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Chapter Text

 

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Dean took another generous pull from the bottle and looked around the dark room.  It was no more than a vague mumble of brick and mortar, beam and shadow.  An all too familiar sense of isolation struck hard, and the ache of it echoed and radiated.  He rummaged through his pockets for his cell phone, digging it out with effort and triumphantly dropping it in his lap.  He celebrated by taking another drink, hissing and straining from the burn as it traveled all the way down.  That didn’t stop him from tossing his head back and following up with another quick, stinging chaser.  He bumbled with the phone, puzzling out how to flip it open.  The bright digital display shocked his sensitive retinas, and he flinched and squinted, waiting for the little black globs to organize into words and numbers.  Once his vision steadied, he scrolled through his contact-list while taking another greedy drink.  He wobbled, almost teapotting over as he set the bottle down with a begrudging moan and a solemn promise, choosing to concentrate solely on the phone.    

“Fffucckin’…fffuckin’ thing,” he fussed, his thick, clumsy thumb taking three tries to press the awkward buttons.  Once accomplished, he swung the bottle back up to help pass the time while he waited for an answer.  After the fifth ring, the call switched to voicemail.  The upbeat recording brought a lump to Dean’s throat, and he hugged his bottle close, squeezing his watering eyes shut.  After a stuttered moment, he realized that the prompting beep had passed him by.

“Oh hey…hey, mmm’I on?  Heyyyyyyyyyyy li’l brother…s’me.  Dean.  Callin’ to see how you’re doin’, y’know?  Ev’rythin’…ev’rythin’ is grrreat, here, S’mmy.  Sss’awwwsome.  Yeahhh, workin’ a case.  Nodda big s’prise there, huh?  S’great.  Yeah, sss’jus’…jus’ great…workin’, workin’.  Y’know the drill.  But s’awwsome.  M’som’—somewhere up in, ummm, Washninton State.  Fuckin’ rains all the fuck time.  M’in, uhhhh, Bellinndale?  Ferminnham?  What the hhhhell is this town called?  Hippies everywhere, I swear, man—stann’in’ on street corners an’ hann’in’ out flyers for fuck’s sake.”  He cleared his throat and sighed.  “Yeah…s’great…lots’a mountains.  Tons’a rain.  All th’damn time.  D’I say that already?  I think I did, huh?  Good bars, though.  Hustlin’s easy here, man.  Locals can’t shoot f’shit.”  He stopped and tongued the edge of the bottle, opening wide and taking a loud, conspicuous swallow.  He growled as it blazed a trail toward his stomach, and he waited a couple of ticks to make sure it was going to stay put before venturing on. “Town’s still got plenny of vengefuls, I’ll tell you what.  Vera Hovander wasn’t so bad.  Sad eyes.  Died young.  Nuttin’ that a li’l salt n’ burn couldn’t cure if y’know what m’sayin’.”  He snorted and then paused as though waiting for a reply.

“So, how—” A beep told him that the message had stopped recording.  “Sonnabish,” he groused, studying the screen and concentrating on redialing.  He put the phone back to his ear and waited for the voicemail.

As soon as the beep gave the all-clear, he went on as if nothing had happened.  “So how you doin’, man?  Huh?  Li’l brother?  Haven’t heard from you since…”  He hesitated.  “Since…umm…y’know.  Anyway, not sure ‘f my messages got through.  Lef’ one f’ya a few weeks back on y’birthday.  Did’cha get it?  Freakin’ cell phones, righ’?  Don’ work half the time...” he said into the lip of the hollowed out bottle as he tipped it up to his mouth.  He listened to the silence coming from the line and twice tried to say something, faltering each time before the words spilled past the fake smile splayed out on his face.  “S’almost summer, dude.  S’been nearly a year.  Wanna get t’gether, maybe?  Jus’ you ‘n me?  No strings, man.”  He paused and took another quick pull.  “N’tryin’ t’push y’or nothin’, y’know?  Jus’ tryin’ to catch up with m’brother.  Whaddaya say, hey?”  The smile evaporated, and he went to take another drink, stopping the bottle mid-way to his lips.  It swayed and tottered in his slack grip as he made a wide gesture.  “S’been…s’been a long year.”  The young hunter searched the dirty brick walls and closed his eyes, his breathing becoming erratic.  He lifted the bottle the rest of the way and took a decisive pull to cover it up.  Grimacing, he held the cool bottle to his forehead before loosing a dismissive laugh just as the voicemail cut him off again.  He put his thumb back on the button and reconnected.  The call cycled through five rings again before voicemail came on for the third time.  Dean didn’t miss a beat.

“Riiigh’, yeah, I guess s’bad idea, huh?  Yeah, no…you’re righ’…you’re busy, an’ I’m real fuckin’ busy.  Busy-busy-busy,” he said, addressing the bottle.  He took a mouthful and cleared his throat.   “Dunno what I was thinkin’, man.  S’all good.  No, see…m’just callin’ ‘cause I was hopin’ you could come gemme t’nigh’.  S’late an’ I can’t…I can’t.  I’m fucked up, man.  Sammy?  I ffffucked up.”  His breathing hitched and he took another conciliatory belt, shaking his head to clear it.  It only throbbed all the more for the movement, and black spots winked and spun rapidly before his eyes.  “Nah…nahhhh,” he laughed, trying to ignore the silence coming from the other end of the line.  “Ffffforget that las’ part.  M’good.  Sss’all good, Sammy.  Y’stay put an’ I’ll be in touch.  Don’…don’ study too hard this summer, man.  Tha’s jus’ weird.  Fuckin’ geek.  Okay, man…Okay, Sammy.  Sammy.  Sam.  I’ll talk to y’later.  ‘K…bye.” He started to hang up but then stopped.  “This is Dean.  If y’get this message, gimme a call back, wouldja?  I jus’ wanna hear from ya.  No hurry.  S’all good.  Everything’s awesome.  S’great.  ‘K…bye now.”

Dean’s breath caught in a slight hiccup as he ended the call.  Laying his head back against the cold brick behind him, he took another languid mouthful before straightening back up sluggishly.  He lifted the phone to his face again and played with the display until he found another number.  Pressing a shaky thumb to the phone, he dialed.  It was picked up on the third ring.

“Dean?”

“Bobbbbby, heyyyyy.  Yeah, sss’me.  S’damn good t’hear your voice,” Dean garbled loudly into the phone.

“Move the phone back a little, boy.  I can smell the whiskey from here,” the old man quipped.

Dean adjusted the phone, aiming it away from his mouth.  “S’rry Bobby, man…hey, m’sorry, okay?  N’whiskey t’night, dude.”  He turned his head and took a sip from the bottle, an unsteady hand forcing him to chase the stream with his tongue.

“Right.”  Bobby scoffed.  “So, how much have you not had to drink tonight?”

Dean swallowed and squinted at the bottle in his hand, measuring.  “More’n hhalf a bottle.  M’thirssy,” he slurred as he took another glug.  “Can’ get enough.”

“Oh, I think you’ve had plenty.”

“I think m’still thirssy,” Dean mumbled, clutching the bottle as if it was in danger of being snatched away. 

“And I’m thinkin’ cirrhosis of the liver sure ain’t gonna look cute on a twenty-three year old.  What are you trying to drown away tonight, anyway?”

“Not tryin’ to drown,” he huffed out, indignant, a little hurt by the accusation.  “Tryin’a get out,” Dean schooled the man.  “Hey Bobby…Bobby?  Bobby, hey, can…can y’come gemme?  Huh?  Don’ think I can drive.”

“Y’don’t say,” Bobby snarked.  “Least you have some sense left.  Where are you, Dean?”

“M’in…uh…some hippy town,” Dean said as his teeth started to chatter.  He gripped his flannel shirt and pulled it closer while keeping a firm grip on his bottle.  “Fffffernpatch or somethin’…’bout five miles north of Bellinnton. Bellinnburg?  Bellinnham?”

“Uh huh…how’s about we start with the state and work our way inward from there,” Bobby offered.

“Washninton,” Dean said confidently.  “Rainy-Washninton, not Pennagon-Washninton.  Buncha kayak paddlin’ nutjobs if y’ask me,” he disparaged.  “An’ wha’s with all the ‘spresso?  Ev’ry damn corner, man. M’serious.”

“Well shit, boy, I’m in Florida at the moment.”

“Aww, I ffuckin’ hate that place even more.  So y’comin’?” Dean asked as he shivered.

“Have y’heard a word, drunkard?  I’m in Florida. North to South, East to West—take your pick.  We’re at opposite ends of the country, anyway you slice it.”

“Ohhhh…okay, Bobby.  ‘K.  How’re you?”

“Stone-cold sober, more’s the pity,” Bobby huffed out.  “Actually, I’m stuck at the hospital.”

“Hhhhhhospital?  Shit, Bobby…you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said wearily.  “It’s not me.  I’m here with Richie.  We were hunting a—”

“Richie?” Dean cut in.  “Sussccubus-humpin’ Richie?”

“That’s the one.”

“Tol’ ‘im hunnin’ was no good f’him.  Tha’ tasty poptart had his head spun roun’-n-roun’.  Heh…heh.  Li’l bastard never listens.  Think he enjoyed it, ‘cept the almos’ dyin’ part—he alrigh’?”

“Twenty-seven stitches, a bruised kidney and a mysterious rash.  Witches,” Bobby offered as the logical explanation.

“Goddamn witches,” Dean agreed with loud, sloppy disdain.  “I hhhhate them things, too.  Hate ‘em more’n Rainy-Washninnon and Fffuckin’-Flor’da combined.”

“These are particularly nasty, too.  They’ve set up shop in a retirement community.  Handing out youth like it’s springing from a fountain.  Costs a life for every old-timer they turn around, though.”

“Tha’ sucks, dude,” Dean nodded sagely.

“And the job ain’t even done.  Need to get Richie patched up and back to it.  People are dyin’ here.  So, you okay to get back to the motel on your own, kid?”

Dean looked around and took another liberal swig from the bottle.  “Dunno.  Could use a han’, Bobby.  Wouldn’t call but I…I jus’...”  He winced and cupped his throbbing head, balancing the bottle at the same time and huffing out an anxious breath.  “Nothin’s makin’ any sense, Bobby.  Wha’s wrong w’me?  I tried t’call Sam, but I guess he’s busy.  Always too busy to answer.  I wanna see ‘im, Bobby.  Miss ‘im.  Wannim t’come gemme.  Bobby.  Bobby?” 

The old hunter sighed.  “I know, kid.  I know.”

“It hurr’s,” Dean admitted, rubbing the back of his head gingerly.

“Damn Dean…It’s not like you to get this drunk—or this maudlin.” Another sigh.  “You listen to me, kid.  Sam just needs time.  It’s a phase.  Be patient with him.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, defeated.  He let out another long breath.  “Yeah.  Y’righ’.  K Bobby.”  He said, his eyes slipping shut, his voice slurred with sleep.  He struggled to open his eyes halfway.  “Y’comin’ t’gemme?”

“Christ, you’re more pickled than I thought you were,” Bobby chided.  “Get the bartender to call a cab, boy.  Even hippy-towns have those.” 

“Bartenner?”

“And drink lots of water.”

“I am!” Dean said with a grumpy, sawdust growl, his voice cracking and turning into a small whimper at the end as he took another conspicuous shot from the bottle. 

“Get some rest, Dean.  We’ll talk once your hangover’s gone and you can remember your own name.”

“Oh,” he said lamely.  “Oh…okay, Bobby.”  He rubbed his aching head with shaky fingers.  “Yeah, suurre, we’ll talk later.  Sorry f’botherin’ ya.”

“You ain’t a bother, kid, but I got to go.  The doctor’s heading this way.  I’ll call you tomorrow.  Quit drinkin’ so much, will ya?”

“M’thirssy,” Dean reiterated, but Bobby had already hung up.

Dean snapped the phone shut and tapped it with his thumb as he held it to his chest.  He began shivering a little more and took another drink.  His eyes closed and he almost nodded off.  Catching himself, he shook his head and downed another gulp, opening his eyes wide and then a little wider.  He looked around bewildered and then glanced at the phone in his hand.  He flipped it open, struggling to focus.   He pressed a number and waited.

This time the phone didn’t ring at all.  It went right to voicemail as if the phone had been deliberately turned off since he left his last message.  Dean’s eyes squeezed shut against the devastating rejection.  When he opened them again, he was all twisted smiles and denial.  “Hhhey Sammy…Sammy boy.  S’me again.  Din’ know if y’tried to call while I was on th’phone.  Bobby’s in ffffuckin’ Flor’da.  Didja know that?  Crazy shit.  Godda rash.  Hey?  You there, Sammy?”  He waited an empty beat.  “Guess your phone los’ its charge, huh?  Wen’ right to voicemail.  Okay, well, I guess you’ll call when y’get this.”  He paused again and peered at the phone, trying to figure out how to disconnect the call.  He changed his mind and put it back to his ear.  “M’not mad, Sammy.  Jus’ wan’ you to know that.  ‘K?  S’okay if you turned it off.  We’re good.   ‘Memm’r that, okay?  We’re good.  S’all right.  I get it.”  He hung up and pressed another number.  His breathing came in rapid bursts now, raw emotion penetrating his numb disconnect.  He tried to steady himself while the phone rang.  Another voicemail.  He thumped his head against the brick wall behind him in frustration but regretted it as stars burst before his eyes.  He downed a quick sip to help dilute the pain and panic.

“Dad?  Dad, s’me.  Jus’ lettin’ you know that I got the coorn…coorninnates y’sent.  Checked it out.  Pretty easy job. Too easy, but I guess y’knew that already, huh?  S’all good.  Vera wasn’t really even all that fenge…fengevul.  She was jus’—” He lifted the bottle toward his mouth but didn’t make it this time.  His arm fell limp at his side, the bottle nearly tipping over before Dean could right it.  “She was jus’ lonely.”  He paused, breathing hard.  “I…I think she was jus’ lonely, Dad.  Y’know?  She dinin’t like the renovation they’re doin’.  Think she liked things better the way they used t’be.”  A longer pause.  “Hey Dad…?  Y’think you could come gemme?  Don’ think I can—” He stopped, interrupted by the sudden vibrating buzz of an incoming call.  “Hhhey Dad?  Dad…godda go.  Mus’ be Sammy callin’ m’back, Dad…I’ll talk to y’later.  Dad?  Call me when you get his, K?  Please?  Jus’ wanna know you’re okay, tha’s all.”  He pressed the button to bring in the other call.

“Sammy?  Sam?” He corrected himself.

“Dean?  It’s me again, Bobby.”  Dean slumped against the wall, losing the grip on his bottle.  He sluggishly picked it up before too much could spill. 

“Oh, hey Bobby,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. 

“I love you, too kid,” Bobby said wryly.  Dean snorted a little but didn’t answer.  His lids drooped, and his teeth chattered as he drew breath.  “Listen, I got to thinkin’ and…Dean, where are you right now?”

“Dunno,” he said.  “Wuhh…Washninton, I think.”

“No, dumbass…your exact location.  Are you in a bar?” Bobby asked.  The younger hunter blew out an indignant breath.

“Don’ drink on th’ job, Bobby.  C’mon, m’not tha’ sssstupid.  M’thirssy, though,” he admitted and worked to bring the near empty bottle up to his lips.  He missed, and the liquid sloshed down his chin and neck as he greedily swallowed what he could get.

“Then what are you drinking?”

Dean eyed the clear bottle in his hand, giving the yielding plastic a quick, crunching squeeze to demonstrate.  “Water.  Nee’ more, though.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby muttered.  “Dean, listen to me.  I need to know what happened tonight.  Describe where you are.  You said you were trying to get out.  Where are you now?”

Dean looked around.  “M’in th’basemen’, I think,” he said. 

“Why can’t you get out?”

“I dunno, Bobby.”  Dean closed his eyes and they listlessly roved beneath his lids.  It took a moment before he realized that Bobby was shouting at him. 

“Dammit Dean, answer!”

“Bobby?  Hhhhey…where you at?”

“Stop stealing my lines,” the old man grunted.  “I’m askin’ the questions.  What happened to you, boy?”

Dean thought long and hard about it for a moment.  He looked up through the hole in the basement’s ceiling, watching the outside lights hit the wall in the parlor above.  “Ssalsted an’ burned Vera.  Was rainin’ cats n’ frogs.  Bu’ she wen’ down nice an’ easy, man.  ‘Cept f’her eyes.”  The boy faltered and swallowed.  “They were sad.”  He cleared his throat.  “Got done, an’ was all wet ‘n muddy.  Rains all the time here, y’know that?  Never fffuckin’ stops, man.  Wen’ back to the house—wanted to wash up in th’bathroom.  Didn’t wanna get baby all filthy.  Fell,” he said.  “Ffff’ckin’ nenorvation.  ‘Struction work all over the damn place.”  He blew out a disgusted breath.  “Made a wrong turn inna dark.  Misstepped.  Let my guard down…wasn’t payin’ attention.  Was thinkin’ of Vera an’ her bein’ all alone.  Lost m’way an’ I fucked up, Bobby.  I fucked up an’ the floor wen’ out from unner me.”

“Okay, so you are in a house, and you fell through a floor?”

“Mmmm,” Dean said dreamily.

“Dean?”

“Mmmmm.”  His brain was wandering again.

“Open your eyes for me, kid,” Bobby said.

“They’re op’n.”

“Like hell they are, boy.  Open up.”

Dean smirked and struggled to open his eyes. “Asshole.”  His teeth rattled as he tried to shift and sit up a little more, but he wound up slumped even further against the wall, his neck and head tilted in an uncomfortable angle. 

“How long ago did you fall?”

“Can’ ‘memm’r…”

“Think Dean.  When did you finish the salt and burn?”

Dean glanced at his watch, but either his eyesight was going or the watch-face had broken in the fall.  He stared at it from different angles until he could get an approximate time.  “Umm…few hours.  Four hours an’ some change.  Think I must’a been out for a while.”

“Y’think, Van Winkle?  All right, now do you know the address where you are?” Bobby prompted.

“Uhhhhh, Som’thin’…som’thin’ Fernberg,” Dean responded.

“Dammit, kid.  I need a little more.  Fernberg?”

“Fern…” Dean thought hard.  “Fern-somethin’,” he said a little stronger.  “Historic home.  Lan’mark.  It’s a public park an’ museum now. Th—they even got peacocks ou’side, dude.  Big-ass peacocks.  Hippy-ville.  Never seen s’many damn hippies, Bobby.   They’re fffriggin’ e’rywhere.  Always smilin’ an’ smilin’.  Seen a bunch of ‘em wearin’ freaky Jedi robes an’ shit chanting on the street corner.  Pod people.  Maybe wanna make me one of ‘em.  Y’think?”

“Focus, Dean.  It’s the Pacific Northwest not Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Focus on the town’s name.”

“K, Bobby,” Dean said dutifully.   “Fern…dale.”  He remembered.  “Th’town s’called Ferndale.  M’in th’Hovander Homestead.  Family s’buried on th’grounds.  One-stop shoppin’.  Graveyard and haun’ned house righ’ next to each other.  Couldn’ be easier.  Dunno how I could screw it up so bad.” 

“Okay, so you’re in the basement of the Hovander Homestead in Ferndale, Washington?”

“Yah’zee,” Dean said and then groaned.  He placed his hand on the upper left-hand side of his abdomen, feeling the ridged knot that was growing there.  “Hurr’s,” he said. 

“What hurts, Dean?”

“Dunno,” Dean said with another moan and a hiss.

“Don’t give me that, boy.  Think,” Bobby coached.  The old hunter waited for a response.  “Dean!” he called.  “What hurts?”  Finally, he got a weak response. 

“Hit my head goin’ down,” Dean said.  “Then lan’ned on a…on a ffriggin’ sssawhorse or somethin’.  Damn thing near hhalved me.  Stomach hurr’s a lot.  Pain’s goin’ all a’way inna m’shoul’er.”

“Are you bleeding?”

Dean looked down and pressed his fingers on the stiff, rapidly growing mass just above his stomach.  He cried out and his lashes fluttered.

“Dean?  You with me?”

“Nnng…”

“I need you to answer me, son.”

The young hunter blinked until he could see again.  His breath came in ragged huffs.  “Yeahh, hurr’s like a mother,” Dean rasped.

“Are you bleeding?”

“Nuh.  Thirssy,” Dean responded.  “Col’.  Tired,” he admitted.  “C’n you come gemme?”

“I’m going to call someone for you.  I just needed to know what we’re dealing with.  Listen kid, I’m gonna hang up now and call for help, and I want you to keep the phone in your hand.  Can you do that for me?”

“You comin’?” Dean asked.  His eyes closed again.  “Don’ wanna be alone.” 

“Help’s comin’, Dean.  I’m going to call them now.  Hang up but don’t drop the phone.  I’m going to call you right back, you hear me?”  There was no immediate answer.  “Do you hear me, Dean?”

“Yyy—yeah.  ‘K, Bobby.  Hhhey, lissin’ Bobby…?  C’n you call Sam an’ have him come pick m’up?  He migh’ answer f’you.  I wanna get outa here.  Too tired t’drive.”  Bobby didn’t answer for a few seconds. 

“Christ kid, just…just stay awake, please.  I’ll call you right back.  I’m hanging up now.”

“Hhh’okay, Bobby,” Dean slurred.  The young man’s body slid the rest of the way down the wall, and he tipped over onto his side.  He wheezed out in pain, trying to brace his midsection with his elbow.  The water-bottle had rolled away, and he whimpered as his hand flailed out for it, not even coming within two feet.  His body contracted and lurched as a wave of nausea and pain hit him hard.  Turning his head, he projectile-vomited water and blood onto the concrete floor next to him.  As his body quaked and trembled with pain and shock, he lifted the phone up and incoherently pressed random buttons.  In his muddled brain he was certain he had dialed Sam.

“Sssammy, s’me.  Not gonna call again.  I’ll leave y’lone.  I promise.  Jus’ wan’ned to…jus’ wan’ned to…”  He heaved again; this time only a little blood dripped down his chin.  His eyes watered, but it wasn’t from vomiting.  “Can’ do this Sam.  Sss’all wrong.  S’all fucked up an’ m’tired.  You left an’ Dad left.  An’ I can’…”  His chin quivered and he bit his lip.  “Can’ do this on m’own.  I tried.  Don’ know why you won’ pick up.  Can’ fix it if y’won’ pick up.  You know what that feels like?  Huh?  Fuckin’ voice mail always, always.  Watched m’brother walk off in the rain.  It’s been a year, man—a whole damngod, fuckin’ year.  Dad wen’ off on some fuckin’ hun’ alone.  Godda call one nigh’ and was gone th’next mornin’.  Jus’ sends coornates, that’s it, you know?  Nothin’ else.  Dumped my ass, neat as an arrow.  Can y’please call me?  I need you.  Need m’family.  Jus’ this once?  Jus’ this once f’me?”  Dean’s eyes fell shut, and it took all of his effort to reopen them.  He concentrated on the water-bottle lying several feet away to try and keep awake.  “Jus’ wan’…”  He coughed, speckling his hand and the phone with a red mist, but he didn’t notice.  His vision was browning out, fast.  “Jus’ wan’ my family.  Tha’s all.  I dunno, Sssammy…I feel like m’dyin’ here or sssomethin’.  Juss’ call me.  Don’ wanna die ‘lone.  M’beggin’…”

His body shivered uncontrollably.  With his teeth clacking together, the phone wouldn’t stay put against his jaw.  His thoughts unspooled, and he forgot what he’d been doing.  The phone tumbled out of his clammy fingers, falling open onto the concrete.  Cold LED light spilled across his face, making it appear grayer than it was as shadows from his long lashes skirted across his cheeks.  His eyes closed again.  This time, however, there was no attempt to reopen them.  The phone began to vibrate with an incoming call, but Dean never reached for it.  The buzzing stopped and then restarted a few seconds later.  The call went unheard and unanswered, eliciting nothing more than a spent gurgle as the unconscious hunter fought for each wet breath, alone in the dark.   

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

** 

Voices perforated his darkness, distant murmurs poking into it and rooting around, a dull annoyance.  They persisted, stomping about and invading his personal space, growing more obnoxious and agitated all the while.  Dean opened his eyes long enough to make out a strange hole in the ceiling.  Red and blue hazard strobes swirled around the room above him, bouncing off the walls and windows, but they didn’t hold his interest.  He closed his eyes and drifted until someone began clapping their hands inches from his face.  Starbursts exploded under his lids with each sound wave. 

“Fffffuuhhh…nuuuhhhh…” he complained.

“There you are,” a loud male voice said.  Dean winced and turned his head, but the movement made him feel sick.  He shut his eyes again. 

“Hey, stay with us, now,” someone said.  “Can you open your eyes back up, buddy?” 

Dean supposed he could, but he much preferred to tune out the guy.  He was tired and wanted to return to that delicious, pain-free oblivion he’d been enjoying.  The voices had other ideas. 

“I need you to open your eyes for me, sir,” a young female said. 

Sir?  That did it.  Dean opened his eyes and tried to take a swat at the nearest head with his free hand, but the limb never got any significant lift.  It just flopped by his side like a deboned fish.  One of the men effortlessly held it down with his fingers. 

“Calm down, there, bud,” he said.  “Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

Dean’s brows pinched, and he looked around dazed.  “Whhuhh?”  After the stranger repeated himself, Dean twitched his toes, then tried to sit up. 

“No, no, hon,” the girl said.  “You stay right here.  Let us do the work.”  Several hands were on him, crisscrossing his arms over his chest and shifting him, readjusting his lower body, untangling his legs and laying them flat.  Someone gripped the head of his amulet and eased it over his head.

“Nuhh!” Dean scolded, trying to stop them.

“We’ll take good care of it for you, hon.  We just need it out of our way.  I promise nothing will happen to it, okay?” the woman said as she placed a thick collar around his neck, immobilizing him. 

Velcro ripped, and someone wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.  He growled in pain as the band inflated.

“Muhhnngh,” Dean protested, putting his diaphragm into it to drive his point home.  His ribs and stomach burned from the strain, and that settled him immediately.

“Take it easy, there.  We’re here to help,” the man explained.  “You took a pretty bad fall.  Can you tell us your name?”  The paramedic released the blood pressure cuff and glanced up at one of the men holding a radio.  “Patient appears to be late-teens—early twenties.  BP is 105 over 50.  Pulse is 125.  Skin is cold and diaphoretic.”  He turned to Dean again.  “Can you tell me your name?” he repeated.

Dean stared at him, trying to string the words together in his head so that they made sense.  It was hard to concentrate with all the activity going on near him.  There were several firefighters evaluating the hole in the ceiling and talking. 

“Hey buddy, I’m Ted, this is Melissa,” the man said, grabbing Dean’s attention back.  “And over here is Carl,” he said, indicating the EMT with the radio.  “Now, can you tell me your name?” he asked one more time. 

“Who…?”  He tried to sit up again, but his head and abdomen flared with pain.  “Aghhngh,” he cried.

“Don’t move, now.  You don’t want to—it’s really important that you stay still for me, okay?”  Melissa tried to soothe. 

Ted flashed a penlight in Dean’s eyes several times, and the room took a violent tumble, tilting and pitching back and forth.  He didn’t possess the strength to stop the medic, though he gave it his best shot.  While Dean struggled to blink away the dizzying light, the woman applied a cold, wet pad to his elbow, rubbing the open crook briskly and inserting a needle. 

“Heyyyyyy!  Wh’yyyy’doooin’?” Dean fussed, but they continued pressing and jabbing without his consent.  Ted was looking into his ears and nose.  He pried open Dean’s mouth, swabbing it with cotton balls, sticking his gloved fingers into his mouth and probing around inside.

 “I think he’s been vomiting blood,” Ted said to the girl and then turned to Dean.  “Can you tell me where you are?” 

“Inna b’sssket,” Dean said.

“Where?”

“B’smen’,” Dean clarified. 

“Can you recite the months of the year backwards?”

Dean stared, his words not quite penetrating.  “Do whaah?”

“Can you list the months of the year in reverse order, starting with December and going back?”

“Uhhh…”  Dean tried to make sense of that.  “’Cember, Marsshh, June, Apr’l,” he said and then gave up.  He was too tired to talk anymore.  He wanted a nap.

“Open your eyes,” Ted coaxed.  At least he seemed satisfied enough with Dean’s answers and moved on with his exam, lifting the hunter’s shirt and pressing on his sore spot. 

A lightning bolt of pain had his body jolting off the floor.  “Fffffuccck!  Don’ touch…fuckin’ hur’s!” 

“I’m so sorry.  I know that’s tender,” he said.

Dean was dubious.  If the guy knew how much it hurt he wouldn’t keep touching him there, but the paramedic continued to probe the area. 

Carl finished talking to someone on his radio and squatted next to Ted.  “What’s it lookin’ like?” he asked as Ted continued his examination.

Dean heard Ted respond, but the words jumbled and he couldn’t catch them all: abdominal, splenic, concussion, shock, fractures, hematoma.  He lost interest.  Ted’s face came close to his.

“Do you hurt anywhere else?”

 “Nuhh, thirrrrsy,” Dean admitted.  “Sammy comin’?”

“Your name’s Sammy?”

Dean looked at Ted, dazed and pained.  A loud noise took his attention, and his eyes focused on the firefighters.  They were moving debris and bracing the hole.  “Tell ‘em t’stop poun’nen.  Head hurr’s.”

“They’ll be done soon.  They’re just making sure we’re safe.”  The paramedic snapped his fingers to get Dean’s attention back.  “Is your name Sammy?”

“Trie’ callin’.  Won’ answer phone.  He comin’ gemme?” he asked.

Ted turned to Melissa.  “He’s severely disoriented.” 

She nodded and bent in close to Dean.  “Hey honey,” she said, talking to him as though he were a child.  “Can you tell us your name?”

“Mmm…D’n,” he said, wanting to shut her up and get her out of his face.

“Dan?” she repeated.  “Okay, now.  We’re gonna be on our way to the hospital shortly, and I need you to try and stay awake.  Can you do that for me, Dan?”

“D’nnnnnnnnnn.”  Dean corrected her. 

“Yep, Dan…we gotcha.  We’re gonna take good care of you.  Try to stay calm.”

“Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaan.”  He forced out the word.  It hurt like hell, but for some reason this was a sticking point for him.  If he was going to be a piece of meat, he at least wanted to be a piece of meat with the right name.

“Dean?” Melissa asked.  The hunter couldn’t bother to answer anymore.  He blinked his eyes in confirmation, instead.  “Okay, Dean.  Sorry.  Just hang tight now.  You’re doing real good.  We’re going to move you a little and then we’re going to get you out of here, what do y’say?”

Dean gave her a feeble thumbs-up that he was pretty sure went unnoticed, since his hand refused to budge from where it was lying by his side.

A backboard was wedged under him, and half a dozen people gathered around to assist.  Even though they were professional and shifted him with as little movement as possible, the pain in his head and abdomen blinded him.  Everything started to fade rapidly. 

“No—no—no, Dean.  Don’t do that, now…” Ted said, distressed.  But it didn’t matter.  It was already done, and Dean was grateful for the darkness that rushed up to meet him.

* *

Awareness was spotty and jumpy after that, and Dean had only a vague notion of where he was and what was happening.  There were sirens, voices and constant frenetic activity around him while he lay passively in the eye of the storm, winking in and out of existence.  When someone pressed particularly hard on his abdomen, he bucked up, flying into combat-mode, throwing punches and even landing a couple.  Commotion erupted, commands shouted and he suddenly felt a swirling motion before everything stopped for a long, long while.

The next time he became marginally aware, all the noise and commotion had ceased.  Everything was fleecy, warm and peaceful, and Dean floated painlessly.  It was too much bother to keep his eyes open, so he didn’t. 

Sometime later, though, all warmth and comfort had evaporated, and he moaned as wave after wave of pain and nausea hit him.  He turned his head and vomited a russet, bloody bile down his chin and neck.  There was some subdued activity, gentle hands wiping him off and a quiet voice encouraging him.  A minute later, Dean was once again floating in a cocoon of bliss.  And so things went on like this for quite a while, alternating between ecstasy and agony, the two interchanging every now and again.  The shift to euphoria was always precipitated by a visit from a Busty Asian Beauty who would stand next to him, checking his eyes, calling his name, demanding that he acknowledge her and answer questions before she would allow him to drift away on a toasty wave of golden relief. 

Hours passed, maybe days, and Dean began to shiver.  His thoughts swarmed like fire ants, and nightmare people hovered over his bed.  They were always there.  The creatures stared at him and intoned sinister incantations, incoherent mumblings from featureless, mouthless faces.  The chanting constantly fluctuated in speed and volume, and, despite his years of training, he was terrified of them.  It was at this point that Sam and his dad arrived.  The chanting receded into the background as his family drew near.  He could feel his brother’s large hand on his forehead, could hear his father’s gruff voice, but boy were they ever pissed.  Dean knew he was in for it, but he didn’t mind.  He’d take whatever they wanted to dish out.  It was enough that they were there.

I got your messages.  What were you thinkin’, huh?  Out there all alone?  Why didn’t you wait for me, man?  I was on my way! Sam said.

John bent in close.  You scared us, Sport.  We came as soon as we got your messages.  He gripped Dean’s hand in his.  We call this the ‘family business’ for a reason, you know.  You shouldn’t have been out there alone.     

“Sorry Dad, sorry Sammy,” he offered demurely, not sure whether he’d spoken out loud or not.  He mulled over what they’d said but things weren’t making sense.  “Wait, Dad…you’re the one who wen’ off on a hun’ alone.  That was two months ago.  Where y’been? 

Sam chuckled.  Don’t change the subject, jerk.  You shouldn’t have been out there like that with no back up.  You can’t take these crazy risks. 

“I know,” Dean acknowledged.  He found it difficult to get enough breath to speak.  His words came out a windy whisper, nothing more.  “M’sohhhrry.  Fffuccked up bad.  Don’ go, please.  Don’ wan’ the faces t’come back.”

They can’t get you, Sam said with a confident shrug, eyeing his brother. 

John tugged on his hand.  We’re right here.  We got you, bud.  We got you, and they won’t dare touch you while we’re on watch.  

Dean stared up at the two of them, standing side by side.  His breath hitched when he tried to speak.  He stopped and swallowed.  “Glad you guys are here,” he whispered.  “Don’ go.”

Sam snorted.  We’re not going anywhere.  And you’re not, either.  You hear me?  You’re staying right here with us.  He gripped Dean’s other hand and tugged on it.  You’re not leaving.  We’re with you. 

“Won’ leave you, Sammy…Dad,” he promised.  Dean tried to relax, even though the blanket shimmered and waved.  It wouldn’t stay put even when he tried to hold it down.  After a struggle, he closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to watch it anymore.  The constant motion was dizzying.

Time jounced and staggered some more.  The Busty Asian Beauty was back again.  Sam stood behind her, big grin on his face as he towered over her; John sat in the chair, a silent sentinel.  The Beauty was fidgeting with a tube taped to Dean’s face.  She noticed him watching her and gave him a smile and a wink. 

“We’re gonna get this fever down, my pretty,” she said, lowering the bed so that Dean’s head was well below his legs.  She turned him on his side and began rubbing and tapping his back.  “I need you to cough for me.  Can you do that?”

Dean couldn’t get enough air to speak let alone cough.  He tried, but nothing came out. 

Come on, Dean.  Sam challenged him.  I know you’re tired, but can you do it for me, please?  Come on, dude.  Cough.  Dean did it but only because Sam asked.  Pain erupted in his chest and belly. 

“There we go,” the Busty Asian Beauty said.  She continued to rub and pat his back.  “One more,” she said, but Dean couldn’t work up enough breath to tell her to fuck off let alone cough.  “One more, Dean,” she demanded again. 

John sat up and bent toward his son.  What’s one more little cough?  Come on, son.  You’re Dean Winchester.  Fight it, son.

You’re not going to wuss out, are you?  Sam folded his arms and gave him a smirky bitchface.   Dean feebly raised his middle finger and coughed.

The Busty Asian patted and resettled him. “You just keep fighting, you hear me?  We’re going to get this under control,” she said, stripping the blankets off of him and giving him an encouraging smile. 

The next time he saw her, she wasn’t smiling anymore.  She was in earnest discussion with some other people gathered round his bed.  “103.7,” she said with a tight lip.  “Let’s start an IV of Telithromycin and get a cooling blanket—anterior placement, please.”  As she gave her orders, the others nodded and moved to do as she’d bidden.

He turned to Sam.  “Waaaaaas h’ppnin’?” he asked.

Sam shook his head.  I dunno, he admitted, looking worried.  Just let them do their thing, Dean.  Go to sleep, big brother.  Dad and I are on watch. 

“K, Sammy,” Dean nodded and closed his eyes and let Sam handle the doctors.  He couldn’t keep his eyes open any more.

When he woke up, everyone was gone except for Sam.  He’d drawn a chair close and the gigantor had his huge mitt cupped over Dean’s smaller hand.  Dean saw big girly tears in his brother’s eyes.  Don’t do this to me, Dean.  I can’t do this.  S’all wrong.  S’all fucked up, and I can’t do this on my own.  Stay with me.  The Grand Canyon is beautiful in May.  Don’t go.  Dad’s got a job lined up.  I need you to watch my back.  Please don’t go, dude. 

“N’goin’,” Dean promised.  “Tired.  Col’.  M’really col’, Sammy.”

Sam set his hand on Dean’s head, and the young hunter leaned into the touch—chick-flick moment be damned. 

I know you’re cold.  Looks like it’s gonna snow.  You get some rest, and I’ll be right here when you wake up. 

“Promise?” Dean said weakly.

Cross my heart.

Dean nodded and let go, feeling safe and whole as his thoughts melted away. 

* *

The next time he cracked his lids, the near imperceptible hum of medical hardware was all that broke the silence.  Dean glanced to his left and then to his right.  The chair that Sam and his dad had been sitting in was in the corner, empty.  Neither was anywhere to be seen. 

Dean must have closed his eyes again, because the short, Asian woman in the white lab coat he’d seen off and on was there, bending over him and shining a light in his eyes.  Her hair was tousled and she looked like she’d worked a double-shift, but she laughed when he swore and tried to knock her hand away. 

“Now, that’s more like it, Slugger.  Welcome back.”  She patted him.  “Fever’s coming down nicely.  Antibiotics—” She shrugged and blinked as though surprised.  “Who knew?”  She gave him a warm smile.  Dean tried to move and stretch, but a hot flash of agony stopped him and he gasped.

“Naaanghnugh…” 

“Whoops,” the doctor said, resettling him.  “One step at a time, there.”  She grabbed his hand away as he lurched up and tried to pull the drain tube from his nose.  “Nope,” she gripped his hand.  “That’s a keeper.  Leave it alone.  You’re still a hot mess,” she said covering him.  “Fever’s down, now let’s tackle the pain.”  She gave the syringe in her hand a wiggle. 

“Wassat?” Dean asked, suspicious. 

“It’s the good stuff.  See you in the morning, Dean,” she said with a grin.  He tried to stop her, but his words were slow, his movements even slower.

“Nahhhnn.”  He grabbed for her hand and missed.  She palmed his shoulder to keep him from moving.  He gave her a frustrated, pained look.  “Saaaam?” 

She stopped what she was doing with the syringe and looked at him.  “What’s that, Dean?”

Dean took his time to form the words.  “Where’s S—Sssaam an’ m’dad?” 

She furrowed her brow and bent close.  “Who’s Sam, Scrapper?  Do you want us to call someone for you?  Your uncle’s been in contact with us.  He’s in Florida, but he said he’d come just as soon as he could.” 

Dean let out a huff, pulling down the oxygen mask.  “Nuh m’uncle.  Wan’ m’dad an’ brother.  Where’re they?  They wuh—they were jus’ here a li’l while ago.” 

The woman shook her head with empathy and concern.  “I haven’t seen anyone, Dean.  You haven’t had any visitors yet,” she said, replacing the mask.

“Nuh…” Dean insisted, confused.  “They were here.  I saw ‘em.”

“You’ve been sporting a very high fever.  You were talking up a storm of nonsense for a while.”  She quirked her eyebrow.  “It’s true,” she said in response to his incredulous look.  “And just so we’re clear, I have never done any porn, despite your insistence.  Busty Asian Beauty?  Really, Dean?”  She shook her head and glanced down at her chest.  “Well, two out’a three ain’t bad, I suppose.”  She snorted and twirled the syringe in her fingers again.  “Let’s get you comfortable, and I promise to dish out all the embarrassing tidbits tomorrow.  Trust me, I won’t spare a single detail.  You have my word on that.”  She winked at him and smoothed his brow.  “Do you want me to try and call your brother?”

“Nnnuhh…no,” he said.  “Y’sure he was’n’ here?”

“I’m pretty sure.”  She looked over at a nurse who was checking a patient in the next bed.  Dean watched the women exchange glances and saw the nurse shake her head no.  “Maybe we can call him tomorrow,” she offered.  “Here, let’s get you comfy.”  She reached for the IV catheter.

“Don’ wannit,” Dean protested with a spent breath, but the woman had already emptied the vial into the IV port.  He tried to tell her what he thought of that, but he didn’t have the lung-power to form the words.  Everything became beautiful and perfectly perfect after that.  The doctor gave him a small wave.

“See ya, Slugger.  You’re going to start to feel better soon.  I promise.”

* *

Dean continued to brood, staring at the empty chair in the corner.  He was now lucid enough to separate delirium images from reality, despite how fragmented his memories of both were.  He tried to turn enough so that he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore, but all the attached tubing, wiring, poles and padding made it impossible.  He let out a spiritless sigh and shut his eyes.  It was the only defense he had. 

“Is that any way to greet a lady?” a voice said.  Dean opened his eyes as the doctor walked through the glass doors of the ICU, flipping through her cellphone a moment before dropping it into the pocket of her lab coat.  He lifted his finger in acknowledgement.  He had no energy, breath or desire for anything more than that.

“Hey, Slugger.  How are you feeling?”  She waited for a response.  None came.  “Are you in pain?” she asked.  Her hand was on his shoulder, stroking it.  He shook his head no, lying—hoping she’d go away so he could find an escape in sleep.  “Do you know where you are?”

He eyed the room and sighed again.  He was going to have to give her something.  He cleared his sore throat.  “Club Med,” he rasped through the oxygen mask.  The word came out jagged and cracked, and the doctor had to come within inches of his face to hear him.  He swallowed dryly and turned his head away from her, grimacing as he worked his leathery tongue around his mouth to try and stimulate his saliva glands.  The woman moved his oxygen mask to the side, dipped a small sponge on a stick into some water and brought it to his lips. 

“Here, this will help to wet your whistle.”  She swirled it around his mouth and tongue.  Picking up a cup from the tray, she scooped out some ice-chips and fed him a small spoonful.  “You’ve slept through most of the fun.  You’re at St. Joseph’s hospital in Bellingham.  Do you know what happened to you?” 

“Don’ ‘member,” he said, staring at her with lifeless eyes.  He did, of course; he just didn’t give enough of a shit to talk about it.  He wanted her to finish up and leave already, but she continued to peer at him, lifting his eyelids. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Dean blew out a feeble breath.  She was persistent.  “Fell,” he said.  She smiled, satisfied.

“I hear it was an epic battle—you against some rotting floorboards.  The floor won, by the way.  Don’t feel bad, though…that floor had been spoiling for that fight for more than a century.”  Despite her light tone, Dean could tell she was making calculations and evaluations as she watched his responses.

“Had an off day.  Sucker-punched me.”  He gave a humorless shrug. 

“I’ll say.”  Pulling the chair from the corner, she sat.  “All right.  I’m going to go through your list of woes.  You ready?”  Dean nodded.  “You’ve got a moderate concussion and two cracked ribs…”

“S’nothin’,” he wheezed.  “Had worse.”  Just the same, he felt like he’d been bulldozed and left to bake in the sun for a week.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t let me get to the juicy part,” she continued with a quirk of her eyebrow, but she immediately checked herself and leveled him with a serious, compassionate eye. “The fall ruptured your spleen.  We had to perform surgery.  Lucky for you, we were able to repair the damage without removing the organ.  Nice things to keep, spleens.  Everyone should have one.  Yours is on the mend.  Help didn’t arrive until several hours after your fall, so things were a bit dicey for a while.  Your blood pressure was dangerously low.  You were in shock.  And the internal bleeding had been going on all that time.  We suctioned over 50% of your total blood volume from your abdominal cavity.  We were able to perform an autotransfusion and recycle it right back, so you only had to receive an extra two units, and that was due to the surgery itself.”  She studied Dean.  “You with me so far?”

“Yeah,” he said and worked up enough air for a longer question.  “How long have I been here?”

“You were brought in during the wee hours on Monday morning.  It’s now nine a.m. Wednesday,” she said glancing at her watch.  “You’d have joined us a little earlier, but you got to experience the joy of atelectasis.”  Dean furrowed his brows.

“Wassat?”

“Just a fancy way of saying that your lungs are having some post-op fun.  That’s why you’re having difficulty getting your breath.  It’s a fairly common complication for abdominal surgical patients, but your fever spiked at the same time, so infection was starting to set in.  You don’t seem to do anything by halves, do you?”  Dean let out a breathless snort at that.  “You had us concerned for a while.  But antibiotics have the upper hand at the moment.  Tomorrow if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you some toys to play with that will help get your lungs functioning properly.  You’ll also shorten your recovery time if you cough a lot.  I know that’s going to hurt like hell with your sore ribs and incision sites, but you’ll thank me later.  We’ll keep a careful eye on things.  Atelectasis can become chronic if not treated in time; it’s one of those perks of being in a hospital environment.”

“Anythin’ perm’nant?” Dean asked.

“You’re young and healthy, and you got to keep your spleen.  So, you should make a complete recovery,” the doctor said with a smile.

Dean closed his eyes and gave her a slow nod.  “S’good.”   He was already fatiguing.  “So whe’ m’I gonna be good t’go?” he asked. 

The doctor laughed at that.  “Well, let’s see, there’s the concussion.  We’re monitoring that.  Be checking you for signs of bleeding, nausea, mood-swings—that could make things really interesting over the next week or so.  Also, quit trying to hit the nurses, would ya?” she tapped his leg and mock scolded him.  “Your pupil dilation is normal now, so that’s an excellent sign.  The cracked ribs?  Well, they’re going to have to heal on their own.  We’ll manage your pain, and I’ll nag you incessantly about taking deep breaths despite what will undoubtedly be your unmitigated dedication to not do what I tell you.”

“Soun’s like fuhhhn,” Dean exhaled the words, running out of steam at the end.

“Oh, it’s gonna be a regular hootenanny,” she agreed.  “And then we have the ever-so-enjoyable recovery from the Splenorrhaphy.”

“Splnn’wha’?”  Dean asked.

“Means patch-job,” the doctor said, getting up and tipping another spoonful of ice-chips into his mouth.  “We were able to go in laparoscopically, so that will shorten your healing time.  Lucky for you the damage to your spleen wasn’t worse.  Still, you came in with an impressive Grade 3 hematoma.”

“Pssfft,” Dean couldn’t help but smile despite himself.  “M’a 9—9 ½ easy.”

The doctor rolled her eyes.  “The scale only goes to 5, hot-stuff.  And you wouldn’t have a spleen anymore if you’d been a 5.”

“So’m…” Dean took a breath.  “…jus’ average?”

“Well don’t feel so bad.  A 3 earned you 7-10 days at Club Med, 14 days of green jello and vanilla pudding.  All told you’re looking at about six-weeks for a full recovery.  Oh, and one of us will have to be right there with you when you poop for the first time.”

Dean’s eyes bugged.  “Tha’s never gonna happ’n,” he assured her, terror in his eyes.

The doctor bridged her fingers and gave them a maniacal, gleeful wiggle.   “Oh, but it will,” she gloated.  “So, see?  Who needs a Grade 5 when you get to have all this fun and keep your spleen for a mere 3?  It’s a bargain, I tell you.”

Dean was losing his concentration.  His pain was starting to overtake him and it was hard to talk with no air or spit to work with.  Still, he appreciated the doctor’s attempts to cheer him.  “Thanks for that doc—doctor…” he hesitated.

“Hickey,” she said.  “Dr. Hickey.”  She held up her hand as his mouth flopped open.  “Not a word.”  She glared at him.  “Not a single, solitary word,” she snorted with a hint of a smile.  “Not my fault.  I married that name.”

Dean wanted to laugh but couldn’t.  “Your faul’…” he took a shallow breath.  “…for takin’ it.”

She shrugged and re-situated his oxygen mask.  “You don’t know what my maiden name was.  Trust me.  This is an upgrade.  But you can call me Mei.  That’s my first name.”  She showed him her nametag.

He squinted, reading the name.  “Okay, Dr. Mei,” he said. 

“It’s pronounced may not my,” she laughed, correcting him.  Reaching out and patting his leg, she noticed him flinch again.  “How’s the pain?”

Dean didn’t answer.  He held up three fingers.  Mei didn’t buy it.

“Bull.  You’re worse than The Black Knight, you know that?”  She tapped his other hand, a tight, balled fist.  “Judging from the clenched hand, the sweat and the crinkled brow, I’m thinkin’ an 8 or a 9.  Which is it?”

Dean closed his eyes.  He was in too much pain to keep up appearances.  He flashed five fingers, then three.

Dr. Mei nodded and readied a syringe.  “We’ll get you some quality rest tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day. We’ll move you into a room with a view—the parking lot is beautiful this time of year, I hear—give you some TV to watch, pop out your catheter and maybe even get you on your feet.  It doesn’t sound like much, but you’ll love it.  Trust me.  Your lungs will love it even more.”  Dr. Mei emptied the syringe into his IV as she sang to him.  “Helping everyone in need, no one can succeed like…me.” She laughed.  “Sleep tight Dean.”

“Okay, Ringo.  Weirdo,” he puffed, drowsy. 

“Hey, I’m the weirdo that was voted Miss Congeniality in the Busty Asian Beauty Pageant.   I made them D-cups weep with envy,” she boasted.

Dean rolled his eyes and gave her a drugged, sheepish grin. 

“Yep, that’s right.  There’s no living it down.  I’ll get as much mileage out of it as I can,” she told him.

Dean crooked his finger beckoning her close.  “Wha’ was yer maiden name?” Dean whispered. 

Mei threw her head back and laughed.  “You get some rest, and if you do as I say for the next week, I’ll tell you.”

“N’gonna be here a week,” he said as sleep claimed him.

“Oh, you’ll be here,” Mei said.  “Unless you wanna be wearing me like a starfish, clinging to your leg as you try and make your escape.”

* *

“I’m not using that thing again,” Dean wheezed, glaring at the incentive-spirometer.  As promised, he’d been moved from the ICU early that morning, and Dr. Mei had shown up a couple of hours later to torture him.  He was sweating and exhausted.  “No friggin’ way.  Damn thing looks like a breast-pump!”

Dr. Mei did a triple-take.  “You obviously have no clue whatsoever what a breast pump looks like.” 

“I’ve seen Oprah,” Dean admitted with another husky breath.  “You can take that evil thing back to whatever hell you got it from.” 

The doctor set the spirometer on his bedside table with a thump.  “It wasn’t that bad, was it?  You need to repeat this once an hour,” she said without her normal humor.  “I’m serious, Dean.  Your lungs are extremely vulnerable right now.”  She moved a pillow to his belly and some pressure.  “Cough,” she instructed. 

“No,” Dean refused.  “M’tired.  Hurts.” 

“Have you always been such a baby-whiner-face?” She challenged him.  Her eyes swept over his body.  “You seem pretty fit to me.  Surely you’re familiar with the saying no pain…no gain, right?  Now cough, Dean.”  The young hunter braced himself and coughed.  He clutched at the small woman, his eyes bulging with agony. 

“Ffffuuuuuggginnn sohhhnnnabbbisshh,” he gasped.  “Gonna sign m’self out.  Gemme AMA papers righhhh’ now!” he demanded as he heaved and wheezed.  Dr. Mei rubbed his back and waited for him to catch his breath. 

“The more you do it, the easier it’s gonna get.  I promise,” she said, but Dean shook his head.  She continued to rub and pat his back.  “But no more for now.  You’re done.”

“S’righhhh, ‘cause hhhhhI’m leavin’,” he panted and moved to get out of bed.  He wound up listing into Mei’s arms until his head rested against her shoulder and his eyelids fluttered shut. 

“Sure thing, Slugger,” she said as she shifted him back against the pillows and lowered the bed.  “How about a little nap first?”  She wound the oxygen cannula around his head, situating it under his nose.  Making sure his nasogastric tube was undisturbed and taped to his cheek, she pulled up the covers.

“Jusssahh quicky,” Dean agreed as his eyes closed.

* *

The next day found Dean hobbling to the other end of the room and back with Dr. Mei’s arm around his waist.  He’d been relieved of the drainage tube and catheter; and though he walked hunched over like a 90-year old, a pillow pressed to his stomach and ribs, he was finally vertical. 

“Nicely done,” Mei praised him.  “Now if I could only get you to do your spirometer exercises.”

“Better to just get up and move around than to sit in bed and suck on a beast-pump,” he said. 

Mei shook her head.  “Yer killin’ me.  It doesn’t look anything like a breast pump.  It’s not even in the same genus, for cripes sake,” she insisted.  “You’re like one of those crazy, fat headed dogs with strong jaws that never ever lets go once he latches onto something.  You know that?  Stubborn.”  She eased him down onto the bed and swung his legs onto the bed.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, relaxing into his pillow with a sigh.  “But you love me, anyway, Dr. Mei.”

Mei snorted.  “Do not.  And I told you, my name’s pronounced mayyy, like a little may flower not myyy.”

“Not what your nametag says.  An’ you do love me—admit it.  S’why you come roun’ so much.  Do you ever go home?  Can’ beat y’off with a stick.”  He grinned.

“What can I say?  I’m a workaholic.”  She waved her left hand in front of his face.  “Not to mention, see the ring, stud?  Hello?...married—to a big, red-headed Irish-man, no less.  We’re a real pair.  Six years now.  Besides, my husband’s an investigative journalist, emphasis on investigative,” she boasted.  “I think I need to stay on the straight and narrow.”

“Investigative?” Dean said, fingering his admittance bracelet.  Dean Simmons, he read the name.  He hoped that Mr. Simmons’ insurance card was good.  “I guess I better keep my nose clean then,” he said with an awkward smile. 

“Not to fear, Sparky.  He won’t be defending my honor for the next little while.”  She tucked in his blankets and lifted the safety bar on the bed.  “He’s busy working a job at the commune right now.”

“Commune?  They still have those?  What is it with this town?  Place is seriously stuck in the 60’s.”

Mei laughed.  “Well, these are more or less just harmless environmentalists—or were.  They own a stretch of land about thirty minutes outside of town, near the south fork of the Nooksack River.  They farm and sell their goods at the local farmer’s market.  Very strange happenings going on there lately, though.”

Dean’s antennae twitched.  “Strange?  Strange how?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t really know for sure.  Their new leader is very…” she searched for the word.  “He’s quite charismatic, I hear.  He’s been gaining a lot of new devotees, and not just transient kids or burnt out counter-culture types, either.  The group’s been attracting professionals, lawyers, teachers, businessmen; pretty much anyone who’s gone out there for whatever reason has chosen to stay.  They call themselves The Kindred.  Anyway, they’ve started openly recruiting.  Families of the new members are freaking out—trying to get the authorities involved because their loved ones have cut all ties and moved to the river-farm practically overnight, but there isn’t anything the police can do.  These people are adults.  My husband, Jason, is working on an exposé, talking with family members, filming the group’s practices and activities and interviewing their leader.”

“Aren’t you worried he might join, too?” Dean asked.

“Me?  No,” Mei said, confident.  She situated the oxygen cannula on Dean’s face.  “Jason is as grounded and level-headed as anyone I’ve ever met.  He’s not into any type of religion.  He’s a secular humanist.  Not even remotely the swayable type.”  She plumped a pillow and set it behind Dean’s back.  “Though, I’ve seen some of the members down in Fairhaven…that’s our local artists’ district…handing out flyers and trying to talk people into coming to their compound for teaching and fellowship.  They’re kind of creepy.  I’m not going to lie.  They all wear these very plain Nehru-type tunics and cotton pants—very bizarre.  Least they don’t shave their heads like the Hare Krishnas.  But the last thing this city needs is some crazy Heaven’s Gate type of situation.”

“This is such a weird place,” Dean said, trying to draw a steady breath.  “Stuck in a time-warp.  A rainy time-warp.”

Mei chuckled.  “You just don’t even know what you’re saying.  This place is paradise.  Spend the month of August in the Pacific Northwest and it will own your soul forever.  Anyway, Jason’s been at the river-farm for the past couple of weeks researching, observing and filming.  He’s been calling me with updates, so I don’t think he’ll be around to expose you for the inappropriate flirt that you are.” 

“I’m not th’flirt.  You’re th’flirt,” he contended.

“You’re the flirt.  I’m a doctor.  Got a parchment with a gold seal on it and everything,” Mei defended herself with a playful huff.

“Doctors don’ normally snuggle with their patients while they walk ‘em around,” Dean said, breathless. 

“Hah,” Mei scoffed.  “I was keeping you from kissing the floor, I’ll have you know.  Flirting my eye,” she twitted as she poured him a cup of ice-chips and set it on his bedside tray. 

“Psshh.”  Dean tried to find a comfortable position in the bed.  “So, what was your maiden name?” he teased.

She laughed.  “If I tell you will you promise to use your spirometer?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Don’t even say that, Slugger.” She tapped him.

“So…?” Dean prompted.

The doctor sighed and hung her head.  “It’s Kok.  My name is Mei Kok,” she said.  “And that’s spelled K—O—K, gutter-brain.  See, my parents…they’re old-world Chinese.  They didn’t speak a word of English when they came to this country.  They still barely comprehend the language as it…”  She stopped, seeing Dean shaking and turning bright red. 

“Pillow!” he gasped.  Mei brought the pillow to his belly, and Dean hugged it to him, straining and struggling for breath. 

“Are you okay?  Dean?”  She reached for his hand, taking his pulse.  “Talk to me, Dean,” she said.  Dean shook and quivered for half a minute before meeting her eye, composing himself.

“Your full name is Mei Kok-Hickey…” he finally said twitching, putting everything he had into avoiding the misery that laughing would bring.

“God, I hate you so much right now,” she said shaking her head.  “And, for the third time, my first name is pronounced mayyyy not myyyy.  The level of your smartass-ish-ness never fails to astound.” 

“Smartass-ish-ness?”

She folded her arms.  “Oh, shut up and suck on your breast pump.”  She grabbed the spirometer and handed it to him.  Her face was sour, but there was a twinkle in her eye.   “I have the rest of my rounds to make.  Oh, before I go,” she said, shifting gears and digging in the pocket of her lab-coat.  “Here.  Mr. Conner from the Whatcom County Parks Department dropped these off at the nurses’ station.  He came by while you were sleeping and didn’t want to disturb you.”  She handed Dean his car keys and phone.  “He said he parked the car in the main lot.  Said you had a great ride, by the way.  He found your phone in the basement after your accident, apparently.  Wanted me to pass it, and his thanks, along for your help.  He said their little problem had completely cleared up, and he promised to drop by when you’re feeling better.  Also wanted me to tell you how sorry he was for what happened.”  She moved toward the door.  “What were you doing for the parks department, anyway?” she asked. 

“Uh, I was checking for termites.  My family is in the extermination business.”  He changed the subject.  “Do you know where the rest of my things are?  My clothes and shoes?”

“Your shoes and socks are in there,” she said pointing to a small closet.  “I think your watch and little charm are in the drawer.  Your clothes are no good, now,” she explained.  “We had to cut them off of you.  Sorry.  We’ll get one of the volunteers to round some things up for you when the time comes.”

“I have some spare clothes in my car,” he said.  Mei nodded.

“We’ll get a volunteer to grab them for you.”  She watched as Dean opened his phone.  She shook her head.  “You can’t use cell phones in the hospital,” she said.  “Messes with the equipment.  You can make calls on your bedside phone.”

“I won’t make any calls on it.  I promise.  I just need to get some numbers off of it so that I can call my family.  I don’t have their numbers memorized.”

“All right,” she said, eyeing him with suspicion.  “Don’t try any funny business, now.”    

“I won’t.  Bedside phone.  Got it.  Thanks, Dr. Mei,” Dean said as she turned to go.

“You want the door open or closed?” she asked.

“Closed, thanks,” Dean said, studying the cell phone and scrolling through his missed calls. 

“See you tomorrow.  Remember the spirometer.  You promised,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, distracted.  His face suddenly fell, and he glanced up at the doctor as she turned to leave.  “Mei, has anyone beside my uncle called the hospital about me?”

“Not that I know of, Dean.  Do you want me to call someone for you?”

“N—no,” he said flatly, turning his attention back to the phone.

“Everything all right?” Mei asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said, distant.  “Everything’s fine.  See you later, Mei.”

“Yep,” she said, pulling the door shut behind her. 

In the dim room, Dean scrolled through his missed calls over and over again.  Six calls, starting the night of the accident.  Each and every one of them from Bobby.  Nothing from his Dad.  Nothing from Sam.  Dean scrolled up and down the list, unable to believe what the display told him.  He didn’t remember a lot about that night, but he remembered the calls to Sam.  He particularly remembered the last one he’d made, telling Sam how bad off he was—begging him to call. 

The small boost to his spirits that had taken days and all of Mei’s efforts to achieve evaporated in an instant.  Dean set the phone on the bedside table, rolled over, and stared at the wall in front of him.     

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“Damn kid, you sound like dried crap,” Bobby said.  “But you sound alive—and lucid.  That’s a plus.  How you feelin’?”

“I’m okay,” Dean said, his voice all but gone.  “Nothing’s broke that won’t mend.”  He ticked and poked at a piece of lint on his blanket.  “Thanks for everything, Bobby.  If it hadn’t been for you, I’d…”  He drew a shallow breath and closed his eyes.  “I owe you one.”   

“You’re welcome Dean.”  Bobby paused.  “Dean, I’m sorry…”

“Sorry?  Sorry for what?” Dean asked, mystified.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get there.  I had the hospital on speed-dial for updates.  I wanted to be there, but I had Richie in the hospital and a coven running amok at a retirement community.  We only took them down day-fore-yesterday, woke up in the hospital and only just broke myself out this morning.  Now I’m stuck trying to drink away a messed up back, a couple of cracked ribs and a broken wrist.  Oh, and a slight concussion—keep forgetting.  What is it with them things always slamming hunters into walls anyway?”

“Witches…” Dean commiserated. 

“That’s about the size of it, huh?  Anyways, I should be good to go tomorrow or maybe the next day.  Thought I’d head up your way, help you pass the time while you’re laid up.”

“You’re not driving that far gimped like that, Bobby.  You’ve done enough.  Besides,” he said, stony and cool.  “By the time you got here, I’d be long gone.  M’getting out of here soon.”

“You don’t sound like you need to be going anywhere, Dean.  You can barely catch your breath.”    

“Can breathe just fine,” he contradicted, forcing too much air into the words.  He twisted his fingers into his bed-sheet, struggling to replenish his oxygen supply.  When he could breathe again, he spoke.  “You just stay there and get better.  I’m out’a here soon.”

“Boy, you are your daddy’s son…I’m tellin’ you what…and that ain’t a compliment right about now.  You’re stubborn and bullheaded and stubborn.  You keep your ass in that bed and I’ll be there in a few days.”

Dean began to scrabble at the lint-balls petulantly.  “Bobby, I can’t stay here.”  He blew out the words, vaporous and weak.  “You know that.  Got an insurance card that says I need to be moving on.”

“Damn it, boy,” Bobby argued.  Dean could hear the old hunter remove his baseball cap, scratch his scalp and replace it with a peevish snap.  “How about we meet in the middle, then?  You head to South Dakota, and I’ll head there, too.  We can lick our wounds over a couple ‘a beers at my place—get some real damn food in us and just hole up.  I’ll see you there in a few days.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean hedged.  There was a quiet lull until Bobby cleared his throat. 

“Have you talked to them…either of them?” he asked, his voice soft and smooth, like he was wincing away from an expected blow.

“I called.” Dean hurled a lint-ball onto the floor.  “I called them both.”  He cleared his throat.  “Voicemail.”  There was a silence for a long moment.

“I called John when you got out of surgery, left a voicemail letting him know you were going to be okay.  You want me t—”

“Nope.”  Dean interrupted.  “Nope.  I guess as long as he knows I’ll be okay, that’s good enough for him.  He’s got his big hunt he won’t tell me about,” he said again, his pique punctuated by a wheezing huff of disgust.  “S’all good, Bobby.”  Silence descended between the two, and Dean finally loosed a dismissive click of his tongue.  “Hey, listen man…you know what?  I’m getting a little tired.  Why don’t we stuff our bras and paint our toes some other time, huh?  I’ll give you a call soon.”

Bobby let out a worn, defeated sigh.  “You’ll call me tomorrow.  And then we’ll make plans to meet up at my place.  Don’t give me no, maybe, or I dunno, ‘cause I ain’t takin’ none of ‘em.”

Dean was about to argue, but he heard voices outside his door—Mei’s among them.  He glanced at the cell phone in his hand.  “Shit.  Hey Bobby…gotta go…the cell phone Nazi is comin’.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Bobby insisted.

“Yeah…’K.  Gotta go,” Dean puffed and snapped the phone shut, tossing it in the drawer and closing it as Mei entered.  He gave her a big, fake smile.

“Wipe the innocent look off your face.  And quit using the cell phone,” she scolded.

“What?  I wasn’t d—” 

“Oh please.  The cell phone Nazi has perfect hearing.”  Mei closed the door behind her, shaking her head as she reviewed his chart.  She removed the oxygen cannula, fiddling with the meters before situating the full mask over his nose and mouth.  “Your O2 levels are still off, hot-stuff.  Gonna give you a little extra mojo for a while.”  Dean didn’t fight her on the change, grateful for the boost after his conversation with Bobby.  She studied the monitors above his bed.  “Your temp is up—99.2”

“Better alert the media.”  Dean smirked.

“Don’t tempt me.  Remember, I have connections,” she said absently as she studied his chart.  “I’m going to increase your antibiotic for the next 48 hours.  I might not have to do that at all if—”  She jabbed her finger at him and then grabbed the spirometer.

“Not now,” Dean waved it away, pointing to his oxygen mask.  “I’m having my O2 therapy.”

“You’re having O2 therapy because you haven’t used this like you promised me you would.”  Setting the spirometer on the stand, she pulled down the blanket and reached for his dressing.

“Hey, hey,” he said.  “I’m not that kind of dude.”

Mei rolled her eyes.  “I need to check your incisions.” 

Dean winced when she touched him.  “I’m fine.  Leave ‘em.”  He grabbed her hand, giving it an irritable shove.  She raised her eyes at him, surprised.  Dean licked his lips and tossed her a tart grin.  “I mean, it’s all good.  I just don’t feel like it right now.”

She watched him a moment, furrowing her brows, as though she was trying to figure him out, maybe.  Turning, she grabbed the chair from the corner, spun it around and straddled it, observing him as he plucked at his blanket.  “I hear you told Madeline to leave your room,” she said at last.

He gave a disinterested shrug as he continued to poke at his blanket.  “She smells like baked beans.” 

Mei read her chart, flipping the pages back and forth, considering.  “And Connie reports that you refused your pain medication.”  She fanned the chart down, eying him.  “Then you made her leave, too.”

“I’m not in any pain.”

“No?” Mei said with one eyebrow arched high.

“Nuuuupe,” Dean emphasized.

“They’re just trying to help you.”

“Don’t need help.”

“No?” 

“You know what they say.”  Dean brushed her off with a smooth smile.  “You can lead a gift-horse to water, but you can’t…uh…look him in the mouth…or somethin’.”

“Nice metaphor salad, there, Hemingway,” Mei said blandly.  “So, all this agitation, over-sensitivity, combativeness, and irritability is just you being a cranky-puss, then?  It has nothing to do with pain?”  

Dean’s game-face remained unperturbed.  “Would you believe I’m possessed by the Devil?”

“Nuuuupe,” Mei parroted.  She regarded her chart and then set it down.  “Dean, seriously…has anything happened to upset you since this morning?  You were fine the last time I saw you.  You were walking.  You were talking—and not just in monosyllabic grunts.  Did someone do something to upset you?”

Dean rolled his eyes and then closed them.  He sighed.  “I’m fine, Mei.”

“I can’t help you if you aren’t straight with me.  Concussions can cause all sorts of mood swings—”

“Ugh, I said I’m fine,” he whiffed out, opening his eyes and resuming his hunt for lint-balls.

