Fic: Uncharted Territories (12/14) (SPN, Gen)
Chapter Twelve: Trials, Part Three: Tame the Ghosts in My Head
Chapter Word Count: 2,328
Total Fic Word Count: 27,092
|| Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven ||
|| Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven
~~~
Dean wasn't sure how long he had been walking, even with the sun overhead to mark the passage of time. It felt like a few hours, but it was probably longer, given the occasional rest breaks Dean forced himself to take when his muscles protested the continual movement. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve as he went, leaving streaks of dust in its wake. Dean was pausing for another rest break, sipping carefully at the water from one of his canteens-- the others had given him theirs, but Dean didn't want to waste such a precious resource -when he spotted what looked like a statue in the far distance. It was human-shaped, but Dean couldn't make out its exact features from this far away. He finished his water and then continued on, pushing past the dull aching in his calves and thighs.
He got a surprise when he finally reached the statue. Dean stopped dead, words utterly failing him. The statue was an exact replica of himself; a little too exact, in Dean's opinion, given that it was nude. As he looked closer, Dean could see that there were fine cracks spidering all across the surface of the statue.
“What the hell?” he breathed. At the sound of his voice, a shimmering gold light surrounded the statue. When it faded, the statue blinked and then looked at Dean, who took several hasty steps back.
“Hello, Dean,” the statue said with a voice like sandpaper over stone. “Two out of four Trials completed. Not bad.”
“Thanks?” Dean replied, still off balance. “Are you the Guardian or whatever of this Trial?”
The statue inclined its head in response, and Dean had to hide a shiver at that; stone should not be that flexible. “I am,” the statue said. “For the sake of saving time and confusion, you may call me Preston.”
“'Preston'? Not a name I'd expect from a talking statue,” Dean drawled. “Why do you look like me, and why the hell are you buck-ass naked?”
Preston looked down at himself momentarily and then shrugged. “The better to show you the state of yourself, I suspect. It changes with every supplicant. Are you ready to begin the Trial?”
“Might as well get it over as quickly as possible and not drag it out,” Dean said. Preston reached out and touched two gentle fingers to Dean's forehead in an achingly familiar gesture. The world as Dean knew it went pitch black; all of his senses were screaming at him with sudden disorientation.
“Don't panic,” Preston said from somewhere nearby.
“How the hell am I supposed to do that when I can't see anything?!” Dean snapped sharply.
“Relax. Now, Dean, I want you to listen to me and answer any questions I have as truthfully as possible. Can you do that for me?” Preston asked.
“Sure, why not?”
“Good. First question: what is your full name?”
“Dean Jacob Winchester,” Dean said.
“Very well. Dean Jacob Winchester: you are here to find a way out of Purgatory. Very few beings who have undertaken these Trials have succeeded in completing them. Should you be successful, what is your first act outside of that realm?”
“I'm going to find my brother, Sam,” Dean said immediately. “My anchor, Castiel, is coming back to Earth as well.”
“Let's talk about your brother. What is he to you besides your blood?” Preston inquired, sounding interested.
Dean sighed softly. Where did he start? “Sam... Sammy is everything to me. He's the only family I've got left. I practically raised the kid.” He smiled bittersweetly into the darkness. “I think I might have been more of a dad to him than our own father. I've gone to Hell for him. We share a heaven. I'm not sure I can really say much more than that, beside the fact that he's my whole heart.”
As Dean spoke, a ghostly image of Sam appeared out of the darkness, solidifying in front of him. A lopsided smile graced the image's face, and Dean's heart ached to see the familiar visage of his brother so close and yet so far away.
“You say that your brother is everything to you. Are you everything to him? What lengths would he go to in order to save you? Would he sacrifice himself as completely as you did for him?” Preston asked, his raspy voice solemn.
“He already has,” Dean said quietly. “He's given too damn much. We all have, to be honest.”
“And what do you think he is doing right now while you are here in Purgatory?”
Dean shrugged, not knowing or caring if Preston could see the motion. “Assuming he's still kicking, living his life, I hope,” he said. “It's what we promised to do if we lost one another. I tried it for a year, but it... it didn't really work out. Hell, Sam's probably living the apple pie life as we speak.”
“Would you like to see for yourself?”
Dean blinked. He hadn't been expecting the chance to see Sam until after the trials were over and he and Cas were back where they belonged.. “I-- Sure. Why not?”
