding."

"Or making deals with people. Shit, what if he has?" Dean asks, leaning back in his chair. "We don't know that he hasn't. They were going to kill me; what if they're meaning to kill him, and just having a little fun with me on the way?"

"You think they were looking for him and found you instead."

Dean nods. "Yeah. I mean, they didn't have much to go on, right? Est - she wasn't scared like the others, like she knew beforehand there was someone out there who could see through 'em." He raises his head, eyes scanning the room in patterns derived from looking for sounds, and glances off to the right -- off into memory. "How much of a weird coincidence is all of this?"

John doesn't answer, doesn't need to. Both know the odds of this all being some random chance occurrence are pretty low; the cover story so easy conceived by John was only an extension of the truth he himself believed -- that Hall, through all his exploits, had marked all humans with the Sight as targets, even those who had no idea they had the gift.

Though at this point, John sees it as a curse.

--

Two hours after leaving the demi-fae and her blood-covered lips, the fever returns in full force; another half-hour passes before Dean feels the world tilt and sway beneath him. John is occupied with the computer and thick yellow phone books, his cell phone, the PO box in Kansas registered as his address, and the $40 a month in pre-paid minutes all proving their worth.

There are approximately 60 Halls in the state, another 40 in Virginia, and John's steadily working his way though each one, hoping to find a relative, someone who can point them in the right direction.

They work in tandem, John looking up the numbers and dialing the phone, Dean making the calls. Between them, there is only John's phone -- Dean has never asked for one, and doesn't feel he'd need one; why should he, if he's always with his dad?

It's cumbersome work, and after ten minutes of dialing the phone and handing it off, Dean forgetting the first name or initial given in the phone book, John takes over the task. Dean can listen, though, and when he feels the heat from the fever rise from his toes to creep up his neck, up his face, he leans his head on a hand and closes his eyes.

There's little difference than what he tells his mind. Closed eyes means rest, open is awake. He feels the change, but it takes his mind a moment to realize his eyes are no longer open.

That scares him.

His dad cycles through questions like a scratched record; the needle skips with each melody of the phone being dialed, catching in the same worn groove as soon as someone answers on the other end.

After a few calls, the steady rhythm becomes hypnotic, and Dean begins to float. High above everything, he rises until he's flying through a cloud-dotted sky with the same unraveling lace wings of the demi-fae.

New England stretched below him, a quilt of browns and greens with long, winding snakes of grey cutting through at odd angles and impossible curves. Oddly, he feels no fear. The air up here is cooler, brushing against his boiling skin.

The daredevil in him takes over. Dean looks up and feels the air rush past him as he climbs higher and higher. Perhaps if he flies high enough, he'll find his own kind of Utopia awaiting him. Or maybe, just maybe, his wings were made by Paracleses' son.

Dean thinks these thoughts, but still continues up.

Higher and higher.

The sun looms closer but the air has a frothy chill to it. The change in temperature feels so nice, Dean becomes greedy and quickens his pace.

A thread dangles before his face. Annoyed, Dean swats it away. It spins and drifts, but not too far. As he climbs, it becomes longer until, just where Dean can see an oasis of ice and peace, the wings on his back unravel completely. Threadbare, they no longer can hold his weight.

Dean tumbles through the air. The ground rushes up to greet him, welcome him back, and he cries out at the moment of impact --

And opens his eyes.

The blank, oppressive absence of light and color and sight clues Dean into his return to the waking world. The loss of sight found in his dream -- or was it a nightmare? -- is jarring, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take the lingering disappointment.

Under him is solid ground. Confused, he feels around. It was only a dream, right?

Then why is he on the ground?

Background noises come into sharp focus -- one moment, all he hears are muted, vague sounds, the next, voices are shouting at him all at once; he resists the reflexive urge to cover his ears.

"Everything's fine," he can hear his dad say from somewhere nearby. "My son's been fighting a cold for the last week." A pause. The other voice is too foreign for him to even care to decode. "No, don't worry. We were finished, anyway. But thank you."