“Hey.”  Mei tugged on the blanket that Dean was fastidiously working on, forcing him to meet her eyes.  “You know, it’s not at all uncommon for people to experience feelings of helplessness and vulnerability, even anger, after suffering the type of trauma you have.  It’s normal, Dean.  Add to that, the pain and healing process, and you have a gourmet recipe for post-op depression,” she said.  “If you want to talk about it, I’d be happy to—”

“I’m not depressed,” he cut her off again. 

Mei cocked her head, her eyes calling bullshit.  “Were you at least able to get in touch with your family?” she asked nodding toward the drawer that held the cell phone.

“My uncle.”

“Everything all right with him?”

“Peachy.”

“And your brother?  Sam…or Sammy is it?  Did you get to talk to him?”

Dean gave her a smileless smile.  “Can I have some more ice-chips, please?”

Mei chewed on her cheek, squinting as she watched him.  “Do you have some issues going on with your brother?”

Dean doubled his efforts with the blanket.  “Nope.”

The doctor gave a short grunt and sighed.  “If you don’t want to talk to me, I can have someone else come see you,” she suggested.

“Goddamn it, I said no!” Dean snapped with as much force as he could through the oxygen mask.  He leaned back and rubbed his head, feeling guilty.  “Just, no.” 

Mei rose, approaching him with caution, as though he were a wild animal.  “Dean,” she said, trying to calm him. 

He sighed, wishing for a do-over.  Not only did he feel like shit for snapping, he’d have to throw her a bone to avoid getting head-shrunk, judging by the worry and compassion in her eyes.  He shook her off, deflating.  “I’m sorry Mei.  I’m tired.  That’s all.  I’m just tired of hurting.”  Shit, Dean thought as Mei’s eyes went wide.  “I mean, okay, I’m a little sore, but it’s mostly cabin fever, Mei.  And I can be an ass sometimes.  It doesn’t mean anything.  I’m sorry I was rude to the nurses.  Do you want me to apologize to Connie and Baked Beans?”

“I’m not really worried about them, Dean.  I’m worried about you.  So are they.”  This time Dean submitted meekly as she pulled back the blanket to examine his surgical site.  He winced and cringed as she peeled off the tape and bandages covering his small incisions.  “Still tender?” she asked.

“Yeah, a little.”  He winced again as she probed the area with gentle fingers. 

“They’re healing pretty well,” she said.  “How’s the pain?”  She put her hand up, stopping him before he answered.  “No cock-‘n-bull,” she said.

“Not so bad.  Not as bad as not being able to breathe.”  Mei pantomimed strangling him and pointed at the spirometer.  “I know…I know.  You win.  I’ll be good, I promise.”

Mei made some notes on the chart.  “I’m going to order some Tylenol for you, and I’m going to put a note on here for the good stuff if requested, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed.

“All right, remember, though; pain management is a big part of the healing process.”

“You have my word,” he said. 

Mei released scoffing snort.  She poured some ice-chips into a Styrofoam cup and handed it to him. 

“Stick to it.”  She said archly and turned around, pushing the chair into the corner with her shin.  “All right, Dean.  Go easy on your nurses, huh?  Both Madeline and Connie are good nurses and good friends of mine, both professionally and personally.  Take your medicine; do your exercises—Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll be nice,” he said. 

“Right,” she said, watching him.  “Well, I’m off.  Got a big date with my husband tonight.  First time he’s been home in over two weeks.”  Dean wiggled his eyebrows.  “Hush, you!” she laughed.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.  Be good, or else I’ll have to bust out my Judo Fu skills,” she warned him.

“Judo Fu?”  Dean stared at her in disbelief.  “Seriously?”

She did a hand-chop motion.  “Fwahhhh!”

“Oh my god,” Dean said, shaking his head.  “You are a disgrace to your heritage, Grasshopper.”

She straightened up and shrugged.  “I can still kick your ass.” 

“In your dreams,” he scoffed.

“Prove me wrong,” she said.  “I dare you.”  She pointed to the spirometer, gave him a nod and headed for the door.  “Recovery is a challenge for anyone who’s been through what you have,” she said.  “You’re not alone, you know.” 

“Right,” he said with a casual nod.  “Sure, Mei.”    

As soon as she left the room, all pretense of a smile dissolved.  Dean turned with a hiss, burrowed his head into his pillow and snapped his eyes shut.  After another hour of struggling for breath, Dean sighed and finally grabbed the spirometer. 

* *

His sleep was too busy to provide escape or rest.  Senseless dreams became suffocating nightmares, and at 2:00am, Dean put an end to them by asking for some pain relief.  There was no real rest to be found with the drugs either, but at least he stopped caring.  His thoughts swirled and tripped around his doughy, dopey center, and the rest of the night passed without him stirring again.  

He was wasted and worn when he opened his eyes, too exhausted to carry out his early morning escape plan.  Instead, he continued to lie there, huddled beneath his oxygen mask until nature called, forcing him out of bed.  It was either take care of business or let them reinsert the catheter—and that wasn’t going to happen.  As soon he was finished he did his breathing treatment with the spirometer as promised.  He was tired of feeling like crap. 

Sometime mid-morning a different doctor showed up and let him know that Mei would not be in until the evening.  Dean tried to kick him out of the room when he made an attempt to examine him and only complied when the bastard threatened him with a sedative.  After that, he let the doctor have his way, biting back his anger and humiliation the whole time.  As soon as the doctor was gone, Dean sweet-talked Rachel, the young, bubbly candy-striper, into grabbing a change of clothes for him from the car.  She brought up a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and one of Sam’s old hoodies.  It was too big, but it would do—something to cover his head and serve as a disguise when the time was right. 

Despite his get-away clothes tucked in the drawer, Dean still lacked the energy and mental acuity to put his plan into motion; though, he did his breathing exercises every hour, hoping it would revive him.  He still felt off and couldn’t bring himself to touch the broth and jello that Connie had brought him.  While he was working up the energy to get dressed, he fell into a light sleep. 

He pulled himself awake sometime around 5:00pm.  Checking the clock, he sighed and tinkered with the idea of staying one more day.   He was just about to yield and go back to sleep when the door swung open and Mei walked in on her evening rounds. 

“Hey,” Dean croaked, hailing her listlessly, lying flaccid—as though he was a part of the bed itself. 

Mei didn’t return his greeting.  She seemed lost in thought, staring at his chart as she rhythmically tapped her pen against it.  Her gaze went from the chart to Dean’s meters and then right back to the chart, never once making eye contact.     

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad, Doc,” Dean wheezed with a lopsided smile.  She didn’t respond; he wasn’t convinced she’d even heard him. 

“Your temperature is 100.8,” she said at length, scribbling some notes on the page.  “I hear that you didn’t eat breakfast or lunch.”  She continued to write.  “Apparently you were also a royal pain in the ass for Dr. Miller, too.”  Mei sighed and worried her hand against her forehead, pinching her nose.  She turned and tossed the chart into the chair and folded her arms, pivoting to face Dean for the first time since entering.  Her eyes were smoky and red-rimmed.  She’d been crying recently.  Dean blinked a few times, perplexed.

“What can I say,” he tried to joke, employing his normal charm with caution.  “I’m a problem child.  I’ve been using the breast pump, though.  Every hour on the hour—doctor’s orders.  That’s something, right?  I don’t know if it’s helping yet.  I still can’t breathe right.”

Mei nodded absently and looked the monitors, her eyes still empty and distant.  “Have you been using your spirometer?” 

Dean did a double take.  “Uh, earth to Dr. Mei,” he said, waving his hand in front of her.  “You in there?”

“I’m done playing games, Dean,” she snapped without warning.  Her characteristically warm features turned hard and angry.  “Your fever is climbing and your O2 saturation is diminishing.  Your lungs could collapse from atelectasis if you don’t do those exercises; did you know that?  You think it’s hard to breathe now?  You need to use the spirometer!”

Dean’s breath started to come in bursts.  “I’ve been using it, Mei,” he said in between gasps.  “I swear.  I just told you I was.”  He pulled his mask off in a panic, gasping and straining for breath as he struggled to rise.

She looked at him, suddenly comprehending.  “Easy,” she said.  “Easy, Dean…”  She put the mask back on and turned his O2 level up higher, rubbing his arm, easing his breaths into a steady rhythm. 

“God, I’m sorry Dean,” she apologized and sighed.  “Add this to my other list of failures today,” she said thickly, tears welling in her eyes.

“What do y’mean?  Wha’s wrong?”  Dean said in between gasps.

She shook her head.  “Shhh.  Breathe.  I’m sorry, Dean.  I wasn’t hearing you.  That was completely unprofessional of me to snap at you like that.  I know you’re going through a rough patch, even if you won’t talk about it.  I screwed up.”  She looked him in the eye.  “I’m…I’m having a really bad day.  I’m so sorry.  I’m under the weather myself, and I shouldn’t have come in tonight.” 

“Wha’s wrong, Mei?” he asked. 

“It’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head again, her face a marbling of grief and shame.  “Just one of those days.”  She twisted her wedding ring and then straightened his covers.  “You need to concentrate on your health right now.”

“You can tell me.”   

Mei patted him.  “I’ve already been unprofessional by being so harsh.  I’m not going to make it worse by unloading my crap on a patient.  That wouldn’t be ethical.”  She gathered her chart and pen.  “Listen, hot stuff, I’m not going to be here for the next several days.  I have some personal business I need to attend to.  But I’m going to have them increase your antibiotic.  I know you’re using the spirometer, but you may have a little something taking hold anyway.  We’ll get it under control and get you out of here long before I get back.”  Dean said nothing as he watched her move to the door, didn’t know what to say at this point.  Opening it, she turned and gave him a weak smile.  “Keep using the spirometer.  And cheer up, okay?  I hope everything works out for you.”  Without another word from either of them, she walked out, shutting the door behind her.

Dean sat in dead silence for a moment and scratched his head, confused by the exchange.  Looking at his watch he sighed at having wasted the entire day.  With a shake of his head, he pulled the oxygen mask off his face and ran his hands through his hair, taking a moment to adjust.  Once his breathing was as close to normal as he could get it, he peeled off the tape protecting the IV needle in his arm, and gripping the plastic tubing, he took a breath and gave it a quick, decisive tug.

* *

He should have been more prepared.  The simple act of getting dressed had worn him out.  By the time he had finished and put his amulet on again, he was weak and wobbly.  He couldn’t take more than a few steps without having to stop to catch his breath—not to mention that making a break for it during the dinner rush was the worst possible time he could have chosen. 

Gripping the wall for balance, he worked his way around aides delivering dinner trays.  Standing erect caused his incisions to stretch and pull; it hurt like hell, but he forced himself to stand as straight as he could.  Since he didn’t have speed on his side, he’d have to rely on blending in with other visitors.  Pulling the hoodie up, he tried to keep his face turned toward the wall as he made slow progress and followed the signs.  Nearing the elevators, he found his way barred by the busy nurse’s station.  There was no way he was going to get past that unseen, hoodie or no. 

Wiping the sweat from his face, he clenched his jaw and leaned against the wall, trying to think of a Plan B.  Nothing immediate came to mind.  Stumbling against the wall, he glanced back the way he came, wondering if there were any other elevator hubs nearby.  As he stood there, squinting and tottering, appearing nothing like a healthy visitor, he noticed a small stairwell sign at the end of the hallway.  He sighed and turned, working his way down the hall again.  Swaying like a drunken frat boy, he threaded his way back past the kitchen-aides.  The smell of hospital food was no better the second time around, and Dean’s stomach rolled and quivered in complaint. 

It was slow going, but he eventually found his way to the end of the hallway.  Turning the corner, he nearly bumped right into Connie and Madeline, both inconveniently parked right in front of the stairwell.  Dean slipped around the corner and cringed against the wall.  He was dizzy and hollow, his legs like ribbons; he needed to get out of there before he passed out.  Rolling his eyes, the women continued their conversation, chatting back and forth in excited whispers.   

“Six years and poof.  Gone.  Just like that.  No warning whatsoever.  I honestly can’t believe it.  If those two can’t make it…no one can.  They were the perfect couple.”

Jesus, Dean thought.  Gossip hour at General Hospital was the last thing he needed.  He tried to muffle his wheezes as he drew breath and clutched the wall. 

“Well did he say anything?  I mean, this is coming from left field.  Is there another woman?” Madeline asked.

“No, not at all.  He joined that freaky commune he was investigating.  That whole place has gone full-on religious or something with that new leader of theirs.”  Dean stopped breathing at that point and turned a greedy ear toward them.

“No way!” Madeline exclaimed.  “My god, poor Mei.”

“It doesn’t make sense, right?” Connie agreed.  “They were happy.  You can’t fake that…not the way those two were.  Mei said Jason showed up with one of the other members and gave her an ultimatum.  Either she could go with them to that freak-show commune out on Mosquito Lake Road, or she could grant him a divorce.”  

“Man has that place changed.  We used to pick apples in their orchards years ago.  They were hippies, sure, but they weren’t off the rails.”

“Well they are now, apparently.  Jason wiped out their joint bank accounts before he ever met up with Mei last night.  He must have known she wouldn’t go with him.”

“Why would she?  Why would he?   Religion isn’t his thing.  Don’t you remember him and Dr. Miller at last year’s holiday party arguing over the living nativity scene at the courthouse?  I thought those two were going to come to blows over it.”

“Oh yeah,” Connie said, lowering her voice.  Dean leaned as close to the corner as he dare.  “Mei’s convinced they did something to him at the farm.  And I’m not talking just indoctrination…she said he’d changed.  Like…woo-woo weirdo shit—changed.  So, she went to the police.”

“She did?”

“This morning.  That’s why she missed her rounds.  Not that it did her any good, though.  They think she’s the one who’s crazy now,” Connie said.

“Huh?  Why would they think that?” Madeline wondered.

“Well, see…this is the weird, woo-woo part.  When Jason and his buddy showed up to try and convince Mei to come back to the commune with them, Mei’s convinced that she saw the other cult member’s eyes flicker—like a dog caught in headlights.  She said even the color changed for a second or two.  She said the guy’s eyes went from blue to a dark brown for a minute and then back to blue again.”  Dean sucked in a loud breath at that would have given him away had the nurses not been so involved in their conversation. 

“What the hell?” Madeline exclaimed.

Connie continued.  “Right?  He was talking to her and then Mei said it was like someone else was looking at her through him.”

“Ummm...”

“I know.  It’s crazy.  Mei’s always been a little off-center, but she’s not a loon.  My guess is that she was overwhelmed and probably hysterical.” 

Madeline agreed.  “People see weird crap when they’re that messed up.” 

“Still, it’s weird.  She said that cult member with Jason even told her at the time that Father was watching her…and that this Father had told him that she was worthy to come join them.”

“Who?  Who’s Father?”

“Their new leader.  They worship him as some messiah or something.  The commune’s turning into a weird cult.  Jonestown, Waco, even that kooky Mormon sect…these groups are all the same.  So bizarre.  But come on, people like Jason?  It makes no sense at all.  He should know better.  He does know better.  Anyway, Mei said what she saw was definitely not natural.  But the police laughed her out of the station.  The poor woman’s beside herself.  I told her I would head over to her place tonight so that she wouldn’t be alone, but I don’t get off until ten.  I’m worried about her.” Connie glanced at her watch and turned.  Madeline followed.  Dean gripped his hoodie ties and pulled them tight, turning his back as they rounded the corner.

“Well, wait for me.  I’m off then, too.  I’ll go with you.  What’s she going to do if the police won’t help?” Madeline asked as they walked right past Dean without noticing him.

“Not sure,” Connie said.  “But this is Mei we’re talking about.  She’s not going to give up without a fight.” 

Dean watched the women for a moment longer.  He bit his lip and with a lurch he pushed away from the wall and escaped into the stairwell. 

* *

The morning sun rising over the rim of Mt. Baker’s steaming crater spilled into Dean’s glassy eyes.  He squinted and moved the Impala’s visor down to block out the bulk of the glare.  Blinking owlishly, he rubbed his aching temple and checked his watch—5:45am.  To the west, his binoculars magnified what appeared to be several community outbuildings or workshops, perhaps with an adjacent field or activity yard of some kind.  To the north of that there were several rows of small cottages or barracks, each building not much bigger than the average storage shed.  To the south large vegetable gardens blanketed several acres, stretching right up to the edge of a large orchard.  A few people were bent in work, tending to things, puttering, doing whatever insane cult members do with their vegetables.  To the east, a massive A-frame log cabin with a wrap-around deck overlooking the property on one side and the river on the other rose from a pine-covered hill.  The perimeter of the entire compound was protected by high, military grade security fencing.  The only thing missing was a razor wire cap.  Three people, two men and a woman—devotees judging by their off-white tunics and brown trousers—were standing outside the guard-shack next to what he assumed was the locked gate.  If anyone was inside the shack, he couldn’t see for the tinting on the windows.

“So who’s turning you into pod people, huh?” Dean asked, adjusting the focus on the binoculars as he homed in on the ridiculously outfitted trio.  “What caught you?  A Jedi-wannabe demon?  A nerdy revenant?  A witch?  Oh god, please don’t let it be witches.  I hate them things,” he snorted. 

He winced as his diaphragm contracted, setting off a chain reaction that had him dropping the binoculars to clutch his abdomen with one hand and his chest with the other, trying to hoover air in and out of his lungs.  Working through the pain only had him wheezing and gasping more.  He pushed against the seat, gripping the steering wheel for leverage as he struggled to steady his breathing.  Once the dizzying panic of not being able to breathe passed, he drew a trembling hand across the sheen on his brow and wiped it on his shirt.  He searched the seat next to him and pulled the ibuprofen bottle from his duffel and swallowed three tablets.  It had been over two days since he’d snuck out of the hospital, and still his low-grade fever kept him foggy and shivering. 

He’d spent much of the past two days since leaving the hospital burrowed under the sticky, scratch-and-sniff sheets of the Shamrock Motel, but true to his word to Mei, he’d used the spirometer that he’d swiped from the hospital.  He might only be at about 50% at the moment, but he was good enough to do this job—well, good enough to do recon, at least—nothing strenuous.  The aspirin took the edge off his fever well enough.  He rummaged in his duffel again, pulling out another bottle and untwisting the cap.  Outdated antibiotics were better than no antibiotics at all.  They’d been in the first-aid kit for a while, but they’d been outdated when they got them to begin with, no doubt.  Black Market meds often were.  His cellphone began to ring right as he set the tablet on his tongue.  He swallowed it down and grabbed his phone, not bothering to look at the caller-ID.

“Bobby?” he said, wincing against the pill that had lodged halfway down his throat.

“No, Mother Theresa,” came the old hunter’s thistled reply.  “Of course Bobby.  You were supposed to call.”    

“Sorry,” Dean said.  “I was busy getting sprung.”

“Who did the springing…you or them?”

“Does it matter?  I’m free,” Dean said.

“So you gonna head this way?  Meet up at my place?”

“In a few days,” Dean said.  “I’m going to lay low here for a little while.  Say, Bobby?  Aside from demon possession, what else can take over a person?  Anything?” 

Bobby muttered incoherently for a moment before speaking. “You on a hunt, boy?  Are you out of your mind?  You ain’t in no shape to be hunting.  Not for weeks yet.”

“N—no, I know.  I was wondering, hypothetically.  Demons can possess you.  Ghosts can, right?  Anything else?”

“There’s plenty of things out there that can get up inside you if you’re not careful.  Revenants can get into corpses and use ‘em.  Dybbuks can possess people.  Vetalas.  Hell boy, are there any other hypothetical symptoms or specifics that might help narrow it down?”

“Well, what if someone’s eye-color changed for a second, almost as if someone else was looking through them.  Maybe something that might also make someone’s personality do an about-face.”

“Sounds like it could be a shape-shifter, though that ain’t possession.  Shapeshifters get them lens flares, though.  But they just copy people, mostly—make an evil clone of someone—extreme identity theft.  They don’t change the originals.  There’s no way to know for sure unless you get close enough.  Holy water, silver, salt—you know the drill.  It could still be a lot of things.  But you’re not hunting anything.”

“I know.  I was just asking.  Dad left me his journal and I was reading about an old case he never could figure out.”  He rolled his eyes at his own lie.  “Can’t hunt so I got to pass the time somehow.”

“Uh huh,” Bobby said.  “Do I need to make some calls to get a local hunter to handle something up there while you rest?”

“No, Bobby.  I’m not hunting,” Dean said with more irritation than he meant to show.  It tightened his chest and he rubbed it with a grimace. “I’ll call you in a couple of days, Bobby.  Thanks for the information, man,”

“You’re killing me here, Dean,” Bobby said.  “Get yourself some rest.”

“Okay, Bobby.  I’ll give you a call soon.”  Dean snicked the phone closed and pocketed it.  When he refocused the binoculars on the guard shack, the threesome had vanished.

“Sonofabitch,” he clicked his tongue.  He swung his binoculars from side to side, musing.  As he was scanning, a metallic tap on the roof of the car startled him.  Dean jumped in surprise, adrenaline rushing through him as he looked up into the faces of the three Jedi-guards.  Fuck, he thought.   He’d no business being out here if he could let himself be made so easily.  If he could’ve kept two thoughts in his head, he’d have just peeled away.  That was out of the question now, better to make the quick switch from a recon to an undercover-op.  He rolled down his window and gave all three a good-natured smile. 

“Howdy,” he said, palming his gun with one fluid motion and shoving it deep into a pocket.  He wiggled the binoculars in his other hand.  “Three spotted owls and a titmouse,” he boasted.  “You know it’s a good day when you spot a titmouse, am I right?”

“You okay?” one of the three Jedis asked.  “We saw you sitting out here and thought you might be having some car trouble.”

The man was in his mid-twenties, about Sam’s height, hair just as shaggy.  The man’s face seemed sincere and kind—not a trace of intimidation or hidden menace. 

“Uh…no.  No,” he said, studying the three benign faces.  “I was just,” he fumbled, displaying his binoculars while giving them a charming smile.  “I’m uh…I’m Dean, by the way.”  He threaded his arm through the window, offering it.  The young Jedi took it.

“I’m Brad,” he said.  “This is Gypsy.”  He pointed to the woman in her early-twenties.  She reminded Dean of Cassie, but without any of her hard edges and angles—and thinner than his ex-girlfriend, if that was possible.  Gypsy wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but her pretty, olive colored face was framed by a mass of whimsical spirals and curls.  Gypsy gave him a wink and a wave.   “And this is Jason,” he said pointing to the other man.  Dean watched him through narrow eyes.  If this was Mei’s Jason, he was her polar opposite.  A few years shy of forty, Dean figured—tall, broad but athletic, with dark red hair and splashes of freckles on his arms and face.  Jason gripped Dean’s hand and gave it a firm, friendly shake.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” he said.

“Jason…” he dithered.  “You look familiar, Jason.  What’s your last name?”

“Hickey,” he said, peering at Dean as if trying to place him.  “Jason Hickey.”

Dean shrugged.  “I dunno, man…maybe not.  Jesus Christo, you look familiar, though.”  He observed the trio intently for a moment and then relaxed into his seat, relieved—somewhat perplexed.  He bit his lip in thought a moment and then smiled, casual and off-hand.  “Must have one of those faces, huh?” 

Jason chuckled.  “Yeah, maybe,” he agreed. 

“We didn’t mean to startle you or intrude,” Brad interjected.  “We were a little worried that you might need some help.  You’ve been out here since before dawn.”

“Ah, no,” Dean said, nodding toward the guard shack.  “What’s the deal with San Quentin?” He asked.  “You keeping people in or out?”

“Hah!” Brad laughed.  “It’s nothing like that, man.  It’s more for keeping the coyote out and the deer away from the crops.” 

“So what…?  You’re farmers or something?” Dean asked.  “You work here?”

Gypsy smiled.  “This is The Kindred,” she said, assuming the words meant something to him.

“Kindred?”  Dean quirked an eyebrow. 

“Well, the official name of our group is The Dynamic Synthesis Co-op,” she elaborated.  “We’re establishing a whole new paradigm in interpersonal and intrapersonal transformation.  We seek to proactively empower individuals through collaborative synergy,” she said, but the words seemed foreign in her mouth, spoken with a sing-songy lilt, a recitation.  “But to us, we are and will always remain, The Kindred.” 

“Huh.”  Dean stared at her. 

Jason laughed.  “Don’t let our official description scare you off,” he said, glancing past Dean at the clothing and food wrappers strewn across the back seat.  “We’re just people attempting to find a permanent place in this world.  Something we can count on.  So we’ve come together from all walks of life and created a little family community here.  It’s kind of hard being all alone with nothing and no one to fall back on, you know?” he said, continuing to study the disarray inside the Impala.

Dean observed Jason.  Again, he saw no hint of cunning or deceit.   But there was also no hint of Mei, either.  Dean knew that Jason had a family—a good family before he came here.  Dean bit back his words, picking and choosing them with great care. 

“Y—yeah,” he said.  “It sure is tough.”

“Say,” Brad interrupted.  “Are you hungry?  We were about to go get some breakfast.  Why don’t you come join us?  We have a 120ft Douglas Fir with an eagle’s aerie in it on the north side,” he said nodding toward Dean’s binoculars.  “The hatchlings are a couple months old.  You should come see them, man.  They’re incredible.”

Dean hesitated.  He hadn’t planned on doing anything beyond some recon at this point.  The aspirin hadn’t kicked in yet, and he could feel the heat coming from his cheeks.  He wasn’t even so sure that he could stand up straight after sitting for the past couple of hours, but he’d stupidly exposed himself.  He’d have to improvise.  They knew him now; it wasn’t like he could create a new cover.  Posing as some loser who needed a substitute family was as good a story as any.  Might even be better than coming in as a cop or investigator, something that threatened them, he thought.  Approaching them antagonistically hadn’t worked out in Jason’s favor, apparently.  Maybe playing along for a couple of hours would get him closer without arousing suspicion. 

“Dean?  How about it?” Brad said again, smiling.  “You’ve got to meet Maureen; she makes the best blueberry pancakes you’ve ever had.  I’m not even close to joking.”

Dean’s stomach, a big fan of pancakes on any normal day, rebelled at the thought, but a quick recon from the inside might be invaluable.  He sized them up.  The Jedi-guards were unarmed.  Dean’s hand went to his pocket, feeling the gun hidden there.  He could get out if push came to shove, but more than likely they were going to load him up with pamphlets and manuals on his first day there.  Dean looked from Brad to Jason.  He thought of Mei and the devastation in her eyes, the confusion and the loss.  Jason didn’t belong here.  He belonged with his wife, and if anything supernatural was at work, it was his job to take care of it.  His lips tightened and he rubbed his temple. 

“Sure,” he said.  “That—that sounds great.”

“Awesome,” Brad said, opening the driver’s door.  “Once you see the place and meet everyone, you’re never gonna want to leave.”     

To Be Continued…  

Chapter Text

* *

Brad reached out, fisting Dean’s collar as the hunter teetered and clutched his ribs.  Jason took hold of his shoulder as well, steadying him.

“Whoa,” Brad said, twisting the shirt and navigating him up.  “Hey, you okay, Dean?”  Dean got his center and levered himself against the car door, trying to pass it off as being nothing more than car-cramped.

“Yeah, m’good.  Been sitting too long, that’s all,” he managed, backing out from under Brad’s helping hand and conspicuously stretching his legs.  He pressed the lock and closed the door of the Impala, giving her a fond pat.  “You sure she’ll be safe here?”

Brad looked at the car and nodded.  “It’ll be fine.  This is a dead-end.  See?  The road stops over there by the riverbank—that tree line right there.  Not very many people come out this way.  We’re pretty secluded, and we’re not going to be gone too long.  You don’t have to worry.  C’mon,” he said, turning and pointing toward the gate.  “You’re going to love that aerie.” 

“You should see this place in winter when the salmon are running,” Gypsy said as they walked.  Dean fell behind, the landscape spinning and warping as he forced air in and out of his shocked and withered lungs.  “The sky is full of eagles.  I counted over one hundred separate birds in one afternoon last January.  It’s one of the most amazing things you’ve ever seen.”

Dean nodded, trying to pay attention to her despite feeling very winded and short of breath.  He snatched breaks, slowing his pace and lifting his binoculars, pretending to scan the sky for birds. 

“This place is cool.  We don’t have anything like it where I’m from,” he wheezed.   He cleared his throat and coughed, setting off a sharp pain in his ribs.  

“Yeah, I saw your plates,” Jason commented.  “You’re a long way from Kansas.  What brought you up here?”  The trio jaunted on, and Dean strove to match their gait.  It was hard going and Dean forgot to listen to his question.  Jason finally asked again.  “What brought you up here?”

“Oh,” Dean said, stopping again, looking over the grounds from outside the fence.  The sun was beginning to dip its toes into the trees that bordered the complex.  He continued taking in the sights until he could speak.  “I was trying to find odd jobs.  Thought of goin’ to Alaska to see what’s what up there.  Stopped here t’look around.  S’pretty.”

“Do you have asthma, Dean?” Brad asked.  “We can slow down if you like.” 

Dean tried to scoff, but he found no air.  He took another moment and put a hand to his chest.  “No, no,” he rasped at length.  “Sorry.  Just getting’ over a bad chest cold.  M’good, though.”

“Oh, those suck,” Gypsy said.  “We’ll take it slow then.  We’re not in any hurry.”  The Jedis stood, giving Dean a moment to catch his breath.  When they resumed walking again, they let Dean set the pace.

Brad continued to talk about the eagle population until they stopped in front of the gate and hailed another Jedi who’d remained behind in the guard-shack when they came to talk to Dean. 

“Tim,” Brad called out the tall, rail-thin Jedi.  “Hey, this is Dean.  He’s gonna join us for breakfast.  You mind holding the fort while we show him around?”  Tim held his hand out for Dean to take.

“Not at all.  Take your time.  Heya Dean, glad to meet you,” Tim said, a genuine smile lighting his face as he opened the gate.  “I’ll be here when you guys get done.  Just come on back when you’re ready and I’ll see that you get to your car safe and sound.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, glancing up at the wrought iron gate.  There was an intricate inscription woven into the iron bars of the arch.  You Are Home, it said.   Dean rolled his eyes when he spotted a No Trespassing sign on the gate itself, and he smirked at the irony.  Noticing the gate’s sophisticated locking mechanism and keypad, he glanced over at Jason.

“You afraid that deer will outsmart a padlock?” he asked, raising his eyebrow at the Jedis.  Tim laughed dismissively.

“We’ve had some vandalism on the property,” Tim explained.  “Locals used to drive their ATVs up here.  Caused a lot of damage to the orchard and our gardens.  The land is our livelihood, so we’re a bit protective.  This is a great area to live, but some of the natives aren’t quite as friendly as you’d think—especially toward anyone they see as different.”

“How different are you?” Dean asked.

Brad shrugged.  “Well, you know…we live and work on this land.  We openly share the fruits of our labor equally with all those who live here.  Every person is viewed as inherently important, significant, needed and loved.”  He gave Dean a penetrating glance.  “We’re a family.  A lot of people don’t like that.  It threatens their worldview.  Still, we wish no harm to anyone.  We want to be able to plant our crops and live our lives in peace, so we have locks on the gates to ensure that we have it.”

“Huh.”  Dean listened to the young man speak, surprised and moved by his sincerity.  The kid was full of shit no doubt, but it was plain that he believed it.   It could be that whatever was going on here, maybe these people weren’t even aware of it.  He’d made sure to memorize the color of each person’s eyes.  Jason’s were pale blue.  Brad’s were hazel.  Gypsy’s were already a dark brown, as were Tim’s.  He filed the information away and Dean smiled coolly, nodding.

“I hear ya,” he said.

Dean and the Jedis passed through the gate, and Tim locked it behind them.   “You guys have a good breakfast.  See you later,” he called. 

As soon as they began walking, the pain and shortness of breath returned.  Dean tried to ignore the deep burn as he looked around, making mental notes as they made their way into the compound.  People were dotting the fields in the distance, crouched in work or doing odd jobs.  No one else was on the road.  He could hear someone speaking over a PA system in the distance, near the knot of buildings and inhabited areas.  It was too far off to make anything out, though.  Jason stopped and nodded to Brad. 

“Gypsy and I are gonna run on ahead and make sure Maureen gets breakfast started.  Brad, why don’t you show him around the place and meet us back at the mess hall in about half an hour?  Then, after breakfast we can hike up to the aerie.  Sound good?”

“Suits me,” Brad nodded.  “You okay with that, Dean?”

Dean smiled and nodded; though, he was sure he wouldn’t make it far if he tried to hike anywhere.  One quick look at the place and he’d make some excuse to leave.  He nodded again, trying to conserve his breath for more important things.  Gypsy and Jason took that for an okay and jogged off, leaving Brad and Dean strolling along the well-tended cobblestone road toward the cottages.

Dean turned, studying the high gate and fencing.  “The gates may keep people out, but doesn’t it also keep people in?” he asked, breathless. 

Brad chuckled.  “No, of course not.  We don’t force anyone to stay here, Dean.  People are free to come and go as they wish.  You don’t have to live on the grounds to be a part of the group, though I haven’t met anyone who has chosen to live elsewhere.  There is no coercion at all.  We can leave.  In fact, we often go out into the community.”  Brad squinted his eyes.  “So what about you?  You’re from Kansas, right?  You got family there?”

Dean shook his head.  “Not anymore, no.” 

“Not anymore?” Brad raised an eyebrow.  “Are they up here, then?”

“My dad is on the road a lot.  Work.  My brother goes to Stanford.”

“No kidding?” Brad blew out, impressed.  “That’s a great school.  You and your dad must be proud.”

“I am,” Dean said darkly.  He could feel Brad’s eyes all over him as he took another swipe at some rivulets of sweat dripping from his temple.

“So you’re on your own then?  That must be tough,” Brad mused. 

Dean didn’t answer.  He shrugged and avoided eye contact. “So what’s the deal with you?  We’re you born here?  Do your parents live here, too?”

Brad watched him a beat.  “No, not at all.  I was a Sociology grad student at U-Dub.  I was doing my thesis on cults if you can believe it.”  Dean raised his eyebrows and stumbled on a jutting cobble.  Brad gripped him.  Dean couldn’t help but hiss as he whisked air in and out of lungs that could not handle the demand. 

“Dean, man…are you sure you’re okay?  That is one hell of a cold.”  Brad reached toward the arm Dean had wrapped protectively around his abdomen.

“M’fine!” Dean said, stepping away, trying to keep the young man at arm’s length without being aggressive.  “Let’s go,” he said, walking on, slow and tentative.  “You were telling me about coming here.”

“Uh,” Brad said frowning.  “Yeah, right.  I had heard about a new group up this way and wanted to study them over the winter break.  I used to be extremely ego-driven when it came to school.  So instead of spending the holidays with my parents, I drove up here and, well, I’m still here—happily so.”  He pointed toward the cottages as they approached. 

“So they sucked you in, eh?” Dean asked with an airless laugh. 

“Not at all, man,” Brad laughed along with Dean.  “It wasn’t what I thought.  It’s not a cult.  See, cults fundamentally seek to control and oppress the individual.  This place frees you—it opens the mind and teaches you how to let go.  It’s like an anti-cult in that respect.  It’s honest work with honest human interactions.  That’s something that’s hard to come by on the outside.  There are no games here—no fine print or backdoors.  Being part of The Kindred offers a level of freedom that I never knew was possible.  I mean, you just can’t understand how materialistic and ambitious and competitive I used to be.  I was a walking, talking ego, nothing more.  This place has tamed that lion; it’s brought me nothing but peace and joy.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said.  “So your parents are okay with you leaving school like that?”

Brad’s smile dulled.  “Well, let’s say they’re not happy and leave it at that.  But that little family drama has nothing to do with me coming here.  That’s a whole side dish of fucked-up.  Bottom line, if I decide to go back to school, there’s nothing stopping me.  I simply don’t feel the need right now.  I’ve found something more fulfilling.”

“What?  Picking potatoes and carrots?”  Dean asked with a skeptical puff of his cheek.

Brad’s lips tightened.  “Well, Dean, it sure beats what’s out there, isn’t it?  The world is nuts, man.  It’s out of control.  There are people flying planes into skyscrapers—we’re on the brink of war.  What if the enemy has nukes?  What then?  Millions will die.  And for what?  Do you know?  Because I’m stumped.” 

Dean had to admit he didn’t quite get humans or their wars either, but he also knew that Brad didn’t have a clue where the real threat lay.  However, he nodded, playing along with him.  “Yeah, it’s nuts.”

Brad went on passionately.  “So I don’t mind picking potatoes and carrots.  It’s more honest than anything else I’ve ever done.  It’s more real.  And I’m working with people who’ve become like family to me.  A real family, not the twisted caricature that mine tried to sell to me and to the world—all show and no depth.  I’m not saying my parents are bad people, not at all, but it was completely jacked, man.  My dad is the CEO of an international cargo shipping company based in Seattle.  He wanted me to get a Business degree.  I wanted to be a Sociologist.  You can imagine his disappointment.”

“Wanted you to go into the family business, eh?” Dean said.

“Yeah.  Man, I did everything I could to earn his approval.  Everything.  I went to a good school, got good grades—dated nice girls.”  He shook his head, disgusted.  “It was never enough.  It was his way or the highway.”

“That sucks,” Dean said as he looked around.

“Yeah it does.  I spent years knocking my head against a wall trying to earn his respect.  I’d have done anything for my parents, but…” he faltered and swallowed, squinting at the sun still low on the eastern horizon.  “I was always a disappointment to them.”  He shrugged.  “Anyway, I’m proud of this path that I’ve chosen.  It’s my path to choose, finally.  I’m free.”

“Okay,” Dean said with a hard edge.  “So you’re free.  Does that mean you have to cut them out of your life entirely?  How good can any spiritual path be that keeps you from your own family?”

“No, I need distance from my family for the time being, otherwise they’ll just try and draw me back into their world.  I can’t take that chance.  Besides, what kind of loving family would try to own me?  What kind of loving family would try to hold me back?”  Brad asked in return.  “I lived my whole life nearly killing myself to meet expectations that were suddenly amended with addendums by my parents the moment I drew close—withholding their praise and support until I achieved what they wanted for me.  Trying hard, being obedient, toeing the line got me nowhere.  Fuck it, you know?  I never knew how alone and lost I was until I came here.  I have a higher purpose, now.  I’m no longer alone.  I’m no longer lost.  Who doesn’t want that?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably.  “It sounds too good to be true,” he retorted.

“It isn’t,” Brad said, emphatic.  “It’s real, and it’s here.”

As they made their way past the cottages, the PA system fell silent.  They still hadn’t come close enough for Dean to catch anything.  Despite their slow pace, he had to stop again to catch his breath.  The pain in the right side of his chest was getting worse, and Dean wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep walking.

“I mean, what do you want out of life, Dean?” Brad asked, stopping alongside him.  Dean thought about hunting with his Dad and Sam and then shook his head.  He ignored the question and pointed to one of the cottages. 

“You guys live in these freakin’ doll houses?” he asked.

Brad laughed him off.  “Yep, they’re small, but we don’t spend much time in them other than to sleep.  And, I guess that’s another thing with us, we’re not addicted to ownership like the rest of Western culture.  We’ve adopted a bit of a Thoreauean attitude in that respect.”

Dean counted about 30 cottages all told.  “You can’t get too many people into those shoeboxes.  How many of you live here?”

“We have about 55 people on the grounds, but we’re growing.  We house two people per cottage.  If more people join us, we can always build more cottages.  We can put one up in a few hours working as a team.”

Dean noticed the mansion on the hill.  “Right.  So what’s that?  That doesn’t seem very humble to me.” 

“That’s just our…I dunno how to explain it.  That place is like our headquarters.”

“Don’t tell me.  Your leader lives there, right?” he smirked, barely disguising his contempt for their leader’s lavish home.  He had to remind himself to appear interested, but the pain and struggle to breathe took its toll on his mood and his patience.

“Mmm,” Brad hedged.  “He sleeps there, yes, but it’s not his house, if that’s what you’re implying.  He doesn’t own it.  We are all welcome in that house.”

“I see,” Dean rolled his eyes.  “So what’s that guy’s deal?  Is he like your minister or something?”

Brad’s face smoothed out as he smiled.  “Father is our teacher, yes.”

“Father?  Seriously?”

“It’s a term of respect,” Brad explained with a shrug as they began walking again.   “He’s not so much our leader as he is our guide.  He teaches that the path to enlightenment is a four-fold process of letting go.  It’s not easy, but once you are on The Path things become clearer.  Father’s been where we are; he knows what it’s like, and he knows the way out of our ego-driven perceptions.  He’s the most spiritually advanced soul I’ve ever known.  We all admire him.  We trust him.  He’s not above us, just a little bit ahead, that’s all.”  Dean said nothing. 

Brad pointed to the center of the compound where the larger buildings were.  “Over there is our community center—where we do most of our living and soul-work.”  He studied Dean’s face.  “But I think we better get you sitting down, man.  You look exhausted.  Come on, I’m sure Jason and Gypsy have gotten Maureen working on those pancakes.  If they can’t make you feel any better, nothing can.”

“What’s that?”  Dean stopped, looking at a strange, heavy trapdoor nestled within the concrete lip of what appeared to be an underground bunker or shelter of some kind.  There was a keypad lock attached to it. 

“Ah,” Brad said.  “That’s one of our meditation rooms, believe it or not.  We call it The Kiln.  It’s underground to keep the temperature regulated and the place soundproof.  Part of our discipline requires inner reflection from time to time.  We can’t achieve a deeper self-examination when we are bombarded non-stop with outside stimuli, so we have this place as a quiet retreat to turn to when we need it.  Come on,” Brad steered Dean away.  “Let’s get you off your feet.”

Dean offered no argument.  He was getting close to the sit-down-or-fall-down point, and he needed clarity in order to figure out his next move.  There seemed to be no threat of imminent danger, but he didn’t want to push it, either.  He eyed Brad up and down as they walked.

“So what’s with the Jedi getup?” he asked.  Brad threw his head back at that and laughed.

“That is exactly what I thought the first time I saw the people here,” he hooted.  “God’s honest truth, Dean.”  He laughed until he wiped a tear away.  “Yeah, okay, you got me there.  These aren’t the most stylish clothes, that’s for sure.  We wear them as a matter of efficiency.  Easier to launder everything together.  We also do it as a way to build a sense of community and belonging, I suppose.  Mostly though, we do it to simplify our lives.  We don’t believe in indulging our egos.  Uniform wear is a way of freeing us…a way to help us let go of our vanity and selfishness.  We were never meant to be separate and alone, Dean.  This is fundamental to Father’s teachings.”

“Well, whatever floats your boat, man,” Dean said.  “But this ain’t much of a selling point for me, I gotta tell you that much.”

* *

“It is so nice to meet you, Dean,” Maureen said as she drew him into the dining hall.  She enveloped him in a warm embrace, catching Dean off guard.  He winced against the pain in his ribs, but he didn’t fight her, either.  She broke the hug and extended a graceful hand to him.  Dean studied her as she shook his hand.  He guessed her to be in her late forties, perhaps, but beauty still kissed her smooth skin.  He figured her for a real knockout in her prime.  Even her age-lines served to accentuate her symmetrical features.  She wore her ash-blonde hair in a ponytail that spilled over her shoulder. 

“You feel warm, Dean.  Are you running a fever?” she asked, concerned.  She reached out her hand to touch his forehead, but Dean moved away from her. 

“Naw,” he said.  “Been walking with Brad.  I’m getting over a cold.  It’s nothing.”

Maureen took the hint and backed off, pointing to a bank of tables.  “Well come on in and get yourself something to eat.  I hear Brad has been talking up my pancakes.  He’s been a fan since day one.  Come on, sit down and eat up.”

Dean approached the table set for four with serving plates piled high with pancakes, bacon and biscuits.  A carafe of steaming coffee on the side, along with syrup and a cold pitcher of orange juice completed the setting.  Dean’s stomach lurched, queasy and empty at the same time.  The burning sensation in his chest had not gone away even though he was no longer walking.  Mei had told him not to eat any solid food for another week yet.  Bacon and pancakes as his first real meal seemed too ambitious, even for him.  “Uh,” he hesitated.  “I hope you all are hungry, too.  That’s a lot of food.”  Brad put his hand on Dean’s shoulder guiding him to the table. 

“Sit down,” he coaxed.  “Let’s enjoy Maureen’s pancakes before we head up to show you the aerie if you’re still up to it.  I’m serious; it’s an incredible sight.”  Brad watched as Dean shuffled toward the table, holding his arm against his ribs to protect them.  “And if you’re not up for the hike today, you’ll just have to come back and see us again when you’re feeling better.” 

Maureen began serving everyone, placing several pancakes on Dean’s plate.  He stared at them, torn between fear and desire.  “Dean, come on…you’ll hurt my feelings,” she laughed, watching him.  Dean took a small bite. 

“They’re wonderful,” he said, suppressing a wince as he swallowed. 

“Jason and Gypsy tell me you’ve come all the way from Kansas.  I’m a Topeka girl, myself,” Maureen went on as she poured them all some coffee.  “Sadly, my parents died when I was a young teen, and I moved here to live with my aunt and uncle.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dean said, pushing the pancakes around on his plate. He took a tentative sip of the coffee, which seemed to go down much easier, hot and strong and better than anything he’d tasted in a week.

“It’s all right. It was a long time ago.  So, what brought you all the way up to The Fourth Corner?” Maureen asked, sitting down next to them and pouring herself a cup of coffee as well. 

“Hunting…for work.”  He shrugged.  “So Brad was telling me about this place,” he said, steering the conversation away from himself.  “How long have you all been here?”

Maureen grabbed the coffee pot again and topped off his cup.  “I’ve been here since the late 80’s.  My husband Jonathan and I came here when the river-farm was just starting out, so I guess I’m the senior member here.  Jason’s been with us for less than a month.  Brad’s been with us since winter.  Gypsy came here, when was it?  Late last fall?” she turned to the girl.

Gypsy nodded.  “October,” she clarified. 

“So is Gypsy your real name?” Dean asked. 

The young woman chuckled.  “No.  It’s Georgia.  But I left home when I was fifteen.  My parents were extremely abusive—alcoholics, the both of them.  I ran away…moved around a lot.  I even lived out of my car at one point.  When I met Father, he looked right into my soul and saw my past.  He said I’d been a lost gypsy.  It’s now a badge of pride: the gypsy who no longer roves.  The name stuck,” she explained with a playful quirk of her cheek.  “Anyway, Andrew came here in August, and I followed two months later.”

“Who’s Andrew?” Dean asked, picking at a piece of pancake.  His stomach was already starting to cramp, adding to the nightmare tightening in his chest.

“Andrew is my fiancé,” Gypsy said. “I met him when I was waiting tables in town.”  

Maureen nodded and poked her.  “You were unstoppable,” she said with a fond smile.  “You were hell bent on getting him out of here.  How long did you camp outside those gates?”  Gypsy’s face went red and she laughed, embarrassed.

“Gosh, don’t remind me, Maureen.  I was nothing but my own ego back then,” she admitted. 

“What do you mean?” Dean asked biting into a small piece of bacon, hoping it would be easier than the pancakes.  It wasn’t.  He set the rest of the piece down and grabbed at his middle.

“You all right?” Gypsy asked.

“Yeah.  Go on,” he deflected.

Gypsy shook her head.  “Andrew is an electrician.  Father hired him to do some work at the house.  It didn’t take long for him to see how great it was here, and he joined pretty quickly.  I was naturally suspicious—materialistic and lost, and I was pissed that Andrew was involved with this place.  I couldn’t have been more self-driven and closed to Father’s message.  I tried to convince Andrew to leave,” she said, and the others nodded in understanding.  “I even tried to trick him to come out—tried to force him to leave, as if this place was nothing but a cult.”  Her voice broke with shame.  Jason reached out and stroked her shoulder.  Gypsy brushed her fingers across his, acknowledging his support.  “He begged me to spend a couple of days here with an open mind and see what it was truly like.  I agreed, mostly to prove how wrong and sick this place was, and…” Her face lit up with a narcotic smile.  “And the rest is history.  I’m home.  I was so wrong.”

Dean lifted his glass of orange juice, looking over it at Gypsy.  “You sure you didn’t drink the Kool-Aid, too, maybe?”  He set the glass down without swallowing any.  Gypsy shrugged.

Brad cleared his throat and broke in.  “I can understand that mode of thinking, Dean.  It’s not unhealthy to question, but it is, I think, counterproductive to have such a closed mind.”  He lifted his glass and took a sip of his orange juice.  “This place may not be for everyone, but it is not a modern manifestation of our tribal impulses, either.  I think any person who has doubts should at least meet Father and hear him speak before jumping to conclusions.”

“Right,” Gypsy agreed.  “I put Andrew and me through a lot of needless stress because I couldn’t get past my own hang-ups.  And yet, with all of that, I have found complete acceptance and forgiveness here.  I didn’t know how alone and lost I was until Father opened my eyes.  He really taught me to let go.” 

Maureen reached out and smoothed the girl’s hair and then turned to Dean.  “We’re not trying to sell you anything, Dean.  It’s perfectly acceptable to us if this place is not for you or for anyone else,” the older woman said.  “We all have our paths in life.  This is ours, and we wouldn’t change that now for the world.  We’re connected and part of something great, thanks to Father.”

“So when did this Father dude become your leader?  Has he been here since you first got here, Maureen?” Dean asked.

“Oh no,” Maureen said.  “Father came to be with us less than two years ago.  Before that, we were just a commune of farmers.  Heck, we used to stage music concerts in the orchard, bringing in local bands during the summer to help support our very small group.  No, most of what you see now is all new.  Father showed up here the spring before last looking for work.  I felt sorry for him, so I offered him a job.  It didn’t take us long to realize how much we had to learn from him.”

“Huh, so lemme get this straight.  Some stranger shows up on your doorstep out of the blue, and you make him your leader?  Isn’t that a little odd?”

“Maybe—to the unopened eye,” Maureen said.  “But you, too, have shown up on our doorstep out of the blue.  Are you suggesting that you have so little worth that we should turn you away?  Should we not take whatever teaching you have to offer?  We are all teachers in our own way, Dean.  Every last one of us.”

Dean didn’t know quite how to answer that.  He expected something different from these people, more pressure maybe.  They completely believed what they were saying.  He wasn’t sure what kind of spirit or creature could dupe people on this level.  These people were fucking goofy, sure, but he didn’t see any sign of outright coercion.  It was hard to concentrate with his lungs refusing to work.  He’d have to do a lot more research when he got back to the motel.  He put his fork down, unable to ignore the pain in his chest and stomach.  He was nauseous, and he took several shallow breaths to try and settle things.  After a moment, he focused on Jason.  As bad as he was feeling, he couldn’t resist digging deeper.

“And what about you, Jason?  Were you alone and lost, too?”  Dean was surprised to see a twinge of pain in Jason’s expression.  The man didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Sometimes you don’t realize how lost you are,” he said.  “Sometimes it takes finding your true path to realize how empty your life was before.”

Dean folded his arms in front of him.  “That a fact?  So how empty was your life?” he asked, barely able to mask his anger. 

Jason gave him a pained look.  “I had everything…and nothing.  I was at the top of my game professionally, but something was missing.  I tried to talk to my wife about it, tried to get both of us to cut back our hours at work, but she wouldn’t hear of it.  So, after a while I stopped trying.  I lost myself in my job, became smug and cocky, thought I had the world all figured out.”  He set his fork down and eyed his half-eaten pancakes with a blank expression.  “I was worse than Gypsy by far.  I didn’t come here to pull someone out.  I came here with conscious intent to destroy the place.  I was a reporter who believed The Kindred to be another Jonestown in the making.  No.  It’s worse than that, even.  I didn’t just believe it, I wanted it to be another Jonestown.  Another Jonestown or Waco would have been a huge career boost for me,” he said, giving his bacon an aimless poke, guilt and remorse watering his blue eyes.  “I learned the truth about Father as soon as I arrived and became an Initiate on my first night with The Kindred.  After a couple of weeks I was promoted from Initiate to a Disciple.  I’ve been learning to let go of my old life since then.  Letting go of work and my career is easy.  I still have an attachment to my wife that I am trying to come to terms with.”

“Your wife?” Dean said, sitting up straighter, watching the man. “So you left your wife to come here?” 

Jason swallowed thickly.  “I love my wife more than anything,” he said.  “As soon as I became a Disciple I went to her and tried to convince her to come and join me.  But she’s…”  He sighed.  “She’s willful.  She doesn’t understand.  Her ego is very strong at the moment.  Very strong,” he said, wounded.  He searched each face in turn.  “I have hope, though.  Being able to share this place with her would mean everything to me.”  Gypsy and Maureen reached out to him, gripping his hand, stroking his arm. 

Dean shook his head, attempting to hide his disgust.  “But if it comes right down to it, you’ll choose this place over your wife?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jason said, his eyes exposing a profound internal struggle.  “I…I want to be with her.  I do.  I’m trying to let go of my own ego in this and allow what is meant to be to simply be.  I’m trying.  It’s a hard road.”  Maureen caressed him and shushed him, offering him wordless encouragement.       

Dean could feel sweat started to bead on his forehead.  He pushed his plate away and tried to find a position to ease the pain.  Maureen looked at him.

“Not hungry, Dean?  Or did the pancakes not live up to all the hype?” she asked casting a worried eye at him. 

“Sorry,” he said with a frail breath.  His entire torso was on fire: stomach, ribs and lungs all fighting for attention.  “I think that cold is still hanging on.  I don’t quite have my appetite back.”  Maureen gave him a sympathetic pat.

“No worries,” she began clearing his plate away.  “Now what about you, Dean?  We’ve told you all about ourselves.  What kind of work are you looking for?”

“Uh,” he said.  “I’m a mechanic.  I came up here to check things out.  Wanted to see the mountains.”

“You have any family up here?”

“Dean’s on his own.  His brother’s attending Stanford,” Brad said.  The others raised their eyebrows, impressed.  “What did you say your father does?”

“Sales,” Dean said.  “He’s on the road a lot.”

“Wow, Dean, you and your dad must be very proud of your brother,” Maureen said.  “No girlfriend or wife?”

“Uh, no,” he said. 

“Must get lonely being all alone,” Jason said. 

Dean gripped his churning stomach.  “I get by all right,” he said.

“Yeah, but there’s a lot more to life than just getting by, don’t you think?” Gypsy asked.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugged, distracted.  He didn’t say anything else.  Brad watched him closely. 

“Sorry man, we don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.  We’re passionate, that’s all,” he said.

“It’s no big deal,” Dean said with a forced smile.  He knew he had to get out of there and back to the motel as fast as he could.  Something was wrong, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep his shit together physically.  Whatever this place was, whoever or whatever this Father creature was, it all needed to wait a couple more days.  He was not ready to be out here.  He shouldn’t have eaten anything, it only made everything worse—far worse, and pain now radiated into his neck and back.  A small whimper made it past his lips and all eyes were on him instantly.  He gripped the table with white knuckles.

“Dean?  What’s wrong?” Maureen said standing up and supporting him. 

“N—nothing,” Dean said breathlessly.  “I think I need to head back to my car.  I need to go.” 

“Oh,” Brad said, seeming disappointed.  “Sure.  Come on.  We’ll walk you there.”

As Dean went to get up a bizarre rush of air flew from his lungs and gusted past his lips.  It felt wrong, and when he went to fill his lungs back up nothing happened on his right side.  He couldn’t get the lung to expand.  Discomfort became agony and he released a taut, airless gasp, suddenly doubling over.  The surprised Jedis gathered around, creating a lattice of ready hands helping him to the floor.

“Dean,” Brad said, easing him down.  “Dude, talk to me.  What’s wrong?”

Dean tried to get words out, but he had no breath to support them.  His chest tightened and tingled.  All he could think about was Mei’s angry warning that his lungs could collapse if he didn’t take his recovery seriously.  He continued to try and snatch air into his lungs, but they were nothing more than windless sails that refused to respond; he worked his mouth like a landed fish, gulping and gasping for air but getting precious little for the effort.   

“That’s it.  Lay him down,” Maureen ordered, her fingers flying to undo the first few buttons of his jacket and shirt, checking to see what, if anything, was restricting his airway.  She quirked an eyebrow as she reached into his pocket and lifted out Dean’s colt.  They all stared at it in shock. 

“What the hell?” Brad said as Dean tried to reach out and take it back.  Maureen waffled with the gun for a moment, confused and disturbed, eyeing Dean with newfound suspicion and hurt.  She shook her head and set the gun to the side, focusing her attention on the pale man before her. 

She felt his forehead.  “He’s got a fever.”  She bent in close to him.  “Do you have some kind of medical condition, Dean?”

Lehhmme up, he mouthed the words, struggling to remain conscious, pawing at their hands in blind panic.  Lehmme go!

“We’re just trying to help you, Dean,” Brad tried to reassure the stricken man.  He turned to the others.  “Should we call an ambulance or something?”

“We should call on Father,” Maureen said.  “He can help.”

“We can’t, Maureen,” Brad said, lowering his voice as if he was in danger of being overheard.  “Father hasn’t even let us know if he’s worthy or not yet.”

“His lips are turning blue,” Gypsy said.  “Is he having a heart attack?  We have to do something.  We need to get him some help.”

Jason leaned in, checking Dean’s fingers and lips.  “He’s hypoxic,” he said.  “I’m not an expert, but I was married to one.  He’s not getting enough oxygen.”  The man unbuttoned Dean’s shirt the rest of the way, and all four of them gasped at the yellowing bruises and incisions.  “He’s freshly post-op,” Jason said.  “Maybe he’s having some kind of complication or something.  Do you think?”  He turned to Dean and spoke in a loud voice.  “Can you tell us what surgery you had, Dean?”

Dean tried to focus, but he only caught bits and pieces of words.  Maureen bent in and asked him something, but he couldn’t hear past the hollow cowbells ringing in his ears.  She repeated her question again, something about an operation and if he’d had one recently.  He couldn’t remember.  Haloes and starbursts surrounded everyone, and the room began to pixel and tessellate.

Brad seemed upset about something and pushed Dean’s head back in an uncomfortable angle, pulling on his stitches.  He’d have groaned if he had the ability. 

“Father!  Help him!” a distressed voice shouted as the older woman with the pony tail pushed her way back into his field of vision, moving her lips feverishly.  Suddenly she stiffened, her back arching and her head falling backwards.  When she lifted her head again, her entire demeanor shifted.  She relaxed and settled, looking down at Dean.  There was an iridescent flash in her pupils, and he found himself staring at the kindest brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. 

Everything stood still as those eyes swept over him.  The woman smiled and caressed his cheek.  Dean stopped struggling when she put a hand to his chest.  Wherever her light fingers roamed, his body tingled and surged with energy and heat.  The woman said something to the others and they also put their hands on Dean, chanting something in unison.  The brown-eyed woman nodded at them as her features began to twist and morph, the font of her face becoming masculine but no less beautiful—perhaps even more so.  The other three were enraptured, and when she reached out a hand toward them, they touched her with awe.  Gypsy leaned in and placed a reverent, chaste kiss on the woman’s hand. 

“You’ve done well,” the words reverberated.  Dean could barely recognize the voice, distorted and warped by his suffocating brain or by something else, perhaps, he could no longer tell.  The woman’s brown-eyes fell on him again, contemplating him; her fingers read him, caressing him.  After a moment, she spoke again.  The tinny words sounded as though they were stuck in an echo chamber.  “He is worthy, my children,” she intoned.  “He is so very, very worthy.  Let us make him well so that he can begin his journey.”

All four hazy figures gathered around and laid their hands on Dean.  He felt a searing, electric pulse ripple through him, like a flame-thrower igniting from within.  His lungs suddenly expanded, and he gasped and gulped air like a drowning man breaching the surface of a lake.  The sudden inrush of oxygen wasn’t enough to clear his head, however.  The room continued to spin wildly, and his mind detached and darkened as the fire spread throughout his body, licking every cell.  The last thing he saw was those beautiful brown eyes swirling like chocolate galaxies, watching over him, protecting him.  The chanted words crackled like cedar in a comforting fireplace, penetrating his mind more than his ears, soothing and quieting all of his fears and worries.

“You are worthy, Dean.  You are loved.  Just let go.”  

And he did.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

Something was different.  Dean was tucked on his side, knees drawn up, hands curled against his chest when he opened his eyes to a dark room.  He recognized nothing, his brain processing little beyond an inchoate understanding that something had changed.  Gravity set to work on his eyelids, and he obediently returned to the insensate womb of light he’d been floating in.  He took a deep breath.  And another.  And another.  The light expanded and retracted with each breath, up and down, in and out, light and dark.  It was relaxing, mesmerizing, enthralling.  It was different, he was different—somehow.

He remained in that aspirating bubble for quite a while until sound waves began to penetrate, breaking the rhythm, agitating and churning, twisting things out of shape.  The voice—it was definitely a voice, Dean decided—pulled him up and out of the warm swaddle and into the cool, pine-scented room.  He heard the scrape of shoe on hollow boards near him and two voices murmuring.  The whole surface he was lying on began to rattle and sway, aluminum poles and canvas wobbling together.  Dean lazily dusted off the foreign hand shaking his shoulder, trying to rouse him. 

“Quit,” he mumbled, his eyeballs placidly sweeping the underside of his lids.

“I think he’s coming around,” a male voice said.  The shaking continued. 

“Dean, honey?  Wake up, now,” a female coaxed him.  Dean uncurled his limbs and started to stretch them.  “Yep,” she said, her voice downy and mild.  “He’s coming to.  That’s it, honey.”       

Dean attempted to lift his lids, but they were sticky with long sleep.  He raised his hand to his eyes, rubbing at the glue, prying them open.  He blinked a few times, staring at the duo. 

“S’up?” he drowsed.  As he watched their smiles, memories started to trickle back, and he realized the two Jedis watching him were Brad and the woman with the pancakes—he had to dig for her name—Maureen, smiling at him as though it was natural for him to be here.  Wherever here was. 

He glanced at his surroundings, unhurried and listless, his brain still coming back online.  They were in a barren, rustic cabin, no bigger than the average prison cell.  Two old, military cots were flush against opposite walls, a narrow walkway between them—a plain window was set into the back of the shack.  A small, army-style footlocker sat at the end of each cot, and a single kerosene lantern hung from a hook on the ceiling, illuminating the room from above.  He was in one of the cottages.  Dean was certain of it.  He’d passed out.  Fuck.  He’d passed out or they’d done something to him and they’d brought him here.  He blinked and drew a hand to his face, scraping against at least a day’s worth of stubble. 

“What the…?” he ground out as more memories returned—Mei, her husband Jason, the freakish cult, lungs that wouldn’t expand and brown eyes on a blue-eyed woman.  When Maureen reached a hand out to comfort him, he bucked up, hands behind him, levering himself against the wall at the head of the bed.

“Whoa!” Brad called out and both his and Maureen’s smiles fell away.  “Take it easy, Dean!”

Dean continued to absorb his surroundings, fending them off as he braced himself against the wall with his left hand, his face feral.  Maureen snatched her hand back, moving behind Brad, allowing him to take point.

“You’re okay, Dean.  Relax.  Let go, now.  Everything’s all right.”  Brad bent toward him, but Dean pulled his fist back, threatening him.  Brad stopped short, hands held up in surrender.  

“Stay back,” Dean demanded.  “Don’t touch me!”  As adrenaline surged through him, his body demanded oxygen, and his breath came in heavy bursts.  That’s when it hit him—the difference.  He could breathe.  His eyes went as wild and wide as the pair watching him, and Dean reached a hand toward his torso.  There was no burn in his lungs, no back-arching spikes of pain coming from a cracked ribs, no deep tenderness from his surgery incisions—nothing.  Nothing at all. 

“No one’s going to hurt you, Dean,” Brad said soothingly, studying Dean’s cornered expression.  “Easy does it, now.”  He kept his hands up, palms out, giving Dean some space.

Dean continued to probe, feeling his chest and ribs, pressing and prodding.  He pulled up the Jedi tunic he was wearing—a Jedi mother-fucking tunic!—and looked down.  There were no puncture wounds from the surgery, no bruising, no stitches—nothing but smooth, healthy skin. 

“What did you—?”  Panic started to take root.  If they’d done this, what else might they have done to him or to his mind?  Brad tried once more to approach, but Dean puffed himself up and growled.  “Get the fuck away from me,” he threatened.  “What did you do to me?”

“Dean, we just wanted to—” Maureen started moving out from behind Brad and took a cautious step toward him.  Dean cut her off.

“Stay away.”  His voice was full of menace, remembering her brown eyes watching him.  “You especially stay the hell away.”  Maureen stopped and sighed.  “What are you?  Huh?  What’s your goddamned game?”

Brad placed a protective hand on Maureen’s shoulder.  “She was trying to help you.  Now just listen to me, Dean.  Listen.  We’re not going to harm you.”

“Yeah?  Then what is all of this?” he accused, pulling on his Jedi outfit and gesturing around the room. 

“What is what?” Brad said, shrugging and shaking his head.  “We just put you in something a little less restrictive than your jeans, Dean.  You were unconscious.  Look,” he said pointing to the locker at the foot of the bed.  He approached it, hands still held out in surrender.  He bent down cautiously and opened the locker, letting the lid fall back.  He stepped away, pointing at it.  “See?  All your stuff is right there, Dean.  All of it.  Even your gun.  It’s still loaded.  Everything is right there for you.”  Brad pulled on the hem of Maureen’s tunic and both of them backed away, allowing Dean to pivot off the wall and inspect the contents of the locker.  Dean kept one hand held out as the other scooped up his gun.  He pointed it at Brad.

“What did you do to me?” he repeated, murder in his eye. 

“Me?  Nothing.  Father healed you,” Brad explained.  “You were hurt, Dean.  You weren’t breathing, so Father saved your life.  Since then you’ve been asleep; so, I think it’s safe to say your body needed the rest.  We helped you.”

“Help me?  I’ll bet,” Dean sneered.  “How else did you help me?”

“Wh—what do you mean, Dean?  Nothing.  We didn’t do anything else,” Maureen insisted.  Her tone relayed her hurt at the accusation.  “Honestly,” she said.

“Right,” Dean said, his vision tunneled down the barrel of the gun at them, his arms tense with deadly intent.  “Father helped me, huh?  You were the one who was there,” he accused Maureen.  “What are you?”

Maureen was mystified.  “What do you mean what am I?” she asked.

“You sure as hell ain’t human,” Dean said.  “So what are you?  Demon?  Shifter?  What?”  Maureen’s head ticked to the side; she shook it and blew out a confused breath.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said.  “I’ve developed some abilities through spiritual meditation and by following Father’s teachings.  That’s it, Dean.  Honest.  I did nothing but channel Father’s love.  He healed you through me.”

“Bull,” he snarled.

“It’s true.  Look,” she said, motioning to the weapon in his hand.  “You have the gun.  See?  You’re in control.  Father didn’t do anything to you, Dean.  Nothing other than heal your wounds.”  Dean faltered a moment, realizing that she had a point at least.  He did have the gun.  Inspecting it, he ejected the clip with deft hands, checking the bullets and tapping it back.  Uncertainty feathered its way across his face, but then he aimed at the pair again.

“Right.  So I guess that means I’m free to go then?” he mocked with a curl of his lip, knowing the answer.

“Of course you are,” Brad said.  “You’re free, Dean.  If you want to leave, we’ll let you get dressed and walk you to your car.  It’s still right outside the gate.  Tim’s been keeping an eye on it.”  Dean’s brows pinched at that.  Brad went on.  “Here,” he said, putting himself in front of Maureen again.  “We’re going to go outside and let you get your things and get ready.  Just don’t hurt anybody, please, Dean.”  Both he and Maureen backed up, opening the door and shutting it behind them, leaving Dean standing there pointing the gun at nothing. 

He stood there for a few seconds trying to parse what had happened, or what didn’t.  None of this was making any goddamned sense to him.  He looked down again at his stomach, touching the skin there.  He rubbed the back of his neck, perplexed.  Grabbing his clothes from the locker, he dressed with single-minded intent to get the hell out of there as soon as he could.  The binoculars were sitting at the bottom of the locker; he found his car-keys, wallet, watch and amulet rolled into a fold of his jeans.  He put the amulet and watch on and pocketed his keys and wallet.  Tying his boots, he grabbed the gun again and opened the door.  Maureen was gone.  Brad stood by waiting, hands in his pockets, grinding a pinecone under his sandal.  He raised his head when Dean opened the door.

“Ready?” he asked him.

“Yeah,” Dean said, making tactical calculations as he eyed his surroundings.  “Where’s Maureen?”

