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Dean squatted down on the dune, the sunbaked sand near-scalding against his bare flesh. He hugged his knees up to his chest as he stared out into the blue, crystal clear waves that crashed endlessly against the shore, the sound almost enough to drown out the distant endless squawking of the parakeets in the jungle behind him. The distant line between endless deep water and the pale, washed-out blue of the sky wavered until he could barely tell one from the other yet alone where they divided.
Wasn't there a story about creating all this? he mused, as the fleeting memory of an ancient tale slid tantalizingly off the tip of his mental tongue. It was something told to him in an age long ago, in a place far away, by a man whose face and name were equally long forgotten. Something about a firmament?
He knew intellectually what a beginning was, but it occurred to him that everything around him, everything he knew, had always been as it was right now: stable, safe, unchanging, boring.
But... that meant there couldn't possibly have been such a time, place, or man, let alone a story.
He must have imagined it.
Needing sudden reassurance, he used one hand to steady the wreath of flowers around his head that kept the worst of the constant glare out of his eyes, and he tilted his head back to squint up at the sun.
As expected, that ever-present ball of flame was in its place high in that firmament. So why did he have the strangest feeling that it might somehow move, let alone occasionally be absent? He sighed. It was just another sign of his strangeness. A deep-rooted otherness that Father couldn't, or wouldn't, explain. It, therefore, remained for Dean to root out and exorcise this, this.... darkness. And there, lo and behold, another nonsensical idea.
I will do better. He sat like a silent sentinel staring at the horizon. He blinked away tears as his traitorous mind whispered that he might see some distant speck approach. A ship. What madness had made his mind conjure forth such a ridiculous notion, or think that there was somehow more to the world? What more could there be?
I can be good. He just needed to stay positive and submit to the endless solar powerhouse above. The fierce heat radiating down on his body felt good, as it should. Yet, his skin still reddened and tightened in rebellion, even more freckles blooming into life under what should have been no more than a loving caress. Yet another oddity in the enigma that was his life, but it was at least something that could be endured.
"I thought I would find you here." The deep, authoritative, yet kind voice was both disturbingly new and comfortingly familiar.
Dean started awake, only realizing in that moment that he'd been lost in the depths of a deep trance.
"Father, you startled me," Dean spoke in shamefaced greeting, feeling the disgrace of the words as they stumbled their way through a dry, parched throat and equally heat-cracked lips.
Father gave Dean a long considering look. You could almost see his mental gears turning as if considering and discarding what to say. At last, he spoke. "You know, there's no shame in needing help, only being too afraid to ask for it."
"I'm not scared," replied Dean, his anger hot and instinctive, although long exposure to Father's teachings meant it fizzled out before it had a chance to go anywhere. "It's just that sometimes, I think there's something wrong with me - like I don't have a soul or something," Dean muttered. He was lying; there was no 'sometimes' about it.
"You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body," sighed Father. It was a good-natured sigh, not one of irritation despite Dean's stubbornness and inability to accept the words. Even in this, Father can do no wrong, thought Dean. He is truly a saint among sinners.
"We've been through this before, and I daresay we'll go through it again, but one day I will get you believing it."
"One day," repeated Dean, not believing the words any more than he truly comprehended what a so-called 'day' was.
"If you could only let go of what is holding you back," said Father in a gentle, chiding tone.
Dean followed the man's gaze to the gold-colored amulet that hung on a leather cord around Dean's neck. Dean had been gently cradling the strange horn-headed totem in one hand against his chest without even realizing it. With a guilty start, he made a concerted effort to keep his hands away, but he couldn't bring himself to relinquish the adornment. It meant the world to him.
If he could only understand why.
Sam, thought Dean, having sat for hours in the dark outside the motel, repeating the name to himself over and over like some kind of encapsulated prayer. Just one short word, and yet it described the entirety of Dean's miserable existence. It was amazing how just three letters in a specific order could take him through a range of emotion from shock and denial, through raging anger, failed attempts at bargaining, until nose-diving into deepest depression. Nah, it was okay, really. He just felt... numb. He was almost grateful for his inability to feel anything. Almost. Apparently, there was still acceptance to come, but he didn't hold out much hope for that.
Sam had gone to Stanford.
