fic: supernatural // these crimes of illusion, chapter 2.8 [R, Pre-Series Gen]
Oh, some days, fandom makes me giggle.
In honor of that, and crossing 100 reviews on ff.net, here's a present.
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...
Previous Chapters:
Part 1: 1.1 | 1.2 | 1.3 | 1.4 | 1.5 | 1.6
Part 2: 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 2.4 | 2.5 | 2.6 | 2.7
These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.8
They're waiting outside when Al returns in his dark blue pick-up truck, headlights orbs of artificial light in the midday sun. It slides up next to the Impala, black and blue, American classics fighting time, just like the men who drive them. Friends and enemies -- the line's been blurred, here, by magic and blood and ancestors no one knows.
Two men sitting on the edge of the raised walkway, two in the cab of the truck, eyes on eyes, words unneeded. The oncoming storm lingers and grows, the air damp and thick, heat swirling under the cap of deep gray clouds as if the world's anticipating the heaviness of this simple meeting.
The doors to Al's truck don't squeak with age when opened, just sigh and click when closed. No show, no pizzazz or neglected love, just cold, hard metal cared for exactly as the owner's manual says.
Al and his back-up approach; neither Winchester stands when their feet are inches from the newcomers'. John looks up with tired eyes as Dean's remain focused somewhere none of them can see, their mouths twin lines of determination.
"Et tu, Al?" John says after a moment. Lightning crackles in the distance, static electricity building in the atmosphere.
"It's not like that, John," Al replies, voice low. "Stewart's here as back-up. We've gotta take you in until we get to the bottom of this."
Stewart Hall isn't as either imagined. Lydia Hall's descriptions of his degrading mental health and questionable activities following his sister's departure created an image of a younger kid on the wrong side of morality, eyes ablaze with insanity or bloodlust. Loose clothes, dirty shoes and jacket; both painted Hall as poorly as they could, needing him to be sick and deranged, driven by guilt or remorse by his sister's betrayal.
What they're presented with is a man who wouldn't be out of place on the richer streets of any city in America . If he'd lost his mind, he retained his status, dressed in a beige suit and clean-cut. He moves like he's the center of attention, and he is.
"Didn't know they had fae markers on DNA tests," comments Dean. He leans on the pillar marking one side of the porch's entrance, head tilted to skew the way his eyes focus off to the side. The sunglasses have come off for effect, to unnerve Al and Hall -- the blind change expected dynamics.
"C'mon, now. This doesn't have to be hard. Just follow us in your car back to my place."
"As simple as that, huh?" John scoffs. "Follow you back, and then what? Tie us up and try out your new toys?"
Al frowns and shakes his head, makes a good show of sorrow at John's suggestion.
"After all we've been through..." Al starts, but never finishes. John leaps up from his seat on the motel's porch and, palms out, shoves Al back until he hits the hood of his truck, light from the left headlight displaced in odd shapes from the edges of the shadows in front of it.
"All we've been through. That's bullshit. If any of that meant a flying fuck to you, you wouldn't have left me and my son wounded and gone off to get fucking backup!" John roars, alcohol-burned voice rough with anger. Shoves Al again; this time, Al pushes back.
"Who the hell are you to say anything to me, huh? Wasn't it you who warned me about Regina and her kind? Can't take them words back because you decided to do some genealogy, Winchester ," he shouts at equal volume. "And not that it means a hoot of difference, but Stewart called me. Heard you were looking after him."
Dean straightens a bit; a tingling in the back of his mind acting as a warning.
John turns to Hall. "That true?"
"Al, will you give us a minute?" Hall asks. He speaks slowly, with well-formed, enunciated words. Higher education -- intelligence and insanity is a dangerous mix.
"A minute? You don't even -- "
It happens fast, as such things do. Hall slides a hand from his pocket, whirls around, and shoots Al. Once, twice. Al's body hits the hood with a dull thud, blood spraying onto John's face and clothes. He reacts before Al hits the ground, pulling out his own weapon and whirling to point it at Hall --
"Don't," Hall warns. Gun trained on Dean, now standing with a hand on the pillar for support.
"Fuck, Dad, you alright?" Dean asks.
"Your father's fine," Hall answers for John with a smirk. "Now, Dean Winchester, you're going to answer my questions. Such as why the Seelie Queen sent a blind man to kill me?"
Hall said, "Let's go for a walk," so John Winchester did. The weapon pointed at his son's a strong motivator for him, and he listens to that over instinct shouting for him to take Hall down. A booted foot to the knee, arm around the neck, palm up into the nose -- once, twice, three times and Hall wouldn't be a problem anymore. But Hall has him in the lead where he can't see Dean, can't do anything that Hall wouldn't see coming.
The Queen's words were clear -- killing Hall at this point would completely take away any chance of Dean regaining his sight, of having even this pale imitation of a normal life. Both Queens would hunt Dean until his blood was on their hands, joined together by a common enemy. Either Dean gained the upper hand, or he was dead; by Hall's hand now or the Faes' later.
And there's not a fucking thing he can do about it.
Just as children experience a new, helpless awakening when reaching those bubble-bursting years of adolescence, parents experience the same when they finally realize their children can no longer be protected by their arms. All boo-boos can't be kissed away, mean kids stopped by a simple phone call. Storms come and they have to brave it out on their own. John feels that now, even though his children have been in life and death situations many times before. Because before, he's jumped into the line of fire, has spoken when it's required, locked them in rooms and told them to stay put.
