Author's Note: A birthday one-shot written for my best friend, Nooneym. Enjoy~

Dean decided to take a short hike through the desert that afternoon to calm his nerves from his daily grind at work. He had gone through the desert trails of Sloan Canyon Conservation Area many times before, so he didn't worry about losing his way. On this occasion, however, he managed to get himself completely turned around.

Nonetheless, he didn't let his situation concern him. He always traveled in the desert with a pack of emergency supplies: extra food and water, a fire starter, knife, flashlight, a thermal blanket, and a flare gun. He could rough it a few days on that at least. But he was certain he would be out of there by then.

"You should carry a cell phone out there, Dean," Roman cautioned him repeatedly.

"No I don't," he argued, "Besides the reception is so shitty where I hike that I probably wouldn't get a signal. That's how I like it too. No one to bug me about this or that."

Dean could almost hear his best friend's voice berating him for getting lost without any form of communication: "That's what walkies are for. Now look at the shit you're in, Rambo."

"I'm lost right now, doesn't mean I'll stay lost." Dean used his fingers to measure the height of the sun above the horizon. "I've still got a three hours of day light left."

Another hour passed, and he had yet to be able to get back on the trail, when a sight caused him to pause atop of a ridge. In the desert valley below, about three miles or so, stood what looked like a music stage, a collection of tents, and fire pits. From this range, the people looked like a colony of ants milling about.

Dean first believed it could possibly be a mirage, but the thing about them was that they merely messed with the sense of sight. Not with hearing. He could just barely pick out the subtle sound of drums and guitar riffs sifting through giant amplifiers, a singer's voice traveling up from the bottom of the valley. No, this wasn't an illusion.

"It's too late for Burning Man," he scoffed, but proceeded to begin hiking towards the concert or gathering or whatever it was. Rule number one when you're lost in the wilderness: search for people or civilization. If he really hoofed it, he could make it there in under an hour.

The closer he came to the concert, the more he was able to take note of the music being played. It was odd to say the least. Though it was played with modern instruments, the music their players gave birth to was the most bizarre sound he had ever heard. It was a low humming frequency that he felt more than heard. And the vocals were completely indiscernible, not because the singer (strangely he couldn't tell the gender) didn't speak clearly, but because they seemed to be sung in a very unfamiliar, almost ancient, language.

Dean attempted to place what he was hearing, to categorize it, but he failed over and over again. He definitely wouldn't call this his style of music, but at the same time he found he was unable to extricate himself from wanting to stay and listen longer to it.

Dumping his pack, Dean entered the throng of humanity with a single goal in mind: to be as close to the music as possible. All around him bodies danced and writhed to the otherworldly melody, apparently as enthralled as he was. Dean also wouldn't call this dancing music, but somehow he was losing himself to the beat.

Something in the back of his reptile brain screamed: Warning dumbass! Not everything is right here! Perhaps it was due in part to the fact that since his arrival at this strange gathering, he could not quite get a clear fix on the features of any one person around him, not so much as a glimpse of anything resembling a face. Not even the people performing on stage could be truly seen.

Dean usually listened to his gut instinct, but this time he brushed off the inkling, too caught up in the energies surrounding him.

Suddenly someone bumped into him and his entire right side became drenched in a cold liquid, most likely beer. "Son of a bitch!" he shouted at the freezing shock of it.

"Oh shit! I'm so sorry, man!" a remorseful voice cried over the din of the concert.

Dean stopped wiping his hands fruitlessly at his sopping wet shirt and looked up, coming face to face with, well a face – the first one he had actually seen at this concert. The face belonged to another man, one not too far off from his age, height, or build.

But that's where their similarities ended. This man wore his brunet hair long, just passed his shoulders, a dark beard covering his jaw and framing his pink lips. Twin pools of soft brown gazed earnestly back at him beneath dark brows. His skin was a lovely bronze pallor, not in the way of an avid sunbather, but naturally. Rounding out his look was a black band shirt that stretched across the muscles of his chest and arms, and jeans so skinny the man appeared to have been poured into them.

Dean was quite convinced he had never seen a person, man or woman, more beautiful than this stranger.

When he continued to stare without speaking, the nameless man smile sheepishly, "Why don't I express my apologies by buying you a new shirt and a shot?"

Finding himself totally incapable of saying no, much less listening to a far off part of him pleading to get directions and find his way back to his black Ford pick up, Dean gave a smile. "How courteous of you. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Good," the other man breathed a chuckle. "I'm Seth by the way."