“Very well. You may not like what you see, though.”
“Whatever you've got to show me, I can take it,” Dean said firmly.
The ghostly figure of Sam blurred and faded into a thin sheen of fog before forming into something that resembled a projector screen. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then an image slowly appeared on the screen. It was in color, and showed Sam and a woman Dean didn't recognize. The two of them were sitting on a couch, both reading books. The woman had her feet propped up on an armrest of the couch, her back resting against Sam's right shoulder. They looked comfortable around each other; Sam would occasionally stop reading and speak to the dark-haired woman, though Dean couldn't hear what it was his brother had said, as Sam had spoken too quietly for whatever ethereal microphone was picking the conversation up to register.
The woman laughed at Sam's words, the sound light and happy. Sam grinned at the woman's reaction, his entire face lighting up with the easy, relaxed expression. Dean's heart ached again, but it was a bittersweet pain. Bitter in that he wasn't the cause of Sam's mirth, but happy in that Sam had finally found someone he could truly be himself with.
“When are the others coming?” Sam asked. The woman shrugged.
“They should be here soon,” she said, closing her book. “Adam's upstairs sleeping still, but I'll wake him up when everyone else gets here.”
“Good,” Sam said. “I thought the storm earlier might bother him.”
“It did, but I eventually got him to settle down.” The woman sighed softly. “It's going to take some time before he's able to sleep through the thunder.” She shook her head. “One step at a time, I guess.”
“You'll manage it. I've got faith in you.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“No problem. So, what's the plan for dinner?”
“Well, I was thinking about...”
The image faded out slowly, taking the sound with it and leaving only the thin screen of fog behind. Dean smiled softly to himself, letting out a soft huff of fond laughter. “Good for you, Sammy,” he murmured.
“You seem pleased for your brother,” Preston observed.
“Well, yeah,” Dean said. “You saw how happy he looked. I'm not going to get pissed just because he found someone who's able to make him laugh like that. It's been years since that's happened, so I'm not going to begrudge the guy a little happiness.”
Preston made a soft noise of consideration. “Sam isn't your only brother, though, is he?” he asked.
“No,” Dean said, his mood turning pensive immediately, “but Adam... Adam's still trapped in the Cage. There's nothing I can really do for him, even if I wanted to.”
“Really? You couldn't ask Death for another favor, or your friend Castiel to get him for you? They saved Sam for you; what's one more?”
Dean tensed, one fist clenching at his side. “Death doesn't owe me anything, and Cas... Cas has done more than enough for us. Look at what happened to him the last time he helped us: he took Sam's crazy in and paid the price for it. I'm not about to impose on him even more.”
“So, you care for Adam?”
“Of course I do!” Dean said emphatically. “I'd do damn near anything to get him free, but I don't have any way to do anything, so I can't.”
“And if you could?”
“I'd do it in a heartbeat. Why are we talking about Adam and Sam, anyways? Isn't this trial supposed to be about me or something?”
“Ah, but a man is not simply defined by who he is,” Preston said. “He is also defined by those who he affects. In your case, your family, blood or not, are the people who define you. Your father molded you into the man you are today; your mother gave you a heart for people; Sam constantly acts as your anchor in a constantly shifting world; Adam, brief as your time with him was, showed you that you and Sam weren't the only ones sharing the blood of John Winchester; Robert Singer acted like a surrogate uncle and father when your own father was unable to. Shall I go on?” Preston asked. “I haven't even begun to describe how your relationship with that angel of yours has changed you, and so much for the better, too. So you see, the definition of a man extends far beyond just his name. Tell me, Dean Winchester: how would you say the people who you love so fiercely and have died for define you?”
“Brother.” That one was easy, at least, and one of the most important. “Son. Hunter. Friend. Protector. Warrior.” Dean paused, wracking his brains for anything else. “Um, I'm not sure what else. To be honest, I'd probably be better able to tell you how people who don't like me view me.”
“Then do so.”
“Criminal. Murderer. Thief. Desecrator. Reject. Torturer. Monster. Abomination. Liar. Take your pick, I'm sure there's more,” Dean said with a scowl.
“This isn't the Weighing of Souls, Dean,” Preston told him. “Ammit will not devour your heart should you prove to not be worthy; Osiris will not stand as judge, jury, and executioner. Back in the Haven of the angels, you were taken to a dark chamber. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, one hand going up to fiddle with the amulet he still wore, “of course.”