Sam had left him and with him had taken, no stolen, Dean's sole purpose in life.
Well, that wasn't strictly true. His father had long since come to rely on a blindly obedient soldier that could, without question, always be counted on. What a shame the reverse wasn't true.
But then, your commanding officer shouldn't expect you to have feelings. Those were supposed to have been drilled out of him years ago. A C.O. certainly couldn't be expected to wait around for some grunt to get over moping about like some angst-ridden teenager.
But Dean had dared to feel abandoned and, as unbelievable and unforgivable as it might seem now, had also gone AWOL. To be honest, Dean wasn't really sure where he'd gone or for how long. The whole experience had been a blur. He was sure it hadn't been that long, a couple of hours, maybe, an afternoon, or a night at the most.
It wasn't until he'd returned to the motel that he'd realized quite how lost and alone he was. His dad had checked out and moved on without him. Even worse, the black and chrome beauty that for most of his life he'd called home was no longer parked patiently in the car lot.
That's when he'd truly wandered the streets in a daze, at one point even becoming confused into thinking he was searching for his missing brother who wasn't even lost.
He was the one who was lost.
Dean had nothing to his name but a handful of loose change and the clothes on his back.
He'd tried to hustle pool as it had always worked well for him in the past. This time it was a freakin' disaster, he thought, ducking his head in shame. Maybe the drunk act didn't come off as well as it usually did, or maybe his game was severely sub-par. Not having the cash to pay off the huge debt he'd rapidly accumulated didn't help.
"I'm normally much better at this. I'm just having a bad day, a really bad week," he'd joked between the punches and kicks that had rained down on him.
Badly beaten, he'd limped away with no solution other than to sleep on the streets, finding brief respite on a bench. He'd moved from there to a dingy alleyway when he saw the police approach. The last thing he needed was getting arrested for vagrancy and someone questioning his, frankly, very questionable background.
He fought against sleep, knowing that being alone and vulnerable, and given the nature of his injuries, it was a terrible idea. He was completely rock bottom, betrayed and abandoned by everyone he knew. He thought briefly about contacting Pastor Jim, Bobby, or Caleb, but he just couldn't face the shame of having to explain it.
"It's a test," he told himself. He just had to prove to his dad that he could make it on his own, that he was worthy, and he'd be taken back. If it wasn't so damn cold... Too cold. He knew from long drills from his father that, whatever happens, he mustn't fall asleep...
He half-woke in the depths of night, frozen in place, too cold to even shiver. There was a dark figure standing over him, struggling to wrap him in a blanket. Overcome with a weird flush of burning heat throughout his body, Dean fought off the attempt at covering with one hand while trying to loosen his own clothing with the other.
"Easy there, son," said the deep voice in the easy, gruff tone of a man used to being listened to.
Dean came to an instinctive halt and peered up at the man. "Dad?"
"No, son."
Exhausted and feverish, Dean slipped in and out of consciousness.
He was barely aware of his surroundings but coherent enough to realize he was lying on a gurney, now inside, somewhere that was still chilly but practically roasting compared to the temperature outside. He had an impression of rough slab concrete walls, the sense that perhaps he was underground. It certainly didn't look like a hospital, he thought with a sick feeling that twisted in his gut. There was more than one type of monster that hunted the streets.
That feeling of dread only increased as he recognized the likely cause and severity of the tingling that started in his hands and feet now that he was out of the worst of the cold. Before he could process these thoughts, there were hands on his flesh that moved him around in a cold, business-like manner, pushing at his body and pulling at his clothes. He struggled at their touch, slapping the hands away from him, trying to fight them. More hands appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to hold him down.
His vision swam, too blurred to make out the numbers of faces that gazed down at him from above, let alone their expressions. It was impossible to judge the intentions of the hazy figures and strange glowing lights that surrounded him. Perhaps they were trying to help? Why then did their presence feel so overwhelming? He choked back a sob, he was just so weak and tired, and it all felt too much. He just wanted to sleep so desperately much that it literally hurt. He didn't even know why he was fighting them. Just make it stop, just let me slip quietly away forever, he begged silently.
An indistinct figure leaned in and cupped Dean's face in its hands. "No," it said in a low, forceful voice.