"Finally a name to go with the face. Dean's the name."

"Nice to meet ya, Dean."

They shook hands and Dean instantly felt an amalgamation of sensations when they touched. His heart skipped, then danced rapidly against his ribcage, his lungs seized momentarily, an exhilarating current of electricity zipped through him, and finally a pleasant feeling of affinity for the man before him settled in his chest.

Seth also gave a sort of start at the contact, dark eyes meeting his again. They stood like that for a time, seemingly analyzing and basking in their mutual connection.

"Follow me," Seth said thickly, as though the words were caught in his throat.

Dean followed without hesitation. Like the music Seth drew him inexplicably into his gravity.

At some point they began walking hand in hand so not to lose one another in the crowd. In that short amount of time, having Seth's hand in his quickly became as natural as breathing. It felt like it belonged there.

Seth first took him to a tent selling band t-shirts. Dean didn't really care what kind of shirt he received, so while Seth talked to the vender, he warmed himself by a fire pit.

"Here ya go," Seth called upon returning, tossing him the new t-shirt.

Dean shed himself of his wet Pearl Jam shirt, tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, and happily slipped on the fresh one. When he looked down at his torso, he saw a symbol printed in white on the black fabric. The symbol looked arcane and a little weird, but he found it strangely suitable all the same.

"Looks good on you," said Seth, a slight blush dusting his cheeks in the firelight.

Heat flooded Dean's face at the compliment. He'd never received such words from a man before, so he didn't expect how much he enjoyed hearing them from Seth. "Thanks," he murmured.

Seth fidgeted with his hands for a moment, his eyes going far-off before he seemed to return to the present. He smiled at Dean then and said, "Let's get that drink, shall we?"

They went to another tent and Seth ordered two shots. Dean didn't catch the names of the drinks, but he didn't really care. Surely Seth knew what was good there. Besides, Dean was too busy trying to see the two bartenders.

He could see the shapes of them, shadows scurrying about the tent in the lowering light of the evening. He could also hear a few snatches of what seemed to be a conversation from the two dark figures. One sounded mildly nervous, while the other talked in blunt, insensitive tones.

Dean was about to ask Seth why he could see no one else except for him, but his new acquaintance cut him off by handing him an ordinary shot glass. "Here you go." He lifted his own glass toward Dean's. "Cheers?"

"Cheers," Dean echoed, and they clinked glasses before both of them downed the contents at the same time.

The liquor burned all way down with the white-hot intensity of an inferno, causing Dean to make a myriad of faces displaying his displeasure. "What is this shit?" he all but gagged. "Gasoline?"

"It's called Soul Reaper," Seth explained, looking completely unfazed by the drink.

"I believe it." Dean shivered, but managed to keep everything down.

Once the burning finally subsided, the drink settled nicely in his belly, spreading pleasantly throughout his limbs. Maybe he could learn to like this Soul Reaper drink.

"Not so bad, is it?" Seth asked with a grin.

"No," Dean returned the smile. "Not once I got passed the mule kick to the throat."

Seth laughed and Dean found himself instantly liking the imperfections of the sound. "I like how you talk, Dean."

"I've always been told I have this certain charm."

"I can see why," Seth readily agreed, his body slowly leaning in towards Dean's, eyelids becoming hooded.

As though by nature of magnetism, Dean felt himself drifting closer to Seth; eager to find out what would happen when they met in the middle.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" came the voice of the nervous bartender. The clarity of his words seemed to break the spell Seth held over Dean, causing him to look over.

The man who had just spoken also looked to be in his and Seth's age group, with short ginger hair peeking out from under a black newsboy cap and a matching beard. When he wasn't pouring drinks, he had a habit of talking with his hands.

"He's finally of age," said the ginger's grumpy bartending partner. "So he gets to decide what is to be done this year."

This guy was the ginger's height, but with more barrel-like proportions. He wore his brown hair closely cropped with some mild spiking at the top. A grizzled beard took up the lower half of his face.

"I-I can see them," Dean muttered in disbelief.

Not only could he see the bartenders, in addition to Seth, but everyone else within the crowd as well.

To the left there was group of five women dancing sensually to the music. Each of them had colorful hair: orange, magenta, one black with dips green at the ends, another blonde with pink ends, and the last with blue on one side and pink on the other. Their skin shimmered in the rapidly increasing darkness. Their hair too seemed to glow and slightly change shade with their exotic movements.