He can't do any of that, now.
Their footsteps sound in time with the light drizzle that's started falling, a misting of cleansing rain the ground sourly needs. Like the high notes of a playful piccolo, the drizzle dances over the hood of Al's truck and the Impala's roof, then drops off onto the pavement.
Hall directs John farther into the woods, a hand gripping Dean's upper arm, keeping him close to the gun pointed at his head. The forest is far, but this part of the state's densely forested; a small, private wood sits adjacent to the motel's patch of land, and Hall heads in that direction with a long, confident stride.
When they pass between the outer-most trees, he begins to ask his questions.
"What did she offer you in exchange for my life?" Hall chooses as his first, still walking. Branches lay low on these younger trees, revealing the age of the forest; no Fae in a place so young, through it has enough years to shade them as shadows and keep their dealings secret.
Dean stumbles over exposed roots, branches he can't see slashing at his face, but he doesn't utter a word.
Hall forces them deeper, farther from prying eyes and the body of Al, deeper to where the storm grows in the distance, but is unable to break through the canopy, not yet. Thunder claps, followed by another thunk of force; this one from Hall hitting the gun against the side of Dean's head.
"Answer me," Hall demands.
"Screw you," Dean shoots back. "I'm not playing 20 questions."
"You're going to die in this place," Hall says, moving to swat Dean again, but the prisoner easily ducks out of the way.
"One of us is," Dean smirks, "But I wouldn't be so sure it's me. I've got stuff to do."
"Like what? Steal? Cheat people out of their money? You're a drain on society -- "
"Whatever, man. If you've gotta ride that high horse of yours, go right ahead."
"I've got a question for you," John calls from up ahead, turning slightly to face Hall and Dean. "Why'd you shoot your partner? Wouldn't it be easier to take us down with help?
Hall stops. "Al wasn't my partner, just means to an end."
"Why, you -- "
But John doesn't get the chance to finish. The gun in Hall's hand goes off, shot by Dean as he grapples for it, relying on sound and touch to guide his movements. Another shot, and John leaps into the fray, pulling at Hall to give Dean the chance to get the gun.
He may not be able to kill Hall, but he sure as hell can help restrain him. He can do that much.
So he does.
Stewart Hall lands on his knees with a squish of wet Earth as it gives beneath his weight. Hands loop behind his head before the request is given -- there is no pretense; all here know what will happen. Hall laces his fingers together and raises his head against the onslaught of rain.
Thunder booms in the distance.
The storm has been brewing for some time, now, gathering strength as it crosses the Pennsylvanian landscape to settle just over them. Raindrops fall like pellets; large, moist tears of the sky.
"Just give me the chance to explain," Hall pleads, voice wavering now that the tables have turned. John and Dean stand above him, guns poised and ready. "You can't take their side over me. That's crazy!"
"What's crazy is you thinking killing innocent creatures is okay because they're not human," Dean retorts sharply, voice laced with distain. "That's just murder, man."
"And this isn't?"
"I haven't done anything, yet."
Hall closes his eyes and tilts his head to kiss the sky. Dean's ultimatum hangs in the humid air, heavy and finite. After all those years of believing he was doing good by the world, ridding it of evil, it comes to this. There is no gray here -- the hunter inevitably becomes that which he hunts.
"Please. They took my sister. Lured her away from us and convinced her she didn't want to return," Hall says. The pain is still fresh in his eyes; his voice breaks out of sorrow, not fear.
"So? You go after the son of a bitch who took her. You don't go out and kill everything," Dean offers. His grip on the gun tightens and he uses Hall's voice to adjust the trajectory, to point it directly at the kneeling man.
"What about you?" Hall bravely counters. "Everyone knows the story of the Mighty Winchesters. Demon killed your mom so you start a crusade against the supernatural."
Dean doesn't falter. "We hunt things that hurt people, not flower power faeries."
"They all will hurt someone eventually," offers Hall.
"Fine. When they do, we'll get ‘em. But not before."
"And if they knew something? Could tell you where and how to kill that demon? What then?"
Here, Dean takes pause and glances over his shoulder to where he thinks John's standing, brow creased with thought.
John knows what he's thinking. How many times over the years has he proclaimed he'd do whatever it takes to find and kill the demon that took Mary's life? His research has taken over his life, blinded him to problems at hand; if only he'd focused on the hunt in front of him, the son in front of him, all this could have been avoided.
How ironic, he thinks, that at the moment he decides to step in, all he can do is sit back and watch?
Dean rules his life with lines. Straight, defined lines that leave no room for shades of gray. The world, people, things, are either good or bad. They leave no room for compromise or exceptions to the rule, just clear divisions with populations on either side.
When it comes to his family, there is no line -- to him, there is no question of morality or rightness where his family's safety is concerned. Asked to walk into hell itself and he gladly would if it meant giving them even one more day of life.
Hall's argument appeals to this part of Dean, locked away deep inside where monsters lurk. Replace Hall's sister with Sam, and Dean finds himself wondering if he, too, would cross that line between killing creatures that harm and those who live good lives.
Replace Hall's sister with Mary, and would his dad?
Dean turns to his father for just a second, more out of habit than the need to see him.
To save either of them, he'd happily trample everything underfoot, wouldn't he?
