fic: supernatural // these crimes of illusion, chapter 1.6 [R]
Here it is! See how speedy fast I am when it comes to getting you guys your weekly chapter? Very fast. I hope y'all enjoy it. More notes at the bottom.
Title: These Crimes of Illusion
Rating: R
Genre: Pre-Series, Gen
Summary: Dean finds himself in the clutches of a fae, only to find the aftermath's more difficult that he expected when a price has been put on his head. There's only so much help a father can give...
These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 1.6
Beige-brown carpeting in alternating seashell patterns covers the floor in stark contrast to red and white wallpaper peeling near the bathroom. Two beds separated by an end table serving as a night stand, a beaten up dresser holding up an ancient television set, and a solitary chair near the window are all the furniture provided, but beggars can't be choosey. Spur of the moment, and this isn't that bad for making a run for it and slipping into the first motel along the highway.
Dean sits on the end of the closest bed, hand still pressed to his neck. His right arm still hangs somewhat awkwardly despite the bone being set and pulled up into a sling; John's sure Dean managed to re-injure it during his fight. Adrenaline can do wonderful things for the human body, wonderful, stupid, inspired things.
Then again, he's seen Dean do the same without the benefit of adrenaline or anything else altering his normal state, for that matter. While Sam inherited John's stubbornness, Dean gained a complete lack of forethought when approaching dangerous situations, taking the age-old saying ‘shoot first, ask questions later' to new levels. Sometimes, asking questions never entered the equation.
"How are you doing?" John asks. The chair near the window skids toward the bed with rough, rebellious rubbing against the carpet.
Dean simply glares in his general direction, missing John's location by a few inches that unnerves him. Looking at him but not looking at him. Everything's off just a bit, the world skewed to one side or the other when he looks at Dean and his wandering eyes.
They don't track him as he swings around and sits forward in the chair across from the bed. "That bad, huh?"
"Peachy." Dean sways without an arm to brace himself. John removes the towel and winces -- just with his face, not his voice -- at how much blood has soaked through. The gash itself isn't too bad, but John knows better; even a single cut can spread the lycan gene, and even if they were true wolves, it's better to be safe about such things.
With the towel gone, Dean throws his left arm behind him, palm flat against a repulsively cheerful bedspread, leaning all his weight against it to keep himself from falling over.
John's not used to giving a running commentary while doing anything within the sight of his sons, and feels odd telling Dean what he's doing. "I'm going to wash it out. It doesn't look too bad, but I'll stitch the middle just to be sure."
"Just do it," Dean says, neck and wound bobbing with each word. He knows what his dad means by washing it out.
The leverage from the left arm isn't enough to keep Dean upright after the first pass of holy water; he topples over gracelessly, falling to his right, landing on his broken arm. His head lolls off the side of the bed, feet still planted to the ground in front of him, and John hesitates --- fucking hesitates -- before quickly going over the wound a second time.
Satisfied, he dabs off the new blood welling around the edges and places a hand on the side of Dean's face. "Still with me?"
His response, a muttered, "Hell," comes out in a burst of pent-up breath, a single spoken word with the sharpness of a dagger. John repositions him, swinging his feet up onto the bed and pulling his head over so it no longer hangs. Dean's no giant, but the bed is shorter across than up and down, so he ends up curled on himself with the exception of his head, his neck stretched straight.
"Dean, I need you to tell me exactly what happened," John says as amicably as he can, threading the needle already used too much over the last week or two. Dean's body's become a quilt, different pieces stitched together to make one large pattern of peach and black and blue with putrid shades of green and yellow.
"Told you already. Twice," Dean whispers. "Went out, saw a girl, she ended up being a fucking bitch of a fae."
"No," John continues. "The whole story this time, Dean. Don't leave anything out."
"Aww, hell," Dean sighs, shifting his feet slightly. There's a note of sadness there, and fear, and maybe anger at his father for asking him to repeat the story again. But he knows his dad thinks he's lying, thinks he's leaving something out that would explain his Sight or why exactly he stumbled upon a fay in the middle of Ohio or Pennsylvania or wherever they were at the time.
So he launches into the story, words slow like a leaking faucet. Drip from his mouth whenever he gains a spare breath, and even then, John knows he's pushing himself to say it all as fast as he can. Starts at the capture, then the blinding, barrels through to the water John knows was Glamour cast over something far more putrid, to the chains and the beatings and cuts and teasing, right through to drowning in nothingness.
John stops him there. "The Queen? You're sure she mentioned the Queen?"
The break in momentum jars Dean. "Yeah, yeah. Said she talked to her, that she gave me to her, or whatever that means. Crazy fae..."
By complexion alone, John knows Dean should be resting. Hell, should be lying in a hospital bed with new blood being shoved into his veins. Instead, he keeps himself awake by biting his lip over wounds John's just noticed, teeth marks already imprinted upon them. He looks so much like Mary it hurts sometimes, like now, when his expression is so much like one of her own.
John nods and goes back to stitching. Dean continues, losing momentum as he goes over their fight, voice cracking when he describes the room he came up in, face bright as he speaks about killing her. The story trails off; John knows the rest, but still isn't prepared for Dean to mumble on about waiting for his father to come get him.
Explaining the flawed concept of time in the fae realms will never negate the sense of hopelessness Dean felt after two days and no rescue. An intellectual understanding would never overrule the emotional knowledge, and while Dean may comprehend and understand, he'd never forget.
"Hey, kiddo, wait a second," John says. He's finished sewing the last patch on Dean, the gash now a narrow red line, and reaches for the drinks he grabbed from the vending machine in the motel's office. Juice and Gatorade; not his normal fare, but alcohol won't rehydrate his son. Or himself.
Dean only drinks a bit of the apple juice, but it's enough for now. Dean's eyes slide shut, his breathing evens out, and after a moment, his neck curls down to set his chin against his chest. It pulls against the fresh stitches. John stands, stretches the kinks from his back and shoulders, then moves around the bed.
He's used to moving Dean around. As a toddler, Dean often fell asleep in odd positions, hanging off the couch or his bed, curled up wherever he could, slumbering peacefully. How many times had he carried Dean to his room? Placed him gently on those race car sheets?