To the right walked a man who looked like his generation's revamp of James Dean, with a pair of low-slung jeans and an open leather jacket with the collar popped up, revealing his bare chest beneath. The man was a bit wiry, but had chiseled abs for miles. He had piercing chunks of ice for eyes and his every step was as calculating as his gaze. When the man glanced Dean's way, his glacial eyes seemed to flash peculiarly.

"I can see them!" Dean exclaimed again.

"Of course you can," Seth said, seeming almost bored now that Dean's attentions were elsewhere. "Why wouldn't you?"

When Dean's eyes returned to Seth, he gave a little start. Nearly the entire right side of Seth's once pristine dark brown hair was now painted platinum blond. "Y-Your hair…"

"What about it?" One dark eyebrow rose in bewilderment.

"Wasn't it…all brown?" Again the warning bells began to ring in Dean's head.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Seth fingered his blond patch almost self-consciously. "I've always had it. Didn't you notice?"

Dean suddenly felt irrationally bad for not seeing it before. Of course it had to always have been there. Maybe all the hiking in the heat had gone to his brain more than he realized.

"I'm sorry Seth. I think I'm just a little out of it. It really suits you." And it did in Dean's opinion.

"You think so?" Seth shyly tucked some strands of blond behind his ear.

"Yeah." Dean placed a hand under Seth's chin, lifting his head. "Looks really nice."

Doe eyes glistened up at him and Dean couldn't stop himself from pressing a small kiss to Seth's lips. The contact was simple and brief, but it made Dean feel like he became further entwined with Seth. Melting instantly in his arms, Seth seemed to share the same sentiment.

They parted and Seth smiled fondly at him. He then took Dean's hand and began dragging him back into the crowd. "This is my favorite song. Let's go mosh!" he called over his shoulder.

Dean hadn't moshed since he his late teens or early twenties – he couldn't quite remember – but tonight he was up for it.

Once they reached the edge of the mosh pit, Seth jumped into the fray without hesitation, stomping this way and that, his arms wind milling, his hair whipping wildly. Laughing at Seth's enthusiasm, Dean couldn't stay on the sidelines for long. He jumped in as well, thrashing to the best of his ability.

At first he was lost in his own world, taking in the music and letting it move through him. At times he would feel Seth's presence beside him or catch snatches of the other moshers in the pit: a heavily tattooed guy with a long, slicked-back mohawk, a diminutive, yet wild brunette woman, and 2018 James Dean among them.

Then he perceived a change in the music. Mostly the difference lay in how it affected him. It still had that low frequency pitch that bordered between abhorrent and addicting. But now the instruments seemed to pick up a new quality. Like the notes and chords were actually words, speaking to him on a level his brain couldn't fathom, but the marrow of his bones could. The singing he once couldn't make sense of now could be fully understood, but only on the same level as the instruments.

This change in the song reverberated in him, making him lose his equilibrium. He stopped momentarily and took in his surroundings.

The woman, who already looked a bit crazed to begin with – hair and eyes wild –now sported shark's teeth within her equally feral smile. She laughed with a manic quality that disturbed him.

Dean shook his head to shake the terrible vision from his sight, only to turn his eyes upon the tattooed dude. The man appeared the same. Except for when Dean studied him more thoroughly; his tattoos came to life on his skin, shifting and twisting grotesquely.

Turning wide eyes towards Seth, Dean briefly wondered if he also was witnessing these weird happenings. The question died on his lips when his gaze fell on his new friend/boyfriend – whatever it was that they were now.

Seth was moving so fast he appeared to become fuzzy around the edges. Dean rubbed frantically at his eyes. The action didn't help much. In fact Seth seemed only to move faster, blurring to the point of becoming wraithlike. Dean could only stand and watch, eyes transfixed on Seth's motions and shining blond patch while his brain attempted to catch up with what he was seeing.

"What the hell was in that drink?" he muttered to himself.

Someone else bumped harshly into him then.

It was James Dean. And he looked angry with him for having messed up his moshing rhythm. But at least he looked relatively normal.

For all of five seconds.

Blackness crept over James Dean's skin, covering his face and upper body. His eyes turned completely white as long black and red tendrils sprouted from his scalp. Lastly a gaping maw - complete with sharp teeth and a disgustingly long tongue, burst forth from his flesh – consuming the lower half of his face and much of his chest.

