We're almost there; there are 2 chapters and a short epilogue left of this story.

I want to say thank you to everyone who's reading, and give hugs to my reviewers. I'm sorry I can't reply to each one personally as I do on LJ, but a.) I'm from the old school, before allowed us to reply to reviews, and b.) believe you all want me writing instead of spending time replying to feedback. I've finished the first chapter of the sequel -- now I just have to keep up this momentum.

And, as I'm precariously close to 100 reviews -- thank you all for making a humble fanfic writer very, very happy. ;)

These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.7

Days are spent asleep, thick, unraveling curtains pulled against invading sunlight. An A/C unit rattles in the window frame, back and forth; it hits the glass, struggling to cool the room. Outside, summer flies in full stride under a cloudless sky, sun boiling the land below. People walk by the slumbering room in tank-tops and sandals, hair matted to their heads, shirts sticking to their back in narrow patterns of inverted triangles.

The A/C pumps frothy, dry air into the room during the heat of the day. John gathers blankets, hording them to keep warm; he worries, unable to sleep when so cold, and watches Dean toss and turn under a single, sweat-soaked sheet. Constant, unrelenting fever isn't good, healthy, and John can see through the humor and wit. A continuing headache, deep eyes, dull nerves, and now, restless sleep; the curse of that Unseelie is sapping Dean of any strength gained by healing injuries.

It's very real, the shady motives of the Fae. He used to think Dean's negativity, his belief that he was being set up to fail, was the result of pessimistic thinking. Awake in the false darkness of simulated night watching his son battle a fever for which he has no cure, John decides it isn't negative at all, just realistic. Damnit, he warned Dean against making a deal with the Fae, told him they'd find another way.

But there isn't, for either of them.

And so, days are spent asleep, internal clocks switched to nocturnal. The Winchester men check out of motels when other stumble blindly in, breath on fire from games played in bars, passing them by with bright eyes. The father and son get odd looks from lethargic owners or managers, but they pay more attention to odd sleep patterns than fake credit cards with purposely exotic names, and that relieves some tension.

The path to Stewart Hall is no more clear now than it was before meeting with Lydia Hall. Her words planted seeds of doubt; what if Hall had it all wrong, had simply gone insane from the loss of a sister? The Fae believed he had the Sight, but did he, or had he gone so far as to torture that he hunted for ways to alter himself?

Too many questions without answers fester deep in their stomachs, heavy weight they lug between daytime slumbers and nighttime camp-outs in forests and parks and wide open fields of tall grass and sweet flowers. Crouched low in the humidity that never releases its grip, Dean and John swat at buzzing mosquitoes while Dean describes floating magic under a midnight blanket of stars.

50 or 100 miles before the sun can assert itself above, sleep, then a new haunt and the simmering hope of finding Hall one night.

So John listens to Dean talk his nervousness out each night, the wavering tone becoming more sure the longer he talks. Nonsense, mostly, things he misses like hustling pool and driving down wide open interstates clear of traffic. He likes the illusion of being the only car on the road. There's freedom, there, to do or be anything and he jumps into such an opportunity with eyes closed.

During those nights, Dean is more himself, free of fever. He may groan or wince, ribs still sore, but John watches Dean grow back into himself, all those missing pieces held close, put back into place under the dark sky so resembling the world Dean now inhabits.

Things grow complicated along the edge of Salshburg Forest, where the trees thin into a wide field of tall grass. John sits comfortably, knees drawn up to keep his feet flat on the ground; leaping up quickly is easy from this position. Dean lies in the grass next to him, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed -- normally a punishable offense, but no longer; there's no difference between the two for Dean anymore.

He's talking about one of his last nights out with Sam, how he made fun of his brother and wonders if he hadn't, Sam would have stayed. Dean blames himself, John blames himself -- it's an old argument, and he doesn't want to hear any more.

"You think they can see us?" John asks. Dean truncates his sentence and shifts, popping open his eyes.

"Huh? Who?"

John's still uncomfortable with most of this. Dean picks up the slack.

"Probably. Who the hell knows? I can, that's for damn sure. Not the best camouflage, but I don't have any magic soap in my pocket." He grins up at John -- at him, and not off to the side by those rare fractions of an inch. "Why?"

But John doesn't answer. Looks off into the distance where grass crunches, dry from a season without rain.

"Dean, are there any -- "

Dean's sitting up next to him, crouched like a coiled tiger ready to attack. "Hell, yeah. Doesn't look too friendly, either."