The bedspread's changed, but not the boy. John finds himself halfway on the bed in his efforts to move Dean into a better, more comfortable position. Twisting up with Dean in his arms until John's against the headboard, Dean leaning against him. Conscious, Dean would fight against such closeness, but in sleep, he acclimates himself to his father's arms, head leaning against John's shoulder, half up, half down.
John Winchester wraps his arms around his eldest as if he were four years old again, reminding him that no matter how horrible the nightmare, his father's there.
"There are methods for gaining the Sight, but none mention being born with it. Are you sure you didn't do something to bring this on?"
"Yeah, Dad. I was frolicking in the woods and decided to put some weird flower juice on my eyelids." Dean's given in a bit, and speaks from his propped up position on the bed, pillows stacked up behind his head. After three days in bed, he was still pale, and four days later, still a bit weak. But getting stronger. Sometimes, he takes a walk around the room -- he's growing restless again, excess energy needing to be siphoned off somehow.
But John's allowed him the rest. Even the soldier in him can't deny Dean needs it if they're going to find a way to fix this. Fix everything as best they can.
John pauses, then starts typing on the computer across the room again.
Dean relents. "No, dad. Nothing. Okay?" There should be an explanation, something in those musty books his dad carts around, or on the websites of amateurs and professionals alike, a clue, a riddle, a nursery rhyme of three lines to the tune of one day aye awok' with ‘e sight.
But there's nothing. Not a single record of someone born with the ability, and Dean wracks his brain trying to figure out how this could have happened -- all those nights dancing with creatures, had one of them cast something upon him without either of them noticing? Entirely possible, once you figure their family has never encountered fey before, at least not Sidhe; there are other creatures related through magic, but he's never seen anything odd with them. Never had such double vision, seen such transparency.
His frustration's palpable, contagious; John pounds on the keys a bit harder than usual, stays awake a bit longer at night, has put every protection against fey and monsters up on the walls. Salt near the door has permeated the air, the breeze through the open window tainted. Knife in the door, knife under Dean's pillow.
"There might be a possibility," John says. "It's a long shot, hell, it's one in a million."
"What's that?"
"There are only two ways to gain the Sight," John explains. His voice grows stronger, louder, and the bed gives under his weight. He's been doing this lately, sitting closer to Dean while talking, closing the proximity between them. It's comforting yet unnerving at the same time; Dean doesn't know what to make of it, how to handle it. Everything's been a test or game between them, and Dean never wants to lose.
His dad keeps going despite Dean's mental pause. "Well, a few. But one is to do something in order to gain it. Anointing the eyes, going out at the right time, external methods. The other -- "
"Fay can see other fay. I've read the books, Dad. You're saying -- "
"Unless we've missed something," John interjects.
"We haven't missed anything," comes Dean's response. Hard and sharp like the knife under his pillow. "Not a damn thing."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
The bed gives again, Dean's legs rising a bit. It's a temporary feeling of weightlessness, floating above the world where nothing can touch him. In the darkness that's become his home, it gives a sense of vertigo, like he's not connected to anything anymore, and at any moment, he'll cease to exist.
He suddenly feels the urge to hear his own voice, just to know he's still there. "That would explain a lot."
"Yes," his dad replies from somewhere off to the right, "it would."
Because the supernatural is always attracted to its own kind, drawn to the raw power each holds no matter how small an amount. Searches it out, going from one to another like a ship sailing close to shore, hoping they'll be able to reach one of the lights and extinguish it. No matter how small.
That the only way Dean could possibly have gained this ability without any external help is through heredity.
"This is crazy," Dean finally says. He grabs a few fries from the bag at his side and munches down on them. Solid food's been acceptable for a few days, now, and he's eaten more than his share of greasy cheeseburgers and onion rings, French fries and French toast. Anything thick and solid enough to make a cardiology nervous has been on his menu. It builds up strength, he claims, and knows his dad doesn't buy it but says it anyway.
John watches Dean eat, makes sure he's no longer throwing stuff in the trashcan near the door just to make him think everything's okay. Even blind, his son's using his own tactics against him, laid up on the bed and he's protesting silently. Not even a reprieve from hunting gets Dean to admit to being something less than perfect, and John thinks that might be his fault.
There are a lot of things here that are his fault, and he vowed never to make mistakes back on a beach in Southern Asia.
"We need to leave," John announces.
Dean finishes his mouthful of fries and pauses before grabbing some more. "What?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yes, sir," snaps Dean automatically. His hand stills over the food; he shoves it away in one move, wraps it in the wax-paper wrapping and chucks it in the direction of the garbage. John smiles at the perfect toss, but doesn't let it stay for long. He's been coddling Dean for too long, thinking this was his doing, was his fault.
The second theory's as crazy as Dean keeps saying -- John refuses to admit any relation to a creature, good or bad -- which means Dean has to be lying to protect himself.
Lying will not be tolerated.
Such casual acceptance of a second, and albeit, less acceptable theory is more Dean's style, John has to admit that. Believing the unbelievable is the luxury of living most, if not all of your conscious life in the shadow of bigger, eviler things, though why Sam struggles when he has no memories of a normal life is lost on John.
Nothing to be done about that.
No one in their family is hard of hearing, Dean's question being more of a knee-jerk response than an honest inquiry, but the boy has yet to move other than to throw out his half-eaten meal. Enough of this. Fatherly instincts be damned; there was an honest-to-God creature of the night out there searching for Dean -- searching because Dean not only escaped, but killed his captor. They've been in enough situations like this to know you get out of town before the family seeks revenge; better to fight with knowledge than give it a home advantage.
His sudden reversal could be attributed to his inability to accept a shared lineage with the very things they hunt, or perhaps there's a limit on how long he can be a father before needing to switch back to the impersonal soldier -- memories are easier to ignore if you feel nothing for anyone, anger for some, and sympathy for victims only. Whatever the case, and John isn't one to speculate in his current state, they need to move, and they need to move now.
"I wasn't joking," he says halfway to the table. Behind him, Dean stiffens, then moves, covers rustling as he struggles out of bed. That small part representing the father gives to hesitation, but it's only in John's mind; he scoops his research into a haphazard pile and moves to grab print-offs and drawings from the walls.
When he turns to deposit the papers in his bag, Dean's halfway to the bathroom, stack of clothes in his hands. He moves like an old man, half-folded at the waist, arms tight to his sides, head bent. There's hesitation in all his movements, a sharp intake of breath with each step. The St. John's Wart tea has helped remove most of the ill effects from the fae's anti-escape spell, but not all; Dean freezes near the door and leans against his father's bed for a moment until it clears and he forges on.