“She went back to her work at the greenhouse,” Brad said, crisp and cold, pointing toward the center of the compound.  “You terrified her.  She’s a beautiful person, Dean.  You didn’t have to be such a jerk.”  Dean said nothing in reply.  Brad motioned for him to follow, and Dean soon found himself on the cobble road heading toward the gate.  He was coltish and hyper aware of everything around him, swiveling his neck at the slightest twitter of birds in the trees.  Brad watched him, disappointment in his eyes; he broke the silence as they walked.

“So why’d you come here, Dean?” he asked, eyeing the gun.  Still, Dean remained silent.  Brad shrugged.  “Whatever, man.  It’s your life, Dean.  I hope you find what you’re looking for.  Just leave us in peace.”

Dean tried to tune him out.  He had too much on his mind, and he needed to get out of there and think things through.  Every step he took reminded him how incredible it felt to be healthy, to be able to breathe—to really breathe.  He felt fantastic, and that alone set alarm bells clanging.  It wasn’t right.  He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he at least knew it wasn’t natural.  Research.  He needed to do a shit-ton of research.  And drink.  Fuck if he didn’t need drink—or six—run the iron, silver salt and holy water tests to make sure he was still himself, make sure they didn’t put some weird whammy on him. 

All these thoughts were swirling through his head when he saw Mei standing outside the gate, arms flying around in animated, angry gestures, her voice rising as she made a defiant stand before Tim who refused to allow her access into the compound.  Dean stopped and ducked behind a tree, paying little heed to Brad’s surprise.  Dean stole another quick glance from behind the tree.  It was Mei all right, giving every last neuron of her mind to the guard, angry threats leaping from her lips.  Tim kept pointing to the No Trespassing sign and motioned for her to leave.  Brad’s eyes were flitting back and forth between Mei and Dean, making his own calculations and drawing conclusions.  After the hot exchange, the doctor spun around, slamming her car door and peeling out, dirt crunching under wheels, pebbles hailing against the gate and guard shack. 

Without a word, Dean resumed walking toward the gate, faster now, making no comment or excuse for his actions.     

“Do you know her?  Are you a part of that?” Brad asked, pointing to the dust-cloud settling in the wake of Mei’s wrath.  “Are you?”

Dean eyed Brad, deciding to make some course corrections so as not to burn any bridges.  This was still a case, after all.  He had no fuck-clue what kind of case, but it was a case.  “No,” he said.  “I just can’t get involved in anyone else’s shit right now.”

They stopped in front of the gate.  Brad turned to Dean, confronting him.  “You’re not a bird-watcher, that much is clear.  Why did you come here, Dean?” Brad asked.

Dean peered back, shaking his head.  “I don’t know,” he said, trying to think of some bullshit to tell him.  “I was just—”  He put a hand to his chest.  “Curious.  I was alone.”  He pushed on the gate.  “But I can’t deal right now.  I gotta get out of here.”

Tim stepped out from the guard shack, and Brad motioned for him to open the gate.  The bewildered guard raised his eyebrows in surprise but punched a code into the keypad and stepped back as the gates swung open.

“Dean’s heading out, Tim,” Brad said.  The two exchanged glances. 

“Uh, okay.  Hey Dean, we were all worried about you.  Hope you’re feeling better, man,” Tim said.  Dean nodded.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, not stopping until he was outside the gates.  Brad followed part of the way. 

“Dean,” he called as he stopped not far from the gate.  “Listen, you know you’re welcome here, right?  I’m sorry if we freaked you out.  Believe me, we never intended you any harm.  If you want to come back, the door is open, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, walking away.  “Yeah, sure.”  He checked over his shoulder when he was halfway to the car.  Brad and Tim were still standing back at the guard shack.  He made a fluid beeline to the car, opened the door and climbed in, starting the engine.  The two Jedis stood watching, making no move to follow him.  Brad even had his hand held up in farewell.

Dean pulled out, turning the car around and driving onto the highway, making his way west at about 25mph over the speed limit.  After a few moments, Dean shook his head in utter bewilderment. 

“What the hell just happened?” he asked himself. 

* *

The town of Deming, WA was a tiny hamlet, consisting of a grocery store, a gas station, a bar and the Nooksack-Nation gambling casino.  And that was good enough for Dean.  He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Deming Tavern and made his way inside. 

“Hey,” the bartender greeted him.  The bar was empty except for two older women playing pull-tabs at the end of the bar.  Checking his watch, Dean realized that it wasn’t quite lunchtime yet.  “What can I get you?”

Dean took the stool.  “Double whiskey, neat,” he ordered, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and setting it on the countertop.  He reached over and snagged a leaflet menu offering the usual tavern fare; his stomach rumbled on cue.  He was ravenous.  Feeling his torso again to verify that he was still…still—he had trouble even thinking the word—still healed…he nodded to the bartender when he set the drink down. 

“Too early for a double-bacon-cheese and fries?” Dean asked.  The bartender shook his head.

“Nope.  Hey, Kato…” he called over to a hot blonde who was chatting up the middle-aged gamblers playing pull-tabs. 

She tossed the man a mischievous eye.  “Hey, Tony…” she answered.

“Double-bacon and the fixin’s, darlin’,” he told her. 

Kato ambled through the double doors to the kitchen.  “Comin’ up,” she tossed over her shoulder. 

Dean downed his drink, relishing the burn and tapped the glass for a refill.  After Tony poured him another double, Dean nodded, sliding off the stool and pointing to one of the back booths.  Tony nodded and continued with his work.  Dean opened his cellphone, checking for messages.  Nothing from Sam.  Nothing from his dad—not even a set of coordinates for his next granny salt-and-burn.  Dean shut his eyes and massaged his temples as the alcohol warmed his empty belly.  He sighed and opened the phone again, dialing a number.

“Hey boy,” Bobby answered.  “Whaddaya want?”

“I love you, too, Bobby” Dean snorted.  There was a slight hesitation.

“Well, you sound different,” Bobby ventured.  “What’s going on?”

Dean twitched and shifted.  “What do you mean I sound different?” he asked.

“Listen to yourself.  You don’t sound like a three-pack-a-day smoker with asthma anymore for starters.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said and shifted the phone from one ear to the other.  “Yeah, I got a good night’s sleep.  M’feelin’ better.”

“I guess, so,” Bobby said.  “So you good enough to come meet me?  I’m getting a bite at a truck stop right now, but I’ll be in South Dakota before the end of the day.  Could use some company, boy.”

“Uh well,” The younger hunter whiffled.  “I’ll do my best.  But I got a few things to take care of first.”  He heard Bobby’s weary sigh.  “I’m okay, really.  Listen Bobby, I got a question for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

Dean cleared his throat.  “Have you ever come across anything…good?” 

“Come again?” the old hunter sounded baffled.

“Well, I mean, have you ever come across something that maybe shouldn’t be killed?  You know of anything supernatural that might not be evil?”

“This another one of them hypotheticals?” Bobby snorted. 

“Just askin’ to ask,” Dean said.  “So?  Have you ever come across anything like that?”  He could hear the wheels whirring in Bobby’s head.  The pause was so long that he was about to ask the hunter if he was still on the line when Bobby began to speak.

“This conversation ain’t gonna go no further than just you and me, you hear me?”

“Uh, okay…”

“I mean it boy, you breathe one word, and I’ll deny it first and strip your car of every part you’ve commandeered from my yard second.  We clear?” the hunter snapped.

“Geez, Bobby, okay.”  Dean heard the baseball cap come off and hit the countertop.

“’Bout fifteen years back, me and my partner were on a case in Louisiana.  Hoodoo priestess gone bad.  That’s beside the point, though.  This experience had nothing to do with hoodoo.  Anyway, we were taking care of business, but before we could put an end to things, the priestess sent a few of her sidekicks after us.  We bolted and got separated in the bayou.  I was able to evade them just fine, but I got lost.”  There was another long pause.

“And?” Dean prompted.

Bobby cleared his throat.  “And two days later, I had a little help finding my way out,” he said.  Silence.

“From…?”

“Near as I can make out.”  Dead silence.  “Near as I can make out, it was a nymph of some kind.”  More silence. And then more silence.

“Bobby.  You didn’t.”

“Shut up.”

“Holy shit, Bobby.  You did.”

“I said shut up.”

Dean waited a moment.  “And she didn’t hurt you?  I mean, at all?”  Kato came over with his burger and set it down.  Dean mouthed Thank you, Sweetheart.  She gave him a broad smile and walked away with a slight swing of her hips. 

“Hurt me?  No.  Exhausted me?...Well, let’s just say I ain’t drawing you any pictures.”  The hunter sighed.  “Anyway, bottom line—not a scratch on me.  She got me to the road, and she gave me a wink and a smile and turned back.”  Bobby cleared his throat.  “Fifteen years on and I still don’t quite know what happened, but I know it was a couple of the best damn days of my life.  There’s no accounting for it, though.  Maybe she wasn’t good, but she sure as hell wasn’t bad.  So, to answer your question—I don’t know.  Maybe.”

“Jesus, Bobby,” Dean blew out a breath. 

“There’s a lot of things we know as hunters.  But there’s a lot we don’t.  I learn something new with most every hunt.  Maybe there’s good out there that tries to balance out the bad, but if that’s so, why they’re so few and far between is beyond me.  All these years spent hunting evil sonsabitches, only came across that one that didn’t try to eat my brains.”

“Why would she try and do that when she had her mouth full of—”

“Shut up, Dean.”  Bobby cut him off.  “And quit smirking,” the older man huffed.  “Anyway, I’ll never forget those two crazy days.  So maybe.  Maybe there are some that does good.”  They were both silent for a moment.  “Why do you ask?”

Dean let out a huff of air, savoring his ability to do that without any pain.  “I dunno, Bobby.  I’ve been on my own for so long now.  Just thinkin’ too much, I guess.”

“So you comin’ over or what?” the old man prodded. 

“I’ll work my way there eventually,” Dean retorted.  “I’ll talk to you in a couple days, okay?”

Bobby sighed again.  “Dean—”

“Yeah?”

“Quit thinkin’ so much, wouldja?”

Dean blew out breath.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, Bobby.  I’ll try.”  He snapped the phone shut and swallowed the rest of his drink.

* *

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked himself aloud.  If he was smart he’d head in the other direction, getting as far away from that place as he could.  He could turn back now, get through Seattle’s traffic before rush-hour hit—hop onto I-90 and it’d be a straight shot all the way to Bobby’s.  Put this place in his rearview mirror and never set foot in this soggy, tree-huggin’, latte-swilling, Birkenstock-wearing, slug-infested fucked up state again.  His dad would be pissed if he knew he was working a case unscreened by Sergeant Winchester himself.  A hint of a wounded smile tightened Dean’s lips at the mere thought.  His dad’s anger would be something, at least—better than his silence, anyway. Dean picked up the phone one more time, noting no new calls or messages.  He snapped it shut and regripped the steering wheel with an angry twist. 

“Focus on the case, Dean,” he chided.  Of course the case was a jumbled mess of questions and supernatural anomalies.  Untangling it was going to take pulling on a few of its strings and poking at it.  He couldn’t do that from Sioux Falls.  He couldn’t even do that from the Shamrock Motel in town.  He needed to contrive a way, find some angle that would allow him to observe—give him some access to this teacher-Father-dude.

“They let me go,” he reminded himself.  “Why’d they let me go?”  If they’d been evil—if they’d wanted him, they could have had him.  He’d been unconscious for an entire day, and the worst thing that had happened was that they’d dressed like him like a nerd.  Why hadn’t they taken him—had their way with him when he was down?  That he could have dealt with.  That he could have understood.  Evil was predictable.  This?  Not so much.

“Goddamn it,” he said to the dash.  “Just one more day.”  If he could take another look and make sure that everything was on the level—well, not on the level, because there was no damn way in hell that this was ever going to be in the ballpark of being on the level—but if he could satisfy himself enough to be sure that this was nothing more malevolent than Bobby’s water nymph, he’d feel better about cutting his losses—or his gains—and turning tail and bolting.  He owed it to Mei to be sure.  Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t let him back in the joint after the way he acted.  He’d drawn bead on two of their members, two members who had been nothing but kind to him the entire time he’d been there.

“Sonofabitch,” he said, shaking his head as he turned onto the dirt road that led to the guard shack.  One more day.  He could pretend to be a needy loser for one more day.  After all, it wasn’t such a stretch, he thought to himself with a depreciative snort.

He pulled off to the side of the road, catching a flash of honey-brown skin as Gypsy peered out of the guard shack, a wide smile on her lips. 

“Show time,” he said, turning the car off and opening the door.  Brad was there, too—both he and Gypsy seemed unsure what to do.  He saw Brad turn and say something to the girl.  She shook her head, but he pointed to the shack.  Gypsy slumped in defeat and turned, going inside while Brad walked toward him. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said as he and Brad closed in on each other.  Dean had his own hands up this time, indicating that he was unarmed.  Of course, he’d tucked a knife into his shoe before heading back from the tavern, but Brad didn’t need to know that. 

“What do you want, Dean?” Brad asked.  “Did you forget something?”  The boy folded his arms, watching Dean with cool dispassion.

“My manners,” Dean replied, his boot toying with the dirt in the road.  “You all did right by me, and I freaked.  I totally freaked,” he admitted.  Brad made no reply.  “Um, I—” Dean fumbled.  “I didn’t know what was happening.  I still don’t.  But I’d…I’d like to at least tell Maureen how sorry I am, you know?  You’re right.  I was a jerk.  That was wrong of me.”

“Is that all?  Because I can call and have her come out to you.”

“Naw, man.”  Dean ran his fingers through his hair.  “You were all so nice to me, and I shouldn’t have bolted like that, you know?  I thought maybe you could…I dunno…I thought maybe you could show me that aerie at least, huh?  Maybe hang out a while or something.  Is your teacher guy ever around?  I thought I’d tell him thanks…you know—for what he did for me.”

“Father doesn’t meet with outsiders,” Brad informed him.  Dean put his hands in his pockets, discouraged.  “But we’re having our Sacred Haoma Ceremony tonight under the stars.  Father will be there.  You can come if you want.”

“That sounds great,” Dean said.  “Should I park somewhere else?” he asked, thumbing over his shoulder toward the Impala.  Brad glanced at the car and shook his head.

“It will be fine here.  Come on.  We have time to go see the aerie before the ceremony.”

Brad walked Dean to the gate.  Gypsy opened the door and came out, rushing toward Dean, her face beaming.  She stopped, uncertain.

“Dean,” she said with quiet expectation.

“Hey Gypsy,” he said.  “Sorry, about running off.  Thanks for helping me and everything,” he said.  Gypsy gave him another toothy smile and reached up, embracing him. 

“I knew you’d be back.  Father told us you would.  You belong here.  You’ll see,” she beamed.  “You just need to let go.”

* *

It was mid-afternoon as Dean watched two mottled-brown eaglets perched on a branch not far below their aerie. 

“See, papa’s over in that tree to the north watching.  You can spot his bald head right there,” Brad said pointing. 

“Papa?  How can you tell?” Dean asked.

“Well, can’t be completely sure, of course.  I’m just judging by the size.  Male eagles are a bit smaller than females.  Also his head is pristine and sleek.  The females generally have an off-white head color, and they’re poofier.  Dunno why.  Mama’s probably out hunting.  Eagles share parenting duties.”

“Huh,” Dean said as he looked through the binoculars.

“The eaglets were born about three months ago, and now they’re getting ready for their first flights.  The one on the left is all twitchy and ready to go, see?”

Dean swept from the adult eagle back to the babies and watched as one of them continually stretched and flapped its wings while shifting position in seeming impatience.  Dean could relate.  He had a lot more on his mind other than bird watching.  Before heading up to the aerie, Brad had walked him through the compound that had been alive with activity.  Everyone had been making preparations for their big ceremony that night.  Jedis had passed them, walking by on different errands.  Everyone had made eye contact and greeted him by name with a smile and a wave.  It would have been downright creepy if the Jedis weren’t so open and genuine in their interactions.  Dean tried to process it all as he watched the eagles. 

“So what’s this big ceremony-thing tonight all about?” he ventured as he kept his eye on the birds.

“Hmm?  Oh,” Brad said, coming out of his thoughts.  “It’s the Sacred Haoma Ceremony.  Father will come and impart teachings, and anyone who has reached a new step in our four-fold process will receive new knowledge and new titles,” Brad explained as he focused his binoculars and pointed.  “I think that one is about ready to fly.  He looks like he’s on a mission.  Look at his eyes,” Brad chuckled as he watched the birds.

“Yeah,” Dean said absently.  “I remember you saying something about four steps or something.  What are they?”

Brad continued to watch the birds as he talked.  “Father cannot change anyone’s perceptions until each soul is ready.  Most people aren’t even capable of taking the first step of becoming an Initiate.  If they are not open, dedicated, loyal—if they are too engrained in their egos, there is no reaching them, even if they are worthy in all other respects.  One must be open on a deeper level, must have a need for the teachings in order to take the first step of the Initiate.  Each step after that—progressing from Initiate to Disciple to Adept and finally to Master—takes a lot of work.”

“And which step in the process are you on?” Dean asked.

“I am an Adept, as are Gypsy and Maureen.  Jason is still a Disciple, which is a challenging stage, much like being a teenager.  I wasn’t so sure I’d make it through that stage, but Father and my brothers and sisters helped me.  We don’t call ourselves The Kindred for nothing.  I wouldn’t have gotten this far without their love and support.  Jason is struggling right now, especially since his wife tried to get in to see him this morning.”

“Oh?” Dean raised his eyebrows.  “So that chick was his wife?”

“Yes,” Brad said.  “Jason is struggling with his ego and attachments right now.  He is unsettled.  But being a Disciple is always challenging.  It’s a hard step on The Path.”

“Maybe he just loves his wife,” Dean said.  “Is that so bad?  Can’t he love his wife and love The Kindred?” 

“He can, but his wife is not receptive to Father’s teachings, and her struggle is becoming Jason’s struggle, hindering his development.”  Brad sighed.  “It’s unfortunate, but we all have our attachments that we must let go of if we are to reach our potential.  If the process was easy, everyone would do it.  This is why each accomplishment is celebrated with a high ceremony.”  His face lit up with memories.  “One of the highlights of my life has been witnessing the moment an Adept becomes a Master.  We call that The Blessed Transformation.  Gypsy’s fiancé, Andrew, and Maureen’s husband, Jonathan, are both Masters now.  They were transformed on the same night—the first Blessed Transformations I ever saw.”  His face shone with profound awe.

“Oh yeah?  What’s it like,” Dean asked.  One of the young eagles stretched its wings again, a full flare, this time, and moved sideways out on the branch to accommodate its wingspan.  The other eaglet wobbled back and forth and watched its sibling. 

“It’s indescribable,” Brad said, searching for the words and coming up empty.  “Maybe one day you will bear witness.  Tonight, however, there is only one to become an Initiate, so you will not see The Blessed Transformation.” 

At that moment the eaglet flapped its wings and pulled its feet up, gliding off the branch.  “There he goes!  See!  Wow, look at that,” Brad marveled.  The bird began to flap its graceful wings, too fast at first, causing the bird to bobble in mid-flight but then correct itself, finding a rhythm that not only kept it aloft but gave it more lift.  The other eaglet remained on the branch, watching intently.  “Look that’s got Papa’s feathers ruffled,” he said as the adult took flight right after the young bird, scooping its wings through the air to hover above the youngster. 

“That’s amazing,” Dean admitted.  The birds were breathtaking, no doubt about it. 

“I love living out here,” Brad said.  “Oh, oh!  Look at the other one.  He wants some action, too.  He’s not gonna stay behind.”

Brad and Dean watched as the young eagle who’d been sitting on the branch suddenly hurled itself off in an attempt to follow the others.  It had not prepped or stretched its wings and the bird lurched and twisted in the air, flapping and flopping through the branches as it tumbled toward the ground.  It finally found purchase on one of the lower branches and shook itself and let out a mournful squawk. 

“Poor little guy,” Brad said.  “But these birds usually take a few tumbles before they make their first successful flight.  He’ll be okay.”  Brad looked at the sky.  “Come on.  It’s getting late.  We need to get back and get ready for the ceremony,” he said.  “It will be an amazing night.  One you’ll never forget.”

* *

By the time they got back Dean was so hungry he wondered what pinecones tasted like.  His healing must have sent his hunger into overdrive, and he was eager to make up for lost time.  The burger he’d inhaled at the tavern was long gone, and hours of hiking with Brad only exacerbated things.  His stomach rumbled loud enough that the others heard. 

“Sorry,” he said, turning red after an impressive gurgle as they strode into the compound.  “I guess my appetite is returning.”  He checked his watch.  It was after 7:00pm and he was wondering what their normal mealtimes were.  

Brad was apologetic.  “Sorry about that Dean.  I should have warned you.  We always fast before the Sacred Haoma Ceremony.  It’s our custom.  Maybe Maureen could fix you something, though,” he said, doubtful. 

“Naw,” Dean said with an awkward shrug.  “No big deal, man.  I’ll grab something in town after the ceremony,” he said.  Brad gave him a smile, pointing to Maureen who was coming out of the greenhouse, carrying a large basket filled with roots and a tangle of leafy vines. 

Brad swerved, greeting the woman, taking the basket from her and giving her a hug.  “You’re on caapi duty tonight?” Brad asked her, fingering the roots in the basket. 

“Gypsy is going to swing by and help me prepare it when she’s done with gate duty.”  She turned toward Dean.  There was no surprise in her eyes at seeing him.  “Big night tonight,” she said, her smile somewhat guarded but true.  “I am so glad you came back, Dean.  Father told us not to worry,” she said, reaching her hand out and gripping his arm.

“I’m sorry, Maureen,” Dean said, lowering his eyes.  “I was an ass this morning.” 

She shook him off.  “You were frightened and overwhelmed.  We all feel that way sometimes.  It’s forgotten.”  She drew him into an embrace.  “I’m just delighted that you are joining us.”

Dean broke the hug, pulling away with forced indifference.  “Well, for tonight, at least.  I’m not much of a joiner and all.  I’m still thinking of heading up to Alaska, but I wanted to thank your leader for what he did for me.  Thank you, too, by the way.  I’m—I’m really grateful.”

“Here,” Brad said, hefting up the heavy basket and taking Maureen’s hand in his.  “Let’s walk you back to the kitchen and then we’re going to find Jason and get ready before the ceremony.”

Maureen gripped Brad’s hand and took Dean’s arm with her other, regarding him as the trio walked toward the kitchen.  “It wasn’t me, by the way,” she said to him.

“Huh?” Dean asked.

“Your restoration,” she said nodding toward his middle.  “I was merely the conduit for Father’s power,” she insisted.  “He granted you healing because you were worthy of it, Dean.  You already have Father’s blessing on you.  You’re worthy of so much more, too.  No matter what you think of yourself, remember that always, okay?”

* *

Dean did a double take.  “You mean I have to dress like a Jedi again?” 

Brad and Jason laughed.  “Hey, it isn’t that bad.  Besides, when in Rome, right?” Brad said, clapping his shoulder.  “Come on, I promise not to take any pictures.”

Dean followed them into one of the pavilions and found himself in the men’s shower room, devoid of any stalls or privacy whatsoever.  Although it was spotless, Dean took one step in and two steps back. 

“Whoa,” he said.  “I don’t think so.  I’ll take a pass on this.  I’m good.” 

Jason’s ruddy eyebrows shot up.  “Did you not take P.E. in school, Dean?  Trust me, this is a lot more sanitary than any locker room.”  Jason looked around.  Only one other Jedi was there, and he was already dressed and shaking out his wet hair.  “No one else is here.  Hurry.  We’re late as it is, Mr. Modesty.” 

Dean took the quickest, coldest shower in history.  He didn’t know if he’d gotten there too late for hot water or if these nutcases thought heat was something keeping them enslaved to their egos.  In any event, he made quick work of the ritual and got dressed as fast as he could.  The Pacific Northwest was not particularly warm, even in early June, and he was shivering by the time they left.

* *

When they reached the orchard, Dean was hopping beside Jason and Brad, trying to extricate a pebble from one of the sandals they made him wear.  Oh, for fuck’s sake!  Because, it seemed, Father had a thing for the open-toe style.  That might be fine for the Dead Sea region or where ever the hell he came from, but here they were nudging the ass-crack of Canada.  The ground was cold, wet and riddled with Godzilla-sized slugs—not a great combo for Jesus-shoes.  

The sun hadn’t yet set, but there were twinkling lanterns hanging from the trees, some strung in festoons from branch to branch and some from tree to tree, encircling a huge bonfire.  Several dozen Jedis were milling about, greeting each other, offering hugs and friendly pats on the back.  They couldn’t possibly be this happy with each other all the time, Dean thought.  When he spotted Maureen and Gypsy, they smiled and waved the three of them over. 

“Dean!  Come on,” Maureen said, reaching out her hand and coaxing him into the crowd of Jedis.  “Let me introduce you around.” 

He spent the next hour in polite conversations and introductions—Jedi after Jedi, half of them bearing names like Heavenly, Celeste, Rejoice, Zipphora, Luna, Dante, Gabriel, Nevada, and Kimo.  Dean started to get the giggles.  Maureen sensed that he was reaching his New-Age-tolerance threshold and drew him away, keeping him close to Jason, Brad and Gypsy until the ceremony began.  When the sun reached the western lip, dipping below the horizon, all the Jedis hushed and witnessed what Maureen called the ‘celestial transformation’ of day into night.  Soon after that, Maureen and Gypsy began to hand out Dixie Cups—another thing that gave Dean the snorts for the sheer absurdity of it—filled with a brackish liquid.

“None for me, thanks.”  Dean’s voice was firm.  Maureen nodded.

“You must be at least an Initiate to partake of the sacred Hoama, anyway,” she told him.  “Though, this isn’t actually Haoma; it’s ayahuasca made from the caapi vine, but Father says it is a good substitute, and it isn’t illegal.  Haoma itself has been extinct from the world for over two thousand years, but the ayahuasca helps to open the soul to Father’s teachings just as Hoama once did.”  The foursome ‘clinked’ their paper cups together and downed the muddy tea in a couple of gulps. 

“The chanting will begin soon,” Gypsy said.  “Sit back and enjoy, Dean.  We’ll be right here with you.”

The group of Jedis formed a circle and began lowing and humming as they swayed back and forth, like the damn Whos in Whoville on Christmas morning, Dean thought.   As goofy as it was, the sound was not unpleasant.  Their ability to change the tempo and beat of their humming with no normal rhythmic cues impressed Dean.  He wondered how much practice they put into it or if they were so in-tune with each other that they were able to anticipate and carry out abrupt changes in their tonal inflections with no perceptible warning.  It was strange and interesting to listen to, until it became apparent that they weren’t going to be stopping anytime soon.  After at least a half hour of this incessant purr, they began a new chant.  Dean’s eyes wandered around, not knowing what to do.  No one was paying attention to him, so he joined the circle, sitting down awkwardly next to Gypsy and Maureen.

This chant had words in it, all of them giving praise and thanks to Father for his teachings.  It was extreme worship, calling him the Soul Keeper, pledging their souls to him, declaring him their savior.  Unlike the humming, this made Dean feel more than a little uncomfortable.  This all-consuming surrender couldn’t be healthy under any circumstance. 

On the same shared breath, the group arose again as a single unit, and Dean could tell that the Jedis were now clearly under the influence of whatever drug was in their black-sunshine tea—Haoma or caapi or whatever they called it.  Maureen and Gypsy were closest, and Dean watched them chant, their pupils profoundly dilated and glassy as they offered all sorts of bizarre praises to their teacher.  Dean smirked.  Not like he was a choirboy when it came to indulging now and again, but these dopey Jedis were stoned out of their gourds.

Without warning, the Jedis began bounding in place as though they had pogo sticks attached to their feet.  Up and down, up and down, their chanting took on a fervent and frenzied warble that unsettled Dean.  Their stamina was impressive, though, he had to give them that.  He shifted his glance from Jedi to Jedi, and each wore an expression of absolute rapture on his or her face.  Brad was lost in the moment, his eyes closed, head thrown back, delirious as he chanted words of complete devotion to Father.  The chant changed yet again.  They were now calling on Father to welcome their new Initiate, and Dean looked around, wondering which of these nutjobs was the star of that freak show.  The non-stop chanting and repetitive jumping became hypnotic, and Dean was close to slipping into an altered state himself just from watching them.  

Right about the time that Dean began to fear for the poor bastards jumping in place like that—worried that they might start passing out at any moment, especially after fasting all day—Dean saw a flicker of light on the edge of the orchard.  The Jedis’ eyes remained closed, lost in their spiritual ecstasy or whatever it was, but they all stopped their leaping in an instant, their arms dropping to their sides like overcooked spaghetti.  Bowing their heads, they started that low, droning murmur as their leader approached.

Dean turned and watched as Father moved with liquid grace through the trees.  He was dressed in a white Jedi tunic with white pants and sandals, offsetting his natural olive complexion.  Dean immediately recalled his long weekend with one of the hottest chicks he’d ever slept with—a yoga instructor named Lisa.  She’d had pictures of her Indian guru all over her small apartment, and spoke about his teachings.  It had all gone completely over his head at the time, mantras, tantras—whatever—it had all boiled down to great sex and nothing more as far as he was concerned.  Now, however, Dean saw the similarities between Lisa’s guru and The Kindred’s teacher—a dark skinned, diminutive, lean-figured man with a serene face—it was all there and more.  A lot more.

There was a shine to him, a shimmering aura of light—unspeakably beautiful light—that emanated from him.  The glow dappled the trees around him and the ground beneath him as he walked.  In his entire life, Dean had never seen anything so compelling, and he felt an urge to reach out and touch that light.  But he wasn’t a fool, either.  He kept a close watch on this thing, this creature, for it was definitely some kind of something up his alley, and he needed to keep his hunter-hat on if he was going to make any kind of sound judgment.  Pretty is as pretty does, so they say.  The circle parted a moment, allowing Father access to the bonfire.  Once he was inside, the Jedis opened their eyes and reformed the circle, their actions crisp and uniform as though ruled by one mind. 

Father began to speak to them.

“I am within you, children.  I am without you.  I am he who keeps the souls of men, the warden of The Enlightened Ones.  I offer myself to you freely.  If you love me, if you worship me, you will be in me and I in you for all eternity.”

Well, that nugget of wisdom wasn’t anything to write home about, Dean decided.  However, the Jedis all dropped to their knees, and Father spread his arms like Jesus welcoming his flock.  A few of them crawled to him, surrounding him, touching their foreheads to his sandaled feet.  Women with long hair were using it to wipe his toes clean, kissing them in an incredibly disturbing display of submission.  Dean scrunched his face up, unable to suppress a squeamish swallow.  Something was off, here.  Big time. 

The teacher touched his followers, offering his blessing, stroking them in turn, murmuring to them as they kissed his palms.  The strange love-fest went on for a cringe-worthy long while until Father held his hands up, putting the kibosh on their worship kink. 

“Where is this Warrior who is to be my new Initiate?” he asked.

Dean eyed the group, trying to spot him.  Searching the crowd, he realized to his horror that he had over fifty sets of eyes focused on him.  Warrior?  Initiate? 

“Here, Father,” Brad called, putting his hand on Dean’s back, giving him a reassuring pat and pressing him forward. 

“Oh,” Dean stumbled, trying to hold his ground.  “Hey, uh…no need.  I’m not…I’m not the one,” he tried to assure them.  It didn’t matter, though.  The crowd parted like the Red Sea and Father strode forward. 

Jesus.  Dean could feel more hands on him as he tried to back away, people closing in behind him.  Maureen was on one side of him, Brad on the other.  Jason and Gypsy also had their hands on him, more Jedis joined in.  Fuck!

He turned and tried to walk away.  “Yeah, this isn’t really my bag, you know?  I’m not your guy.  I need to go.”  Their grip on him only tightened, and his casual façade dropped like a stone.  “Get your goddamned hands off me!” Dean demanded, digging in and throwing them off.  It was no good.  As soon as he’d gotten rid of them, more came, mobbing him and latching on.  A thick arm slithered around his torso and his arms were pinned behind him. 

“Don’t fight us, honey,” Maureen said, blithely.  “You’re worthy.  This won’t hurt at all.”

“Father’s going to help you, Dean.  Listen to me, man,” Brad came into his field of vision.  “You just need to let go.”

“We’re here for you, Dean.  Let Father show you the way,” a voice shilled from behind him.  It sounded like Gypsy, but he couldn’t tell for sure.  Other voices joined in.  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!

Father remained patient and poised even as Dean fought harder.  Dean tried to yell, scream, swear a blue-streak, fight his way free—anything.  He should have known better.  The guru, or whatever the hell this creature was, approached, swathed in scintillating light, coming so close that his aura spilled over Dean, encompassing the two of them as they stood face to face.  The young hunter flinched as the light hit him and his eyes went saucer-wide at first with fear and then bewilderment.  Instead of a painful attack, it felt as though he were suddenly standing beneath the summer sun.  Father held his hand up, drawing the attention of all.

“Ah, my young warrior,” he bowed.  “Do not tremble, my child.”  Reaching up, Father set a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, and a blissful warmth flowed into him.  His breath hitched as a drowsy, pleasant vibration spread through him like ripples on a pond.  Dean’s determination to flee evaporated in an instant and the arms holding him eased up, providing support now rather than restraint.  Dean was dimly aware of voices offering soft encouragement from behind him, but they soon silenced, falling away as Father gazed at him.

Father cocked his head, locking eyes with Dean, and the young hunter fell in line, compelled by the sudden flare and swirling brown mist that surrounded those large, placid pupils.  They commanded him to be still, and so he was.  The teacher read Dean’s face—read far more than Dean intended to share.  Father was looking into him—viewing not only what Dean showed the world, but what he didn’t.  It was a raw humiliation to be so exposed, all of his weaknesses flapping like a tattered flag in the wind.  The sage did not flinch or recoil, and his face remained compassionate and tender.  How could Father not turn away in disgust?  How could he not reject Dean as everyone else had?  Moments passed and those strange, beautiful dark eyes, set deep in an ageless face, softened with sorrow, love and acceptance.

“Oh my dear child,” Father cooed.  “You hunger and thirst so.”  Dean gave him a cocky smile and snorted, shifting his glance away from those vast, brown depths.  Father tilted Dean’s chin back down, forcing him to meet his eye.  “Motherless,” he murmured, reaching up and thumbing a delicate circle on his cheek.  “Fatherless.”  Dean went to say something, but Father shook his head and touched Dean’s heart with the fingertips of his other hand.  “Brotherless,” he said.

His hand flattened over Dean’s chest.  “This was never meant to be, noble warrior,” he told him.  Dean’s breath was coming in gusts and gasps, now.   Years of terror, loss, and pain bubbled up, like venom sucked to the surface of a snake bite.  He tried to turn his face away again.  Father’s grip was gentle, his hands drawing Dean’s most private torments to the surface.

The longer Father held him, the more keenly he felt the pain spreading like a wildfire.  His eyes closed and he watched with horror as his mother burned on the ceiling in full Technicolor, felt his father put Sam into his arms and order him to get out as fast as he could.  He felt the crushing weight of that responsibility, the years of yearning for an emotionally unavailable father more concerned with vengeance than with his sons.  Dean relived the soul-shattering disappointment and shame for all the years he spent striving to earn his father’s respect, years of obedience and toil only to be cast aside as an inept failure when he couldn’t keep his brother from leaving.  And he felt the naked anguish of Sam’s absence—the betrayal of being shorn away as just another disposable item in an unwanted life.  He felt the agony of every single unanswered phone call, the humiliation of deliberate snubs and turned off cell phones, the bitterness of having begged his brother for help when he was dying and receiving not so much as a message out of sheer courtesy.  He was nothing to them.  His knees started to buckle, and he would have fallen had his friends not braced him as Father continued to agitate those waters. 

His eyes opened, wet and raw.  All the hands holding him from behind pulled away, leaving Dean in Father’s arms.  The sage regarded him with milky sadness and a serene smile.  He removed his hands a moment, adjusting and placing them on Dean again, one on his heart, one on his brow, filling him now with peace and comfort.  The warmth of Father’s love spread through him, soothing his misery like a buttery salve.   

“You are not lost, Dean.  I have found you.  I have chosen you—a light out of millions of lights.  Yours shines as one of the brightest.  Your family is right here.  Father.  Mother.  Brother.  And more—so much more.  You are worthy, Dean.” 

A salted tear trickled down Dean’s cheek and Father palmed it away.  Father’s unconditional love, understanding and acceptance drenched him as the teacher drew close, bending in and placing a soft, chaste kiss on Dean’s lips.

The contact surprised him, but he couldn’t pull away—then didn’t want to pull away.  Father’s lips worked to open his mouth slightly and even through his closed eyes, Dean could see a blazing white light burst against his eyelids.  The sound of chanting leapt up and filled his ears as the floodgates flung wide and Father’s light and love entered him.  It flowed into him, snaking down his throat and into his hungry belly, becoming a part of him.  The power radiated through his body like a rush of adrenaline, his teacher binding himself to him, curling around his spine, imprinting himself onto Dean’s spiritual DNA, rewriting it.  Father pulled away, but Dean followed, leaning in for another kiss, emotions and thoughts storming through him—want, need, kinship, love, acceptance, family, brother, sister, mother, father, father—father—Father!  

“Not yet, Initiate,” Father said, his denial mild, kissing his brow instead.  “We are bonded now, you and I, and you would protect me with your life if need arose, but you are still clay yet to be molded.  You have taken the first step, and with The Kindred’s love, with my love, you will take each successive step.  If you are sincere, if you are loyal and true, one day you and I will become one mind and one soul.”

Cradled in Father’s arms, Dean gazed into his teacher’s beautiful eyes and smiled at the thought.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

Dean soared high above the earth, Father’s sunlit energy coiling deep within his core, umbilically tethering them together.  The teacher’s fire nourished him, broadened his perceptions and expanded his mind.  Another helix of power pierced him, and then another and another, creating a web of communication-lines between Dean and all of the other Jedis.  The fibers embedded themselves in his spirit, and their combined energies warmed and greeted him with a single-minded kinship and respect.  Dean acknowledged the connections and spiraled into consciousness like an eagle riding a thermal.  On a deep, cleansing intake of breath, he opened his eyes.  The sudden contrast between dream and waking disoriented him, and he stared, perplexed by the dull light hitting the pine walls of the cottage. 

It was early—too early after such a long night.  He hadn’t touched any of the ayahuasca, but he still felt hung-over and wrung out.  Dean looked up and listened to the rain click against the window, watching the beads of water build and drip down into the pane.  Poor construction and lack of insulation caused moisture to saturate the wood below the casement, leaving a small, blob-like watermark.  The rain couldn’t have started too long ago, he figured.  He remembered a crystal sky when he and Brad had stumbled into the cottage not long before sunup.  He blinked a few times and wiped his dry lips.  Scratching his scalp with clumsy fingers, Dean took stock of his present situation. 

He was still at the compound.  Hell, he was still wearing his Jedi-jammies, he realized with a snort.  Last night had been a trip and a half, something Dean had never experienced before and without question something he would never admit to anyone he knew.  It had been a crazy night, but at least he had no more doubts about Father.  As bewildering and hard to believe as it was, Dean had met a supernatural creature who not only posed no threat to humans, he’d charitably come to help and teach them.  Bobby had been right, some things out there were good.  It was a lot to process, and Dean needed time to think about what this meant for himself, for other hunters and for the world.

Father’s benign nature was indisputable, and it was a stroke of good fortune that Dean hadn’t gone in with guns blazing.  He would never have forgiven himself if he’d harmed Father, and he felt great shame that he ever thought he could.  He’d kill anyone who tried to hurt him.  But there were other things out there that people needed protection from—people who needed saving—people he needed to save.  He wanted to talk to Father and ask him if he knew about hunters and their struggles.  Would he help them?  He remembered that Father had called him an Initiate.  He had no clue what that meant. 

Dean thought back to the previous night with The Kindred.  He had to roll his eyes, remembering the Jedis’ enthusiasm for their leader.  He’d half expected them to break out the black-lights, Nag Champa and massage oil at any moment, but they never strayed from their chanting and worship.

“Freaks,” he whispered with a fond snort. 

Oh, they were harmless, and he’d been entertained most of the evening with their crazy mantras.  After his initiation, Father stayed and preached to them for about an hour before he left them to their fervent celebration.  Every word he’d said had made perfect sense to Dean, and for the first time in a long time he had hope for the world.  Sure, the Jedis were flaky, but he couldn’t blame them for going a smidge overboard.  Once Father had gone, they’d continued to chant and praise him for several more hours.  Brad and Maureen had even taught him one of the mantras, and by the end of the night he’d joined in, his voice tentative and self-conscious—yes, but he’d given it his best shot.  He’d been so inspired by Father’s blessing that he couldn’t seem to help himself.  Dean groaned at that.  Talk about getting carried away in the moment.  When in Rome, indeed.

Dean yawned, exhausted.   Judging from the gloamy light, he’d only slept a couple of hours.  He peered at his watch but then remembered he’d taken it off when he showered.  His things were still where he’d set them in the corner of the shower-room.  He made a mental note to get everything later.  Glancing at the window again, he guessed it to be around 7:00am and decided there was plenty of time for a nap.  Right as he rolled over to go back to sleep, a jarring clang came over the loudspeakers.  In the other cot, Brad twitched and opened his eyes with a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” Brad said with a yawn, sitting up and peeling back his thin blanket.

“What’s happening?  Don’t tell me you weirdoes get up this early after one of your hippy keggers,” Dean woofed.  “Don’t they let you sleep in?” 

Brad huffed as well, swung his feet off the bed and onto the floor.  He cradled his head in his hands, rubbing it with a blustery moan. 

“We did sleep in.”  Brad winced as he massaged his temples.  “Normally we’re up about the time we went to bed.”  He continued to rub his head.  “Ugh, ayahuasca always gives me a headache.  Tossed my cookies the first time I ever took it.”

“You were pretty baked, dude,” Dean laughed.  “What a buncha damn hippies.”

Brad nodded in agreement.  “Yeah well, ayahuasca helps to open the mind and subdue the ego.  You’ll see what I mean at the next ceremony.  To hear Father’s message is one thing, but to feel it, to taste it—to experience it in IMAX—well, it’s a spiritual Golden Ticket, a total mind-blow.  I mean, before I came here, beer pong had been the worst of my sins.  But if ayahuasca gets me closer to understanding Father’s teachings, I won’t quibble over a little headache.”  Brad paused and straightened up, startled by a new thought.  He looked Dean up and down.  “Holy shit, Dean.  You became an Initiate.”

Dean laughed.  “I guess I did,” he said.  “Not sure what that means, though.  I ain’t dressing like a damn nerd forever.  I’m telling you that right now.” 

Brad laughed.  “But the colors suit you so!” he teased but then sobered.  “No, seriously man.  You received Father’s blessing.  His blessing.  You took the first step.  Did you feel it?”

Dean shifted, buying himself a minute to think.  He remembered Father approaching and looking right into him.  There’d been…something—some darkness that had lifted when Father touched him, but beyond that he couldn’t remember anything specific other than a feeling of being…at home.  Had there been a light, maybe?  He couldn’t recall.  What he remembered most were Father’s eyes.  No one could fake that amount of compassion and love, and it had been almost too much to bear directed at him.  He didn’t feel worthy of it. 

“I felt something.”  Dean swallowed and cleared his throat.  “What is he?” he asked.  Brad raised his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.  He’s not…he’s not…”

“He’s not of this world?” Brad prompted.  “He is Father, Dean.  He is what he is, and he’s here for us.  He’s come to teach us.”  Another bell clanged over the loudspeaker.  “Shit, let’s go,” he said.

“Where?” Dean asked.

“Shower, breakfast, meditation and then work.  No field-work this morning since we were out so late last night.  Hang with me for today.  I don’t know where Father will assign you. Everyone pitches in with work, so you’ll be given a job.”  Brad began making his bed.  “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

Dean threw back his covers.  So much for a day to rest and relax, he thought.  Still, he wanted to learn more about this place and maybe find a way to talk to Father.  That wouldn’t happen by staying in bed.  “Lead the way.”

* *

After another quick, cold shower, Dean shivered into his Jedi getup and grabbed his street clothes from the corner where he’d set them last night.  Brad stopped him when he went to put on his watch.

“You won’t need that while you’re here, Dean,” he said. 

“Huh?  What do you mean?” Dean asked.

Brad nodded toward the watch.  “The path to Enlightenment is not measured in seconds, hours, or days but in hard work, dedication, and surrendering one’s ego,” he recited what must have been a well-worn, oft-spoken phrase.

“Whatever, Buddha,” Dean snorted through the side of his cheek and went to put on the watch.

“I’m serious, Dean.”  Brad reached out and pressed his own hand against Dean’s, stilling it.  “If you intend to follow Father and his teachings, you’ll have to give up some of the crutches you’re accustomed to leaning on.” 

“Telling time is a crutch?  What’s hot water, then—a mortal sin?” Dean scoffed.

Brad rolled his eyes.  “Initiates,” he said with a tired laugh but followed it up with a patient smile.  “I promise whatever Father asks of you, he asks for a reason.  This path will take you out of your comfort zone; I won’t deny that, but if you trust him and follow his lead, Father will reveal himself to you.  It’ll be much easier if you don’t fight every little thing right off the bat.”

Dean looked at the watch.  He didn’t see what the fuss was about, but he’d committed himself to staying in order to find out more about Father, so he’d pick and choose his battles carefully.  He set down the watch. 

“Fine,” he said. 

“Good,” Brad smiled.  “Let’s go put this stuff back in the cottage and get some breakfast.”

Dean’s stomach growled in response.  Brad turned and headed out, leaving Dean to roll up his clothes.  Stuffing the watch into the pocket of his jeans, he found his amulet that he’d taken off when he showered the previous night.  Holding it up, he considered it, and without hesitation, he put on and tucked it under his tunic, making sure it was well hidden.  He’d pick and choose his battles all right, but this was one he wasn’t going to lose.

* *

The pavilion that served as a cafeteria had all but emptied by the time they arrived.  Gypsy and Jason chanted together as they wiped down the vacated tables.

“Got enough for two more, Maureen?” Brad called out as they entered.

Maureen grabbed a couple of bowls.  “Of course, hurry, hurry!” she chuckled at them.  “Good morning you two.”  Before dishing him up, Maureen reached out and gave Dean a big hug. 

“My turn!” Gypsy called out as she ran up, offering Dean one of her own. 

“Morning,” Dean said with a shy smile. 

“Eat,” Maureen ordered, handing off his bowl and grabbing Brad into a hug with the other. 

Dean eyed the small serving of sticky oatmeal with raw apple slices in it.  “No blueberry pancakes and bacon?” he asked, forlorn.

“Not today,” she laughed.  “We eat light the morning after a Sacred Haoma Ceremony.  Ayahuasca has a tendency to upset the stomach.”

“But I didn’t have any of that,” Dean pouted.  Maureen laughed again.

She patted his back and guided him over to one of the tables, sitting down next to him.  Brad took the opposite chair.  “We’ll gather for a more substantial meal this evening,” she promised.  “So,” she gave him an enthusiastic nudge.  “How do you feel?”  Gypsy and Jason tossed down their rags and joined them. 

“I feel great,” Dean said.  “Thought I’d stay for a little while longer.”  Maureen beamed and smoothed his hair with motherly affection. 

“I didn’t expect anything different.  Father has great taste in souls.”  Her smile warmed him.  “He knew you would return to us.”

Dean put down his spoon.  “So, what’s his deal?” he asked.  “Who is he, really?  How does he do what he does?”  Maureen and Gypsy looked at each other and laughed.  Maureen pointed to the girl.

“Again…who does he remind you of?” she teased, poking Gypsy.  Dean furrowed his brows.

“What?  What do you mean?” he asked, watching the women.

Gypsy grinned.  “Sorry Dean, we’re not making fun of you.  I used to be the exact same way.  I think those very words came out of my mouth the morning after my initiation.  You’ll find the answers to all your questions on The Path, itself.  Do the footwork to open yourself so that you can know who and what Father is.  The big challenge in being an Initiate is in the doing, not in the asking.  You have to travel that path in order to find the answers.”

“Um, wouldn’t it be just as easy to go talk to him?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dean.  You could talk to him, but anything he said would only be words.  You can’t know the truth until you’re ready to receive it.  Father can’t tell you what you are incapable of understanding.”

“Huh.  And how am I supposed to become capable?  How do I start?” Dean asked, dubious. 

“You’ve already started,” Brad interjected.  “You opened yourself last night.  You let Father in.  That was your choice.  Ultimately, Father can’t go where he’s not invited.  Now you have to learn to open yourself a little more every day.  Think of Father’s wisdom and power as a tap to draw from.  Last night you turned the tap enough to get a trickle.  Today you’ll begin to practice turning the faucet until that trickle, that exchange of understanding between you and Father, becomes a steady flow.  You cannot imagine what is in store for you if you let go of your ego and let Father in.”

Dean nodded.  He wanted that.  He didn’t even know why he wanted it, he just did.  “He’s not going to turn me into a pod-person is he?”

“No,” she assured him with a chuckle.  “It’s nothing like that.  But he’s won’t to go easy on you either.  It’s true that the ego is very, very strong, and it doesn’t like giving up control without a fight.  This path is not without pain.”  Jason shifted in his seat, drawing Dean’s eye.  Maureen reached out and drew the man into a one armed hug.  She looked back at Dean.  “You have to learn to trust Father even when you think you know better.  Those who fight against him, those who seek to control their journey, have the toughest time.”

Dean sighed and smiled ruefully.  He thought about Sam’s inability to take orders, his constant nitpicking, his incessant second-guessing and how hard it had been on the family.  If Sam and his dad had not been so hardheaded, had they been willing to see the other’s perspective, the family might have held together despite Sam going off to Stanford.  John always said the difference between a good leader and a great leader was one who knew when to lead and when to follow.  Great leaders could do both.  Sam always struggled with obedience—more to the point, he always struggled with obedience to John.  For Dean, it was second nature.  He figured he could ease up and give Father a chance.

Maureen reached a hand out to him and stroked his shoulder. “Rather than try to control how the information is imparted…trust that the information will be imparted as long as you follow instructions.  It takes discipline and willingness; but I don’t figure you for someone who’s afraid of hard work, Dean.”

“I’m not,” he said.  “I’m not afraid of hard work.  This is kind of new to me, is all,” he admitted.  “I—I want to try.   One more question, though.”  All four of them burst into laughter at that. “No, seriously,” Dean said and laughed along with them.  “How did you heal me?” he asked.  “Are you the only one that can do that or can anyone?”

Maureen thought a moment.  “I didn’t heal you, Father did.  But,” she ventured, “I guess you’re asking how that worked.”  Dean nodded.  “I’ve been on The Path long enough that the channel between Father and me has become a fluid exchange in a way.  I’m not special, though.  All adepts can act as a conduit for Father’s power.  But I can’t explain the process any more than I can explain quantum physics.  In other words, I can’t tell you how to do it, but you will be able to do it if you stay on The Path.”

Dean watched her.  “Do we ever get to ask Father questions directly?”

“Initiates don’t have access to Father,” Jason spoke for the first time.  He’d been sitting there quiet and listless the entire time, Dean noted.  “I wish they did, actually.  Father doesn’t offer one-on-one teaching until you’ve reached the level of Adept.  Once you are an Adept, you meet with him at least once a week.  I’m trying to work my way through being a Disciple so that I can become and Adept and talk to him.  I have so many questions.” 

Gypsy took his hand.  “It’s not easy,” she soothed.  “But you’ve come so far, my friend.  Everything will be fine.”

“I know,” he sighed.  “It’s worth it, Dean,” he said, resolute.  “It’s not easy, but it is worth it.  You’ll see.”

When the bell rang three times, all four of the Jedis rose.  Brad grabbed his and Dean’s empty bowls and put them in the bin for washing. 

“What’s that?” Dean asked, rising as well.

“Meditation,” Maureen said with a hungry glow in her eyes.

“Come on, Dean,” Brad said.  “Father has assigned us to help you on your journey.  We’re going to show you everything you need to know…kind of be your immediate family within the larger family of The Kindred.  We’re here for you, so let’s get you started properly.”

* *

They’d just passed the odd hatch that lead to The Kiln, that underground meditation room that Brad had pointed out the day before, when Father’s voice came over the loudspeaker, calling on his children to quiet their minds and be still.  Dean glanced up at the speaker on the pole and listened. 

Father’s voice had the same effect on Dean as he’d had on him in person.  The sound was both a comfort and a stimulant—much like Led Zeppelin or AC/DC—and he felt that coiled energy within him kindle to life.  Every syllable resonated, every word made complete sense.  The message was profound for its sheer simplicity.  Quiet the mind, let go, calm your fear, tame your desires, subdue your ego, and all things would be possible.  Yes.  Of course.  Dean closed his eyes and zeroed in on the instructions that spilled from the speaker; he took a deep breath and held it, releasing only when compelled to do so by Father.  He repeated this until the ground started to tilt and pitch beneath his feet.

“Dean!” he heard someone say.  “Dean, not here.  You’ll fall.  Come on, sweetie.  Let’s go inside and sit down.”  Dean opened his eyes and saw Maureen’s joyful face as she pulled on his arm.  He wobbled along beside her. 

“Let’s go inside,” she said again.    

Brad put his arm around Dean’s shoulder and guided him into the largest of the outbuildings.  “This is the best part of my day,” he said. 

Dean found himself in a small gymnasium.  The Jedis were perched like stiff yoga students upon soft cushions on the floor.  Maureen grabbed several mats and pointed to a corner of the room where they could sit together.

“We call this room The Heart.  It’s where we do most of our spiritual work.  Just relax and let go,” she whispered to him.  “Close your eyes and follow Father’s instructions.”  

Dean tried to settle down and quiet his mind—whatever that meant.  He’d never tried anything like it.  Wasn’t sure it was even possible for him.  The only time he’d ever sat still for more than a few minutes was when John or Sam had been sick or hurt.  He never figured himself for a patient guy.  Normally, it took everything he had not to fidget, and he felt twitchy and restless as soon as he sat.  He scratched and ticked and cracked his knuckles, trying to find a comfortable position.  At last, he decided not to try and clear his mind, because the more he tried, the more cluttered and intrusive his thoughts became.  Instead, he concentrated on Father’s recorded voice as it led the meditation over the loud speaker, and soon he found himself hooked.  The sound was like rain on parched skin, and the same pleasant vibration that had rippled through him last night began to thrill through him now.  The guru’s slow, sonorous voice repetitively urged them to open themselves to him, and Dean imagined the little trickle of energy turning into a steady stream. 

Dean had no clue how long the meditation lasted.  Throughout the session, though, he began to feel good—calm and complacent—in that quiet place; and as Father’s voice penetrated his mind, Dean’s need and dependency on that source energy grew.   He threw himself into every exercise, his attention rapt, breathing so deeply when instructed that he began to feel light-headed even sitting down.  Breath control did not come easy for him and he struggled with it.  At one point, he felt a warm hand on his arm and knew that Maureen was with him, her strength and encouragement grounding him.  Overall, by the time meditation was over, he felt awake and alive—sharper in every way.  When Father blessed them and instructed them to begin their day, everyone rose and filed out of the room, off to do their assigned tasks.

Once outside, Dean found that the clouds had broken up and the sun was high overhead.  He checked his watch out of habit before realizing that it wasn’t there.  It had to be past noon, now, and he guessed they’d meditated for close to five hours.  Had it not been for the pain of his empty stomach, he would have thought they’d been in there no more than an hour. 

“All right you guys, we’ll see you later, Gypsy and I are on Outreach duty today,” Maureen told them.

“Outreach duty?  What’s that?” Dean asked.

“We’re going to go into town and meet with members of the community,” she said.  “Part of our work for Father includes community outreach.  He forces no one to follow his teachings, but those who would make good Initiates must hear about us and know they are welcome to come here.  So, several days each week a few of us go out and pass out flyers to those who might be interested.”

“Dean can come with me and Jason,” Brad said.  “We’re on gate duty.  Tim and Kimo need to be relieved so that they can have time with Father.”  He gave the girls a wave.  “You two be careful out among them English,” he said with a wink.  “We’ll see you when you head out.”  Brad turned to Dean and Jason.  “Let’s go.  Kimo and Tim both have private lessons with Father today,” he said and trotted away. 

Dean ran to catch up and as they jogged along, he questioned Brad further.  “Do you often have people bothering you?”

“What’s that?” Brad asked. 

“The gate,” Dean said.  “Is it that bad?”

“We’ve had a few intrusions,” he said.  “It’s usually people who don’t understand what we’re about and just want to gawk or make fun of us.  But we’ve also had some sinister disturbances from time to time, so we have to stay vigilant.”

“Sinister?”  Dean’s eyebrows lifted.  “Sinister how?”

“We had one kidnapping attempt, one of the Enlightened Ones, Angel, who now resides with Father.  When she was still an Adept, her uncle broke in with a few men and tried to take her, grabbed her right out of the fields.  It was by Father’s grace alone that we were able to get to them and get her back without violence.  We had to call the local authorities to remove her family from the property.  That’s when we built the fence and installed the gate.  We’ve been much more protective of our property and lifestyle since then.  I won’t lie, Dean; we were concerned with your intent when we first saw you.  You’d been sitting in your car for so long, we wondered if you were staking the place out or something.”

A rush of guilt shot through Dean as Brad spoke.  He wanted to come clean, but he held back and gave Brad a small dismissive laugh instead.  Averting his eyes, he turned toward the gate as they continued onward.  His view of the road was unobstructed, and he realized with a sickening thump of his heart that he’d left the Impala unattended. 

He gasped, the previous conversation forgotten in his blind panic.  “My car!” He broke away from the others and craned his neck, trying to get a better view of the road.  “Where the hell is my car?”

“Easy, Dean!” Tim said as he poked his head out of the guard shack.  “Father told me where your keys were and had me take the car to the garage after the ceremony last night.  He didn’t want anything to happen to it.”

Blood rushed to Dean’s face and his ears began to burn.  “You drove my car?”   The veins in his forehead pulsed as he reeled on Tim.

“Uh…” Tim backed up, the glint in Dean’s eye full of dark intent.  “Well, y—yeah.  Father told me to,” he explained.  “I locked it up.  The keys are in the garage.  Everything is safe and sound.  I didn’t touch anything, honest.”

Dean took several breaths.  “Okay, Tim,” he said as he panted through the words.  “Just…you know…come get me if you ever need to do something like that again.  I’m kind of protective of her.”

“It’s cool, Dean,” Tim laughed nervously.  “Jeez, guess Father didn’t call you the Warrior for nothing, huh?”

Dean stood down.  “Yeah, well, it’s just that she’s the only thing in the world I have left.”

“Not true,” Brad affirmed.  Dean turned to him.  “It’s the only thing you had left.  You’ve got a whole lot more now.”  He gestured to those around him.  “Just the same,” he added with a grin.  “We’ll check on her as soon as we get back to the compound and make sure both you and your car are comfortable, Okay?”

* *

The first few hours of guard duty were uneventful.  Their sole job had been to open the gate when Maureen, Gypsy and about five other Jedis left in a van to distribute flyers.  The rest of the time Brad and Jason tried to teach Dean the mantras that he would need to know for that evening’s devotional service. 

Dean hesitated.  He would give things a try up to a point in order to get to the truth about Father, who and what he was.  Other hunters would need this intel.  If he could get close enough to Father to speak to him about everything, he might have a lot to offer.  Hell, he might know what had killed his mom.  He might even agree to help find the damn thing.  Dean could make an exception this once and work outside his comfort zone, but he still found the worship-side of this group more than a bit off-putting.  When he said as much, both Brad and Jason chuckled. 

“Initiates,” Brad said, looking from Jason to Dean with fondness in his eye.  “It’s okay, Dean.  Nobody is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.  But we don’t think of it as worship, we think of it as respect.  Father has dedicated his existence to helping us better ourselves spiritually.  Chanting is our way of not only acknowledging that pledge but also our way of making one of our own in return.  The bond is reciprocal.  He gives to us; we give to him.”  Dean still wasn’t convinced.  Brad continued.  “Think of it this way, when Father blessed you—when you meditated this morning—didn’t you feel his power flow through you?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean admitted. 

“And how did that make you feel?” Brad asked.

“It made me feel…alive.  It made me feel…” Dean was quiet a moment.  “It made me feel like, you know—like I was needed and wanted or something.”

“It made you feel loved,” Jason cut in as though speaking to himself.  Dean swallowed and looked away.

“Right,” Brad agreed.  “So, when we meditate, Father fills us.  And when we worship, we fill Father.  See?  The exchange complements both parties, each strengthening the other.   This isn’t subjugation, Dean.  It’s symbiosis.  Our worship is a celebration of that bond, that kinship.”

Dean felt shame burn his cheeks.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

Jason moved in, nodding to Brad and then turning to Dean.  “No need to be sorry, Dean.  We all have to learn this.  I was an atheist before I came here.  I was the last person on the planet who would have bowed knee to anyone or anything.  So, trust me when I tell you this, I was much more stubborn than you are.  I fought it much harder.  My own father was an abusive sonofabitch; it got so bad that I left home when I was sixteen.  I’ve always fought authority, and I would never have dreamed of holding anything or anyone higher than I held myself.   Here,” he said, motioning to the floor of the shack.  “Just sit down and close your eyes for a moment.”

“Uh…”  Dean dusted off a place in the corner and sat.  “Okay, now what?”

“Close your eyes,” Jason prompted.  “Relax and clear your mind.  Deep breaths.”  Dean stilled.  “Good.  Now, don’t think about anything.  Don’t fight it.  You can fight all you want after we’re done, but for right now, if only for this one moment…let yourself go.  Can you do that?  For one minute?”

“I’ll try,” Dean said. 

“All right, open yourself, Dean,” he droned.  “Open yourself and let Father in, just like you did this morning.  Don’t think.  Just do.  Do you feel it?”

Dean took several deep breaths, pictured that tap and allowed Father’s essence to flow into him.  He could feel the warmth deep in his spine, a pleasant vibration calming him, pulling him in.  All sounds except Jason’s voice faded away. 

“Do you feel it?” he asked again. 

Dean nodded.  “Yes,” he whispered. 

“Good.  Now, I want you to twist the other tap, the one that flows from you to Father.  Open it up.  Again, don’t think, Dean.  Just do it.”

Dean reached out in his mind’s eye, twisted his faucet and allowed a tiny trickle to run.  It terrified him and his breaths became desperate and erratic.

“Calm down, Dean.  Don’t fight it.  You’re merely giving a few drips…that’s all.”

 Dean pictured a tiny rivulet of his energy flowing in a direct line to Father, the fantasy was so vivid and real that he could sense his energy surge out of him.

“That’s it.  You’ve got it.  Do you feel it?” Jason said.

“Yes,” Dean said.

“You’re doing amazing, Dean.  You pick this up faster than I ever did.  Now, with each drop you give, repeat after me.  Father is life.”

“Father is life.”

“That’s it, Dean.  Father is love.”

“Father is love.”

“You’re a great student.  Father is the Keeper.”

“Father is the Keeper.”

“Don’t think.  Just do.  Thank you, Father.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Let yourself go, Dean.  I trust Father with my life.”

“I trust Father with my life.”

“Open your tap a little wider.  I trust Father with my heart.”

“I trust Father with my heart.”

“Ignore your ego.  Don’t think.  I trust Father with my soul.”

“I trust Father with my soul.”

Dean felt a sudden inrush of energy from Father that stole his breath away.  It was so beautiful and so right that he opened himself further.

“Yes.  Yes, Dean.  My life is Father’s to mold.”

“My life is Father’s to mold.”

“You are so good at this.  My heart is Father’s to fill.”

“My heart is Father’s to fill.”

“Don’t think.  My soul is Father’s to keep.”

“My soul is Father’s to keep.”

“Slow down your breathing, Dean.  Deep, slow breaths.  I know it’s overwhelming at first, but keep your mind still and calm.”

Dean could feel his cheeks and scalp flame, tingling with emotion and awe.  The exchange was exquisite.  He sensed Father’s warmth, encouragement, appreciation and gratitude returned to him even as he gave it.  Father cherished Dean’s praise, acknowledged his offering as significant and worthwhile.  In his whole life, Dean had never felt anything like it.  He hadn’t even given Father that much of himself, nothing close to what he’d given his own father and brother throughout the years.  Instead of rejecting him, though, Father drew him in, acknowledged his small offering, and gave of himself in return.  It was so tempting to turn that tap more.  Dean reached for it with his mind’s eye, giving it a slight twist.

“Open yourself, Dean.  Mold me, Father.”

“Mold me, Father.”

“Let go.  Fill me, Father.”

“Fill me, Father.”

“Give yourself to him.  Keep me, Father.”

“Keep me, Father.”

Jason and Brad began to chant with him, and the words took on tangible form to Dean.  The mantra not only created a bond between Father and himself, it manifested a bond between the three men as well.  Dean felt the same connection to them as he experienced with Father, and the energy exchange wove an intricate network between him and his new brothers.  Eyes still closed, he perceived when the other two started to sway in time to the chant, and with no sight or sound cues, he moved when they did, a natural offshoot of the powerful synchronicity between them.  As the pace of their chant quickened, Dean was aware of shifting patterns before they hit, and his own voice began to rise and fall at the exact moment that his brothers’ did.  It wasn’t only the sound or the motion that intrigued and aroused his senses; it was the profound connection shared between the three of them in the guard-shack.  He hadn’t been so in tune with anyone since Sam left for Stanford.  He’d almost forgotten what it felt like.  Through it all, he could feel Father’s delight in their worship, encouraging them to give all they had.

Dean would have remained under this meditative yoke for hours had Jason and Brad not pulled him out without warning.  He jumped when Brad shook his arm. 

Jason swore.  “Shit, Brad.  Shit, shit, shit!”

Dean’s eyes sprang open, looking around, dazed.  “What’s…” he started to say and then stopped, the growl of a heavy vehicle as it drove over the gravel path leading to the gate drawing his attention.  He popped his head up and peered past Jason’s haunted, pale face toward the van as it approached.  Neither the satellite dish affixed to the top nor the Seattle TV news station’s logo on the side of the van was as intimidating as the woman in the passenger seat. 

It was Mei. 

Dean ducked.  Safe behind the tinted windows or not, he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Damn.  I don’t know what to say to her,” Jason said, distressed and tense.  He threaded his hands through his hair, and Dean could see tears glistening in his eyes.  Dean watched Mei get out, followed by a reporter and a cameraman.  The trio approached the shack. 

“Stay here,” Brad said to Jason. “Maybe I can get her to leave.”  He opened the door and raised his hand, halting the newcomers. 

“What can I help you folks with,” Brad said without warmth.  Dean took another peek through the window.  Mei wasn’t looking in his direction, she pointed to the gate and urged the cameraman to film. 

The reporter stepped forward.  “I’m Aaron Anderson with KIRO News.  We’re doing a story on The Dynamic Synthesis Co-op.  Who’s in charge here?”

“You’ll have to call our business office.  The number is on our website,” came Brad’s crisp reply.

“He’s the one, Aaron,” Mei said.  “He’s the one who came to the house with Jason.”  She turned to Brad, her eyes icy with anger.  “Where’s my husband?  What have you done with him?” Dean’s heart sank.  Mei’s pain and desperation was palpable.  Jason must have noticed it, too, because he began to pace around the small room. 

“I haven’t done anything to him,” Brad said, his tolerance forced and strained.  “Jason’s safe and well, Mrs. Hickey.  You have nothing to—” 

The reporter interrupted.  “Can we come in and talk to him?” Aaron asked.

Brad shook his head.  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.  I’ll tell Jason you were here, Mrs. Hickey.  If he wants to talk to you he’ll give you a call.” 

Jason twitched and hissed as he paced.  With a final, muttered Shit! he threw open the door and stepped out of the shack.

“Mei,” he said, wounded and torn.  The reporter motioned to his partner to make sure the camera was rolling. 

Mei marched up to the gate.  “Jason,” she said.  Jason shook his head at the reporter.

“Aaron, stop the cameras,” he demanded.  “I’m not one of your damn stories.”

Aaron didn’t move.  “Then prove it, Jason.  Come on out and talk to us.  Everyone at work is worried about you.”  Jason shook his head.

“There’s nothing to worry about.  I’m fine.  This is very intrusive, and I don’t appreciate it, Aaron.”

“Jason,” Mei pled.  “I’m begging you to come with me.  Come with me for just one night, you and me…no reporters, no cult members.  Come with me and we can talk.”  The words cult member set Jason on the defensive.