“Then you remember being shown what your soul looked and sounded like?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. It was surprisingly bright, actually. Not what I expected, to be honest, especially not after all the crap I've been through.”
“Exactly,” Preston said emphatically. “Your soul may be tarnished, but it still shines like a beacon. Why do you think the angels were so enthusiastic about having you become Michael's true vessel? As you saw, there were others suitable for the task, but they ignored that fact until it was the only option they had. You were the Righteous Man, and that title was not simply because you gave your life for another. Many people have done that over the course of history, and often for the same reason-- love -but they didn't always have the strong ties that you do to your brother. You yourself said that you share a heaven, and that rarely happens between siblings. You are a leader, Dean, yet another reason why you were so desirable for Michael to have as his vessel.
“However, both you and Sam overcame the forced destiny that the forces of Heaven planned for you, and in a spectacular way too that saved literally billions of lives. You have shaped the world around you, and for the better, even if your actions remain in the shadows. Sometimes, the strongest forces are those that cannot be seen. Gravity, for example, or the wind. You are a good man, Dean, and one strong enough to make it through what lies ahead.”
Dean felt a cool touch to the center of his forehead and then the darkness slowly receded. Dean found himself standing at the base of a mountain. He craned his head, looking up at the craggy rock jutting up above him.
“You have successfully endured the Trial of the Soul and have been found worthy, Dean Jacob Winchester,” Preston said from behind him. Dean turned around to find that the now-unblemished stone man was holding out a quarter disc made of brass. Dean took the cool metal from Preston's hand with a surprised expression.
“That was it? But all I did was talk about myself!”
Preston inclined his head. “True,” he said, “but you recognized your faults and took possession of them. In line with that, you did not let those faults rule you, nor your accomplishments. You have your vices and your virtues, and you know them well. That is a mark of someone who is worthy to continue on. Now, your next trial ends at the top of that mountain; the Keeper awaits you there. May luck favor you, Dean.”
With that, Preston turned on his heel and walked away, moving at a fast enough pace that he soon disappeared into the distance, the grassy plain swallowing him up. Dean put the token in the pocket with its fellows and then turned back to look up at the mountain once again. A rough path started nearby, so Dean made his way toward it and began his trek up the mountain.
Chapter Word Count: 2,328
Total Fic Word Count: 27,092
|| Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven ||
|| Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven
~~~
Dean wasn't sure how long he had been walking, even with the sun overhead to mark the passage of time. It felt like a few hours, but it was probably longer, given the occasional rest breaks Dean forced himself to take when his muscles protested the continual movement. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve as he went, leaving streaks of dust in its wake. Dean was pausing for another rest break, sipping carefully at the water from one of his canteens-- the others had given him theirs, but Dean didn't want to waste such a precious resource -when he spotted what looked like a statue in the far distance. It was human-shaped, but Dean couldn't make out its exact features from this far away. He finished his water and then continued on, pushing past the dull aching in his calves and thighs.
He got a surprise when he finally reached the statue. Dean stopped dead, words utterly failing him. The statue was an exact replica of himself; a little too exact, in Dean's opinion, given that it was nude. As he looked closer, Dean could see that there were fine cracks spidering all across the surface of the statue.
“What the hell?” he breathed. At the sound of his voice, a shimmering gold light surrounded the statue. When it faded, the statue blinked and then looked at Dean, who took several hasty steps back.
“Hello, Dean,” the statue said with a voice like sandpaper over stone. “Two out of four Trials completed. Not bad.”
“Thanks?” Dean replied, still off balance. “Are you the Guardian or whatever of this Trial?”
The statue inclined its head in response, and Dean had to hide a shiver at that; stone should not be that flexible. “I am,” the statue said. “For the sake of saving time and confusion, you may call me Preston.”
“'Preston'? Not a name I'd expect from a talking statue,” Dean drawled. “Why do you look like me, and why the hell are you buck-ass naked?”
Preston looked down at himself momentarily and then shrugged. “The better to show you the state of yourself, I suspect. It changes with every supplicant. Are you ready to begin the Trial?”
“Might as well get it over as quickly as possible and not drag it out,” Dean said. Preston reached out and touched two gentle fingers to Dean's forehead in an achingly familiar gesture. The world as Dean knew it went pitch black; all of his senses were screaming at him with sudden disorientation.