Or is that untarnished part of his soul, of those he'd sacrifice for, worth taking the long road? Hell, his life has been nothing but a never-ending quest to find his mother's killer, and while he's broken a lot of laws on the way, Dean's sure he can say he's fought mostly on the side of good and never crossed that line between hunter and monster.
"There's a right way," Dean finally says, "and the fast way. Tell me something; if you got your sister back right here and now, would you be able to live with all the good things you've killed? Would she?"
"I could die happy, knowing she was safe."
"Let me put it this way, then. How would she feel, knowing all those things died for her?" When Hall doesn't answer, Dean lets out a chuckle. "Pansy-ass amateur."
"Fuck you," Hall spits. "Who made you judge and jury?"
"You did, when I got fucking tortured and blinded because of your crimes. Before this, I was just minding my own business on my way to kill a banshee ‘cause people are too stupid to know when to close their doors."
"How pretentious. Sorry my search for my sister got in the way of your killing spree."
"Asshole. Tease the guy with the gun. You're just as stupid as the rest of them."
Hall laughs. "We both know you won't do it. You'd rather be blind than a murderer."
"I'd be doing the world a favor by killing you."
"They're all evil. Tricksters. Just because they haven't harmed anyone doesn't mean they deserve to exist."
"Whoa, now. Deserve to exist? Who made you God?"
Hall doesn't acknowledge the interruption. "I knew when they took my sister they were freaks. They belong in fairy tales, not roaming around where they can do what they want. The police aren't going to investigate. They won't charge anyone. Where's my justice?"
"What, you're a vigilante now? The law doesn't do what you want so you take it into your own hands?"
"What law?" Hall half-sobs, half-laughs. "We need to show these creatures they're accountable. You mess with a human and we're going to strike back."
"Collateral damage," Dean breathes. Fuck, this guy's gone way over the deep end.
"Governments do it all the time."
"Yeah, against enemies. You just don't discriminate between those that might have taken your sister and innocents who happen to be the same species. That's not hunting, that's genocide."
"Why stop with the Fae?" Hall continues, deep into hysterics. "Kill ‘em all. They don't deserve to live. This is a world of humans."
"Fuck...," says Dean. "Do you even hear yourself?"
"At least I didn't turn into a freak like you," Hall says slowly, drawing out the word freak as long as his New England accent will allow. "Look at you, hell, even if you were going to kill me, you can't see where to aim the gun!"
Dean hears him shift on the ground and compensates accordingly, gun cutting through the air. Raindrops bounce off the slick black metal, falling around the weapon to create a void in space.
"How'd you do it?" Dean asks. "How'd you make them think you had the Sight?"
"I killed one for a supply of faerie juice. They only had rumors, stories. And we both know how fear and ignorance warps such things so they only hear what I want them to." Hall's hysterical, breath coming out between hiccups and laughter. "They took my sister. Have her. What was I supposed to do? Stand by and let them have her? What's to stop them from doing it again?"
Leaves crunch behind Dean, wet, sloppy snaps of soaked underbrush.
"They've been doing it for centuries. You're not the first one to go after them," John speaks. His voice is closer than before and Dean wants him to get the hell back, to go to the car and wait because no father should have to watch their son kill a man in cold blood even if doing so would save both of them from a life on the run from things that could move without sound or shadow.
And that doesn't even bring into account the fact that they might go after Sam to draw out their true prey.
He turns and opens his mouth, "Dad, go -- "
-- Hall lets out a cry behind him.
In a fit of rage, Hall slams into Dean, sending both men sprawling to the ground. The sudden jolt, combined with Hall's weight settling atop him, sends all the air from Dean's lungs as healing ribs and a wounded side scream in pain. Hands grasp both side of his head and fuck, this feels familiar -- Dean's head is smashed into the mushy ground.
Rain has softened it enough to minimize the impact of the blow, but Hall knows that. Dean braces himself for another blow only to feel Hall pressing his face into the ground -- the moist, damp, suffocating ground.
Head swimming, Dean struggles to free himself from Hall's clutches -- he's better than this, damnit! -- to at least turn his head enough to suck in some air through his nose.
Someone shouts -- Dean can't be sure of anything, not with the sound of his own heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. It echoes through his head, a countdown to inevitability. One of them was always meant to die here, and in hindsight, the possibility it was never Hall is so apparent, it's a wonder it didn't smack Dean on the back of the head.
Hall isn't the human who can see Glamour, Dean is. He's the bigger threat, the cross between fae and human that isn't supposed to exist.
Which begs the question: was the more dangerous man, one who can see the fae, or one who slaughters them?
The pressure on the back of his head lightens just a bit, but it's enough -- Dean turns his head to the side and takes a deep, measured breath. Hall's still straddling his back, and combined with his aching lungs, Dean can only manage shallow gasps -- even when his body, him, yearns for more.
Hall's weight is suddenly removed.
Above, the world plays on. Dean can only hear grunts and that thwack of skin bashing against skin, two boxers facing off above him and he missed the starting bell.
Another moment, and the Queen's words fly through Dean's mind. He can help you find him, but Hall must die by your hand.
Shit.
Dean tells himself to get up, but can only manage to rise to his hands and knees; his head hangs, dizzy, while he regains control over his breathing.
"God damnit, Dad, stop!" Dean shouts. Mud squelches, but there are no more thwacks of bone against flesh. "Just get out of here."
