I was going to wait a little bit to post this, but in light of the results of run-off voting and not making it to the next round, I figured I'd post earlier to reward those who are reading, as well as tip the scales in the positive direction. I'm flattered to have even been nominated, but I can't say that I'm not affected. Human nature dictates that people don't take rejection too well. But the show must go on, and I'm having a blast writing and reading all the wonderful things you all have to say.

Also, I cannot believe how many reviews I've gotten. The most I've ever gotten EVER was 90. I think I'm pretty close to that...and if I cross 100...well, look for the crazy girl dancing in the streets -- that will be me.

These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.6

Dean wakes to the smell of coffee.

Sweet, smooth, caffeinated coffee.

He's no fool. Ever since he was old enough to hunt, and Sam old enough to talk, Dean's had a good sense of when he's about to be played. For a person who tries to lock away most of his thoughts and emotions, there are a few close to the surface his dad and brother have picked up on. They're the kind that are permanent; no matter how much he tries, Dean will never be able to change those parts of who he is.

Instead, he tells himself they don't mean to do what they do, that they are only acting in his best interest.

When his dad or Sam give him something he wants for no reason, the words from a Moody Blues song pop into his head like some kind of preemptive warning system, it's not the way that you say it when you do those things to me, it's more the way that you say it when you tell me what will be.

His dad actually going and getting him some coffee sets off the alarm.

Fuck. Now it's a waiting game.

"Good, you're awake," his dad remarks from the direction of the sweet coffee aroma's source.

Like so many times before, Dean plays dumb. "Is that coffee I smell?" he asks instead of reaching out and grabbing his dad, shaking him while shouting, what the fuck are you going to do to me this time?

"Figured you need some after all that sleep."

They're stopped -- Dean can smell gas vapors past the coffee, hear cars and music and the electric whir of power tools and clicks of socket wrenches. A truck stop or gas station -- without sight, that's as far as he can narrow it down. There are a lot of people around, and the heat of the sun bakes his legs through well-worn jeans; late morning is his best guess at time of day.

Reaching for the handle, Dean feels a soft, cool breeze pass through the open windows. He pushes open the door with a creak of old but classic hinges and gets out of the car.

"Man," he starts, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, "how long was I out?"

A cup taps his hand, and he opens it to take the peace offering for crimes yet to be committed. The coffee is just as good as he remembers it to be, if not better. It cascades down his throat in a tidal wave of caffeine and sugar.

"Has to be fourteen hours or so, since we left the library in Pikford," John replies. "Feeling okay?"

Dean shrugs. "Sun's too hot. Where are we?"

"Halfway between Pittsburg and Arlington."

"Virginia? What the hell's in Virginia?"

"Stewart Hall's aunt and uncle," John says. "Found them while calling around."

They're still on Hall's trail, and Dean feels himself flood with relief. Whatever's coming will wait until after Hall's dead.

"What'dya tell them?" he asks a little more loosely than a moment ago. Heat radiates from his skin, and it isn't because of the sun; he leans against the car, hoping the metal still holds coolness left over from the night drive.

It doesn't. Dean leans against it anyway.

"Missing persons. We want to run a piece on him."

"People will tell anything to reporters," Dean remarks with a sip of coffee. It hits his stomach hard, but he doesn't show it. Takes little sips.

"Part of that 15 minutes of fame," his dad comments lightly. "Everybody wants their story in the paper."

"Too bad for them. How far?"

John takes a moment to calculate. "Another three hours, maybe four. We'll get there around late afternoon."

"How'd you know you'd find them around here, anyway?" Dean asks. Another small sip. His stomach churns with discontent.

"From what I've heard, he started out here before Caleb met him."

"Any more info you're not letting me in on?" Dean laughs. John doesn't say anything, and Dean can hear his footsteps round the hood, the driver's side door squeak open. Dean ducks his head, then looks up for a second to let sunshine sprinkle on his face. Great. He'd hit a nerve, which meant the next four hours were going to be filled with crappy radio stations and silence between the them.

"Guess you do, huh, dad," Dean mutters. He gets back into the car and pours most of his coffee onto the pavement beside it before closing the door.

So much for that.

--

The scenery doesn't change much between Pennsylvania and Virginia; the Appalachian Mountains remain to the right, and between spurts of towns there is nothing but dense forests on either side of the two lane highway. The sun arches high above, casting bright rays through the trees that filters through to pattern the hood. They rise up the windshield and over John's face. He's thankful for the sunglasses he picked up at the last gas station; the glare reflecting off the old, weathered blacktop is strong even through the dark lenses.