A click of a gun being readied; Dean's snapped into hunter-mode, working off what he can see. John follows the line made across the field with his eyes, tracking invisibility. Grass crunches again, and he changes his focus, swinging to his left. The air is charged with static electricity, the small hairs on his arms standing on end when he raises his gun arm and points it between the trees. A twig snaps, loud in his ears from focus. Shift focus, wishes he had a scope; at this distance, he could make the kill shot, no problem.

In, out. John counts the seconds, waits for the mistake, wants to take the opening. Frustration and fear and the bitter taste of mistakes make his trigger finger itch, his body tense in a ridged position. Adrenaline pushes the troubles of the last few weeks into deeper recesses; John needs the hunt as much as anything. It's his crutch and release all at once and fuck if he doesn't enjoy it.

There. Metal reflects in the moonlight, a momentary flash of light between dark trees. A smile blooms on John's scarred face: he's got them. Shifts his aim and with the subtle backward notion of kickback, sends screeching hot lead sailing above their heads.

Shots fly from the trees, rick-rick of silenced shots meshing with louder bangs in the acidic air. John ducks, remembers Dean, and dives to the left where he last marked his position.

He lands in empty grass under a curtain of bullets, and hell, didn't he already do this, get the medal, and come home?

Dean readies his gun without taking his eyes off the goblin. If he remembers correctly -- and it's entirely possible that he doesn't -- goblins aren't usually found roaming around in forests. They like caves and cold, hard stone, not pansy flowers -- just like Dean.

He readies himself all the same. Hunters drove it from wherever it was hiding -- he can deal with them later.

Enough Glamour floats in the air for Dean to see the bulky shape and the grass it stomps though, one thundering step after another in a poor attempt to outrun whoever's yet to come. Dean advances under the cover of the tall grass, waves brushing his cheeks, catching on the cotton of his shirt. Jarred ribs protest silently, working through fire, but flames are something he's learned to deal with.

Moving through the grass blind to everything but his target, Dean gathers details too late. Red-- blood red, cherry red -- fuck. He holds his breath, lungs expanded in a tight, burning chest, and knows he's screwed. God damn, he's crouched no more than three feet from a Redcap, covered in faerie glitter that sparkles as if to say, hey, look at me!

Which is what the Redcap does when the thunder of gunfire erupts overhead.

John crawls through the grass, thankful for its cover. One arm in front of the other, torso brushing the ground, he makes his way to Dean, pausing every minute to let off a few rounds. He shoots haphazardly in several directions to give the illusion of several when there's only one. This is a fucked situation, him out in the open while they have the cover of the forest. He marks their position, reaches for Dean, and pulls him down by his belt.

"What the hell -- Dad! Little warning next time," Dean whispers, spitting venom with each word. "Who the hell is shooting at us?"

"What are you doing over here?" John responds in kind. "You don't leave my side, not until you're back, understand me?"

The gunfire pauses, but not the thundering booms.

"What is that?"

Dean scrambles into his original position. "A fuckin' Redcap. Now shut-up and get away. Or should I send up a flare?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Hell," Dean sighs, exasperated. He pushes at John's shoulder. "It can see us. Together, we're a bigger target. Now move your ass and keep me from getting shot." He turns away, bright eyes like the moon above shifting to follow the Redcap. John watches the dark shape lurch through the grass as he slips back a few feet. Sure, it can see anything, but hadn't he just asked about how visible they were?

Crack. John whirls, gun ready, finger poised, and throw back the hammer.

He can hear his dad moving through the grass, the motion of the narrow stalks more rushed and severe than the brush-like movement the grass makes when touched by the breeze. Bullets whiz through the air so fast, they rob the summer heat of its oppressive, dominating humidity in the cone of their wake.

Sweat drops from his brow, down his nose, him and the Redcap locked in place; blue ice meeting the smoldering red of goblin madness. Encountering creatures from legends isn't new to Dean -- from an early age, he knew the monsters most passed off as figments of youthful, overactive imaginations were real, living, breathing beings who were often more horrible than stories made them out to be.

Crunches through dead, faded yellow stalks catches Dean's attention, but he doesn't take his eyes off the goblin with the hat dyed red by human blood. Dead plants break under the steps; too heavy and loud to be his dad's. He slips his hand down his side, ready to grab his knife should he need it.