"There's no way I'm leaving you alone with him, Dean," growls John. God, Dean knows that tone, that fiercely protective underbelly to his dad's scratchy voice that comes out when he feels one of his sons is in real, tangible danger.
"You want to mess up my chance of -- " and he stops because Hall is still standing there, panting, off to the right somewhere. Dean pushes himself upright and attempts to match his dad's tone. "Just get out of here, damnit."
"Excuse me?"
Before Dean can respond, there's a scuffle near where Dean approximates Hall stands. Sounds of a struggle. Dean wipes rain from his face; its coming down harder, now, thunder booming over their heads.
"Let go of me, asshole," Hall swears. More struggling. Dean curses his blindness; if he could see, he'd be in the thick of it, pulling them apart. Standing on his own. That his dad needs to restrain and guard Hall is a testament to Dean's new status in the world. A hindrance. Unable to even keep an eye on his prisoner.
A prisoner who's death can end this. Here. Now.
With a flourish developed over years of handling firearms, Dean raises his gun over his head and lets off four shots.
They reverberate through the forest. A bird's wings flap as, scared, it flies off.
"Now that everyone's listening," Dean sneers. He's angry at the situation, angry with himself for not being able to handle it.
"C'mon, man, your daddy wants to help," Hall comments, words thick with malice. "The family that kills together, stays together."
Dean uses Hall's remarks to find him. "Let him go, Dad."
John has always seen his children as just that; children. No matter how old they get, or tall, or tough, they remain small and innocent in his eyes.
But there comes a time in a parent's life when they need to let go of such images -- just let go. Children grow up, with or without their parents' permission, and as Dean stands there, gun held ready, John realizes this is that moment.
He releases his hold on Hall's right arm and takes a few steps back. He wants to shout we can find another way -- his mantra since learning his little boy would have to kill a man -- but holds back. Doing so would only weaken Dean in Hall's eyes, and Dean needs all the help he can get.
For his part, Hall doesn't take off. Simply stands rooted to the spot, creepy smile painted on his face.
"I'll meet you at the car," John finally concedes.
He takes a mental snapshot of Dean before he walks away.
Next time he sees his son, he'll be a different man.
Footsteps echo through the growing storm as a wind blows through the forest as if sweeping the unneeded away. There is little sound other than the pellets of rain falling around them, a symphony of drums beating in time with tardy thunder and the rhythm of Dean's heart. It pulses with the storm, quick and heavy; like the storm, he, too, means to destroy.
But trees will re-grow broken limbs and swollen rivers will recede over time. Gun heavy and slick in his sweaty palm, Dean, too, can benefit from the healing nature of time.
He raises his arm, now as heavy as lead with intent, and listens for the gap between raindrops. It takes a moment, but he finds it; that heavy arm sways to the left. Index finger tightens against the trigger. He can feel the resistance from the spring mechanism and uses it as an excuse for momentary hesitation.
Hall sees the opening and takes it.
Dean can't see, but he can hear. Just a second; he shifts his weight just as Hall smashes into him, managing to stay upright this time. Hall's hands wrap around the gun, one hand committed to yanking Dean's finger from the trigger.
He pulls with such force against the loop -- pulls one way, Dean's finger bending the other -- the snap of breaking bone is drowned out by a crash of thunder. Dean shouts, balling pain and anger into one unintelligible cry and yanks back his hand.
The gun falls to the slick earthen floor.
Both men scramble to retrieve it -- this is the apex, the deciding moment. Whomever grabs it first, wins. No replays or appeals. Finality in a steel bullet.
Dean's fingers graze cold metal only to have it pulled from his grasp. He gropes farther, blindly, heart beating faster than the slowing pitter-patter of rain.
A foot comes up, smashing into Dean's chin. He yelps, falling backward -- another kick connects with his tender ribs.
Hall punctuates his words with vicious jabs. "So high and mighty, thinking you're better than me. You're as guilty as I am."
Below him, Dean coughs and curls into himself, muttering long-forgotten prayers in Latin, not for salvation, but strength. Men of his profession can ask for nothing more, and when Hall relents, Dean mutters grátias ago to whoever was listening.
At a young age, when his father often yelled or got angry at anything, Dean learned to feign perfection. It began with silence, afraid anything he said would upset his dad -- afraid upsetting his dad would make him leave as mom did. Death is incomprehensible to a five year old, and at that time, he wholeheartedly believed it was something he did wrong that made mommy leave.
After silence came obedience. Do whatever dad says and he won't get mad. And after the event with the shtriga, when dad got mad and mooned over Sam even though he was loud and didn't listen, Dean learned to hide everything he felt in a tiny box in the back of his mind. All his dreams and emotions, those words he really wanted to say but was afraid to -- in essence, himself. Locked away where he could forget they even existed.
He reaches in there now, exchanging pain and that deep exhaustion of the soul for everything he's repressed. Lets it loose in one tsunami of resentment and anger that drives him to his feet.
Blinded now not only physically but in heart and mind and soul, Dean lunges forward and knocks Hall from his feet. The gun spirals from Hall's grasp, rainwater bouncing from it in the whick-whack of a sprinkler on a summer lawn. Dean stretches, snatches it from where it landed with a plop in a puddle, the index finger of his left hand curling around the trigger. Once. Twice.
The third shot lingers in the air with the pungent odor of gunpowder.
Dean lets the gun fall from numb fingers after the sounds of Hall's fading life finally reach their end.
Dean falls to his knees, then his side, and clutching his burning torso, weeps.