“Don't panic,” Preston said from somewhere nearby.
“How the hell am I supposed to do that when I can't see anything?!” Dean snapped sharply.
“Relax. Now, Dean, I want you to listen to me and answer any questions I have as truthfully as possible. Can you do that for me?” Preston asked.
“Sure, why not?”
“Good. First question: what is your full name?”
“Dean Jacob Winchester,” Dean said.
“Very well. Dean Jacob Winchester: you are here to find a way out of Purgatory. Very few beings who have undertaken these Trials have succeeded in completing them. Should you be successful, what is your first act outside of that realm?”
“I'm going to find my brother, Sam,” Dean said immediately. “My anchor, Castiel, is coming back to Earth as well.”
“Let's talk about your brother. What is he to you besides your blood?” Preston inquired, sounding interested.
Dean sighed softly. Where did he start? “Sam... Sammy is everything to me. He's the only family I've got left. I practically raised the kid.” He smiled bittersweetly into the darkness. “I think I might have been more of a dad to him than our own father. I've gone to Hell for him. We share a heaven. I'm not sure I can really say much more than that, beside the fact that he's my whole heart.”
As Dean spoke, a ghostly image of Sam appeared out of the darkness, solidifying in front of him. A lopsided smile graced the image's face, and Dean's heart ached to see the familiar visage of his brother so close and yet so far away.
“You say that your brother is everything to you. Are you everything to him? What lengths would he go to in order to save you? Would he sacrifice himself as completely as you did for him?” Preston asked, his raspy voice solemn.
“He already has,” Dean said quietly. “He's given too damn much. We all have, to be honest.”
“And what do you think he is doing right now while you are here in Purgatory?”
Dean shrugged, not knowing or caring if Preston could see the motion. “Assuming he's still kicking, living his life, I hope,” he said. “It's what we promised to do if we lost one another. I tried it for a year, but it... it didn't really work out. Hell, Sam's probably living the apple pie life as we speak.”
“Would you like to see for yourself?”
Dean blinked. He hadn't been expecting the chance to see Sam until after the trials were over and he and Cas were back where they belonged.. “I-- Sure. Why not?”
“Very well. You may not like what you see, though.”
“Whatever you've got to show me, I can take it,” Dean said firmly.
The ghostly figure of Sam blurred and faded into a thin sheen of fog before forming into something that resembled a projector screen. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then an image slowly appeared on the screen. It was in color, and showed Sam and a woman Dean didn't recognize. The two of them were sitting on a couch, both reading books. The woman had her feet propped up on an armrest of the couch, her back resting against Sam's right shoulder. They looked comfortable around each other; Sam would occasionally stop reading and speak to the dark-haired woman, though Dean couldn't hear what it was his brother had said, as Sam had spoken too quietly for whatever ethereal microphone was picking the conversation up to register.
The woman laughed at Sam's words, the sound light and happy. Sam grinned at the woman's reaction, his entire face lighting up with the easy, relaxed expression. Dean's heart ached again, but it was a bittersweet pain. Bitter in that he wasn't the cause of Sam's mirth, but happy in that Sam had finally found someone he could truly be himself with.
“When are the others coming?” Sam asked. The woman shrugged.
“They should be here soon,” she said, closing her book. “Adam's upstairs sleeping still, but I'll wake him up when everyone else gets here.”
“Good,” Sam said. “I thought the storm earlier might bother him.”
“It did, but I eventually got him to settle down.” The woman sighed softly. “It's going to take some time before he's able to sleep through the thunder.” She shook her head. “One step at a time, I guess.”
“You'll manage it. I've got faith in you.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“No problem. So, what's the plan for dinner?”
“Well, I was thinking about...”
The image faded out slowly, taking the sound with it and leaving only the thin screen of fog behind. Dean smiled softly to himself, letting out a soft huff of fond laughter. “Good for you, Sammy,” he murmured.
“You seem pleased for your brother,” Preston observed.
“Well, yeah,” Dean said. “You saw how happy he looked. I'm not going to get pissed just because he found someone who's able to make him laugh like that. It's been years since that's happened, so I'm not going to begrudge the guy a little happiness.”
Preston made a soft noise of consideration. “Sam isn't your only brother, though, is he?” he asked.
“No,” Dean said, his mood turning pensive immediately, “but Adam... Adam's still trapped in the Cage. There's nothing I can really do for him, even if I wanted to.”
