The world is a big place, Dean realizes. Too big.
Maybe that's why he's not scared, why he doesn't hide. Everyone else has. Because it's a big, scary world, full of things that are hunting for him, that wish only to rip him to pieces. But that's just it. It's a big world. And sometimes, people can get lost in it. Other times, people are found.
Dean hasn't been found yet. He also hasn't found. So either he's lost really, really good or someone doesn't want him found.
He wonders if it's Michael. He hasn't seen him in a while. Hasn't really seen anyone in a while. Just the grass and the trees, all hollow and dead. Just like Dean.
The world is a big place, Dean realizes. Too big.
Maybe that's why he feels so small. Like even if he was found, no one would see him. He's too small to be noticed. Insignificant. Just a small detail in the complicated fabric of the world.
The world is too big, the field is too big-hell, his clothes are too big. He remembers vaguely that that may be because the clothes are not in fact his, but he stops remembering after that. Even that little bit hurts. Dean decides he doesn't like it, doesn't like the remembering, doesn't like the pain. So he starts forgetting and begins walking through the grass.
The world is a big place, Dean realizes. Too big. And kind of hollow. Just like the trees and the grass and Dean.
Maybe that's why he's surprised when he sees someone. It's a different kind of someone, the kind that makes his skin crawl and burn with memories. And he knows that should worry him, bother him, but he's lonely and small and this person is so big. So big. As big as the world, really. And maybe hollow like the world, too, Dean thinks.
So Dean walks to him and stands right in his space, right there. And then...nothing. He tries to smile. Speak. Touch. Something. He forgets what he needs to do, how he's supposed to act, to react. The person smiles, the kind of smile that's not happy or sad or angry or false. Amused, Dean decides. Dean amuses the person. For some reason, that makes Dean happy. He decides he likes it, this happy, and he thinks that maybe the person would like it too. So he smiles that same smile back just so that maybe, the person will feel happy too.
"Hello Dean.", the person says, the same amusement in their smile seeping into their words.
Dean thinks he must be very funny indeed. He wonders if that's a good thing.
"It is. At least, for you, it is."
Dean nods, not wondering or worrying for a second that this person, this big, huge, world-sized person, knows his name or his thoughts. After all, he's never met a person before, he's forgotten them all. Maybe this is how they act, how they react.
He tries it too, tries to hear the persons thoughts and know his name and speak. But it doesn't happen. The words or the thoughts or the name, none of it. He pouts and decides that this whole not-lonely thing is a bit tougher than he'd thought.
The person laughs, laughs, and reaches out and grabs Deans hand, shaking it up and down like Dean isn't small, so small, too small or insignificant or just a detail. Maybe this is what being found is like, Dean thinks. Has he been found? Was he lost? Was he ever lost?
The person tries to let go and Dean is suddenly aware of everything, of the wind and of the trees and the grass and of the persons hand and it's all so new and shiny and sweet. He won't lose it, he decides. He can't. So he holds on and the person holds on right back and together they enjoy the breeze.
The world is a big place, the person tells him. Too big.
And the people in it are small. Like me, Dean thinks, and the person stops talking, stops walking, stops. And stares, right there, at Dean. Dean stares too, because he's still learning and the person is still teaching, except he's not because he blinks a minute later and smiles a little.
"No, Dean. You are nothing like those people. Nothing at all."
Then what am I like?, Dean thinks and loudly, so the person will hear. The persons smile widens and he holds on tighter and tighter until Dean feels like he's somehow molded into the person, squeezed until they joined. It makes him feel warm, and he squeezes back, just so that maybe, the person will feel warm too.
"You're like me."
And even though Dean wants to say no, wants to point out how big, huge, world-sized he is and how small, so small, too small Dean is. But then he remembers the warmth, feels it still in his hands and his arms and his legs and in the persons hands too. They're warm too. Warm like him. Warm like Dean. Even though Dean thinks their different, he decides that it wouldn't be so bad if they weren't.
The world is a big place, the person tells him. Too big.
The person tells him a lot of things. Tells him about the people, the ones who are not like Dean or like the person because the person is like Dean and Dean is not like them. He's not. The person told him that. The person tells him the people who are not like them are small and dumb. He says they do things, things he doesn't understand. Like hate. Like care. Like love.
Dean remembers these things, but they hurt so he forgets again and he doesn't tell the person but he thinks the person knows anyway.
The person is big, so big, big like the world. But not too big. Not like the world. Because the person can still hold his hand, can still look at him with brown eyes that are old like the grass that's under their feet, can still see Dean and know that he's there and not lost. He's not. Because the person found him.
Sometimes he wonders if the person was lost too and if Dean found the person. He asks, in his head because he can't talk out loud yet but the person says that's okay, and the person smiles down at him but doesn't answer. Just holds on tighter.
The person tells him that maybe he's the dumb one. Says maybe he's dumb because he doesn't understand. That the people who are not like them are actually small and brilliant. Brilliant as in smart, the person says, not as in bright or shining. He says that only Dean and him are brilliant like that. There used to be other brilliant people, but not anymore, he says with a frown on his face that is sad and angry and dark.
Dean thought maybe he was remembering, like Dean sometimes did before he started forgetting. He thinks that maybe the person should do it to, the forgetting. Because then the brilliant people wouldn't be there, in his head, and he could see Dean and the grass and the trees and smile again.
The person does and, for a moment, Dean forgets about the hollowness. Forgets it because it doesn't exist. Not anymore.
The world is a big place, they think. But not too big.
Not too big because they are big too. The person is big because he's always been big, has never been small or known small. And Dean is big because he's like the person and the person is big.
They fill the world completely, walking all the way around it as they hold hands (hand, now, because they'd joined them) and talk, out loud because Dean can do that now. Can do it because the person can.
The words happen now, and so do the thoughts. The only thing that isn't happening is the name, but Dean doesn't worry about it. It'll happen soon enough, he thinks, because the person can so he can too.
And soon enough, it does. One day, while they're walking through the grass and trees and dead things with all the life and energy of the people who are not like them, the person asks, "Do you know who I am?"
Dean shakes his head. "I forgot."
The person nods and is silent for a bit, as if thinking or maybe preparing himself.
"I have two names, but you can only call me by one. Lucifer or Sammy?", he says slow, like he's scared. Which is impossible because only small people get scared and they a in no way small.
Dean thinks, but thinking leads to remembering and remembering leads to pain. So he stops thinking and suddenly, the answer is clear. Like it had always been there, in the persons thoughts and words. In Deans too. It makes him feel big, so he shares his answer with the person so that maybe, the person will feel big too.
"Lucifer."
And Lucifer smiles and holds on tight, so tight. Tighter than the world. But maybe that's not where they are anymore, Dean thinks. Because the world doesn't seem so big anymore.
This was fun. So fun. Too fun? No way. I love short sentences. Fragmented. To the point. Beautiful.
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-Perse Q.