Hello there, people! The other day I was looking at my personal bookshelf and came across Lord of the Flies. I haven't read it in a few years (for summer reading), but I remembered loving it.
So I attememped to recall the storyline, and some crazy part of my mind thought, Hey, what if Ralph, who symbolizes humanistic insticts, was like Dean. I have no idea what possessed my mind think that way, but whatever did also convinced me to make a fanfic out of it.
This will basically be the exact same as the novel but with the following substitutions and the occasional word changes to make it more fitting, as well as tiny grammatical corrections:
Ralph = Dean
Jack = Crowley
Piggy = Sam / Moose
Roger = Gabriel
Simon = Castiel
Don't know how this will go since its been about 4 years since I read it – bear with me through this experiment.
***I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE RIGHTS TO THE PLOT OR STORYLINE. CREDIT GOES TO THE MIND OF WILLIAM GOLDING FOR CREATING SUCH A FABULOUS READ. ***
The boy with the fair hair lowered himself down to the last few feet of rock and began toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his brown leather hunting jacket and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his foreheard. All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle, currently serving as a huge bath of heat. He was clamberinf heavily among the squished plants and broken tree trunks when a bird, a vision of red and yellow, flashed upwards with a demonic cry; and this cry was echoed by another.
"Hi!" it said. "Wait a minute!"
The undergrowth at the side of the scar was shaken and a multitude of raindrops fell pattering.
"Wait a minute," the voice said again. "I got caught up."
The fair boy stopped and spun around suddenly with an automatic gesture that made the jungle seem to swoon. A sudden gust of wind nearly knocked him off his feet and caused the surrounding trees to bristle in the wind.
The voice spoke again.
"I can hardly move with all this debris."
The owner of the voice came backing out of the undergrowth so that twigs caught on a flannel naked crooks of his knees were boney and scratched by thorns. He bent down, removed the thorns carefully, and turned round. He was taller than the fair boy and very lean. He came foreward, searching for boots for his bare feet, and then looked up through his bangs.
"Where's the man with the megaphone?"
The fair boy shook his head.
"This is an island. At least I think it's an island. That's a reef out in the sea. Perhaps there aren't any grownups anywhere."
The tall boy looked startled.
"There was that pilot. But he wasn't in the passenger cabin; he was up in front."
The fair boy was peering at the reef with his sea green eyes.
"All the other kids," the tall boy went on. "Some of them must have got out. They must have, right?"
The fair boy began to pick his way as casually as possible toward the water. He tried to be offhand and not too obviously uninterested, but the lean boy hurried after him.
"Are there any grownups at all?"
"I don't think so."
The fair boy said this solemnly; but then the delight of a realized ambition overcame him. In the middle of the scar he stood on his head and grinned at the thin boy opposite himself.
"No grownups!"
The lean boy thought for a moment.
"That pilot."
The fair boy allowed his feet to come down and sar on the steamy earth.
"He must have flown off after he dropped us. He couldn't land here. Not in a place with wheels."
"We were attacked!"
"He'll be back all right."
The thin boy shook his head.
"When we came down I looked through one of the windows. I saw the other part of the plane. There were flames coming out of it."
He looked up and down the scar.
"I know. I salted and burned it."
"What happened to it?" he asked. "Where is it now?"
"That storm dragged it out to sea. Good thing too. You never know what was in the cabin. Salting and burning can only do so much."
Hesitating for a moment, the tall boy thought the other boy must be insane, then spoke again.
"What's your name?"
"Dean."
The tall boy waited to be asked his name in turn but this proffer of aquaintance was not made; the fair boy called Dean smiled vaguely, stood up, and began to make his way once more towardthe lagoon. The lean boy hung steadily at his shoulder.
"I expect there's a lot more of us scattered about. You haven't seen any others, have you?"
Dean shook his head and increaded his speed. Then he tripped over a branch and came down with a crash.
The tall boy stood by him, breathing hard.
"My auntie told me not to run," he explained, "on account of my asthma."
"Ass-mar?"