Chapter 2.9 >>
In honor of that, and crossing 100 reviews on ff.net, here's a present.
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...
Previous Chapters:
Part 1: 1.1 | 1.2 | 1.3 | 1.4 | 1.5 | 1.6
Part 2: 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 2.4 | 2.5 | 2.6 | 2.7
These Crimes of Illusion
Chapter 2.8
They're waiting outside when Al returns in his dark blue pick-up truck, headlights orbs of artificial light in the midday sun. It slides up next to the Impala, black and blue, American classics fighting time, just like the men who drive them. Friends and enemies -- the line's been blurred, here, by magic and blood and ancestors no one knows.
Two men sitting on the edge of the raised walkway, two in the cab of the truck, eyes on eyes, words unneeded. The oncoming storm lingers and grows, the air damp and thick, heat swirling under the cap of deep gray clouds as if the world's anticipating the heaviness of this simple meeting.
The doors to Al's truck don't squeak with age when opened, just sigh and click when closed. No show, no pizzazz or neglected love, just cold, hard metal cared for exactly as the owner's manual says.
Al and his back-up approach; neither Winchester stands when their feet are inches from the newcomers'. John looks up with tired eyes as Dean's remain focused somewhere none of them can see, their mouths twin lines of determination.
"Et tu, Al?" John says after a moment. Lightning crackles in the distance, static electricity building in the atmosphere.
"It's not like that, John," Al replies, voice low. "Stewart's here as back-up. We've gotta take you in until we get to the bottom of this."
Stewart Hall isn't as either imagined. Lydia Hall's descriptions of his degrading mental health and questionable activities following his sister's departure created an image of a younger kid on the wrong side of morality, eyes ablaze with insanity or bloodlust. Loose clothes, dirty shoes and jacket; both painted Hall as poorly as they could, needing him to be sick and deranged, driven by guilt or remorse by his sister's betrayal.
What they're presented with is a man who wouldn't be out of place on the richer streets of any city in America . If he'd lost his mind, he retained his status, dressed in a beige suit and clean-cut. He moves like he's the center of attention, and he is.
"Didn't know they had fae markers on DNA tests," comments Dean. He leans on the pillar marking one side of the porch's entrance, head tilted to skew the way his eyes focus off to the side. The sunglasses have come off for effect, to unnerve Al and Hall -- the blind change expected dynamics.
"C'mon, now. This doesn't have to be hard. Just follow us in your car back to my place."
"As simple as that, huh?" John scoffs. "Follow you back, and then what? Tie us up and try out your new toys?"
Al frowns and shakes his head, makes a good show of sorrow at John's suggestion.
"After all we've been through..." Al starts, but never finishes. John leaps up from his seat on the motel's porch and, palms out, shoves Al back until he hits the hood of his truck, light from the left headlight displaced in odd shapes from the edges of the shadows in front of it.
"All we've been through. That's bullshit. If any of that meant a flying fuck to you, you wouldn't have left me and my son wounded and gone off to get fucking backup!" John roars, alcohol-burned voice rough with anger. Shoves Al again; this time, Al pushes back.
"Who the hell are you to say anything to me, huh? Wasn't it you who warned me about Regina and her kind? Can't take them words back because you decided to do some genealogy, Winchester ," he shouts at equal volume. "And not that it means a hoot of difference, but Stewart called me. Heard you were looking after him."
Dean straightens a bit; a tingling in the back of his mind acting as a warning.
John turns to Hall. "That true?"
"Al, will you give us a minute?" Hall asks. He speaks slowly, with well-formed, enunciated words. Higher education -- intelligence and insanity is a dangerous mix.
"A minute? You don't even -- "
It happens fast, as such things do. Hall slides a hand from his pocket, whirls around, and shoots Al. Once, twice. Al's body hits the hood with a dull thud, blood spraying onto John's face and clothes. He reacts before Al hits the ground, pulling out his own weapon and whirling to point it at Hall --
"Don't," Hall warns. Gun trained on Dean, now standing with a hand on the pillar for support.
"Fuck, Dad, you alright?" Dean asks.
"Your father's fine," Hall answers for John with a smirk. "Now, Dean Winchester, you're going to answer my questions. Such as why the Seelie Queen sent a blind man to kill me?"
Hall said, "Let's go for a walk," so John Winchester did. The weapon pointed at his son's a strong motivator for him, and he listens to that over instinct shouting for him to take Hall down. A booted foot to the knee, arm around the neck, palm up into the nose -- once, twice, three times and Hall wouldn't be a problem anymore. But Hall has him in the lead where he can't see Dean, can't do anything that Hall wouldn't see coming.
The Queen's words were clear -- killing Hall at this point would completely take away any chance of Dean regaining his sight, of having even this pale imitation of a normal life. Both Queens would hunt Dean until his blood was on their hands, joined together by a common enemy. Either Dean gained the upper hand, or he was dead; by Hall's hand now or the Faes' later.
And there's not a fucking thing he can do about it.
Just as children experience a new, helpless awakening when reaching those bubble-bursting years of adolescence, parents experience the same when they finally realize their children can no longer be protected by their arms. All boo-boos can't be kissed away, mean kids stopped by a simple phone call. Storms come and they have to brave it out on their own. John feels that now, even though his children have been in life and death situations many times before. Because before, he's jumped into the line of fire, has spoken when it's required, locked them in rooms and told them to stay put.