They're on the road twenty minutes later, Dean's hair still wet from his shower. John directs them east, away from the grounds of ancient native spirits, towards the new homes of Gaelic and Irish fae, where he hopes to find an answer.
Dean sits slumped in the passenger seat. Every time his eyes slip closed, he snaps them open. Even unseeing, they stay sharp.
John thinks it Dean's way of proving he's ready for anything.
There is a line between baiting and cruelty, and John's just crossed it.
Baiting would be leaving Dean to manage on his own within the controlled confines of a motel room where things could be placed conveniently enough to cause difficulty, but no real struggle. It's a tactic used to force a man to ask for assistance when things become too hard; to force them to accept that fact that things are not 100%, to know their limits.
Cruelty, however, is standing outside a no-tell motel in western Pennsylvania while a summer storm rolls in. A light rain sprinkles the ground, pattering on the rough gravel of the parking lot and aluminum of parked cars, making everything slick. John tosses a ball from hand to hand near the trunk of the Impala, Dean halfway out into the lot, standing at ready.
John tosses it between hands a few more times, then pitches it toward Dean. The latter stands still, eyes unfocused on something John can't see --
-- his head twists to the left, his hand snaps out, and the ball is caught securely in his palm.
Dean tosses it back, slightly skewed to the right. The ball bounces off the gravel and rolls under a nearby car.
"You're not focusing," sighs John. Instead of digging for the ball, he pulls another from the trunk and rolls it between his hands.
It's a variation on a game played throughout his sons' childhood, except here, he doesn't need to use a blindfold. Reflexes can be the only thing standing between life and death; John was quick to test that of his two sons, using a simple game of catch as a tool.
The rain is a distraction -- unplanned, but welcomed nonetheless -- drops growing larger as John drills Dean in his new blinded state. Bounce, thwack, bounce, thwack. Dean catches each with the same grace he carries in the daylight, but only on his left side, his right arm still bound and hanging in a make-shift sling from around his neck. It's a weakness that can't be corrected by a few lessons in the parking lot in front of their room, though John's thought about it.
They continue for a half hour. Dean's only faltered a few times, once, slipping on the gravel, the other, going to grab the ball with his right hand without thinking -- he slipped it halfway out of the sling before pain caught up with him and the ball went rolling into the street. For his part, Dean hasn't complained once -- a habit broken only when his brother grew old enough to yearn for a different, normal life -- hasn't said a word over a grunt or muttered swear.
A car speeds by, an older car, classic, and John follows it with his eyes as it passes behind Dean. American, restored -- how he'd love the time to take proper care of his own car, shine it up, re-hab the engine. Tosses the ball between his hands and pitches it toward Dean.
The ball rolls out into the street past the tires of the car.
"Goddamnit, Dad," Dean grunts out. He's bent over and coughing, arms wrapped protectively around his chest; takes a step forward and slips on the wet gravel. He lands in a heap of limbs, sprawling out on the small rocks in a symphony of coughs and grunts of pain; Dean lays there, working to even out his breathing.
Maybe enough is enough. Maybe Dean's telling the truth, no matter how much John wants to believe he isn't. Dean's taken this absurd practice session with little complaint, and the way he's lying on the ground as the storm swells around them clues John into Dean's condition.
"I'm not playing anymore. Fuck, you just hit me in the chest," Dean comments as soon as he's able.
John's taken back by his insubordination; Dean has never, John recollects, given up on a training exercise. But Dean keeps lying. To accept anything else would bring in the possibility of being no better than the things they hunt, and John doesn't know if his conscience can take such a hit.
"We're not finished," John states. "I need to be sure you can watch my back."
"Watch your back? What happened to taking a break? Finding out a way to fix this?"
"There's no time."
Dean pushes himself into a sitting position. "No time? What the hell are you talking about?"
"We've wasted enough time already."
"Let me get this straight," Dean frowns. "First, you say we're going to take a break and figure this all out. Now, you've driven us halfway across the Goddamn country and want me to test my reflexes so I can watch your back?"
Rain falls freely, now, covering both men in a veil of shimmering silver and damning words, drenching their hair and clothes. Dean shivers, quivering with anger -- John knows that look, knows how men can get when they're tired in body and mind. Sheer determination can only go too far, and damnit, he's been blinded by his own self-loathing to see.
He can't, can't accept it. Can't. Won't. This is going too far. Fate can't be this cruel, this heartless; pit an ordinary man against the horrors of the world, but don't make him one of them.
If all the things they've faced have gone evil, will Dean?
"Answer me," demands Dean, but he doesn't shout it, or hold any anger. Instead, he pleads. Looks around wildly, tries not to make a sound. He's searching for his father, for some trace he's still standing out there and hasn't stormed away. Hasn't abandoned him to feel his way back to their room and into bed. Dean may be able to catch what John throws without his sight, may be able to move around and load a gun, but blind, he's as helpless as he was at four.
"You did something to cause this," John answers. "Maybe you don't remember, son, but there's no other way."
"You think I'm lying?" Dean laughs hollow and honking; it sounds faked, even staged. One of those over-the-top polite laughs when the joke wasn't funny but the teller's standing there with that expectant look on their face. "Oh, this is rich. When have I ever lied to you?"
John squares his jaw.
"Never. Never in my life. Even when it got me in trouble, or made things worse. So why the hell would you think I'd be lying about this? I'm blind, here, dad. Can't see a thing. Don't you think I'd be fucking serious?"
"Let's go inside," is all John offers as way of temporary reprieve. Things aren't fixed, but he's putting them on hold.
Dean gives a curt nod of the head. "Yes, sir."
Dean figures he's used up all his insubordination points for the next several years; in his youth, he'd be cleaning the house or doing extra rounds of training to knock the rebel spirit out of him. A unit can't gel if one of the members disagrees at every turn, and ever since the loss of Sam from their merry band, strict obedience has become more important.
Not that he minds. Dean knows his father knows what he's talking about -- has weighed all the options against years of training and experience. John Winchester has the best interest of his sons at heart, but isn't afraid to push them as far as he can without completely breaking them. And Dean knows this -- is aware of all the components that make up his father because he's been there the entire time.