"That's right. Can't catch my breath. I was the only one in our school that had asthma," said the tall boy with a touch of pride. "And I'm the only one of my friends to have bangs."
He swept his bangs dramatically to the side and glanced at Dean, blinking and smiling. An expression of pain and inward concentration altered the pale contours of his face. He smeared the sweat from his cheeks and messily ruffled his bangs.
"I want organic fruit."
He glanced around the scar.
"Fruit," he said, "I expect- "
He messed with his hair once more, waded away from Dean, and crouched down among the tangled foliage.
"I'll be out again in just a minute- "
Dean disentangled himself cautiously and stole away through the branches. In a few seconds the tall boy's grunts were behind him and he was hurrying toward the screen that still lay between him and the lagoon. He climbed over a broken tree trubk and was out of the jungle.
The shore was fledged with palm trees. These leaned against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in the air. The ground beneath them was a bank covered with coarse grass, torn everywhere by the upheavels of fallen trees, scattered with decayomg coconuts and palm saplings. Behind this was the darkness of the forest proper and the open space of the scar. Ralph stood, one hand against a grey trunk, and screwed uphis eyes against the shimmering water. Out there, about a mile away, the white surf flinked on a coral reef, and beyond that the open sea was dark blue. Within the irregular arc of coral the lagoon was still as a mountain lake – blue of all shades and shadowy green and purple. The beach between the palm terrace and the water was a thin stick, endless apparantly, for to Dean's left the perspectives of palm and beach and water drew to a point at infinity; and always, almost visible, was the smell of sulfur.
He jumped down from the terrace. The sand was thick over his black shoes and the smell hit him. Be became conscious of the annoying weight of his own clothes under the hot, tropic sun, and kicked his boots off fiercely and ripped off each mud-stained sock in a single moment. Then he leapt back on the terrace, pulled off his flannel and undershirt, and stood there among the skull-like coconuts with green shadows from the palms and the forest sliding over his skin. He undid the snake-clasp of his belt, lugging off his jeans and underwear, and stood there naked, looking at the dazzling beach and the water.
He was old enough, twelve years and a few months, to have learned of the existence of demons from his father, an avid hunter. You could see now that he might be a boxer, as far as width and heaviness of shoulders went, but there was a mildness about his mouth and soft green eyes that proclaimed no presence of evil. He patted the palm trunk softly, and, forced at last to believe in the reality of the island laughed delightfully again and shook his head. He turned neatly on to his feet, jumped down the beach, knelt and swept a double armful of sand into a pile against his chest. Then he sat back and looked at the water with bright, excited eyes.
"Dean- "
The tall boy lowered himself over the terrace and sat down carefully, using the edge as a seat.
"I'm sorry I took so long. The fruit- "
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and adjusted his bangs. He looked criticaly at Dean's golden body and then down at his own clothes. He laid a hand on one of the buttons of his flannel.
He released the buttons from their holdings and pulled the entire flannel off.
"There!"
Dean looked at him sidelong and said nothing.
"I expect we'll want to know all their names," said the tall boy, "and make a list. We ought to have a meeting."
Dean did not take the hint so the tall boy was forced to continue.
"Sam," he said, offering a shakeable hand to Dean. The motion was met with no reply. "But not Sammy. That's too childish. I don't care what they call me, so long as they don't call me what they used to call me at school."
Dean was faintly interested.
"What was that?"
The tall boy glanced over his shoulder, then leaned toward Dean.
He whispered.
"They used to call me 'Moose'."
Dean shrieked with laughter. He jumped up.
"Moose! Moose!"
"Dean – please!"
Moose clasped his hands in apprehension.
"I said I didn't want to – "
"Moose! Moose!"
Dean danced out into the hot air of the beach and then returned as werewolf, fists clenched, teeth bared, and stormed towards Moose.
"Sche – aa – ow!"
He dived in the sand at Piggy's feet and lay there laughing.
"Moose!"
Moose grinned reluctanrlt, pleased despite himself at even this much recognition.
"So long as you don't tell the others – "
Dean cackled mischievously into the sand.