He can't do any of that, now.
Their footsteps sound in time with the light drizzle that's started falling, a misting of cleansing rain the ground sourly needs. Like the high notes of a playful piccolo, the drizzle dances over the hood of Al's truck and the Impala's roof, then drops off onto the pavement.
Hall directs John farther into the woods, a hand gripping Dean's upper arm, keeping him close to the gun pointed at his head. The forest is far, but this part of the state's densely forested; a small, private wood sits adjacent to the motel's patch of land, and Hall heads in that direction with a long, confident stride.
When they pass between the outer-most trees, he begins to ask his questions.
"What did she offer you in exchange for my life?" Hall chooses as his first, still walking. Branches lay low on these younger trees, revealing the age of the forest; no Fae in a place so young, through it has enough years to shade them as shadows and keep their dealings secret.
Dean stumbles over exposed roots, branches he can't see slashing at his face, but he doesn't utter a word.
Hall forces them deeper, farther from prying eyes and the body of Al, deeper to where the storm grows in the distance, but is unable to break through the canopy, not yet. Thunder claps, followed by another thunk of force; this one from Hall hitting the gun against the side of Dean's head.
"Answer me," Hall demands.
"Screw you," Dean shoots back. "I'm not playing 20 questions."
"You're going to die in this place," Hall says, moving to swat Dean again, but the prisoner easily ducks out of the way.
"One of us is," Dean smirks, "But I wouldn't be so sure it's me. I've got stuff to do."
"Like what? Steal? Cheat people out of their money? You're a drain on society -- "
"Whatever, man. If you've gotta ride that high horse of yours, go right ahead."
"I've got a question for you," John calls from up ahead, turning slightly to face Hall and Dean. "Why'd you shoot your partner? Wouldn't it be easier to take us down with help?
Hall stops. "Al wasn't my partner, just means to an end."
"Why, you -- "
But John doesn't get the chance to finish. The gun in Hall's hand goes off, shot by Dean as he grapples for it, relying on sound and touch to guide his movements. Another shot, and John leaps into the fray, pulling at Hall to give Dean the chance to get the gun.
He may not be able to kill Hall, but he sure as hell can help restrain him. He can do that much.
So he does.
Stewart Hall lands on his knees with a squish of wet Earth as it gives beneath his weight. Hands loop behind his head before the request is given -- there is no pretense; all here know what will happen. Hall laces his fingers together and raises his head against the onslaught of rain.
Thunder booms in the distance.
The storm has been brewing for some time, now, gathering strength as it crosses the Pennsylvanian landscape to settle just over them. Raindrops fall like pellets; large, moist tears of the sky.
"Just give me the chance to explain," Hall pleads, voice wavering now that the tables have turned. John and Dean stand above him, guns poised and ready. "You can't take their side over me. That's crazy!"
"What's crazy is you thinking killing innocent creatures is okay because they're not human," Dean retorts sharply, voice laced with distain. "That's just murder, man."
"And this isn't?"
"I haven't done anything, yet."
Hall closes his eyes and tilts his head to kiss the sky. Dean's ultimatum hangs in the humid air, heavy and finite. After all those years of believing he was doing good by the world, ridding it of evil, it comes to this. There is no gray here -- the hunter inevitably becomes that which he hunts.
"Please. They took my sister. Lured her away from us and convinced her she didn't want to return," Hall says. The pain is still fresh in his eyes; his voice breaks out of sorrow, not fear.
"So? You go after the son of a bitch who took her. You don't go out and kill everything," Dean offers. His grip on the gun tightens and he uses Hall's voice to adjust the trajectory, to point it directly at the kneeling man.
"What about you?" Hall bravely counters. "Everyone knows the story of the Mighty Winchesters. Demon killed your mom so you start a crusade against the supernatural."
Dean doesn't falter. "We hunt things that hurt people, not flower power faeries."
"They all will hurt someone eventually," offers Hall.
"Fine. When they do, we'll get ‘em. But not before."
"And if they knew something? Could tell you where and how to kill that demon? What then?"
Here, Dean takes pause and glances over his shoulder to where he thinks John's standing, brow creased with thought.
John knows what he's thinking. How many times over the years has he proclaimed he'd do whatever it takes to find and kill the demon that took Mary's life? His research has taken over his life, blinded him to problems at hand; if only he'd focused on the hunt in front of him, the son in front of him, all this could have been avoided.
How ironic, he thinks, that at the moment he decides to step in, all he can do is sit back and watch?
Dean rules his life with lines. Straight, defined lines that leave no room for shades of gray. The world, people, things, are either good or bad. They leave no room for compromise or exceptions to the rule, just clear divisions with populations on either side.
When it comes to his family, there is no line -- to him, there is no question of morality or rightness where his family's safety is concerned. Asked to walk into hell itself and he gladly would if it meant giving them even one more day of life.
Hall's argument appeals to this part of Dean, locked away deep inside where monsters lurk. Replace Hall's sister with Sam, and Dean finds himself wondering if he, too, would cross that line between killing creatures that harm and those who live good lives.
Replace Hall's sister with Mary, and would his dad?
Dean turns to his father for just a second, more out of habit than the need to see him.
To save either of them, he'd happily trample everything underfoot, wouldn't he?