"It ain't a dinosaur, Dean. Just 'cause you don't move don't mean it can't see you," a breathy, alcohol-tinged voice breathes into his ear.

"I thought you were trying to hunt here, Al. Or should I scare it off for you?" Dean smirks, just a small, lip-creasing show of recognition, amusement. "Got this handy cross in my pocket..."

"How do you think we got it away from the fort? Hell, kid, you going senile in your old age?"

Eyes still locked on the Redcap's, he replies, "Must mean you've gone dumb, you sneaky bitch. Can we save the chat for later?"

"Knew there was sense in there somewhere," Al comments in a rush of whispers. "Keep it occupied; your dad an' I'll take care of it."

"Right, I'll just stand here with the Redcap and his bloody axe while dad and you re-create your favorite war memories. Piece of cake."

Al claps him on the shoulder. "'Atta boy. We're comin' from the sun cardinals."

And he's gone like an exposed secret, crunching on his approach for Dean's benefit.

Fireflies dance in the sky near the Redcap's head, buzzing bits of pink and orange magic attracted by the goblin's natural Glamour. They punch holes in the black sheet between Dean and the world, colored pegs pressed into a Lite-Brite. Except this time, there's no clown or balloons when the pattern's completed, just a Redcap watching him, a stone statue out of place in a field of wild grass. With painful clarity, echo EMF readings gain explanation; magic is drawn to itself, unseen spectators lingering at a crime scene.

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. Great. Being used as bait is one thing -- hell, he's used to that role in hunts despite his dad's discomfort -- but at those times, he could see everything. What if the Redcap moves, and Dean shoots; what happened if his dad or Al was standing in the line of fire? Smile fading as his eyes catch sight of the goblin invading his empty world, Dean reaches into his pocket and fingers his cross.

All these methods to keep Fae away do nothing to him -- is the strain of Fae in him too weak to react? Why would they help him repel others but not himself or his dad?

The Redcap tilts his head and looks at Dean quizzically.

"What?" Dean asks.

The creature seems genuinely confused, and why wouldn't he be? A human isn't running from him, screaming in terror. One playing some fatalistic starring game must at least interest the vicious goblin.

"Whatever," Dean says. As long as it stands still and doesn't attack him with that huge fucking axe, Dean doesn't care how it looks at him. What had looked to be an exciting way to end an evening sitting in the grass of a field -- a field so absolutely boring with its complete lack of anything to do -- now looks to end almost amicably. Shit, the damn Redcap probably feels sorry for Dean, just like every other person -- or thing -- he's encountered since losing his sight.

Screw 'em. They obviously didn't know Dean Winchester, 'cause if they did, they'd know something so trivial like not being able to see wasn't going to slow him down. Just needs to reintroduce himself to life with the shake of a hand instead of a nod of the head and an eye-roll.

Two things he can still do, just has to hear life coming first.

Implausible as it might have been, say, two months ago, Dean's past the freak-out stage and skating toward acceptance. To do anything else would let Estrella and her bitch friends win; and Dean doesn't let anyone win against him unless their name's Sam. In light of recent events, he's considering changing that rule to erase the one exception. Bastard didn't even answer his phone.

His dad and Al aren't going to make any noise while they sweep around the frayed edges of the field to the north and south. Both have the same training Dean received, though in a more official capacity, and wherever he'd make mistakes -- and such instances were rare, Dean made sure of that -- they'd make none. And were he able to see, to track their movement through the subtle difference between the wind and momentum created by men swooping by, none of this impromptu plan would bother him. He doesn't let things get under his skin. Yet lately, even the smallest things have found the cracks in his armor, the teasing slices in his skin, and no matter how pink and healed they become, the cuts still lead not to his physical insides, but his psyche itself.

He's fuckin' scared, and not of the Redcap attacking him, but that his bombastic confidence will inevitable screw with his dad's attachment to living.

Because if his dad got hurt or -- something catches in Dean's throat -- he'd be all alone for real.

And for all the monsters he can face, those he's killed, being alone is something he doesn't know how to deal with.

The Redcap takes a breath, deep and rattling as air passes through thick blood-dyed lips; Dean tenses, hand on his gun tightening. Hell, the thing's seen his dad or Al and is growing impatient --

-- and lets out a sigh in a rush of foul-smelling air.

If it weren't so dark from Dean's perspective, he would laugh at the absurdity of a goblin sneeze. The stench from the Redcap's mouth reaches Dean. He frowns, face wrinkling, and attempts to brush it away with his hand.