Signs start counting down the miles to Alexandria and Washington D.C., and more cars join the Impala as a second lane appears beside it. John's uncomfortable in large cities, ever since beginning his hunt -- sure, large urban areas lend themselves to anonymity, but they're so impersonal.

Small towns are more his pace, which is why, after marrying Mary, the couple moved out of Kansas City to Lawrence, preferring the medium-sized Midwestern suburb to the city.

The Halls he'd found live in a suburb of Alexandria, on one of those perfect, tree-lined streets with immaculate lawns and matching white fences. It was the kind of place where well-to-do families lived, children playing on swing sets with fathers in polo shirts and pressed khakis and mothers wear sundresses while tending to toddlers.

He'd had that dream, once. Not on the salary of a mechanic, no, but in the future, when they'd saved enough to get a larger house with that fence. And they had, two months before Sam was born. The blue house with a backyard and the tree in front with a tire swing John made with an old tire salvaged from work.

Driving down the Hall's street reminded John of all this, of his dream lost too soon in a blazing fire. The aching hold in his heart flares up but he knocks it down, back, away. He isn't that man anymore -- hell, he's not even a man, at least not fully, and things like him don't live on tree-lined avenues with 1.5 kids and a golden retriever.

Where do they live?

He's caught between two worlds, neither accepting of him -- he looks at Dean in the passenger seat -- them in either. For the first time, John's relieved Sam left when he did; one of them should be able to live a normal life. And while he still worries for his youngest's safety, John has to believe the training he gave both his sons will be enough. Has to.

Dean groans. "Suburbs. How much more cookie-cutter can you get?"

The comment peels John from his mental soliloquy, and the Impala slows so he can better read the addresses in gold numbers above sprawling three-car garages.

"Not everyone in the suburbs is stuck up. Some people work hard to get nice places for their kids," he drawls almost defensively.

"Boring kids. Playing on swing sets and selling lemonade for a nickel."

"And you wouldn't want that instead of this?"

"Naw," Dean says with a bit of a smirk. "Hunting shit is fun. Dangerous, but fun. Plus, I'm damn good at it."

John's voice is low as he parks the car. "You know, this isn't what I wanted for you boys. Got myself a nice house in a good city, found a steady job. You two were going to go to college, settle down..." he trails off, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Dean breathes. "I know. When life kicks your ass, it kicks it hard."

John smiles at that. Leave it to Dean to take a perfectly good sentiment and foul it up with language.

"You up for this?"

"Don't bullshit me," Dean shoots. "And don't ask again, okay, dad? I'm ready. I'm better. Let's do this."

John nods. He shouldn't have to ask. Dean's always been up for anything. Even as a kid, when he was old enough to understand what his dad was up to, he'd throw himself in wholeheartedly. Sick or injured, he'd give it his all, often hiding his malady so as to not be 'benched,' as Dean called being pulled off a hunt.

He's learned to look for whatever Dean hides under a slick smile and quick wit and compensate for the worst. Ice blue eyes stare off to the right, angled more towards the steering wheel than John, focused on a world John wants nothing to do with unless it's to hunt.

In this world, Dean's condition is understandable, hell, worthy of thinly veiled pity passed off as sympathy, but empathy doesn't negate feelings of unease.

Bright sunlight hits John; he blinks furiously while his eyes adjust before leaning across the front seat to put his sunglasses on Dean.

"What am I, five?" Dean scowls, yanking the glasses from John's grasp. "I think I can manage."

I'm not completely helpless.

"We want the Halls to feel comfortable around us so we can get the whole story."

"And not what they've probably prepared. Fame and lies, huh?"

"Something like that."

Dean nods, then stops short. "I make you uncomfortable?"

"You're my son."

But Dean doesn't take the glasses off again, even when they're through with the Halls.

--

Per usual, John takes the lead.

Which isn't to say Dean doesn't know all the steps. Just that John has more experience and years, two things people tend to react to with respect and honesty. Dean doesn't fit the profile of someone particularly trustworthy; most judge based on appearance, and while he holds many secrets and can be understanding when need be, he often isn't given a chance.

So he stands to the side, hand hovering near his dad's elbow, and listens to the sounds of a school bus chugging away down the street as kids get home from school. They're all laughs and piercing screams many grow out of at eleven or twelve, turning introverted and moody. God, he can see Sam at that age --

Screw it. The kid left for college without much in the way of a goodbye and doesn't answer his fucking phone. What great parents he and dad made -- Sam couldn't leave fast enough.