There's nothing wrong with pushing against such boundaries. It's a tactic his dad's used several times, manipulating the situation and conversation to find the root of the problem; many a small town diner proprietors and librarians could testify to his powers of persuasion and investigation.
The only problem with teaching such a technique to his son is the possibility of backfire.
His dad has a reason for moving them -- whatever was after Dean wouldn't be as keen to follow such a long trail, especially if it were connected to the fae he killed. Such beings were hesitant to wander far from their homes or courts for fear of losing the core of their power. And if whatever was chasing Dean did find them, Dean would have to watch his father's back -- would need to perform as best he could in his condition.
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. There is one thing his dad's right about -- this is his fault. If only he'd stayed inside, ignored his dad's retreating attitude, just watched a movie or something, they'd have finished the job they went to complete in the first place and be somewhere else.
At least he can take a shower on his own, now without wincing as much when moving in and out of the tub; hotels have piss-poor water pressure, so the spray's never bothered him. It's relaxing, though, even if he does flash to the putrid liquid found in the cavernous room he was held in.
The cut in his neck pulsates with each beat of his heart, the limp spray of the shower stinging the tender skin surrounding it. It balances out the pain in his chest from where the ball hit him and knocked him on his ass.
Dean leans against the slick tiled wall, pulling his newest wound from the water. It's cool against his forehead, reminding him of his continuing weakness, and he allows his shoulders to slump just a little bit as he relaxes. Every part of him aches; each sewn slice in his skin burning with precise clarity. Without his sight to distract him, combined with the hissing white noise of the shower, Dean feels each and every after effect of his first encounter with fae.
It's enough to exhaust him, and he gropes around in the shower until he finds the dial and shuts off the water.
Sounds of the outside world crash into him; Dean slouches and pulls himself out of the tub.
He wants to sleep, to escape everything -- the pain of his injuries, the attacks, the variable moods of his dad -- but that's never been his way. Dean's a man of action as means of distraction, keeping painful memories and the sticky finality of morals in the back of his mind by focusing on hunts. He'd never want to meet his true emotions in a dark ally somewhere, that's for damn sure.
There are too many variables in play, too many ‘what if's.' Dean likes tangibility. Certainty. We're hunting a Black Dog, and this is how you do it.
Damn. That's something Sam's good at; bringing the abstract into solid reality.
Dean gravitates towards the door clad in sweat pants, arm too sore and damaged to pull on the t-shirt his dad set down on the counter for him. He shivers as cool, air conditioned air hits his damp skin, the whoosh of hot steam from the bathroom dissipating as it hits the air of the main room.
The room is eerily silent.
A few cars pass outside. Dean can hear the patter of rain on the windows, hard, fast drops accompanied by booms of thunder. Summer rain. He can still feel the pin-pricks on his skin, the sensation definable, memorable where it wouldn't have been before. Dean's noticing more about the world, listening for small details; not able to rely on his sight is opening the world to him instead of closing it down.
He waits a second, listening to the rain, the air conditioner, the sound of tires on wet pavement, then walks to his bed and falls onto it heavily.
John isn't there.
Which isn't surprising. They both know he's struggling with the possibility of Dean's fae heredity, stressing because it's unknown from which side it came. Dean recognizes this, sees the late-night reflex exercise as John's way of dealing with the harsh reality of his less-than-normal son; how do you switch from persecuting the supernatural to accepting it in your own family?
So Dean cuts him some slack. He flops back on the bed and closes his eyes, listening to the rain and the air and the sound of his own breathing. The air is cool against his warm, fevered skin and he enjoys it until the chill is too strong and he begins to shiver.
When he sits up, his knee bangs against the cheap end table positioned between the two full size beds and the phone clangs against itself. Receiver hitting the base with a ring of a bell.
Later, he'll tell himself he was foolish to even try. Later, when he's awake in the middle of the night, pain in his arm too great to allow for sleep, he'll know he's just fooling himself. No one cares for him the way he wants, needs, and probably, he'll tell himself with just a hint of jaded sarcasm, never will.
But that's for later. Now, he picks up the phone, feels for the nub over the 5 button, and dials a number he'd never have to program into his phone.
One ring. Footsteps on the wood outside the room.
Two rings. A swish of keys and the click of a bolt being thrown.
Three rings. The creak of old, neglected hinges as the door is opened.
"I've set up a meeting. We leave in the morning."
Four rings. Dean nods and pulls the phone from his ear. He'll need extra sleep and the events from earlier in the evening have sapped him of whatever energy was left over.
"Who are you calling?"
Five rings. The ring jumps; it's gone to voice mail. "No one. What's this meeting about?"
One ring into voice mail, and a tiny, grainy voice starts to speak just as Dean hangs up the phone. Hey, you've reached Sam --
"An old contact knows someone who might be able to get us to see the Seelie Queen."
"Sounds good."
Dean goes to bed, the truncated voice mail greeting replaying in his head until he falls asleep to the last part repeating over and over and over and --
-- see? Even he doesn't care. Neither of them do.
-- End Part One --
Part 2, Chapter 2.1 >>
Notes:
I'm really flattered so many of you are enjoying this fic. It started as a flashback scene in another story I was writing (the Sam discovers Dean's "talent" part you all are waiting for; I have a few pages of it written already) and grew and expanded and now is two parts and over 100 pages.
This one's really a testament to writing what you like. I haven't made any compromises -- everything you see is what I want to write, and that so many people are enjoying the ride along with me is just flabbergasting and humbling and so incredible awesome. I hope y'all come back for part two, the "effect" portion where we see what Dean and John go through in order to regain Dean's sight. It's really the meat of the story and more like the show with hunting and research and all that fun stuff.
This fic as you see it each week would not be what it is without koyote19's amazing beta skills. If it weren't for her, there would have been a Duex Ex Machina in the previous chapter, more spelling and word errors, and this one would have made less sense continuity-wise. She catches what I miss and gives the best ConCrit ever.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to littlehands and moveablehistory, both of whom have looked over my outline notes and versions of this fic, taking time out of their own busy schedules to give me advice and brainstorm with me.
And, as always, my muse-in-person, scout27, who gives me strength, pushes me past writer's block, and kicks my ass every time I say my writing isn't the best and that I should give up.
And, of course, all of you readers. Each reply is a gift, and I cherish each and every one.