Dean hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud, but he did recognize the familiar needle sting in one arm. Why even lie to me? What a bag of dicks. As a fog of darkness descended, he wondered if he'd ever even awake. If not, then he was at least comforted that those were pretty awesome last words.
When he awoke, it was to a jungle's heat and noises. In the near distance, parakeets whistled and hooted, and animals chittered. And what was that, the sound of waves on a beach?
He was lying on a simple sleeping pallet, the surroundings all made of woven palm leaves. To his embarrassment, he found himself naked but for a loincloth. He was relieved to find he was still wearing the amulet; he put his hand around it and held on to it tight.
"Am I dead?" he wondered.
"Do you feel dead?" asked a deep, man's voice in an amused tone. "I don't know about you, but I've never felt more alive."
Dean turned to regard the man standing, watching him back from the open doorway. He was a short, rotund fellow with a kind face, dressed in matching khaki shirts and long-shorts and looking for all the world like some kind of 19th Century explorer.
"When I found you, you were in a bad way. I couldn't just leave you, but I was needed back here. The hospitals wouldn't take you, something about invalid insurance."
Dean grimaced. His time as Mr. Taro Yamada was clearly up, and he resolved to steal a new identity at the first opportunity.
"Who are you?" asked Dean.
"You may call me Father."
"You're a priest?" Dean made it sound more like a statement.
"Of a type, I suppose, yes."
Dean frowned at that. There was clearly more to that ambiguous statement. He knew all about lies of omission, but there were more important issues at hand.
"Where are my clothes?" he blurted.
"They were ruined beyond repair, I'm afraid, but... look around, you don't need clothes here."
Dean felt his cheeks flush. He hated being embarrassed, hated how he couldn't control it and how vulnerable it made him feel. "I can't walk around naked."
Father licked his lips as he looked at Dean as if considering his next words carefully. "We are all God's children here. You walk in Eden. Those here have no need for clothes; all are naked under His gaze."
Dean was about to point out that Father was fully dressed but paused. It seemed a rude thing to do. He guessed it would be inappropriate, and he was prepared to bide his time, but, at the last minute, he decided he couldn't leave it unsaid. "You're still wearing something," he muttered.
Father gestured to himself with a rueful smile. "It's a symbol that my place is not truly here. You have no need of such things. Here, you are free."
"Hence the lack of clothing..." said Dean dryly, shifting his position slightly. He reckoned he could knock this so-called 'Father' out cold and be through the door before the old man even hit the floor.
"You're catching on quickly. I knew when I saw you, you were right for us," said Father with a knowing smile, and Dean had the strangest feeling the man knew what he'd been thinking.
Dean raised an eyebrow at that.
Father made a sign of benediction and laid his outstretched fingers on Dean's forehead. "Forget all your worries and, for a while, know just joy."
"Dean," called Father. "Peace be upon you. You are well?"
Dean waved, wiped the worst of the raspberry juice from around his mouth, and ran the short distance from the fields he'd been tending. He gave Father a fond embrace.
"I've never been happier."
Father couldn't miss the slight wrinkle in the young man's forehead, nor the way Dean's hand strayed unconsciously to clench itself about the amulet that hung around his neck.
"Yet, I feel like I should be somewhere else... doing... something," Dean fretted.
"Still staring out to sea?" Father guessed.
Dean nodded. He decided not to mention the time he'd decided to swim out into it only to awaken battered and salt-encrusted on the shore with no memory of how he'd avoided drowning.
"Forget such thoughts" scolded Father. "For now: eat, drink, relax. Lie with the women in the village, if that is your wish; they all look upon you fondly."
Dean crinkled his nose at that, wincing at the tiny stab of discomfort that elicited from his sunburnt skin.
"You don't enjoy the company of women?" asked Father in a teasing tone.
Dean blushed at that since Father must surely know that the reverse was true.
"It's not that..." he shrugged, even as he struggled to find the right words. "It's just that sometimes, afterward, they don't seem... real?"
"In what way?" asked Father in an odd, bland voice.
Dean knew that tone. He didn't know how, but he had the strongest, strangest sense that Father didn't want to tip his hand after being caught out in a lie.
"They all seem too nice," muttered Dean, puzzled and confused by his own thoughts. "No one's that nice! Well, certainly not to me," his forehead crinkled until a dismayed expression took hold over his features.