Focus on the task; it keeps his mind from wandering to places he'd rather avoid.

"Are there blind reporters?" he asks, turning to where he thinks his dad stands -- the touch of an elbow means little when you find out your gaze has been off for weeks and hell, he should have known; blind people always look funny, like they're privy to some inside joke. There's a vast difference between seeing and being. Which stage is acceptance? Has he been grieving the loss of his sight all this time?

"Could be," John intones.

"Something to find out," Dean says. Out of curiosity or doubt -- he doesn't care. Task at hand.

Soft footsteps grow louder, and the sweet floral scent of lilacs wafts through the air as hinges creak and slide open the front door. Soft hands rest against wood; beyond, there's the steady hum of central air. On the porch, the air is slick and heavy, sticky with summer ice cream dreams, and if Dean could see, he'd flirt his way inside before introductions were made.

He's losing himself and doesn't know how to stop it.

Aside from killing the nephew of the woman at the door, but he'll lose as much doing that as any man can.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is thick with pristine boarding schools and old, dirty money. It snubs its nose at them, says they're not good enough to be standing at her door. When Dean speaks poorly about the suburbs, it's these people he's commenting on, those who feel entitled to everything, to the protection of men like them.

If John's intimidated, he doesn't betray it with the deep drawl of his Southern voice. "I'm John Hidel. We spoke on the phone?"

"The reporter, yes, yes." There's a pregnant pause of judgment, and the heat of her sharp gaze falls on Dean.

He's thankful for the sunglasses; his personal shield.

They can't keep out her sour empathy. "And you, there, are you his partner?"

"His shadow. Can't do much writing, unfortunately," Dean tries with a smile. "I'm Dean," -- and he breaks off, uncertain of the alias his dad fed her over the phone.

"Dean Riddell. Fresh meat; he'll be assisting me," John steps in.

"Fantastic," she says. "Lydia Hall. Please, come in."

John's elbow rocks into Dean's arm, sharp angles that jars him into action. He grabs hold and steps into the cool house, stumbling over the step plate.

"Oh, dear. Watch the foyer; there's a step down," Lydia almost coos. The sugar sweetness grates against Dean's independent nature, and, like so many times since losing a piece of himself, he bites his bottom lip and concedes.

God damn, they'd better find this Hall character, because Dean is not going to spend the rest of his life like this.

"Thanks," he grits out.

He first notices 'Them' halfway down a forever hallway, hand still brushing against his dad's arm -- close contact, a solid touch, is something he fears he wouldn't be able to recover from. Specs of golden light floating like the fireflies he and Sam used to chase for hours on the wrong side of midnight, lightening caught in the tails of buzzing insects.

They fly around inside Lydia Hall's home leaving jets of sparkling light in their flight, reminding Dean of his name glowing on the cracked blacktop as he smeared a captured firefly across the rough surface. Like his name outside their home in Missouri, the trail these specks leave is evanescent, fleeting.

His guide leads them through a tangled web of fading magic; it sticks to his skin in thick blotches, catching on him in permanent rashes of glitter.

Dean frowns; glitter and any comparative form belongs on pretty girls in the corners of bars where the low light can selectively shine upon the tiny mirrors, and not him. He tries to brush it off without adding crazy to his blind label, swatting at his arms until his fingers are covered. It's futile, and he turns to his left to make a hushed comment --

-- and notices it's sticking to his dad.

While gold is certainly not John's color, the growing mass of metallic glitter allows Dean to see a general outline of his dad next to him; a spattering peppers his hair, trails down his nose. Dean considers making that comment -- something including faerie dust and Cinderella -- but remains quiet.

Lydia starts talking again; he catches that small intake of breath people take before speaking.

"Please, have a seat. Can I get either of you anything?"

"No, we're fine," John says for both.

The couch is plush and soft, smells like lemon cleaner and fabric softener. Dean's clothes smelled like that once, and the scent pulls forth uninvited memories.

John takes a seat next to him, Lydia across.

"You said on the phone you had some questions about Stewart. His disappearance doesn't surprise me, not after, well," -- Lydia pauses, takes a breath, and prepares to exhale gossip -- "You do know what happened to his sister, don't you?"

Her opening -- neither Winchester moves to stem her flow. Dean imagines John's shaking his head.

"It happened about six years ago. Marjorie -- that's my niece -- met a boy. He was," Lydia hesitates, and Dean can hear the comparison to himself in the space -- "less than favorable. My sister told her the relationship had to end. It wasn't an unreasonable request; Marjorie was raised to have higher standards."