“It’s not a cult, and I don’t want to leave.  I’m happy here.  But I’d be so much happier if you would come for a visit.  Come back without the media circus and we can talk.  I’m not discussing this out here and certainly not on camera.”

“Jason,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.  “You don’t get it.  They’ve done something to you.  They’ve brainwashed you or something.  This is not you.  Jason, please.”

“But they haven’t, Mei.  This is a great place, and I want to be here.”

“No you don’t.  Not really.  You don’t, Jason, and I’m not giving up on you.  Just know that, okay?  Please know that I’m not giving up on you.  You’re not a mindless fanatic, and I won’t stop until you’re free of this place.”

Dean ran his hands through his own hair.  This was difficult to witness.  He could see how broken the doctor was, how sincere.  It made knowing how wrong she was all the more tragic.  He wondered if he should go out and try and talk her into coming in for a visit.  Maybe Father could set her fears to rest.  If the situation had not been so volatile, had the news crew not been there, he would have tried.   

Brad put up his hand again.  “Jason, go back to the shack,” he commanded, and even Dean could feel the order resonate within him.  He knew Jason had to have felt it, too.  There was Father’s power in that order.  Jason looked at Brad and slumped in defeat.  Jason turned to Mei.

“Set up an appointment through our office to come for a visit, Mei.  Just you.  Come for a visit and I’ll be there.  I’m not giving up on you, either.  And you have this all wrong.”  Without another word, Jason returned to the shack and closed the door.  He panted and collapsed to his knees in anguish, praying for Father to help him, chanting his love for his teacher with feverish desperation.  Dean vacillated between the urge to comfort him and the desire to see the action playing itself out by the gate.  Brad was still talking to Mei when the reporter put a hand on her shoulder and tried to coax her to go back to the van.

“You folks need to leave,” Brad said.  “If you want to schedule an interview or a visit, you’ll have to make arrangements through our business office.”  Mei wasn’t paying attention and spoke right over him.

“What did you do to him?” she demanded.  “I saw your eyes when we met.  I’m not stupid, and I’m not blind.  I’m going to get my husband out of here,” she promised.  “I am.  I’m going to get him out of here, and I’m going to stop whatever you’re doing.  Count on it.”  Aaron and Ned moved back, pulling Mei with them. 

By the time they left Dean felt as though he’d run a marathon.   When Brad came into the shack the three of them stood in silence, looking at each other in shock. 

* *

It was late afternoon when Dante and Luna relieved them.  They appeared to know what had happened, and they gave Jason a hug, telling him not to worry—that Father would take care of everything.  Brad, Jason and Dean made their way back to the compound in silence and stopped at one of the outbuildings to check on the Impala.  Dean wasn’t happy that someone else had touched her, but she seemed to have weathered the manhandling.  He gave her a loving pat and promised he’d be back to check on her often.  As they were preparing to leave, the van pulled into the garage, Maureen and Gypsy returning with the others from town.  Maureen wordlessly approached Jason and gave him a hug as though she already knew what had transpired.

“Shhh,” she said.  “You’re going to be all right, Jason,” she said as he fell into her embrace.  Gypsy and Brad also huddled close, offering soft words.  Dean stood back, not knowing what to do or quite how to react.  He bit his lip and wondered what, if anything, he could do to help.

“I just miss her,” Jason murmured.

“Of course you do,” Maureen soothed.  “And she clearly misses you, too.  Maybe in a few days you can reach out again and see if she won’t come visit us for a couple of days.  Father would be able to make her understand.  Don’t give up hope.”  Jason gave her a stoic nod and wiped his eyes. 

“I need to go meditate,” he said.  “I’ll be in The Heart.”

“Don’t you want some supper?” Gyspy asked.

“I think I’ll fast tonight to try and gain some balance,” Jason said as he strode out of the room.

The four that remained grew quiet after he left.  Maureen beckoned Dean over to her, drawing him into the group. 

Brad nodded to Maureen.  “Jason’s Ordeal will be starting soon, don’t you think?” he asked the older woman.

Maureen smiled.  “Oh yes, he’s almost there,” she agreed.  “Straight through the fire and into the light.  He’ll be fine.”

“Wait, what?” Dean asked, perplexed.  “What Ordeal?  What are you talking about?”

“It’s part of The Path,” Brad said.  “Jason will soon be starting his quest to become an Adept.”

“And what does that mean?” Dean wanted to know.

“You’ll find out when your own time comes, Initiate,” Gyspy said with a teasing grin.  “Some things are meant to be experienced rather than discussed.  You’ll have your moment.  Be patient.”

Dean looked hard at the others.  He didn’t like being at such a disadvantage or being kept in the dark, but he said nothing.

“The only way to know, Dean, is to do,” Maureen reminded him.  “There are things we can’t tell you because they can’t be translated into words.  Seek out Father’s blessings and the answers will come.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, somewhat sullen.

“Do you trust Father, Dean?” Maureen asked.

“I’m working on it,” he said. 

“Don’t think about it, sweetie.  Just keep doing what you’re doing and the rest will come.  Now…” Maureen said, giving Dean a pat.  “Let’s go get some supper and then we’ll spend the rest of the night in celebration.”

Brad nodded.  “This is my second favorite part of the day.  You’ll love it, Dean.  Come on.”

* *

Dean was still hungry when they entered The Heart, even though he’d eaten.  Despite the promise Maureen had made earlier that supper would be more substantial, it wound up consisting of nothing beyond some fruits and vegetables with about a half-cup serving of brown rice.  It was tasteless and did little to appease his hunger.  He’d eaten so little in the past week that he felt light-headed.  There didn’t seem to be much use in arguing, though.  It was odd.  This was a working farm; yet, no one seemed to eat any of the foods they grew.  When in Rome, he reminded himself.  He also reminded himself that the Deming Tavern was all of a 10-minute drive away if he became desperate.  Father might live on sunlight alone or some shit, but as willing as Dean was to learn what the sage had to teach, he didn’t feel that he needed to starve in order to prove his dedication. 

Dean spied Jason sitting on a mat in the corner, a troubled expression on his face despite his delirious chanting.  He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of Ordeal Jason had to undertake and what that meant for his own future.  He wasn’t that far behind Jason.  The journalist had only been with The Kindred for a couple of weeks.  Brad interrupted his thoughts. 

“This is going to be exactly like we practiced back in the guard-shack, Dean.  Just let go and enjoy the night.” 

The foursome pulled their mats over to Jason and sat with him.  Dean tried to concentrate on the chanting, but his thoughts kept returning to Mei and Jason and their pain.  His thoughts wandered even more far afield, and he began to think about Sam and his dad.  He wondered where his dad was, wondered what Sam was doing and wondered what they would say if they knew where he was.  Would they be like Mei and try to persuade him to leave or would they not care at all?  It hit him hard that he would never know the answer to those questions, because the fact of the matter was that they had let him go long ago.  They didn’t know where he was because they didn’t care to know.  There was no exchange; the attachment was Dean’s alone, a one-way street.  Did they ever feel it?  Did it mean so little to them that they never even noticed?  Dean reached up and felt the amulet under his tunic. 

“Dean,” Brad whispered and nudged the Initiate—well aware that Dean was lost in his own world.  Dean opened his eyes for a guilty second, long enough to see Brad motion for him to focus.  “Stop thinking so much.  Let go.”

Dean cleared his throat and closed his eyes, trying to empty his head enough to join in the chant.  He gave it a half-hearted attempt at first, going through the motions only; but he soon felt that familiar surge of Father’s spirit flowing through him again.  Dean homed in on that delicious exchange, and his physical hunger faded away, replaced by a voracious spiritual need.  He missed Sam and John, and he knew that nothing would ever replace them, but it felt damn good sitting amongst these people, knowing with absolute certainty that love and loyalty—if given freely—would be returned to him ten-fold.

Dean opened the tap wider, letting himself go further.  His worry over Mei and Jason, his anguish over Sam and John evaporated until he focused his all of his thoughts on giving Father his thanks.  

To whom do you belong, my children? Father’s voice was strong and true within his head, and The Kindred responded as one.

“To you Father,” Dean joined in with the others.  “My body is your body.  My will is your will.  My soul is your soul.”

The chanting voices began to swell, causing the entire room around him to vibrate and the air to quiver.  And just as he had experienced before in the guard shack, he felt an overwhelming connection to the others and intuitively knew exactly when the cadence of the chant would fluctuate, knew the precise moment when the rhythm would shift.  Dean didn’t analyze why he knew; he just knew.  He was able to perceive when his brothers and sisters were going to stand, and he rose with them.  He didn’t think.  He let go.  When they began to jump, he jumped, too, without the slightest prompting.  The Kindred jumped in unison, over and over again, creating a perfect harmony between sound and motion, operating as a single, synergistic mind.  It was beautiful, and in that moment Dean gave himself over to the ecstasy of that union.  Waves of joy swept over him, surrounded by his new family, enveloped in their love. 

He felt no trepidation, no worry, no fear, no time, no end.   Sound and motion fused, connecting him to everyone, so much so that he didn’t even realize he’d passed out until Brad and Maureen were hovering over him, trying to get him back on his feet.  He’d simply moved from one euphoric state into another, and in his mind he was still chanting and jumping. 

Maureen ran and got him some water and made him drink as she passed a loving hand through his damp hair and chanted to him.  When he was lucid enough to get to his feet, Brad reached down and helped him up, holding him with firm hands until Dean was steady.  The trio shut their eyes at the same moment and returned to their devotion without ever having said a word to one another.

The chanting went on, Dean and his family singing praise to Father until a few hours before dawn.  Finally, they ceased their mantra at the same moment and filed out of the building in silence, making their way to the cottages on shaky legs. 

By the time Dean threw himself down on his cot, he was exhausted, sweaty, hungry and dizzy.  But he was happy. 

It had been one of the best days Dean could ever remember.      

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

Dean was certain the music in his head was a gift—a gift from Father, perhaps.  As funny as it struck him that his guru was apparently a big, fat Deep Purple fan, and despite how long it had been since he enjoyed a good dose of classic rock, he was too tired to appreciate it.  The music stumbled and stammered over him like a string of tin cans clattering behind the Impala.  He couldn’t grab hold, and the psychedelic sounds of Deep Purple clanged away and then down into silence.

As a member of The Kindred, sleep was a rare thing, doled out an hour or two at a time with long stretches in between rest periods.  Sleep nourishes the ego not the spirit!—was the mantra everyone recited whenever he broached the subject.  Meditation and worship were better uses of his time, they’d said, and if he desired to move to the next level and become a Disciple, he’d have to cater to the needs of his soul rather than the desires of his flesh.  He’d been ashamed, because he truly wanted to seek Father’s blessing, but his body—his ego, they’d all told him—was fighting him.  So, he was penitent now, in a groggy, barely conscious kind of way, as he ignored the concert in his head.  Groaning, he rolled over on the hardwood floor, joints creaking, hips aching, and nuzzled into the corner to preserve his body heat. 

That was another thing.  The day after he decided to follow Father, they’d forbidden him luxuries like cots, blankets, chairs—hell, even eating utensils.  Humbling the ego of an Initiate was necessary in order to advance the soul, and apparently the use of a simple fork coddled it.  It seemed silly to Dean, but he wanted to get to the next level.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t been in worse straits on more than one occasion when his dad had left him in charge with no money to go off on one of his longer hunts.  Dean had plenty of practice with making do.  Right now, however, his spine popped and creaked in protest.  Just as he resettled and began drifting away, the music started up again. 

“Dean,” a perturbed voice rasped at him. 

Dean peeled his eyes open, reluctant, lifting a groggy head to try and figure out what was happening. 

“You should throw that thing away,” Brad said, looking as puffed and bleary as Dean felt. 

“Whaa?” his voice ghosted out, raw and broken from chanting all night. 

“Phone,” Brad said, pointing to the metal storage box acting as an echo chamber.  Deep Purple—it was his cellphone ringtone.  Dean was mortified.  He should have let the battery die, should have tossed it out.  Instead, he took it to the garage and charged it every few days—an ego-driven act if ever there was one—checking to see if there were any calls from his dad or Sammy.  There never were.  He’d allowed his ego to get in the way, and it pained him that Brad witnessed his weakness.  Numb hands opened the lid and snatched the phone up before the music stopped.

“Hello?”

“That’s it?  Hello?  That’s all you have to say for yourself?”  Bobby’s voice was hot with anger and relief.  “Two weeks, Dean.  Two weeks without a damn word from you.  What the hell have you been doing, boy?” 

“Shit, Bobby.  Sorry,” Dean ground out, clearing his throat and coughing.  He fumbled with his sandals, finally giving up and making his way out of the cottage barefooted, shutting the door behind him so as not to disturb Brad. 

“Forgot how to dial a phone, didja?  What’s gotten into you, Dean?  Where are you?”

“I’m not…no.  I mean, yes.  Nothing!  I’m still…I’m still in Washington,” he tripped over his words, shivering in the predawn damp.

“Well, you don’t sound like you know what the hell you’re doing.  You on a bender?”

“What?  No!” Dean assured him.  He had no idea what to tell the old man.  The truth was out of the question.  Bobby wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t think he should tell him about Father, not until Dean got permission to speak to the other hunters about him.  None of The Kindred even knew he was a hunter yet.  He could feel Father’s power slither around his spine, and he knew he had to put the old man off somehow.  “No, Bobby.  I…” he gazed around, trying to come up with something.  He paused and then smirked into the phone, drawling affectedly.  “I met a girl.”

“You met a girl…” Bobby deadpanned. 

“I met a girl, Bobby,” Dean boasted, staring up at a tall pine tree, feeling ashamed, but piling it on as thick as he could.  “And she is nursing me back to health and happiness in ways that just might kill me dead.  But what a way to go, Bobby.  You know what I’m saying?  I swear to you, man, I could drown myself in her ripe, luscious—”

“I got the picture, son.  Sweet Jesus, boy.  What the hell are you thinking?”

“Thinkin’?” Dean asked, irritation seeping into his tone.  “I ain’t thinking.  There’s nothing to think about.  I’m taking…what do people call it?  Personal time?  Well that’s what I’m doin’.  I’m taking some personal time off, Bobby.  M’gonna hang out with…Betsy for a while.  This feisty thing says she’s gonna help me get in touch with nature, an’ let me tell you—it’s a wild world out there, man.  Wild.”

“Oh good Christ,” Bobby snorted.  “Enough.  I hope you’re keeping your head on straight.  So, I guess this means y’ain’t comin’ this way for a while?”

“Don’t keep any candles burning in the window for me.  I’m gonna hide out in the bayou with my nymph for a while longer, Bobby!” Dean crowed and then closed his eyes, feeling a sense of shame for his flawless performance.  “M’gonna stay here with Brenda for a bit.”

“Betsy.”

“Huh?”

“You said her name was Betsy,” Bobby reminded the hunter.

“Whatever, dude.  Betsy.  Brenda.  Her name’s the least of her memorable assets.” 

“Aw God, enough, boy.”  The old hunter got quiet for a moment.  “So, how is everything else going, Dean?”

“Great Bobby,” Dean told him, and he meant it.  “I’m really doing fine.  I’m just going to hang out here and wait for the next set of coordinates, you know?”

Bobby sighed, surrendering.  “All right, kid.  Answer your damn phone next time.  I don’t expect that kind of treatment…least of all from you.”  Dean winced at that.  “You keep in touch; ‘cause if you don’t, I’m gonna come out there and kick your ass.  Don’t think I won’t.”

“All right Bobby.  I gotta go, man.  It’s damn early, and my feet are freezing.”

Bobby coughed out a lungful of air.  “Yer—Yer feet are fr—what?  Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Dean grinned into the phone. “You take it easy Bobby.  I’ll catch up with you down the road.”  He hung up before the old man could argue, turning the phone off and flipping it closed before heading back inside.

“You really should throw that thing away, you know,” Brad said, cracking his lids as Dean dropped the phone into his footlocker.  The hunter nodded but didn’t retrieve it.  He’d committed himself to Father, dedicated himself to learning all that the sage had to teach.  But there were some days when his ego won the battle.  This was one of them.

“I will,” he promised.  “Just…not today.”

* *

The food-tent was crowded when he entered.  Out of habit he searched for his friends and spotted them sitting together toward the front of the pavilion.  Dean turned without a word and took his place in the back corner, sitting straight and stiff on the dirt floor. 

He sat silent, watching Gypsy, Jason, Brad and Maureen as they talked and ate, but they weren’t looking toward him.  He also knew that Father’d deliberately subdued his connection to them during mealtimes and those hours when they weren’t meditating or worshiping.  Father wanted him to respect the bond, to appreciate that it was a privilege, not a right.  He could handle it with most of the Jedis, but Father had built the bonds with these four to be especially strong, and Dean was very close to them.  More than anything, he wanted to get through this phase and earn his place among them. 

As he continued to observe them, Maureen turned, and despite his forced exile, he could sense her gentle, soothing kindness even as she engaged Gypsy in conversation.  He knew she remembered what it was like to be an Initiate.  He felt her silent encouragement, telling him to stay strong and work hard so that he could earn his spot among them.  He wasn’t going to disappoint her.  The Jedis needed him.  They wanted him.  He’d been told again and again that The Four-fold Path was available to a worthy few, but it wasn’t an easy one.  Each stage had its own set of challenges.  He needed only to look at Jason to know how hard it could be.

Since the day his wife showed up with the camera crew, Jason had had it rough.  Despite Dean no longer being allowed on guard-duty until he became a Disciple, he was aware that Mei had returned several more times, threatening civil action if she was not allowed to see Jason.  One of the Jedis, Marc, was a lawyer himself, and he tried to convince Jason to get a restraining order against her and threaten his own lawsuit, but Jason flat out refused.  The situation had taken its toll on him, and even though Dean was only an Initiate, he perceived Jason’s distress at times, just as he sensed Maureen’s warmth.  He wondered if Jason might be contemplating leaving The Kindred and returning to his wife, and he felt sorry for him.  Making that kind of decision was unimaginable, but then again, Dean reminded himself, he didn’t have anyone trying to hold onto him.

The loudspeaker outside crackled, chiming three times, and the Jedis filed out.  As the pavilion emptied, Maureen approached him with a small bowl and set it on the ground with a wink.  Dean nodded his thanks and picked it up, hungrily scooping oatmeal into his mouth with his fingers.  This was the worst part.  The lack of sleep was hard, sure, and sometimes he felt like he was dreaming even while awake, he was so tired.  Not having a cot or blanket or even a spoon was an inconvenience, but it was this—the isolation and the hunger—that was the most difficult to contend with.  He’d passed out a few times over the last couple of weeks, and whenever he stood up his vision would gray out for a moment.  More than once he found himself stumbling into others before his vision cleared and he found his center.  Dean had always prided himself on his stamina, out-training Sam any day of the week.  Of course, back then he had access to decent food.  Okay, maybe not food that Sam would have called decent, but he at least had been able to consume enough calories to fuel his body.  Dean felt lightheaded and spacy most of the time now.  Brad and the others told him that it was a good thing, a sign of spiritual growth and the more he opened himself to Father the better things would get. 

So, he’d worked even more diligently.  And his newfound ability to connect with Father and the rest of The Kindred at such an early stage had earned him respect among the group.  If there was one thing he was good at, it was applying himself when it mattered, and the praise and positive reinforcement that he got from both the group and from Father only made him want to try even harder.  The Jedis never failed to point out how quickly he picked things up—much faster than they had at the same stage. 

“This won’t last long,” Maureen said, kneeling to meet his eye.  Dean gave her a vague smile, taking a moment to string together what she’d said.  His brain was still sleepy and sluggish, even after working in the fields for a few hours before breakfast.

Dean scraped the last of the oatmeal into his mouth.  He’d never much cared for hot cereal; countless bowls fed to his brother as a toddler, oatmeal drooling out of Sam’s mouth and onto his bib, had permanently put him off the stuff.  Now he wanted to lick the sides of the bowl, but he fought the urge with Maureen watching him.  Hunger won out over pride, though.  “Still hungry,” he admitted sheepishly, his head in the bowl, lapping up the last remnants.  “I suppose there’s no hope for blueberry pancakes and bacon, is there?  They’re only for visitors, huh?  The way to a potential Jedi’s heart is through his stomach?  Is that it?”

The woman brushed her fingertips along his hairline and smiled.  “Something like that.  As one of The Kindred, you must learn to rely on Father for your nourishment,” she said.  “Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”

“Why?  Are there pancakes under ‘em?” Dean asked with a smirk.

Maureen chuckled.  “Close your eyes a moment and open yourself to Father.  Let him feed you.”

Dean sighed but did as she asked, not expecting much.  Father was great for inner hunger, but his body needed food.  It had gotten so bad lately that he could think of little else unless he was meditating or worshipping.  He waited a moment and then gave up.  “I’m still hungry,” he said cracking one eye at Maureen.

“You’re not opening yourself up, silly,” she chided with a grin.  “Shut your eyes and really open yourself, Dean.  We don’t strive to connect with Father only when we are in The Heart meditating or giving thanks.  We connect with him wherever we are, whenever we need him.  Now, let go and ask Father to help you.”

Dean concentrated on linking with his teacher, fastening his own tethers to the sage, siphoning energy, inwardly asking for nourishment.  The response came as a rapid inrush of sustaining power that pooled in his belly and sated him immediately. 

He opened his eyes in surprise. “What the…?  Holy shit!”

“You see?” Maureen boasted.  “I told you.  Father will see to your needs, each and every one, if you only let him. You are so close, now.”

“Close?  Close to what?” Dean asked.  

Brad’s voice answered from above them.  “Close to becoming a Disciple.  You’ll be ready to move to the next level soon, Dean.  You’re loyal, you work hard—Father’s impressed.”  He bent down and took the empty bowl from him.

“He is?” Dean’s heart swelled at that, and he could feel Father’s power thrill through him in response. 

“Yeah.  Come on,” he said, offering a hand.  “Father is going to be leading meditation this morning.”

“Seriously?  He’ll be there?”  Dean felt a surge of excitement.  He’d felt Father’s presence, but he hadn’t seen him in person since his initiation.

“Yes, he’s going to announce the names of those to be promoted at the next Sacred Haoma Ceremony.  I think your chances are great.”

* *

The days had become a blur to Dean, and he now marked the passage of time by the growing strength of his connection to Father and The Kindred.  Brad had been right about not needing a watch at the river farm.  There was always the loudspeaker to let him know when it was time for a meal or for meditation.  The rest of the time, the loudspeaker played devotional chants and mantras on an endless loop, making their teacher the dominant presence in both their inner and outer worlds.  Dean never went long without Father’s soothing voice, but seeing him now threw him off balance, and he swayed like a drunk, overwhelmed by his guru’s presence.  His proximity intensified the coiling thread between them, and he could see Father’s light emanating from him even when Dean’s eyes were shut.   

He listened, rapt, captivated by Father’s voice as his mind stilled, coaxed by love and acceptance as the sage addressed his followers. 

“The ego is expressed as a mosaic in how one binds himself to other things, friends, relationships, intimacies, families.  All these treasures that are not true treasures make up this montage—a picture called The Ego.  It confines the soul, stifles it, traps it behind bars, making communion with me, your Father, impossible.  Full symbiosis cannot occur while the ego is bound to other mistresses, yes?”  Dean heard Jason clear his throat behind him. 

Father continued.  “It is but a thin veil, my children.  The ego is nothing more than a whispering liar.  Rebuke it.  Deny it.  Open yourself up to me, and I will guide you to an unimaginable reward—a synthesis so pure that you will be able to see the edge of the Universe.  Yes.  It is yours to grasp.  Are you brave enough?  Are you loyal enough?  Do you love me enough to slay the demon that is your ego?”

“Yes Father!  Yes!” Gypsy shouted in her fervor.  Others chimed in, declaring their loyalty and love to Father, and Dean joined them, opening himself as wide as he knew how, giving Father more access.  And the power poured in, braiding itself into his spine and spreading outward until he experienced nothing but rippling waves of euphoria.  He opened his eyes only when he felt someone shake him and call his name. 

“Dean.  It’s time,” Brad whispered.  “He’s going to make his selections.  You got this, I’m sure of it.” 

Dean’s eyes swept the room and watched as Father walked among them like a magnet, attracting bodies to lean toward him, hands to reach out to him, wherever he passed.  Dean felt the same pull as Father approached, but the guru stopped short, grasping Maureen’s hand as she reached up to him.

“Well done, my Daughter-Mother—you who have watched over my children with such tender love.  You are my faithful servant and have well-earned your long reward.”  Maureen’s face glowed with love.  Dean could feel her devotion, could perceive her reverence through their connection.  “You will become a Master, the newest member of the Enlightened Ones, and you will reside with me for all eternity” 

The entire room exploded with cheers for Maureen who had achieved the highest honor that Father could bestow and for which they all yearned.  Dean was happy for her.  No one deserved it more than Maureen, he thought.  She’d been a shining example to the rest of them, the best that The Kindred had to offer, Dean knew that—no question.  Maureen bent her head to her teacher’s feet, tears of joy flowing free.

Dean had been so lost in thought, happy for Maureen, that he didn’t even notice Father approach until the sage’s light fell upon him, warming him through.  Dean gazed up at him with nervous expectation.

“You, too, have done well, my child,” Father said.  “You have been faithful and true, and you shall become my new Disciple.”  Dean felt Brad clap his hand on his back, giving it a gripping tug.  Gypsy squealed and smiled broadly, throwing her hands up in the air, palms out, in an expression of gratitude and praise. 

Last, Father approached Jason.  Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Brad, Maureen and Gypsy exchange glances in some silent communication.  They sat up straight and watched Jason with a sense of tense expectation. 

“You are unsettled, my child,” Father said as Jason met his eyes, weary and torn.  “When you were an Initiate, you learned to love me.  As a Disciple you must learn to let go of that which is not of The Kindred.  It is not an easy task, as everyone who has passed through that fire knows.”  Several Jedis nodded, and there were a few distant shouts of agreement.  “It is time for your Ordeal to begin.  The Disciple will enter The Kiln, fragile and weak, but he will come out an unbreakable, incorruptible Adept.  Yes?  You are worthy of this travail, my son, because you have followed The Path sincerely and questioned honestly.  You are worthy of the fire because you are loved and because you are meant to be with your true family.” 

Jason glanced up at Father, reverent but agonized.  “I—I don’t think I can, Father,” he said, his face florid with emotion.  Maureen stirred and nodded to Brad and Gypsy again.  There was a ripple of movement that ran through the Jedis and a couple of them rose and walked silently over to Jason and stood next to him.  “I’ve agonized over this, and…I’m sorry.  I think I need to go.  My wife needs me.”  There was a silent pause as suspense built.  Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.

Father smiled.  “No, my son.  You belong with us.  We will stand vigil throughout your Ordeal, and only when you have triumphed shall we have our Sacred Haoma Ceremony to celebrate these promotions.”  The Jedis standing above him pulled Jason to his feet, keeping their hands on him despite his attempts to shake them off. 

“I can’t do that, Father,” Jason said, trying to break free of the Jedis’ grip. 

Father remained placid.  “The next time we meet, you will be ego free, and you will prostrate yourself before me and declare your undivided fealty.  This is my gift to you, my son.”  The sage smiled and, without warning, he dematerialized right in front of them, leaving nothing but an afterglow where he had been standing.   Dean’s amazement turned to confusion as Jason fought against those holding him.

“No,” Jason shouted out, but several more Jedis came up and grabbed him.  “Let me go!” he demanded as they pulled him from the room.

Dean found himself on his feet, a reflexive, instinctive response, moving toward Jason to help him, but he soon found himself restrained by Brad.

“Don’t, Dean,” he said.  “This is the way of every Disciple.  He’ll be all right.  He’s going to come out of this as an Adept, don’t interfere.”

Dean looked at Brad as though the young man was insane.  “What does that mean?  He doesn’t want to do this.”  People were getting up, helping to usher Jason out of the building.  Some were chanting and singing as they went. 

“Come on, follow and watch.”  Brad fell in line behind the others who were in high celebration mode, chanting and cheering as they frolicked behind those escorting Jason.  It was a bewildering combination, the exuberant, dancing Jedis trailing a resistant, struggling Jason.  The crowd stopped in front of the underground meditation bunker that Dean had seen on his first day at the river-farm.

Dante and Kimo held Jason while Tim entered the code on the keypad.  The latch released and the door opened with a hiss.

“No!  No, no, no…please!  I need to be with my wife.  I need to go to her!” Jason bellowed as they pulled him down into the underground holding.  Dean was appalled and, again, stepped in to try to assist Jason.

“Trust Father, Dean,” Maureen said, grabbing him.  “He won’t be harmed.  This is a gift, really.  Don’t take this away from him.”

As the latch closed, Dean felt the link between Jason and the rest of the Jedis sever.  Whatever he was about to face, he would be facing alone.  Father had cut Jason off from them.  The Jedis clapped and cheered, deliriously happy despite Jason’s terror.  Once the latch closed, the group embraced each other and then disbanded to go about their assigned duties.  Only a couple of guards remained, standing vigil by The Kiln.  Dean remained staring at the metal door, sickened, while Maureen, Brad and Gypsy tried to get him to come away.

“What the fuck was that?  What are they doing to him?  I can’t feel him.  I can’t feel him anymore!”  Dean said.

“His Ordeal has begun.  This is the privilege of every Disciple, and it is a path that one must travel alone.  We won’t be able to share this experience with Jason; we won’t be able to feel him or communicate with him.”

“Ordeal?  But what does that even mean?”

“It’s like a…Vision Quest,” Brad explained.  “He’ll be all right.  It is an awesome experience.  Don’t try to stop it from happening.  He’s earned the right to be there and deserves this chance.”

“But he said he didn’t want to stay.  You can’t make him.” Dean said, bristling.

“Dean, do you trust Father?” Maureen asked. 

“What?  Yes.  Yes, of course, but—”     

“Do you think Father has Jason’s best interest at heart?”

“I know he does, but still—” 

Maureen pressed a finger to his lips.  “Father will take care of him,” she said again, her voice soft and patient.  “Listen to me, Dean.  I had to be carried down to face my Ordeal.  I fought so hard that they needed to drag me there.”  Dean scoffed in disbelief.  “Oh yes, it’s true.  But, it was one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I don’t regret a moment of it despite what my ego told me at the time.  Jason’s ego was fighting for dominance, that’s all.  It won’t win.”  She reached out and smoothed his hair, stroking his cheek.  “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” Dean said without hesitation, leaning into her palm, letting her soothing touch calm him.

“Good.  I promise you that Jason will thank us all when he returns.  He will come out of this as an Adept, one small step away from becoming a Master.  This is what we all strive for.”

Dean watched her shining face as she spoke, and he wavered.  He continued to regard the beautiful woman.  “You’re going to become a Master,” Dean said, thinking aloud.

“I am,” she said with a smile.  “It’s what I’ve worked so hard for, what I’ve wanted—for so long—to be one with Father and all my brothers and sisters who have gone before me.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, realizing that he’d never seen any of the Masters—the Enlightened Ones as they called them—they all resided with Father, and he’d never been to the mansion. 

His brows pleated. “Uh, so once you become a Master, will you still join us for meditation and worship?”

Maureen laughed.  “We will meet again when you are a Master.  Until then, I will reside with Father.”

“Wait,” Dean said, considering her words.  “So he keeps all Enlightened Ones away from us?  Why?  Why can’t we all stay together?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dean.  You’ll see for yourself at the next ceremony when you witness my Blessed Transformation.”  Dean continued to stand there, lost in troubled thought.  “Come on, let’s leave Kimo and Dante to guard The Kiln.  Jason has his path to concentrate on, and you have yours.  Father wants you to fast the rest of the day and spend it in meditation and worship.  I’ll walk you back to The Heart.”

* *

After several days of waiting, they’d finally been told that Jason’s Ordeal was over.  They’d immediately begun fasting and making preparations for the Sacred Haoma Ceremony.  While Dean, Brad and Gypsy helped Maureen prepare the caapi for the ayahuasca, they anticipated the big event with excitement and joy.

“Five days.  That’s all it took him,” Brad said, impressed at Jason’s swift Ordeal.

“We’re twins,” Gypsy said with a laugh.  “We both took the same amount of time.”

“How long did it take you?” Dean asked Brad.  He tossed some more ground charcruna into the large pot as Maureen instructed.  With her Blessed Transformation imminent, she insisted that they learn the proper way to prepare the ayahuasca. 

“Six days,” he said, shaking his head in amusement.  “I never did anything by halves.  At least I’m not the record holder,” he chuckled and nudged Maureen.  Dean raised his eyebrows at her.

“Eight days,” she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh.  “See?  I was once a problem child, too.”

“What’s the average length of an Ordeal?” Dean wanted to know.

“Most last about three or four days,” Brad said.  “But Jason finally made it through, so we won’t quibble about the length.  Soon we’ll have him back with us in body and spirit, so it will be an amazing night.  You’re going to become a Disciple, Jason an Adept, and Maureen a Master.”  He shook his head in awe at Maureen.  “You made it at last.  I’d be jealous if I wasn’t so happy for you.”

Maureen reached out and drew him into a hug.  “Your time will come soon enough.  I’m so happy.  I feel like I’m flying.  Father’s love is everywhere.  I can actually see it.  It’s so beautiful,” she said, her eyes sweeping the air as if she were inspecting individual molecules.  “It’s so, so beautiful.  It’s everything.”  She stood for a moment, in rapt wonder and then shook herself, laughing.  “But enough.  It’s not just my night.  Dean is becoming a Disciple,” she said, reaching out and patting Dean’s shoulder. 

“I don’t even know what that means or what it will be like,” he admitted.

“It’s nothing to fear,” she said, idly stirring the brew.  “You will be more connected to The Kindred than you ever were before.  You’ll find it easier to allow communion with Father.  You’ll see what I mean.  It’s a wonderful thing.”

“Huh.  If it’s such a good thing, then why was Jason…you know…” he stumbled.  “Why was he so down?”

“Well, not everyone has as hard a time as Jason had,” Brad said. 

“But some do,” Maureen interjected.  “It’s a bit of an in between stage, and the ego is a vicious fighter.  You have to learn to allow Father to direct your will, and that’s not easy.  But no matter how hard your ego might fight, just remember this: there’s never been a Disciple who’s failed to become an Adept.  Not one.  You’ll make it through—how peacefully, how pain-free is entirely up to you.”

“I dunno, guys,” Dean laughed.  “My dad always said I was a stubborn ass.”

“Then we all better buckle up.  You’ll probably be a handful,” Gypsy laughed. 

“He’ll do fine.”  Maureen crooned.  “I’ve no fear for you at all, Dean.  I can see your luster even as we speak, and you have more than enough strength to make it through this.  With your dedication, you’ll be an Adept before you know it.  But first things first,” she said with a chuckle.  “Toss in a bit more of that chacruna; the ayahuasca needs to be good and strong.  This is going to be a night you’ll never forget.”

* *

“Don’t be a wuss,” Brad snickered as Dean eyed his cup of ayahuasca with trepidation, swirling the dark liquid around and around the cup but not drinking it.  “It’s only going to strengthen your connection to Father.”

Dean glanced about the orchard.  The sun had set, and most of the Jedis now sat in a worship circle, having already consumed their doses.  Hesitant and excited, Dean’s heart thumped wildly off beat.  The memory of his initiation was too cloudy to know what to expect.  He remembered that there had been severe pain involved, though he couldn’t nail down the exact cause of it.  He only remembered that Father had taken it all away. 

The thick, ropy liquid sloshed around the cup as Dean studied it, giving it a quick sniff.  It didn’t smell particularly appetizing, and he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of taking a hallucinogen—not that he hadn’t experimented a time or two in his life.  He had a distinct recollection of dropping acid a few years back with some chick named Rhonda and winding up wearing her lingerie during the course of the trip.  Shit.  Dean loved the Jedis, but he had his limits even with them.  He always did get a little frisky and uninhibited while under the influence.  He heard Brad laugh.

“It’s not an aphrodisiac, Dean.  You won’t lose control that way.”  Dean flushed crimson.  Damn those Jedis and their mind-tricks.  There were some thoughts he wanted to keep to himself.  Apparently, Dynamic Synthesis had its downside. 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dean snorted.  

“You can’t keep your secrets from us any longer, Dean, but there’s nothing in your head that could change how much we love you,” Gypsy said with a giggle.  She pressed her finger under the cup and levered it to Dean’s lips.

Dean wasn’t so sure about that.  He’d never told them about himself or his real intent behind his initial visit.  He downed the concoction to keep his thoughts from straying there.  The brew had a vague flavor of licorice but with a sweet/sour twist that turned his stomach.  He immediately felt his body respond by trying to purge it, and he bent over, grasping his knees.  Gypsy put her hand on his back and rubbed. 

“Keep it down, Dean.  Deep breaths,” she coached.

“Gah!”  He smacked his lips, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.  “That’s nasty.”

“You’ll get used to it.  Just keep it down.” Brad said.

“Ughhh,” Dean shivered, righting himself and hopping like a boxer a few times to settle his stomach. 

Brad guided Dean over to the circle and sat.  “Let’s praise Father while we wait for it to kick in.  Father and Jason won’t be here until after dark.  You’re going to enjoy the experience as long as you don’t fight it.  I’m actually kind of jealous, man—witnessing The Blessed Transformation for the first time?  Nothing compares to it.  Nothing.” 

Dean closed his eyes and strove to clear his mind despite his nervous excitement, concentrating solely on the mantra they were chanting.  The words soon swallowed him, and the wandering rhythms that he and The Kindred were creating together titillated and intrigued him.

Twenty-five minutes later, they were still purring their prayers, a humming chorus of intuitive modulations and inflections, requiring no conductor, changing from legato to staccato like a flock of birds changes direction.  Dean had no perception of upcoming shifts; no communication came through the strands of energy that connected him to The Kindred, because a connecting point no longer existed.  He was the joint—he was the gravitational vibration that drew them together.  He was the music they chanted, and he rippled and trembled as waves of sound against their vocal chords.  The Jedis were singing him into being—birthing him—and as he issued forth from their mouths, spilling out into the air and mingling with the heat of the bonfire, he looked upon the world for the first time, mewling with verdant, wide-eyed awe.   

He felt nothing and everything at the same time; his body was an amalgamation—an expression of frequencies and particles that jackrabbited around the orchard.  Soon, he could feel an inner expansion as he was incorporated into the minds of the other Jedi—or they into him, he wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t much care as long as they were one unit.  The synthesis was faulty, however, and his connection waffled like a flickering light bulb not quite screwed in tight enough.  Dean found himself back in his body, feeling nauseous, tottering on his hands and knees several paces away from the worship circle, vomiting thick, syrupy bands of dark green goo into the dirt.

“It’s just your ego,” a woman’s voice told him.  “See how ugly it is?  See how ugly you are inside?  You’re vomiting your ego away; this is a good thing!”

Peeling his wet eyes open, Dean heaved again and watched his ego flow from his mouth.  He was glad to see it go, wanted no part of it.  A wave of loneliness overwhelmed him as more of his ego came out, and Dean scrabbled further away from the group, hiding his shame, not wanting them to see how unlovable he was.  Shivering with a cold sweat, another wave, and another, and another rocked him, and he curled into a fetal ball, crying helplessly.  Not on his worst days had he ever felt so alone.  He was in hell.    

“Don’t,” someone said, clutching at him.  “Don’t shut yourself off, Dean.  Come back.”

“I’m all alone.  I’m dead!” he cried.  “I’m not here.  Oh, God…I’m so alone!” 

“You’re here.  You’re with us.  It’s just your ego, fighting back.”  Dean opened his eyes and saw Brad gripping him.  Dean twisted his fingers into the material of his friend’s tunic and pulled him close, his eyes fluttering with panic.

“I can’t be alone, Sam.  Don’t leave me!  Don’t leave me, Sammy!”  He pawed desperately at the boy. 

“I won’t,” Brad promised.  “Listen to me, Dean, open yourself.  We haven’t abandoned you.  You closed yourself off from us.  Look at me,” he coached, forcing eye contact.  Dean stopped and looked into the familiar eyes of his brother, and a frisson of love thrummed through his nervous system.  Sam was right there in front of him.  Right there.  “Yeah, that’s it.  You see me, right?”

“Sammy?” he said, bewildered.

“Yes.  It’s me, man.  Remember?  I told you not to fight it, you stubborn ass.  It’s okay, it’s your first time.  You’ll get used to it.  Now, come back to the circle.  We need you,” Sam said, his grin so sincere and real that Dean reached out with his fingers and touched his brother’s dimples.  “Dean?” 

Dean pulled Sam into a fierce, chaotic hug.  “Sammy,” he said.  “Don’t go.  I can’t breathe.  I’m not here.  There was a hole in the floor and I fell right through.  I’m in pieces, man.  I’m all over the place.  Please find me and put me back together.  Please.” 

A feminine voice penetrated the membrane that isolated him.  “Shhhhh,” she soothed, moving in closer until Dean could feel her body heat against his back.  “We’re here, sweetheart.  Come back to the circle.  Let everything go,” she said in his ear.

Dean swiveled his head and Mary was there, smiling, her face young and clear and bright and loving.  “Mom?”

“You’re all right.  We’ve got you,” she beckoned him to follow, and he crawled toward the circle of bodies that were singing joyfully.  “Father will be here, soon.  Open yourself to him.  Don’t shut us out.”

“I won’t, Mom.  Mom?  Where’s Dad?”

“Father’s coming, Dean.  He’s going to make everything all right.”

“Don’t leave me,” Dean begged with breathy desperation.

“Never, my love,” she assured him.  “I’m right here with Father.  Sing to him and you’ll find me.  Accept him and we’ll never be parted.”

“Oh God, Mom,” he murmured, leaning into her until their foreheads touched.  Closing his eyes, he tapped into that river of potency, igniting the inner core that fueled them all.  He opened himself to his family again, and their voices rang loud in his ears.  Purple, blue, gold, green syllables reached out tentacles that embedded themselves in him, each one creating a symbiotic, conjunctive thread.  He followed the colors until he found Father’s psychic tether, and he latched on for dear life—for sweet, dear life.  He was back, safe, warm, loved, valued.  The connection was strong enough to convince him that he never wanted to lose them again. 

“It’s the ayahuasca,” Mary said as she morphed into Maureen.  Dean gasped and looked over at Sam, but only Brad was there, now.  Maureen tilted his chin until he faced her.  “Ayahuasca helps to cleanse the palate.  You’re a wine taster about to switch vintages.”

“They’re gone,” Dean lamented.  “They were here—my mom.  Sammy.”

“They’re no longer relevant.  Your ego is beginning its death throes.  Let go of what was in order to have something infinitely better.  Praise Father, Dean.  He is making all of this possible for you.  Chant with us and let Father fill you to overflowing.” 

“M’never lettin’ Sammy go.  Won’t ever happen,” Dean said adamantly, but then her words twittered away like embers flying from an inferno, and he soon forgot that she’d spoken at all.  Only the chanting was coherent and real, and he focused on that, becoming part of it, joining in and singing his praises even though he was a mouthless thought-form.  His bones evaporated and he slumped onto Maureen, draping over her like a big, wet blanket, icy sweat matting his hair and clinging to his tunic.  She cradled his head in her lap, and with one voice they chanted until Dean recognized Father’s approach through the orchard.  The radiance of countless suns shone from him as he walked, and his power shot through Dean like a billion neutrinos.  Dean’s body reconstituted, and he was able to shift and move, sitting up and opening himself to the light streaming from his teacher. 

From the other side of the orchard, behind Dean, Tim and Dante arrived dragging an emaciated, semi-conscious Jason toward Father.  Dean could not pinpoint Jason’s energy signature within The Kindred yet.  Either Dean’s link wasn’t strong enough for him to distinguish or Jason had not yet been returned to them.  His clothes were filthy, his face stained with dirty tear-tracks.  His skin was red and blistering as though he’d fallen asleep for hours under a hot, summer sun, and he was mumbling incoherently.  Seeing him made the hunter realize how much he’d missed his friend. 

“Adept!” Brad shouted.  “Adept!  Adept!”  Others took up the call, chanting the word until it manifested as a three-dimensional, bioluminescent globe.  It wobbled and pulsed above Jason, and Dean could not take his eyes off of it. 

Jason fell in a heap at Father’s feet, his arms reaching out languidly, wrapping them around his guru’s feet, laying his head upon them in supplication.  Father looked down upon the broken form, his irises whirling, red-brown embers. 

“To whom do you belong, Disciple?” Father asked.

“To you Father,” Jason professed, his voice shredded and coarse.  “My body is your body.  My will is your will.  My soul is your soul.”

“And your wife?” Father prompted, bending down and compelling Jason to rise to his knees.  Tim had to steady the man from behind since there was no strength in Jason’s legs to keep him upright.

“I deny my wife,” he stated without any hesitation.  “I have no love that does not originate from you, Father.  I have no family but The Kindred.  I have no life that you do not grant me.  I am your limb, your hammer, your child,” he said.

“Well done my Seeker,” Father said, bending down and facing Jason.  A bright band of energy flew from Father’s mouth into Jason’s as the two met in an embrace, and the guru’s eyes became red-brown hurricanes as his lips closed over Jason’s.  As if someone had pressed a switch, Dean perceived Jason’s presence return to The Kindred, and Father’s power restored the new Adept’s vitality, filling him, healing him of whatever damage his Ordeal had caused.  The red burns on his face and arms disappeared.  When Father pulled back, Jason was glowing, radiant, his face shining with peace and completion. 

“Return to your family, Adept.  Join with them and continue to please me until I call upon you to complete your journey as an Enlightened One.”

Jason reached for Father’s hand and kissed it.  “I will please you, my Father.  I vow to serve you with all of my heart.”  Jason kissed Father’s palm again and turned, striding with confidence, joining the circle of chanting souls.  Dean beheld The Kindred and noted that they resembled a sparkling chain, a strand of stars joined together.  When he looked down at this own body of raw light, he felt a swell of pride and belonging.  He was in perfect harmony with those around him.    

“Bring me my Warrior,” Father said.  Dean felt a tug on his frequency and Brad and Gypsy guided him into the circle by the bonfire.  He floated between them, soaking up the warmth of Father’s grace.

The guru nodded to him.  “Welcome to the next level, my child.  With this honor comes responsibility.  You must take on the quest to relinquish your old life of hunting and harming entities like me.”  Dean faltered, stunned, his skin clammy despite standing within Father’s warm aura. 

“Y—you  know?  You know what I am?” he asked, ashamed.

“You cannot hide yourself from us, Warrior.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as tears sprung free.  “P—please don’t send me away.”  The thought of losing his family terrified him.

Father’s eyes whirlpooled as he placed a hand on Dean’s head, and the filament between them became a thick rope.  Father’s kiss pierced him, and his individual atoms welled with his guru’s essence.  Dean began to hear Father’s voice resonating in his head as clearly as though he’d spoken aloud. 

“You are steadfast and brave, my Disciple.  We’ve known what you are since the day you came to us, and still we have loved you.  The shine of your soul was worth the trouble you might have brought us.  Is it strange to you that you would have a place among us despite this?  Is it unthinkable to you that you would still be honored?”  Father paused, but Dean could not speak.  “You have never been loved so much as I love you right now, my child.  Your brothers and sisters, too, have always loved you, even when you sought to destroy us.” 

Dean drowned in Father’s might and compassion, and the woven web of energy between him and The Kindred crystalized in a dazzling flash.  He could suddenly hear their voices in his head, echoing Father’s benevolence and acceptance.   He was used to sensing them, picking up on general impressions.  Now, though, he knew their thoughts just as they knew his. The thoughts became colors and textures and sounds flying past him, and even though he did not understand them all, he knew the Jedis believed he was worthy despite his past.  They loved him, and he would do everything in his power to subdue and annihilate his disgusting ego so that they would continue to love him.  When Father pulled away, Dean knew that he no longer belonged to himself solely.  He was no longer a guest of The Kindred, no longer under their care.  He was one of them. 

“Rest now, in the arms of your family, my Warrior,” Father said, and Dean felt himself pulled back to the worship circle by Brad and Gypsy.  They tethered him as he floated above like a wafting kite in a breeze.    

Time stuttered as the drugs and Father’s power coursed through his veins.  Dean couldn’t sort things out yet, couldn’t tell where the ayahuasca ended and Father began.  It was hard to stay grounded, and he kept flying away into the stars.  In those freeze-frame moments when he had physical form, he could feel loving arms on him, bracing him.  Soft fingers brushed against his brow.

“Come back, Dean.  It’s time for Maureen’s Blessed Transformation.”  Dean opened his eyes and saw Gypsy’s lovely face above his.  She lifted her head and pointed.  “Come back and bear witness”   

He sat up, willing himself to remain corporeal even as he felt himself levitating above the circle.  Grabbing onto Gypsy’s hand, he sunk back to the ground and watched as Maureen strode unaccompanied toward Father until she stood before him, silent and resolute.

An electric charge of expectancy filled the air, sending chills up Dean’s spine as the chanting ceased.  Maureen was about to become an Enlightened One, and even as a new Disciple, Dean had no clear notion what that meant.  She knelt before Father and kissed his sandals one at a time, prostrating herself before him, her forehead bent to the ground. 

“My Daughter-Mother, you have prepared your soul well for your Blessed Transformation.  Above all else, this union must be born of your desire.  Do you give yourself to me?”  Father’s eyes gleamed with a soulful hunger. 

 “With all of my heart, Father.  I am nothing without you.  I am yours.  Feast upon my soul and grow strong.” 

The words tripped around Dean’s skull, and he could not comprehend them at first.  The more they reverberated, though, the more confused he became.  He would have thought he heard wrong or that the words were a trick of the ayahuasca, but the guru’s angelic face twisted sideways like a Picasso painting, and Father sniggered and leered. 

“Then, my child—feast I shall.” 

A pulse of energy blew through the prayer circle, and the air around Father shimmered like heat on asphalt, his eyes bulging, the dark brown disks turning deep crimson.  His skin blackened and his body bloated as arms sprouted one below the other until there were eight in total, four on each side.  A tail slithered out from behind him and curled around Maureen’s neck.

Dean heard a mantra tumbling from his own lips, harsh, guttural syllables of an unknown language. 

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

Over and over, the words spilled from the mouths of The Kindred, their voices commandeered and twisted by Father, and Dean helplessly chanted with them, powerless to stop it.  As they chanted, the words took on a life of their own, flying from their mouths in an ugly rhythm that, to Dean, sounded like an incantation or spell.  He could taste the noisome, baleful energy as it passed over his tongue.   All the eyes of The Kindred gaped wide as another seismic wave of magic rippled through the orchard. 

“Yes, my children!  Sing!” he laughed.  “Sing and dance while I feast.”

Dean’s body responded without his consent. The Kindred rose to their feet as one and started to jump and chant, the horrible words tumbling into the night air.

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

Maureen screamed in agony when Father touched her head as he began chanting with The Kindred.  She did not stop screaming until his mouth descended on hers, not filling her, but drawing something out.  The light Father extracted from her was a hauntingly beautiful, clear liquid light, but as he siphoned her soul into himself, the radiance began to break the woman apart.  Her skin flaked like dry clay in the desert sun, and light spilled from each new crevice.  A crystalline radiance also blazed from her eyes, mouth, ears, and nose—all of it flowing into Father’s hideous, gaping mouth.  The guru’s face grew more wanton and hungry as he consumed her, slavering and slurping without modesty or restraint.  Horrified, Dean tried to stop, tried to get to Maureen, to help her, tried to do anything other than jump and chant those words.  Instead, he chanted still louder and stronger along with the rest of the Jedis while Father feasted on their friend.   

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

As the light diminished in Maureen, tears filled the anguished eyes of The Kindred, and the energy flowing through and among them was tortured and full of fear.  Dean could feel their collective attempts to break free of the compulsion to chant, but they simply weren’t strong enough.  Father’s power, while weakened as he feasted, was still powerful enough to keep them chanting and jumping--endlessly.  Maureen’s body disintegrated, her flesh scorched and charred to black cinders, which Father also consumed, right down to the last dust mote and spark.  Father’s body flowed like liquid for a moment, arms receding, tail disappearing until he was, again, a simple man with a mild, serene face.  His eyes flashed Maureen-blue for a moment, and his face stretched, mirroring the woman’s features.  When he spoke, it was with Maureen’s voice, though her words were strained and forced. 

“Do not fear for me.  The Blessed Transformation is complete,” she said to them.  “I am with my Father and can now see to the ends of Creation.  I am at peace.”  Light issued from Father’s body, brighter and more magnificent and compelling than ever before, incorporating the woman’s soul light into his own.  He exuded a lulling power, soothing The Kindred, convincing one and then another and then another that what they had witnessed had been divine and wondrous.  Around the circle Dean watched as the shock and horror faded away from each Jedi, and stoned smiles returned as their cares evaporated in the light.   The open channel that Dean had worked so hard to widen between guru and student made it easy for Father to reach in and placate him.  His teacher ripped away his worries, stole his fears until he remembered nothing of them. Soon, Dean recalled The Blessed Transformation as nothing but an unspeakably moving experience, filled with light and wonder.  Father swindled all of the Jedis out of their horror until only sublime color and vibration and wind and pine and peace were left.  Dean smiled, feeing a part of everything, chanting his happiness with all of his heart.  

“Rejoice, my children.  Your sister has pleased me and has been rewarded.”

The chanting swelled to an exuberant crescendo as The Kindred celebrated Maureen’s transcendence, each one looking forward to the day when her blessed fate would be theirs. 

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“It’s important to keep in mind that it’s not the amount of pressure you apply, it’s where and how you apply it that’s going to result in the most damage.  Yeah, there’s gonna be some trial and error involved to find your opponent’s weak spot, but continue to engage him and you’ll find it.  See?”  Dean demonstrated the hold on Brad again.  “Grab your enemy from behind where he’s vulnerable, swing your right arm up until your inside elbow is under his chin.  Then, clasp your hands behind your enemy’s ear.”  Dean repeated the move a couple of times for emphasis. 

“Go easy big boy,” Brad teased, melodramatically straining for breath.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Dean warned, thumping him with his free arm before turning to Jason, opening up his stance to make sure that the older man could see everything.  “The crook of your elbow becomes a vise, notice?  Now, work your arm like a nutcracker right on the sides of the trachea where the carotid arteries are—just like that.”  He wiggled his arm to get a better bite on the sides of Brad’s neck.  “You don’t need any more pressure than it would take to squeeze an orange.  You do that—” He applied some force but stopped before he finished the move.  “You prevent blood-flow to the brain…and boom, it’s lights out and the fight is over in a matter of seconds—clean as that.”  He released Brad and stepped off the mat.  “Let me see you try it on Jason.  Don’t finish it, though.  I don’t want to have to break out the smelling salts.”

Dean moved to the other side of the garage to give them sparring room.  Father requested that the Disciple put his expertise to use, and the young man was not only The Kindred’s newest auto mechanic, he had become their MMA trainer and weapons expert.  The small shop was his castle, and each day when the Community Outreach Team went into town to sell their goods at the farmer’s market or to try to recruit new members, Dean made use of all that extra space.  Today he was teaching Brad and Jason some new moves. 

“Dammit Jason,” Brad fussed when the man eluded the hold.  Jason laughed, enjoying the younger man’s frustration.

Dean watched them, intent and engaged.  “Use the half-guard sweep and then go for the rear naked choke.”  Brad maneuvered Jason into position and adroitly finished his move.  “You got him!” Dean encouraged.  “Good!”

“Good for who?” Jason growled, his airway in peril as he tapped out. 

Brad patted his arm and gave him a good-natured shove.  “Good for me.  I’m a badass,” he crowed.

“Don’t worry, Jason,” Dean said with a conspiratorial nod.  “Tomorrow we’ll show Brad the joys of the Rolling Knee Bar.”

“Hey!” Brad complained as he got up and dusted off his trousers.

Dean gathered the Filipino fighting sticks and other training equipment they’d been using and stored everything in one of his old duffels.  “You guys did good,” he said.  “The away-team is going to be back any minute.  Let’s clean up and we’ll continue tomorrow.”  He bent over, dragging the heavy duffel to the side.   

“I see your ego spilling out there, Dean,” Brad said with a grin. 

“Huh?” Dean said, clueless.

Following Brad’s line of sight, Dean glanced down and noticed that his amulet had slipped out of his shirt and was swinging like a pendulum as he moved the bag.  He fumbled a moment, stuffing it under his shirt with hasty fingers.  “Sorry,” he said.

Brad raised an eyebrow.  “Hey, look, man—it’s not my place to tell you what to do.  I get that some things are hard to give up even after walking The Path for all these weeks.  Just know that we’re with you, Dean, okay?  You don’t have to hide it from us.”  Brad and Jason exchanged glances and nodded, turning to Dean. 

“We’re with you,” Jason agreed. 

Dean’s face flushed hot with embarrassment and shame.  He tossed the equipment bag into the corner of the garage and grabbed a bottle of water, shrugging his acknowledgement as he drank long and deep, masking his humiliation and sense of failure. 

Summer was well under way, and as the days had spilled one into another, Dean found that being a Disciple was everything he’d been warned about and then some.  He loved Father and The Kindred; he was devoted to them and wanted to become an Adept and an Enlightened One, but his ego seemed to be growing rather than diminishing, and he was in constant battle with his old attachments.  He only found peace during meditation and worship.  The rest of the time he struggled to keep thoughts of his former life from dominating.  He’d been off the hunt and out of the loop, away from his car—his music—for so long that he was experiencing serious withdrawals.  He wanted a greasy burger.  Hell, he wanted to get laid—badly.  The celibacy bullshit that The Kindred practiced was never going to fly on a permanent basis—no damn way.  It was all he could do to not get in the car and drive away—drive away and get back into his own clothes, turn up the collar of his leather jacket, crank AC/DC and go.  He’d done his part and investigated Father.  But there were monsters still out there.  Father couldn’t keep everyone safe, so Dean’d have to do his part.  He had responsibilities that he couldn’t ignore.  Yeah, the sage offered Dean true peace and unconditional love, and yeah he wanted that, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to walk away from his whole life in order to have it.  He was so torn.

“Is it because Sam gave it to you?” Brad interrupted his thoughts.  Sometimes Dean hated that The Kindred knew things about him that he never shared on a conscious level.  They didn’t perceive everything, but they always knew enough to make Dean feel uncomfortable.  He folded his arms and leaned against the workbench, closed off, saying nothing.  “Don’t get defensive, Dean,” Brad softened, reading his mind.  “I’m not trying to upset you.  I’m just curious.”

“It was a gift,” Dean said, a small part of him wishing that he could yank the thing off and be done with it, the rest of him eyeing the nail from which his car keys now hung.  “I can’t just let it go.  I can’t just forget everything, turn it all off like that.  I don’t work like that, man.  I can’t.  Sam would never forgive me if I took this off.”  He paused.  “I’d never be able to forgive myself.”  

“Do you really think that?  Do you think Sam still cares about that?” Brad continued to prod.  Dean folded his arms and cleared his throat.   

“We all had to give up things that tied us to our former lives,” Jason said.  “Remember how I was when I was a Disciple?  I get it.  I do.  But maybe it’s time to let some of your crutches go.”

“Crutches?  This is the only thing I wear, still.”  Dean ran his hands through his sweaty hair. 

Brad shook his head, his voice patient.  “It’s the only crutch you wear, but it’s not your only one.”  He walked over to the workbench in the corner and moved a few things around until he’d unearthed Dean’s cellphone attached to its charger.  “Your cellphone, I presume?”

“Well,” Dean said, swallowing.  “At least I got it out of the cottage.  It’s not like I even use it anymore.”

“You moved it out of the cottage and into the room you spend most of your free time in.  That’s not much of a sacrifice, now is it?  It seems to me like you’re more attached to it than you were when it was in your footlocker.  And let’s not even mention the car that you won’t let anyone touch.”

Dean’s face paled at the mention of the Impala. 

Brad put his hands up in surrender.  “I’m not going there, Dean.  I’m not.  Like I said.  We get it.  We all had our beater cars.”  Dean’s eyes went baleful, but Brad barreled on, oblivious.  “Don’t worry about it, man.  Just keep meditating and working on subduing your ego.  The rest will follow.”

Dean washed his face in his hands.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I’m working on it.”

“Are you still having nightmares about Sam and your dad?”  Dean peered up at Brad, stunned.  “I sleep right next to you, dude.  It’s not hard to pick up on.  You’ve been talking in your sleep ever since you became a Disciple.  So,” Brad prompted.  “How bad are the dreams?”

Dean stared at the younger man.  “They’re nothing.  I’m fine.”  It was a lie, of course.  Despite being able to sleep on his cot again, he’d been having horrible nightmares ever since he’d been made a Disciple.  The nightmares were always the same; either Sam or his dad would be in the clutches of a horrible Shade or demon, but he could never get to them in time, no matter how hard he tried.  Every attempt resulted in a failure, punctuated by the contempt and disappointment in his brother’s and father’s eyes as the beast consumed them.    

“You’re not fine,” Jason said.  “But you will be.  Eventually.  You’ll see.  I wish I could give you a glimpse of what your future holds.  I wish you could see what I see and feel what I feel.  I wish you could know how happy I am now that I’ve stopped fighting and accepted Father’s will as my own.”  He put his hands in the air in praise.  “Thank you Father for taking my ego.  Thank you for filling me with your love,” he chanted, his eyes focused on Dean as they suddenly flashed iridescent-green and then turned brown.  Jason’s entire demeanor transformed, taking on Father’s demure mannerisms.

“You are worthy, my son,” Father’s voice said, using Jason as his conduit.  “Do not lose hope.  I am with you.   I will guide you.  You will be my child and no other man’s son.  When all others fail you, I will be there.”

The power emanating from Jason unnerved Dean, and he instinctively fell to his knees, reaching out, gripping the man’s hand, feeling a desperate need to be near that warmth and grace.  Dean felt sheltered and loved as he gazed into the brown spinning depths of Father’s eyes.  They flashed again, feral golden-green, and then back to Jason’s normal blue. 

Jason looked around, reorienting himself.  He was as overcome and filled with awe as Dean.  “He touched me,” Jason said, his eyes glassy and dazed.  “He was inside of me.  I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life.  It was incredible.”

“Congratulations,” Brad clapped him on his shoulder.  “Your first channeling experience.  It’s an honor and a privilege that Father does not give lightly.  He rarely manifests himself through his Adepts, Jason.  I’ve only done it that one time we went to talk to Mei.  Maureen was the only Adept I’d seen him work through on a more consistent basis.”  He gripped Dean by the shoulder and helped him to rise.  “And it’s an honor for you, too.  Father doesn’t express himself to just anyone.  He must have great hopes for you.” 

“See, you’re important to him, Dean.  You’re needed,” Jason said.  Dean stood, bewildered and shaking.  “You okay, Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat and shifted, awkward and self-conscious.  “Yeah.  I’m good.”

Jason’s eyes misted.  “You’re not going to let him down.  I know it.  Things will be hard for a while, but you’ll be fine.  Come on, let’s chant together and give thanks.  Father is life.  Father is Love.  Father is my keeper…”

An inner gravitational force pulled Dean into the chant, and soon all three men were praising their teacher.  It soothed him.  It always soothed him.  Dean didn’t know what was wrong with him or why he was fighting so hard against his teacher.  A part of him wanted to surrender and let go—resistance was exhausting.  It wasn’t as though his family would ever miss him.  The three men chanted as a synchronous unit for a few minutes and stopped, opening their eyes as one. 

“They’re back,” Brad said, reaching out and pressing the garage door to open it for the returning van. 

As soon as the vehicle was in the garage, Gypsy opened the door and jumped out, wagging her finger at the three of them. 

“No fair training without me!  I want to learn some new moves, too!” she said, throwing her arms around each in turn.  Dean was happy to see her and squeezed her tight, lifting the young woman off the ground in a big bear hug. 

“You can train with us tomorrow if you’re not going into town,” Dean promised her. 

“Good.  Oh!  My manners,” she scolded herself, offering her hand to a young, diminutive woman in punk boots and fishnet stockings who had gotten out of the van.  Her hair was styled in a fluorescent pink pixie-bob and her fair skin sported several tattoos.  The girl had to be about Sam’s age, Dean figured; though, noting her eyebrow and tongue piercings, it was doubtful that his geek brother would have hung out in the same circles.  “This is Brianna.  Brianna, this is Jason, Brad and Dean.  Brianna is interested in learning more about us.  Father thinks she’d make a wonderful Initiate.”

The girl had wide, amber, kohl-lined eyes—by far her best feature, Dean thought.  Beautiful.  “Hey,” she said dispassionately, attempting to cover her shyness.  “I had to find out what this place was all about.  What can I say?  That tight-assed lady pissed me off.  I had to show her that she can’t keep people from making their own choices.”

“What lady is that?” Brad asked, confused.

“Some chick was picketing your people in town,” she said.  “She sure as hell doesn’t think much of this place.  Whatever.  I had to come check it out.  Call me a rebel,” she said.

Jason looked at Gypsy.  “Mei?”

Gypsy nodded.   “Hey Luna,” Gypsy called to one of the other Adepts.  “Why don’t you take Brianna on a walk-around the place and let her ask some questions.”

“Sure thing,” Luna said, putting a hand on Brianna’s shoulder and guiding her out of the shop, chatting as they left. 

As soon as they were out of hearing, Gypsy turned to Jason.  “Yeah, it was her.  Since you filed your restraining order, she can’t come within 100 yards of the property, so she’s taken to passing out flyers and picketing our recruitment drives.  She’s becoming a real problem.  I think she’s organizing some of The Kindred’s family members, too, trying to get them involved.  There were a few other people with her, and one of them was Kimo’s mom, I think.  She was demanding that we ‘release him’.”

Jason nodded.  “I’ll see what Marc can do to help.  He’s getting me started on filing divorce papers.  This could get ugly, but what do you do?”  Dean shifted and rubbed his neck.  Jason watched him.  “I know what you’re thinking, Dean.”

Dean blew out an incredulous breath, hesitating a moment.  “That’s pretty cold, man,” he said. “A few weeks ago you were ready to leave this place to go back to her.”

“You’re right.  I was,” Jason admitted.  “I loved her.  A part of me will always love her, and I’ll always honor her, Dean.  But what do you want me to do?  I’m not going to leave this place.  I deserve to do what makes me happy.  I’ve done nothing wrong.  I begged her to join me and she refused.  So, tell me, Dean, what hope is there for reconciliation?”

“I dunno, dude,” Dean said.  “I hear you; it’s just so fucked up.  I don’t know if I—”   Dean pulled back and shook his head, putting the brakes on the conversation. 

“You don’t know if you can make the same decision?  You don’t think you can commit to The Path?” Jason asked. 

“Maybe—no, that’s not what I mean.  I mean—” Dean fumbled.  “You know what?  It doesn’t matter.  It’s not like I have anyone breaking down the doors trying to talk me into leaving.”

“You’re still holding on, though.  You’re still attached,” Gypsy said.  “We all went through the same thing.  It’s okay, Dean, you’ll overcome it.  It won’t be easy, but you’ll get through this phase.” 

Brad cleared his throat and chuckled.  “Well, you did warn us about that stubborn streak of yours.  Come on you big pain in the ass,” he said, giving the troubled Disciple a slap on the back.  “Gypsy needs to see to our new Initiate and Jason has a private session with Father to get to; how about you and me fast the rest of the day and spend it in meditation—sound good?  I’ll be right there with you.  Tomorrow we’ll witness Father initiate Brianna.  It will be glorious.  We’re about to have a new sister.  Let’s go.”

Dean sighed.  Being a Disciple sucked; he didn’t want to be a disappointment to Father or The Kindred, but the more he thought about what it would mean to commit to them, the more he felt like a huge phony.  He’d always been a love ‘em and leave ‘em, no regrets kind of guy, but his usual cavalier approach to social interactions, taking what he needed and leaving when it suited him, was not going to fly, here. 

“Quit daydreaming,” Brad poked him.  “Get the lead out.  Let’s go.”

 “Yeah.  Right, I’m ready.  Let’s go,” Dean said, walking away and holding the door for the others.  Meditating would make him feel better.  It always did—for a while, at least. 

* *

Another week of fasting and meditation found Dean on the verge of a very hard decision.  “Rough night, huh?”  Jason did a double take when he sat down with his bowl of oatmeal, noticing Dean’s puffy face and bleary eyes.  Three hours of fieldwork had done little to revive him.  “Yeah, I remember those mornings,” he reminisced with a snort.  “Nightmares, doubts, a brain that wouldn’t shut up—it felt like the world was caving in on me.  That about sum it up?”  Dean gave him a vacant glance and shrugged.