A yelp came unbidden from Dean's lips. He quickly backpedaled away from the menacing…thing…looming just a mere foot from him.

"Dean!" he heard Seth call out to him like a beacon of hope.

But as he turned his head in the direction of his voice, Dean's vision became consumed by a sea of monsters – some less human than others – squirming over each other to get at him.

He scrambled away from the seething mass, but was swiftly met with another wall of hideous creatures. He was surrounded.

"Fuck!" he screamed and proceeded to kick the closest one, a fish-looking freak, in what amounted to be the sternum area. The creature from the black lagoon fell over, taking several of his misshapen brethren down with him.

A small opening was created and Dean didn't hesitate to take it, racing over the bodies of the fallen monstrosities. Their kin shrieked in animosity to his actions, a terrible din that grated at his ears.

"Dean!" He vaguely heard Seth's voice again, but he ignored it.

He found a way to block out the offensive calls of the beasts around him and continued to fight his way through the crowd, kicking and punching without concern of holding back. His fists were cracked and bleeding, and strange substances stained them, but he paid them little attention.

"Dean!"

Stick and move. Stick and move.

"DEAN!"

Just a little further and maybe he had a chance.

"Tarchéimnigh!"

A new voice seemed to thunder over every other noise. It reverberated through Dean, making his body ring like he was a tuning fork. He soon fell to the ground, overcome by a sudden rippling pain that vibrated through him, tearing him apart and recombining him at the molecular level. His chest felt like it was on fire, and something was splitting through the flesh of his shoulder blades from within.

Through the agony he managed to spot the figure of the gaping mouthed-tentacle monster in silhouette. His was vision too blurry from pain to take in any further details, but he'd forever know that impending shadow anywhere. As Gaping Mouth stared him down with apparent menace, his kin once again surrounded Dean. They all shared in their apparent ringleader's displeasure, shrieking their malice at him.

"Bálor, wait!" Seth flashed into the scene and threw his body protectively upon Dean's.

Gaping Mouth, or Bálor, and his band of creatures halted in their ominous approach. "This was your decision," Bálor told Seth, an Irish lilt accenting his dark tone. "Now it is your responsibility to sort out."

He felt Seth nod. "I understand."

"W-What's g-going on?" Dean was barely able to speak through the chattering of his teeth.

Seth pulled back then, giving Dean a good look at him. He too was transformed, but not so completely nor as monstrously. However, the fact that only Seth's bare torso remained – dark tendrils resembling entrails trailing down from where he was bisected – made him no less frightening.

Frightening and – Dean startled with horror at his own thought – exquisite.

"Calm down, Dean," he spoke soothingly with a mouth that appeared to have been slashed wide at the corners and then stitched closed from cheeks to lips.

Dean's shivering calmed to a mild tremor.

"That's it, shhh."

"A-Am I dreaming?" Dean asked.

Seth shook his head. "I called you here."

"For what? What is this place?"

"This is the In Between." Seth began with answering the latter question. "Where at particular times the mortal world and the plane of we Daemons intersect. During these times, Daemons bridge over to the mortal plane. Long ago humans called this event The Wild Hunt. Of course, we've adjusted things to modern times."

"Why did you call me here?" Dean repeated more urgently.

Seth looked to the side, like he was worried about how the answer would be received. "As a sacrifice."

The blood in Dean's veins chilled what this man – this Daemon – revealed to him. The words flayed his already damaged psyche open. "You were going to kill me?"

"I was at first," Seth replied. "We need to feed…and food is becoming scarcer, and we're becoming fewer and fewer. I became old enough to join in on making decisions, so tonight was my night."

'There are two choices we can make for sacrifices," he explained. "Kill and feed on the human outright, or feed on the human's soul and turn the human Daemon. The smart decision for me to pick would have been for you to die. We could have lived for years on your carcass, maybe could have lured in even more people. Adding another mouth to feed would be the unwise choice."

Dean flinched a little when Seth reached out to him, but found himself settling into the Daemon's tender touch.

"But as soon as I saw you, touched you, I knew. I knew I wanted you, knew that I needed to have you." He caressed Dean's cheek adoringly. "I knew that you would make a lovely Daemon, Dean."

When he looked over his own appearance, Dean first instinct was to scream. It came out in the same abysmal shriek that erupted from the other Daemons earlier, except it was infused with sadness and fear. His body had taken on a transition that gave him the same ghastly attributes as Seth.