"Are they following orders?" Dean gasped, looking sickened at the idea.
"No," replied Father quickly.
Too quickly? Dean narrowed his eyes, not quite believing the denial. "I just can't believe anyone would want to stay with me. I'm not like everyone else here. I don't belong."
"Well, I say that you do," said Father insistently. He paused for a beat, considering his words. "Sometimes, later in our life, we might be called to a... higher purpose. Or you might find yourself in trying times. It can help to know that part of you is always here," he added, tapping Dean gently on his chest in the area just over his heart.
He gestured to the ever-present sun above them. "It sees us, it knows us, and it's always there. You just have to accept it shining down on you and let the power of its light drive out the shadows in your soul."
Dean gave a desultory nod.
Father sighed. "Just try to bear it in mind for the future."
"I hear that you now share your hut with Jannah," said Father, once Dean released him from his enthusiastic hug of greeting.
"Yeah, well, not that surprising given that after your last visit, most of the village apparently up sticks and went with you without so much as a goodbye. We were bound to spend more time together," scoffed Dean. He frowned. "Where did they all go, anyway? Where do you go? Is that why there are no men here?"
"You're here," smiled Father, ignoring the barrage of questions. He leaned forward and laid a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. "I don't want you to worry about it."
Dean blinked rapidly as if losing his train of thought. "Yeah, Jannah's great," he nodded, giving a shy, happy smile. "We don't always agree on things, and I guess, somehow, that... she... seems... familiar to me."
"In that case, I'm glad you've found someone who complements you," said Father, seeming pleased with himself.
"I wondered," asked Dean haltingly, his hand for once straying from the amulet and instead hovering beside his head, not quite touching the crown of flowers. "About this. It feels like I've always worn it, but it seems odd... Weird. It's always fresh, and it's like I can't bring myself to remove it."
"And why would you want to?" asked Father, barely avoiding gritting his teeth while clearly trying to disguise his despair with Dean. "Crowned with love, with dignity, with nature in all its glory. It reminds us who we aim to be, who we truly are – children of a pure, better world."
"You're not wearing one," said Dean.
Father smiled indulgently and bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Mine is a guiding hand, not a ruling one. I merely live to serve."
"And do I need guiding, then?" asked Dean in barely more than a whisper, his eyes fearful. His throat felt tight as he struggled to articulate the terrible fear that had been taking root within him. "Am I some monster, trapped here, the only pale thing here that burns in the Sun?"
Father's lips pursued in anger. "In this world, there's no such thing as monsters," he said quickly and firmly. "The only evil is the pain and fear that you seemed determined to hold onto. Let go of that, and when your soul is pure, the Sun will no longer burn you."
"Well, you've obviously never met someone with my complexion," joked Dean, releasing a long shaky breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I think I'm burning a bit more every time you just say the word 'Sun'."
Father took Dean's face in his hand, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing across Dean's lips to still his words.
"You don't think you're worthy of saving, do you?"
Dean snorted, gently but firmly moving his head back and away. "I'm sure you won't be the last to say that."
There was a man in the village. Dean was coming back from bathing in a nearby stream when he spied him. A middle-aged man with a sour expression, his skin as pale as Dean's, and dressed in strange clothes, talking to Father.
Some instinct stopped Dean in his tracks, and he slowed, moving silently and unseen so that he could hear their conversation.
"How much longer are you going to keep him lolling about on the greensward, fucking houris when he's not even earned it yet?" grumbled the man. "There's work to be done."
"Just a little longer, please," begged Father.
Dean didn't understand their words, but it burned him to see Father like that. He felt an instant, instinctive loathing towards the new man.
"What's the point? This... it's like pearls before swine."
"How dare you," thundered Father, full of righteous anger. "Get out."
The unpleasant man snorted, unperturbed by Father's temper. "Don't make the mistake of believing your own propaganda. Keep a tool clean and sharp by all means, but in the end, it's still just a tool."
The man disappeared in front of Dean's very eyes. One moment he was there, the next Dean blinked, and the man was gone. All pretense of hiding forgotten, he ran at full pelt towards Father, who seemed resigned but unsurprised to see him.
"Who was that?" gasped Dean, wide-eyed in shock.