- Kira
Look for the first chapter of Part Two next weekend. Same time, same LJ!
Title: These Crimes of Illusion
Rating: R
Genre: Pre-Series, Gen
Summary: Dean finds himself in the clutches of a fae, only to find the aftermath's more difficult that he expected when a price has been put on his head. There's only so much help a father can give...
These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 1.6
Beige-brown carpeting in alternating seashell patterns covers the floor in stark contrast to red and white wallpaper peeling near the bathroom. Two beds separated by an end table serving as a night stand, a beaten up dresser holding up an ancient television set, and a solitary chair near the window are all the furniture provided, but beggars can't be choosey. Spur of the moment, and this isn't that bad for making a run for it and slipping into the first motel along the highway.
Dean sits on the end of the closest bed, hand still pressed to his neck. His right arm still hangs somewhat awkwardly despite the bone being set and pulled up into a sling; John's sure Dean managed to re-injure it during his fight. Adrenaline can do wonderful things for the human body, wonderful, stupid, inspired things.
Then again, he's seen Dean do the same without the benefit of adrenaline or anything else altering his normal state, for that matter. While Sam inherited John's stubbornness, Dean gained a complete lack of forethought when approaching dangerous situations, taking the age-old saying ‘shoot first, ask questions later' to new levels. Sometimes, asking questions never entered the equation.
"How are you doing?" John asks. The chair near the window skids toward the bed with rough, rebellious rubbing against the carpet.
Dean simply glares in his general direction, missing John's location by a few inches that unnerves him. Looking at him but not looking at him. Everything's off just a bit, the world skewed to one side or the other when he looks at Dean and his wandering eyes.
They don't track him as he swings around and sits forward in the chair across from the bed. "That bad, huh?"
"Peachy." Dean sways without an arm to brace himself. John removes the towel and winces -- just with his face, not his voice -- at how much blood has soaked through. The gash itself isn't too bad, but John knows better; even a single cut can spread the lycan gene, and even if they were true wolves, it's better to be safe about such things.
With the towel gone, Dean throws his left arm behind him, palm flat against a repulsively cheerful bedspread, leaning all his weight against it to keep himself from falling over.
John's not used to giving a running commentary while doing anything within the sight of his sons, and feels odd telling Dean what he's doing. "I'm going to wash it out. It doesn't look too bad, but I'll stitch the middle just to be sure."
"Just do it," Dean says, neck and wound bobbing with each word. He knows what his dad means by washing it out.
The leverage from the left arm isn't enough to keep Dean upright after the first pass of holy water; he topples over gracelessly, falling to his right, landing on his broken arm. His head lolls off the side of the bed, feet still planted to the ground in front of him, and John hesitates --- fucking hesitates -- before quickly going over the wound a second time.
Satisfied, he dabs off the new blood welling around the edges and places a hand on the side of Dean's face. "Still with me?"
His response, a muttered, "Hell," comes out in a burst of pent-up breath, a single spoken word with the sharpness of a dagger. John repositions him, swinging his feet up onto the bed and pulling his head over so it no longer hangs. Dean's no giant, but the bed is shorter across than up and down, so he ends up curled on himself with the exception of his head, his neck stretched straight.
"Dean, I need you to tell me exactly what happened," John says as amicably as he can, threading the needle already used too much over the last week or two. Dean's body's become a quilt, different pieces stitched together to make one large pattern of peach and black and blue with putrid shades of green and yellow.
"Told you already. Twice," Dean whispers. "Went out, saw a girl, she ended up being a fucking bitch of a fae."
"No," John continues. "The whole story this time, Dean. Don't leave anything out."
"Aww, hell," Dean sighs, shifting his feet slightly. There's a note of sadness there, and fear, and maybe anger at his father for asking him to repeat the story again. But he knows his dad thinks he's lying, thinks he's leaving something out that would explain his Sight or why exactly he stumbled upon a fay in the middle of Ohio or Pennsylvania or wherever they were at the time.
So he launches into the story, words slow like a leaking faucet. Drip from his mouth whenever he gains a spare breath, and even then, John knows he's pushing himself to say it all as fast as he can. Starts at the capture, then the blinding, barrels through to the water John knows was Glamour cast over something far more putrid, to the chains and the beatings and cuts and teasing, right through to drowning in nothingness.
John stops him there. "The Queen? You're sure she mentioned the Queen?"
The break in momentum jars Dean. "Yeah, yeah. Said she talked to her, that she gave me to her, or whatever that means. Crazy fae..."
By complexion alone, John knows Dean should be resting. Hell, should be lying in a hospital bed with new blood being shoved into his veins. Instead, he keeps himself awake by biting his lip over wounds John's just noticed, teeth marks already imprinted upon them. He looks so much like Mary it hurts sometimes, like now, when his expression is so much like one of her own.
John nods and goes back to stitching. Dean continues, losing momentum as he goes over their fight, voice cracking when he describes the room he came up in, face bright as he speaks about killing her. The story trails off; John knows the rest, but still isn't prepared for Dean to mumble on about waiting for his father to come get him.
Explaining the flawed concept of time in the fae realms will never negate the sense of hopelessness Dean felt after two days and no rescue. An intellectual understanding would never overrule the emotional knowledge, and while Dean may comprehend and understand, he'd never forget.
"Hey, kiddo, wait a second," John says. He's finished sewing the last patch on Dean, the gash now a narrow red line, and reaches for the drinks he grabbed from the vending machine in the motel's office. Juice and Gatorade; not his normal fare, but alcohol won't rehydrate his son. Or himself.
Dean only drinks a bit of the apple juice, but it's enough for now. Dean's eyes slide shut, his breathing evens out, and after a moment, his neck curls down to set his chin against his chest. It pulls against the fresh stitches. John stands, stretches the kinks from his back and shoulders, then moves around the bed.
He's used to moving Dean around. As a toddler, Dean often fell asleep in odd positions, hanging off the couch or his bed, curled up wherever he could, slumbering peacefully. How many times had he carried Dean to his room? Placed him gently on those race car sheets?
The bedspread's changed, but not the boy. John finds himself halfway on the bed in his efforts to move Dean into a better, more comfortable position. Twisting up with Dean in his arms until John's against the headboard, Dean leaning against him. Conscious, Dean would fight against such closeness, but in sleep, he acclimates himself to his father's arms, head leaning against John's shoulder, half up, half down.