Quickly pulling Dean's severed torso against his own, Seth held him in a way that stole his breath away – if he was even still capable of breathing in the human sense. "Everything will okay. I was like you once," he whispered, stroking the vestigial wings sprouting from Dean's back.

It didn't take long for the anxiety and misery to seep out of Dean, leaving him once more with a sense that this was where he was supposed to be: in Seth's Daemon arms.

Dean's tendrils intertwined with Seth's as he returned the embrace, arms molding them together to the point that they could almost be considered one being.

This is where I belong.

It had been almost one year to the day that Dean had went missing.

Nothing had been found of the would-have-been thirty-three year old. Not a personal affect, a boot print, not a body. Not a trace.

The authorities had seemed to give up on finding Dean in the time that had passed. "The Sloan Canyon Conservation Area is huge. If he went missing there, it will take a fine tooth comb to find him," the sheriff had said. "If anyone were to find him, it would be by sheer accident."

Even Dean's own flesh and blood had accepted that and moved on.

But not Roman.

Dean was more than his best friend; he was his brother – not connected through blood, but through choice, a mutual familial love and understanding. He knew Dean had gone into the Sloan Canyon when he went missing, because he knew Dean frequented that desert most when he said he was going hiking. Plus it was just a feeling.

Fine tooth comb my ass, I'll search with a damn toothbrush if I have to.

So he spent the last six months trekking into the Sloan Canyon when he was able. First going over the trails he'd been on with Dean before, then into areas that he didn't know so well. When he began, he had been able to organize searches with his other friends. But the longer the searches went without any clues, more and more people would bow out. So he continued on, alone.

Though he was a one-man team now, Roman didn't leave any stone unturned in his lone expeditions. Even so, it took him all of those six months just to cover just under half of the park.

But he wasn't ready to give up.

Today he had gone over a new patch of ground he hadn't checked previously, the desert valley. He had to be careful here as the trails were harder to spot.

Roman sighed and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. "Time to call it a day, I guess" he told the sun, realizing how low it was getting in the sky.

He took a swig from his water canteen before turning to retrace his steps out of the valley. It was then that his foot caught on something sticking out of the sand. He steadied himself and squinted down at the unknown object.

It was a strap of dense fabric, like canvas material.

Intrigued, Roman bent down to further examine it. He dusted away the sand only to find that what he had unearthed was the top of a worn hiking backpack. The rest lay beneath the sand.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, he began frantically clawing at the sand until the pack was completely revealed. It was dusty, so a little indistinct, yet hope filled him when he saw a keychain of a middle finger dangling off one of the zippers.

He unzipped it to find protein bars, water canteens, and what looked to be a very familiar camp knife, among other things. Even so, he went on searching for the one thing that would erase all doubt.

There!

Drawn in faded permanent marker were the initials DA with a line striking through the A to give it the anarchy look.

Dean had been there!

He scanned the immediate area for more clues, even dug with his bare hands deeper into the sand where he found Dean's pack. But the desert gave up nothing else as to where his brother could have gone or what might have happened to him.

Settling on his knees, tears leaked hot and prickly from Roman's eyes. He held the pack to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world, like it could somehow link him to his lost best friend.

Where are you Dean?

The wind suddenly picked up and with it came the sound of voices echoing all around him.

Roman jumped to his feet and whirled in a circle in his effort to pinpoint the noise, pack still clutched in his arms. "Who's there?" he called when he became certain there were at least two people speaking.

One of the voices said a few more incomprehensible words, as it seemed to come and go with the wind. It was male, but unrecognizable.

The other voice gave a carefree laugh that caused a supernatural chill to climb Roman's spine.

"D-Dean?" he asked tentatively.

The familiar laugh returned, weaving in and out of the breeze, before disappearing altogether along with the unusual gale that had brought it.

Author's Note: Tarchéimnigh - Irish Gaelic for Transcend or transcendence.
Obscure cameo appearances include: Sami Zayn, Kevin Owens, Sasha Banks, Becky Lynch, Naomi, Alexa Bliss, Asuka, Nikki Cross, and Aleister Black.

A few different inspirations went into making this: the song "Dance Macabre" by Ghost as well as the music video, H.P. Lovecraft's short stories of horror (especially The Shadow Over Innsmouth), and lastly, and this didn't come until far later as I was writing, Nooneym's Ambrollin's fanart called "Deth." You can find it on tumblr under the same username.