"Oh, c'm -- "

Dean's knocked to the ground, the force pushing the rest of his comment out in a burst of fiery breath as his ribs react poorly and set his insides aflame. He struggles against the weight on him, a boulder he can't see or move and shit, he can't breathe. Short, spastic gasps; the pain is too much, too powerful, and he pushes and kicks and feels that sensation of slipping away under Estrella's power and how that finally broke through his outer shell.

Doesn't cry out or make a sound; finally gets free and kips to his feet panting and swallowing huge mouthfuls of air.

So he doesn't see the axe, even though the metal's saturated in faerie magic.

Dean howls as the axe slices at his side, howls and falls to the side a fraction of a second after contact. It jars the direction, cutting a backward L into his left side. The grass falls under the weight of his dropped gun, both hands now occupied with the wound, blood gushing between his fingers, slick water sliding through tight hands. He stems the blood as best he can, t-shirt bunched up against the mark cut deep into him, and rolls over onto his back.

Silver slashes to his left. He rolls a full rotation and bites down on his lip. Another swipe, another roll, and those dancing spectators double, triple, shit, they're all over -- orange and pink and gold twinkling star lights --

Hands on his t-shirt pull him up off the ground -- would she slam him around again -- she, fuck, where is he? -- up off the dry grass, hands tight on his side, on the blood and who's pulling at him, why, so he fights and kicks.

"Well, shit, boy, calm down!"

Alvin Marshall puts his hands and arms out in front of himself, blocking Dean's kicks and wild punches while trying to get a hold on him.

"Dean, c'mon, now," Al pleads in an aww-shucks drawl. "You're just going to hurt yourself more if you keep this up."

A hand comes down on Al's shoulder. He twists to cast worried eyes at John Winchester and takes a step back. This isn't his territory, nor his place. John crouches down at Dean's side, holding the loose skin of his left arm.

"Dean," John speaks softly. He doesn't reach out to touch Dean, doesn't have a free arm anyway, just crouches on the grass and repeats Dean's name a few times.

"John, you best get him settled," Al comments from above. "That fire's gonna draw in Rangers and such."

This is how they speak and think -- sentiment doesn't belong where blood is shed and sweat mingles with the scent of gunpowder. These men wear hard faces, move according to rules and muscle memory. Get the job done. Finish the hunt undetected and patch yourself up later, in those dark hours of momentary regret and veins sapped of adrenaline when there's time to give to the mind.

Not now.

"Get up, Dean. Stop rolling around on the ground like a fucking dog," growls John. He takes his hand from his wounded arm and pulls at Dean, yanks him off the ground, hand grasping Dean's wrist tight enough to leave marks. They come off the ground with a tiny hop, John compensating for the force of his movement. Dean flails but finds his feet, clamps a hand to his side and brandishes his knife with the other.

"Hey, now," Al breaths. Turns to John. "Had it in his boot; you teach him that?"

"Unfortunately," John remarks. "Who are you going to attack with that, son?" Keeps his eyes on Dean as heat licks at his back, the fire started to kill the Redcap munching on the dry summer growth.

Al steps forward, just one foot toed over that invisible line separating him from the father and son, crunching soon to be ashen undergrowth with a boot. Dean whirls at the sound, frantic, almost, and settles his gaze just below Al's left ear.

The newcomer retreats out of surprise, never fear. "So it's true, then."

"What?" John asks, shifting his attention from Dean to Al.

"I heard talk, but thought it couldn't be him, not a Winchester. If there were ever a family pure of heart in this, it's yours."

"Still are," remarks John sadly. He shakes his head, using the motion to shift back to Dean. "Dean -- "

At the sound of his name from those lips, Dean relaxes, allows time to fill in the holes of his memory and tell him he's not in Estrella's lair but a field with his dad and a Redcap.

"Fire's spreading, John. We've got to go," Al says.

"Fire?" Dean blinks. Shrugs his shoulders and clicks into place. Face tightens with his shoulders and posture as he slides the knife back into the sheath in his boot. Bending fills more holes, the cut in his side coming to say hello, and he grunts while pressing bloodied hands against it.

His father, also injured and holding together a sliced arm, a piece of skin threatening to fall off, gives a nod and turns in the direction of the small parking area.