John Winchester wraps his arms around his eldest as if he were four years old again, reminding him that no matter how horrible the nightmare, his father's there.
"There are methods for gaining the Sight, but none mention being born with it. Are you sure you didn't do something to bring this on?"
"Yeah, Dad. I was frolicking in the woods and decided to put some weird flower juice on my eyelids." Dean's given in a bit, and speaks from his propped up position on the bed, pillows stacked up behind his head. After three days in bed, he was still pale, and four days later, still a bit weak. But getting stronger. Sometimes, he takes a walk around the room -- he's growing restless again, excess energy needing to be siphoned off somehow.
But John's allowed him the rest. Even the soldier in him can't deny Dean needs it if they're going to find a way to fix this. Fix everything as best they can.
John pauses, then starts typing on the computer across the room again.
Dean relents. "No, dad. Nothing. Okay?" There should be an explanation, something in those musty books his dad carts around, or on the websites of amateurs and professionals alike, a clue, a riddle, a nursery rhyme of three lines to the tune of one day aye awok' with ‘e sight.
But there's nothing. Not a single record of someone born with the ability, and Dean wracks his brain trying to figure out how this could have happened -- all those nights dancing with creatures, had one of them cast something upon him without either of them noticing? Entirely possible, once you figure their family has never encountered fey before, at least not Sidhe; there are other creatures related through magic, but he's never seen anything odd with them. Never had such double vision, seen such transparency.
His frustration's palpable, contagious; John pounds on the keys a bit harder than usual, stays awake a bit longer at night, has put every protection against fey and monsters up on the walls. Salt near the door has permeated the air, the breeze through the open window tainted. Knife in the door, knife under Dean's pillow.
"There might be a possibility," John says. "It's a long shot, hell, it's one in a million."
"What's that?"
"There are only two ways to gain the Sight," John explains. His voice grows stronger, louder, and the bed gives under his weight. He's been doing this lately, sitting closer to Dean while talking, closing the proximity between them. It's comforting yet unnerving at the same time; Dean doesn't know what to make of it, how to handle it. Everything's been a test or game between them, and Dean never wants to lose.
His dad keeps going despite Dean's mental pause. "Well, a few. But one is to do something in order to gain it. Anointing the eyes, going out at the right time, external methods. The other -- "
"Fay can see other fay. I've read the books, Dad. You're saying -- "
"Unless we've missed something," John interjects.
"We haven't missed anything," comes Dean's response. Hard and sharp like the knife under his pillow. "Not a damn thing."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
The bed gives again, Dean's legs rising a bit. It's a temporary feeling of weightlessness, floating above the world where nothing can touch him. In the darkness that's become his home, it gives a sense of vertigo, like he's not connected to anything anymore, and at any moment, he'll cease to exist.
He suddenly feels the urge to hear his own voice, just to know he's still there. "That would explain a lot."
"Yes," his dad replies from somewhere off to the right, "it would."
Because the supernatural is always attracted to its own kind, drawn to the raw power each holds no matter how small an amount. Searches it out, going from one to another like a ship sailing close to shore, hoping they'll be able to reach one of the lights and extinguish it. No matter how small.
That the only way Dean could possibly have gained this ability without any external help is through heredity.
"This is crazy," Dean finally says. He grabs a few fries from the bag at his side and munches down on them. Solid food's been acceptable for a few days, now, and he's eaten more than his share of greasy cheeseburgers and onion rings, French fries and French toast. Anything thick and solid enough to make a cardiology nervous has been on his menu. It builds up strength, he claims, and knows his dad doesn't buy it but says it anyway.
John watches Dean eat, makes sure he's no longer throwing stuff in the trashcan near the door just to make him think everything's okay. Even blind, his son's using his own tactics against him, laid up on the bed and he's protesting silently. Not even a reprieve from hunting gets Dean to admit to being something less than perfect, and John thinks that might be his fault.
There are a lot of things here that are his fault, and he vowed never to make mistakes back on a beach in Southern Asia.
"We need to leave," John announces.
Dean finishes his mouthful of fries and pauses before grabbing some more. "What?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yes, sir," snaps Dean automatically. His hand stills over the food; he shoves it away in one move, wraps it in the wax-paper wrapping and chucks it in the direction of the garbage. John smiles at the perfect toss, but doesn't let it stay for long. He's been coddling Dean for too long, thinking this was his doing, was his fault.
The second theory's as crazy as Dean keeps saying -- John refuses to admit any relation to a creature, good or bad -- which means Dean has to be lying to protect himself.
Lying will not be tolerated.
Such casual acceptance of a second, and albeit, less acceptable theory is more Dean's style, John has to admit that. Believing the unbelievable is the luxury of living most, if not all of your conscious life in the shadow of bigger, eviler things, though why Sam struggles when he has no memories of a normal life is lost on John.
Nothing to be done about that.
No one in their family is hard of hearing, Dean's question being more of a knee-jerk response than an honest inquiry, but the boy has yet to move other than to throw out his half-eaten meal. Enough of this. Fatherly instincts be damned; there was an honest-to-God creature of the night out there searching for Dean -- searching because Dean not only escaped, but killed his captor. They've been in enough situations like this to know you get out of town before the family seeks revenge; better to fight with knowledge than give it a home advantage.
His sudden reversal could be attributed to his inability to accept a shared lineage with the very things they hunt, or perhaps there's a limit on how long he can be a father before needing to switch back to the impersonal soldier -- memories are easier to ignore if you feel nothing for anyone, anger for some, and sympathy for victims only. Whatever the case, and John isn't one to speculate in his current state, they need to move, and they need to move now.
"I wasn't joking," he says halfway to the table. Behind him, Dean stiffens, then moves, covers rustling as he struggles out of bed. That small part representing the father gives to hesitation, but it's only in John's mind; he scoops his research into a haphazard pile and moves to grab print-offs and drawings from the walls.
When he turns to deposit the papers in his bag, Dean's halfway to the bathroom, stack of clothes in his hands. He moves like an old man, half-folded at the waist, arms tight to his sides, head bent. There's hesitation in all his movements, a sharp intake of breath with each step. The St. John's Wart tea has helped remove most of the ill effects from the fae's anti-escape spell, but not all; Dean freezes near the door and leans against his father's bed for a moment until it clears and he forges on.