“Really? You couldn't ask Death for another favor, or your friend Castiel to get him for you? They saved Sam for you; what's one more?”
Dean tensed, one fist clenching at his side. “Death doesn't owe me anything, and Cas... Cas has done more than enough for us. Look at what happened to him the last time he helped us: he took Sam's crazy in and paid the price for it. I'm not about to impose on him even more.”
“So, you care for Adam?”
“Of course I do!” Dean said emphatically. “I'd do damn near anything to get him free, but I don't have any way to do anything, so I can't.”
“And if you could?”
“I'd do it in a heartbeat. Why are we talking about Adam and Sam, anyways? Isn't this trial supposed to be about me or something?”
“Ah, but a man is not simply defined by who he is,” Preston said. “He is also defined by those who he affects. In your case, your family, blood or not, are the people who define you. Your father molded you into the man you are today; your mother gave you a heart for people; Sam constantly acts as your anchor in a constantly shifting world; Adam, brief as your time with him was, showed you that you and Sam weren't the only ones sharing the blood of John Winchester; Robert Singer acted like a surrogate uncle and father when your own father was unable to. Shall I go on?” Preston asked. “I haven't even begun to describe how your relationship with that angel of yours has changed you, and so much for the better, too. So you see, the definition of a man extends far beyond just his name. Tell me, Dean Winchester: how would you say the people who you love so fiercely and have died for define you?”
“Brother.” That one was easy, at least, and one of the most important. “Son. Hunter. Friend. Protector. Warrior.” Dean paused, wracking his brains for anything else. “Um, I'm not sure what else. To be honest, I'd probably be better able to tell you how people who don't like me view me.”
“Then do so.”
“Criminal. Murderer. Thief. Desecrator. Reject. Torturer. Monster. Abomination. Liar. Take your pick, I'm sure there's more,” Dean said with a scowl.
“This isn't the Weighing of Souls, Dean,” Preston told him. “Ammit will not devour your heart should you prove to not be worthy; Osiris will not stand as judge, jury, and executioner. Back in the Haven of the angels, you were taken to a dark chamber. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, one hand going up to fiddle with the amulet he still wore, “of course.”
“Then you remember being shown what your soul looked and sounded like?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. It was surprisingly bright, actually. Not what I expected, to be honest, especially not after all the crap I've been through.”
“Exactly,” Preston said emphatically. “Your soul may be tarnished, but it still shines like a beacon. Why do you think the angels were so enthusiastic about having you become Michael's true vessel? As you saw, there were others suitable for the task, but they ignored that fact until it was the only option they had. You were the Righteous Man, and that title was not simply because you gave your life for another. Many people have done that over the course of history, and often for the same reason-- love -but they didn't always have the strong ties that you do to your brother. You yourself said that you share a heaven, and that rarely happens between siblings. You are a leader, Dean, yet another reason why you were so desirable for Michael to have as his vessel.
“However, both you and Sam overcame the forced destiny that the forces of Heaven planned for you, and in a spectacular way too that saved literally billions of lives. You have shaped the world around you, and for the better, even if your actions remain in the shadows. Sometimes, the strongest forces are those that cannot be seen. Gravity, for example, or the wind. You are a good man, Dean, and one strong enough to make it through what lies ahead.”
Dean felt a cool touch to the center of his forehead and then the darkness slowly receded. Dean found himself standing at the base of a mountain. He craned his head, looking up at the craggy rock jutting up above him.
“You have successfully endured the Trial of the Soul and have been found worthy, Dean Jacob Winchester,” Preston said from behind him. Dean turned around to find that the now-unblemished stone man was holding out a quarter disc made of brass. Dean took the cool metal from Preston's hand with a surprised expression.
“That was it? But all I did was talk about myself!”
Preston inclined his head. “True,” he said, “but you recognized your faults and took possession of them. In line with that, you did not let those faults rule you, nor your accomplishments. You have your vices and your virtues, and you know them well. That is a mark of someone who is worthy to continue on. Now, your next trial ends at the top of that mountain; the Keeper awaits you there. May luck favor you, Dean.”
With that, Preston turned on his heel and walked away, moving at a fast enough pace that he soon disappeared into the distance, the grassy plain swallowing him up. Dean put the token in the pocket with its fellows and then turned back to look up at the mountain once again. A rough path started nearby, so Dean made his way toward it and began his trek up the mountain.