Yes, that summed it up.  The nightmares were unrelenting, and exhausted as he was, he now dreaded the few hours of sleep he was allowed.  Thoughts of his brother and dad… even Bobby…were eating at him whenever he wasn’t meditating or worshiping.  He knew they didn’t want him, knew they wouldn’t care if he chose to dedicate himself to The Path—hell, they’d probably be grateful that the guru had taken him off their hands—but he didn’t know if he could do it.  Becoming an Adept meant giving himself to Father and The Kindred, relinquishing his former life and family.  The more he thought about it, the more he knew what the hard choice was going to be.  As much as he loved Father—and he did, he loved him with all of his heart—he realized he’d made a mistake thinking he could walk away from his family and from hunting.  It didn’t matter what his family felt about him.  It only mattered how he felt about them. 

He fingered the amulet.  Why bother hiding it?  He wasn’t fooling anyone.  They all knew it was there.  To their credit, none of them got on his case for it, and Father did not make any ultimatums.  Everyone said he’d take it off when he was ready; though, it did annoy him how confidently, how lightly they’d said it, as if taking it off was inevitable—as if it was already a done deal.  So, he let it stay where it was.  Wearing it gave him strength, reminding him what was important, reminding him that he alone determined his fate.  The rebellious hunter in him who valued his autonomy took satisfaction from that.  So he now let it hang out for all to see.

Gypsy smiled as he toyed with the pendent, sharing keen glances with Brad and Jason.  It was discomfiting and unsettling, knowing the Adepts were exchanging thoughts and energies that as a Disciple he was unable to perceive.  They kept him purposefully out of their loop, and he resented it.  It made him miss Sam and his dad all the more.  Dean’d had good connections with both, strong enough that he needed nothing beyond a subtle eye movement or twitch of the mouth to communicate with either one of them.  The memory made him feel hollow.  Gypsy saw his sour expression and leaned into him, putting her hand on his cheek.  And damn it if he didn’t feel the pleasant, magnetic pull of her energy.  It threaded through his own, binding them together, and he knew without question how genuine her affection and concern was, and despite his inner war, he found himself leaning into her touch and taking comfort in her.  He blew out a long breath. 

“It’s going to be all right.  You know that, don’t you?” she said.  “You’re giving up your ego, not your family.  You’re not going to not love them.  You’re going to love them without the baggage, without the shackles.  When you go through your Ordeal, Father’s going to set you free.  The ego wants to possess things, even people.  You’re trying to own your family, but that’s not real love.”  She continued to stroke his cheek, and there was an influence, a draw to it that Dean sensed came from Father.

Maybe she was right.  Still, Dean couldn’t conceive of turning his back on his family permanently.  It was greedy of him, but he wanted both.  He desired to follow Father and have his family.  Yet, one of them had to go, they said, and as much as Dean wanted the one, there was no way he could give up the other.  It was inconceivable.  He’d meditated and worshipped until he was blind with exhaustion, too tired to think for himself.  His entire world was Father and The Kindred.  He’d given up hunting.  Hell, he’d given up sex, for fuck’s sake, and he hadn’t had a drink in ages.  But cutting out his family?  It was too much to ask.  He knew he was more of a downer than Jason ever was.  He knew he was moodier, more pensive, but he didn’t know how not to be.  He didn’t know how to tell them that this was a deal-breaker for him.    

Jason’s quick laughter pulled him out of himself.  “Nope, you’re not near as bad as I was, Dean.  You’re close, man.  You are.  But I took the blue-ribbon in pre-Ordeal moping,” he said with a laugh. 

“Right,” Dean said, irritated with the man for making light of his private thoughts. 

Jason gripped his shoulder.  “This is the hardest phase, but you’re almost through it.”

Well, Jason had a point, there.  Dean knew that he wouldn’t be able to continue on like this.  Something had to give.  They had a lot to offer him, but the price was too high.  He dreaded disappointing them, but he didn’t have any other choice.  He sighed.   

“Don’t dwell, Dean.  Don’t,” Brad said.  “Let’s go meditate.  Afterwards, we have a wonderful surprise for you in the shop.”  They rose from the table.

“Surprise?  What kind of surprise?” Dean asked, suspicious.

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if we told you, now would it, Disciple,” Jason laughed.  “Don’t worry, though.  It’s going to be a wonderful day for you.”

“Wait for me, guys.  I’m going to take this over to Fairy,” Gypsy said, picking up a bowl of cold oatmeal.  They glanced toward the back of the pavilion where Fairy sat on the floor, patiently waiting for her breakfast.  Brianna, or Fairy as they now called her because she was so small and pixie-like, had been initiated the day after she arrived, and she was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm.  Dean was fond of her, though he still missed Maureen’s motherly warmth.  That sent his spirits tumbling.  If he left The Kindred, he’d never see Maureen again.  She’d always had such faith in him, and the thought of letting her down cut deep.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and cringed.  They all had such plans for him, and he was about to fail the best friends he’d ever had. 

* *

Dean’s legs shook when he lifted the large shop door.  Their big surprise for him was about to be spoiled by telling them that he was leaving.  He stopped short as the aluminum door groaned and clanged into place, and he stared, dumbfounded.  This was a surprise, all right.   

Robed in white, Father stood next to the Impala, running his fingers over his baby’s sleek exterior, caressing her, evaluating her. 

Gypsy gave Dean a pat on his back.  “This is your surprise.  Congratulations, Dean.”

“Whaah?”  Dean was a jumble of responses, awe and love at seeing Father squared off against protection and possessiveness at watching the sage fondle the Impala, two weather fronts clashing in a supercell of emotions.  All four devotees, Dean, Brad, Jason and Gypsy fell to their knees, huddling together as Father approached them. 

“Ahh, my young Warrior,” Father said, his face kind and bright with humor.  “I have come to see you, my son.”  He laid his hand on Dean’s head, and the hunter could scarcely hear a word for the power swarming through him—churning up feelings of awe, loyalty, rapture and desire. 

The sage continued.  “The time has come for you to declare your allegiance to The Kindred and to me.”  Dean was lost in the ecstasy of Father’s presence and barely heard him for the love welling within him at his teacher’s touch.  He simply stared up at him, mouth slack, eyes half-lidded and placid.  “The process is not easy, but you shall take the first step today, won’t you my child?”  Father’s face brightened when Dean nodded obediently.  “It is time for you to begin to relinquish that which is not of The Kindred.  Soon, you will prepare this vehicle to be sold, yes?  We will take the monies earned from its sale and we will put it to greater use.”

The room tilted and adrenaline began to surge as Dean processed and then reprocessed the words Father had spoken.  His mouth worked and his eyes snapped shut and then popped wide.  “What?” he asked, finding his voice and brushing Father’s hand off his head. 

Father smiled and cup-clapped his hands with joy.  “Soon, you will relinquish your ego and sell your car as a token of your loyalty.  This toy is a perfect physical manifestation of your ego and individuality.  Come.  Rise, my son; today is a joyful day in your spiritual development.”

Dean rose but stood back on his heels.  “What the hell are you talking about?  I’m not selling my car,” he said, shocked at his own temerity.  He winced as if he expected a blow, but Father gave him a compassionate smile and reached out to him.  The hunter pulled away before the sage could touch him.  The threat to Baby had shocked him into a moment of clarity.

This couldn’t happen.  What the hell had he been thinking?  Some kind of serious mojo had to be at work here; deep down he could feel it.  Dean turned to the others, noticing their sycophant smiles, their mindless obedience as if he was seeing it for the first time.  He was looking at strangers.  Jason had changed since he’d become an Adept.  Gone was his pain and confusion, but gone also was his love for and loyalty to Mei.  It was more than that, though.  It was as if a part of Jason had been altered or removed.  Observing Gypsy and Brad, it occurred to Dean that he’d never known these two at all.  They’d already been Adepts by the time they met.  He wondered what they’d been like, what their loves had been, what attachments they’d grappled with; most of all, though, he wondered by what evil process it had all been shorn away.

They’d taken Jason to his Ordeal against his will.  Maureen also said she’d been forced into The Kiln.  Did anyone go without a fight?  As he watched the others now, his throat went dry, and he studied their smiling, expectant faces.  They had a surprise for him, Brad had said.  It was now evident what they had in store, and Dean knew he was in a volatile and dangerous predicament. 

“I mean, uh…sure.  Sure,” he said trying to sound convincing.  He waved toward the Impala and put his hands on his hips.  “Why wait, huh?  I’ll, uh, just detail her, give her a tune up and a good wash…take her into town myself.  I’ll take care of it.”

Father’s smile bisected his face.  “Excellent.  When the time comes, The Kindred will aide you.  First, you must duel your ego. Yes my Warrior!  The time has come at last, my child, and when you triumph over it, your beautiful soul will be cleansed.  Today you shall begin your Ordeal.  Rejoice.  A new Adept will soon be born.”

Dean backed away, nodding.  “Ordeal, huh?  That’s…wow…that’s—that’s…wow.  That’s something.  Jeez.”  He tried his best to remain casual and easy-going.  He pivoted to try and get a glimpse over his shoulder to see if he had any escape-route options but found the way blocked.  The rest of The Kindred had arrived and were now standing in the sun, each of them smiling as though it was Christmas morning.  Even Fairy was there, looking both supportive and somewhat baffled.

Sonofabitch.

“Through the fire, my son,” Father sang out, drawing Dean’s attention back.  “You will fight your way through the fire and return to me—never to be parted.  The Kindred will escort you.”  Without another word, Father, dematerialized, leaving Dean shaking as Brad and Jason put firm hands on his shoulders, turning him around and walking him out of the shop. 

The Kindred opened up a pathway as Dean allowed them to direct him from behind.  He forced himself to remain calm and compliant, but his focus was keen and sharp as he took in his environment, tense as a hair-trigger, waiting to take advantage of his first opportunity.  The fencing around the perimeter was high, but it wasn’t hot.  There’d be no danger of electrocution.  He was closest to the border on the river, which suited him fine.  He’d be able to evade them in the water.  Once he escaped and regrouped he could figure out a way to get the Impala back.  Right now he needed to stay out of The Kiln at all cost.  Nothing else mattered.  If he went in there, he wouldn’t be the same when he came out.  He knew his life depended on getting away.

The crowd of Jedis behind him ululated with joy as they jumped and celebrated with wild abandon.  Brad, Jason, Tim, Dante and Kimo were flanking him as they walked, but the way ahead of him was still clear.  Without warning, Dean lurched out from under their hands and bounded away, cat-like, sure-footed despite the poor rations he’d been on for weeks.  He heard a collective gasp come from the surprised Jedis; there were some shouts and a few pursuing footfalls.  After that, he paid little heed.  He was nothing more than a running machine. 

Straight through the thick underbrush he tore, ferns slapping in his face, brambles catching his tunic and ripping it as he sprinted.  A root tripped him, but he lithely rolled and jumped back on his feet without breaking his momentum; a rotting log cut across his path and he leapt it, landing on sturdy legs and continuing his rhythmic strides.  His sandals hampered him, but since all the other Jedis were wearing them too, he figured they were all on the same playing field, at least.  Down a small incline and straight across a small stream, Dean ran with all of his might.  And as focused as Dean was, the horrific realization that he had gone full-on Jedi over the course of the past—whatever it had been, month or month in a half—was not lost on him.  That white-robed, light-filled, sweet-talking sonofabitch had whammied him.

Tearing through the scrub and thick undergrowth, Dean felt sick.  He’d screwed up—screwed up big damn time.  He felt a complete and utter failure.  Reckless and petulant, he’d jumped into a hunt, half wounded, ill prepared—feeling low—and he’d walked right into the arms of an evil bastard that didn’t just want his life, it wanted his mind and soul.  If he didn’t make it to that river not only was his life in danger but his dad’s, his brother’s and countless other innocent people’s as well.  If he didn’t make it, if the thing enslaved him, the Jedis would be unprotected and his Dad and Sam would have no one watching their backs.  If anything happened to them and he wasn’t there to help, that would be on him.  

And so he ran with everything that he had, constructing whatever hasty defenses in his mind that he could, forcing that tap he’d opened to close again.  He’d been tricked into encouraging whatever forced connection the monster had established, had been manipulated into opening it wider.  Dean now slammed whatever inner doors he could, barricading his mind from the creature.  Seeing the fence peeking through the trees, Dean shoved aside all thought, tabled any inner debate; nothing else mattered except reaching it and getting free.  He ran.

Seconds sped by without hindrance, and his confidence grew.  He was so concentrated, so in the zone, that he almost ran right into Father’s outstretched arms as the guru suddenly materialized in front of him.  Dean pulled up short, hesitating, wasting precious seconds as he bobbed and wavered, trying to decide which direction to run.  He made his choice and sprung away, but after no more than ten seconds of flight, he found that way also blocked by Father.  Confused, he checked behind him to see if the way was clear, but Kimo was there, barreling toward him.  Dean spun around again, breaking to the side, making a mad dash to the fence that was so close.  Two strides became four and four became ten, and he ran until he hurled himself at the fence, hitting it with a heavy, metallic clang.  Springing up, he dug his feet into the wires, hoisting himself to within feet of freedom. 

There were some shouts not far away that pulled his attention for just a moment.  His footing slipped and he had to readjust as he reached for the top of the fence to steady him.  Before he could get a firm grip he felt a yank on his foot and he tumbled helplessly to the ground.  Kimo was right there to slam him against the fence from behind, sandwiching him, pinning him tight. 

The man put his arms around him from the back, squeezing him in a bear hug, dragging him away from the fence several feet before trying to take him down and subdue him.  Dean pivoted and head-butted Kimo’s forehead with as much force as the back of Dean’s head could withstand, and the man dropped with an agonized grunt.  Dazed by the impact himself, the hunter shook his head, trying to clear it, and then made another desperate leap at the fence.  Father materialized right in front of him again, making the way impassible.  Torn between fight-or-flight, Dean’s anger bubbled up with the sneaky bastard’s smirk so close.  He chose fight.

Standing his ground, growling his hate and rage, Dean threw a violent right hook as hard as he possibly could.  His fist passed right through what he discovered was the mere apparition of the sage, and, having expected impact, his arm swung around in a wild arc, pulling him off balance.  Struggling to stay on his feet, Dean looked at the grinning image of Father, stunned.  The sage’s eyes sparkled with mirth and confidence.  The guru nodded and pointed behind the hunter.  Rattled, Dean turned as Jason made a leaping attempt to tackle him.  Dean weaved out of the way, but eluding him gave Dante enough time to grab hold of his torn tunic and shove him to the ground. 

Dean rolled with him, scissoring his knees, using his hips as a fulcrum.  He pinned Dante’s right leg and levered it until joints popped and tendons tore.  Dante howled in pain.  Dean released him as Jason made a second attempt at a tackle.  Weaving again, he jumped up and stanced himself, fists up, chin down, eyes threatening death.  Two men were writhing on the ground.  That left Jason, Brad and Tim.  Dean knew that the only way to freedom was through them.  He didn’t want to hurt them, but he’d do what he needed to in order to survive. 

“Easy Dean,” Brad said.

Dean bristled with menace and a sense of betrayal as the men circled him.  His jaw clamped in defiance when he saw that Tim held a syringe of some sort in his hand. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking.  Come on!” Dean snarled.  Tim uncapped the needle but made no answer and came no closer. 

Before Dean could do or say anything more, Jason rammed him from the side, attempting a single leg takedown that Dean was able to defend, easily chopping the older, less experienced man down and driving him forward until Dean was in control.  He heard Jason release a breathless gasp from the force of the hunter’s weight landing on him.  Dean tried to take advantage of that and spring away when he felt Brad’s long arm snake its way around his neck.  There was one moment of blind panic as forearm and bicep clamped on either side of his carotid arteries—employing no more pressure than it would take to squeeze an orange—and then—nothing.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

Dean was warm and comfortable, tranquil—mellow.  He said the word aloud, rolling it around and around his mouth like a cherry stem, his clumsy tongue overreaching and spilling out past his lips.

“Mellowwww.  Mehhhhhllowwwwww.  Soooo lowwww,” he snickered, making his voice dip as close to the bass-range as he could get.  He laughed again.  Nothing disturbed him, not the inky darkness, not the lack of sound beyond his own voice, not even the fact that he was flat on his back with all four limbs spread eagle, each bound to what felt like thick iron spikes on the floor.  It was all good.  Perfect.  Warm.  And funny as shit. 

“Swing lowwwwwwww,” he lilted, playing with his lower register and snorting at the thigh-slappingly comic results.  He blinked his eyes a few times, still amused, glancing about to see if he could determine whether it was dark in the room or whether he was blind. 

“Woul’ sssuck so hard t’be blind,” he admitted, nodding his head sagely.

After looking around for a moment, testing his sight, he decided the results were inconclusive, and he cleared his throat. 

“Incloncul…inclonclonsoosive,” he snorted.  There was a flash in his brain and he suddenly remembered Tim standing in the forest with a syringe in his hand.

"Aw, Tim-T’mminny-Tim, you th’man, Tim-tam!”  At least his hearing was intact, which, when he thought about it, was also really, really fucking funny, and he laughed and laughed and laughed, pulling languidly on the leather bands that pinned him to the floor.  The tight grips stretched him to the cusp of discomfort, any tighter and his muscles and joints would be in agony.  Pivoting his wrists around, he knew there’d be no getting out of the thick cuffs.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  Hysterical.

As he lay there chuckling, the sound of chanting came over an intercom, and he stopped chittering to himself, sucking in a breath, listening, intent as a squirrel with an acorn twitching at a rustle in the grass.  Father’s molten power surged through him like a brushfire in a drought, filling him with awe, urging him to join in the chant. 

“Ohhhhh, sneaky Father,” he tsked with a grin.  “You made me loooove youuuu.  I din’nint wanna do it—I din’nint wanna do it!” he sang and then laughed.  The compulsion to chant grew so strong that he found himself chanting along without having made a conscious decision to do so.  It felt good—better than good—it felt great.  He chanted, because it’s what he always did.  Because it was rote.  Because it was Father’s wish.  Because he never disappointed the ones he loved.  He gave Father his devotion and praise, chanting until he lost all sense of space and time. 

When he came back to himself he was sweaty and nauseous.  The room was now sauna-hot, and trickles of sweat meandered down his neck and into his ears.  He crooked his head so that he could rub his ear against his shoulder and became hyper aware of his aching limbs, stretched and stressed for what must have been several hours while he chanted.  Arching his back, he realized, for the first lucid time, that he was bound, hand and foot. 

“Th’fuck?”

His head throbbed and pulsed, and his tongue felt hangover-thick, pasty and dry as old leather.  Bits and pieces of memory surfaced, and he recalled he’d been running, trying to get to the river for some reason.  Jason and Brad had been there, and Tim—Tim with the needle, some others, too, but he could no longer remember what the fuss had been about.  His head hurt too much to concentrate; his arms and legs were aching and his insides felt empty.  And it was dark; it was too damn dark. 

Dean tried to reach out to The Kindred, sending out fingers of energy to them and found that they weren’t there.  There was no transfer, no communication, no symbiosis, and he began to panic.  He was alone.

“Whass goinn’non?” he asked aloud.  “Heyyyyy!  Wh’is everyone?” he called out again when he got no response, inner or outer.   

He yanked against his bonds. “Sonabish!” he growled.  Someone threw a metallic lever, and the room was filled with an electric hum as a red, emergency light flickered on somewhere above him.  Nope, not blind. 

Lifting his head with effort, he saw that he was in a small room or cell made of iron or steel, perhaps, 10’x10’ at most.  The only objects in the room were the four spikes that held him fast.  He gave no more thought to it, however, when a hatchway opened in the smooth wall, swinging back with an echoing bang as a tall figure entered.

“Wass happ—”  Words clotted in Dean’s throat as the newcomer kneeled down before him, setting a cup next to Dean’s head as he worked to loosen the leather restraints on his wrists.  Dean focused and refocused, squinting several times, unable to believe his eyes.  “Sam?”

“Hold still, big brother,” Sam said as he continued to work.

“Sammy?” Dean said again, his breath coming in short gusts.  “What the hell?  What—where are we?”

Sam finished unhooking Dean’s hands and helped him into a sitting position, leaving his legs secured.  He grabbed the cup and held it to Dean’s lips.  “Drink up first.  You’re dehydrated.”  Dean lifted his unfeeling hands up to the cup and tried to grip it in his fists it as he gulped down the liquid.  The heat in the room had wrung him out and he couldn’t swallow fast enough. 

“Easy,” Sam said, rubbing his back.

The liquid was thick and tasted like licorice, but it was wet and Dean pressed the empty cup toward Sam, pleading.  “More?” 

“Not yet,” Sam said.  A serene smile played across his lips and he settled down, sitting cross-legged in front of Dean.  “Chant with me, Dean.”

Dean looked at him, uncomprehending.  “What?”

“Chant with me.”  Sam’s face was smooth and placid.

“But…” Dean squinted at Sam.  “Where is everyone?  Wha’s happening?  Sam?”

“I’m here to help you through your Ordeal,” he said.  “You trust me, don’t you?”

“How’d y’get here?”

Sam laughed and wiggled his eyebrows.  “Magic,” he said.  When Dean remained tense, he rolled his eyes.  “I took a plane, dude.  How’d you think I got here?”

Dean’s brows tilted and he shook his head.  “I don’t understa—”

“Father called and asked for my help.  You’re being your typical stubborn self, I see.  You need to give Father complete access, Dean.  You’ve been holding back, so here I am.  We’re going to get this thing done, yeah?  I’ll be right here with you.”

“You comin’, too?” Dean asked, his eyes wide and dazed.

Sam smiled at him.  “Quit talking and start chanting, slacker.  I’m going to teach you a new mantra, okay?”

“Okay, Sammy.”

“Father is life.  Come on, Dean.  I’m not doing this for my health.  Now, say it.  Father is life”

“Father is life.”

“Perfect, Dean.  Father is love.”

“Father is love.”

“That’s right, big brother.  Father is the Keeper.”

“Father is the Keeper.”

“Praise him, Dean.  Thank you, Father.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Give more.  I trust Father with my life.”

“I trust Father with my life.”

“Open fully.  Don’t think.  Don’t resist.  I trust Father with my heart.”

“I trust Father with my heart.”

“Deny your ego.  I trust Father with my soul.”

“I trust Father with my soul.”

“You’re doing great, Dean.  You’re almost there.  I deny my family.”

“I deny my—”  Dean faltered.  “Sammy?”

“Deny me, Dean.”

“Nuhh,” Dean snorted out a short croaking laugh, half incredulous, half frightened.

“You gotta do this.  Deny me, Dean.  Deny me and be free.”

“Can’t,” Dean said without hesitation.  “Can’t.  Won’t.”

Sam sighed.  He reached over to Dean and peeled back his eyelid, checking his pupils.  Dean tried to pull away. 

“Quit it,” Dean fussed.

“It’s okay, Dean.  We have time.  Don’t worry about it.  Do the regular chant with me, then.  We’ll just work on opening your connection to Father for now.”

Dean regarded him with numb fascination.  “Let’s go, Sammy.  I wanna go.”

“No you don’t.  Not really.  You’re happy here.  See, deep down you need what these people want to give you: acceptance, respect, love, loyalty.  They want you, Dean, and you need to be wanted.  So, come on and chant with me, you don’t have to say the new verse yet.  Look,” he said, pointing at himself.  “I’m chanting, too.  Don’t you want to show me how good it feels?  I want to learn.  Teach me, big brother.  Please?  For me?”

That Dean could do.  He began chanting, tentative and cautious at first but then their voices fell into a rhythm, achieving a perfect syncopation, two voices becoming one.  Dean lost himself in Sam’s eyes, black and slick, chiseled from obsidian with spinning, red pupils.   

The chanting went on until the red light in the room warped and dripped down the walls like blood. 

“That’s it.  The ayahuasca is doin’ its thing.  There we go,” Sam beamed, pressing against Dean’s chest until he lay flat again.  He pulled Dean’s arms out to either side, tighter than they were before, fastening the grips until his muscles burned.

Dean’s thoughts weltered as Sam stroked his face and caressed his head, strands of Father’s power penetrating wherever Sam touched.  His voice seemed far away; yet, the colored vapor issuing from Sam’s mouth as he spoke mesmerized Dean.  Sam pressed his face so close to Dean’s that he felt the heat of his brother’s rainbow breath on his cheek.  “Deny me, Dean.  Let me go and Father and The Kindred will be yours forever.”

“Whuuhnn nuhh, Sammy.  Won’ do that t’ya.  Woul’ never.  Don’ think that, ‘k Sammy?”  Dean said, shaking his head from side to side.  A prism of colors spilled into the air with the motion, creating a psychedelic soup that eddied in the air around him.  Dean had to squint to see Sam’s face. 

“The Kindred want you.  They love you.  Do you like being cut off from them like this, man?”

“Miss ‘em,” Dean admitted.  He felt empty and hollow without their presence, and he realized how cut off and alone he was.  It was devastating, but a choice between The Kindred and Sam was a non-choice.

“You’re going to deny me, Dean.  You’re going to let me go,” Sam said. 

“Won’t,” Dean said, his eyes filling with tears.

Sam smoothed Dean’s hair and kissed his forehead.  “You will.  But for now, you spend some time alone, think things through.  I’ll be back in the morning.”  He stood up and smiled.  “You’re doing great, Dean.  You’re going to make a beautiful Adept.  Father’s so pleased.”

“Not gonna deny you!” Dean shouted as the door swung closed behind Sam.  The light went off and an overwhelming sense of isolation descended.  There was nothing, no one—no Sam, no Kindred, no Father.  He was hellishly alone.  Dean threw his head back and wept until he forgot what he was crying about, and after some hours he found himself begging for Father’s help and guidance—anything to fill the void inside of him.  The desolation was too much.  Without Sam, without The Kindred, his teacher was the only spark of light in the blackness, and he felt Father’s consoling power gush into him, soothing and cradling him.  When all others fail you, I will be there.  The words came to him, and the Disciple took solace and comfort from them as he floated in the sage’s grace.  Father would make things right.

To whom do you belong, Disciple? Father’s voice resonated in his head, asking Dean to respond as The Kindred had been taught to respond to this question.

“To you Father,” Dean spoke the common affirmation.  “My body is your body.  My will is your will.  My soul is your soul.”

And your brother, Sam?  Father asked.

Dean hesitated.  “I can’t give him up, Father.  I won’t.”

You can and you will, my child.  I promise I will save you from your ego.   

* *

There was no waking, because there was no sleep—ever.  Dean was past exhausted, but whenever he nodded off, the chanting would start and he’d be compelled to participate.  If he resisted, Sam would come in and beg him to chant with him.  If he still resisted he would feel Father’s command, at times angry and terrible, swirl through him.  What had once been nurturing and soothing, was now ruthless and demanding, twisting his insides into knots of agony, the pain penetrating every atom until logic and rational thought left him and compliance was his only option.  With each occurrence, Father would demand more from him, requiring that Dean yield more of his own will before he’d be given a reprieve.   

Stretched too far for too long, his arms and legs no longer had any feeling.  He had no way to gauge how much time had passed, but it was enough that’d he’d been forced to release his bladder and bowels.  Of course, between the naked heat and a lack of water or food, his output amounted to very little.

Sam had forced him to drink the nauseating licorice water three more times.  Despite his insane thirst, Dean tried to refuse; he knew the water had ayahuasca in it, but Sam would press him, withholding comfort or kindness until he’d swallowed the whole cup.   After that, his brother would stay with him and pet him until the hallucinations came and dragged him into the forsaken darkness where he cried bitterly.  Sam would beg Dean to deny him, to give himself to Father, telling him how much The Kindred needed and wanted him, trying to convince him that all of his pain would be gone if he let go.  Each request was more forceful than the last, and Sam grew angrier and more threatening.  Dean wanted to see his brother more than anything, but the pressure exerted upon him was too much.  His emotions were all over the place, and often times Dean would alternate between anguish and laughter as Sam lectured him in the shimmering heat.  Sometimes Dean would beg his brother to take him away from the stifling room; other times his thoughts would marble to the point that he didn’t know where he was and he’d babble nothing but nonsense.  It didn’t matter what he said or did or thought for forgot, Sam always asked the same thing of him, and it was the one thing that Dean could never give.

More time passed, and the red lights came on again.  The electric buzz sounded like a million locusts to Dean’s sensitive ears, and he winced, swallowing dryly.  With a hollow bang, the door flew against the wall, and John Winchester strode through the hatch. 

Torn between love and fear, Dean couldn’t help but flinch away as the man knelt down in silence, setting the cup of water next to him.  His father worked the wrist and ankle restraints, freeing him completely for the first time.  John pulled his son’s insensate body into a sitting position, holding the cup until Dean drank. 

“All of it, Dean,” John said, tipping the cup to Dean’s lips when he tried to push it away.  “Every drop.”  Dean consumed the last of the ayahuasca with slow, obedient swallows.  Gathering his son into his arms, John lifted him and sat him in the corner, propping him up as he squatted next to him in deep contemplation. 

“Dad?  Get me out of here…please?  Please, Dad?” Dean begged.  He tried to lever himself up, but his arms and legs were nothing but pieces of tingling meat.  John continued to regard him, saying nothing. 

At last, the hunter let out a long, disappointed breath and tapped his son’s chest.  “Sam tells me you’re wasting everyone’s time, here.”  Dean bent his head, unable to speak.  “That’s not going to fly, Champ,” he said.  “What are you holding on for?”

Dean furrowed his brows, not comprehending how he could ask the question.  “You and Sammy, Dad.  Who else?  I can’t—I can’t lose you.”  Dean’s voice broke. 

“Look at me, Dean.”  Dean obeyed, his eyes pleading.  “You stay here with these people.  Give yourself to Father.  That’s an order, you hear me?”

Dean’s eyes kindled with defiance.  “They want me to forget about you and Sam.  I can’t do that, Dad.  You know I can’t.”

John shook his head.  “You can.  It’s what’s best for you and for us.  Sam needs to live his own life, and I can’t take you with me.”

“Why not, Dad?  Why not?”

John hesitated as if struggling with his answer.  He closed his eyes and shuddered, his shoulders dropping.  When he opened them, there was a dark judgment there.  “Because you’re weak, son.  Because you’d get yourself or me or some innocent person killed.  Because you’re not cut out for this.  You’re not good enough.”

“I can hunt, Dad.  I can.”  Dean defended himself.  “It’s the only thing I can do.”

“No, you can’t.  Look what happened on one simple salt and burn.  You dropped the ball, Ace.  You screwed up and nearly got yourself killed.”

Dean tilted his face to John, his own hard-edged judgment there.  “Woul’nt ‘a got hur’ if—”

“If what, Dean,” John said, seeming tired of the conversation.

“Maybe woul’nt ‘a got hur’ if I had backup,” he said obstinately.

“So this is all my fault?” John asked, his voice booming.

Dean sighed and shook his head back and forth.  “Don’ wann hun’ alone.  You always say hunn’in’ is a—hunn’in is a job f’two.  You said it.” 

“I can’t trust you to have my back, Dean.  So you need to stay here.  If you’re with Father, at least I know you’ll be safe and happy.  You may even do more good this way than you ever could as a hunter.  Sam and I want you to let go, Dean.  We can’t be worrying about you.  We have our own lives to live.”

Dean reached out with senseless arms, trying to grip his father’s jacket, but he missed, and they fell into his lap.  His chest heaved as he tried again and missed again.  “I can do better,” he promised.  “Don’ leave me, Dad.  Please.  I’ll try harder.”

“No, Dean.  It’s over.  I don’t want you anymore.  You get me, boy?  We clear?  You stay here.  Become one with Father and allow his love to fill you.  Let me go.  Free me and free yourself.  That’s an order, Dean.  I’m not going to tell you again, and you’d better goddamned obey me.  Don’t bother me anymore.”  John’s eyes flickered and swirled into red points of light.  “Now chant with me.  Father will take away all your troubles.  Give yourself to him.”

John chanted a moment and paused, waiting for a grief-stricken Dean to pull himself together.  He helped to situate the boy into a more secure sitting position since he had no strength to keep himself upright.  The elder hunter put his hand under Dean’s chin and lifted it until he established eye contact, and he went on chanting, nodding for Dean to do the same.  A strong energy current gushed from John’s calloused fingers into Dean, and the boy watched, mesmerized, as the elder hunter’s brown eyes twisted and spun.  They chanted together until the drugs took hold and he fell through world and into his lonely Hell where only Father could hear his tormented cries.

Dean’d often thought about Hell, imagined a vast lake of molten malice and liquid cruelty burning white hot and sloshing against crumbling, demented rock outcroppings.  He’d imagined the souls of the damned ripped by its currents, howling in agony as their flesh was boiled from livid bones, the air thick with the putrid stench of their own eternal decay.  But Dean’s hell was nothing like that.  There was no lake, no screams.  Here there was nothing—no one.  His hell was isolation and alienation from everyone and everything he loved.  But it wasn’t just finding himself in that vacuum, it was having been shoved there, having been tossed aside and purposefully set there—that was the hellish part.  Dean’s hell was rejection and abandonment made manifest—wheyish specters in the dark, clawing his flesh, rending his muscles, groping bony, unloving fingers around his neck and squeezing until insane wails of despair flew from his mouth. 

“Help me, Father!  Father, please don’t abandon me!  Please don’t abandon me!”

Out of the dark Father’s telepathic voice spoke to him again.  To whom do you belong, Disciple?

Dean opened his eyes.  He was back in The Kiln, the room hotter than ever.  John was gone, and Dean was glad he didn’t have to quiver under those cold, critical eyes any longer. 

Father’s voice came again.  To whom do you belong, Disciple? 

His tongue was too dry and swollen to speak, and he had to work what little saliva he had around his tongue.  “To you Father,” Dean choked out the words.  “M’body s’yours.  M’will s’yours.  M’soul s’yours.”  He tried to uncrumple himself, but his arms wouldn’t respond to his commands.

And your father?

Dean pursed his lips, trying to sort out the question, but it didn’t make sense. 

Father rephrased.  And John Winchester?

“He doesn’t want me anymore—never wanted me.  Orders…orders…orders.  Yessir!  Sir!  Yessir!  Leff me orders to obey.  Won’ bother ‘im anymore,” he said.

Do you deny him, Deciple?

Dean said nothing.  He closed his eyes and nodded.

Say the words, my child.  Speak it into existence.

A sharp pain hit his head and flowed through his body, like swallowing fire. 

Say it.

“I deny him.”

Deny whom?  Say his name.

“I deny my father.”

Yes, my beautiful child.  And your brother?

“Sammy…” Dean said.  “Leff ‘im a voice mail.  He’s gonna come gemme.  Jus’ waitin’.  He’ll be here.  Can’ give up on Sammy.  Won’t.”

You can and you will.  Not today, perhaps, but you are ever so close my child.  I’m proud of you.

Dean smiled as his teacher’s love and approval ran up and down his spine.

“Father.”  Dean said the word like a prayer.

* *

Dean didn’t know what he was doing wrong or what his teacher wanted anymore, but he could tell that Father’s patience was wearing thin.  He couldn’t string two thoughts together that made any sense, and thirst and the heat were like sentient beings, taking delight in his dry cries of agony.  More than once Dean found himself scrabbling at the wall with tattered, broken nails, mindlessly trying to claw his way out.  If he stopped chanting before Father released him, his insides twisted and his head pounded.  Relief came only in submitting himself to Father’s will. 

There came a point when consciousness slipped away no matter how hard he fought the darkness, forcing Father to intervene, exerting his power to keep him awake.  He’d also felt the sage heal him, preventing his kidneys from shutting down.  And, though Sam still fed him ayahuasca, the hallucinations no longer ceased between doses.  Visions chased each other incessantly across his inner and outer viewer.  John never came back, but Sammy was often there, standing in the bloody light, watching him.  Sam had long given up any pretense of kindness, taunting and mocking his fragile brother with hateful, cutting words.

“Goddamn it, Dean.  I don’t even want you in my life, you selfish bastard.  Had to run away to Stanford just to get away from you.”

“Don’ say that, Sammy.  Don’t ever say that.  I can make things right.  I can,” Dean murmured.  “I’ll make it up t’you.”

“I don’t want you to make it up to me, you dumb fuck!  I want you to leave me alone.  Jesus Christ, you have a good thing here, Dean, but you’re too stupid, too stubborn, to just let go already.  Give it up!  Give yourself to Father.”

“Can’ abandon you, Sammy.  Can’ do it.  Godda watch out for Sammy—look after my lil’ brother.  S’my job.  Always…always…always m’job.  Not gonna let y’down.”

Rage and loathing radiated off of the younger man, and he got down on his hands and knees, his face twisting up in a snarl, inches away from Dean’s.  His eyes spun like red globes.  “I don’t want you.  I hate you.  You’re nothing to me.  Nothing!” Sam shouted.

Dean said nothing.  He turned his head, playing itsy-bitsy-spider with his fingers on the wall, trying to make himself small enough to avoid Sam’s anger.

“Do you hear me, Dean?  I said I hate you!”

“It don’ matter, Sammy.  I’ll always be here f’you.”

Sam snorted and grabbed the amulet that hung around Dean’s neck, twisting the leather band around his fingers and using it to pull Dean’s face close to his.  “Still wear this piece of crap?  What for?  Wasn’t even meant for you.  It was supposed to be Dad’s.   Hanging onto this regifted piece of junk, Dean, really?  You’re pathetic!”  Dean turned his head away, saying nothing. 

Sam shoved his face closer.  “Dad loves me more than you.  He always loved me more.”

Dean snorted, turning to Sam and rolling his eyes.  “I know.  S’no-brainer.  I know that.”

“The night I left for Stanford was one of the best nights of my life.  Did you know that Dad and I cooked up that whole fucking argument just so that we could both dump your ass?  We deserve Oscars, the both of us.  Hell, Dean…Dad and me…we see each other all the time, and, man, do we ever laugh about how we fooled you.” 

The room was spinning, and Sam’s face stretched longer and longer, his eyes dripping down his face like angry globs of paint.  “Don’ say that, Sammy.  Don’.  Please.”

“We don’t want you anymore, Dean!” Sam shouted in his face.  Dean turned away.  He hated watching Sam’s face melt like that.  He continued to pick at the wall. 

Sam didn’t stop for breath.  “We don’t fucking want you!  We don’t love you!  Do you hear me?  Why are you holding on?”

Dean turned to Sam.  “Because I still love you.  You think I’d ‘bandon you jus’ ‘cause there’s nothin’ in it f’me?”

Exasperated, Sam shoved the cup of tea to Dean’s lips, spilling some down his front.  “Drink it all.  I’m getting really tired of waiting, Dean.”  A snake-like tail slipped out from behind Sam and slithered its way around Dean’s neck, pulling him close.  “I’m getting hungry, and you need to let go.  I will feast, Disciple.  I will not be denied.”

“Won’ deny you, Sammy.  I promise.”  Dean pawed at his brother.  Sam released him with a shove. 

The young man crouched, lowering and seething, threading his fingers through his hair, trying to figure some new angle, perhaps.  He cracked his knuckles and sighed.   “Chant with me.”  The ever-present red light clicked off, replaced by a flickering strobe light that pierced Dean’s retinas and confused his brain.  “Chant with me brother.  Find joy and happiness and peace in Father’s will.  It’s everything you ever wanted.”

“S’everythin’ I ever wan’ned? ” Dean said, blowing out a disgruntled breath, his body twitching and spasming with the flickering light.  “All I ever wan’ned was you ‘n dad, but I could nev’r have that, now could I?  Tha’ was always too much t’ask.”  Dean turned his head away, wounded and sulky.  “Always too much t’ask,” he whispered to himself.

“Don’t worry about that now.  Just chant with me.  Do it for me, Dean.”  Sam snapped his fingers in front of Dean’s meandering eyes.  “Do it for me.”

“Sammy?”

“Chant for me.”

Dean nodded and they chanted together until the drugs kicked in and Sam left, slamming the door with a hollow, sepulchral bang, leaving Dean alone.  The sense of separateness was worse than anything he’d yet experienced, and Dean could only release his despair in wracking, tearless sobs, for there was no moisture in his shriveled, broken body.  Father’s voice filtered down into Hell and made a passing glance of comfort and Dean followed him compulsively, floating up into the blinking lights.  Opening his eyes, he looked up and saw a robed figure shining in the strobe flashes, offering solace and love.  The Disciple crawled and slavishly curled himself at the foot of his teacher, draping flaccid arms around Father’s ankles, basking in his grace.

To whom do you belong, Disciple?

“To you Father—body, will and soul.” 

And your brother, Sam?

“I’ll keep ‘im safe.  Won’ let anythin’ hurt him.  I promise.”

Father clenched his teeth, tensed and angry, but then brightened as a new thought occurred to him.  His stance relaxed and a smile spread across his face as he eyed his Disciple.  Crouching down, he pet the boy.  “Yes.  Yes of course.  How silly of me to have not seen it.  Of course you’ll keep him safe.”  His smile widened in relief.  “Soon we will be celebrating at the Sacred Haoma Ceremony, Disciple.  Soon you shall know peace.”

* *

He was in a crucible, an unsustainable hellish oven, and the iron floor beneath him was as hot as a griddle.  Dean lay babbling in a pool of red light as Father’s power flowed through him, buoying him enough to withstand the assault and keep him alive but making no attempts to ease the pain.  The hallucinations from the ayahuasca were receding, but his thoughts were logjammed and incoherent.  His insides twisted and chanting no longer helped.  He tried to give praise and thanks, but the words came out as random gibberish. 

“Father love love help yours me love help life keep yours Father me me help god love Sam help!”

He tried his best, hoping that Father would forgive him and take away his agony.  The room echoed with his unintelligible moans and disordered, Tourette-like exclamations of praise.  So consumed, he didn’t notice when the bloated, eight-armed creature squeezed through the door, dragging a beaten and bloodied Sam by the scruff. 

It took a moment for reality to stitch itself together while Dean gasped out garbled devotionals, watching the beast haul Sam up by his hair and into a sitting position.  The boy was barely conscious. 

Dean stopped chanting and hoovered in a mouthful of oven-baked air.  “S’mmy!” he cried out on the exhale.  He attempted to crawl to his brother, but his legs and arms were useless, and he could only twitch and shimmy like a fish on the floor of a boat.  The tail of the beast groped toward Dean, latching onto his tunic and pulling him close. 

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice was broken and torn.  “God…Dean!”

“M’here,” Dean said, reaching out, trying to grab hold of his brother.  The beast’s insectile eyes bulged and swirled brown to red.  It used several arms to pry the brothers apart and hold them in place, easing its swollen body between them, a thick, charnel odor wafting from it.  Dean felt the urgent need to disgorge when the thing lifted a sour fold of its belly and scratched at the sallow skin with one of its free hands.  The creature settled and looked from Sam to Dean.

“I’ll kill him, Disciple.  I’ll snap him like a twig, right here—right now,” the creature said telepathically. 

“Don’t Dean.  God, just, Dean—help—just god, don’t listen to it.  Let me die…”  Sam let out an agonized wheeze as the creature clamped two of its hands on his throat.  “Deeeaan!”

Anger and adrenaline surged through Dean, but there was no strength left; all he could do was flap his arms around like a toddler.  The creature held him in place with just a few hands. 

“Ah-ah,” the beast waggled a finger at Dean, scolding him.  The pressure on Sam’s neck did not decrease, but the monster paused, adding no more while it studied Dean, watching him struggle and seethe in its grasp. 

“Sam’s in a lot of pain,” the thing said, demonstrating by squeezing the younger hunter.  Sam’s eyes went wide and he gasped out a strangled breath.

“Don’t!” Dean shuddered, trying to fight the hands holding him.

“I shall make you a deal, Disciple.  Give yourself to Father.  Deny your brother.  Release Sam from your mind and soul, and I will let him live.”

“You sonnabitch!  Get yer han’s off ‘im!” Dean slurred.

“Will you yield to me?”

Sam fought wildly, his lips turning dark in the red light.  “Don’t Dean!” 

“Don’ hurt ‘im!” Dean pled.

“Do you yield?”

“How do I know you won’ kill ‘im, too?”  Dean wavered.

“You have my word.  He will live, unhindered, free, happy, untouched by my magnificence.”  The creature gave Dean a seedy, black-tar smile and he felt his organs twisting and tightening.  Dean gasped out, as did Sam, his brother suffering, no doubt, the same treatment.  “Let go.  Truly let go.  Let Father in and Sam will be free and healthy for the rest of his life.  Deny him to protect him, Dean.  If you do not, I will feast on him in front of you.”  The monster’s lips twitched into a wet, drooling smile, teeth steel sharp and glinting even in the red light.  Its eyes coiled and pooled much like Father’s.  As it turned to Sam, an ungodly light emanated from the creature, and Sam’s body responded in kind, his own soul-light shining through his skin and orifices as the monster started to vacuum the light into itself.  Sam screamed out in pure misery and his body writhed in the creature’s grasp. 

“No!” Dean struggled, trying to reach his brother.  “No, please!  I’ll do whatever you want.”

The creature stopped and twisted his head, mantis-like, cocking a red eye at Dean.  “You will deny him and commit yourself to Father?”

Sam shook his head.  “No, Dean.  Don’t do it.  Please just let me die.  Let me go.”

Dean swallowed and released a wasted, spent breath.  “Never, Sammy,” he said.  He turned to the creature.  “I’ll give myself to Father.  Anything.  Just don’t hurt him.”

The creature released Sam, and the young hunter fell to the ground, moaning, begging his brother not to do it.  All eight arms grasped Dean and held him in place.  “Open yourself to Father, Disciple,” the thing said, its eyes twisting and spinning.  “Let go.”

Dean took one more look at Sam then closed his eyes, sensing Father’s power pooling and gathering at the dam he’d constructed in his soul to keep the teacher’s influence from overwhelming him.  He repeated the words he’d been chanting for nearly two months, as slow and clear as he could.  This time, however, he spoke them not as an affirmation but as an incantation, a mandate giving Father all that he’d asked of him.

“Father, I am yours to mold, to fill, to keep.  My soul, my will, my life is yours.  I place no other before you.  I am yours.”

“I need more, Disciple.  Say the words and make it real.”

“I deny—”  Dean hesitated still.

 “Say it and he will live.”

Sam cried out in pain as Father’s power assaulted him.

“Say it, Dean.”

“I deny my brother.  I deny Sam,” he said at last, the words ripped from him by Sam’s screams of agony.

“Yes, my beautiful child.  Yes.”

The dam burst, and Father’s energy and essence flooded into him with the force of a fiery tsunami.  It was too much, too fast, and Dean impulsively fought against it, an instinctual urge to protect himself.  He could hear Sam begging and crying out to him, and he leveled out, shoving away his human inclination for self-preservation, remembering what was at stake.  He moved aside, allowing the liquid fire to sluice onward, burning his soul, pushing everything dear to him to the far corners of his mind, all of his wants, likes, desires, attachments, hopes—and all of his loves—father, brother, car, music, memories of sunlit mornings with a naked girl’s head bobbing under his sheets, pool cues and poker games, salt and gunpowder, whiskey and burgers and fries and pie—everything was compressed and locked away.  His cares and fears, reservations and suspicions, too, evaporated like ether, and he no longer begrudged Father’s manipulation.  He welcomed it, giving in to that small nugget of himself that had wanted all that Father promised, that part of him that craved belonging and kinship. 

Father’s voice was strong and musical and vibrated throughout his body and mind as he shackled Dean’s will and bound it tight.  Another wave of potent magic filled and stiffened Dean’s spine and radiated outward, replacing his pain with euphoria, his anxiety and awe. 

With one final molten surge, Father’s power compelled him, and Dean’s awareness of events were seamlessly overwritten, smelting his perceptions, welding his memories into something new.  He remembered that John had come to him in the dark.  Recalled how the man had beaten him, had spoken to him cruelly until Father had spirited him away, saving Dean from his abuser, wiping his tears and tending his wounds.  Father had then guided him through the process of letting go of Sam, showing Dean how both brothers needed to be on separate spiritual paths.  As soon as his mind accepted that truth, his pain had ceased entirely, and his heart and soul had filled with Father’s love.  Soon Dean remembered the entire Ordeal as a transcendent experience, an exquisite melding of his will and purpose with Father’s, the sage guided him, showing him absolute mercy and grace.  The flow became an exchange, Dean giving Father his unreserved obedience, love and devotion in return for such noble treatment.

When Dean’s lashes fluttered open, Sam shimmered and vanished like a Glamour in sunlight, but Dean hardly noticed.  He had eyes only for his guru.  The student kneeled before his teacher.  Father’s expression was covetous and hungry, but he radiated approval and pride.  His laughter fell on Dean like raindrops on dead earth.  The Disciple bowed down, pressing his lips to Father’s feet, reverently kissing each in turn. 

To whom do you belong, Disciple?  Father’s voice resonated in his head.

“To you Father—everything that I am.” 

And your family?

Dean bent in and kissed his feet again.  Leaning back, Dean gazed into the spirals of Father’s eyes.  “I have no family but The Kindred and you, Father,” he said.

Father smiled like a dragon counting its treasure.  Well done, my son.  Your Ordeal is over.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“We got you.”

Words without meaning droned around him, murmurs Dean could neither bat away nor break into manageable parts.  The voices didn’t belong to Father; they weren’t offering his teacher praise or chanting his sacred name, so they scarcely mattered, anyway.  They were like bees, a nuisance, and their buzzing made him wince and flinch and paw at his ears. 

Dean tried to drown out the unwanted babble by chanting to his guru, himself.  When he opened his mouth, though, nothing came out except the sound of his teeth chattering.  Trying to purse his lips didn’t work.  They had no feeling, and he wondered if maybe his lips were gone.  Perhaps they’d burned away—small casualties of Father’s fiery grace and love.  Dean trembled with the memory of his teacher’s life force flowing through him, burning his pain and care away.  He ached for another febrile brush of Father’s power to soothe his spirit and make the voices stop, but he perceived nothing of the sage.  There were only the voices and the cold.  He shivered, the frigid air an unpleasant shock to his system after being so long in The Kiln.   He’d grown so accustomed to its scorching heat against his skin it that he now missed it.  The air was cold.  It was so, so cold. 

“He’s burning up, poor kid,” a senseless voice said.   

“He was in there so damn long.  It’s no wonder.  Man, he’s filthy.  Here, we’re gonna have to get him out of these clothes before we head up there.  They’re nothing but shreds, now, and they reek.  Hand me those right there, Jason.  We’ll get him cleaned up a little before the ceremony.  Once Father heals him, he’ll be glad that he’s not in these rags.”

Dean felt hands moving him into a sitting position, pulling up his shirt.  The touch startled him, and he whimpered and bucked in fear and pain.

“Whoa Dean, relax.  It’s us—Brad and Jason.  We’re just getting you fixed up.  You’re going to be all right.”  He felt a soft touch on his head.  “You did it, man.  You made it through your Ordeal.  Took you long enough.  You outlasted Maureen—set a new record, you stubborn sonofabitch.  Show off.”  There was laughter in the air, and Dean shriveled away from it.  Father.  He needed Father.

“I don’t think he’s hearing anything, Brad.  Let’s just get him changed and up to the orchard.  The faster we do this the sooner he’s going to be back with us.”  Hands lifted his shirt over his head and the cold air hit his burnt flesh.  He folded in on himself, seeking the warmth of his own body heat if nothing else. 

“He’s a mess.  Half his skin’s blistered, the other half’s peeling right off. Forget this, let’s just clean his face and get him dressed.  Father needs to fix the rest.  This isn’t something we can handle.”

“We could take him to the shower.”

“No, that would freak him out.  He’s out of it, but he’s aware enough to feel fear.  Father will revive him better than any shower could.”

All attempts to pull away from the wet rag they dragged over his face failed, and he eventually surrendered, moaning and shivering under its touch.  They passed a shirt over his head and drew light trousers up his legs and over his ass.  The friction of the light material against his skin sent jolts of agony through him and he gasped.

“Easy.  Easy, Dean.  Drink.”

Someone placed a cup against his lips, but he clamped his teeth and turned his head. 

“You’ve got to drink this before we take you to the Sacred Haoma Ceremony, Dean.”

He couldn’t fight the hands off, and he was thirsty—he was very, very thirsty—so he made an attempt to swallow the licorice water.

“Good job Dean, keep going.  Don’t forget to take yours, Brad.”

“I got it.”

“Just a couple more sips, Dean, come on.”  He heard some shuffling and the hollow sound of empty paper cups dropping to the ground.  “We’re good…grab him…easy now!”  Arms threaded themselves under his armpits and Dean felt a sudden altitude shift that had his stomach threatening to reject the ayahuasca he’d consumed. 

“Easy now, Jason.  He’s lost all his color.  Maybe he’s gonna hurl.”  Several seconds passed as the hands paused, waiting.

“I think he’s okay, now.  Here, shift him, I can’t hold his arm like that, I’m ripping the skin.  Get it over my shoulder.  There, like that.  That’s good.  Come on, everyone’s waiting.  Let’s get our boy up there.  We’re taking you to see Father, Dean.”

Father.  It was the one word Dean understood.  The rest spilled on the ground around him, and Dean let them lie.

The hands shifted him a couple of times as he floated along, his legs skimming the ground.  When he heard chanting in the distance, he tried to move his legs, wanting to get closer, wanting to sit among the words—to let them wash over him—let them carry him to Father. 

“He hears that,” one of the voices said. 

“That’s right, Dean.  You’re almost home, buddy.  You’re almost there.”

* *

The air reverberated with beautiful voices chanting praise to Father.  He struggled against the arms carrying him, desperate to get close, but the sound of chanting was soon swallowed up in the blinding majesty, the pure magnificence of Father’s light emanating from the center of the prayer circle.  Dean needed no eyes to see his teacher standing before him, arms outstretched, welcoming him into his aura of clean, perfect love, offering redemption and forgiveness.  Placed on the ground at his teacher’s feet, he groped out, unable to resist touching the source of the light that now poured like a spate upon him, prostrating himself, murmuring garbled, inarticulate words of worship and adulation.

“Adept!  Adept!” voices cheered.  After a moment they hushed, expectant.

“To whom do you belong, Disciple?” Father asked when all were silent.

Dean strove to open his mouth, but his lips barely moved.  “Yuuuuhh” he managed to get out with effort.

“And your family?”

Dean felt arms on him again, raising him up, helping to support him. 

Speaking was near impossible, though he tried his best.  “Deny’em.  Jus’ Kinnn’red.  Kinn’red!” he cried out, hoping that volume would make up for clarity.  “Father,” he reached out a hand, charred to the bone.  “Father.”  He could say no more than that.  His body was faltering, and his mouth wouldn’t work right.  He prayed that Father would understand and accept his proclamation.

“Yes, my son.  I hear you.  Well done.”  Father bent in close, placing his hallowed palms on Dean’s face.  The guru parted Dean’s lips with his own, melting into him, breathing life back into his body—mending puckered, weeping flesh, repairing sight and restoring normal organ and brain function.  The young Adept’s body jounced and reeled as Father’s power renewed each and every cell, and Dean became aware and lucid again.  And still the power flowed into him.

In the next instant Dean’s spine stiffened and his world transformed as Father knitted The Kindred’s energies through his own once more, threading communication lines with such delicate complexity that when their essences flooded his mind, they were not mere impressions or vague sensations only; they were thoughts and words fully formed, telepathically transmitted from Adept to Adept.  And each thought and word was exuberant and full of love.  The Kindred were ecstatic to have him back among them.  Shouts of welcome and joyful greetings reverberated through his brain.  Brad’s, Jason’s and Gypsy’s voices were the loudest among them, easy to recognize amid the happy din.

We told you!  We told you you’d make it, Sweetie!  We missed you so, so much! 

It’s about time, Dean.  I missed you, man!  The cottage has been too quiet without your snores!

Finally!  You stubborn sonofabitch, welcome back!

Father’s light continued to penetrate him, and Dean flung open all of his doors, allowing the teacher access without reserve, humbling himself before his guru, grateful for the bounty he’d provided, thanking him for healing the wounds caused by his own ego.  He shivered thinking how close he’d come to blowing it—winced with shame at remembering how he’d run, how he’d fought—how he’d let trivial possessions and attachments get in the way of his spiritual growth.  Nothing would ever come between his duty to Father and The Kindred ever again.  What a fool he’d been—an ungrateful, selfish fool.

The sage broke away, gazing upon his student, his eyes purling with mercy and grace, caressing Dean’s cheek.  The new Adept reached up, touching the back of Father’s hands in awe and love.

“Thank you Father,” Dean said, knowing it was a feeble gesture, nothing close to expressing the love and adoration he felt.  The teacher kissed his brow and helped him to his feet, though the assistance was unneeded.  Dean felt as though he could fly.  Father smiled and pointed to the amulet hanging around Dean’s neck.

“A small toy for Father, yes?” 

Without a word, Dean took the amulet off and gazed at Father with a shining smile.  “For you, Father.”  He passed the necklace over his guru’s head.

“I shall wear this as a token of your love Adept.  It will bind us and serve as a reminder of the path we traveled together throughout your Ordeal.  When your father abandoned you, I was there to shelter you.  When your brother chose another path, I dried your tears.” Father said.

Honored that Father would want to wear something of his, Dean flushed, overcome with emotion.  All he could do was kiss his teacher’s hand.  “Yes, Father,” he said, near tears.  “Thank you.  It’s a gift I give with all my heart.”

“Return to your family, Adept.  Join with them and continue to please me until I call upon you to complete your journey as an Enlightened One.”

Dean took Father’s hand and kissed the palm.  He wished he could be as eloquent as Jason had been, but all that came out was, “I’m ready, Father.  Whatever you want or need, I’m there.  I got your back, I swear it.”  Dean turned and ran into the open arms of his friends, feeling more alive, more loved, more a part of something than he’d ever felt in his entire life.  This was his family, and he was home.

They spent the rest of the Sacred Haoma Ceremony in ecstatic worship.  Fairy became a Disciple and both Kimo and Dante received their Blessed Transformations and became Enlightened Ones.  The ayahuasca coursed through Dean’s veins; only this time not once did he withdraw into himself.  There was no sense of separateness, no hell, no isolation—just a perfect synthetic fusion of spirits, a beautiful blending of hearts and minds. 

And he rejoiced and celebrated alongside his brothers and sisters until the sun was on the horizon.

* *

Dean moved someone’s arm off his neck, lifted his achy head and peered around the orchard.  He was in the center of a mass of bodies, snuggling for warmth like a litter of puppies, huddled where they dropped, too exhausted, too intoxicated with Father’s spirit and caapi root to make it to their cottages.  Dean scratched his head and ran a sleepy hand down his face, puzzling out how he was going to extricate himself.  With a small woof, he let his head fall back for a moment.  The ground was cold and damp, but warmth radiated off of his brothers and sisters and he took refuge in them, relaxing into their pleasant heat with a contented sigh. 

Twelve days.

Dean turned his head in the direction of Brad’s voice but noticed that they boy’s eyes were closed and his mouth still. 

Twelve damn days.

Dean lifted his brows in surprise.  Brad said nothing, but his thoughts were as clear and loud in Dean’s head as if they’d been spoken right into his ear. 

Brad snickered.  “Twelve days,” he said again, aloud this time, opening his eyes.  “That’s how long you’ve been gone.  You crazy bastard.”

“Why go when you can go big?” Dean snorted dryly, shifting as he tried to slip out from under one of Gypsy’s legs that she’d draped over his waist.  He didn’t want to disturb her, but nature was calling.  The girl made a sleepy murmur and opened her eyes. 

“Dean,” she stretched and reached for him, hugging his neck from behind, her head resting by his ear.  “Good morning sunshine!  We missed you so much.”

Dean gave her a lopsided smile.  “I missed you guys, too.”

“How was it?  Was it everything you thought it would be?  Did Father’s love protect you?”

He leaned against her, remembering the darkness that Father had expelled.  “It was a beautiful experience.  Father was with me the whole time.  His patience saw me through.”

“I was afraid for you.  It took so long, Dean.  I was worried you weren’t coming back.”

“What?  And miss your hugs?  Though, you’re kinda chokin’ me,” he said with a gasp as she squeezed him harder. 

“Oh, sorry!” she said, easing her grip.  “We were thinking of you all the time, though.  We were afraid something had gone wrong.”

“Nothing but my big, fat ego.  You know what I was like.  It’s all good.  Father saved me.” 

“And do you feel different?”

Dean had to think about her question a moment.  He did and he didn’t.  The change was hard to pin down or articulate.  He was still himself, of course, but he no longer felt the fear and worry that he once did.  After having gone through his Ordeal, his priorities had shifted.  Everything made perfect sense to him, now.  He’d been egotistical and selfish trying to hold onto John and Sam.  Father had been wise and right to insist that he let them go, he could see that now.  There was no way for him to walk this path with Father while attached to John and Sam like he’d been.  They had their own paths to follow, and now he had his.  He loved them still.  He just didn’t need them.  He certainly didn’t need them to love him, didn’t need their approval—another manifestation of his out-of-control ego that Father had tamed.

“Of course,” Dean said at last. 

“You ran.  It was awful, Dean.  My heart ached for you,” Gypsy said.

Brad chuckled.  “You sure gave us a run for our money.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Dean said, his face flushing red.  He hated to think what would have happened had he gotten away, but then again, he realized, Father would never have let that happen.  His teacher had been watching out for him, keeping him from doing damage, saving him from himself.  “I’m not going anywhere, now.  I was being an idiot.”

Gypsy nestled in close.  I’m so glad, she said into his mind.  I missed you, so.

It surprised and delighted him to feel her presence so strong and vibrant. 

He tested his own abilities.  I missed you, too, he shot back telepathically, and Gypsy laughed aloud.

“You’re getting it!”  She kissed his cheek.  Dean patted her arm and rose from the pile of bodies as the others began to stir.

“He rises from the ashes,” Jason said, cracking an eye.  “Hey, we should call you Phoenix,” he suggested.

Dean snorted and stretched.  “I’m not taking on any pansy-ass nickname unless Father gives me one,” he said, wincing as his joints creaked and popped.  His teacher had healed him, but he was desperately thin from his Ordeal, and there was no longer a buffer between him and the hard ground.  His hips jutted out like handlebars.  He’d be grateful to get off the ground and sleep in his cot.

“Party pooper,” Jason joked. 

“You should talk.  I don’t see you taking on any names like Sun-muffin or Rainbow-lollipop.”

Jason scoffed.  “Don’t need to.  Jason is a badass name, like Jason and the Argonauts and his quest for the Golden Fleece.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Brad interjected.  “That Jason was married to a shrew, too.  Medea.  Kind of fitting, wouldn’t you say?”  Jason’s face fell at that.  Mei was obviously still a touchy subject.  “Sorry man,” Brad said.  “That was insensitive of me.”

“No, you’re right.  She’s out of control.”  Jason turned to Brad. 

“Out of control?” Dean asked.  “What’s happening?”

“Mei’s been picketing our recruitment drives and now has about twenty family members involved.  Marc’s been filing petition after petition to get the harassment to stop.  Things have been busy since your Ordeal began,” Jason said.

“Shit, man.  I’m sorry,” Dean said, and then he slumped a little.  “Listen, I’m also sorry about what I said, before—back before my Ordeal.  About Mei—I was out of line, man.  I get it now.  I do.”

Jason nodded and gripped Dean’s extended arm, accepting the helping hand.  “Don’t worry about it, Dean,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers.  “She’s kind of moved into creepy, crazy wife territory.  Don’t worry, though.  Marc will help take care of it.  Father said he’d get involved if he had to, so it’ll all get sorted out one way or another.”

“You ready for some breakfast and meditation?” Brad asked, also getting up and stretching.

“Hell yeah,” Dean said.  “Bathroom and shower first, though.”  He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. 

There was a flash of movement as a body scurried off to the side and ran into the bush.  Dean looked over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows at the other Adepts.  “Fairy?”

Jason grinned.  “She’s yakking her brains out.  Ayahuasca virgin.”

“Disciples,” Brad said with a saucy grin.  “Y’gotta love ‘em.” 

* *

As an Adept, Dean now enjoyed all the rights and privileges that went with the title.  He was free to move about the compound, free to come and go as needed in order to carry out Father’s wishes.  He’d also earned the right to accompany the Community Outreach Team by working the farmer’s market and taking part in recruitment drives. 

Things were definitely different as an Adept.  Physical hunger had completely disappeared while his spiritual appetite had grown insatiable, and he meditated and worshipped ravenously, never able to get enough, stopping only when Father compelled him.  He ate, drank and slept only to keep his body alive—the rituals no more satisfying than any other physical chore like brushing his teeth and taking cold showers.  He spent time on his physical needs in order to serve Father better, and that was it.

Yes, Father had helped to conquer his ego, but Dean was not the mindless zombie he mistook The Kindred to be when he first met them.  He was able to think for himself.  Father had helped him to prioritize better—nothing more.  One thing that hadn’t changed at all was the love he had for his family, but again, Father had helped him realize who his family truly was.  His family was right here with him, embracing and accepting him.  There was no baggage with these people, no struggle, no having to prove himself, no fears that they would leave, no nagging self-doubt that he wasn’t good enough.  The Kindred loved him.  Their energies flowed through him like blood: thick, purifying, and sustaining. 

And the genuine camaraderie, fellowship, love and humor shared between them was more satisfying than anything he’d ever known.  They wanted him; they valued him; they even poked good-natured fun at him, and, of course, he always gave back as good as he got. 

Life was perfect within The Kindred.   Communication with them now was more intimate and genuine than when he’d been an Initiate or Disciple.  Speech was not necessary, and yet they took delight in talking with each other, verbalizing their thoughts so that Disciples and Initiates would not feel marginalized.  This was a wise choice, since Fairy was getting twitchy and anxious, already experiencing the beginnings of her ego’s rebellion.  Dean kept a close eye on her.  She was vulnerable now.  She needed him even if she didn’t realize it or want his help. 

Dean could hear her thoughts much of the time.  Her fears and attachments played out before him in flashes and snatches.  The connection between them was not as strong as it was between Adepts, perhaps, but he was certainly able to pick up on her thoughts better than she could pick up on his.  It was by Father’s grace that he had given Adepts this gift, and Dean was grateful for the ability.  He was better able to anticipate her questions, her moods, her needs even before she knew them herself.  Father would help her through her Ordeal when the time came, of course, but it was his and The Kindred’s privilege to help her make it to that point.  He wouldn’t let her or Father down.  Adepts took their responsibilities toward Disciples and Initiates very seriously, and he went out of his way to make her feel loved and needed, sending out his energy to her, letting her know how important she was to them. 

The best part about being an Adept, though, was his one-on-one training sessions with Father.  Being in the sage’s presence and receiving personal instruction energized and thrilled him.  Adepts had weekly sessions with Father, and this was Dean’s third session since his Ordeal.

“Preparing your soul for full symbiosis is essential, my son,” Father said as he moved his arm in a sweeping arc.

Dean mimicked the movement, mirroring Father’s motions precisely, opening himself enough to predict what gestures or movements Father would make, aping them at the exact same time.  The sage bent his head forward with a quick thrust and stuck out his tongue.  Dean’s cloned movement was flawless, his concentration acute.

“Yes, Father.”

“Your anticipation of my choices is strong, but you must evolve from anticipation to syncopation, from syncopation to unification, yes?”  Father moved his hands faster and faster while Dean matched every motion without faltering.

“Yes Father.”

“As an Initiate you fought your heart, and you learned to love me.  As a Disciple you fought your ego, and you learned to obey me.  As an Adept you must prepare to your soul for your Blessed Transformation, my obedient child.  As a Master—as an Enlightened One—your soul will express its love and obedience by nourishing Father, yes?  A perfect symbiosis!  Do you desire to nourish me, Warrior?”

“More than anything, Father.  There is no me, Father.  There is only you,” Dean said, following the guru’s rapid movements.

“You are learning fast, my child.  Your loyalty is unparalleled.” 

Dean smiled.  “Really?”

“It’s true, you know,” Father continued.  “Not every Adept is fit for blending.  Some are better suited to serve as workers and recruiters.  But you, my son—” Father eyes swept over him from head to toe.  “You will not long stay an Adept.  I feel it strongly.  Your soul shines too bright to remain autonomous.  I need your light within me.”

Dean flushed with Father’s praise.  The teacher performed an intricate set of hand gestures and facial expressions that Dean matched with no lag or delay.  Father dropped his hands.  So did Dean.

“Well done, my Warrior,” Father said, releasing him.  “We will stop for now.  Continue to prepare your soul for The Blessed Transformation.  I believe it will happen sooner rather than later.  You are special, and I hunger to share eternity with you.”

Dean slipped to his knees and bent, kissing the hem of Father’s tunic.  “I look forward to that day, Father.”