Dean watches the web of magic in Lydia's living room. Something isn't right...

"Whatever happened, I don't know the specifics. Just that Marjorie and this boy disappeared. In all likelihood, they simply ran away together."

"Stewart didn't accept that as an explanation?" John infers.

Lydia tsks, laughing politely. "He began ranting and raving that Marjorie was kidnapped, that -- and please excuse my sister and her husband, they're good parents."

"Of course," John speaks lines from a play they can watch, but not act in.

"He claimed the boy Marjorie was seeing was, well, a faerie."

Dean jumps in, wanting a line or two. "Where did he get such an idea?" The specks jump and quiver in the air.

"Who knows? Where do kids get these ideas from these days? When I was growing up, running off with a boy was humiliating. Now, kids think it romantic."

"Who knows, indeed," John says, the words sounding foreign to Dean. The odd things John has to worry about make the idea of Marjorie running off with a boy sound tame. "And Stewart? He went after them?"

"Oh, not immediately. He began reading questionable books and leaving for days at a time, coming home tired and...altered."

To women like this, living in immaculate houses that smell of fresh white cleanliness and aged, antique treasures to be look at but not touched, altered could mean any variety of things. Living outside the carefully constructed walls encircling not only the physical home, but those inside it, was a cause of concern, an error made not by plastic parents who never seemed human, bit wayward children under the influence of sinister forces.

Lydia, in her voice, had certain influences in her mind of the non-human variety her mouth catching on the word with disdain.

"You thought he was on drugs?" Dean asks. He knows her eyes slide over to him, pity the only thing between him and harsh judgment as another one of those unacceptable influences. He doesn't take it personally; Lydia, like so many others he's encountered over the years, is not accepting of anyone who can't trace their schooling back to a prestigious boarding school or their lineage to a soldier in the Revolutionary War.

He may have one, but not in this persona.

Lydia signs, false sympathy harboring disappointment. "Both my sister and I approached him about it, but Stewart denied everything. Personally, I believe he was simply taking refuge in dangerous activities. He and Marjorie were close, and for her to just run off like that..."

"Did you and your sister make efforts to find Marjorie?" John says. "Outside of the police, of course."

Lydia reacts to his addendum with a lightening of spirits; she shifts in her chair to sit up straighter.

"Yes, yes. We couldn't involve the police, you know. How would it look?"

How, indeed. While Dean's scope of experience often contained such events, those where police interference would be preferred if not for how things would look, he can't imagine Lydia hiding assault rifles and unregistered handguns in her basement -- or anywhere else investigators might look. No, in this case, bringing in any outsiders would only increase the possibility of their friends at the Country Club finding out.

"So why talk to us?" Dean thinks aloud. His eyes wander to the floating specks, how they migrate in a pattern reflecting a ray of sunlight, and he imagines a window nearby catching the last gifts of the falling sun.

Other than the hum of the air conditioner, the house is quiet. It's peaceful, being someplace where he doesn't need to hop from sound to sound; he can focus on the swish of fabric brushing against stiff, rough upholstery. Beside him, John is a statue except for his hands, which alternate between gesturing in the air and sitting clasped. He's leaning forward, elbows on knees -- his weight on the couch is shifted forward, tilting the couch they share ever-so-slightly.

Dean rubs his hand over the upholstery on the couch, over hills and valleys; fingers trace the floral pattern embroidered into the heavy material and frowns. Rich suburbs. Their need to disguise things reminds him of Glamour and -- fuck, where is there magic here?

"Oh," Lydia answers after a great pause -- of was it small, as Dean's lost measure of time. Another piece falling from the puzzle making up him. "This all happened six years ago, at least. Everyone knows our dirty little secret, now."

John moves, leans back a bit to sit up straight -- he's as surprised as Dean.

"I was under the impression Stewart only disappeared recently," he remarks in a rush of breath bordering on disappointment.

"Stewart, yes. Let me tell you all the details; he's a disturbed boy, and we just want to help him," Lydia replies. She launches into her take on the days before his disappearance, of how he rambled on about fae and shadows and the plot to take Marjorie into their world. The longer she speaks, the more Dean's convinced Marjorie's elopement drove her brother to insanity -- and if someone so normal dove into Dean's world when he hit the breaking point, did that mean Dean could turn normal in a few years when the absence of his brother became too much?

And, when normal, would Sam finally accept him?

--

Neon red filters through where blinds are missing, casting strips of bright light on the floor and walls in neat lines that twist and turn like the room. It mingles with dingy yellow lamplight to make the entire motel room look singed with nicotine and burning cigarettes.