A hand grabs his arm and Dean tries to pull away.

"Let's get out of here, Ace. What did I tell you about making a scene?" John speaks loud and near Dean's ear; he hears a booming, amplified voice and could swear his head's about to explode.

John hauls him to his feet.

--

The Impala roars through light traffic on Interstate 95, heading north. The sun has already set; deep blue fades to black and streetlamps come on at the same time as the stars. Clouds dot the night sky and play a game of hide and seek with the moon. When it hides, only pale white headlights illuminate the road -- John can only see what's immediately in front of him; the future is a swarming black mass of unpredictability, but at least he's on the right road.

Beside him, Dean slumbers in the reclined passenger seat, twisted up and around in a position only he could consider comfortable. Every so often, he'll shift or snore or let out a deep sigh of his soul. They work to remind John he's not alone in the physical realm.

As for the spiritual one, he's on his own.

He takes into stock the past few weeks. Dean's come a long way from the broken figure John rescued from a phone booth on the side of the highway. Bruises have faded from blue and purple to the sickly looking green and tinged yellow, and become less sensitive to touch. Many of the more shallow cuts no longer dig into his skin. They now are only raised lines of pink, healing skin. The deeper ones are coming along, infection's no longer a concern. And thanks to the aid of the Seelie Queen, the broken arm lays comfortably healed at Dean's side.

They've been lucky. John should have taken Dean to the hospital and let them take care of him. A visit would have a least reduced the scars Dean will wear around as an inerasable reminder of his father's many failures.

John risks a glance away from the road at Dean. No, the fever seems to be the only hindrance.

Aside from the blindness, that is.

Cracked and broken ribs can't be helped. Six to eight weeks, and it's only been around three. The stiffness remains, John knows that from personal experience, but for the most part, they're only a mild discomfort.

Still, Dean shouldn't push himself too hard --

-- John chuckles at the idea of that ever happening.

As a soldier, John's impressed with Dean; as a father, he's scared shitless. Blindness isn't something you bounce back from. You can't compensate and continue on the way you had before.

With a growl, John grasps the steering wheel tighter, shifting hands back and forth with the rick-rack of skin rubbing leather. Damnit, there were only two solutions, and neither are win-win.

Putting his son somewhere safe, where he could be properly looked after, would only save him physically. Such a move, seen as abandonment by the overly-attached Dean would kill him in spirit -- John's sure of that. Experiencing the death of his mother at such a young, impressionable age made Dean petrified of not only becoming attached to anyone, but of those he did leaving him.

The psychologist sent over after Mary's funeral had termed it, so aptly, Attachment Disorder. 'He'll pull back one day,' she told John. 'Tell himself he couldn't care less if he was left alone. But he will. And he'll do anything to please you and his little brother just to keep you around.'

John had seen the changes, watched as Dean slowly slipped on a mask to protect himself from true rejection. At times, this grown, jaded Dean seems like a stranger when compared to the boy he used to hoist onto his shoulder while Mary laughed nearby.

But taking Dean with him would only slow him down. Wasn't his obsessive hunt for Mary's killer the root of all this? If only he hadn't started pulling away, started excluding Dean --

John flicks on the radio. The past cannot be changed -- what was that prayer Pastor Jim taught him when he refused to get professional help for his drinking? God, grant me the serenity... or something like that. From his understanding, you have to realize some things in life are outside your control.

There is only one person who could save both Dean's soul and John's hunt.

And the only way Dean would truly seek out his brother is if he was left alone. Abandoned.

Fuck. Dean would probably understand. Would say John had a good reason. Would -- God damnit -- welcome him back with open fucking arms.

John Winchester could be a selfish, cruel, manipulative bastard when it served his purpose.

But when it came to Dean, damaged, stunted, broken Dean, it was just so easy.

And John hates himself for using his son's fears against him time after time ever since he lost his mother.