The guru reached out his hand and placed it on Dean’s head.  “I know you do.  In the meantime, you will prepare your vehicle—your automobile—to be sold, yes?  When next The Kindred venture out into the world to find future Initiates, you will take your toy and place it conspicuously with a sign showing your intent to sell.  Are you agreeable?”

“Of course, Father.  The Outreach Team will be going into town tomorrow.  I’ll get it ready and take it with me,” Dean said. 

Father toyed with the amulet around his neck.  “Your loyalty pleases me greatly, Adept.”

* *

“Mind if I ride along?” Brad asked.

Dean peered around the open trunk where he was removing the last of his old hunting equipment “Not at all.  I’ll be ready in just a sec.  Here,” he said.  “Give me a hand and set this stuff in the corner over there.  I’ll sort through it when we get back.”

Brad shook his head at the miscellaneous items as Dean filled his arms.  “Salt?  What did you need that for?”

“Protection.  Repels nasties—ghosts, demons, black dogs—a crap ton of creatures.”

“You’re kidding…” Brad said, incredulous.

“And,” Dean wiggled his eyebrows.  “It always came in handy when they’d forget to salt the fries at a drive-thru.”

“Damn, what a crazy life you lived before coming here.  What’re these?” Brad held up a couple of flasks. 

“That one is holy water—another repellant.  It can also serve as supernatural Bactine for bites and cuts from the evil sonsabitches.  Some things can poison you if they break the skin.  Holy water helps.  It purifies and cleanses the body of supernatural toxins.  Saved my life a couple of times.”

“And this one?” Brad wiggled the other flask.

“Another lifesaver,” Dean said with a grin.  “Whiskey!”

“Heh,” Brad snorted.

Dean dropped the lid to the false bottom and closed the trunk.  “Come on, move it.  Put that stuff down and let’s go.  The others will be there already.” 

“You do realize that passing out flyers isn’t all that interesting, right?”

Dean slid into the driver’s seat.  “Maybe not, but I kinda want to stretch my legs.  I haven’t been off the farm since I got here.  I’ve been an Adept for weeks now. ”

“Right.  Well, don’t expect too much.  Most people don’t want anything to do with us.  And Jason’s wife might be there with her group to heckle and harass us.”  Brad slid into the passenger seat and closed the door, his hand patting behind him, fingers searching for something they weren’t finding.  “Dude, where’s your seatbelts?”

Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes.  He put the key in the ignition and then stopped.  “Crap.  Just a sec,” he said, getting out and heading to the workbench.  He moved a few things around and grabbed his cellphone and charger.  Getting in the car, he gave Brad a sheepish grin.  “Thought I’d have a little cellphone-release party at the nearest trash bin in town.”

Brad gave him a proud nod.  “Sounds good, man.”

Dean flipped open the cellphone to turn it off, but then stopped.  “Huh,” he said, staring at the display.

“What?”

“My fa—my dad called a few days ago.  Left some coordinates.”

“Coordinates?”  Brad asked as Dean scrolled through the display, not paying attention to him.  “Coordinates?” he asked again. 

Dean reluctantly pulled himself out of his thoughts.  “Uh, yeah,” he said.  “That’s how he always sent me on jobs.”  He continued to scroll through the list.  “Bobby called too—last week.”

“Who’s that?”

“Another hunter.”

Brad sat a moment and then twisted in his seat.  “I thought you wanted to go, man.  Come on.  There’re going to be no more flyers to hand out if you don’t move your ass.  I know how much standing on a street corner, drumming up business appeals to you.  Shoulda gotten you a boa.” 

“Hilarious.”  Dean gave the man sour smirk.  He dropped the cellphone onto the seat.  “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s go meet ‘Joe Public’.”

As Dean pulled out and felt the familiar rumble beneath him, there was a panging jolt, a sense-memory, maybe—and with it came a feeling of profound loss, of panic and desperation—that bubbled up from some deep, locked place.  He slammed on the brakes and gripped the steering wheel, twisting it, instinctively flinched away from the memory or whatever it was, seeking out Father’s guidance.  Immediately, the sage responded, his power flowing through the Adept, chasing down the thought until it withered and fled, spirited away by the guru’s grace. 

“You okay?”  He heard Brad’s voice ask.

Dean settled and drew breath, thanking his teacher for restoring his peace and equilibrium.  “Yeah,” he said drawing his hand across his eyes.  He settled in his seat and drove forward, no longer able to pinpoint exactly what he’d experienced.  He only knew that it had been unpleasant and that Father had removed the threat. 

“You sure?”

Dean glanced over at Brad and then back to the road.  “Yeah, I don’t think it was anything.  Just a twinge.  Father took care of it.”

“He always does.”

* *

“There they are.”  Dean slowed the car and pulled to the side.  “I’ll drop you off here and pull around the corner.  I need to park where the car won’t be towed if we leave it for a while.”

“You got the For Sale sign Marc made?”

“Yeah, has the phone number of the business office on it for anyone to contact.  I’ll make sure it’s in the back window,” he said.

Brad got out of the car.  “Okay, see you in a minute.”

“Yep,” Dean said, looking past the Jedi and waving to Gypsy as she flapped a bundle of flyers at him.

“Yay!” she yelled.  “You’re here.  Bet I can pass out more than you!”

“You’re on,” he said with a grin.    

Dean pulled away as soon as Brad shut the door and found the nearest parking spot out beyond the tow-away zone.  Old Fairhaven was the small artisan district in Bellingham, small enough to require no meters.  Dean just had to find a parking place where the greatest number of people would see the car but where it wouldn’t block traffic.  He found an ideal location between two cobblestone alleyways near a pottery shop and bakery.  Parking, he taped the sign to the back window and grabbed his cellphone, walking away without a backward glance.  He spotted a public trashcan across the street and started jogging toward it. 

“Dean?” a breathy voice came from behind him.  “Dean Simmons?”  Dean raised a brow and turned.

There was Mei, holding a homemade sign of some sort, no more than thirty feet away.  She shot hasty glances to either side, checking for traffic and ran across the road to him.

“Dean!  Where have y—”  She stopped, rooted in mid-stride, noticing his Jedi tunic, trousers and sandals.   

Well, shit.  Dean thought.  Creepy, crazy wife alert! he called out to the other Adepts, letting them know they had a situation brewing.  He gave her a wooden smile and a nod.

“Heya Dr. Mei.”

She remained in the middle of the road until a car came up and honked its horn.  The woman startled and moved out of the way, coming closer to Dean.  “My god,” she said at last.  “My god, Dean.  What happened to you?  Tell me you’re not with that group,” she said, her eyes sweeping over him.  “Tell me you’re not with them.”

Dean fiddled with the cellphone in his hand.  “So, uh, it’s been a while.  How you been?”    

“Are you one of them?  Is Jason here?” she asked, her voice accusing. 

Dean cleared his throat.  “Uh-um, I’ve been with them for a while, now, yeah…” he said. 

“Is Jason with you?” she asked again.

“He didn’t come with us today, no.”

She shook her head, gathering her thoughts, her lips tight.  “Why Dean?”

Dean raised a brow.  “Why what?”

“Why are you with these people?”  She moved closer, her face full of concern and, Dean noted, hurt and betrayal.  “I was so worried about you.  They said at the hospital that you just left, didn’t even bother to check out and—”  She continued to take in his appearance.  “My god, you’re nothing but skin and bones.  Dean, what has that nutjob of a cult-leader done to you?  Is Jason in the same condition?”

“No one’s done anything to me, Mei,” he said, viewing her now as a threat to his teacher.  She’d no right to talk about Father like that.  “Jason’s fine.  We’re all fine.  We’re happy, Mei.”  He moved away, dismissive, wanting to get to the garbage can and out of this awkward situation. 

“Happy?” she scoffed, following him.  “They’re starving you, Dean.  You looked healthier when you were fresh out of surgery and delirious with a fever.  How did this happen?  How could you let that man manipulate you?”

Dean wheeled on her.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mei.  Father saved me.  He’s everything, and I’m sorry for you that you can’t see that.  I’m sorry you can’t let Jason be happy.”

“Jason’s not happy,” she said adamantly.  “He’s been brainwashed, and so have you.  Good god, Dean, how can you not see that?”  She stood a moment, desperate and torn.  Reaching out to try and take his hand, she lowered her voice.  “Dean, come with me.  Please.  Just come away from those people.  I’ll make sure you’re safe.  I swear I’ll get you whatever help you need.  Come with me—right now.  Just walk away.”

Dean stepped back and laughed.  In a way her twisted sense of concern touched him.  She’d always been good to him—always went above and beyond, trying to fix him.  He appreciated her innate kindness, but he still laughed heartily.  It wasn’t polite, perhaps, because her jaw squared and she folded her arms, more hurt than offended, but he couldn’t help himself.  He laughed again.  “I don’t need help, Mei.  Look, I know you mean well, but you’ve got this all wrong.  You don’t have a clue about Father.”  Dean’s heart swelled with love for his guru, and he sent out his energies to him, thanking him, praying to him for strength and guidance in dealing with Mei.  “But he could help you.  He could.   I know he could help you in so many ways.  Jason would love for you to come for a visit.  Just come for a few days.”  Father’s power swelled within him and his spine began to tingle.  There was a whoosh and a thick, buzzing, centripetal force of power pooling in his spine that suddenly snaked up his back and into his head.  He lost all sensation in his body as Father’s presence overwhelmed him. 

Mei seemed to sense the power shift, too, or at least sense a change in Dean.  A look of horror swept across her face, and Dean knew in that moment that she was not seeing him.

“Your eyes!” she gasped.

She was seeing Father.

“You are worthy, daughter,” Father said, now taking full possession of Dean’s body, speaking through him.  Dean could see through his eyes but only as an observer.  “You are loyal and true.  I have such need for people like you.”

Mei paled, but she composed herself and defiance overtook her fear.  “You son of a bitch.  It’s you, isn’t it?  What have you done to this boy?”

“I’ve cured what you could not,” Father said with pride.  “I’ve healed what your medicines failed to remedy.”

“Let him go.  I’m going to get Dean and Jason away from you, if have to kill you myself.”

“Shhh” Father pressed a finger to Dean’s lips.  “I would be careful, little plum.  My power grows strong, and my children will not allow you to hurt me.  If you try, they will defend me.  Count on that.  No, my child.  If you will not take healing from me yourself, I would have you lick your wounds elsewhere.  If you trouble me or my children again, I will protect what’s mine.  Besides,” he said as an afterthought.  “I can easily put Jason and Dean out of your reach and beyond your grasp forever.  They are both ready to take the final step on their path to Enlightenment.  I will keep my children safe from you.”  With that, Father’s power slithered back, withdrawing from Dean’s body, giving the young man control again.  Dean slipped to his knees, dizzy and gasping from such close contact with the sage. 

“Dean?” Mei said, bending down, eyeing him.

“I’m fine,” he said, rising. 

“Oh my God, Dean.  Christ.  You’ve got to come with me.”  She looked past him and swore.  “God damn it.” 

Dean turned and saw Brad, Gypsy and several others hurrying in their direction.  ‘Bout time you guys got here, he said to them. 

“I’m not going to give up, Dean,” Mei said, backing away from him, knowing that she was outnumbered.  “I’m going to find a way.  I swear to you, I’m going to get Jason out, and I’ll get you out, too.  I’ll find a way.”

“What’s going on here?” Brad said, coming up and gripping a giddy, tottering Dean.  “Get away from him.”

Dean turned drunkenly to Brad.  “He touched me,” Dean said.  “Father was inside of me.  It was the most wonderful thing.”

Brad stopped scowling at Mei long enough to smile at Dean.  “That’s good Dean.  Let’s go.  We’ve got flyers to hand out.”  He turned to Mei.  “You stay the hell away from him, you hear me?  This is no concern of yours.”

“Your leader is a monster,” Mei told him.  “He’s a monster, and you’re not the only ones who are loyal.  I’m loyal to my husband, and I will get him away from that creature.”

“Like hell you will,” Brad snarled.

Dean pulled Brad away.  “Let’s just go, man.  She doesn’t understand.”  Dean gave Mei a sympathetic eye.  He turned to go but then spun toward her.  “Jason’s happy.  Don’t ruin it for him, Mei.”  He tossed the cellphone into the garbage bin and then walked away, joining the rest of The Kindred.

* *

“Hold still, let me see,” Brad said, peeling Dean’s tunic away from his shoulder, revealing the toothy wound. 

“Sonofabitch,” Dean hissed. 

“It’s a scratch,” Brad said.  “If it doesn’t heal, we’ll ask Father to help.  We can’t run to him for every scrape, though.  That’d be a waste of his power.  I’ll just clean it with soap and water and put a couple of band-aids on it.  You should be fine.”

“Soap and water?  Hell,” Dean huffed.  “Get me the holy water.  I think that little Fairy may have been rabid.  Damn, she got me good.”

“Poor Fairy,” Gypsy said. 

“Poor Fairy?”  Dean complained.  “Poor Fairy?  I’m the one wounded, here.”

Gypsy moved close and examined the bruising wound.  “She was just scared.”

“She was vicious.”

Jason examined the bite-mark and winced.  “I seem to recall a certain Disciple who also made a memorable break for it when it came time for his Ordeal.  You remember that snarling, crazy Disciple, Brad?”

“You mean the guy who ran shrieking like a girl through the forest?”

“That’s the one,” Jason’s said, his eyes twinkling at Dean.  

“I did not shriek,” Dean said with heat.  “And I sure as hell didn’t bite anyone.”

“No, you just crippled Dante and gave poor Kimo a concussion,” Jason laughed.  “You did such a number on them that Father had to heal them.”

“Speaking of Kimo and Dante—I can’t believe you sonsabitches are going to be seeing them soon,” Brad said with envy.  “It’s totally unfair.  Gypsy and I have been Adepts for a lot longer than the both of you.”

Dean and Jason looked at each other and couldn’t hide their smiles.  Father had told them that they would both be undergoing their Blessed Transformations at the next Sacred Haoma Ceremony once Fairy’s Ordeal was complete.  Dean thought it might have something to do with Mei’s threats, and he hoped that he had not bumped more deserving Adepts from their rightful places in line.  Nevertheless, he was too happy to care.  Soon he’d be with Father forever. 

“Father has been generous beyond my wildest expectations,” Jason said.  “But don’t worry.  I’m sure you two will not be far behind.”

“I can’t wait to see Maureen again,” Dean said, his face shining.  “Hopefully Fairy’s Ordeal won’t last as long as mine did.”

“No one’s Ordeal is going to ever last as long as yours did,” Brad said, teasing.  “Fairy may have been a vicious biter, but she could never be that stubborn.  I say four days, tops.  Bets?”

“What’s the point of betting when we won’t be here to collect,” Dean mused.

“Hey Dean,” Marc called from the doorway.  All four Adepts turned in unison as he entered the pavilion.  “We got a call from someone who wants to buy your car.  Didn’t even try and talk us down in price.  He’s willing to pay what Father’s asking.  Can you head into town with me?  I’m supposed to meet him at five o’clock.  I’ll need you to be there to sign the papers.”

Again, there was a flutter of sadness that escaped from some deep place within Dean.  Everyone in the room felt it, and they turned to him.

“You okay, Dean?” Brad said. 

Dean frowned.  “I think so,” he said, feeling the flutter again.  “I don’t know.”

Gypsy took his hand and began chanting.  “Fill me with your love, Father!  Salve my wounds and heal my heart.  I give myself to you.  Yoke my ego and mold my will.  Hold my heart and keep my soul.  I bind my life to yours...” 

All five Jedis remained in the spell of chanting until Father released them and they stopped their chorus.  When he opened his eyes, Dean felt a burden lift, whatever stray thought had worried him, it had decayed under Father’s touch.  He drew a deep breath. 

“Better?” Gypsy asked. 

“Much.  Thanks to Father,” Dean said.  He turned to Marc.  “Right.  The car.  I’m ready to sign whatever you need.  Let’s go.”

* *

“That sure didn’t take too long,” Marc said.  “Only took a week to find a buyer.”

“Who knew beater cars were in such demand?  That’s awesome,” Brad agreed, sniffing and shaking the Pacific Northwest drizzle out of his shaggy hair. 

Dean watched as Brad and Gypsy paced around, waiting.  They’d come along for support, but they were all getting antsy.  The buyer was late. 

Dean leaned against the trunk of the Impala tossing the keys from one hand to the other while he idly kicked a rock against the curb with his sandal.  “It’s a classic car, not a beater, smartass,” Dean schooled him.  “She’s a cherry ride.  Who wouldn’t want her?”

“Her?” Gypsy asked with a laugh. 

Dean just shrugged.  “She was my baby,” he said with no emotion.  He looked over at Marc. “Did the dude say when he was going to be here?  We’ve been waiting over half an hour.  I don’t want to miss the start of evening devotionals.” 

“Maybe that’s him, now,” Marc said as a black van pulled around the corner and slowed. 

“Finally,” Dean said, straightening up and pushing away from the car as the van came to a stop right next to them.  He didn’t want the buyer to think he had no respect.  After all, the car was no longer his.

“Why don’t you pull up ahead?” Marc called out to the driver, but the slight person in the driver’s seat never turned, never made a move or acknowledged them in any way.  “Hey!”

Dean noticed the driver wore a thick sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, covering his head.  As he waited for the guy to park or do something, thinking how odd it was that he wore sunglasses on such a rainy day, Dean felt a bee sting the back of his neck.

“Ow, sonofabitch!” he huffed, wincing in pain and annoyance, moving a hand to brush the insect off him.  He looked down at his hand, confused and uncomprehending, staring at a small, feathered dart in his palm.  “What the hell?”  He glanced up at the others whose attentions seemed to be riveted somewhere behind him.  Dean turned to see, but his vision warped and twisted chaotically, and everything slowed to a torturous, dopey crawl.  He heard Gypsy scream and noticed the others scattering and ducking, leaving Dean pivoting, torpid and sloth-like, trying to see what had everyone so terrified. 

When he saw what was coming straight at him, he tried to get out of the way, but his balance was all wrong and he stumbled, taking a few tottering steps sideways, not at all the direction he’d intended to go. 

“Wait,” was all he could say before impact.  The dark figure barreled down on him, running full-tilt from the alley, a gun extended menacingly.  Head down like a linebacker, the man slammed into Dean as if he was a target dummy, propelling him backward so fast and furiously that the man lifted the young Jedi off the ground with a surprised grunt.  Straight through the now-open door of the van they sailed, landing as one with a thud, knocking the air out of his lungs.  Dean heard some shouts and screams, people calling his name from far away.

“Go!  Go, go, go!” a deep, booming voice echoed in his ears.  A door slammed and there was a squeal of tires along with a sickening surge of acceleration.  Everything writhed and spun, and Dean retched as a wave of nausea hit him.      

He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew it was bad and he knew that he was in desperate trouble.  Dean struggled to call out to the one person he knew would help him.  Taking in a gulp of air, he cried his name, begging. 

“Father!”

Through the descending darkness, Dean heard a deep voice answer him.  “I’m right here, Dean,” it said as consciousness fluttered away, scattering the words like leaves in a whirlwind.  “You’re going to be all right, Champ.  I’m here, now.  I got you, son.  I got you.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“Go!  Go, go, go!”  John Winchester’s voice rattled the windows of the van as Mei slammed the door shut and jumped into the driver’s seat.  Supercharged with adrenaline, Mei stomped on the accelerator.  The steering wheel almost slipped from her grip as she lurched back, tires squealing on wet asphalt, rear-end fishtailing as she fought for control.  Looking into the passenger-side mirror, she could see the stunned cult members shouting and running behind the van.  She bit her lip and watched the road, losing their pursuers after the first turn.  Weaving her way along the route they’d practiced the night before, Mei swiveled her head from mirror to mirror in a blind panic as she made her controlled getaway. 

She heard Dean retch and caught a glimpse through the rearview mirror of John rolling the kid onto his side as he gagged and coughed. 

“Father!”  His eyes rolled back as he succumbed to the tranquilizer.

“I’m right here, Dean,” John assured him. “You’re going to be all right, Champ.  I got you, son.  I got you.”  He lifted Dean’s eyelids confirming that the boy was out and patted his face.

“Is he breathing?” Mei asked, fisting the steering wheel and rocking back and forth in her seat. 

John didn’t stir.  His eyes settled on his son, checking him for injuries.  “Yes”

The doctor cut another corner too fast and tight, causing the tires to squeal.  She made an effort to slow down both the vehicle and her breathing.  “You sure?”  Mei twisted in the seat, her heart continuing to labor. 

“Yes, he’s just out,” John said, though his eyes continued to rove over his son’s thin body.  “Keep driving.  Eyes on the road.  Focus!” John barked.  Mei’s attention snapped back onto the road, snaking her way through the side roads toward their switch-point in Fairhaven Park.  While she had enough presence of mind to stay under the speed limit, stop signs barely got the time of day.

“Do you think they’re going to be able to follow us?”

John rose up, looking through the small windows in the back.  Mei shifted, her eyes flitting all over, from rearview mirror to side window to side window.

“No one’s behind us.  Keep going.”

John’s dead calm was no comfort, and she twitched and shook all the way into Fairhaven Park.  Meandering through the parking area, Mei drove towards the back to the lesser used lot under a bank of pines where she’d left her Infiniti, ready to take them out of town.  Between the rain and it being dinnertime, the park was near lifeless.  John Winchester had, no doubt, taken all of that into account. 

Mei watched him grab one of the herb pouches they’d put together, filled with white lotus, sandalwood, horehound, and a couple of other ingredients that John refused to identify for her and then tied it around his son’s neck like an old-fashioned camphor bag. 

“You sure that will be enough to make it so that thing can’t find him?” Mei asked.

“For the time being, yes, since he’s also unconscious.  I’ll make sure that the cabin is secure when we get there. The thing probably knows that we’ve taken Dean, but that’s it.”  He glanced through the windshield.  “Are we here?” 

She stopped the car.  “Yes,” she said, her shaky hands resting on the steering wheel.

“Okay.  Hang on,” John said as he continued to work on his son.  He pulled off his gloves a moment, tossing some fine, red powder from a vial into the palm of his hand and making a small slit in his finger with a sharp knife.  Mixing his own blood with the powder, he worked it into a red, sticky paste and dabbed a teardrop-shaped dot of it onto Dean’s forehead, right between his eyes like Hindus wear.

“What’s that mark for?”

“It’s called a Tilak,” he said as though that meant something to her.  “For protection,” he added begrudgingly, as she continued to eye him with doubt.  “Now listen to me carefully.  We need to make this exchange as quick as possible.  Last thing we need is to have someone spot us moving a body from one car to another.  When you get out, go to your vehicle, put the keys in the ignition and turn it on.  Get out and open the door to the back seat.  Make sure no one is watching.  Once we’re clear, open the van door,” he said tapping it with his foot.  “When that’s done, get into the back seat of the car immediately and be ready to grab Dean under his arms and pull him toward you.  You understand?”  He put his gloves back on and began to throw his bag over his shoulder.   

Mei absorbed everything.  “Yes,” she said.  She got out and ran to her car, doing as she’d been instructed, in the sequence ordered.  By the time she’d opened the van door and gotten into the backseat, John was already out and passing Dean to her.  Everything happened so fast.  She had no time to prepare; her back was turned all wrong, and her muscles burned sharply as she grabbed under Dean’s arms, John shoving the boy toward her as he pushed from behind.  He slammed the door shut before she’d been able to get either one of them situated or comfortable.  She was still trying to turn forward, Dean’s head wobbling and bobbling in her lap like a buoy on rough water when John pulled away.

Mei settled Dean over her lap as best she could, taking off her gloves and checking his pulse.  It was far too fast.  “He’s tachycardic.”

John said nothing until they were out of the park.  “He was just shot with a tranq gun and kidnapped.  He’ll get over it.  Take off your hood and glasses,” he said, eyeing her through the mirror, making a tortuously slow getaway, weaving back into traffic and tooling down the parkway at a steady 35mph. 

Mei pushed her hood down her back and tossed the glasses behind her.  “What happens when they find the van?”  She checked Dean’s pupils and took his pulse again.

“It’s clean.  We only borrowed it.  Joy ride.”

“But what if the cult calls the police and report the kidnapping?”

“That’s the least of our worries right now.  What time does the ferry leave?”

“7:20pm,” Mei said and checked her watch.  “That leaves us a little more than an hour and a half.”

“Is that enough time to get there?”

“Yes,” she said.  “Anacortes isn’t even an hour away.”  John nodded and gave his attention to the road.

Mei let her head drop against the seat.  With the immediate threat over, Mei’s adrenaline ebbed, leaving her dazed and puttied against the seat.  Her thoughts dull and limbs heavy, she shook from head to toe.  Once on the freeway and out of town, she settled, conceding that they’d been thorough, efficient and lucky in their abduction.  She let out a huge sigh and turned her attention back to Dean, taking his pulse again.

“His heart rate’s coming down,” she said.  “But the Dormicum is going to wear off in about two hours.  We’ll have to dose him again before we get to the cabin,”

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

The boy was lax and inert, having remained in the exact same position he’d landed in when deposited into her lap, one arm twisted uncomfortably under his back, his shirt bunched up and exposing his hollow belly.  Mei gasped when she caught a glimpse of his meatless, jutting hipbones.  She reached over and freed his arm, placing it on his stomach and eased his shirt down, stopping midway, her eyes wide.  She pulled the shirt back up and ran her fingers over the smooth skin that bore no marks from the surgery she’d performed.

“What the hell?”

“What?” John turned in his seat, concerned.  “What?” he demanded as Mei continued to examine Dean’s torso. 

“His surgery scars,” she said.  “They’re gone—like they never happened.  Not faded,” she said.  “Just—gone.  How can that thing do that?  Why would it do that?” 

Two days after she’d called the number labeled ‘Dad’ on Dean’s cellphone, the hunter had swept into town.  After another couple of days, he’d given her the rundown on his and Dean’s profession.  Under normal circumstances she’d have written him off as a lunatic, but having witnessed firsthand Father’s capabilities, she knew this was definitely not natural.  She remembered her grandmother telling her tales of out of Chinese folklore, and while she’d never taken the stories seriously, she was thinking that her grandmother hadn’t been so far off, after all.  She ran through everything the hunter had told her about this particular creature. 

Not that he’d given her much to go on, of course.  The man was insufferable when it came to doling out information.  He’d explained everything in broad terms unless she needled him for more—which she did every chance she got.  His main tactic was to keep her busy, having her run errands while he spent most of his time on her laptop or talking to people on his cellphone.  Mei had done everything he’d asked, making her way through new age shops, international grocers—even the army-navy surplus store—buying a host of items from clarified butter to daggers to fresh cut flowers, all the while never being given as much information as she felt she needed or deserved.  So, it was no surprise now that the man was silent.

“How does this thing have the power to heal someone?  Isn’t that more mojo than a demon should have?” she asked.

John snatched a glance at Dean through his rear-view mirror.  “This is a pishacha —a Hindu demon, so I don’t know precisely.”

“I’ll take imprecise, then.  Tell me what you guess,” she said.

He rolled his shoulders and continued staring darkly ahead.  “I would assume that the source of his power to perform miracles comes from the souls he consumes.”

“So, he eats people, and then, what…?  Steals their souls?”

“No.  He doesn’t steal souls,” John corrected her.  “Souls cannot be stolen, they can only be relinquished.  So, he’s obviously convincing people to give him their souls.  Once they give themselves to him, the demon can hold them within his own energy signature, tapping into their power.”

Mei shook her head, finding it hard to absorb.  “Okay, so he seduces a person into giving him their soul and then uses it to heal people?  Why?”

“Because he’s a slick bastard.  Because you catch more flies with honey.  He makes them feel good.  It’s like a supernatural roofie.  Bet he has them smiling all the way to their own executions,” John said with disgust.  “This thing feeds on humans and harvests their souls—harnessing power to compel people to worship him.  Narcissistic sonofabitch.  He doesn’t just enjoy feeding on people, he needs to be loved and adored by those he consumes.  The more souls he absorbs, the stronger he becomes.  At this point, the entire town is at risk if we don’t take him out.”

“My god,” Mei said.  “Jason.”  She stared out the window taking a deep breath.  “Why couldn’t we have gotten them both?  Why?”

John didn’t speak for a moment.  “We didn’t have the opportunity or the manpower to get them both, and I’m going to need Dean to help me take this bastard down.  Been in contact with a hunter who dealt with one back in the 70’s.  It all went bad—very bad.  If the demon spooks and bolts we’re screwed.   All of those people will remain thralls.  If their Savior abandons them suddenly and they can’t follow him—these people will go insane.  Or, if he’s threatened or trapped in any way we could be looking at a potential mass suicide.  One word from the pishacha and they’d do it.  It’s happened before.  We can’t give him any warning.  No, we have to take him out decisively—one strike.  If we kill him outright, all those compelled will be freed from his power—but we have to kill him first.  So we’ll save Jason when we take the demon out.  And to do that I’m going to need Dean’s help.  He’ll be able to tell us more than any of the books can—how the pishacha works, what his habits are, how the cult operates.  Besides,” he said gripping the steering wheel and shifting in his seat.  “I can’t put your husband through this deconversion process.”

“What do you mean?”  Mei stroked Dean’s brow, avoiding touching the blood-tilak placed there.  “What exactly’s going to happen during the ritual?”  She watched John’s mouth twitch with emotion and worry.  “What?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t close himself off now.  He’d never said so much in one sitting.  “What will happen to him?” 

“We’re going to have to break the spell the creature has on Dean ourselves.”

“Yeah, I get that.  And…?” Mei prompted.

“And it’s going to be ugly.”

* *

Mei sat up, pulling the blanket away from her and Dean and smoothed her hair.  They’d gotten through the ferry terminal by playing cuddling, sleepy road-trippers, with Dean’s head nestled on a pillow and buried under blankets.  The uninterested ticket attendant hadn’t bothered with so much as a glance.  Now, though, Dean’s hands were beginning to twitch, and when Mei pressed her stethoscope to his heart and checked his pulse, his eyelashes fluttered and he moaned.

“He’s coming to, John,” Mei warned.

John held up his hand as he watched the last of the cars empty, people threading their way through the parking deck, heading to the upper levels to sit and watch the water as the ferry made its slow way toward Orcas Island.  Despite the rain the ferry was packed with hearty Pacific Northwest campers and people heading to vacation homes.  When the last of the stragglers walked past, he grabbed a small kit from the glove compartment and handed it to Mei, turning in his seat to check on his son. 

“Give him enough to keep him down for a few hours.  We’re not going to get to the cabin for a while, and we still have to make sure he’s secure before he wakes up.”

Mei nodded as she emptied her syringe even as Dean fought to open his eyes.  “Shhh, slugger,” she said to him, petting his temple until the sedative stilled him.  She took another listen to his heart and checked his vital signs.  “He’ll be out for another three to four hours at least.  I don’t want to keep doing this, though.  He’s rail thin, clearly malnourished—probably sleep-deprived and worn down psychologically as well.  I’d like to see him sleeping on his own if we can manage it.”

John eyed Dean and then turned around in his seat, glancing out of the windshield.  “He’s a tough kid.  Just keep him down until I tell you different.  He can handle it.”

Mei went to say something and then changed her mind.  She resettled Dean, putting the pillow back in place and shaking her head with a sigh.

“What?” John said, turning around again.

“Well,” she said.  “How bad is this going to get for him?  The process you told me about sounds dangerous.”

John’s eyes moved from Dean to Mei.  “Our lives are dangerous.  It comes with the territory.  Dean knows the risks.”

“Yes, but why can’t you just call in more hunters instead?  Take the demon out and free Dean with Jason and the rest of them?  Why put him through this?”

“He’s a tough kid.”

“Yes, you keep telling me that, but the boy I saw in the hospital was fragile.  Did you know that?”

“Well, good thing that creature healed him, then, huh?  Silver lining.”

“I’m not talking about his physical state, John.  I’m talking about his psychological wellbeing.”  She watched Dean and laid a gentle hand on his brow.  “He was depressed, and, I believe, susceptible to the cult’s manipulations.  Why won’t you call in help?”

The hunter blew out a puff of steam through flared nostrils.  “He wasn’t depressed.  He was probably feeling guilty.  Boy screwed up on a hunt and he knew it—got himself hurt.  Self-reproach, maybe, but not depression.  Dean’ll be fine.  We don’t need to call in anyone.”

Mei searched his face.  “You don’t want anyone to know about this,” she said, appalled.  “You don’t want your buddies to know that this thing took him.”  John rolled his shoulders and turned away.  “You think he screwed this one up, too.  You’re ashamed of him.”

John reeled around in his seat, glaring.  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, lady.  You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know my son.  If you did we wouldn’t even be having this discussion.  Yeah, goddamned right this is dangerous.  It’s always dangerous.  It won’t be easy for him, but I’m telling you right now, Dean would rather die than have other hunters know that thing caught him looking.  I’m doing exactly what Dean would want.  I’m going to perform this ritual, I’m going to break that damn thing’s grip on him—no matter what it takes—and then me and my son are gonna kill the sonofabitch together.”  He turned around and smoldered at the windshield.  “Now, we’ve got another forty-five minutes before we dock,” he said over his shoulder, sniffing in as he mastered his anger.  “I suggest you get a nap yourself, we’re going to need rest before we do this.  It’s going to be a long night.”

* *

Despite his stolid façade, John had second thoughts about putting his son through the ritual as he carried Dean through the doorway of the cabin, all bone and pale skin in his arms.  Mei held the door as he walked across the old, warped wooden floor and into the bedroom he’d prepared a couple of days ago.  The sturdy hospital bed with side-rails was the only new item in the room.  Everything else was dilapidated and crusty with age.  He’d been given access to the old fishing cabin—a favor called in from one of his old Marine buddies.  The place had been long neglected, but it had electricity and running water—a bathroom, two bedrooms and a small kitchen.  It wasn’t luxury living, but it would do.

Laying Dean down, he removed his son’s sandals and attached leather restraints to his wrists and ankles, tightening the thongs until there was little wiggle room.  John checked the boy’s fingers and toes to make sure his circulation was uncompromised.  Next, he tied small camphor bags on each of the railings, removing the one around Dean’s neck, making sure that the blood tilak on his forehead hadn’t smeared or smudged.  Satisfied, John checked underneath the bed to make sure the protective wards he’d spray-painted the other day when he’d prepared the room were unbroken.

“Is that what I think it is?” Mei asked, looking at the symbol on the floor with disgust—a cross, each of its equilateral arms bent at 90°.   Four dots were placed, each one equidistant from its corresponding vertex.  She turned to John.  “What are you doing?  How can that help?”

John continued to check the symbol, making sure it was clean and unbroken and then began to trace a circle around it in salt.  “It was a Hindu symbol of protection long before Hitler came along,” he said.  “It’s still widely used in the faith.”  He continued to pour the salt. 

Mei shook her head but didn’t argue.  “What’s that one?  That’s kind of pretty.”  She pointed to the other symbol painted on the ceiling over the bed.

“That’s the symbol for Om.  It signifies the first vibration—kind of like In the beginning was the Word.  Well, Om was the word, apparently,” he said.  “It signifies everything this creature isn’t.”

“I see,” she said, lost and out of her depth.  She gave him a wooden nod and tossed her thumb over her shoulder.  “I brought in the water and the duffels.  They’re by the door.  Do you need that box of books brought in?” she asked.

“Just grab the leather bound volume on top.  I’ll grab the rest later.  Bring the water and ritual items and we’ll get everything set.”  John glanced at his watch.  “It’s after 10:00.  We need to perform the ritual at midnight, and he needs to be awake.  How much longer is he going to be out?”

“He should wake up sometime in the next couple of hours.  But if his body is exhausted he could sleep all night.  Can’t we put this off one more night—let him catch his breath before we do this?”

“No,” John said.  “It’s not just his life at stake here.  There are over sixty people in that compound including your husband.  We’re going to do this tonight.”

Mei sighed.  “All right.  I’ll go get my bag and the other stuff.” 

John nodded.  He made his way over to the edge of the bed and sat as Mei left the room to gather the needed items.  He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and patted him on his chest.  “Wake up, Dean,” he said, using the tone that always made Dean sit up straight.  There was no response now, though.  “That’s an order, Dean.”  Again there was no response.  He checked Dean’s pupils and scraped his knuckles along Dean’s sternum, but the boy never stirred.

Mei came back with her arms full.  Setting down her bundles, she began setting up the makeshift altar on a low stool in the corner of the room.  She placed a picture of a goddess wielding a large, curved sword in front of a brass tray holding a small lamp filled with melted ghee as fuel, incense, and some smaller brass containers filled with flower petals, kumkum powder, and grains of rice.  Finally, she set a small brass bell next to the lit lamp. 

She turned to John.  “Still out?”

John nodded.  “I need to have him awake when we do this.”

“I have some Flumazenil in my bag.  Let’s get everything set up and if he’s not awake by then I’ll administer the antidote.  I really wish you’d let him sleep, though.  He needs it.”

“He can sleep when we’re done.  Start the IV, but just the saline for right now.  The holy water comes during the ritual.”

Mei finished placing all the items on the altar and picked up the two IV bags, weighing them in her hands, considering.  Her brows furrowed.  “I don’t quite understand this.  You said the thing has Hindu origins.  If that’s true, why would you use holy water to cure Dean?”

“It’s not Christian holy water.  That’s blessed water of the Seven Rivers.  It’s the Hindu equivalent of holy water.  There’s a Hindu temple in Bothel.  I was able to get enough for our needs there.”

“And this will break whatever spell the pishacha has cast on him?”

“Along with the ritual, yes.”

Mei was still uncertain.  “But—but what about all his conditioning?”

“What do you mean?”

Mei unwound the tubing from the bag of saline.  “Well, surely you know these people haven’t been altered by magic alone.  You’ve’ done a lot of research on the demon, but I’ve done a hell of a lot of research on cults and their leaders.  From what I’ve witnessed over the past couple of months, that demon’s been using normal cult-like mind control techniques aside from any spell-work he’s done, either out of perverse pleasure or as a way to augment his magic, I don’t know.  I’ve watched these people chant for hours on the street corners, witnessed them practicing breath control and excessive exercise; I’ve even seen them all crawling on their hands and knees one day while they were in Fairhaven handing out flyers.  When questioned by passersby, they told people that Father had asked that they show their devotion to him in this manner for the day.  Dean’s obviously been conditioned the same way.  Look at him.  They’ve used food deprivation and, I’m guessing, sleep deprivation—debilitating work routines—the whole nine yards.  Have you even thought about the non-supernatural element at play, here?  Will breaking the pishacha’s hold over him be enough at this point?”

John stared at her, his face blank and dismissive.  “You saying my son’s been brainwashed?  Not a chance in hell, lady.  That’s not Dean—no way.  He’s a Winchester.  He’s a hunter.  He’ll be fine,” he said.

“He’s also just twenty-three years old, John.  This is a lot to handle, a lot of group pressure aimed at him.  You don’t think he’d be the least affected?”

“He didn’t go to that group because he needed or wanted them.  He wasn’t looking to join—he was looking to take this thing out.  It was reckless to go in without backup; he knows that, and he’s paid the price.  We’ll have words about it when all of this is said and done.  He’s my son—a hunter—and no amount of conditioning is going to change that.” John said, his face dark and combative.  “This is nothing.”

“This is not nothing,” Mei responded, inserting the IV needle into Dean’s arm and taping it securely.  “And I don’t think you’re hearing me.  I may not know your son as well as you, but I’ve seen more of Dean recently than you have.”

“Just give him the antidote.  We only have a little more than an hour to start this.”

Mei shook her head and let the matter drop, bending in to examine Dean one last time, touching his lashes to gauge his reflexes.  She called his name a few times before reaching into her bag and drawing up the antidote.  “This is fast acting, but it causes dizziness and dry mouth all on its own, so he’s going to be out of it at first.”  She emptied the syringe into his IV port.  “Okay, here we go.”

“Thank you,” John said.  “Wait outside the room until I call for you.”

Mei hesitated.  “I would really feel better if I—”

“That wasn’t a request,” John said.

“All right,” Mei said, cowed.  “I need to come in if he starts to feel nauseous, though.”

“I’ll call you when we need you.  Go,” he said, watching Dean intently, taking no further note of the doctor.  Mei took a cautious step over the salt-line and closed the door behind her, leaving father and son alone.

Dean’s breathing had already hitched, and his eyes were starting to flutter open before the door shut.  He made a few listless tugs against his restraints, his hands curling in as he reflexively stretched his body.

“Dean,” John said as his boy’s unfocused eyes gazed right through him.  “You with me, son?”  Dean continued to try and pull his arms inward, his brow pleating in confusion when they didn’t comply.  The protective tilak cracked and flaked with the movement.  “Hey,” John said, snapping his fingers in front of Dean’s face.  “Relax, son.  Look at me.  You’re all right.  Stop pulling.”  John snapped his fingers again and Dean homed in on the sound, his eyes crossing slightly as he tried to focus. 

“Ghhrrhh,” he moaned, trying to work his arms free.  John watched as awareness kindled in his eyes, and Dean emerged with a dry swallow and another groan. 

“Welcome back,” John said with a small smile.

Dean swallowed again, working his tongue around his dry mouth.  John reached for a bottle of water on the bedside table and held it to Dean’s lips. 

“Swallow,” he said.  Dean blinked several times and sipped the water, looking around in a daze before his head flopped back against the pillow, his jaw slack.  Dean’s gaze continued to wander until John snapped his fingers again, bringing the boy’s attention back.  “You with me, now?”

Dean watched John, his inner cogs and wheels spinning as he took everything in and tried to sort it out.  “Dah?” he said with a thick, clumsy tongue.

“It’s me, sport.”

“Wha?  Wha’s happ’nin’?”

John smiled and patted his son’s head, stroking his bony cheek.  “You ignored my text message, Dean,” John said.  “Had to get Bobby to put someone on the case.  Isn’t like you.  You want to tell me why?”

“Wha?” Dean said, still confused, blinking rapidly as he tried to bring John into focus.  He worked his tongue around his mouth a few more times.  John saw his eyes flicker and widen as memories roared back.  The boy stopped pulling against his restraints as he stared at the man, his chest heaving.  “Wha th’hell?”  Dean yanked hard on the leather thongs, noticing them for the first time.  “Dad?”  His face darkened.  “Y’freakin’ kiddin’ me?”

“Calm down, son,” John said, pushing against Dean’s chest.  “Relax.  You’re going to be okay.  You’re safe.”

“Safe?” Dean said the word as if it was foreign.  He continued to strain against the tethers.  John watched as a light sheen of sweat broke out on Dean’s skin, adrenaline pumping through every ropy strand of muscle. “Wha’s goin’ on?  Lemme up.”

“Can’t do that, sport,” John said.  “We have ourselves a bit of a situation here.”

“Situat—”  Dean stopped, surveying John through narrowed eyes.  He shut them a moment, mouthing words that the hunter couldn’t follow.  Dean’s muscles tightened and his face twisted in rage and fear.  When he opened his eyes they were full of accusation and hostility.  “What did you do?  What have you done!” he yelled.  “I can’t feel him.  I can’t hear them!  What did you do, dammit?  They’re all gone.  Father!” he called out, shutting his eyes tight, his muscles straining in his panic. 

“Stop it, Dean.  I’ve blocked him.  He can’t hurt you.  He can’t communicate with you with these wards of protection.”  He pointed to the small, leather pouches tied to the bed and motioned to the ceiling.  “No call zone,” he said.  “Service has been disrupted.  You can’t hear him and he can’t hear you.”  Dean’s eyes followed John’s to the sacred OM symbol painted in red above him. 

Dean opened his eyes wide.  “Are you out of your mind?  Let me go right now.”  He began to arch his back, arms straining and tearing against his restraints, paying no heed to any damage he might be doing to his wrists and ankles.

“Calm down, Dean.”  John pushed against him.  “Stop it.”  Dean still continued to struggle.  John had to use more force than he wanted to, pinning his son aggressively against the mattress.  “Stop it right this goddamned instant, Dean.  That’s an order.”

“Order?  You’re joking, right?  You don’t get to order me, John.  Not anymore.  Father!” Dean called out in desperate prayer.  “Father!  Help me, please.”  His eyes filled with tears, and he turned to John.  “Don’t do this.  Let me go.  I won’t tell anyone.  Please just let me go back home.”

John bit back his words, his jaw clenching and flexing.  “That thing is not your father,” he said exercising all the personal restraint that he could.  “It’s a damn pishacha, Dean.  A goddamn demon,” he repeated.  “You went to that place to help those people, but you got caught.  The pishacha caught you, son, but we’re going to fix you.  You got me?”

Dean’s lungs were laboring.  “Why are you lying?  Why would you lie about Father like that?”

“That’s right, Dean.  Your instincts are on point.  You know I wouldn’t lie about something like this.  Deep down you know that.  That thing you call Father is a monster, nothing more.”

Dean shook his head.  “He’s everything.  He’s everywhere.  Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my Keeper.  Thank you Father.  Save me Father.  Fill me with your light until our souls are One.”

John listened to his son chant his mantra, taking no breaks to breathe, inhaling the words in, then exhaling them back out, falling into a steady rhythm, his eyes rolling back, his body rocking in time.  It was so un-Dean-like, one of the most disturbing things he’d ever seen.  His heart dropped.

“Dean,” he called, but the boy was lost in his mantra.  “Dean,” he said again, shaking him this time.  “Don’t you damn ignore me.”  His voice dropped an octave.  “I’m your father, now you listen to me and stop this.”

“You’re not my Father—you’re not my Father—you’re not my Father—you’re not my Father,” Dean’s mantra took a side street and then turned back without a break in his rhythm.  “Father is everything.  Father is everywhere.  Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my Keeper…”

John bent in close, talking into his son’s ear.  “It’s a pishacha, Dean.  It’s a demon—a bottom dwelling, flesh eating piece of filth.  They normally stick to graveyards, but this one has found a way to power up using the souls of those he’s consumed.  Any good that you think he’s done has been done by using the power of the souls of good people he’s killed.  Feeds on worship and human sacrifice—and he’s taken up residence on that farm.  Do you hear me?”  Dean continued to chant without a single break. 

“My life is Father’s to mold.  My heart is Father’s to fill.  My soul is Father’s to keep.”

“It’s feeding on those people, son.  It’s taking their souls, so that they can’t even move on once he’s killed them.  They’re trapped with him, being used by him to trap other people.”  Dean began to chant louder, trying to drown out John’s words. 

“I trust Father with my soul.  I trust Father with my soul.  I trust Father with my soul.”

“He’s a demon, and you’re a hunter.  Don’t let him hurt those people.  He’s is a monster.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open.  “You’re a liar,” he said.  “Father fill me!”  He arched his back again, trying to break away.  “My body is your body.  My will is your will.  My soul is your soul.”

“He’s a demon, and he can’t have you, Dean.  I’m going to see to that.”  Dean stopped fighting and eyed John.  John knew his son was buried in there somewhere.  He watched the flashes of doubt fire in his child’s eyes and then dull to nothing.  After a long moment his face brightened, and the boy, still groggy from the drugs, laughed.

“You’re not real,” he said, his expression fading, eyes not quite vacant and cold, but so close that John’s insides quivered.  After a moment a smug smirk bloomed.  “I get it, now.  This is a test.  Thank you, Father, for this lesson.  I’ll stay strong for you.  I swear it.”  He looked at John as though he was seeing a party trick revealed.  “Sneaky Father,” he said with a nod.  “It’s right that he should test me.  I’m going to be with him forever, and I have to prove I’m worthy.”  Dean gave John a cold smile.  “I deny you.”  He lifted his head skyward.  “I’m yours, Father!  I belong to you.  I’ll prove my loyalty!”  Dean turned to John, a cocky grin on his pale face, a painful reminder of his old mischief and spice.  “Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my Keeper.  Thank you Father.  Save me Father.  Fill me with your light until our souls are One.”  He closed his eyes with a serene expression on his face, his chanting going on without break. 

John dragged his hand down his face, pinching his nose.  He checked the time on his watch and continued to observe Dean a moment longer but then got up and set some candles and incense around the bed.  Sitting down with a small pouch, he made a new slice along his finger, drawing blood.  He mixed it with more of the kumkum powder.  Wiping Dean’s forehead clean, the boy opened his eyes and bucked up, turning his head from side to side, fighting John. 

“Hold still,” John demanded, knowing he wouldn’t obey.  It took him three tries to reapply the tilak, but he finally managed it. 

Dean glared at him and continued to chant.  “Father is light.  Father is love.  Father is the keeper of The Kindred with whom my heart resides.”  He put emphasis on the first word, his eyes challenging the man in front of him.  John showed no emotion.

“It’s almost time,” he said, rising and making his way to the door.  He left it ajar as Dean continued his feverish chanting from within. 

Mei sat at the table, red-eyed, gripping a worn tissue.  John released a lungful of air, his jaw set.  Walking over to Mei, he put his hand on her shoulder.

“My god,” she said, dabbing the tissue to her nose.  “Is that what Jason has become?”

“You need to pull yourself together.  We’re going to fix this,” he said, ignoring the flutter of his own heart.  He showed her the small box of kumkum powder mixed with blood.  Sticking his finger in, he dabbed it with the paste and pressed it to Mei’s forehead and then his own.

“We’ll need protection, too,” he explained.  Taking two small leather camphor pouches out of his pocket, he placed one around Mei’s neck and then one around his own.  “Don’t take it off until this is finished.”  He picked up a strand of prayer beads, two sheathed daggers and a small, skull drum lying on the table.  He handed the small drum to Mei.  “It’s time.  Let’s get this done.  Things will be better in the morning.  Don’t take anything he says to heart, you hear me?” 

Mei inspected the small damaru drum in her hand, her eyes widening as she examined it, her finger tracing the coronal suture in the bone.  “Human skull?”  Her chest rose and fell as she strove to master her distress. 

“Don’t think about it.  Are you ready?”

She took several deep breaths.  “I’m ready,” she said.

“I need you to do exactly what we talked about.  This is for Jason, too.  Can you do it?” he asked.

She stiffened.  “I’m with you.”

“All right,” he said, picking up four small stone bowls and opening the door and holding it for her.  The sound of Dean’s chanting spilled over them.  “Let’s do this.”

* *

“Hah!  I should have known Father would use you to test me.”  Dean broke his chanting long enough to greet the doctor. 

John turned back to Mei, nodding to her to ignore him.  She averted her eyes and focused them on the drum in her hands.

“S’okay, though,” Dean continued.  “You can’t tempt me.  Maybe you should be a part of Jason’s test, not mine, huh?  We’re both gonna become Enlightened Ones in just a few days, you know.  Won’t be able to picket us then.”

Mei stole a peek at Dean and then met John’s eye.  “He doesn’t think we’re real,” John told her under his breath as Dean resumed his chanting again.  “He thinks were some kind of hallucination, part of a trial or test of some kind.”  The hunter turned, made a salt line around the altar and sat down inside the circle.

“What does he mean about becoming an Enlightened One?”

John studied Dean, wondering that himself.  “I don’t know, yet.  Let’s just get this done and then we can find out more.”

“Where do you want these?” Mei asked, picking up the stone bowls that the hunter had set down.  John took two of them from her. 

“The other two are for Dean.”  He handed her one of the kirpan daggers, its curved blade short but very sharp.  “For when the time comes.  Once we start this don’t step outside of the salt line and don’t interrupt the process, no matter what.”

“I understand,” she said.

“You think you understand, but it’s going to go against everything you believe in as a doctor.  You have to do exactly what I’ve told you to do.”

“Okay,” she said with a frightened swallow.

John tapped his watch.  “It’s almost midnight.”

Mei took her place by Dean who continued to chant non-stop, his eyes closed.  He made no sign that he noticed her standing near him.  Setting the bowls down, she shut off the valve of Dean’s IV and hooked up the holy water hanging next to the saline in its own IV bag.  She didn’t turn the valve, waiting for the signal when the time came.  She glanced at John. 

“Ready.”

“All right,” John said, sitting down, lotus posture, in front of the altar, placing the bowls next to him, one on each side.  “I’m going to recite the mantra one hundred times.  I’ll let you know when to begin the purification.  Another eight-hundred recitations and then the offering, with a final one-hundred recitations uttered during the offering.  I’ll signal you when to begin each.  Understand?”

“Understood.”

John didn’t say another word.  He stole a last glimpse at Dean and then turned back to the altar; threading the prayer beads through his hand, he gripped the bell.  After he rang it for several seconds, Mei twisted the drum in her hand and let the beads begin to hit the sides of the skull, back and forth, back and forth.

John recited the mantra.

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

Mei remembered the hunter telling her that the mantra would invoke the goddess Kali, entreating her to break the power of the pishacha and exorcise it from the inflicted individual.  The doctor said her own inner prayer that it would work. 

With Dean still chanting to the pishacha, the sound of the dueling mantras became chaotic and confusing, and Mei wasn’t sure how John was able to keep his count.  As John settled into his mantra-cycle, Dean picked up volume, overwhelming the dark, rich tone of his father’s voice. 

After twenty-five repetitions, John rang the bell again and lifted the tray of incense and offerings, making a circular motion three times in front of the image of the goddess.  Setting the offering tray back down, he rang the bell again and resumed his chanting.  Dean stumbled a moment as the bell rang, and he opened his eyes, watching John in the corner, his own chanting diminishing as he studied the man.     

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

John picked up speed, now, his voice filling the air as both Mei and Dean watched him count off the repetitions on his prayer beads.  Every time he came to a large white bead, he’d stop a moment, ring the bell and waved the tray slowly three times.  Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he turned from John to watch Mei as she beat the drum in her hand. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.  “What’s he doing?”  He turned toward John again, pulling against his restraints, his agitation growing.  “What the hell is he doing?”

Mei licked her lips but said nothing, keeping her eyes averted.  John continued on at a fevered pace, his lips working around the strange words with ease.  He rang the bell a third time, and again he wafted the offerings in front of the goddess.

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

The air around them started to sizzle with energy, and the hair on Mei’s arms rose.  Dean must have felt it, too, because he winced and looked around the room, searching for something.  He tried to chant again, closing his eyes and calling for ‘Father’, but he soon stopped and watched John again. 

“What are you doing, John?”  Dean asked.  There was a barely perceptible hesitation in John’s chanting when Dean called him by name.  After that he continued on without any break whatsoever.  “You think a few mantras are going to change anything?  Not a chance.  You need me to spell it out for you—or would you just prefer I maybe send you some coordinates so you can buy a clue, huh?” he said, tartly.  John kept chanting.  “You can’t tempt me, John.  I belong to Father.”

Mei’s heart beat faster, and she continued to spin the drum in one hand while reaching for the valve on the IV.  She knew he had only a few more repetitions left.

Dean caught sight of her and tore his eyes away from John, looking up at the bag suspiciously.  “What’s that?  What are you giving me?”

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

John rang the bell a fourth time, and stopped his chant long enough to utter one word over his shoulder.  “Now,” he said and went back to his chanting.

Mei twisted the valve, allowing the holy water to drip into the tube and snake its way down toward Dean’s arm.  The beads of the damaru slapped against bone, and the flame of the small lamp flared high.  John continued to chant loud and strong as the first drips of holy water entered Dean’s veins.

The young man winced and studied his arm, hissing with pain.  “Ahhnn, fuck, stop…” he said, and his eyes began to saucer with pain and fear.  “Nuhhh!”

Mei closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sound of the drum and John’s mantra rather than the moans coming from Dean.  She opened them again when Dean released an agonized gasp as the holy water entered his bloodstream, channeling throughout his body.  Mei had no real-life experience with the effects of holy water on evil forces, but if the literature she’d read and movies she’d seen had any basis in reality, she knew that the experience had to be excruciating.

“Father!  Oh please, Father!” Dean cried in panicked misery as his back arched.  “I won’t deny you.   I won’t deny you!  Naaauuhhgnnn!” 

Dean writhed and pulled against his restraints with such abandon that Mei had to stop drumming long enough to make sure he hadn’t dislodged his IV.  The needle was still in place.  However, noting that the bag was still near full, Mei wondered how he would be able to withstand the torture until it was empty.

The boy looked at John in shock and hurt.  “Why?” he panted.  “Isn’t enough that you damn well left me cold?  Now you godda…fuckin’…” his breathing came in erratic bursts, “…torture me, too?”  His head fell back against the pillow as he squirmed in pain, trying to mentally overcome it.  He caught his breath and levered himself back up.  “I deny you!  I damn deny you!”   

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

And the chanting went on, Dean bucking spastically against the restraints, panting.  It had to feel like liquid fire flowing through him, Mei had no doubt about it.  The longer the chanting continued, the worse it got.  The air grew pungent with sweat and piss.  Mei watched a few drops of perspiration fall from Dean as he thrashed.  They hit the floor with a sizzle, wispy coils of smoke or steam rose from each droplet.  

“Oh my god,” she said, before she clamped her mouth shut. 

After several more minutes, Dean gasped out Father! over and over again as a mantra itself.  His entire body shook savagely, and Mei grabbed his bound wrist to find his pulse racing.  She tried to soothe him, rubbing her hand along his shoulder, but his muscles rippled under her touch straining to get away from her.  She pulled her hand away.  John had specifically warned her against interfering, but he’d been right; this went against her every instinct—standing by helpless while someone suffered so cruelly.

“Help me, Father!” he cried out, but his eyes were focused on John.  “You saved me once.  You accepted me when my own family wouldn’t.  You showed me I was worth loving…that I mattered when no one else would.  You’ve never abandoned me or tossed me aside—not once.  You’re the only father I need or want.  Please help me!”

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

John chanted on.  Mei noticed his shoulders slump slightly as Dean called out to Father, but beyond that there was no change in cadence.  The chanting was now a relentless drone, the ringing of the bell a harsh, strident clang that made Mei’s head throb.  A cold dread settled over her, coiling up her spine.  Combined with Dean’s anguished cries and the small sizzle-sizzle of sweat droplets, the doctor was close to sheer panic despite all of her training.  She snapped out of her own fears when Dean’s body went rigid and his eyes rolled back in his head.  Mei could only use one hand to try and keep his head from hitting the railings as the seizure, or whatever this was, played out. 

“John, please!” she shouted, her mouth as dry as the Mohabi.  She couldn’t help herself.  The hunter made no sign that he heard her and his chanting never broke or altered in any way.  Mei had long ago lost count, had no idea how long this had to continue.  She couldn’t remember if John was going to tell her when to use the dagger or if he was expecting her to know when there were only one-hundred recitations left.  Her own breath started to come in gasps even as Dean’s seizure subsided.  The bag of holy water was still half-full.

On and on and on that dreadful mantra went, the bell sounding every now and again as counts were tallied and offerings were made.  Dean panted and shuddered, his vocalizations reduced to nothing beyond incoherent growls and rasps.  Mei wasn’t certain if he was unconscious or not at this point.  She couldn’t be sure.  It could have been a violent supernatural response to the holy water for all she knew.  Her medical knowledge and training was useless at this point.  The air hummed and popped with electricity, and Mei noticed as a couple of blue arcs snapped and danced on the brass altar while John held it and swung it slowly in front of the image of the goddess. 

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

After John rang the bell, he drew out his dagger.  “Now,” he said.  Mei fumbled with the drum, setting it down and picking up the dagger.  As she did so, Dean jerked up with a tortured scream, his face talcum colored except for the tilak, now nothing more than a red splotch dripped onto the bridge of his nose like a bloody tear.  Cold sweat beaded his face and neck.

“Dad!  NO!  Don’t—don’t!  Please don’t take them away from me.  If you do, I’ll have nothing left, Dad…nothing!”

Mei was stunned when John stopped chanting and met his son’s eye.

“That’s not goddamned true, Dean.”  John said.  “No matter how imperfect it is, you have me.”

“Dad…don’t…” Dean begged as John held the knife and made the first cut in one crook of his own elbow and then the other, allowing the blood to flow into the bowls as offering.  “Dad!”

Mimicking his movements, Mei cut similar lines, one on Dean’s arm, the other just behind the opposite knee since the holy water flowed into his other arm.  Blood started to drip and trickle into the bowls Mei set beneath his limbs.  Picking up the drum again and continuing to twist it, Mei used her other hand to keep Dean’s shaking leg over the bowl.    

“You have to finish this.  Hurry!” she called to John.  She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her or not, but his chanting reached a furious pace; she could no longer catch individual words.  As both John’s and Dean’s blood collected in the offering bowls, the lamp blazed again, shooting flames several inches above its cotton wick.  A wind blew through the room even though the windows were shut tight, and a low, earthquake-like rumble caused the brass containers on the altar to rattle.  The metal in the bed rails sizzled with electricity. 

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha

John chanted, ringing the bell every couple of minutes, signaling twenty-five recitations.  The rumble in the room reached a crescendo with the final recitation and Dean screamed out in agony.

“No!”

Om Kalikayai Namah || Om namo kali kapali dahi dahi swaha || nivArayati pischacha!

As John finished the mantra and rang the bell for the final time, the lamp shattered in its glass holder.  All the candles around the bed blew out, and the room stilled.

It was over.

In the dark, Mei heard a final thump as John Winchester fell senseless to the floor.

* *

“Don’t move, John.”  Mei’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears.  He opened his eyes once and then again since they must not have stayed open the first time. 

“Dean,” he said.

“I’ve already stopped his bleeding.  Let me get this tied off and get you off the floor.”

“How long’ve I been out?” he asked.

“Five, maybe ten.  Not long.  Wait, just stop,” she said, pushing him down again.  “Almost done.  You need to drink before you get up.  You’ve each lost well over a pint of blood.”

“Need to check Dean.”  He pushed her aside, getting up and barreling his way to the bed, swaying as he went.

“He hasn’t come to, yet.”  Mei stood up, wrapping her shaking arms around her middle.  “It was awful.  Absolutely awful,” she said, snuffling wetly, on the verge of a breakdown. 

John sat on the edge of the bed next to Dean and ran his hands over his son’s body, raking his fingers through his hair.  Dean was drenched in sweat and urine, blood inking the bandages on his leg and arm.  “Dean,” he called tentatively, torn whether to let him sleep or not.  He was desperate to see his son, to really see him.  “Come on, Sport.  It’s all over, now.  Open up.  That’s an order, son.”

Dean’s eyes twitched at that.  “Father,” he croaked out, his vocal chords chafed bare from the ordeal. 

John held his breath.  “Dad will do.  I’m here, son.”

Dean opened his eyes, wet and red and raw—the pupils blown from the pain he’d endured, freckles speckling his pale face.  He looked past John, toward the ceiling, tears now channeling into his hairline.  “Have I proved my loyalty, Father?  Can I please come home, now?  Please?”

“Dean?”

“I won’t deny you, Father.  I’ll never deny you.  Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my Keeper.  Thank you Father.  Save me Father.  Fill me with your light until our souls are One.”

The only other sound in the room aside from Dean’s rasped mantra was Mei’s muffled sobs.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“Don’t give me that, Annie,” John snarled into the phone.  “Yes, I got the mantra right.  There was a damn wind and light-storm in the room, last night—we’re talking blockbuster special effects, here.  It did something; it just didn’t do anything to him.  He’s still the same.”

Mei made herself small, stirring cinnamon and sugar into the oatmeal she’d prepared for Dean, trying to stay out of John’s way as he thundered around the room, the air harsh and heavy with his anger.  The man stopped in front of the window, morning sunlight streaming across his dark, hollow face as he listened to the caller.  He quivered with frustration as he gripped the phone, switching it from ear to ear.  Mei could hear the voice on the other line, but the words were lost to her, muffled by distance and Dean’s nonstop chanting filtering in from the bedroom.  John was plenty loud and clear, though.

“Should have worked doesn’t do me any good when it didn’t goddamned work,” he said, his voice low, still sizzling.  “I need another mantra, another ritual—something.  I need something, Annie.”   His tone had a sudden pleading edge to it.  He stared out the window, glancing aimlessly around and then turned back.  “Keep looking.  Call me back in an hour.”  He snapped the phone shut.

Mei watched the hunter brood, staring out the window.  She set a piece of dry toast on a plate and scraped the oatmeal into a bowl, setting everything on a tray with a cup of coffee.  They didn’t bring many provisions, and with this new development she figured she’d have to run down to the mini-mart to restock if they were going to stay longer than they’d planned. 

The air hummed with tension, and the drone of Dean’s ceaseless chanting was fraying her nerves.  He’d started in as soon as he’d regained consciousness not long after the ritual, and he hadn’t stopped once since then.  She studied John’s slumped shoulders as he stared out the window.  This had to be perfect torture for him. 

She cleared her throat, not knowing what would come out of her mouth.  She couldn’t help but try to break the painful tension.  “Does she know it’s Dean?”

Pulled from his thoughts, John turned to face her.  “What?”

“The woman—Annie.  She’s a hunter, yes?  Does she know it’s Dean you’re trying to save?”

“No.”  John glanced at the phone and sighed, sticking it in his pocket.  “And she won’t ever know.”

“What did she say?” Mei asked.

“That this is the only way to break the spell without killing the pishacha outright.  She’s trying to tell me that I must have lost count or said the wrong words.”

“Is that a possibility?”

John folded his arms in front of himself.  “That’s my son in there,” he said, nodding toward the door.  “That’s my boy.”  He stared at Mei indicating that was answer enough.  “I didn’t lose count.”

Mei nodded.  “All right.  What are we going to do, now?”

John threaded a hand through his hair and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.  “Wait for Annie to find her screw-up.  That means we might have to perform another ritual tonight.  We have enough holy water for one more attempt.”

Mei’s eyes went wide.  “You’re going to—no.  No, John,” she said, shaking her head.  “Are you out of your mind?  You can’t do that.  That ritual sent Dean into shock last night.  There is no way he can survive another attempt.  Not now.  This is too much.”

“He’s fine.  He’ll be fine.”

“No, damn it,” she said, bracing her hands on the butcher block and tugging on it in frustration.  “Every person has his breaking point, and he’s still just a boy, John.  Look, I know he’s strong.  I’ve seen it.  I watched him fight back from near death, so I get it.  I do—”

“Then you know he can handle it.”

“Strong.  He’s strong, John, not indestructible.”  She watched him roam around the room like a panther in a pen.  “And you’re too close to this.  I’m not so sure you’re seeing things clearly.  You have to consider what might be really happening, here.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” John said, stopping for a moment before resuming his pacing.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

John opened his arms in a wide, menacing sweep.  “Enlighten me, Doc.”

Mei took a deep breath, steeling herself.  “That was quite the lightshow last night.  Felt like an earthquake rocked the cabin.”

“And?”

“And…”  She eyed the door to Dean’s room.  “And what if the ritual worked?”

John’s snort was guttural, and he put his hand up, stopping the discussion.  “Give me his breakfast.  I’ll take it into him,” he said, dismissing her.

Mei moved in front of the butcher block, barring his path, craning her neck as he towered above her.  “Listen to me, John.  Please.  You may be an expert on the supernatural, but I’ve told you about my research on cults.  Why won’t you listen?  Whatever this creature is, he’s still employing classic cult tactics to control these people.” 

“Dean’s under a spell—nothing more.”

“Why are you denying the possibility that it’s all Dean chanting in there?  Is it so hard to believe?  Would you hate your son for having been drawn in?  Would you blame yourself for any of that?  What’s the fear here, John?”

“We’re dealing with a demon.  I know what I’m talking about.”

“Hell, maybe these cults are all started by creatures just like this one.  I don’t know.  But what I do know is that cult leaders break people down and build them back up again the way they want them.  These narcissists or demons or whoever they are—they prey on people in transition, people who are rootless, people with abandonment issues who aren’t getting the family support and love that these cults offer them.”

“Huh, then what does that say about your husband?”  John lashed out at her.  “You blame yourself for any of that?”

Mei’s face burned.  “It says that my husband was vulnerable, too.  I screwed up,” she said as tears flash-flooded her eyes. 

John eased his stance, scrubbing his face with his hands.  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, haggard and sore.

“No.  No, it’s true.  We put a great spin on things for our friends and family, but the truth is that I was a workaholic, putting in 16—sometimes—18 hour days most of the time.  Jason begged me to ease up, but I didn’t listen.  He told me he wanted kids—wanted us both to slow down on the career-track just a little, but I kept putting it off, trying to prove something to my own parents—trying to meet their high expectations for me.  So, yes, it does say something about Jason.  It absolutely does say something about me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to ignore it all because it’s too scary or too ugly to admit.  Had I spent any time in that cult, I’d have been easy pickings for them, myself.  I have my own issues that make me vulnerable.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not Dean, though.  And Dean hasn’t just met my expectations, he’s exceeded them—again and again.  We’re a close family.”