It lay on the other side of the thin strip of a once majestic forest shrunk by the greed of man. Where old trees stood proudly reaching for the sky, four lanes of faded gray cement twist north-south. It divides two halves that used to be whole and boasts a roadside oasis with unkempt bathrooms and a faded, weathered sign chronicling the history of the area.

Determined, Dean moves in the same direction, the heat not of summer, but of burning, pushing at his back. He manages two steps, maybe three, before swaying, a rocking punching bag who's seen one too many practice fights. Sways and tilts, feet stumbling in the steps of a drunken dance to keep him upright. Al grabs hold of an arm, pulling Dean up straight and locking him into place.

Ahead, John drops within sight of the cars.

Straight down, all at once, in a way not his own.

Cold water plops in clumps -- large, inconsistent drops -- onto his forehead a few times before he grows annoyed enough to open his eyes.

John doesn't recognize the ceiling, though that isn't uncommon, not since Sam's departure killed the need for a steady, permanent home. It's bleach white covered in yellow nicotine stairs and splashes of a past he doesn't want to know. Lamps cast the room in bright white-yellow light, making everything seem healthy and warm. Almost inviting.

Another plop of water lands on his face. John grumbles, vocalizing his annoyance, and blinks sleep out of his eyes.

"Hey, welcome back, John," Al says. "Good thing, too. Do I look like your personal nursemaid, lieutenant?"

John tries a cocky grin. "Lose a few pounds and change your name, maybe."

Al drops the wet washcloth he's been holding onto John's face. "Asshole. Gave us quite a scare back there."

"Us? Where's Dean?"

"Over here," answers a tired, cracked voice from beyond John's view. He starts to sit up, wanting to see his son and reassure himself, but Al shakes his head.

"I know I'm in no place to tell you what to do -- "

"'Then don't," interrupts John.

"-- so if you want to fuck yourself up more, go for it," Al finishes slowly, shaking his head as John lifts himself off the bed, struggling against -- something. He frowns, confused.

"Yeah, that'd be the hit to your back," Al supplements. "Gonna listen to me, now?"

John scoots up as far as he can, propping up his head and shoulders. Part of Dean comes into view, his leg, still clad in jeans, stretched out above the covers with lazy indifference. It's a good sign, John tells himself; the blood welling up between his son's fingers must have been a dream because it couldn't have been real.

"Just might," concedes John. "Dean, you okay over there?"

"Peachy. Next time you see a goblin coming after me, don't attack it, okay?" Dean drawls in a watered-down version of John's own Southern tone.

"Can't blame him, though," Al says.

He finally moves, backing up to occupy a scarred and stained armchair on the side of the tiny hotel room. His movement is a curtain being pulled at the opening of a play, sliding to reveal John's son --about damn time -- lying on the next bed somewhat lazily; one knee bent, the other extended in a line of dark denim to the light peach of a bare foot. A bandage covers most of his left side, the rest of his skin pale around it. Dean lies on his back, head turned.

The only way to deal in this family is to take a part and ignore the obvious. "This coming from the blind one playing bait."

"What else was I supposed to do, sit and wait for you two to take care of it? No, not an option. Al told me to stay put and I did, end of story. Nothing happened until he tackled me, anyway," Dean ends with a growl, lamely thumbing at Al.

"Cause your dad told me to. Call it an old habit, but when that man shouts and order at me, I don't even think about it," the former Marine admits almost fondly. "Though him jumping the Redcap, well, I never said he was smart."

John scoffs. "Never stopped you from asking me for advice. Like when you had that issue with the native girl in -- "

Al throws up his hands, a bubble of laughter growing as they reminisce.

"You promised never to bring that up ever again!"

"He always does that," Dean remarks somewhat jovially," when you question him -- even if he did do something stupid."

"Drop it. What time is it?" John breaks the momentum, bringing the light enjoyment of conversation to a screeching halt.

"Changing the subject. Nice tactic. It's almost four am," Al says. "You were only out for -- "

"Two and a half hours. The Redcap; what was it doing in a field?"

"They usually live in old ruins or castles with a nasty past, don't they?" Dean chimes in. He rolls his head to gaze at the ceiling; at least until John remembers he can't see.

"Yeah, except some came over here and took up residence in Indian burial grounds. Moved on to forts from the Revolutionary War, then Civil. You'll fine 'em at most of 'em," Al explains, kicking back in the faded pink chair. "Read reports of people being butchered up here, found with a bucket of their blood next to them. Local police thought it was some kind of new serial killer, but when I found out it was at this old fort that'd seen some bloody action back in the day, I knew what it was."

