The sea was angry.
Dean had never seen the ocean outside his cell, but he could hear her roared everyday. The sea was the only companion he had. He slowly opened his eyes to the first sunlight. The cell was always dark and damp, but Dean was familiar with it enough to know where he should sleep so that he could wake up and enjoyed the warmth of the sun sneaking through the hole in the wall high above his reach.
It was stiff. Everywhere in his body was stiff. Dean could stretch, but he saw no point. Then he coughed violently and it hurt in his ribs.
It was one of the downside of not having a nose. The meat of Dean's nose was cut during one of the earliest torture long time ago. Since then, bugs and fleas sometimes crawled their way inside through his airway. If he was lucky, they would nest itself in his hair and beard, just like others. He knew he was dirty. Well, "dirty" was an understatement. Dean was filthy
Today was similar to the rest: Dean wanted to die.
He had no sense of time. He did not know how long it has been since he was first put in this jail. All he knew was that it was a crime being born as a Khai. Every Khai must die - children, women, or men. So, why not him?
The cell had nothing but two trays lying on a different corners. There wasn't a single piece of furniture in this prison that was so small it Dean could almost reach the other wall if he stretched.
The light shone on one of the tray. Dean spared a glance at it. His thought became a whirlpool. Today, he decided to do some action - by doing nothing. He would take his own life slowly. He would let the burn in his stomach devour himself. No one would care. Dean had never actually seen it, but he heard the sound of a body being dragged along the corridor far too many times. The guards would complain because less prisoner meant less allowance that they could corrupt, and less entertainment. Being so ugly and infected by insects had its perk, the guard would leave him alone if not the time for whipping. Other prisoners met a different fate, they became human toys in every possible way.
With half his face pressed to the floor, Dean heard footsteps from afar and they were getting closer. He looked at the tray again. Should he, or should he not? Maybe not. And Dean slumped back to oblivion.
But it didn't work that way. When the footstep stopped in front of Dean's cell, there was a clunk sound of metal hitting the door three times. As usual. Then a big spoon yanked in through the flipped plank on the door, and pour a cold soup with things that looked like potato. Only today, Dean didn't catch it with the tray. So, the liquid just splashed onto the floor. Dean didn't care.
Wrong move.
The footstep backed away from the door for the few step, then it stopped. Dean should have known he would be in trouble if he showed any sign of indiscipline. The guard outside whistled, and more footstep came.
Dean was alert but weak when they unlocked the door and stomped in.
"Well, well, well. Look what you did here." One of the guard sneered as he looked at the mess under own feet. Under the insufficient light of the cell, the man looked like a skeleton, but Dean knew he was worse. The man was the chief of the guards, second to only the warden who never got his hands dirty. It was Alastair that always left the prisoners to die from the wounds he inflicted on them. Dean crawled back to a far corner, and Alastair was happy because he sensed fear in the air.
"Did your mama never tell you that food is treasure?" Alastair grinned as he walked toward Dean slowly. "Oh, I forgot. You don't have a mama." The other guard chuckled.
"What do we do to a bastard child?" Alastair asked.
"We feed 'em." Another one weighed in, and Alastair seemed to like the idea. He snapped his fingers. And two guards grabbed Dean and dragged him to the middle if the cell. Dean tried to struggle, but all he could do was giving a wimping sound inside his throat. "Pl..please!" Dean finally breathed out.
"Today is my birthday, so you can have a feast." He signaled for the fourth guard to bring a bucket in.
Alastair grabbed Dean's jaw so hard and forced Dean to open his mouth when they pour the soup down on him. The hands held him tighter and Dean was drowning and choking. His limbs, from fighting and struggling, felt strengthless when Dean was suffocating. The only real luck was that the soup was never hot, so Dean didn't suffer the burn.
Alastair hit Dean with the bucket, and he gestured for the two guards to let go of him. Dean curled up in a ball, and curled even tighter when Alastair kicked him in the guts. The liquid came back to Dean's throat and he couldn't do anything other than throwing up. "You should consider yourself very lucky, princess." He spat on Dean's face before walking out the cell, leaving Dean in a puddle of the muddy soup and his own puke.
Dean did not know how long it has passed when he came to consciousness. He was lying in the pool of waste and he wished he was dead. He wished Alastair would kill him. But before he died, he wished he could kill Alastair. He wished his mother and father still lived. He wished to run free in the world. He wished to see his brother.
"Sam."
And the tears he did not know he had been holding back just poured out. He clenched his fist and hammered it on the floor. Dean looked at his own hand. It was bony, bloody, and scaly from the dried wound. He was frightened by his own hand. What had happened to him? Dean remembered his mom, his dad, and his brother. He knew his own face once, but the hand right in front of him must belong to someone's else. Some monster's.
Will he die as a monster? Dean asked himself. Will he eventually fade away from this world without seeing a glimpse of it? Will he 'live' his life in the cell only go outside when the guards decided it is time to torture him again? Will they allow him to die?
No.
A grave voice answered. It was so short and simple Dean thought he was hallucinating, but the voice kept on.
They will not allow you to die.
Dean sat up, certain that the voice existed.
Would you like to live, Dean?
"W..what… What are you?" Dean called out.
What I am is irrelevant. "What are you" is the correct question.
"Then what am I?"
Precisely. Would you like to find out?
Dean scrambled on the floor to find the source of the voice, yet he found none.
I will show you life.
It was a trap, Dean suspected. But the temptation was hard to resist. "How can I trust you?" He drew back until his back was pressed to the wall.
Faith, Dean.
"Faith?" If there was a God, then Dean must be dead and this place must be hell.
I will not ask twice. What is your answer?
With no hesitation, Dean said "Yes." He could say a thousand yes and give himself over again and again for a chance to see outside.
Very well then.
It started with one brick on the other side of the cell. It looked a an invisible hand was pulling the brick quietly before dropping it to the ground. Then another brick. Then another and another. Light shone through the hole that was getting bigger and bigger for every brick pulled away. Dean watched the act with mesmerize. When the gap was big enough for Dean to fit in, everything stopped, and Dean heard a fluttering sound of wings. The light still shone, and one hand held out.
"Come, Dean"
It was the owner of the voice, now materialized himself in a mysterious hole in Dean's cell, and Dean could not help asking the question as he stepped closer
"Who are you?"
The creature was a man. A man white ruffled dark brown hair and pale skin. His blue eyes were piercing, yet Dean could not find a strength to escape them.
"I'm the one who will grip you tight and raise you from perdition."
Dean took the hand, and his life changed forever.