“Oh, yes?” Mei said, insistent.  “You know, forgive me, but I have to wonder if you’ve ever told Dean that.  And if you’re so close, then why didn’t Dean have a single visitor when he was in the hospital?”  John hesitated at that and opened his mouth, but Mei stopped him.  “That was rhetorical.  It’s none of my business.  I don’t know what’s going on in your family, and I’m not your judge, John.  But I remember Dean’s face when he checked his phone messages and wanted to know if anyone had called the hospital asking about him—and I had to tell him no.  I know your son was fragile and struggling, and, quite frankly, I can’t say as I blame him.  I don’t care if you had a good reason or not for failing to be there when he needed you, but the fact remains you failed to be there.  And you can tell me how damn strong he is until you’re blue in the face; that doesn’t mean he didn’t feel abandoned, lonely and scared.  It doesn’t mean he isn’t human.”

John stared at Mei for a long moment and then moved around her, opening the freezer without a word and pulling out an ice-tray.  He dumped the entire contents into a bowl and filled it with water.

“What are you doing?” the doctor asked. 

John reached for the tray with Dean’s breakfast and placed the bowl of ice water on it.  “I’ll take this to him,” he said.  “You should eat something and go get some sleep.  Take the other bedroom.”

“John,” Mei said, giving it one last try.

“Get some rest.  You look beat,” he said, opening the door and shutting it behind him without further discussion.

* *

His son was lying flat, all four limbs secured by thick restraints.  Gnarled into fists, Dean’s hands pivoted and twisted in time to his chanting, and John spotted smears of blood edging the leather straps.

“Jesus,” he said, hustling over and setting the tray down on the bedside table.  He put a hand on Dean’s wrist, examining the bloody, purpling skin.  He ran a finger along the seam where flesh met leather.  The restraints were secure but provided enough give that the boy had rubbed the skin off his wrists and ankles.  There were two leather straps across Dean’s torso as well.  The skin there wasn’t bleeding yet, protected by his t-shirt, but the flesh was red and raw.  He unhitched the buckles on his son’s chest and fought to draw the covers up with Dean rocking the bed as he lurched and swayed.

“Dammit, Dean, lie still.”  The boy was in constant, frenetic motion, limbs jerking as though seeking propulsion—as if the kid was trying to jump up and down while lying in bed.  “Dean,” John called again, but Dean didn’t answer, eyes rolled deep as he chanted.

“Fill me Father.  My will is your will.  My soul is your soul.”

“Enough, Dean,” John said, speaking into Dean’s ear.  “Open your eyes.  You need to eat.” 

There was no reply, but Dean began to chant louder and rock faster, which gave John some satisfaction.  He knew Dean could hear him, at least.  John pressed a button on the bed, raising the head until Dean was in a sitting position.

“Breakfast time, Champ,” John said, but Dean continued to chant and rock violently.  “Stop it, Dean.”  Again, the only response was louder and faster chanting.  John grabbed the bowl of ice water off the tray and threw half of it into Dean’s face, ice-cubes scattering, some falling under the covers, some of them pinging off the aluminum bed rails and skipping across the wood floor.  The chanting ceased in mid-syllable as the boy sucked in a gasp of air, eyes snapping open in shock.

“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bac-y.  Well, oatmeal at least,” John said, watching the boy wheeze and cough.  The cold water streamed down his chest, pooling in his lap, shocking his sensitive under-bits, no doubt.  John felt a twinge of sympathy. 

Dean’s eyes lasered in on his father; they narrowed in anger as he blew water from his mouth, spluttering and puffing.  He yanked against his restraints. 

“I deny you,” he said without emotion.

“Charming,” John said as he set the bowl back down on the tray.

“Let me go.”  Dean continued to scrape and score his hands against the restraints, glaring at his father.

“Stop it, Dean.  You’re bleeding.”  John turned around and grabbed the first-aid kit, pulling out a few items.  By the time he turned back, Dean’d raised his eyes to the ceiling and had resumed chanting, louder than ever.

“No you don’t, kiddo.”  He gave Dean’s cheek a tap.  When that didn’t work, he tossed some more ice water into the boy’s face.  Dean bucked and growled, his eyes sparking with rage.

“Father!  I deny him.  Please help me!”

“We can do this all day, Sport.  It’s up to you.  Best if you just give it a damn rest for now.  You’re going to eat something and we’re going to have a talk.  And you’re going to sleep, too, even if I have to sedate you.”

“You’re not real,” Dean said.  “Father is testing me.”

John shrugged, fumbling with the restraints as he tended Dean’s wrist without unbuckling the leather.  The boy winced when John daubed the raw spot with an alcohol swab.  “Father do that a lot?  Test you like this?”

“Father is everything.  My will is his will.  My soul is—”

“Knock it off, Dean,” John warned, reaching for the bowl of ice water again as Dean slipped into his sing-song recitation.  “You’re gonna talk to me, not babble that nonsense.”  Dean shrank away from the water, shivering.  John noted wet spots growing under the sheet where ice-cubes were busy melting against his skin.  “Does the pishacha test you often?”

Dean seethed at the name.  “Father tests me when he sees fit.  He knows what I need.  I submit my will to his completely.  And don’t call him that.  He’s not a pishacha.”

“Yes, Dean, he is.  He’s a filthy demon, and he’s cast a spell on you.”

“Huh,” Dean grunted, battling John as he tried to wrap a swathe of gauze around his wrist.  “So how come that little counter spell you did last night didn’t work?  Hmm?”

John tied off the bandage.  “What makes you think it didn’t?” he asked.  “Can you hear or feel the pishacha?”

“You know I can’t—not with your wards blocking him.”

“You sure that’s all that’s keeping him away?”

“Toss the hex-bags, break the wards and let’s just find out,” Dean suggested, offering John a cold smile. 

Leaving Dean unprotected was out of the question.  There was no telling what the pishacha would be capable of if Dean was still under his control, but John was certain that it would know where they were at the very least.  Mei had witnessed the thing possess Dean before, and no matter what doubts the doctor had planted in his mind about the success or failure of the ritual, he couldn’t take the chance of removing the wards until he learned more about Dean’s state of mind.

“That’s not going to happen,” John said, cool, detached.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.  Hey, it’s all good.  I’m not worried; Father won’t abandon me.  Not ever.”  Dean continued with a smug grin.  “See, I don’t gotta have blind faith in him.  I don’t gotta train for years and wait and wonder and hope and work my ass off and still not be good enough.  I don’t gotta beg.  He’s always there for me.  Father is inside of me.  I give him respect and loyalty, and I know you’re going to think this is just nutty, but I actually get respect and loyalty back.  Crazy, right?” 

John swooped down, coming within an inch of Dean’s nose, stopping himself when the boy flinched.  John took a beat to regain control of his anger.  “He’s brainwashed you, Dean,” he said flatly, a simple statement without emotion.

Dean recovered his bravado.  “That’s funny, coming from you.  You sure you don’t wanna let me up—make me run ten miles?  How many pushups do you think I should do?  Or maybe weapons training?  Drills?  Want me to parse some Latin verbs?  Maybe I should chant your mantras instead: We do what we do and we shut up about it.  We do what we do and we shut up about it.  We do what we do and we shut up about it.  Keep an eye on Sammy.  Keep an eye on Sammy.  Keep an eye on—”

“That’s enough, Dean,” John said.

Dean gave John a Cheshire-smile—pure, cruel mischief—Dean-like and yet not him at all, an ugly counterfeit.  “Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my keeper.”  He closed his eyes, still smiling.

John’s hands shook with emotion as he gripped Dean’s shoulder, digging in deep to keep him from slipping into another chant.  “Jesus, do you ever stop chanting, Dean?  How often does the demon make you do that?”

Dean opened his eyes wide.  “He doesn’t make me do anything.  I give him everything that I am.  I chant my love to him because he deserves it.  Your damn wards might make it so that I can’t hear or feel him, but that won’t stop me from giving him everything I got.” 

“Oh, yes…you mean the wards that are designed to prevent a demon from communicating with you?  The wards specifically created to block the spell-work of a pishacha?  Those wards?”

“He’s not a damn demon,” Dean fumed.

“No?  Then why are the wards working?  If he’s not a demon, what is he, Dean?  He ever tell you?”

Dean’s eyes twitched around the room as he snapped his wrists against his restraints, cracks in his mask showing before a cocky smirk washed them away.  “Father will come for me.  I don’t have to talk to you.  You’re nothing.  You’re not even real.  You’re not real, so the wards aren’t real.  I’m gonna prove my loyalty to Father, and then you’ll be gone.  I’m going to be with Father forever; he won’t abandon me.  He won’t abandon me.  He won’t abandon me.  He won’t abandon me.  He won’t abandon me.”  Dean pulled himself out of the sing-song rhythm he’d fallen into.  “He’ll make this all go away and then I’ll be worthy of my Blessed Transformation.  Thank you Father.  My life is yours to mold.  My heart is yours to fill.  My soul is yours to keep.”

John moved toward the foot of the bed, examining his son’s ankle, cleaning the wound and binding it.  Dean hissed, the pain breaking him out of his chanting loop, his leg jerking when John rubbed the alcohol on it.  “See?  I’m very real, Dean,” he said.  “Think about it.  You and some others came to town to sell the car—to sell the Impala, Dean.  The Impala.”   He had difficulty wrapping his brain around that tidbit.  “And then what happened?  You remember?”  John watched Dean’s face as he sifted through his memories.  The boy’s brows pleated in confusion.

“I—I don’t remember.”

“Bull.  Father teach you to lie like that, too?  ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t.  What a saint he must be.  Come on, Dean—what happened after that?”

Dean sat for a moment in quiet thought, his face paling.  He yanked against his bonds.  “I’m not remembering it right.  It couldn’t really have happened.”

“What couldn’t happen, Dean?”

Dean pulled visciously on the restraints again, his wrists twisting and knotting.  “It doesn’t matter.  It didn’t happen.”

“What makes you think that?”  John continued to press.  “Come on…”

“Because you would never come for me!”  The words flew out of Dean’s mouth.  “The real you wouldn’t come for me.”  His voice cracked as he spoke.

The hurt in his boy’s eyes slashed him to the bone.  The two of them stared at one another for a long, bitter moment.  “Yet here I am,” John said at last.

Dean laughed.  “Sure you are.”

“I’m real Dean.  I came for you.”

“Right.  Like you came for me when I was in the hospital?  Did you get my voice messages that night or did you ignore them for weeks?” 

Guilt flamed John’s cheeks, but he kept his eyes locked on Dean’s.  He went to say something but Dean stopped him.

“Save your breath.  It doesn’t matter.  ‘Sides, you were outgunned.  Sammy always did try to show you up, and hell if he didn’t edge you out again.  Called him all night, but I’ll be damned if his phone didn’t just go dead after the first couple of calls.  What a strange coincidence, huh, John?”

John’s eyes flared.  “I’m still Dad to you.  I don’t give a good goddamned what spell you’re under.  You’ll treat me with respect.” 

Dean chuckled again.  “I’m not under any spell, John.  Father’s earned my loyalty.  I’ll never betray him.”  He glared at John.  “Not going to answer my question?”

John moved onto Dean’s other foot, cleaning the raw, oozing patch of skin.  He said nothing and Dean snorted. 

“Yeah, I thought as much,” he said.

“Goddamn it, Dean.”  John threw the bloody cotton swab across the room.  “You sounded like you were six-sheets to the wind.  It’s not the first time you’ve drunk-dialed me.  I didn’t know.  You didn’t even tell me you were hurt—as usual.  Expecting me to be a damned mind reader.  So, don’t lay it all on me.”  John shook his head and grabbed another alcohol swab.  “Bobby left a message the next day telling me what happened and said you’d made it through surgery just fine—that you’d be up and around in a few days.”

“Well, that makes it all okay, then.  As long as I wasn’t dead, right?  No mess to clean up and all of that.  Yeah, makes sense.”

“Dean,” John said, his voice torn between guilt and outrage.

“No, man…I get it.  You did me a favor.  You really did.  Pushing Sam away—telling him to stay gone if he left—cutting him out so completely that he won’t even touch my calls.  My own brother…”  His voice broke, but he smiled again.  “You dumping my ass in the middle of the night without a single damn word—not one damn word—nothing but coordinates to follow for weeks after…it all led me to Father.  I’d have never found him if you hadn’t cleared my calendar for me.  So, I’m glad.  I am.”  Dean’s smile was heartbreakingly genuine.  “He’s everything I ever wanted.  Now, I just want to go back home.  I belong to The Kindred and to Father.  They’re my family.” 

John stopped all work on Dean’s wounds.  He stood listening to his son, numb with disbelief.  Turning away for a moment, he gathered himself.  No way could he lose his shit in front of his boy.  Clearing his throat, he turned back.    

“I’m going to fix this,” John said at last.

Dean sighed, satisfied, relaxing into his pillow.  “It ain’t broken.  Just let me go, John.  Maybe this whole sceneario isn’t meant for me—maybe it’s not my lesson.  Maybe Father is doing this for you—helping you to let go.  Not sure why, though.  Last time I saw you, you said you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I never said that.”

“Who taught you to lie like that?  Huh?  You told me to stay with Father, remember?  Said I was a worthless hunter and should let you go—ordered me to give myself to him.  Sir, yes sir!  Remember?  Always your way or not at all, right?  I’m just following your orders like I always have.”

“I never said any such thing, Dean.  The pishacha has screwed with your mind.  How could I have said those things if I haven’t seen you since April?”

“I saw you in The Kiln.”

“What’s The Kiln, Dean?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Riiiight,” Dean said.  “You were there.  You made me drink the ayahuasca, remember?”

“Ayahuasca?”  John’s voice rumbled with livid disgust.  “Jesus Christ.  I’m going to kill that sonofabitch with my bare hands if I have to.  Boy, that thing has fucked you up.  He’s been feeding you drugs and calling it love.  He’s a monster, Dean.  How can you not see that?”  He finished bandaging the last of Dean’s wounds.  “It wasn’t me, Dean.  It wasn’t real.  I haven’t seen you since early April.”

“No,” Dean insisted.  “You were there.  You’re lying.  You said I wasn’t cut out for hunting, called me weak, said you didn’t want me anymore.”

John bent in close, holding Dean’s shoulder as the boy tried to squirm away.  He paid no attention and kept touching him.  “I don’t know how Father could have sold that load of shit to you.  Look at me, Dean.”  The boy refused.  “Look at me, now.”  Dean glared John.  “Never.  Never in a goddamned million years would I ever say those things.”

Dean’s façade cracked just a little under the weight of John’s sincerity.  “But you said—” he stopped, wincing as though in pain. 

“What is it, Dean?  What’s happening?” John placed his hand on Dean’s chest.  The boy arched his back, trying to push his hand away with his body. 

“Father, he—he brought Sam into The Kiln.  Sammy was…” he stumbled over the words, unable to accept them.  “No—that’s not right.  That’s not right.”  He was gasping and straining, now. 

“Slow your breathing.  Nice and slow, now.  What are you remembering, Dean?  Tell me.”

Dean chuffed and winced again.  “Sammy—that thing had Sammy, and—Let go.  Truly let go.  Let Father in and Sam will be free and healthy for the rest of his life.  Protect him, Dean.  If you do not, I will feast on him in front of you.”  Dean chanted the memory aloud.  He turned to John, dazed and angry.  “Why would he say that?”

“What do you see, Dean?  Did he threaten to hurt your brother?  Is that what he did?”

“No!” Dean shouted.  “No, never!  It’s a lie.  You’re doing something to me.  Why?  Why can’t you just let me be?”  Dean tried to turn away, but the thongs held him in place.  He pressed his cheek into the pillow, his only escape.

“Settle down now, son,” John said.  “Easy, Dean.”  He patted his son’s chest, but the boy shook his head from side to side.  Dean opened his eyes, accusing.

“You just can’t let me have anything, can you?  Now you’re trying to take this away from me, too.  That’s not the way it happened.  Father wouldn’t hurt Sam.  Father helped me to let go of him, showed me how necessary it was in order for both of us to follow our own paths.  He wouldn’t do that.  He wouldn’t.  How goddamned dare you!”

John wanted to know what was going on in his son’s head but knew he couldn’t press right now.  The kid’s lungs labored in chaotic fits and gulps.  It made John sick to think what the pishacha had done to get Dean to comply.  Torture?  Threats against his family?  And then what?  Did he overwrite Dean’s memories, make him forget the torture he’d inflicted? 

“It’s all right, Dean.  You’re going to be all right.  Let’s just take it easy for a little while.  Truce,” he soothed.  “Stay with me, son,” he said as Dean slipped back into another wave of chanting.  “None of that now.”  He dipped his fingers in the ice water and flicked the droplets at Dean.  It was enough to snap him out of it, gritting his teeth at John. 

“Leave me alone.  I need to chant!” he said, eyes hungry—a junky begging for another hit.  It killed John to see it.

“No, you don’t.  Here,” John said, reaching for the bowl of oatmeal.  “Don’t want this to get cold.  You must be hungry.  You’re nothing but skin and bones, there, kiddo.”

Dean squinted at the spoon of oatmeal.  “Not hungry,” he said and sealed his lips when John offered a spoonful to him.

“You’re going to eat, Dean,” John said.

“I said I’m not hungry.” 

“Bullshit.”  John took a moment to temper his anger.  “You’re always hungry,” he tried to joke.  “Come on Dean.  Yeah, so maybe it’s not eggs and bacon.”  He sniffed the oatmeal and lifted a dubious brow.  “What can I say?  The doctor made it.  It’s probably that heart-healthy crap, but it’s carbs and calories, dude.  Open up.”  No response.  “Dean.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn your nose up at food in my entire life.  There can’t be a power on the face of the planet strong enough for that.”  He pressed the spoon to the boy’s lips and tried to work them open.  Dean merely clamped down harder.  “You’re not two years old.  Now, open your goddamned mouth, Dean,” he said, his tone spiking with impatience.  He reached up and pinched Dean’s nose shut with his free hand.

Dean gasped and John took the opportunity to tip the oatmeal into his mouth.  Before he could scoop another spoonful of oats from the bowl, Dean turned his head and blew the oats back out of his mouth.  John lurched back instinctively as the mashy paste sprayed the wall and floor. 

“Damn it, Dean!”  John set the bowl back down and grabbed a napkin, cleaning up the mess, rubbing off the few specks that hit him.  “I’ve just about had it.”

“Good!”  Dean raised his voice.  “Then, let me go.  I’ll get out of your hair and everything will be exactly the way you always wanted it.”

“I’ve had enough of that, too.  I’m not going to goddamn let you guilt me.”  He slammed the spoon onto the tray.  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes—some you know about—some you don’t, but I have never, ever wanted you gone, Dean.  And I can’t believe that evil sonofabitch has made you believe that.  It’s not true, and deep down you know it.  I’m not perfect, but I’m not what he’s made you believe I am.”  Dean seemed to cow under the weight of those words.  John rubbed his own throbbing forehead with the palm of his hand. 

Neither one said anything, both stewing in the dark folds of their thoughts.  John came out first and grabbed the cup of coffee.  “At least drink something.  You need fluids; drink or I’m going to have Mei restart the IV.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Dean said, sullen and petulant, avoiding eye contact.  “If I drink it’ll only make it worse.”

John sighed.  He walked over to Mei’s bag and rifled through it, pulling out a small bottle and a syringe. 

Dean’s eyes grew saucer wide as John popped the cap off the needle and drew up a dose.  “What is that?  What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s diazepam.  I’m taking you to the bathroom, but you’re not getting out of this bed full-powered.  Oh, and just so you know—we’re on an island.  The only way off is by ferry, so there’s nowhere to run.  After we get you cleaned up a little, you can get some sleep.  We’re likely to have a busy night, and you haven’t slept since yesterday.”  He flicked the needle, removing any air bubbles and approached Dean with it.

“No, Dad.  Don’t!”  Dean begged, lurching and wiggling, flexing his wrists against the restraints. 

John’s held him down with one arm, leaning his weight against the boy, rolling him to the side, enough to expose his flank, and he sunk the syringe into it.  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”   

Dean growled out in anger and frustration.  “Real fair.  You’re a damn hypocrite.  You bitch about Father drugging me, but then you turn around and do the same thing.  You’re no better.  You know that?  Y’r n’better,” he said, his words already thick with the drug.

“Sorry kiddo,” John said, untying one of the herb bags from the bed rail and looping it over Dean’s head.  Grabbing the small box of kumkum powder, he prepared another mixture and refreshed the tilak on Dean’s forehead while the kid mumbled incoherent maledictions.  “Come on.  Let’s get you up.”

Dean muttered again.  The only word John caught was Father, and he was suddenly worried that he’d given the boy too much diazepam.  He hadn’t factored in his weight loss when drawing up the dose.  Dean’s eyes were closed, his body already slack in the two minutes since he’d administered the drug.  When John unhitched the first restraint, Dean’s arm flopped heavily onto his chest. 

“Stay awake for a little longer, Ace.  We need to get you to the bathroom and back before you conk out.”  He tapped Dean’s cheek until the boy opened a glassy eye.

“N’fair,” Dean scolded.

“Yeah, I know,” John said with a slight smile.  He unbuckled the other restraints and released the bed rail, rolling Dean over and into a somewhat sitting position.  The boy’s head lolled against his father’s chest. 

“Up, Dean.  Come on.”

“Wh’r w’goin’?”

“Bathroom.  You said you had to go.  Now come on.  Stay awake for just a couple more minutes.”  John shook his head at himself for being careless.  He hoisted up his over-medicated son, looping a sturdy arm around his waist and helping the malleable, pliant boy to shuffle along. 

When they reached the adjoining bathroom, John propped Dean against the wall with one hand and grabbed for the bathroom door.   As his hand touched the knob, John felt a shocking blow to the side of his face, graying out his vision and sending a cold tingle down his spine.  A loud thump startled him back from the dark brink, and when he opened his eyes, he realized that the noise he’d heard had been the sound of his body falling to the floor.  Dean had already thrown open the bedroom door and was making a mad dash through the kitchen, limbs coltish and wild from the drug, but not nearly as incapacitated as he’d pretended to be.  John had no time to feel a fool, though.

“Dean, no!” he yelled as the boy shoved a surprised Mei away from the front door and bolted through it. 

John found himself on his feet with no recollection of having gotten there, and he swayed and reeled his way into the kitchen, still off balance from the blow. 

“What’s—” Mei began, her eyes filled with fear.

“Stay here,” John shouted as he passed her and ran after Dean.

John scanned the beach, knowing that he couldn’t have gotten far.  He spotted Dean struggling to get over a bank of drift-logs blocking his path to the water, but drugs, bare feet, and a rocky beach combined to make it slow going.

“Dean!” he shouted again.  The boy spun around, his face dark with frustration.  He had to know he wasn’t going to be able to get away.

His son looked down and grasped the herb-bag dangling around his neck.  With a harsh yank the strap broke, and he threw the bag into the surf.  A swipe of his hand smeared the tilak, rendering it impotent.  “Father!” he cried out, his face filled with expectant awe. 

John’s blood ran cold at the sight of his son, unwarded, unprotected—arms raised in supplication and worship, face to the sky, calling for his Savior.  If the pishacha discovered where they were, it would be all over.  He couldn’t allow his son to be taken from him again.  John watched, devastated, as Dean invoked the demon.  After a long, breathless second, nothing happened, and Dean’s brows furrowed with confused frustration. 

“Father?” he called again.  “Brad?  Jason?  I’m here!  I’m here…”  His shoulders slumped.  “Please don’t leave me.  Please don’t be gone!”

“Dean.  Son.”  Hope and fear marbled in John as he called out.  He took a few more cautious steps toward Dean. 

Opening his eyes and seeing John closing in on him, Dean backed away.  “You did this.  You took them from me.  They’re not here!”  He gripped his head.  “They’re not here.”  He turned and ran again, frantically calling for people who would not or could not respond.

John trailed him until the drug stopped the boy again, and he teetered, slipping to his knees.  John continued his slow approach.  “It was a spell, Dean.  Do you get that?  Are you finally hearing me?  It was a damn spell.  The ritual worked.  The pishacha’s magic is gone.  It’s gone and this is just you and me, here.  You and me.  We’ll get through this.  Together.  I’m not the bad guy, here.  You’ve been in that thing’s grip, but you’re free now.”  John pressed closer even as Dean fought to get to his feet.  “It’s over.” 

“No!” Dean yelled, trying to rise.  He lost his balance again, landing on his ass and tipping sideways.   John was on him in a couple of steps, catching hold of his t-shirt, pulling him into his chest, wrapping his arms around Dean while he tried to twist and wriggle free.

“I got you, son.”

“No!  Let me go,” Dean seethed, growling and struggling, but his limbs had given up their strength and agility to the sedative; there was no force behind his flailings.  “What have you done?  Father!  Father!” he panted.

John held him tight.  “It’s over.  It’s done, Dean.”  John smoothed his hand over Dean’s anguished face.  “The ritual worked.  It’s going to be all right.  I promise you.  Easy.  Easy, son.”

Dean’s chest labored as his eyes searched around, trying to make sense of everything.  “It’s all gone.  Everyone’s gone,” he said, broken.

“No.  I’m still here, Dean.  I’m right here and I’ve got you.”  He gripped his son’s hand and tugged.  “I’ve got you.  You’ve been under the control of the pishacha for a couple of months.  He’s done a number on you, but you’re going to be fine, Dean.  Trust me, now.  You got me?”

Dean looked at him as if hearing and seeing him for the first time.  “Dad?” he said, bewildered.  “Dad, am I really here?  Is this real?”

“You’re really here, Champ.  I’m not a test, not a drill.  I’m real.  It was a pishacha.  He caught you, but I got you back.  You’re going to be all right.”  John watched Dean as his words sunk in. 

“A pishacha?”

“Demon.  Lower order—Hindu variety.  Pishachas—ugly bastards, though they’re shifters in their own right, so this one appeared to you as a man.”

“But…he healed me,” Dean said, unable to understand.  “The surgery, he healed it.  A demon would never do that.”

“It’s not his power, Dean.  He takes the power from the human souls he consumes and uses it to perform seeming miracles—gets people to believe he’s a divine being.  Uses all that stolen juice to enthrall people.  Without consuming souls, a pishacha is nothing but a bottom-feeder, a graveyard spirit with an oversized ego.  This one grew strong.  Very strong.”

Dean’s face shattered like thin clay, contorting with disgust and shame and a god-awful longing that hurt John to witness.  Dean tried to roll over, but John’s weight held him firm. 

“A demon,” Dean moaned, his face turning the color of whey.  “A goddamned demon.  It was all a lie, a fucking lie.”

John eased his weight off the boy.  “It’s okay, Dean.  We’ll take care of it.  We’ll get the sonofabitch.  Together, we’ll get him.”  He patted the boy’s back as Dean tried to rise onto all fours.  “Come on.  Ain’t the first time that one of us got caught by the bad guy.  Won’t be the last.  We’ll get him.”      

Dean moaned, grabbing his middle as he crawled a few feet away.  “I’m alone.  I’m so goddamned alone,” he said and began dry-heaving into a patch of shriveled kelp.

* *

There was something he was supposed to be doing, words on the tip of his tongue that he strove to get out—an itch that needed scratching.  Chanting.  Yes, of course, he should be chanting—his body hummed with the desire—felt hollow and incomplete without the sound in his ears.  He wanted to feel the words vibrate against his vocal chords until they were raw and tattered, yearned to connect with The Kindred, their bodies, minds, voices all mere extensions of one perfect mind.  He tried to open his mouth, but nothing came out—tried to move, but his limbs refused to stir.  Was he still asleep?  Why hadn’t Brad gotten him out of bed, yet?  With a struggle, he turned his head and saw Brad sitting on his cot, calm and serene as he put on his sandals. 

Way to oversleep, Brad snorted and gave Dean a light thwap and a grin.  Come on, Princess Aurora, time to live and breathe another day for Father.  Don’t let your lazy ass keep you from it!  You’re so close to your Blessed Transformation.  You can’t ease up, now.  You almost have everything you ever wanted.

“Tired,” Dean said to him.  And he was.  God was he tired.  It felt like he had weights attached to every cell of his body, coagulating his thoughts, bogging his limbs, drying his mouth.  He scraped his teeth against his bloated tongue, trying to remove the sour, pasty film.

Get a move on.  Jason and Gypsy will be waiting for us.  Don’t you want to see them?

A surge of desire made the emptiness inside of him all the more acute.  “Wanna see ‘em.  Wanna feel ‘em again.  Wh’r are they?”

Up at the orchard.  Let’s go.  If you hurry we can watch Father feast on their souls.  The words slithered from Brad’s mouth as it split into a wide, unctuous smile. 

Dean shrunk back from him as images flashed and flickered—Maureen kneeling before a fat pishacha, its eyes bulging, its tentacle-like arms groping her as it gurgled happily—as happy as a child on Christmas morning.  Dean could feel her terror—and his own—as the demon consumed her in a lustful feeding frenzy, his power holding The Kindred in place, forcing them to chant the words that separated the woman’s soul from her body.  The monster’s power controlled their movements, and they bounded into the air, jumping and leaping and chanting as they watched the fleshy pishacha consume the last of their friend, its sticky, worm-like tongue poking out between razor-like teeth.  It chewed and snorted with insane delight.  He fought against the magic holding him, but his limbs would not budge.    

“Easy, Slugger.  It’s just a nightmare.  Calm down, now.  You’re going to be all right.  Shhhh, it’s all right.  Drink some water for me,” Brad said, reaching an arm around Dean to brace his back, shifting him and lifting a bottle of water to his lips.  It didn’t make sense.  Brad’s voice was all wrong.  Dean took a few languid sips, but soon found himself gulping as much as he could, the cool water touching off his thirst.  He tried to grip the bottle as it receded into the nether, but his hands were tied to the bed rails.

“Brad?”

“Okay, that’s a new one.  I think I liked Busty Asian Beauty better.”

Dean squinted and tried to lift his heavy, heavy lids.  His eyebrows arched high against his scalp, but the lids only made it halfway.  It was enough for him to recognize the woman’s cautious smile.

“Mei?”  Memories slurried back as he wiggled his wrists, trying to figure out why he was tied. 

“Take it slow, Dean.  You’ve been asleep for hours.  The sedative wiped you right out.  Let yourself wake up; I don’t want you to hurt yourself.  You’re at the cabin.  Remember?”

He did, though each memory that skittered by made him sick with dread and shame.  He’d attacked his own father, had attempted to run back to the demon that’d enslaved him for…weeks?  Months?  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

“How long has it been?” he asked, his voice only half there.  He coughed, clearing the chalk from his throat.  There was an annoying strand of eye-goop blurring his vision in one eye, and his hands reflexively pulled against the restraints as he tried to blink it away. 

Mei set the water down on the bedside table and reached her small, delicate pinky to his lid, wiping the sleep away, her own eye rapidly blinking in empathy as she did so.  “We got you yesterday.”

“Thanks,” he said, blinking as his vision cleared.  “No, I mean, since I was in the hospital.”

“Oh,” she said.  “It was the beginning of June when you left.  Today is August 20^th.”

“Jesus.”  He stared out the window.  “Where’s my dad?”

“Sleeping,” Mei told him.  “Went down for a power-nap about an hour ago.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he needs it.  I might’a concussed him.”  He turned and stared out the window.

“You didn’t.  I checked him out, he’s just exhausted.”  Mei bent her head as silence fell around them.  After a moment she glanced up, studying Dean’s face as he watched the evening tide lap lazy waves against the drift-log barrier.  A flock of seagulls nattered to one another as they bobbed in the surf.  At last, the doctor broke the uncomfortable lull.  “Did you go to them immediately?”  Dean turned toward her.  “The cult,” she clarified.  “Did you go to them right away, after the hospital?”

Dean thought about it.  “I—I overheard some nurses talking about what happened to Jason.   I went to check it out.”

“God.  I’m so sorry, Dean.  I can’t tell you how sorry I am.  This is my fault.”

Dean’s eyes skirted hers as he glanced away, focusing on the restraints.  “No.”  He stared at the metal buckles holding him down and shrugged.  “It’s my fault.  I was stupid.  Fucked up.  Again.”

“Don’t do that, Dean.  You were just trying to help.  Thank you for that—really.”

Dean shrugged again and balled his hands into fists, trying to get the blood back into his fingers.  “Don’t suppose you could loosen these, some, huh?”

Mei winced, guilty.  “Uh, your dad is sporting a shiner, there, Slugger—not that I don’t find that a trifle satisfying, I’m ashamed to admit.  The man can be insufferable at times; I’m not gonna lie—but I’d rather not join that club, myself.”

“I won’t hit you,” he said. 

“No, but your dad’ll clobber me if I let you go.  Can you sit tight until he wakes up?  You know the man sleeps like a giraffe.  He won’t be down long.”

Dean gave her a humorless snort.  “Yeah.  I’ll be fine.”  He relaxed back into his pillow, trying to piece everything together.  He saw his life for the past few months play out before him in an entirely different light, memories becoming clear for what they were and not for what the pishacha had forced him to see, think or feel.  He regarded Mei’s still face, recalling their last meeting in Fairhaven.  His gut twisted, thinking about it.

“I’m sorry for what I said that day—on the street,” Dean said.

Mei glanced up, dragged from her thoughts.  “You weren’t in control of your actions.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It felt like I was at the time.”  He shook his head in disgust and closed his eyes, opening them again, suddenly.  “Wait.  Was it you that got a hold of my dad?”

She nodded.  “You, um…trashed your cellphone.  I took it.  His number was in your contact list.  Called it and left him a voicemail.  He called back immediately.”

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes.  “I’ll bet he did.  Wasn’t my voice on the line.”

Mei touched his shoulder.  “No, but he was already headed this way.  Said he’d left you a text that you never answered.  He’d been driving this way for a couple of days—was passing through Oregon when he returned my call.  I think another hunter he’d talked to said he’d last heard from you a few days after you left the hospital—no one had heard from you since.”

Dean recalled John’s last set of coordinates that he’d blown off.  He vaguely remembered his dad saying that he’d had to put Bobby on the case.  “He was just pissed that I ignored his text.”

“He told me that he knew something was wrong when you didn’t respond.  That’s a little different from being pissed that you ignored his messages.  I don’t know your dad well.  He wears one hell of a poker face, but I know he’s been out of his head with worry for you.”

Dean bent his head, nodding.  “Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. 

Mei cleared her throat.  “Is—” she hesitated, her voice fading, naked with emotion.  “Is Jason all right?  I mean—I know he’s under the demon’s control, but is he well?”

Dean’s eyes watered as he thought of Jason, a man he’d grown close to over the past months.  Having been connected to him via Father’s—no, the pishacha’s—magical web, Dean knew that Jason had a genuinely beautiful soul—a soul, Dean remembered with a sudden pang of fear and adrenaline, that was in mortal danger.  Mei must have seen the change in Dean’s face because her eyes grew round and frightened. 

“What?  What is it?” she asked.  “Is he all right?”

“Uh, he’s fine, but you have to wake up my dad,” he said.  “We need to get back up there and get this thing.  Like, right now.”

“Slow down, Dean.  We will,” Mei said, puzzled.  “John says that once the pishacha is dead, the spell will be broken for all of them, Jason included.”

Dean shook his head.  “You don’t understand.  We don’t have a lot of time.  Go get my Dad,”

“I’m right here, Sport,” John said from the doorway, his hair askew, his cheekbone swollen and bruised from where Dean’d hit him.  He strode into the room, bracing his hands on the bed rails.  “How you feeling.”

“It’s not me.”  He swallowed, eyes scudding from Mei to John.  “It’s Jason.  He’s in danger.  We have to help him.”

“We’re going to help him, Dean.  We’re going to help them all.  That’s why you’re here,” John said.

“You don’t understand.  As soon as Fairy’s Ordeal is over, they’re going to hold the Sacred Haoma Ceremony, and Jason’s Blessed Transformation will be the show-stopper of the whole damned event.”

“You’re speaking a different language, there, Ace.  What are you talking about?” John asked.

Dean blew out a breath of air and launched into an explanation of an Ordeal and how each member was forcibly taken to The Kiln and tortured for days until the last shred of his own will was gone.  He described the Sacred Haoma Ceremony where they were drugged and forced to help the pishacha complete the Blessed Transformation, detailing how the demon’s power held them, used them while he consumed the person, body and soul, and then twisted everyone else’s perceptions until they believed what they’d seen had been a wondrous thing.  Dean saw horror in John’s and Mei’s faces when he told them that both Jason and he were set to be the next two to go through the transformation. 

“Jason loves you.  He tried to leave, tried to get back to you when it was time for his Ordeal,” he told Mei.  “He tried to get away.  He fought like hell.  But The Kiln kills all of that; there’s nothing left afterwards.  At the Blessed Transformation there will be no attempt at escape.  Right now, he’s completely under Father’s control—the pishacha’s control,” he corrected himself.  “Jason’ll go along with it.  He won’t be able to help himself—he actually wants this.  It’s the highest honor a person can achieve.  It’s what The Kindred live for.”  He shook his head.  “We have to get back there and get this thing, Dad.  Fairy’s Ordeal will be finished any day.  We have to stop him before Father can break her.  Once she breaks, they’ll hold the ceremony.”

“We can’t just go in there with guns blazing,” John argued.  “Annie says that the pishacha has to be killed when he’s in his true form, and there’s a whole ritual and mantra that has to be performed.  We go in there unprepared and it could get ugly.”

Dean swallowed.  “Annie?  She knows about this?”  Dean had met the hunter a couple of times and had taken an instant liking to her.  Hell, he’d gotten quite flirty with the cool thirty year old until his dad had cuffed him on the ear right in front of her.  The thought of her knowing about what he’d done made him sick to his stomach. 

“Just that we’re hunting a pishacha.  She doesn’t know anything else.  I haven’t told anyone, not Bobby, not anyone.”  John’s meaning was clear.  “Anyway, Annie hunted one in west Texas about ten years ago, so I’ve been consulting with her.”

“Then at least we’ve got to get Jason out of there, do the same ritual you did on me.  We don’t have a lot of time.”

“We can’t just run into the compound and grab him, Dean.  You know that.  We were able to get you because we could isolate you from the rest of the group, away from the compound.  From what Mei says, Jason doesn’t ever come into town to hand out fliers.”

Dean sighed.  “No, they wouldn’t let him because—” he stopped, his eyes flitting to Mei. 

“Because of me,” Mei finished for him.  “Because they knew I’d be out there picketing.”  Dean shifted uncomfortably and nodded.  “Damn it,” she reprimanded herself. 

John didn’t let either one of them dwell.  “It doesn’t matter.  We have to be decisive and thorough, but we gotta be smart.   We can’t grab anyone else.  We tip this thing off, harass it, try to surround it, and the whole group could self-destruct.  With the power the pishacha has over those people, this could end bloody.  One word from their dear-leader and that’s all it would take.  Or, if the thing decides to bolt, without their Savior near them, without his power flowing into them, they’d be driven mad.  They would be beyond our help.  They’d still be thralls, they just wouldn’t have any outlet for their fixation.  It’d break their minds.”    

Dean tried to calculate.  Fairy had gone into The Kiln yesterday morning.  He didn’t expect that her Ordeal would last more than a few days, but for all he knew it was already over.  Jason’s Blessed Transformation would take place when her Ordeal was complete.  They didn’t have much time left.  That was certain.  “We may have a day or two, but we’re going to have to get our plan together and get this thing done before Fairy is broken.  Everyone’s Ordeal is different, because every soul is unique, I think.  I don’t know how long she’ll last.  I’m afraid it won’t be long.”

“Then let’s get to it.”  John started to unbuckle the closest restraint but then stopped, scrutinizing his son.  “You’re not about to hit me, are you?”

“No.”  Dean’s face flushed and he stilled.  “I’m sorry, Dad.”  He wasn’t just apologizing for the bruise.

John watched him another moment, nodded once in acknowledgement and went back to work on the buckle.  “Hit the head and get a shower.  When you’re done you’re going to eat something and then we’ll get our game-plan together.”

With his hands free, Dean tried to rub sensation back into his fingers.  “Yes sir,” he said, eyes averted.

John helped him get to his feet, steadying him as he walked sluggishly to the bathroom.  The drugs were still playing with his balance.  John opened the door.

“I got it from here,” Dean said. 

“Leave the door unlocked.  There are no windows in the room—just so you know,” John said, unapologetic. 

Dean soured.  “I’m not going anywhere, Dad.  I don’t need a prison guard.”

“I know,” John said.  “I’ll be waiting right here just the same.”

Dean grabbed the door, shutting it behind him with a sloppy bang that reverberated through the thin walls.  He leaned against the door, gritting his teeth in wounded frustration.  Gazing ahead, he found himself staring into the mirror over the sink.  It was the first time he’d seen himself in months.  There’d been no mirrors at the compound, and he barely recognized his own face, sharp cheekbones, sallow skin, haunted and hungry eyes. 

Leaning forward, he turned on the water to cut the silence.  The nonstop splash of water into the sink mesmerized him and the urge to chant spread through him like ivy on a summer trellis.  He felt incomplete without it and the absence—the absence of Father and The Kindred—was a gaping void inside of him.  Leaning over the basin, he splashed water onto his face with shaky hands, over and over and over again, the movement becoming mechanical and soothingly repetitive, his breath puffing, mouth gasping and grunting with each face-full of water, again and again and again.   A sudden knock on the door broke him out of the trance.

“Dean, you okay in there?”  John’s voice came through the door.

“I’m fine.  Give me a few damn minutes,” he said waspishly, turning off the faucet and wiping his face with the back of his hand.  He pulled his shirt off, examining his skeletal chest, each rib visible, muscle definition all but gone.  Swiping a hand across his sternum where his amulet had always rested, he closed his eyes in miserable humiliation.  He hated Father for that, hated himself more for having been so weak and because a part of him still craved to be with The Kindred.

“It wasn’t real,” he whispered to himself.  “Mindless Borg, the whole fucking bunch of them.”  He ran wet fingers through his hair, wiping the excess moisture from his face, ignoring the fact that not all of it was water.  He sniffed and moved to the toilet, pissing and watching it all flush away.  He stood there, lost in thought, coming out long after the toilet had filled and settled.

He stepped into the shower, avoiding the mirror as he passed it by, drawing the curtain closed behind him.  Turning on the water, he shivered under the cold spray for a moment before realizing what he’d done.  He shook his head and bent down and grabbed the hot-water nozzle but then stopped himself.  He pulled back, choosing to let the ice-cold spray hit him square in the face, filling his mouth as he quivered and shook.  Bracing his hands against the tiles, his head dropped, and frigid water sluiced down his back.  The compulsion suddenly grew too strong and he gave in to it.

“Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my keeper,” he whispered.  “Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my keeper,” he chanted again, feeling nothing as he did so—knowing that he never would again.  It was over.  The energy exchange that had once flowed through him like liquid love was completely gone.  There was nothing there.  Shame and grief collided, and his shoulders shook as the tears came.  He slid down the squeaky tiles until he was on his ass, breathless with sobs, knees folded under chin, the cold, cold water beating down on him.  It was gone.  It was all gone, and nothing but emptiness remained. 

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

“Put the damn food in your mouth and chew, Dean,” John said, brushing salt and french-fry crumbs from his fingers before snatching away the crude map that Dean was still sketching. 

Startled, Dean eyed the burger before him, its hearty, brown juices sluicing into a pile of golden fries.  He licked his lips and lifted the hamburger, bouncing the weight of it in his hands, extra onions plopping onto the plate as he squeezed the bun.  He was hungry.  He was damn hungry, a sensation he hadn’t felt since—since he’d been in The Kiln.  That thought stopped him cold, burger poised halfway to his mouth. 

His fingers regripped the burger several times as he struggled with this simple act.  His brain knew that Father had been full of shit, that he was nothing more than an evil sonofabitch who’d whammied him, but his body was slower to come back online.  He’d built up certain habits and momentums over the past few months, some of them now so entrenched that any divergence made him feel like he was cheating, like he was letting The Kindred down or failing them—like he was betraying them. 

But it went far beyond eating, drinking and sleeping.  He was on edge and jumpy, trapped in a perpetual state of wanting, of needing, of itching for—something—something he thought he should be doing.  And then it would dawn on him.  He was supposed to be chanting.  And he hated himself for that, hated feeling so empty and lost without engaging himself in that ritual, hated that he’d been conditioned to crave it, to depend on it in order to feel complete.  He reminded himself over and over that none of it had been real, that the activity held no meaning.  Still, given the choice between a hamburger and chanting, right now he’d choose chanting, and that disgusted him.  John snapped his fingers under his nose, ending further contemplation.

“Goddamn it, Dean,” John barked.

“What?” he said, setting the burger down and tugging at the high collar of the shirt John had lent him.  He fussed at the irritating cloth, crooking a finger and pulling it away from his neck, another result of months’ worth of conditioning and mind control.  He wasn’t comfortable wearing anything other than his Jedi tunic.  The flannel shirt was hot and itchy and just—wrong. 

“Don’t what me.  This isn’t open to debate, kiddo.  You’re gonna eat or you’re gonna go back to the cabin and sit this hunt out.  We clear?”

“Yes sir.”  He picked up the burger and took a tentative bite.  Intense savory flavors exploded in his mouth, and his eyelashes involuntarily fluttered with pleasure.  He’d never tasted anything like it, which, when he thought about  it, was odd.  He remembered having this burger the day before he’d joined The Kindred, same tavern, same burger—hell—same waitress, but it sure as shit hadn’t tasted anything like this.  His taste buds were reawakening after a long, long coma, it seemed.  As he went in for his second enthusiastic bite, it occurred to him that the last morsel of food with any taste or texture that he could remember had been Maureen’s blueberry pancakes. 

He paused in mid-chew, his stomach souring at the memory.  Taking a sip of water, he washed down the meaty lump, rinsing his mouth in a deliberate attempt to wash away the pleasant taste.  He didn’t deserve it—he didn’t deserve any of it.  How could he sit there celebrating his rescue, enjoying food when Maureen would never have that same opportunity?  Dante and Kimo would never have that opportunity.  They’d never enjoy those simple pleasures because Dean’d screwed up.  They’d paid the price for his fuck-up, paid for his weakness.  And now, Jason would pay the same price if Dean didn’t nail the freaky bastard that controlled him.  Mei nudged him from across the booth, reaching over and handing him a napkin.

“You’re wearing your ketchup, Slugger,” she said with a smile, pointing to her cheek, letting him know where the offending gob was on his face.

Dean grabbed the napkin and wiped.  “Thanks,” he said, his glance dropping down to the table.  He couldn’t stand seeing her doctorly concern and compassion for him written all over her face.  Couldn’t take seeing the worry and fear for Jason in her eyes.  His stomach lurched and he grabbed his middle.  John’s eagle eyes were on him, watching his every move. 

“One bite doesn’t cut it,” John said.  “Eat.”

Dean sighed and stared at the hamburger, sizing it up, preparing himself.  Opening his mouth, he took a large bite, chewing just long enough to get it down his throat.  He took another bite and another, all business, shoving it in, gulping it down, following his father’s orders but taking no joy in the act.  When he glanced up, John gave a satisfied nod and turned his attention to the map in front of him

“So where is this Kiln-thing in reference to these other buildings?” John asked, turning the map to face Dean and pointing to the blobs and rectangles representing the buildings and pavilions of the compound.

Dean gulped the rest of his water, swishing it around his mouth before swallowing.  “There,” he said.  “It’s right next to The Heart.”  He pointed.  “It’s the circle right there.”

“The Heart?” John asked.

Dean kept his eyes on the map.  “It’s were we, uh…meditated.  It’s just a building.”  He felt John’s eyes boring into him for a long moment.  

“Okay,” John said at last.  He turned the map around toward him again.  “We’ve got the greenhouse, food pavilion, meditation room, garage, two other outbuildings for farm equipment, the barracks in the back and the mansion on the hill.  Do they have any kind of security at the mansion?”

“I don’t think so.  Father doesn’t need protection from The Kindred.  Even Initiates would kill to protect him.  But it’s pointless going in there.  He’s never out of his human form—not at the mansion, anyway.”

“Where, then?”  Mei asked, reviewing the map with them.  “He has to be in his true form or the ritual won’t work, right?”

Dean palmed his forehead, sifting through his memories, both real and contrived by Father, separating them as best he could from ayahuasca-induced delusions and hallucinations.  Memories restored or not, some things remained vague and hazy.  “I saw Father as the pishacha when I was in The Kiln.  I’m sure of it.  But they keep that locked tight during an Ordeal.  There’s no getting in or out.”

“I think I can handle a lock,” John said with a snort. 

“No, I know, but The Kiln is right in the middle of the compound, and it’s guarded during an Ordeal just in case there is an attempted escape.  And even if was easy to take the guards out without hurting them, Father would know about it the second we tried.  Also, there’s no knowing when Father will be in his true form during an Ordeal.  Ordeals don’t have a set schedule.  I’m not even sure he reveals himself to everyone.  I think he only showed himself to me because—because I put up a fight.”

“He still got you in the end, though, didn’t he?”  John thoughtlessly threw the words out as he studied the map. 

Mei shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, glancing from a crushed Dean to an oblivious John.  “Are there any other opportunities, Dean?  Any other times when he might shift into demon form?” she asked, filling the awkward silence.

Dean swallowed thickly, still watching John. 

“Dean?” she prompted again. 

He flinched and turned toward her.  “Uh, the best time to catch him is, uh—would be during the Sacred Haoma Ceremony, but—”

“But what?” she asked. 

“It’s, uh…Father only changes during the Blessed Transformation, and that’s—”

“Transfor—what?  What’s this, now?  Where does it happen?  In The Heart?”  John interrupted.

“No, I told you about it, remember?” Dean answered.  “It takes place outside, in the orchard, right up here.”  He pointed to the map.

“So he’s right out in the open?”

“Yes, but—”  Dean hesitated, glancing at Mei.

“But what?” she asked.

Dean cleared his throat.  “But he only changes during the Blessed Transformation.”

“And what is that, exactly,” she asked.

“This is the ceremony he performs when he feeds,” he said.  John and Mei both sat motionless, digesting his words. 

“And Jason is the next in line for this?” John wanted clarification.

“Yes.”

John nodded, accepting the daunting news.  “And what about other cult members during this?  Where are they when this all happens?”

“They’ll be there, but they’ll be trippin’ on ayahuasca, and…”  He grappled with his memories.  “It’s like—I think Father locks them down when he changes.  He, uh…he controls them—physically.  The Blessed Transformation is very…disturbing to witness, not even the drugs can hide the horror of it.  The Kindred won’t be able to intervene, at least not while he feeds.  After he’s finished, he fucks with their memories—makes them forget what he really is.”

“So there might be a small window of time, then,” John mulled.  “We wait behind the orchard during the ceremony.  When the demon changes we strike fast.”  He opened his jacket, flashing a silver kirpan in his side pocket. 

“A silver dagger?  That’s it?  That’s all it takes?” Dean asked.

“Straight into the bastard’s heart.”  He tapped his chest in demonstration.  “That, and the blade has to be coated in the blood of the wielder.  Once that’s done a mantra has to be repeated three times.”

“What mantra?”

John pulled out a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.  “This one,” he said.

Dean reached for the paper and read the foreign words aloud.  “Aham jahAti bhavantaH.  What’s that mean?”

“A rough translation is I deny thee,” John said. 

Dean coughed.  “You gotta be kidding me.”

“No, why?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, shaking his head.  “So that’s it?  Stab him and repeat the mantra three times and it’s over?”

“Yep, apparently the little sonofabitch doesn’t handle rejection well.  Cry me a damn river.  The rest is all timing and planning.  Come on, let’s head over there, do some recon and see where we stand.”  John slid out of the booth.  “Mei, you’re going to give us a lift and drop us off a mile away from the compound and then come back here and wait for us to call.”

“Like hell I am.  I’m going with you.”

“Like hell—no you’re not.  They know your face.”

“They know Dean’s face, too,” she argued.

“And if I had any other choice, he’d be staying behind,” John said.  “But I need him there for information and backup.  You’re not coming.  We’ll call you when we know anything.”

“He’s right, Mei,” Dean said as she drew breath to argue.  “Two will have an easier time staying out of sight than three.  This is the best thing you can do right now to help Jason.” 

Mei’s shoulders dropped and she sighed.  “Fine, but I’m going with you when you kill the thing.  I’m not leaving Jason with that monster ready to feast on him.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.  Let’s get going,” John said, thumbing over his shoulder.

Once the elder hunter had pushed open the door and walked out, Mei pulled Dean back, letting the door shut between them and John.  She looked up at Dean, a hand on his shoulder.

“Sometimes when people have had a very bad scare, they lash out afterwards, blaming people they shouldn’t,” she said, her eyes stressing her point more than her words.

Dean stood still and impassive for a moment, his blank face turning dark and hard—as hard as John’s had been.  “Who else is he gonna blame?  Who else is to blame?” he said, turning away from the doctor.  He tossed open the door and dragged crisp, moist air into his lungs.

“Dean,” she called after him with sad concern. 

Dean made no answer, his stride cool and indifferent as he joined John by the car.

* *

“Stay down, Dad.  If anyone sees us, Father sees us, too,” Dean warned, crouching down in the thick undergrowth bordering the compound.  “So we can’t get too close.”  He peered through his binoculars.  Other than having spotted Tim at the guard shack before they moved to the south, out of his line of sight, Dean hadn’t seen anyone else.

“Place is deserted,” John said, looking through his own binoculars.  “That normal?”

“What time is it?” Dean asked.  He’d never had a watch while he’d been a member of The Kindred, but he knew that they spent several hours, from sunup until early afternoon, meditating in The Heart.

“It’s 12:30,” John said. 

“Okay.  Yeah, it’s normal, I think.  We’d meditate until the afternoon, sometime.  Then we’d break up to do chores or go pass out flyers for a few hours before evening worship.”  He heard John grunt at that as the two continued to scan the compound through their binoculars.

A heaviness descended between them, and they waited another half hour in silence before the doors to The Heart swung open and people trickled into the square. 

Dean searched the crowd with hungry, fearful eyes.  He spotted Brad and Gypsy right away, and his heart fluttered, remembering a time when their thoughts flowed through him like a river through pines, remembered when their essences mingled with his own.  It made that dark empty thing inside of him all the more palpable.  He shook his head at himself.  They weren’t family—they were victims.  They’d never have shared themselves with him had they not been coerced, and he needed to face that fact.  He forced the binoculars away from them, scanning the crowd.

“Come on, where are you, Jason?” Dean said, stewing.

“See him?” John whispered.

“No.  But I don’t see Fairy, either.”  Dean was hopeful.  As long as Fairy was still in The Kiln, Jason would be alive.  He hated the thought of her being tortured, but he hoped that she had held out long enough for them to save Jason.  The gorge in Dean’s throat grew as the last few stragglers emerged.  And suddenly there he was, along with Marc, the two of them deep in discussion, the last two out of the building. 

“There,” Dean’s voice pitched upward, relief and adrenaline mixed.  “He’s there,” he said lowering his voice to a whisper.  “Thank god.” 

“Which one is he?” John asked. 

“The tall one, reddish hair—on the right.” 

“All right.  Good.  Good,” John said, tracing Dean’s line of sight to his target. 

Dean observed the duo as they finished their conversation.  Marc gave Jason’s shoulder a good-natured slap, and the lawyer walked off toward the mansion.  He probably had a session with Father, Dean guessed.  The other Jedis were already going about their business, spilling out into the fields to tend the gardens, some of them heading into the food pavilion to prepare the evening meal, an average day in the compound.  Dean kept his eyes on Jason as the man steered himself onto the road leading to the guard shack, but Dean soon lost sight of him in the trees.

“He’s heading this way.  Probably coming to relieve Tim from guard duty.  We have to pull back.  Come on,” 

Following the river’s edge, they crept around the property and climbed the fence where it threaded through a thick knot of pines.  They eventually wormed their way to the orchard and hid themselves in the ferns at the edge of the forest.  After a few hours, they heard the far off drone of many people chanting.  The Kindred were starting their evening worship down in The Heart.  It was evident that no Sacred Haoma Ceremony was being prepared for that night.

Dean’s heartbeat took on the cadence of the chant.  Hearing those voices, each one tuned pitch-perfect to the other, knitting their musical undulations together, triggered a surge of memories.  Dean hated Father for what he’d done, but the hours spent in worship with The Kindred, their energies interwoven—the unity and love and kinship they’d shared had been real.  Whatever monster Father was, that bond, the familial love shared between them, had not been an illusion.  And even though he could no longer feel those individuals, could not hear their thoughts, could not anticipate their every move—even though he was cut off from them, his sense-memory still had his body reacting—expecting and anticipating. 

He knew The Kindred were jumping as they chanted, breaching in pure joy as they uttered their love for Father.  The words meant nothing to Dean, but the act, the movement, the ritual was still part of him, still part of his body.  Dean took a shaky breath and wiped his brow, smudging the sweat beading there.  He fixed his eyes on the ground and made a concerted effort to tune out the sounds drifting over and through him.

“Stop it,” John ordered, his fingers biting into Dean’s arm.  John’s temple pulsed as his jaw clenched and unclenched, his face rigid with disgust.  “I said stop it,” he barked again. 

Dean’s head snapped up, at a loss as to what he’d done to anger his father, but then he realized that his body was unconsciously rocking back and forth in time to the chant.  He stopped, shaking the sound out of his head, shifting his stance and digging his heels into the springy earth as he crouched.

“Stay still, dammit,” John scolded.

Dean froze, making no move, staring blankly ahead, putting all his effort into not hearing, not remembering, not caring.  After several tense minutes he looked at John.

“They’re not coming,” he said.  “They’re all in The Heart.  They’re at evening worship.”

“You certain?”

“Yes.”

“How long does that go on?” John asked.

Dean blinked at his father.  “All night,” he said.  “They won’t stop until a couple hours before dawn.”

“Jesus Christ,” John said.

“There isn’t going to be any ceremony tonight.  Fairy hasn’t broken.  If she had, they’d have started their preparations for everything hours ago.  It’s not happening tonight.     We’re safe until tomorrow evening at least.”

“Let’s move out and tell Mei what’s happening.  We’ll come back first thing tomorrow,” John said. 

“You go,” Dean said.  “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

“Like hell you will,” John countered.  “You said nothing would happen tonight.  Yes or no?”

“Yes, I said that, but—”

“Then we’re leaving.  Now.  It’s only going to get harder to move when it’s fully dark.”

“Dad…”

“You aren’t staying here, Dean.  That’s a damn order.” 

Dean sighed and nodded.  John gripped his shirtsleeve, pulling him away, retreating the way they came.  They didn’t speak another word as they slipped out of the compound, walking a good two miles away before calling Mei to meet them.

* *

They returned early the next day—Fairy’s fourth day in The Kiln.  It became apparent after morning meditation that something was brewing.  Instead of breaking up and going about their normal duties, a dozen Jedis strode toward the orchard and began clearing the fire-pit and collecting firewood.  Dean watched Jason, Gypsy and Brad all enter the greenhouse and exit a half hour later, their baskets full of caapi. 

“It’s happening tonight,” Dean said, catching his breath and lowering his binoculars.  “They’re getting ready.  It’s gonna happen.”

“You sure?” John said, scouring the grounds with his binoculars.

“Yeah,” Dean said.  “I’m sure.”  He continued to watch the group up at the orchard, catching faint snatches of the mantra they chanted while raking out the wet coals from the last ceremony.  His stomach quivered. 

“Let’s pull back for now.  We can call Mei and let her know what’s happening, have her stand by with the car tonight.  You and I will go find a spot behind the orchard as soon as the cult members are done collecting wood.” 

“They should be done in about an hour, but they won’t light the fire until sunset.”

John produced the sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket and read the mantra aloud, memorizing the words in a systematic fashion. “Aham jahAti bhavantaH,” he said several times before he was satisfied.  Opening his duffel, he retrieved the kirpan, pulling it from its sheath and inspecting the blade.  He turned it over in his hands several times.  “It has to be coated in the blood of the wielder, but I’ll take care of that just before we attack.”

Dean hesitated for a moment before making a decision.  “Dad, no,” he said.

“No, what?” John asked.

“You can’t.  It has to be me.”

John laughed, his voice far too loud.   “Funny,” he said.

“Shhh!”  Dean grabbed John’s shirt and pulled him down, hushing him, speaking in a hoarse whisper.  “I’m serious, Dad.  You can’t just barrel into the middle of the ceremony like that.”

“Well, you sure as hell aren’t doing this,” John said, his voice was adamant and harsh.  “No goddamned way.”

“Why not, Dad?  It only makes sense.”

John’s face flickered a moment, emotions passing over it so fast Dean could barely identify them all.  He thought he saw fear and guilt there, but they were chased off by hard, angry edges.  “Because I said so,” John said, terse and clipped. 

“Dad, if you go in there, Father’s gonna know something’s up.  Let me do this.  They’ll think I escaped—think I’m coming back to rejoin them.  I can get close without him getting suspicious.”

John seemed at a loss for words.  His mouth opened and closed in exasperation.  Dean sensed the man’s anger, swelling like a lava-dome in a volcano.  It erupted hot and gritty.  “And will you?”

“Will I—?” Dean was perplexed.  “Will I what?”

“Rejoin them…”  The words were cutting and bitter.

“Dad, how can you even think that?  I know what he is.  I’m not under his spell anymore,” Dean said, but John snorted.  “What?” Dean said, getting angry in turn.  “Come out and say it, Dad.”

“All right, fine,” John said, putting the binoculars down and turning to face his son.  “I get that the pishacha whammied you and that you were, for all intents and purposes, under a bizarre love-spell.  In our line of work, that’s a damn Thursday.  That shit happens—especially when you’re foolish enough to hunt something like this alone.  Ain’t the first time it’s happened to us and it won’t be the last.  But Annie says that the demon specifically preys on people who want what the monster is selling.  The person has to let the damn the thing in before it can take hold.  He has to be invited.  You get me?”

“Dad…” Dean said, his voice low and broken.  “I was just—”

“Weak,” John interrupted.  “But enough, Dean.  You and me, right now—we don’t have the goddamned luxury for this.  We have a job to do, and we’re going to get it done.  But you’re not going near the pishacha.  You’re too vulnerable to his magic.  That’s just a goddamned fact.  If he got you once, he can get you again.  I can’t put the lives of those people at risk.  No.  I’m taking point on this thing.”   He shook his head and stowed the kirpan in his duffel, zipping it tight. 

“Dad, I’m not arguing for me.”  He tried not to let the hurt show, but he knew it was written all over his face.  “You’re gonna put them at greater risk if you go in there.  Father doesn’t know you.  He’ll be immediately on the defensive.  You gotta know that.”

“No.  There’s no damn way, Dean.  This discussion is over right here, right now.  I’ll approach from behind and it’ll be fine.”

“Dad, I’m begging you to listen to me, please.  If Father senses danger it’ll be over.  We have to get close enough to him first.” 

John spun around, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s shirt, bringing the boy’s face close to his.  “Listen to yourself.  Are you listening to yourself?”  John jabbed his own ear in anger.  “Father-this and Father-that.  Do you have any idea how goddamned sick I am of that word?  He’s still in your head even if his magic isn’t.”  Something broke in John and tears filled his eyes, but that merely fueled his anger.  “How could you, Dean?  How could you let that thing do this to you?  I thought I taught you better than that.” 

Dean’s shoulders slumped, tears rimming his own eyes.  “I screwed up.  I know it.  But you’ve got to let me try and make it right.  This is my fight.” 

John stood still, watching his son for a moment.  “No,” he said.  “Believe me.  It’s mine.  That bastard is mine.  He’s gonna pay for taking—”  John stopped himself, sniffing in and squaring his shoulders.  “That bastard’s mine,” he said over his shoulder as he worked his way deeper into the woods.

The discussion was over.

* *

“No.  You’re staying where you are, goddamn it,” John snarl-whispered into the phone.  “There’s no damned way you’re coming here.  What?  I don’t care how close you are, you turn your ass around and drive back to the tavern, to the library, to the casino, hell—I don’t care where you wait, just do it in town.  We’ll call you when this is finished.  I’m hanging up now.  What?  No!  I think I know what my boy needs better than you.  Goodbye, Mei,” he said, jabbing a finger on the button to end the call. 

“I take it she wanted in on this, huh?”

“Damn insufferable, meddling woman—stubborn.  Jesus,” John groused.   

“You think she took no for an answer?”  Dean asked with a grim smile.

“Probably not, but we have no choice but to move.  She’s too small to get over the fence, anyway.  Get the lead out.  Let’s go.”  Pocketing his phone and hoisting his duffel, he grabbed hold of the fence and began climbing.  Dean released a dubious snort at that but followed orders and hoisted himself over the fence. 

They worked their slow, silent way to the orchard and hunkered down for the long wait—burrowing themselves deep enough that they had to rely on their ears more than their eyes—at least until the ceremony started. 

After several hours huddled in the soggy bracken, The Kindred crested the slope leading to the orchard, singing and chanting as they came. 

“They’re coming,” Dean said, creeping closer to the tree line. 

He caught glimpses through the trees as they milled about, laughing and chatting, greeting each other with warm hugs.  He saw Gypsy handing out cups filled with ayahuasca.  Brad was with Jason and Marc, getting the bonfire going.  The robust smell of burning wood filled the air, and Dean and John could see the smoke and sparks flying upwards between the trees.  He closed his eyes.  Even the scents and odors of commune life reminded him of his loss, and there was a part of him that felt an urge to join them, to be a part of them, to re-experience that sense of absolute kinship.  But Jason’s loud guffaw brought him back to reality, reminding him who and what The Kindred truly were.  They were slaves.  They were food for a demon, and he had to save them—he had to make up for what he’d done.  His hatred toward Father percolated.  These were good people, good souls.  It incensed Dean that Father had taken advantage of that—of them—that he had played upon their sense of loyalty and need to belong. 

Neither Winchester spoke for quite a while, both men tense and bent, listening to the activity, deep in hunter-mode.  John was crouched with his ear cocked toward the voices, absently poking at leaves with the tip of the silver kirpan. 

John had said nothing more to Dean about their discussion earlier.  There’d been no further accusation or admonishments, but Dean wondered if John would ever trust him again.  The man hadn’t looked him in the eye since their argument.  Dean didn’t expect anything different, not really.   After all, he’d monumentally screwed up the hunt.  People had died because of his weakness.  It wasn’t like his dad had been wrong to call him out.  Still, he prayed that John wasn’t making a mistake of his own by not letting Dean be the one to approach Father.  If Father—if the demon—withdrew or changed into human form, all would be lost. 

They heard a rustle coming from somewhere deeper in the woods, followed by a thump and a hiss.  John caught Dean’s eye and put a finger to his lips, holding his hand out, signaling for him to stay put.  The elder hunter turned and crept into the brush and thistles.  After another grunt and two more twig-cracks, John resurfaced, one hand filled with the scruff of Mei’s shirt, the other clamped over her mouth.

John glared at her, his voice so low that Dean had to read his lips in order to catch everything.

“How’d you get over the fence?” he asked, seething.

Mei mumbled from behind John’s clamped hand.  He waited until she quieted before removing his hand from her mouth. 

“Six years of gymnastics,” she whispered hotly.

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered.  “Do you have any idea the danger you’ve put us all in?  What the hell were you th—”     

The sudden burst of chanting came from the orchard, and all three onlookers turned, craning their necks to see through the trees.  They could make out The Kindred standing in a wide circle around the bonfire, praising Father, dedicating their lives, their souls, to him.

The ceremony had begun. 

The Kindred’s flawless syncopated rhythms mesmerized Dean, and his chest swelled with the memory of the happiness he felt when he was part of that song.  He bit his lip and took several deep breaths, pressing his head against the bark of the tree.  John caught his eye, glaring at him.  Swirling his hand and pointing toward the tree line, John motioned for them to move forward.  They stopped about twelve feet from the edge of the forest, hidden by the darkness pooling under the pines now that the sun had set. 

As the chanting filled the orchard, Dean noticed Jason, Gypsy and Brad standing side by side, their faces lit from within by Father’s power and from without by both the bonfire and the pink, twilit sky.  When Mei saw Jason, she released a throaty gasp before she could cover her mouth.  John pushed her against a tree trunk and wordlessly mouthed orders for her to remain still.  She nodded her apology and settled herself.  All three of them stood watching until the drugs took hold of the group and they started to sway and rock as they chanted.  While the movements seemed chaotic at first glance, they created a perfect complement to one another, molding harmonies with both sound and motion.  It was fascinating to witness.    