Or is that untarnished part of his soul, of those he'd sacrifice for, worth taking the long road? Hell, his life has been nothing but a never-ending quest to find his mother's killer, and while he's broken a lot of laws on the way, Dean's sure he can say he's fought mostly on the side of good and never crossed that line between hunter and monster.
"There's a right way," Dean finally says, "and the fast way. Tell me something; if you got your sister back right here and now, would you be able to live with all the good things you've killed? Would she?"
"I could die happy, knowing she was safe."
"Let me put it this way, then. How would she feel, knowing all those things died for her?" When Hall doesn't answer, Dean lets out a chuckle. "Pansy-ass amateur."
"Fuck you," Hall spits. "Who made you judge and jury?"
"You did, when I got fucking tortured and blinded because of your crimes. Before this, I was just minding my own business on my way to kill a banshee ‘cause people are too stupid to know when to close their doors."
"How pretentious. Sorry my search for my sister got in the way of your killing spree."
"Asshole. Tease the guy with the gun. You're just as stupid as the rest of them."
Hall laughs. "We both know you won't do it. You'd rather be blind than a murderer."
"I'd be doing the world a favor by killing you."
"They're all evil. Tricksters. Just because they haven't harmed anyone doesn't mean they deserve to exist."
"Whoa, now. Deserve to exist? Who made you God?"
Hall doesn't acknowledge the interruption. "I knew when they took my sister they were freaks. They belong in fairy tales, not roaming around where they can do what they want. The police aren't going to investigate. They won't charge anyone. Where's my justice?"
"What, you're a vigilante now? The law doesn't do what you want so you take it into your own hands?"
"What law?" Hall half-sobs, half-laughs. "We need to show these creatures they're accountable. You mess with a human and we're going to strike back."
"Collateral damage," Dean breathes. Fuck, this guy's gone way over the deep end.
"Governments do it all the time."
"Yeah, against enemies. You just don't discriminate between those that might have taken your sister and innocents who happen to be the same species. That's not hunting, that's genocide."
"Why stop with the Fae?" Hall continues, deep into hysterics. "Kill ‘em all. They don't deserve to live. This is a world of humans."
"Fuck...," says Dean. "Do you even hear yourself?"
"At least I didn't turn into a freak like you," Hall says slowly, drawing out the word freak as long as his New England accent will allow. "Look at you, hell, even if you were going to kill me, you can't see where to aim the gun!"
Dean hears him shift on the ground and compensates accordingly, gun cutting through the air. Raindrops bounce off the slick black metal, falling around the weapon to create a void in space.
"How'd you do it?" Dean asks. "How'd you make them think you had the Sight?"
"I killed one for a supply of faerie juice. They only had rumors, stories. And we both know how fear and ignorance warps such things so they only hear what I want them to." Hall's hysterical, breath coming out between hiccups and laughter. "They took my sister. Have her. What was I supposed to do? Stand by and let them have her? What's to stop them from doing it again?"
Leaves crunch behind Dean, wet, sloppy snaps of soaked underbrush.
"They've been doing it for centuries. You're not the first one to go after them," John speaks. His voice is closer than before and Dean wants him to get the hell back, to go to the car and wait because no father should have to watch their son kill a man in cold blood even if doing so would save both of them from a life on the run from things that could move without sound or shadow.
And that doesn't even bring into account the fact that they might go after Sam to draw out their true prey.
He turns and opens his mouth, "Dad, go -- "
-- Hall lets out a cry behind him.
In a fit of rage, Hall slams into Dean, sending both men sprawling to the ground. The sudden jolt, combined with Hall's weight settling atop him, sends all the air from Dean's lungs as healing ribs and a wounded side scream in pain. Hands grasp both side of his head and fuck, this feels familiar -- Dean's head is smashed into the mushy ground.
Rain has softened it enough to minimize the impact of the blow, but Hall knows that. Dean braces himself for another blow only to feel Hall pressing his face into the ground -- the moist, damp, suffocating ground.
Head swimming, Dean struggles to free himself from Hall's clutches -- he's better than this, damnit! -- to at least turn his head enough to suck in some air through his nose.
Someone shouts -- Dean can't be sure of anything, not with the sound of his own heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. It echoes through his head, a countdown to inevitability. One of them was always meant to die here, and in hindsight, the possibility it was never Hall is so apparent, it's a wonder it didn't smack Dean on the back of the head.
Hall isn't the human who can see Glamour, Dean is. He's the bigger threat, the cross between fae and human that isn't supposed to exist.
Which begs the question: was the more dangerous man, one who can see the fae, or one who slaughters them?
The pressure on the back of his head lightens just a bit, but it's enough -- Dean turns his head to the side and takes a deep, measured breath. Hall's still straddling his back, and combined with his aching lungs, Dean can only manage shallow gasps -- even when his body, him, yearns for more.
Hall's weight is suddenly removed.
Above, the world plays on. Dean can only hear grunts and that thwack of skin bashing against skin, two boxers facing off above him and he missed the starting bell.
Another moment, and the Queen's words fly through Dean's mind. He can help you find him, but Hall must die by your hand.
Shit.
Dean tells himself to get up, but can only manage to rise to his hands and knees; his head hangs, dizzy, while he regains control over his breathing.
"God damnit, Dad, stop!" Dean shouts. Mud squelches, but there are no more thwacks of bone against flesh. "Just get out of here."
"There's no way I'm leaving you alone with him, Dean," growls John. God, Dean knows that tone, that fiercely protective underbelly to his dad's scratchy voice that comes out when he feels one of his sons is in real, tangible danger.