"A bucket? Man, he couldn't just get some fabric dye?" comments Dean. "Those people had to be..." he trails off, the visual as clear as the pain in his side.

"It was pretty bad. Lured him out by purifying the fort. Damn things are skittish around crosses and the like."

"And the whole shooting at us thing -- pure misunderstanding, huh?"

"He claims he was aiming for the Redcap," John remarks. "Never was all that smart."

"What I want to know is why you two were hanging out there in the first place," Al breaks in. "I knew the Redcap would head that way; it used to be a big Faerie enclave -- goblins don't like 'em that much, but the magic draws 'em in."

"Don't be an ass, Al," John says, tone darker, deeper. "You already have a theory, don't you?"

Even though he asks for it, John doesn't want to know. Al isn't a stupid man. Despite being an enlisted, he had the intelligence to be an officer, and in those sticky jungles, John often conferred with Al instead of his fellow officers.

A twist of fate brought the two men together 15 years later, after the death of Al's third wife. Upset more by the circumstances surrounding her death than the loss of yet another wife (if by death or divorce), he sought out his old buddy John Winchester, using VA records to locate him in Oklahoma.

The second war in Al Marshall's life began over a shared bottle of Jack Daniel's, John pouring both the drink and conversation. Demons and werewolves. Monsters that went bump in the night. By morning, Al had a new purpose in life and soon discovered some truths about his wife he'd rather not know. Such is life.

It did explain his interest in hunting a Redcap and his extensive knowledge of Fae -- his third wife had been a Seelie, now living out her days in an Irish Hill, having grown bored of mortals.

"I've been thinkin' about it, yeah. Like I said, goblins don't like Fae, and Dean here's got the Sight; he could see the goblin plain as day, but not me or you when we came out of the brush," surmises Al, a hand rubbing the day's growth on his chin. He's cocky as only a winner can be; he holds the pocket aces and John only has a pair of twos.

Al notices the trademark Winchester move; he's seen it in action more times than he can count, and notes the way Dean mimics his father's withdrawal as only a child can. Both men grow quiet, tense, both mentally and physically preparing for a defensive from within hard, void shells. He watches and wonders; why would his close friend of so many years feel the need to do so?

"Tell me what happened to your boys," Al tries, calm, leaning forward in the chair with open arms as if to say look, you can trust me.

He fears John won't answer with Dean in the room. Dean, the most open and vulnerable of the Winchester men -- and so he needs to wear the hardest shell, hide the most of himself for fear of rejection.

Al's heard the way John talks about his boys when loosened by the bottle and absence of the sun. The truth pours out then, into the night where it may remain hidden. Words he'd never say, feelings he'd never convey but through looks directed at their backs. He fears such love would make them weak, that a father's place is to shape and strengthen his children. In those dark hours stuck between days where time does not exist, John admits he doesn't want to take Mary's place, because she could never be replaced. When his boys think of love and kisses, he wants them to think of their mother.

"It's her place," he'd slur in the sea of memory," always hers, never mine."

To him, the boys will always have two parents, in memory if not life.

They wait. Dean falls asleep quickly, fever returning to join forces with trauma to push him over the edge, the cusp of sleep and unconsciousness dropping away just as the sun begins to climb into a clear blue sky.

He slips against his will, dropping off in the middle of some quick remark, body unable to meet his growing demands -- self-imposed orders made out of desperation for sanity, control. The gash on his side is deep, another scar to be added to his collection, and Al and John stay to make sure he's fine on his own; breathing and sleeping in a shade matching the sheet they cover him with, then the comforter, and leave him to heal.

John never leaves the bed he's propped up in, but things shift, change just enough so that it's two buddies drinking their problems away. The white elephant is still in the room -- now represented by the slumbering kid on the bed -- but there's always been one. It gives the last they need to be comfortable, so Al pulls a bottle from the crinkled brown bag clutched in his hand during the walk back from the convenience store next door and uncaps it with a swish of aluminum against glass. There's two dirty glasses; Al fills them both. They've drunken out of worse, missed fingerprints and chips in the smooth, rounded surfaces not bothering either.

As the bottle empties, the room fills with the pieces John keeps in a box in the closet of his mind. He tells Al about Sam's departure, about how he's scared every day will be the one he gets a call reporting Sam's death. That one day will come where their next case will be that of their own family, again.