They're on the road twenty minutes later, Dean's hair still wet from his shower. John directs them east, away from the grounds of ancient native spirits, towards the new homes of Gaelic and Irish fae, where he hopes to find an answer.
Dean sits slumped in the passenger seat. Every time his eyes slip closed, he snaps them open. Even unseeing, they stay sharp.
John thinks it Dean's way of proving he's ready for anything.
There is a line between baiting and cruelty, and John's just crossed it.
Baiting would be leaving Dean to manage on his own within the controlled confines of a motel room where things could be placed conveniently enough to cause difficulty, but no real struggle. It's a tactic used to force a man to ask for assistance when things become too hard; to force them to accept that fact that things are not 100%, to know their limits.
Cruelty, however, is standing outside a no-tell motel in western Pennsylvania while a summer storm rolls in. A light rain sprinkles the ground, pattering on the rough gravel of the parking lot and aluminum of parked cars, making everything slick. John tosses a ball from hand to hand near the trunk of the Impala, Dean halfway out into the lot, standing at ready.
John tosses it between hands a few more times, then pitches it toward Dean. The latter stands still, eyes unfocused on something John can't see --
-- his head twists to the left, his hand snaps out, and the ball is caught securely in his palm.
Dean tosses it back, slightly skewed to the right. The ball bounces off the gravel and rolls under a nearby car.
"You're not focusing," sighs John. Instead of digging for the ball, he pulls another from the trunk and rolls it between his hands.
It's a variation on a game played throughout his sons' childhood, except here, he doesn't need to use a blindfold. Reflexes can be the only thing standing between life and death; John was quick to test that of his two sons, using a simple game of catch as a tool.
The rain is a distraction -- unplanned, but welcomed nonetheless -- drops growing larger as John drills Dean in his new blinded state. Bounce, thwack, bounce, thwack. Dean catches each with the same grace he carries in the daylight, but only on his left side, his right arm still bound and hanging in a make-shift sling from around his neck. It's a weakness that can't be corrected by a few lessons in the parking lot in front of their room, though John's thought about it.
They continue for a half hour. Dean's only faltered a few times, once, slipping on the gravel, the other, going to grab the ball with his right hand without thinking -- he slipped it halfway out of the sling before pain caught up with him and the ball went rolling into the street. For his part, Dean hasn't complained once -- a habit broken only when his brother grew old enough to yearn for a different, normal life -- hasn't said a word over a grunt or muttered swear.
A car speeds by, an older car, classic, and John follows it with his eyes as it passes behind Dean. American, restored -- how he'd love the time to take proper care of his own car, shine it up, re-hab the engine. Tosses the ball between his hands and pitches it toward Dean.
The ball rolls out into the street past the tires of the car.
"Goddamnit, Dad," Dean grunts out. He's bent over and coughing, arms wrapped protectively around his chest; takes a step forward and slips on the wet gravel. He lands in a heap of limbs, sprawling out on the small rocks in a symphony of coughs and grunts of pain; Dean lays there, working to even out his breathing.
Maybe enough is enough. Maybe Dean's telling the truth, no matter how much John wants to believe he isn't. Dean's taken this absurd practice session with little complaint, and the way he's lying on the ground as the storm swells around them clues John into Dean's condition.
"I'm not playing anymore. Fuck, you just hit me in the chest," Dean comments as soon as he's able.
John's taken back by his insubordination; Dean has never, John recollects, given up on a training exercise. But Dean keeps lying. To accept anything else would bring in the possibility of being no better than the things they hunt, and John doesn't know if his conscience can take such a hit.
"We're not finished," John states. "I need to be sure you can watch my back."
"Watch your back? What happened to taking a break? Finding out a way to fix this?"
"There's no time."
Dean pushes himself into a sitting position. "No time? What the hell are you talking about?"
"We've wasted enough time already."
"Let me get this straight," Dean frowns. "First, you say we're going to take a break and figure this all out. Now, you've driven us halfway across the Goddamn country and want me to test my reflexes so I can watch your back?"
Rain falls freely, now, covering both men in a veil of shimmering silver and damning words, drenching their hair and clothes. Dean shivers, quivering with anger -- John knows that look, knows how men can get when they're tired in body and mind. Sheer determination can only go too far, and damnit, he's been blinded by his own self-loathing to see.
He can't, can't accept it. Can't. Won't. This is going too far. Fate can't be this cruel, this heartless; pit an ordinary man against the horrors of the world, but don't make him one of them.
If all the things they've faced have gone evil, will Dean?
"Answer me," demands Dean, but he doesn't shout it, or hold any anger. Instead, he pleads. Looks around wildly, tries not to make a sound. He's searching for his father, for some trace he's still standing out there and hasn't stormed away. Hasn't abandoned him to feel his way back to their room and into bed. Dean may be able to catch what John throws without his sight, may be able to move around and load a gun, but blind, he's as helpless as he was at four.
"You did something to cause this," John answers. "Maybe you don't remember, son, but there's no other way."
"You think I'm lying?" Dean laughs hollow and honking; it sounds faked, even staged. One of those over-the-top polite laughs when the joke wasn't funny but the teller's standing there with that expectant look on their face. "Oh, this is rich. When have I ever lied to you?"
John squares his jaw.
"Never. Never in my life. Even when it got me in trouble, or made things worse. So why the hell would you think I'd be lying about this? I'm blind, here, dad. Can't see a thing. Don't you think I'd be fucking serious?"
"Let's go inside," is all John offers as way of temporary reprieve. Things aren't fixed, but he's putting them on hold.
Dean gives a curt nod of the head. "Yes, sir."
Dean figures he's used up all his insubordination points for the next several years; in his youth, he'd be cleaning the house or doing extra rounds of training to knock the rebel spirit out of him. A unit can't gel if one of the members disagrees at every turn, and ever since the loss of Sam from their merry band, strict obedience has become more important.
Not that he minds. Dean knows his father knows what he's talking about -- has weighed all the options against years of training and experience. John Winchester has the best interest of his sons at heart, but isn't afraid to push them as far as he can without completely breaking them. And Dean knows this -- is aware of all the components that make up his father because he's been there the entire time.