"You want to mess up my chance of -- " and he stops because Hall is still standing there, panting, off to the right somewhere. Dean pushes himself upright and attempts to match his dad's tone. "Just get out of here, damnit."
"Excuse me?"
Before Dean can respond, there's a scuffle near where Dean approximates Hall stands. Sounds of a struggle. Dean wipes rain from his face; its coming down harder, now, thunder booming over their heads.
"Let go of me, asshole," Hall swears. More struggling. Dean curses his blindness; if he could see, he'd be in the thick of it, pulling them apart. Standing on his own. That his dad needs to restrain and guard Hall is a testament to Dean's new status in the world. A hindrance. Unable to even keep an eye on his prisoner.
A prisoner who's death can end this. Here. Now.
With a flourish developed over years of handling firearms, Dean raises his gun over his head and lets off four shots.
They reverberate through the forest. A bird's wings flap as, scared, it flies off.
"Now that everyone's listening," Dean sneers. He's angry at the situation, angry with himself for not being able to handle it.
"C'mon, man, your daddy wants to help," Hall comments, words thick with malice. "The family that kills together, stays together."
Dean uses Hall's remarks to find him. "Let him go, Dad."
John has always seen his children as just that; children. No matter how old they get, or tall, or tough, they remain small and innocent in his eyes.
But there comes a time in a parent's life when they need to let go of such images -- just let go. Children grow up, with or without their parents' permission, and as Dean stands there, gun held ready, John realizes this is that moment.
He releases his hold on Hall's right arm and takes a few steps back. He wants to shout we can find another way -- his mantra since learning his little boy would have to kill a man -- but holds back. Doing so would only weaken Dean in Hall's eyes, and Dean needs all the help he can get.
For his part, Hall doesn't take off. Simply stands rooted to the spot, creepy smile painted on his face.
"I'll meet you at the car," John finally concedes.
He takes a mental snapshot of Dean before he walks away.
Next time he sees his son, he'll be a different man.
Footsteps echo through the growing storm as a wind blows through the forest as if sweeping the unneeded away. There is little sound other than the pellets of rain falling around them, a symphony of drums beating in time with tardy thunder and the rhythm of Dean's heart. It pulses with the storm, quick and heavy; like the storm, he, too, means to destroy.
But trees will re-grow broken limbs and swollen rivers will recede over time. Gun heavy and slick in his sweaty palm, Dean, too, can benefit from the healing nature of time.
He raises his arm, now as heavy as lead with intent, and listens for the gap between raindrops. It takes a moment, but he finds it; that heavy arm sways to the left. Index finger tightens against the trigger. He can feel the resistance from the spring mechanism and uses it as an excuse for momentary hesitation.
Hall sees the opening and takes it.
Dean can't see, but he can hear. Just a second; he shifts his weight just as Hall smashes into him, managing to stay upright this time. Hall's hands wrap around the gun, one hand committed to yanking Dean's finger from the trigger.
He pulls with such force against the loop -- pulls one way, Dean's finger bending the other -- the snap of breaking bone is drowned out by a crash of thunder. Dean shouts, balling pain and anger into one unintelligible cry and yanks back his hand.
The gun falls to the slick earthen floor.
Both men scramble to retrieve it -- this is the apex, the deciding moment. Whomever grabs it first, wins. No replays or appeals. Finality in a steel bullet.
Dean's fingers graze cold metal only to have it pulled from his grasp. He gropes farther, blindly, heart beating faster than the slowing pitter-patter of rain.
A foot comes up, smashing into Dean's chin. He yelps, falling backward -- another kick connects with his tender ribs.
Hall punctuates his words with vicious jabs. "So high and mighty, thinking you're better than me. You're as guilty as I am."
Below him, Dean coughs and curls into himself, muttering long-forgotten prayers in Latin, not for salvation, but strength. Men of his profession can ask for nothing more, and when Hall relents, Dean mutters grátias ago to whoever was listening.
At a young age, when his father often yelled or got angry at anything, Dean learned to feign perfection. It began with silence, afraid anything he said would upset his dad -- afraid upsetting his dad would make him leave as mom did. Death is incomprehensible to a five year old, and at that time, he wholeheartedly believed it was something he did wrong that made mommy leave.
After silence came obedience. Do whatever dad says and he won't get mad. And after the event with the shtriga, when dad got mad and mooned over Sam even though he was loud and didn't listen, Dean learned to hide everything he felt in a tiny box in the back of his mind. All his dreams and emotions, those words he really wanted to say but was afraid to -- in essence, himself. Locked away where he could forget they even existed.
He reaches in there now, exchanging pain and that deep exhaustion of the soul for everything he's repressed. Lets it loose in one tsunami of resentment and anger that drives him to his feet.
Blinded now not only physically but in heart and mind and soul, Dean lunges forward and knocks Hall from his feet. The gun spirals from Hall's grasp, rainwater bouncing from it in the whick-whack of a sprinkler on a summer lawn. Dean stretches, snatches it from where it landed with a plop in a puddle, the index finger of his left hand curling around the trigger. Once. Twice.
The third shot lingers in the air with the pungent odor of gunpowder.
Dean lets the gun fall from numb fingers after the sounds of Hall's fading life finally reach their end.
Dean falls to his knees, then his side, and clutching his burning torso, weeps.
Chapter 2.9 >>