Once it was fully dark, the volume spiked, and the group began to leap into the air as if on pogo sticks, the chanting growing incrementally more powerful.  The motion of The Kindred grew more frenetic, creating a kinetic energy that Dean was certain even John and Mei could perceive.  The air was alive with it.  Louder and louder the voices rang as a glimmer in the trees appeared on the other side of the orchard.  In an instant the voices dove down to a humming murmur, signaling Father’s approach.

“He’s coming.”  Dean’s whispered. 

John flexed his hand around the kirpan, readying himself as he watched the shimmering light approach. 

Dean could feel Father’s power emanating from all the way across the orchard, hitting him square between the eyes, and his body and heart surged with a urge to bow and offer praise.  The light surrounding Father was more beautiful than Dean ever remembered, and the sage, in his simple white tunic and trousers appeared the epitome of grace and serenity.  But it was a lie, Dean reminded himself.  The light and beauty did not belong to Father.  It belonged to the souls that Father had consumed.  This was Maureen’s gentle grace and Kimo’s humor and Dante’s strength.  This was the best of those whom Father had murdered.  His power was their power, nothing more.   

“You sonofabitch,” Dean muttered to himself, startling John and Mei, their own eyes fixed on the approaching figure, following his every move as he glided toward the group and entered the prayer circle. The Kindred sunk to their knees, swaying in unison and purring their love. 

Father paced the perimeter of the circle, encouraging his thralls to evince their desperate, needy devotion.   They reached out to him, bending their heads to the ground, groveling.  Dean felt the call, felt compulsion to worship as strongly as he’d ever felt it.  The spell, however, did not erase or alter his newfound memories—memories of Maureen screaming in terror and pain—memories of Kimo and Dante howling in agony as they were consumed.  Spell-work be damned, there was no goddamned way he’d let that happen to Jason.  

Father spoke, his voice all honey and cream, bewitching all those within earshot who were vulnerable to him, and Dean felt a heady complacency ripple through him.  He dug his fingernails into the bark of the tree, reminding himself over and over again that Father was a monster.  And yet, every word that Father spoke was like a loving caress.  That Dean was still susceptible after everything he’d been through, after everything he’d learned, made him sick inside.  No wonder his dad didn’t trust him with this monster.  He didn’t trust himself.    

“You are my obedient children,” Father cooed to them.  “Find freedom in worship.  Find joy in adulation.  Find peace in capitulation.”

Dean took another cleansing breath and turned to John, expecting to find the man scowling at him, but his attention was concentrated on Father, his face unreadable.  The only hint of tension was in the hand that continuously flexed and clenched around the kirpan.    

“Tonight we will bring your sister into the inner fold of The Kindred.  She has staunchly fought her way through the fire, searing away the last of her ego, purifying her soul in order to love me without reserve.  She is now solely my child, belonging to no other.  Bring her forth to be blessed.”

The timbre of the murmured chant changed, the tempo quickening, becoming more jubilant and animated.  Movement right below the lip of the orchard caught their attention, and the trio watched as a couple of Jedis dragged Fairy forward and dropped her in front of Father.

Dean heard John’s sharp intake of breath upon seeing her.  The young woman was small and now so thin that she looked like a fragile, skeletal child.  Her filthy clothes covered blistering, weeping burns.  Her left arm was broken, white bone poking out of swollen, tattered skin.

John and Mei watched in revulsion as Fairy prostrated herself in front of the monster, pledging her complete loyalty despite the clear physical evidence that she had just endured ghastly torture at his hands.  Anger and loathing radiated off of John as he listened to the girl deny her parents, renouncing everyone and everything she’d once cared for, and Dean knew that John wasn’t witnessing Fairy’s conversion, here—he was witnessing Dean’s.  Dean saw a collage of emotion on his father’s face, hurt and sadness, disgust and disappointment—maybe even a dash of understanding and sorrow—all mixed together. 

Several of The Kindred pulled Fairy into a kneeling position, and Father drew her to him, her lips parting in both pain and spiritual ecstasy.  Father closed in, his lips inches away from Fairy’s as crystal strands of light issued forth from his mouth and entered hers.  The guru bent in closer still, locking lips as the healing power surged into her.  Her body glowed as her blisters evaporated like rain on desert sand, white jagged bone melting into her skin, leaving a seamless, smooth surface behind.  Fairy writhed and shivered as the power transformed her.  After a moment, Father released her and she dropped to the ground, squirming on her belly, her hands pawing at the edges of his trousers, sobbing deliriously as she kissed his feet.

The Kindred released an exuberant shout as Fairy rose and turned to them, their connection with her renewed—stronger than it had ever been.  Fairy’s face was awash with peace and love.  Dean’s heart skipped another beat.  No matter what Father was or wasn’t, he remembered this moment and knew that those emotions were real.  The exchange between souls was not feigned, and he could see the bliss written on her face and on the faces of The Kindred.  They loved her wholly, and, she, them. 

They drew the new Adept into their prayer circle, and the group began chanting again, celebrating their reunion with the girl.  Father watched them for most of an hour before raising his hand, stopping their zealous worship.  The chanting slowed, dipping into that low droning murmur as Father pointed to Jason. 

“Come to me, my good and faithful child.”

His voice resonated with such authority and power that Dean took a step forward before he caught himself.  The urge to obey was so strong. 

Mei’s breathing grew erratic as Jason approached Father, and that helped to ground Dean.  He turned to her and set his hand on her shoulder, offering her comfort and support.  It was time for the Blessed Transformation.  He attempted to get John’s attention, but the man continued to watch the events unfolding by the bonfire, his face pinched and intent.  Dean gave John’s arm a tug, and his father tore his eyes away from the scene.

“It’s almost time!”  Dean mouthed the words.  He nodded toward the kirpan still in John’s hand.  John shook himself, coming out of his thoughts.  His eyes darted to the dagger, gripping it with purpose.  He glanced up with a firm nod.  Rolling up his sleeve, he made a cut below his bicep, saturating the blade with his blood.    

“My son,” Father said as Jason kneeled in reverence before him.

“You called, Father.  I am here.  I am your servant,” Jason said, glancing up, his face alight with love and elation.  

“You have well prepared your soul for your Blessed Transformation.  Above all else, this union must be born of your desire.  Do you give yourself to me?”

Dean made his stealthy way toward the tree line and turned, beckoning John to join him. 

“Dad,” Dean whispered, getting John’s attention that had refocused on Father.  “Dad?” 

John blinked and turned his eyes to Dean.  The boy pointed to his wrist indicating that it was time and waved him forward.  John nodded again and crept around the perimeter until he’d positioned himself behind Father. 

Dean fixed his attention on Jason as the man spoke in a strong, declarative voice.  “I give of myself willingly, Father.  You are my teacher, my guru, my Savior.  You are my life, and everything that I have is yours.  All that I am belongs to you.  Let my body and soul nourish your magnificence.”

A shockwave of magic swept across the orchard, rippling outward and hitting everyone, including the trio on the outskirts.  The force blew into Dean and Mei as a fierce gust of wind.  Dean shielded his face with his arm in an instinctive move to protect himself from the desperate impulse to go to Father and worship him.  He felt something brush past him and glanced up to see Mei listlessly walking toward the bonfire, her eyes milky and serene.  Dean groped for her, pulling her back and shaking her until her eyes met his.

“No,” he whispered in her ear.  “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real.  Think of Jason.  Keep thinking of him.  You’ve come too far for this.”

Mei looked at him, confused at first, but then her eyes went wide and she shook her head, clearing it. 

“My god,” she whispered. 

“You’re all right.  Just remember that Jason needs you.”

He gripped her hand in his, striving to ground them both as The Kindred began to chant, their voices strident and urgent.   

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

The air surrounding Father wavered and vibrated, and he regarded Jason with a self-satisfied smile.  “Nourish me, my son.”

His eyes spun and twisted, changing from brown to red, swirling and bulging as the skin around his eyes darkened, wrinkling like dried leather.  The effect spread like a contagion, his skin mottling and bubbling, a dark disease eating up each of his features.  Father’s belly distended until his girth could no longer be supported and the whole thing dropped in a fleshy apron that dangled to his knees.  His tunic tore and shredded off of him, as six more arms slithered out from his grotesque corpulence.  With a lustful gurgle, Father flexed and waved his new-grown arms, one after the other, stretching luxuriously.  A long, oily tail wriggled around like a hose under pressure. 

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

The Kindred’s chant grew frenzied, their voices shrill.  Fear was in their eyes as Father transformed, but their chanting never faltered.  Dean caught sight of Gypsy, her face pale with dread, tears running down her cheeks.  And yet she chanted the ghastly incantation, her voice as hoarse and commanding as the rest of The Kindred.

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

As the chanting grew stronger, another surge of hot magic flew through the orchard, and the demon let out a roar of delight. 

“Sing, my children!” he cackled.  “Sing and dance while your Father feasts.  Dance for me.”

The Kindred responded by leaping up and down, terrified eyes flung wide as they helplessly recited the guttural, unholy incantation.  The orchard shivered with their discordant recitation.

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

Dean signaled to John, but he didn’t respond, the kirpan dangling loose in his grip.  Dean waved again until he had the man’s attention.  Now!  He signed to his father, and John sprang into action, flying out of the brush like a shaft from a bow.  The first few strands of soul-light were already emanating from Jason as Father began to nudge the man’s soul to the surface. 

Mei made a move to follow John, her body reacting to an instinctual impulse to protect her husband.

“Don’t,” Dean said, holding her tight.  “Wait!”

John ran full tilt, crashing into the circle, knocking several Jedi to the ground in the process.  Without a beat, they were drawn back to their feet like marionettes, their muscles controlled by magical strings, and they immediately resumed their chanting and jumping.

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

Bent upon his prey, the pishacha made loud, wet sucking noises as it continued siphoning Jason’s soul to the surface.  Jason’s eyes were saucers of panic and fear.  Approaching from behind, John grabbed the pischacha, roughly pushing Jason out of the way.  The hunter drew his hand back, poising it a second as he aimed for the demon’s heart.  One more second and it would be over.

As the kirpan descended, though, one of the pishacha’s arms flew up, catching John’s arm, like a parent holding a toddler during a temper tantrum.  He turned his swirling eyes on John and reached out another hand to smooth his hair.  The touch stunned John, his body stiffening, his movements ceasing even as his muscles continued to tick and strain. 

“Fuck,” Dean gasped, moving away from Mei toward the edge of the wood.

“My child,” the monster said, his voice clotted with compassion and patience.  The Kindred stopped their incantation and they began to sway to and fro, in some kind of magical holding pattern, while the pishacha concentrated on John.  “Why do you come with a blade?  You will not need it, I assure you.  There is rest from weary travels to be found here.” 

John twitched, his muscles relaxing as the demon held his gaze.

“That’s right, my son.”  The pishacha continued to caress him.  “There is solace and healing.  My child.  My restless wanderer.  How you’ve suffered...”  Father’s bulging eyes spun as they held John’s.  “Take heart.  You are worthy.  You are so very worthy.”

“Dad, no,” Dean whispered.  “Don’t!”  He willed his father to snap out of it.  The pishacha held John’s full fascination, the demons red eyes whorling like hurricanes as he pet the man’s hair.  This wasn’t happening.  There was no damn way that John Winchester could be vulnerable to the demon’s magic.  No damn way.

No damn way.

Dean froze where he stood, unable to process what he was witnessing.  Father put a scaly hand on John’s chest.  “Yes.  I sense your pain, my wanderer.  Four times abandoned.”  The monster bent in, smoothing his brow.  “Abandoned by your father,” he said, closing his eyes and drinking in John’s memories.  “By your wife.”  He pressed his cheek to John’s ear.  “By your young son.”  Father placed a consoling kiss on John’s cheek.  “Even your warrior has chosen another over you, though you love him so—though you would die for him.  So alone.  You feel so alone.  I know, my child.  I know.”

A tear spilled down John’s cheek, and that broke Dean out of his paralysis.  That dirty sonofabitch, using Dean’s mistake to trap John.  Blind fury took over and he bent down, scrabbling at the duffel, searching for another kirpan—gun—anything. 

“I will never abandon you, noble wanderer.  Your quest is complete.  You are worthy of my blessing—worthy to follow the path to enlightenment and perfection.”

“Tired,” John said, his voice burnt with hurt and pain.

“Of course you are,” Father said.  “You fight and you fight for your family.  And still they leave you.  They’ll always leave you.”  The demon leaned in.  “But I never will.” 

With that the pishacha’s lips met the hunter’s, and a frosty light issued forth, flowing like a spate from the demon into John.  It continued on until the dagger fell from John’s hand.  Dean watched it land in the dirt, not far from the pishacha.

He spun around, facing Mei.  “Stay,” he hissed.  “Whatever happens, stay!”  With that he sprung away, bounding through the fern.

“Stop!” he yelled.  He pushed his way past Brad and Gypsy, their bodies drenched in sweat as they continued rocking this way and that, their faces tormented, unable to break away from the holding spell.  “Stop!” he cried again, running, not knowing what he was doing or what he hoped to accomplish. 

Father broke his embrace with John and turned the hunter around, using him as a shield against the intruder.  He displayed John to Dean, draping one of his quivering arms over the hunter’s chest.  John’s eyes were glazed and placid.  “My Warrior,” the demon said blithely, looking Dean up and down.  “You’ve returned.”

“Yeah,” Dean said as if it was a casual thing.  “Yeah, that’s right.  You know me; I’m a family man, right?  How could I resist?”

The pishacha gave him an ugly smile and crooked a sausage-sized finger, beckoning him closer.  “You are happy with my new Initiate?”  He beamed and nuzzled John’s neck.  Dean watched his father turn his head, allowing the monster fuller access, his jugular vein pulsing as the monster ran a tusk-like fingernail up and down its length. 

“Of course,” Dean said.  “One big happy family, right?”

“Indeed,” Father said.  He pressed a kiss to John’s temple.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you my Wanderer?”

John’s eyes misted.  “Yes, Father.  I would.”  He turned to Dean.  “I’m so sorry, Dean.  I didn’t understand before, but I get it, now.”  He extended his hand.  “Let’s serve Father together.” 

The power emanating from the pishacha hit Dean like a freight train.  Father held nothing back, offering everything he ever wanted—family, acceptance, love, joy, loyalty—it was all there.  And god, he wanted it.  He did.  His chest hitched and he blinked, slow and dull.  The pishacha’s eyes were filling every corner of his mind, promising him everlasting peace.  One of his hands coiled toward him, massaging his nape, drawing him closer.  Dean’s body responded of its own volition, heeding the commands of the monster he’d been conditioned to obey.  The call was almost too overwhelming to resist.

Almost.

“Come my son, let us reacquaint,” the demon said, drawing Dean in, his bulbous eyes spinning like hypnotic pinwheels. 

“Okay,” Dean agreed.  “But first things first.”  He gave John a sudden, violent shove, and with one continuous motion he bent down and scooped up the kirpan.  His body may have been affected by his conditioning, but his mind was his own.  Whether it was the counter-spell John and Mei had performed on him, the holy water still flowing through his veins, or his own common sense and experience that trumped the bullshit Father was trying to sell him, Dean perceived the power, felt the spell Father attempted to cast over him, but the young hunter was no longer persuaded by it.  With a cry he plunged the dagger deep into the pishacha’s chest.   The creature bucked in surprise and pain, and the dagger dislodged, tumbling from Dean’s grip.   

A vicious blow to the side of Dean’s head caught him off guard and he fell to the side.  Stunned and disoriented he turned to see John stalking toward him, fists raised, murder in his eyes.  Dean shook his head, clearing it, trying to remember the mantra he was supposed to recite as he scrambled away from a bristling, snarling John.  The creature’s crazed laughter caught the attention of both father and son. 

“Treacherous apostate!” Father bellowed.  “Devious child!  You cannot slay me.”

Dean glanced at the blade lying in the dirt where he dropped it.  John’s blood shone red, mixed with the black of the pishacha’s.  Shit.  Blood of the wielder—he remembered.  God fucking dammit. 

“How far you have fallen…” Father scolded him, disgusted.  “Such a mean, paltry disappointment you turned out to be.”  He flicked his slimy tongue around his mouth and smacked his gums.  He turned to Jason and John.  “Protect me, my children.  Lay low this assassin.”

Dean felt his legs sweep out from under him and he went down with Jason’s growl of triumph ringing in his ears.  Pivoting, Dean worked his legs around his friend’s torso and forced Jason into the ground, levering himself up at the same time until Jason received his full weight, knees digging into his chest.  With a quick leap, Dean found his feet and turned to spring clear.  But John was there the moment he twisted, his father’s fist descending like a wrecking ball.  Dean raised his arm to block the blow, but it had been a feint.  John reached up with his other hand in an undercut and a sharp pain tore through Dean’s side.  A hiss of air blew out from below his armpit, and Dean looked down to see the kirpan embedded between two ribs.

Everything slowed to a crawl.  Dean took two wobbly steps back and then one forward as he strove for balance, gripping the dagger in a bewildered daze, searching John’s empty expression.

“Dad?” he said in a windy, spent whisper, his lungs expelling air in wet, bloody bubbles around the dagger lodged in his rib cage. 

John made no response, and before Dean could process what was happening, he felt Jason’s arm reach around his neck, holding him in a chokehold.  John joined in, yanking one of Dean’s hands behind his back.  The blade scraped against his rib with the movement, wrenching a gasp from him as blood frothed from the wound.  

Father’s fleshy body quivered like jelly as he gloated.  Coming close, he beckoned John to him, gripping the enthralled hunter, reaching a slimy hand around his shoulders, embracing and fondling him as Father goaded Jason.  “Hold the assassin, my child.  I cannot feast upon his soul for he has selfishly reclaimed it, but his body is mine for the taking.  Hold him firm and present him to me.” 

“Jason!  Don’t!  Don’t do this!”  Mei’s voice rang out from beyond the prayer circle.  “Wake up, please.  I love you.  Don’t hurt him.  Please don’t hurt him,” she begged. 

Dean tried to get his breath, but here was no air to catch.  His vision smeared and bled as the demon grabbed his own doughy belly with several hands and cackled.

The pishacha laughed.   “Another toy for Father,” he said releasing another shockwave of power that lifted Mei off her feet and threw her to the ground in a senseless heap.  She lay there, crumpled and unmoving.  “But first, I hunger.”  He turned back to Dean, his magic heating the air around them.  The Kindred, who’d remained trapped in their humming chant all this time, resumed their hoarse incantation, urging the demon to feed. 

dadati vaH praaNa bhAkta!  puurayati pishacha!

The words seared Dean from the inside, and his body went taut from the rending pain.  Father’s mouth opened wide, ribbons of slime slopping out past razor-sharp teeth. 

With the last of his breath, Dean reached up and gripped the dagger protruding from his side.  Releasing a breathless growl of anger, he jerked it out, and, reaching up, he plunged the dagger into the folds of the pishacha’s chest.  This time his blood touched the heart of the monster.  Father’s insectile eyes twisted and pulsed.  Dean pulled the dagger out and then plunged it in again, twisting the blade.

“I deny you,” Dean said, his breathless voice seething.  Jason released him suddenly, reeling backwards when a pulse of energy flew outward from the monster.  Dean fell to his knees, and he pressed a hand to his side, trying to keep the air from escaping while he chanted.

Aham jahAti bhavantaH!

The creature hissed with anger and pain.

Aham jahAti bhavantaH!

Dean fell on his ass as the creature bent over him, its bloody mouth wide with lust and death.  Dean looked up at Father, his face pale, his limbs loose and shaky.

Aham jahAti bhavantaH!

Dean recited the mantra a third time, locking eyes with the creature as he said each word. 

“That’s for Maureen, you sss—sick sonabish,” he added, running out of breath. 

All eyes remained fixed on the creature as his gelatinous body convulsed and spasmed.  Dean reached up, gripped the amulet still hanging from the pishacha’s thick neck as a trophy, and he tugged it free.  “An’ this b’longs t’me, dickh’d.”

The pishacha’s eyes glowed in response, burning as white and hot as if a flare had been lit from within.  Shards of light furrowed the mucousy skin, cracking it open.  Blinding jets of limpid radiance burst from the fissures in all directions, some rays reaching as high as the pine-tops.   

“My child!”  The demon released a blood-curdling wail of desperate, lonely misery.  Looking down at his swollen body, the fiend roared again as it exploded into thick, steaming chunks. 

One final howl reverberated through the orchard, and The Kindred were abruptly released from the command to chant.  They held their ears and cowered, some of them falling to the ground, exhausted by the hours of non-stop exertion. 

The pishacha bubbled and stewed where the pus-colored pieces landed, muscles liquefying, fat sizzling.  As the onlookers stood in stunned silence, the demon’s body started to glow and emit a high-pitched, expectant hum, growing so intense and urgent that everyone winced, holding their ears.  In an instant the pressure was released as, one by one, effulgent, crystal orbs issued forth from the squelching, pulpy mash.

A hush fell over the orchard as the pearls of light drifted upward, shucking off the spiritual and magical manacles that had held them captive, dancing above the heads of the onlookers.  Souls.  Through his dim disconnect, Dean realized they were the souls of those whom Father had consumed. 

One incandescent sphere swooped and buzzed around Brad and Gypsy, then swung over to Dean and Jason, hovering there a moment.  Dean didn’t need an introduction.  He knew who it was.  Her essence was thick in the air around them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, breathlessly as the globe wobbled before him. 

Her light dipped and swayed gracefully a moment longer and then ascended, joining the constellation of souls that lit the orchard. 

Lurching and stumbling to remain upright, Dean watched the souls linger for a brief time before they flew into the night sky, disappearing into the stars. 

And still no one moved or said a word. 

Dean decided he had had enough, though.  He needed to go—somewhere.  He was tired and he was hurting and it was time to go away from this place.  Gripping his side, he mindlessly tottered by several traumatized, glassy-eyed Jedis who scarcely noticed his passing.  He saw Mei’s misty form limping toward Jason, crying her husband’s name over and over.  Dean gave them no more thought.  He wanted to go find his cot and lie down, wanted to be away from this place, wanted to be where it was quiet, where he could get some breath into his lungs.  It was so damn loud—he couldn’t think straight with that horrible hammering in his ears—and his side hurt.  Fuck, did it hurt.  He wanted to go away from the orchard and the fire and the people and the hammers.  And so he turned around and walked away, legs wobbling with every step. 

Reaching the lip of the hill, he staggered a few more paces before falling to his knees, the jarring pain forcing an agonized cry from him.  He thought he saw someone that looked like his dad shake his head and palm his temples as if awakening from a trance.  Dean tried to call out, but his body slumped into the soft earth, and he lay there gulping in one shallow breath after another.  Where any of that oxygen went was anyone’s guess.  It sure as shit wasn’t finding its way to his brain.

The man by the bonfire lifted his head, his face filled with horror as he scanned the crowd. 

“Dean!” he shouted as he ran forward, pushing past Brad who had his arms around an inconsolable Gypsy.  Dean didn’t bother trying to keep his eyes open after that.    

“Dean!”  The name echoed, tinny and hollow in his ears, and Dean thought maybe the voice was in his head.  Still, he tried to answer, his lips moving soundlessly as his wound burbled with all of his escaping air.  Dean clapped his hands to his side, trying to hold everything in place.  “My god, Dean.  I’m sorry.”

Dean shivered with pain as cold hands jostled him, pulling his blood-slick palms away from his ribs. 

“Hold on, son.  Jesus, okay, you’ve got a little nick here,” a gritty voice said, full of concern and stony determination.  If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought it sounded just like his father.  “Hey, hey, Sport…open your eyes for me.”  The voice became harsh and commanding “Mei, a little help over here!”  Dean felt someone shake him mercilessly.  “Stay with me, son.  Don’t you dare do this.  Not now.”

So like his dad.

Dean lifted his lids, fighting the dark blobs and gray shadows.  He blinked like an owl, trying to focus.  That face was unmistakable. 

“Dad?” he said, his breathing erratic and choppy.

“I’m here, Dean.  I’m with you, son.”

To Be Continued…

Chapter Text

* *

Molten fire bubbled and stewed on the iron ceiling of The Kiln, casting a dappled, bloody glow on Dean’s naked flesh.  Fascinated and horrified, he watched the flames drip down the walls and surge across the floor, slopping wetly up and over him—drowning him in searing agony.  He screamed as the liquid fire curled and coiled around him.  Skin melted, entrails sizzled and dripped onto the hot-griddle floor until nothing remained except his bones snapping and popping like wood in a fireplace.  Chanting erupted around him, strident, fevered voices barking desperate incantations—shrieks of misery mixed with insane laughter.  Dean joined them, adding his own stilted cries to the cacophony. 

Burning! Burning red in Hell.  Dead in Hell. 

I’m burning!

“Easy, son.” 

I’m burning.  My throat is burning.  I’m in Hell.

“Settle down, Dean.  You’ve got a fever and you’re dreaming.  Don’t move.  You’re in the hospital, Sport; you’ve lost a lot of blood and they’ve got you doped to high hell, but you’re gonna be fine.  You hear me?  You’re gonna be just fine. Mei has all the nurses working overtime.  Stubborn as a mule.”

I’m burning.  I fell into Hell.  Dean’s hand fumbled up to his mouth, gripping the burning pipe stuck in his throat and tried to pull it out.

“Whoa, don’t do that.  Leave that where it is.”  Something or someone grabbed his hands, holding them down as he continued to struggle.  “You’re on a ventilator to help you out for a bit.  You need to lie still.  Stand down.  Everything’s fine; open your eyes and see for yourself.”

Don’t have eyes.  Burnt away. 

“Come on, Dean.  I bet you could open them if you tried.”  The hand squeezed harder.  “Open them for me, Champ.”

Father?  The name burbled up from a dark corner of his mind.  Father always saved him from Hell when he was in The Kiln.  He squeezed the hand holding his.

“That’s right, son.  It’s me.  It’s Dad.  Come on, open up.”

Dad?

“Try, son.”

Dad…

The rough hands gripping his squeezed a stern command and Dean obeyed.  He opened his eyes and a shocking light flooded The Kiln, obliterating the darkness, quelling the fire and heat that consumed him.  He winced against the painful sunbursts and flares and snapped his watering eyes shut before attempting to open them again with tentative caution.  He blinked and squinted until the dark blob before him cemented into the haloed form of his father.  His father.  His focus wavered and refocused on John Winchester whose wet, exhausted eyes crinkled as he smiled.   

“That’s it, Dean.  Good job.  Real good job.” 

Dean watched him with dull eyes, his brain taking time to process what, where and who he was.  After a short while, he glanced from side to side, searching.  Where’s Sam?

“Shhh,” John rubbed the soft pad under Dean’s thumb in soothing circles.  “You’re safe.  You got him, Dean.  He’s dead.  You did it.  You did good.  You did real, real good and…”  He stumbled over his words.  “I’m so goddamned sorry.”

Sorry?  For what?  No, Dad—Sam.  I want Sam. 

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Dean, but you need to stop moving.  Easy.”  John put his hand on Dean’s shoulder as the boy arched his back, struggling to rise.  “Stop, Dean.  You’ve got a tube in your chest.  You don’t want to pull on it.”

Dean reclaimed his hand from John’s grip and clumsily fingered his chest where the amulet always lay.  It wasn’t there.  John’s face grew thoughtful as he watched his son curiously.

“It’s right here in my pocket Dean.  I’ve got it.”  Dean tapped his chest again and John finally understood.  “He’s at school, bud.  Remember?  He’s safe at school.”  John took his hand.

Dean gave a near imperceptible nod and closed his eyes, defeated.  He tried to reopen his lids, but they were too heavy.  They stayed closed.

There was movement in the room and a woman’s voice interrupted them.

“John, you promised.”

“I know, I was going but he opened his eyes,” John said as though he were making an excuse for something.

“I see that, but he’s out again.  He’ll be sleeping for hours yet.” 

“All right,” John sighed.  His father’s voice came close to him, close enough that Dean felt warm puffs against his ear.  “I have to go, Dean.  Mei’s going to take good care of you, though.  You get some rest.” 

Don’t go, Dad!  Please don’t leave me again.  Please…

His father tugged his hand a few times and then released it.

Oh God, please don’t go!

“Goodbye, Dean.”    

* *

The darkness gave way to a dull, muzzy haze in slow increments, but Dean couldn’t be bothered with attempting to explore the light.  He remembered opening his eyes for a few moments at some point only to hear his dad telling him goodbye and to be strong or get better—some horseshit like that—before grabbing his jacket and bolting.  Later, Dean woke drenched in sweat and cracked his lids to see the empty chair sitting in the corner.  That had been enough to send him retreating into the darkness.  He’d spent his time since then riding the opiate express the nurses had been kind enough to book him passage on.   There was nothing to work for, nothing waiting for him, no one to make him care, so he did his level best to elude consciousness for as long as he could.  Finally, pain forced his hand and he wheezed out a groan of discomfort.  Hearing his own voice, he opened his eyes in surprise.   The annoying tube in his throat had been removed at some point, and he rolled his tongue along his dry lips in relief.      

“Well look at you…all conscious and…uh…okay, we’ll settle for semi-conscious.  You with me, Slugger?” a voice asked from somewhere outside his narrow field of vision. 

Dean turned his head, but the movement pulled on muscles in his chest, and his vision grayed out from the pain.  After a few seconds he realized the voice was jabbering a mile a minute while fingers pried his eyelids open, one at a time.  Sharp light flooded his brain.

“Gghhrgh,” he huffed, his voice sounding like he’d eaten cleanser. 

“—ay awake Dean.  Don’t you flutter your lashes at me like that.  I’m a married woman.”

The light clicked off and a cool hand rested against his brow, rubbing with gentle, coaxing strokes.  He growled and swatted it away. 

“Fffckn’ quiddt,” he garbled.

“D’awww, there you are.”  He could hear the smirk in Mei’s words.  “Back to your old self already, I see.  My work here is complete.”

Dean lifted his lids and took his time focusing.  Mei warbled and wavered and then solidified. 

“Wwzzssmshh?”

“That’s an interesting combination.  How about you add a few vowels next time to shake things up a bit?” Mei said as she palpated his chest area, her searching fingers avoiding the tube that protruded from just below his armpit.  She grew quiet, pressing her scope here and there, intent on listening to his breathing, spending more time on his right side than on his left.  “Music to my ears,” she said with a waltzing nod.

Dean watched her, blinking his eyes torpidly, thinking about vowels.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Whuh time s’it?”

“It’s late,” she said.  “Two days since you arrived and over six hours since you last graced us with your usual conviviality.”

Dean’s face pinched.  “Cnvivawht?  W’kinna bullshit’s ‘at?”

“I rest my case,” Mei said with a wink.  She continued her examination.  “You’ve been in and out of consciousness.  You trying to make up for all that lost sleep?”  There was a smile, there was a smirk, but there was more there, too—a lot more.  More than he could handle.  He glanced over at the empty chair and closed his eyes.

“Aw, see?  You’re gonna hurt my feelings, Dean.”

“Tired,” he said.          

“Well, it’s not all about you,” she pouted.  “You don’t pay me enough attention.  I have needs.”

“Ches’ hur’s,” he said, opening his eyes.

“I can imagine.  Sucking chest wounds have a tendency to do that.” 

“Sucky ches’ woun’?”

Mei laughed.  “They suck all right.”  She snapped her fingers, drawing his attention and making him track her forefinger as she moved it from side to side.    “How’s your pain?”

“Six-ish, seven with all th’damn poking you’re doin’.” 

“Complaining.  This is getting better and better all the time.  I’ll get you something for pain, here, in a few.” 

Dean’s eyes went to the empty chair again.  “When d’he leave?”

Mei checked her watch.  “About six hours ago.  He asked me to watch out for you.” 

Dean signed and nodded, turning his head away.  “Yeah, ‘kay…” 

Mei reached behind her and pulled the chair over and sat in it.  She watched him, her face sobering.  “You’re going to be okay, Slugger.  The kirpan caught your right side, between your 4^th and 5^th ribs, collapsing your lung.  You lost quite a bit of blood, but it was buy-two-pints-get-one-free day, so—” Her smile shook, dimmed down to nothing.  She cleared her throat and pointed to the tube protruding from under his armpit.  “You’ve got a spiffy drain tube that will stay put for another couple of days.  You spiked a fever earlier, so you’re hopped up on antibiotics.  The dagger was filthy, coated in blood and dirt when your dad—”  She wavered.  “When you got stabbed, so a fever is kind of par for that course.  We’ll be watching you with eagle eyes to make sure there’s no repeat of that nonsense.  Still, your lung is responding remarkably well, better than we hoped, well enough that we took you off the vent a few hours ago.  You’re probably looking at a week in the hospital and about six weeks for full recovery if you don’t have any complications.”

“Please tell me I don’ gotta poop in front of you this time,” Dean begged.

“Um, ew.”  She scrunched up her nose.  “I try not to judge peoples’ freaky kinks, but I’m not gonna encourage them either,” she teased.  

“You said las’ time that—” Dean stopped, seeing the twinkle in her eye.  “Than’ god,” he said, relieved. 

“You and me both,” she laughed.  “On the other hand,” she clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and reached up, grabbing something from behind his head.  “You will need to get reacquainted with your best friend.”  She wiggled the spirometer in her hand. 

“You godda be freakin’ kiddin’ me,” Dean said, incredulous. 

“Oh, I assure you, I’m completely serious.  Every hour on the hour,” she gloated.  She set the evil lump of plastic back where she’d gotten it.  “We’ll get you started in the morning once you’re settled in a private room.  It’s after midnight now.”   They both quieted.  She looked tired.  Beaten.

“How’s Jason.  ‘S’everyone okay?”

She searched his face and hesitated, her words hovering in her open, searching mouth.  “He’s…he’s struggling a bit.  They all are.  Like you did.  This isn’t something you just get over.  Some of them are doing better than others.  Some of them are still—”  She blew out a quivering breath.  “Some of them aren’t quite right yet.”

Dean nodded and swallowed.  “You should be with him.  With Jason.  Shouldn’t be here.”

“He wants me to be here.  He’s worried about you.  Everyone’s worried.”  She picked at a thread on her sleeve.  “He’s still chanting.  Jason is.”  She glanced around and then back to her sleeve.  “He’s not as bad as some of the others.  He knows what Father was—understands what happened to him.  But it’s hard letting it all go.  And he’s ashamed.  God, he’s so ashamed.  He thinks he should have known, thinks he should have been wise to it all.”

“Jus’ needs time,” Dean offered her.  She nodded and swiped her sleeve under her nose and snuffed. 

“Yeah,” she said, pressing on the sides of her eyes to drain the pooling tears.  “Yeah, he’s gonna be fine.  We’re gonna be fine.  Getting him back was the hard part.  We’ve both got some healing to do, but we’ll get there.”  She sniffed again and leaned in toward Dean, putting her hand over his.  “Thank you, Dean.  I nearly lost him.  I came so close.”  She gripped his hand tighter.  “I’m sorry for getting you into this mess.”

He shook his head.  “Demon’s fault.  Been fightin’ those bastards mos’ of m’life.  Should’a been more careful.  Should’a called other hunn’ers.  Didn’t,” he said.  “I’d be dead if it hadn’ been f’you.  Thank you.”    

“We’re both awesome, then” she said with a quick shrug, attempting to keep the mood light.  “I see a buddy movie in our future.”

“I’m the lead.  Yer the sidekick,” Dean said. 

“Um, no, I’m the lead, you’re the sidekick.”

“Yer short.  Yer th’sidekick.”

“I see how you are,” Mei scoffed.  They both quieted.

“I mean it,” Dean said after a while.  “Thanks for callin’ m’dad.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, her face genuine, but then she rolled her eyes.  “You’re just lucky I didn’t know what a stubborn ass he was before I called.”

Dean snorted and winced from the pain.  He eyed the door and sighed.  “D’he say which way he was headed?” 

Mei’s cocked her head in confusion.  “What do you mean?”

“My dad.  When he lef’.  Did he say where he was headin’ to next?”

“Whoa,” Mei said.  “Wait, you think he left—left?”

“Didn’t he?”  Dean tried to rise, his voice thick with sudden emotion.

Mei pressed him back into his pillow.  “No!  God, no.  I kicked him out, Dean.  Told him to go get some sleep, take a damn shower—he was getting ripe sitting here for two days straight.”

Just then the door to the ICU snicked open and a sloppy, sleepy John Winchester entered, his hair still damp and tousled.

“Ugh,” Mei said.  “Seriously, do you have bionic hearing or what?  I thought I told you to get some sleep,” she scolded him. 

“I did.  I’m back,” he said with an impatient growl.  “How’s my boy?”

“He’s—” Mei started to speak, but Dean cut her off.

“Dad,” Dean said, catching John’s surprised eye.  John went to push past Mei but they clashed in a this-way-that-way dance before Mei finally gripped him by his shoulders.

“Stay!”  Her voice was prickly with annoyance, forcing John to stand still while she moved around him.  John reciprocated with his own puff of irritation. 

Approaching Dean, the anger in John’s face gave way to care and worry and guilt.  “You’re awake.  Hey,” he said, grabbing Dean’s hand. 

His father’s touch set Dean off, and whether it was the drugs or the pain or months of exhaustion, he could not contain the rush of emotion.  He sucked in shallow breaths as tears began to leak from his eyes one after another.

“Hey, hey, hey, son—”  John soothed.  Dean tilted his head, trying to gulp down the raw display, but there was no hiding it. 

“M’okay,” he said.  “Dad.  M’okay, okay?”

“All right, Dean,” John said, giving his son a moment to collect himself.  Mei cleared her throat, jumping in to help relieve the tension.

“I’ll leave you to visit for a while.”  She came to the end of the bed as John adjusted the chair with his foot and sat.  John made brief eye contact with her as he settled in for the long night.  “I’ll—I’ll be back in the morning.  Both of you get some more rest.  You’re still dead on your feet, John.”

John’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re one to talk.  I got this shift.  Go see Jason and get yourself some rest.”

“Thanks Dr. Mei,” Dean said.

“I’ll order you something for pain.”   

Both John and Dean continued to watch as she headed to the nurse’s station and said a few words before leaving.  As the sliding door shut behind her, John turned toward his son.

“Damn pushy, stubborn, pushy, pain in the ass woman,” he mumbled as he scooted the chair closer to Dean’s bed.

“Better not stay on her bad side,” Dean teased.

“I ain’t scared of her,” John said, blowing out a cheek-full of hot air.

“And an elephant isn’t scared of a mouse.”  Dean used the banter to give him time to breathe and calm himself.

“Quiet, you,” John said in jest.  Silence filled the air and they sat, each surveying the other for a long moment.  Dean had a thousand questions, but he didn’t see any answers in his dad’s face.  It was decidedly pinched and closed off.

The nurse that Mei had spoken to came over and checked his vitals and emptied a vial into his IV port.  “Dr. Hickey said your pain level was a seven.  This should help, sweetheart.” 

“Thanks,” John told the woman as she walked back to her station.  Dean couldn’t help but notice the relief on his father’s face, like he’d dodged a bullet.  They went back to their quiet non-discussion.  John just smiled and rubbed Dean’s arm.   

“Hey, Dad?”

“Close your eyes, Sport,” John said at the exact same time.

John laughed nervously.  “Pinch, poke, owe me a Coke.” 

“Seriously, Dad, what happened when the—”

John shook his head, interrupting.  “Not now, Dean.  There’ll be time for all of that.  But it’s not now.  It’s late and you’re beat to hell.  I can see the morphine kicking in already.  Tonight we’re gonna breathe and rest up.”

Dean slumped into the bed, frustrated and dizzy.  He sighed and closed his eyes.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, okay, Dad.”  He needed answers, but everything was getting soft and slow.

“Sleep, Dean.”

The morphine freed his tongue.  “It got you, Dad.  Father got to you, too.  Dunno how he could’a done that.  How come?”

“Shhh,” John’s voice was soft and melodic. 

“S’better when you’re here, y’know?  S’jus’…s’jus’ so much better this way,” Dean said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Dean.  If I could, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I hope you know that.”

“Wish Sammy was here.”  He wasn’t sure he’d spoken aloud or not, but he figured he must have since his dad’s hypnotic voice followed him into the warm, silky dark.

“Sleep, Dean.  Don’t think.  Just let go.”

* *

“Dammit, don’t lift that stuff.  What the hell are you thinkin’?” John groused as he grabbed the duffel from Dean and tossed it in the back of the Impala.  They’d returned to the commune to collect the weapons Dean had left behind when he’d prepared to sell the car.  The mere thought of it still twisted his guts.  Moving out of the way of his father’s overprotective wrath, he leaned against the Impala, letting his hands glide along her sleek chrome.   

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.  You know I wasn’t in my right mind, don’t you, Baby?” he whispered, begging her forgiveness. 

“What?” John asked, reaching down and tossing another bag into the trunk. 

“I said I don’t mind helping.  I’m not a baby.” 

“You’ve been out of the hospital for a grand total of three whole hours, Dean, for Christ’s sake.  And Mei didn’t even want you released for at least two more days.” 

“Drain is gone.  Nothing to do but lie around.  I can do that anywhere.” 

Dean had spent just six days in the hospital.  He’d used the spirometer like he was trying out for the Olympic Spirometer Team and had done everything Mei asked.   He was tender and sore, and the ability to draw a deep breath was often times more of a miss than a hit, but the wound was closed and would heal completely in a few weeks.  Dean had sweet-talked Mei, drawling promises and assurances, anything to get out of that hospital and out of this state.  She hadn’t been thrilled about him checking out, and certainly hadn’t bought a word of his nonsense, but she’d told him she wouldn’t stop him if he promised to avoid strenuous activity.

He’d seen nothing of any of The Kindred since that horrible night.  Their absence left a hole in him that lingered despite his father’s presence.  Dean and The Kindred had shared more than time and space, they’d shared mind and soul.  No matter what Father was, the connection Dean forged with them had been real, and he ached for it sometimes—and for them.  He no longer felt the compulsion to chant as often—though it was still an urge that came on strong when it came on—but more than that, he missed his daily interactions with the people he had come to regard as family.   

Dean had asked John and Mei about The Kindred, but they were somewhat cagey in their answers.  Mei told him that Jason was slowly getting better, said that he was waiting for Dean to feel stronger before bothering him.  Brad had apparently left the city, had gone back to Seattle to be with his parents—no one knew anything beyond that.  Gypsy was still at the compound with some of the others, but that was the extent of the news.  They said nothing more.  Dean stood at the open garage door, surveying the commune as if with a new set of eyes, everything was the same—everything was different.  There was no sign of life anywhere when they’d driven in; the guard shack had been abandoned and the gate open.  And of course, there was no sense of them within him, not a twitch or a flutter of them to be felt.  That was all gone for better or for worse.  The emptiness made the pain of John’s and Sam’s absence all the more noticeable.

Yes, his father was right there in front of him now, grumbling as he sorted, assessed and repacked the trunk of the Impala that had been saved from her own Ordeal of nearly being sold by the person who loved her best.  Yes, Dean was happy to have John there with him, but the strange events had taken their toll on him, and his father barely spoke or made eye contact.  When he did speak, he kept all topics light and trivial.  Dean looked around the garage and sighed, rubbing the nape of his neck. 

“Place is deserted.  Are you sure anybody’s still here?” Dean asked as he spied a duffel filled with some of his dirty clothes and went to grab it. 

John closed the trunk of the Impala and dropped his shoulders, eyeing Dean and hesitating.  “They’re around.  Look Dean, before we go find them, I need to talk to—” 

“Don’t you dare pick that up,” Mei’s voice interrupted them.  Dean froze in mid-grab, cowed by her doctorly outrage. 

“I’ve got it,” John said, taking the duffel as Dean turned toward the woman.  Both Mei and Jason were standing in the sun outside the open garage door.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Jason said as Dean approached, taking the younger man’s hand, his earnest grip conveying much more than his words.  “We parked out by the gate and walked in.  It’s good to see you, man.”

Dean gripped back, and they met in a one-armed embrace and then parted awkwardly.  It was odd to see Jason now, to feel so disconnected despite the fact that he was right in front of him.  Both men cleared their throats in unhandy silence.

“You look good, Dean,” Jason ventured.  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “We’re just…you know…getting my things.  Getting ready to head out.”

Jason glanced past Dean, eyeing the Impala.  He nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah…” he said, monosyllabically.  “Yeah, man.  The car,” he whistled.  “Bet you’re glad to have that back, huh?”

Dean turned around and bobbed his head in the car’s direction.  “You have no idea.”

Dean turned back and the two men faced off, nodding and nudging—anything to fill the awkward silence.

“Polo shirt,” Dean said.

“What?”

“Sorry, you’re wearing a polo shirt and khakis.  I’ve never seen you wearing anything but Jedi robes.”

Jason looked down at himself.  “Oh yeah, right?  I went from cult-chic back to thirty-something suburban,” he said dryly.

“You look like a golfer, dude,” Dean teased. 

“Don’t knock the game until you’ve tried it,” Jason retorted with a laugh as the conversation fizzled again.

Dean leaned against the aluminum wall of the garage.  This was ten times worse than the morning after a one-night-stand.  Facing The Kindred was going to be much harder than he thought.  It felt like he’d been spliced into their lives and they into his with no one ever having a say in the matter.  It felt uncomfortable and he didn’t know where to look or what to say.  He was standing in front of a stranger that knew almost everything about him.  Excruciating.  “So are you going back to work?”

“Huh?” Jason said, coming out of his thoughts.  “Oh, yeah.  I mean, no.  No, not right away.  My boss called, but—”

“We’re both taking time off for a while.  We have a lot of catching up to do,” Mei said.  Jason turned to her and settled his arm around her shoulders. 

“Sounds good,” Dean said.  “Sounds—sounds real good.”

“What about you, Dean?” Mei asked.

He fidgeted.  He had no fucking clue.  John hadn’t said a word to him about any plans, so he assumed there were none.  The way the man had been avoiding him, Dean figured he’d bolt as soon as possible.  “Uh, I dunno.  Figured I’d head out.  Rest up for a while and then get back to work.”

“Take your time resting up, Dean,” Mei said with her stern lecture-voice.  “Six weeks, remember.  You’ve still got a lot of healing to do.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Don’t you yeah-yeah me,” Mei said, her eyes sparkling.

“Listen, Dean,” Jason said just as the conversation lulled.  “I just wanted to…” he paused.  “I just wanted to—” The tension grew.  “Shit, Dean,” Jason said, taking a step forward and putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about all of this.  I wanted to come see you in the hospital, but—”

“It’s okay, man,” Dean said with half a smile.  “I’m good.”

“It’s just...I was pretty out of it at first.  I’m still not quite—”  He sighed, not able to find the words.  “Shit,” he said, settling.

“Me too,” Dean said.  “It’s cool.”

Jason nodded but then caught Dean’s eye.  “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, Dean.  You saved my life.  I’m so damned sorry that you got caught up in all of this because of me.  I’m sorry for all of it.  I think back at some of the things I said and did—things I said to you.  I…I dragged you down into The Kiln.  That was me, Dean.  I put you over my shoulder and I carried you down there myself.”  Jason’s lips thinned and he swallowed as though he were fighting nausea.  His breath came in gusts and his pale, blue eyes watered. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Jason.  You were whammied, too.”  Dean said.  “Don’t think it, man.  I did the same thing—said things that make me cringe.  I helped take Fairy down there, remember?”

Jason sighed.  “Yeah.  Jesus.  This whole thing is screwed to hell.”

“How is she, by the way?”

“Who?  Fairy?”

“Yeah Fairy, Gypsy…” Dean said.  “Brad.  How’s everyone doing?”

“Fairy left, day after Father died.  Never said a word to any of us.  Just left.  Kind’a understandable, though.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Tim went back to his wife.  She’d been worried sick—had joined Mei in picketing The Kindred. Haven’t heard from Marc; he left right off, too.  Brad gave me his number.  I called and told him you were leaving today.  He said he’d be here.”  Jason checked his watch.  “Most of us have scattered.  There’s a small group still here, though.”

Mei shifted uncomfortably.  “Some have chosen to stay here.  Not everyone has a place to go.”

“We’re all still trying to come to terms with this shit, you know?” Jason said.  “The whole thing is just so unbelievable.  I can’t…I can’t wrap my head around it.  And I miss—”  His hands curled into fists as they hung at his sides.  “I’m glad to be free, but I still miss parts of—”  Jason stilled for a moment.  “I still chant sometimes.  I don’t know why.  I just can’t seem to help myself.”

Dean met his friend’s eye.  “You’ll be fine.  We’ll be fine.  Bastard’s dead now.  We don’t have to do any of that shit—”  He turned, cut off as a car pulled up. 

It stopped with a crunch on the gravel and the driver watched them for a tentative moment before getting out of the car.  It was Brad. 

The man was so different that Dean did not recognize him at first.  Shaggy hair had been cropped short, and he now wore glasses that made him look far more serious and academic than he ever appeared as a member of The Kindred.  He wore a blazer and a taciturn expression.  It was Brad…and it wasn’t.  Dean had only ever known him as an Adept, after Father had burned away everything that had been important to him.  As Dean watched him raise a cautious hand in greeting, he realized he didn’t know this man at all.

“Hey,” Brad said, walking up and nodding to Jason and Mei.  He extended a hand to Dean.  “Hey Dean.  I’m glad you’re, uh…I’m glad you’re better.  You look good.”

Dean took his hand, shaking it as each man cased the other.  He could feel Brad’s reticence and discomfort.  Another butt-puckeringly fake meet-and-greet.  Dean suppressed a sigh as Brad glanced around furtively.  Nobody wanted to meet his eye—not Jason, not Brad, and sure as hell not his dad who was now standing off to the side, leaning on the Impala and doing his level best to stay out of the way.  Dean’s heart sank.  He popped on a cocky grin for show and pumped Brad’s hand with a laugh.

“You cut your hair.  You look pretty slick.”

“Oh yeah,” Brad said, acknowledging his hair and giving it a swipe with his hand.  “I always wear my hair this way.  School starts back up in another week.  My dad pulled some strings and got me reinstated.”

“Nice,” Dean said. 

“Yeah it is.  So you taking off today?” Brad asked.

“Looks like it.  Wanted to say goodbye to you guys.  Haven’t seen Gypsy yet.”

Brad peered curiously at Jason and it felt suspiciously like Dean was a Disciple again, watching communication pass between Adepts that he didn’t understand.  Brad turned back to Dean.  “You haven’t seen her yet?”

“No.  Where is she?  Isn’t she here?”

“Uh, yeah, she’s probably in The Heart.”

Jason interrupted.  “Why don’t we head down that way?  We can talk as we go.”

“That’s a good idea,” John said, stirring and walking over.  He put a guiding hand on Dean. 

“I’ll let you all go on up there,” Brad said, backing away.  “I better take off.”

“You’re kidding.  You just got here.  Come say goodbye to Gypsy,” Dean said. 

“No.  I already said my goodbyes to her.”  He turned to Dean and the discomfort in his face momentarily gave way to genuine-though-pained gratitude.  “I’m gonna head.  I just wanted to stop and say goodbye and thank you.  I don’t understand what happened, and I’m not even going to try.  But I wanted to thank you and your dad and Mei for everything you did.” 

 “Well, come on, man.  Stay for a few.  Let’s go see Gypsy.”

Brad shook his head.  “No, I need to stay ahead of rush hour in Seattle.”

Dean’s heart dropped.  This had been his closest friend in The Kindred—his roommate and confidant.  “Oh…okay,” he stammered.  “Well, let me give you my number, man.  We can keep in touch, yeah?”

Brad looked at each one of them and then back to Dean.  He shook his head.  “No.”

“Come again?” Dean asked before he could hide his surprise and hurt. 

“I want to put this all behind me,” Brad said.  “I’m sorry.  I am.  But I want to go back to school and forget about this place.  Forget that it ever happened.  This is not what I want for my life, and I—I don’t want to come off like a dick, but I want a clean cut.  I want a life away from all of this.  I hope you understand.”

Dean swallowed the rejection with a fake grin.  “I hear ya,” he said.  “Sure.  Sure Brad.  Well, you take care, dude.”  He extended his hand and Brad took it.

“Take care of yourself, Dean.”

“Sure,” Dean said with a mechanical smile.  “You too.”

Brad turned and left without another word, leaving the four of them standing in dead air.

Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.  “Well, that was fun,” he snorted and shook his head.  He stood there another few seconds before shrugging.  “I’m gonna go find Gyspy,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked away toward The Heart with quick, deliberate strides. 

“Wait up, Dean,” John said, coming up behind him.  Mei and Jason also followed.  Before they could catch up to him, there was a clang over the loud-speaker by The Heart, the same chime that always signaled the end of each meditation session.  A dozen or more people poured out of the building—each wearing full Jedi garb.  Dean stopped where he was, staring at them. 

“Dean!” he picked Gypsy’s voice out of the crowd.  He caught sight of her shockingly thin, but graceful figure as she broke away from the others, running toward him.  She reached him and threw her arms around him.  “Dean!  You’re back.  I can’t believe it.  She showered his cheeks with light kisses.  Bless Father!  He brought you back to us.”

“Hey Gypsy,” Dean said, watching her closely, confused.  “What’s going on?”

“Morning meditation, silly!” she laughed.  “We missed you.  I chanted and prayed for Father to bring you all back and here you are.  Praise Father!  Father is life!”

“You what?”  Dean felt sick as he watched her chant praises to a monster, her face dopy with ecstasy.  He felt Jason touch his arm but Dean backed away.  “What the hell is this?” he said to him.

“Mei and I thought you needed to heal, so we didn’t tell you while you were in the hospital.  I started to tell you back at the garage, but…” John said.  “Some of them haven’t—” 

Gypsy interrupted him.  “We’re waiting for Father’s return, Dean!  When he comes back it’ll be just the way it was.  He’s coming back to us.  He is.  I know it!”  She took his arm and pulled on it, smiling enticingly, coaxing him.  “Come on, let’s go back into The Heart and chant together.  You’ll feel so much better.”

“Gypsy…” he said, pulling his arm away from her.  “It’s not real.  He wasn’t—”

“Don’t say it!” she said, her face turning fearful and panicked—angry.  She pressed her hand to his lips.  “Not you, too.  Don’t you dare say it!  He’s real.  He’s perfect and Andrew and Maureen and all the Enlightened Ones are with him.  He’s coming back for the rest of us.  He’s coming back for me.  And everything will be the way it was.  We’ll be able to feel each other again, be with each other.  Don’t you want that?  I know you want that.  I can see it in your eyes.  Please, Dean…don’t go.  It’ll be good again.” she begged him.  “Father is life.  Father is love.  Father is my Keeper.”  She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the chant. 

The remaining members of The Kindred, gathered around her and joined in, their faces lit with desperate longing as they began jumping up and down buoyantly but no longer in sync—their voices and movements were slightly skewed and chaotic.  Dean turned to Jason and Mei, his face shattered.    

“I should have told you sooner, Dean,” John said.  The chanting Jedis took no further notice of them, lost in their worship.

“What the fuck is happening?” Dean demanded.  “He’s dead.  You said they’d be free once the pishacha was dead!  They’re supposed to be free.”

“They are,” John said, his face careworn.  “Some of them have just chosen to—I don’t know—chosen to ignore it all.”

Jason sighed.  “A lot of them are people who lost loved ones to Father or people who had been under Father’s influence the longest, people who have nothing else to go back to, no other family.  Gypsy can’t let go.  She can’t face losing Andrew.  Some of them are just…they’re just not all there anymore.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean said.  “Listen to them!” 

Mei put her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him as the droning chant went on and on and on, unabated.  “We’re going to keep working with them, Dean.  Me and Jason, a few of the former members, Tim and Luna—and more.  I’ve talked to a psychologist at work, and he’s going to come out and try and help, too.  I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head.  He turned back to Gypsy and shook her.  “Gyspy.  Hey…Gyspy.”  She stopped jumping and opened her eyes.

“Shhhh,” she said.  “Shhh, don’t talk, just chant, Dean.  Don’t think.  Let go.  Give yourself to Father.  It feels so good.  It feels so, so right.  Father is life…”  She raised her hands to the sky and closed her eyes, resuming her chant with the others. 

“I gotta get out’a here.”  Dean turned on his heel and walked away.  Finding the nearest bush, he bent over and put his hands on his knees, struggling to hold on and failing.  John caught up with him but stood back, waiting for Dean to finish, giving him space.

“Dean,” he said as his son spat the last slimy strings of his breakfast into the scrub.

“This is too fucked up for words,” Dean said, shuddering.  “Jesus Christ.  They’re still his mindless slaves.  I didn’t fix anything.”

“That’s not true, son.  And even if it were, you can’t fix everything.  Some hunts work out.  Some hunts go sideways.”

“It wasn’t just a hunt, Dad,” Dean snapped.

John turned to Mei and Jason who were headed their way, fending them off with a wave.  “Come on, Dean.  Let’s walk.” 

Dean let John take his arm and guide him away from the chanting Jedis.  When they got far enough away that it was no more than buzzing murmur, Dean shrugged his arm out of this father’s grip and rolled his shoulders, bristling with grief and anger.  “This is so fucked up.”

“You’re right.  It is.  No two ways ‘round it.”

Dean shook his head and surveyed the pines.  “It’s bullshit.  Look at all of us.  Mei’s broken, Jason’s broken…Brad…?”  His jaw trembled.  “Yeah, Brad, that’s great, man.  See you ‘round maybe never.”  Dean turned to his father, bitter.  “Sound familiar?”  John said nothing, letting his son vent.  “Gypsy’s insane.  And my own father won’t look me in the eye.”  He grit his teeth until his jaw hurt.  “This is just—how-I-spent-my-summer-fuckin’-vacation—perfect.”  Dean fell silent, brooding as he stood there, glancing toward the orchard.  Neither father nor son spoke for quite some time.

“I lied to Mei,” John said, finally breaking the heavy silence.

Dean turned to him, his face dark and wounded.  “What?”

“I lied to Mei.”  John’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet.  “When we got you back, she asked me why I took the chance of breaking the pishacha’s spell over you—why I allowed you to be put through such a painful ritual.  She wanted to know why I didn’t leave you and free you with the others.  I told her that I needed your help on the hunt.  But that wasn’t the main reason.”  Dean’s expression remained stormy.  John walked up and stood alongside him, watching the trees.  “I put you through that painful ritual because I wanted you back, no matter what the cost.  I wasn’t going to take the chance of that thing bolting and leaving you enslaved.  I did it because I wanted my son back before anything else.  I wanted you back more than I wanted the pishacha dead or the others freed.  I’m a selfish bastard and I’m not going to lose you.  Ever.  So I made sure that I got my boy back before anything else.  Before anyone else.”     

Dean stared at his father, saying nothing.  “If it was so important to get me back, then why did you leave in the first place?” he asked, his voice laced with months of pain.

John sighed.  “I got a lead on the thing that killed your mother.  That night before I left,” John said, contritely.  “I got a call and I went to check it out.  It wasn’t anything you did, Dean.”

“Jesus, Dad.  I—Jesus,” Dean fumbled.  “I would have gone with you.  Why—”

“Because this is my line, Dean,” he interrupted his son, his voice stern.  “This is where I draw it.  Because that thing, whatever it is, it isn’t touching my boys.  That’s just the way it is.”   

There was another long silence.  Dean continued to watch John, but his father offered nothing else.  The chanting in the distance had ceased.  Dean sighed and turned to head back to find Jason and Mei, but John’s voice stopped him. 

“I stayed as long as I could,” John said.

Dean turned back, mystified.  “Huh?”

“The night of the fire.  That night…the night your mom died.  I stayed in that room as long as I could, trying to get to her, trying to pull her down from that ceiling.  I stayed until heat and death forced me out.  I can still smell—” 

“Dad…”

John quieted, looking Dean in the eye, his face smoky with grief.  There were tears in his words.  “That’s not going to happen to my boys, no way—no how.  Not in this lifetime.  So you’re not coming on those hunts.  Hunting is dangerous and there are a thousand ways to die; take your pick.  But you will not die on a ceiling Dean.  I don’t care what I have to do or not do.  I don’t care if it makes you hate me for leaving you in the middle of the night.  I don’t care if it hurts you.  I don’t care if it kills me.  You won’t die to that thing.  It’s not happening.  That’s final.”

“Yes sir,” Dean said smartly, the clipped response pulled from him by his father’s commanding voice.  They watched each other a moment and Dean’s shoulders dropped.  “Have you—were you hunting the thing this whole time?” 

John glanced away, sheepish.  “No.  It turned out to be a wild goose chase.”

Dean swallowed.  “Then why didn’t you—”

“You needed time, Dean.”  John said.  “I thought you needed—”  He struggled for words.  “I thought you could use some time to stretch.  You were so…when Sam left you were…I thought being on your own and relying on yourself would be good for you.  I figured fending for yourself would give you some confidence, some independence, get you out of your funk.”  He sighed.

“And when I was in the hospital?”  Dean couldn’t hide his hurt and his words turned cool.  “Was that more tough-love, too?”

“That was a mistake,” John said, the words rushing out, his eyes welling.  “That was goddamned wrong.  When I heard you were going to be okay, I got mad, Dean.  I got mad because I thought you’d screwed up a simple hunt.  I wanted you to use that time to sort it out, teach you the consequences of letting your guard down.  And I was wrong.  I should’ve been there.  I should’ve been there, and I’m sorry.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that.  His anger withered, and he nodded.  “You should have been there,” he agreed.  The words fell between them and hung there, suspended as the two men searched each other’s face.

John was the first to break away.  His head dropped and he stooped, picking up a pinecone, absently rubbing his thumb along its stiff scales.  “Yeah,” he said.  “We all screw up hunts now and again, don’t we?” he said to the pinecone before throwing it away. “I was too damn hard on you about getting caught by the pishacha.”  There was self-judgment in is voice. 

Dean shifted, watching the pinecone drop into the trees.  He turned to his father, and saw the man struggling with something.  He didn’t know what to say or if he should say anything at all.  He desperately wanted to know what was on his father’s mind.  It was like watching a man tottering on the edge of a cliff.  One quick move…one wrong word and this opportunity would topple and be lost forever. 

The tension snapped in John and he turned, walking again.  Dean sighed and followed. 

“Did I ever tell you about my old man?” John asked as they walked.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “Your dad?” he asked.  John nodded.  Dean shrugged.  “Just that he left when you were young.”

“Yeah, I was just a kid.  I idolized him, wanted to be just like him when I grew up.  Then—”  He cleared his throat, buying a few seconds.  “Then one night, he put me to bed.  Hell, I can still see the rain hitting the windows as though it was just last night.  It will always be last night for me.”  His face was wreathed with old grief, but he gave Dean a rueful smile.  “He put me to bed, said he was going to work—and that was it.  He was gone.  No word, no goodbye, no nothing.”

“God Dad,” Dean said.

John reached up and scratched the nape of his neck, striving for casual but not nailing it.  “Yeah.  It was rough, you know?  I always thought it was something I did.  Something I said.  Something I didn’t do, maybe.  Who the hell knows?  It ate at me for years.  The guilt.  It ate at me, and his absence left a hole in me that nothing can fill.  I loved that sonofabitch.  Then I lost your mom…and now Sam.”  His throat hitched though he tried to cover it with a derisive snort.  “But I have a job to do.  I have a job I’m going to see through, so you gotta just put that stuff away.  And sometimes—sometimes I buy my own bullshit, yeah?  And that’s why I fucked up the hunt, Dean.  When I’m not with you and Sam, there’s a piece of me missing.  I’m not all there and the pishacha saw it.  I nearly killed you.  Christ, Dean.  I’m sorry.  I nearly killed my own son.”

“It’s okay, Dad.  It was a hunt.  In our line of work, that was a Thursday, right?” Dean said, making light, but it set John off all the more, and the man’s face fell.

John stopped in his tracks, and in one wild motion he pulled Dean into a crushing hug.  Dean couldn’t tell whether John was giving comfort or taking it.  But he braced his wound and gripped his dad’s jacket, holding on with all his might. 

“I never wanted you to feel the same way, Dean,” he said.  “I told myself that would never happen to my kids.   That’s one of the reasons I kept you with me as much as I could after your mom died.  I wasn’t going to just dump you on anyone else.”  He coughed, broke the hug abruptly and stuffed his hands in his pockets.  He squinted up at the sky and sighed.

“And I’m sorry about Sam,” John said.  Dean stared at his father in shock.  “I screwed that all to hell, too.”

“I miss him.”  The words came out of Dean’s mouth without thinking.

“I know you do, son.  And that’s on me.”

It was Dean’s turn to shrug and stare into the treetops, contemplating.  “He won’t answer my calls, so I doubt it’s all on you.”

“It’s not you, Dean.   Boy’s nineteen years old and has been scratching the same itch for the past fifteen years.  He’s not gone forever, Dean—not from you.  He loves you—looks up to you—idolizes you.  He does.  I see it every time he looks at you.  He’s never looked at me like that.  And he won’t ever.  But you?  He’ll come around for you, Dean.  Right now you just have to learn to let him go.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and snorted at the irony.  “You sound like the pishacha.” 

“This is different, Dean.  You don’t have to let him go for good.  You just have to let him go for now.”

Dean sighed.  “I guess.”  He swallowed.  “I’ll try.”

John nodded but didn’t say anything for a moment.  Without warning, he squinted and pointed to the very treetop they’d both been eyeing.  “Look at that!”

The juvenile eagle that had been well camouflaged in the tree flapped its wings as it let go of the branch it had been clinging to and swooped down, catching the wind as he dropped, and making a pass not far above their heads. 

“Wow!”  John said.  “That’s a hell of a thing!  Oh!  There’s another!  I didn’t even see them in that tree.”  A mature bald eagle followed the juvenile as it caught a thermal and spiraled high into the air.

“I guess the other one must be long gone, now,” Dean said, watching the birds.

“What other one?” John asked, searching the sky for a third bird.

“The other young one.  Flew off the day I got here.”  Both Winchesters turned and continued to walk.  “Gypsy always talked about the salmon run in the winter.  Said there were hundreds of eagles in the trees.  She loved eagles.”  The thought touched off his sadness and his shoulders slumped.

“They’ll take care of her,” John said, pointing to Mei and Jason who were standing in the distance.  “She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s good people—stubborn as a bulldog.  If anyone can help these people, she can.  She’ll find a way.  Come on, let’s go say goodbye and hit the road,” he said.  He snuffed in and kicked a pinecone as he walked.  “I got a call from Travis last night,” he ventured.

“Oh?”  Dean knew what was coming.  “How’s that crazy sonofabitch?” 

“Same old.  He heard of a fellow in Upstate New York.  The man has a daughter about Sam’s age.  His wife died near twenty years ago in a fire.” 

Dean stopped.  “What?”

John nodded.  “He claims she was pinned to the ceiling.  I thought I’d go check it out—talk to him.  See what he has to say.”

Dean gave a stoic nod.  “Oh, right.  Sure,” he said lamely.  “That’ll be a long drive for you.”

“Hell of a drive,” John agreed.  “I figured if we left now we could stop in Coeur d’Alene for the night.  Wasn’t that the town that had the all-night diner with the pie you loved?”

Dean stared at him, stunned.  “We?”

“Well, yeah.  You know?  Thought we could go talk to him.  See what he knows.  Find out what he saw.  There hasn’t been any activity around him for twenty years, so it should be safe enough.  Thought maybe you’d want to tag along.  You can’t do any strenuous hunts for a few weeks anyway.  We’ll lay low for a bit and then get back to work.  You up for it?”

“Yeah, Dad,” he said.  “Hell yeah.  I’m with  you.”  A smile spread across his thin face.  “I’m with you.”

* *

“Keep close.  Call me if you get tired or need a break,” John said as Dean shut the car door and rolled down the window.

“I got it,” Dean said.

“I mean it, Dean.  Don’t be a goddamned hero.”

“I said I got it, y’damn nag.”  Dean’s lips parted in a mischievous grin. 

John swirled his finger it in the air and pointing to the road—giving him the universal Let’s roll! sign.  John gave the hood of the car a fond pat and walked to his truck. 

As Dean pulled out, he looked at the compound one more time through his rear-view mirror.  Mei and Jason had said their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch, promising him updates on their work with the remaining members of The Kindred.  It wasn’t perfect, not by a long damned shot, but it was all there was to do for now.  He knew that Jason and Mei would do their best for them, knew that Mei wouldn’t give up.  It sucked, but the Jedis were in good hands.

Dean rolled down the window and settled back, breathing in the scent of damp pine.  The rough purr of the Impala trembled and throbbed around him and through him, a vibrant energy that brought him a sense of peace and well-being.  Popping in a tape, he smiled as the first bars of Back in Black filled the air.  He concentrated on the hypnotic beat of the song, drumming the steering wheel in time.  Chanting the lyrics loudly, he breathed deep, stilled his thoughts—and let go.     

The End.