There's nothing wrong with pushing against such boundaries. It's a tactic his dad's used several times, manipulating the situation and conversation to find the root of the problem; many a small town diner proprietors and librarians could testify to his powers of persuasion and investigation.
The only problem with teaching such a technique to his son is the possibility of backfire.
His dad has a reason for moving them -- whatever was after Dean wouldn't be as keen to follow such a long trail, especially if it were connected to the fae he killed. Such beings were hesitant to wander far from their homes or courts for fear of losing the core of their power. And if whatever was chasing Dean did find them, Dean would have to watch his father's back -- would need to perform as best he could in his condition.
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. There is one thing his dad's right about -- this is his fault. If only he'd stayed inside, ignored his dad's retreating attitude, just watched a movie or something, they'd have finished the job they went to complete in the first place and be somewhere else.
At least he can take a shower on his own, now without wincing as much when moving in and out of the tub; hotels have piss-poor water pressure, so the spray's never bothered him. It's relaxing, though, even if he does flash to the putrid liquid found in the cavernous room he was held in.
The cut in his neck pulsates with each beat of his heart, the limp spray of the shower stinging the tender skin surrounding it. It balances out the pain in his chest from where the ball hit him and knocked him on his ass.
Dean leans against the slick tiled wall, pulling his newest wound from the water. It's cool against his forehead, reminding him of his continuing weakness, and he allows his shoulders to slump just a little bit as he relaxes. Every part of him aches; each sewn slice in his skin burning with precise clarity. Without his sight to distract him, combined with the hissing white noise of the shower, Dean feels each and every after effect of his first encounter with fae.
It's enough to exhaust him, and he gropes around in the shower until he finds the dial and shuts off the water.
Sounds of the outside world crash into him; Dean slouches and pulls himself out of the tub.
He wants to sleep, to escape everything -- the pain of his injuries, the attacks, the variable moods of his dad -- but that's never been his way. Dean's a man of action as means of distraction, keeping painful memories and the sticky finality of morals in the back of his mind by focusing on hunts. He'd never want to meet his true emotions in a dark ally somewhere, that's for damn sure.
There are too many variables in play, too many ‘what if's.' Dean likes tangibility. Certainty. We're hunting a Black Dog, and this is how you do it.
Damn. That's something Sam's good at; bringing the abstract into solid reality.
Dean gravitates towards the door clad in sweat pants, arm too sore and damaged to pull on the t-shirt his dad set down on the counter for him. He shivers as cool, air conditioned air hits his damp skin, the whoosh of hot steam from the bathroom dissipating as it hits the air of the main room.
The room is eerily silent.
A few cars pass outside. Dean can hear the patter of rain on the windows, hard, fast drops accompanied by booms of thunder. Summer rain. He can still feel the pin-pricks on his skin, the sensation definable, memorable where it wouldn't have been before. Dean's noticing more about the world, listening for small details; not able to rely on his sight is opening the world to him instead of closing it down.
He waits a second, listening to the rain, the air conditioner, the sound of tires on wet pavement, then walks to his bed and falls onto it heavily.
John isn't there.
Which isn't surprising. They both know he's struggling with the possibility of Dean's fae heredity, stressing because it's unknown from which side it came. Dean recognizes this, sees the late-night reflex exercise as John's way of dealing with the harsh reality of his less-than-normal son; how do you switch from persecuting the supernatural to accepting it in your own family?
So Dean cuts him some slack. He flops back on the bed and closes his eyes, listening to the rain and the air and the sound of his own breathing. The air is cool against his warm, fevered skin and he enjoys it until the chill is too strong and he begins to shiver.
When he sits up, his knee bangs against the cheap end table positioned between the two full size beds and the phone clangs against itself. Receiver hitting the base with a ring of a bell.
Later, he'll tell himself he was foolish to even try. Later, when he's awake in the middle of the night, pain in his arm too great to allow for sleep, he'll know he's just fooling himself. No one cares for him the way he wants, needs, and probably, he'll tell himself with just a hint of jaded sarcasm, never will.
But that's for later. Now, he picks up the phone, feels for the nub over the 5 button, and dials a number he'd never have to program into his phone.
One ring. Footsteps on the wood outside the room.
Two rings. A swish of keys and the click of a bolt being thrown.
Three rings. The creak of old, neglected hinges as the door is opened.
"I've set up a meeting. We leave in the morning."
Four rings. Dean nods and pulls the phone from his ear. He'll need extra sleep and the events from earlier in the evening have sapped him of whatever energy was left over.
"Who are you calling?"
Five rings. The ring jumps; it's gone to voice mail. "No one. What's this meeting about?"
One ring into voice mail, and a tiny, grainy voice starts to speak just as Dean hangs up the phone. Hey, you've reached Sam --
"An old contact knows someone who might be able to get us to see the Seelie Queen."
"Sounds good."
Dean goes to bed, the truncated voice mail greeting replaying in his head until he falls asleep to the last part repeating over and over and over and --
-- see? Even he doesn't care. Neither of them do.
-- End Part One --
Part 2, Chapter 2.1 >>
Notes:
I'm really flattered so many of you are enjoying this fic. It started as a flashback scene in another story I was writing (the Sam discovers Dean's "talent" part you all are waiting for; I have a few pages of it written already) and grew and expanded and now is two parts and over 100 pages.
This one's really a testament to writing what you like. I haven't made any compromises -- everything you see is what I want to write, and that so many people are enjoying the ride along with me is just flabbergasting and humbling and so incredible awesome. I hope y'all come back for part two, the "effect" portion where we see what Dean and John go through in order to regain Dean's sight. It's really the meat of the story and more like the show with hunting and research and all that fun stuff.
This fic as you see it each week would not be what it is without koyote19's amazing beta skills. If it weren't for her, there would have been a Duex Ex Machina in the previous chapter, more spelling and word errors, and this one would have made less sense continuity-wise. She catches what I miss and gives the best ConCrit ever.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to littlehands and moveablehistory, both of whom have looked over my outline notes and versions of this fic, taking time out of their own busy schedules to give me advice and brainstorm with me.
And, as always, my muse-in-person, scout27, who gives me strength, pushes me past writer's block, and kicks my ass every time I say my writing isn't the best and that I should give up.
And, of course, all of you readers. Each reply is a gift, and I cherish each and every one.
- Kira
Look for the first chapter of Part Two next weekend. Same time, same LJ!