In other words, like home.

With a clang of plastic jumping, John drops their bags in the dresser next to an ashtray. One night stops weren't in his MO, but midnight drives are beginning to take their toll on him; he's used to a few hours' sleep when Dean took over, running a Chinese Fire Drill at an intersection with no cars. Stopping when night awoke hadn't happened since Sam was ten and Dean old enough to drive, if not in the eyes of the law, in those of his father.

Dean knocks his shins on the edge of a bed and bends slightly, hands out to feel the bedspread. He finds the edges, and with one hand still on the bed, turns around slowly -- uncertain -- and takes a seat. There's no more than two feet between them, but John feels miles from his oldest son.

The sunglasses reflect back John's face -- tired eyes, four or five days of growth -- and he considers asking Dean to take them off again, but decides to let Dean pout behind them a little longer.

He doesn't like how comfortable Dean's becoming, how acclimated to his condition he seems.

Previous doubts he once felt must be going through Dean's mind now pass through his.

"Sorry, man," Dean says, frowning.

"For what?"

"You've gotta be tired, having to look out for both of us all the time. Just, yeah. Oh, hell, I'm no good at this shit. You know what I mean."

"How are you feeling?"

"I just say you've gotta be wiped from watching over me, and you ask that? Take a clue, dad, and give me some space."

John doesn't move; figures what Dean can't see is outside his inner realm, that he can give Dean space without physically moving away.

"You haven't moved," Dean comments, voice low and stuck in the back of his throat. "Just 'cause I can't see doesn't mean I'm some little kid you can trick."

There are stages to Dean, phases he progresses through when bothered enough to lash out. Usually, his frustration is taken out on the subject of their hunt. There's passion and drive under that aloof exterior, two traits Mary passed to both her sons.

"We're going to find Hall, Dean," says John. He ignores Dean's scoff and moves to unpack supplies -- salt and iron and guns. He criss-crosses the room and sets each item in the same places he does in each hotel room they've stayed in. Salt at the windows and doors. Guns under the pillows, in the nightstand next to the Gideon Bible.

He's pretending Dean isn't sitting on the bed in sunglasses, fuming silently and thinking. Ever since Dean came out of his shocked shell a few months after -- after the fire -- John, and everyone else, really, had been effectively shut out of the inner workings of Dean. He's a walking mystery wrapped in leather, a slick grin, and confident swagger. Cool on the outside but boiling lava sliding under the surface.

They dance around each other, Dean bumbling as he asserts his ability to do things without burdening his father, John fluidly removing obstructions as he pulls out his journal containing notes from their visit with Lydia Hall.

When John bumps into Dean to keep him from knocking into the bathroom doorway, something crackles in the air, followed by the snapping of a string of fate.

"Damnit, Dad," shouts Dean. "First, you want nothing to do with me, then you're smothering me. Make up your mind already, cause I'm sick of you going from hot to cold."

"Excuse me?" the soldier in John snaps back.

Dean recoils, back pressing into the frame he narrowly avoided.

The small step shows weakness to be fed on.

"No, keep going. I know I haven't been the best father, but I am your father, and you treat me with respect. I've let you slide, but hell, Dean, this self crap's going to stop now, you understand me? You keep acting like everything's fine and it isn't. I'm trying to help -- to make up for letting this happen to you."

He waits for a reaction -- even yelling -- but gets nothing. The sunglasses shield Dean's eyes and keep John from gleaming underlying emotions behind the blue eyes once hazel from Mary's side of the family.

Dean remains folded in, jumpy at John's shouts. He's come far since escaping the Unseelie, but those memories are still strong, still haunt him.

"It's not your fault," he finally says. "I didn't have to go on that walk, okay? I decided to leave -- you didn't make me do anything. So stop blaming yourself."

"Doesn't work that way, son. I'm your father."

"Don't feel you owe me anything -- "

"Damnit, Dean, I don't need a reason to look after you; it's what parents do."

"Normal parents," mutters Dean. He relaxes against the doorframe, shifts his feet on the orange shag carpet. The comment is something John expects from Sam during one of their infamously loud arguments, but not Dean. Not obedient, respectful Dean.

It makes John's blood boil. He crosses the space between them with two large, anger-filled steps and speaks inches from Dean's face.

"I've done the best I could, Dean. So give me this and stop your fucking complaining. You want normal, then here it is. As normal as you're going to get."

Dean shrinks. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

His son hangs his head and sags. John resists the urge to kiss his forehead to make it all better because he knows it won't work.

No matter how much he wishes it could.