"He's a good kid," Al tells him. "You trained him good. He can take care of himself."

"Doesn't mean I don't worry," John counters. "God, Al, I worry so damn much."

"Can't blame you, with what's out there. But he knows what to do."

John shakes his head, chin nearly dragging on his chest, then twists to watch Dean sleep. "They both do. Doesn't mean something can't happen, something bigger."

He gives the whole story, then, tongue moving with trust only alcohol can give, forgetting about the secret even he can't fully accept. Al knows this, but curiosity has gotten the better of him; life is full of good intentions that strike at the weaknesses of others. Can't help it, can't believe what he's hearing.

"You're sure?" Al asks. He thinks of his third wife, of his search for her killer only to discover she was still alive, had left him out of boredom. Her contempt for him was thick smoke used to drive him away, but not before he knew her true reasons for marrying him. Yes, Al hunted those Fae who crept from 'tween into the world of humans, hoping to spare as many as he could from the fate he suffered.

"They can't lie," John replies. "But I can. What does that mean?" He takes a large gulp, finishing his third glass of liquid courage. "Salt doesn't do anything, or iron."

"Maybe she's screwin' with you," Al says, grasping at straws. He doesn't consider himself a judgmental man -- he looks past the shortcomings of his friends or allies -- yet his brain's already going through farfetched scenarios, seeing images of John laughing at him, his ex-wife at his side, both speaking half-truths through harsh words.

"Can't be. Look at Dean. He had the Sight before being captured. Damnit, Al, I thought he was lying."

"Dean? He'd never lie to you. You said it yourself; you and Sammy are his entire world." John says nothing, just bows his head. "Oh, John, what did you do?"

John looks up, eyes bleary from pain and drink. "Nothing, yet."

"Shit, what are you gonna do to that poor boy? Hasn't he been through enough? Fuck, he's only twenty-four!"

"He's strong enough, he can handle it. It's for his own good, Al. I can't -- I doubted him, punished him because I couldn't believe myself. What kind of father does that make me?"

"You're only human, John. Findin' something like this out has gotta be hard, especially on you. Hell, if I found out I was related somehow to these monsters, well, fuck."

John groans, head dropping again. He's losing his battle with sleep, injury and depressant pressing down on him, fingering his eyelids. He's a strong man who's stayed awake for days on end, but there aren't bullets flying over them, now, or the threat of snipers hiding in the brush. So much weighs down on John, oh, so much, and Al sits dumbfounded across from the injured Winchesters, half-men hunters, and presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, leaning forward in that faded pink chair.

"Why'd you have to trust me, John?" he whispers into the room, air conditioning clunking in the window to his right. "You stupid old fool."

The day grows hot and humid, the breeze growing stronger with the scent of rain trailing as it comes and goes in waves of relief from the summer heat. The barometer dropping to make old men's knees ache with throbbing reminders of days gone by. Foolish days of youth come to haunt them when storms brew on the horizon.

When Dean falls awake, he hears only the hum of the air conditioner and the soft snoring of his dad, both to his left. No shifting or loud breaths of Al. His musty scent of old cologne and sweat lingers in the air, but it's only a remnant. Al's no longer there, and that worries him.

The wound in his side limits his movements, but he swallows back that tight feeling in his throat that comes with the wave of nausea and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. Things waver in his head, brain throbbing behind his eyes, between his ears. Dean swears -- the fever's back, his jeans uncomfortably sticking to his knees when he bends them even in the frosty room, sweat still in the cloth from his sleep.

Alcohol saturates the air, the stench making Dean wrinkle his nose in disgust -- not only does it cause that latent nausea to jump into his throat, but it brings back childhood memories of finding Daddy asleep in front of the TV, not waking when Dean shook him and yelled his name. Sight isn't needed to know Dad's passed out on the other bed, though why Al would give Dad alcohol, then leave him -- both of them -- injured and defenseless --

Dean lurches forward, grabs for the trash can between the beds, and throws up. Each heave pulls at the crooked stitches made with black sewing thread, threatening to split open the Redcap's gift, but he's lost control and hates it. He continues until there's nothing left for his stomach to reject, and when he finishes, Dean lets the can fall from his fingers and gulps down air. Gives himself a minute to recover before reaching across the space separating the two beds and laying a hand on Dad's arm.