"A most unpleasant individual," Father sighed. "But, unfortunately, he has a point: we do all have a role to play, no matter how much we may balk at it. I suppose even a stopped clock is correct twice a day,"
"What's a clock?" snorted Dean.
Father shook his head. "You're a good man, Dean. I need you to always remember that. I wish I could stop you from martyring yourself on the dark altar of your future, but who am I to stop you from one day becoming the righteous man we all know you could be?"
"So you have been keeping me here," said Dean, his voice cold.
Father nodded silently, though his eyes seemed to bore into Dean's own as if to beg for understanding.
"So, all this," seethed Dean, gesturing to their surroundings. "It's all some elaborate prison to punish me for something?"
Father barked a laugh, albeit one that was devoid of humor. "Oh Dean, that's the furthest from the truth. This is your taste of Paradise. We were worried that..." He sighed and shook his head. "It's all been to help see you through the tough times to come."
"Ah." Dean looked around at the beauty of his surroundings with new eyes. "I guess those are gonna be pretty tough then, huh?"
Father's face changed to the most severe expression that Dean had ever seen. "Do you really want me to answer that?"
Despite the usual heat and humidity, a cold chill trickled its way along Dean's spine, and he could feel every hair on his body stand to attention.
"Nah, I reckon it's probably best not to know," stammered Dean.
Father gave an approving nod. "So, are you ready?"
"N-now?" asked Dean with a stricken expression.
"Is there any reason to delay?"
"What-what about Jannah? Can I at least tell her I'm going?" Now more than ever, he just wanted to lose himself in the calm, loving acceptance of her dark, wide-eyed gaze, to run his hands in the throes of passion through her tightly curled hair.
"Even if she were real, she'd still be here for your return without even realizing you were gone. She, like this place and everything in it, is just an illusion - a foretaste of what eventually awaits you."
Dean blinked and took a shaky breath at that shocking revelation. After a moment, he nodded. "Then I guess I'm ready."
"In that case, just take off the crown."
Dean couldn't see or hear, but he could feel a stranger's grip on his body.
Not again! Why can't people just keep their hands to themselves?
There was a weird sensation as something heavy was lifted away from his head and ears, and it was like a dreary, less vivid version of his sight and hearing was returned to him.
"Hey buddy, you're safe now. We're the police," called an encouraging voice.
"Police?" Dean mumbled with a guarded tone, as even sleepy instincts warned him to take care.
"Yeah, we've been tracking some madman who's been kidnapping and hypnotizing homeless folks before doing God knows what to them. Looks like we got to you just in time. Come on; let's get you out of the rest of this thing."
Dean looked around at the mess of wires that strapped him to the chair bolted to the floor, fixed in place in front of three huge screens that displayed a hypnotic, continuously moving, random, green pattern. The large headset that lay discarded to one side still filled the air with the faint, tinny noise of a jungle soundscape.
On the other side lay the slumped, dead body of his apparent kidnapper. It wasn't anyone he recognized.
An idea occurred to him. It was risky and could potentially get his father in a lot of trouble. Still, sometimes he suspected that was John Winchester's middle name.
"Officer, do you think you could run a license plate check for me?"
Seeing the Impala was like coming home, even in the less than salubrious environment of the local PD car lockup. He wondered fleetingly if it was possible to die from extreme relief.
"Oh, Baby. I missed you so," he crooned while carefully looking over the car to ensure she wasn't damaged in any way. He grimaced as he made a mental note of a couple of potential rust spots he'd need to touch up at the first opportunity. "Even when I didn't remember you," he added apologetically
His Dad and Sam were out there. Family belonged together. Although, he wondered how he'd explain his recent predicament.
A trick of the light made it seem as if a figure stepped from the shadows. "Ah, just tell them you were in New Orleans. Something tells me they won't ask," said the man with a sorrowful look in his eyes. "Be safe, son."
Dean blinked, momentarily confused. The empty car lot seemed to echo with the sound of a flock of birds taking off in flight together.
I was just thinking something, what was it?
His head still swam from the effects of the machine. Maybe he really had spent the last few years carousing in New Orleans. Maybe he really should take it easy on the booze. Maybe...
Ah, yes, that was it, first track down Dad, then get Sam back in the game.
He had a family to reunite and a good feeling about the future.
THE END
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