Fuck. He can only think of one reason why Al would leave his wounded war buddy behind, and it wasn't for a beer run.

"Dad," he says, voice thick with sleep. "Dad, wake up."

That memory comes into sharper focus when John doesn't wake at the sound of Dean throwing up or the hand on his arm. Dean's been punished for less, and shakes John harder.

John jolts awake, left hand grasping Dean's wrist and twisting it painfully past its limit, yanking at it in the same motion. Already sore from the 'help' off the ground earlier, Dean sucks in breath and gives a small grunt.

He growls between clenched teeth. "Dad, we've gotta stop meeting like this. Have something against my left arm?"

A flicker of consciousness passes over John's face before his eyes snap open and he releases Dean's wrist.

"Damn, you're jumpy," Dean remarks. It's either that or screaming at his dad for being so fucking stupid, but that isn't done, isn't how you speak to your father. So he lies low and deflects with sarcasm while rubbing an aching wrist.

"Where's Al?" Because John doesn't say sorry to his boys; to him, it's a show of weakness. Reflex can't be mistaken for conscious thought or intent, and Dean knows that.

Doesn't make his wrist or shoulder hurt any less.

"You two have a nice chat with Jack Daniels while I was out?"

John groans. "What's that smell?"

"My stomach. Shit, dad, what did you tell him?"

"What he needed to hear."

Dean would shake his head or laugh a bit if he weren't so damn tired. "And that was...?"

"Don't question my tactics, son. Al needed to know about the Fae Queen and," -- he pauses, swallows the lump in his throat; this was easier to say out loud when everything had fog obscuring it -- "what she told us."

"What she told us? Have you forgotten that Al doesn't exactly have a soft spot for Fae?"

"More like a blind spot."

"Yeah. He hunts them, dad. Hell, we hunt them. You think he'll just forget about your little chat?"

"No," John says. "He'll get backup."

"Backup. Fuckin' wonderful. Great idea, him -- " Dean breaks off as his brain wakes up despite the construction crew working on it with at least five jackhammers. He grins in stages corresponding with the logic process going through his head until, finally, he gives John a rough punch in the arm -- misses, and hits the air.

"He's gonna get backup," he breaths. Smirks. "How long do you think we have?"

John smiles, proud. "I'd say a day at the most."

Dean flops back onto the bed and closes his eyes, thankful he'll get a few more hours of rest. "He's going to bring Hall right to us." The end is in sight, so close, he can feel the gun in his hands --

-- and shudders. Is he really going to do this?

Can he?

It isn't a question of technicality; he held and fired his first gun at nine years old. Cock the pin, loop your finger around the trigger, widen your stance to compensate for kickback, and fire. It's a gentle motion, taking a caress more than roughness when pulling the trigger of a gun, and while aimed at creatures threatening to kill another innocent, he almost wishes some degree of violence was required to shoot them.

With Hall, the passive, soft touch needed seems too much. Dean shoves a mask on Stewart Hall in his mind, gives him the shape and appearance of something far more sinister, but it always slips off at the last second. For a man who's killed things most of his life, he's finding the concept hard.

The bed next to him creaks.

"How's your side?" John asks.

"Fine."

"Al took care of it?"

Dean smirks. "Yeah. With sewing thread. I get the feeling he's something of a clown. Prick. It's going to hurt like hell to get it out."

"You didn't tell him where the medical kit is?"

"Wasn't all there, if you get what I'm saying. He said I sang a bit -- off-key. Like I sing anything off-key."

"What'd he say?"

"Pretty deep. Stay off my feet for a few days. Told him I've had worse," Dean scoffs.

"Maybe you should," John says. His feet hit the floor hard, and he moans a bit under his breath; Dean doesn't say a word, knows it's the hangover and any comment would just start a fight.

"What?" he asks. Hears the bed give as his dad stands.

"Stay off your feet for a few days."

"I don't think Hall would come over here so I could shoot him, Dad."

John pauses, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom. "No, he wouldn't."

"Don't start this again," Dean warns. "Don't you dare. This was my choice to make, and I made it."

"I just don't want you to get hurt. You weren't at -- "

"I'll live," Dean interrupts. "Sorry, Dad, but you've got to drop it."

"There's something –" he rakes a hand through his messy hair -- "you lose something, son, when you kill another man. It changes you."

"I know," Dean says quietly. "But I've got to do it."

John nods. Before he falls into the shower, John cries for his son.