Am I back to posting on here? I don't know. What I do know is that when I finally checked the inbox this email was attached to and saw all the notifications from this site it made me feel nostalgic and so I decided I might post a few of my more recent things here too, just for old times sake and the fact that unlike my Ao3 account, this one actually has all of my posted fanfics from when I first started and I like the idea of having one full, comprehensive collection of everything I posted in one place (as if any of my older works were to make their way to Ao3, they would be edited and rewritten quite heavily).

This was a secret Santa gift for the lovely TheDar(n)kestOfWings on Supernatural Amino and they had said their favourite character was Dean, and favourite colour was teal. This was inspired a lot by Into the Unknown from Frozen II and More (Outtakes) from Moana.

Enjoy!

From his open window, Dean can hear the crashing of waves against the cliff's face. It's not a new sound, it's familiar - a constant noise that wraps around him like a warm blanket that follows wherever he goes. Growing up in a fishing town, you get used to the sounds of the ocean, the smell of salt in the air and Dean could never get tired of either of them. If he could, he would move his house to be rebuilt right upon the sandy beach under the cliff, placing his house so that when he walked out the backdoor, he'd step right into the teal-blue waves.

The waves call out to him and Dean pauses to listen to them. Pen down, papers pushed aside, he rose from his chair and moves to the window to inch closer to the water, inch closer to the ocean that he's always been drawn towards since...god, Dean can't think of a time when he didn't feel this longing in his chest.

Since he was a young child, barely able to even walk, Dean had felt this pull. Like a string tethering him to the cold water, his feet always seemed to lead him towards the sand, regardless of whatever path he took. The folks in his town joked to his mother he had to be part fish with saltwater running through his veins.

"No other explanation for the boy's love for the water," they'd all say to her, and Mary would just laugh.

"Maybe he's just a selkie who lost his coat," she'd counter with a wide smile on her face.

And maybe he was. Maybe he was a child of the ocean, stolen away and trapped on land, longing for his home back in the ocean.

When he was younger, part of Dean had believed that, as, after all, it made the most logical sense. No other kids his age loved the water as much as he did. No other kids would drag their parents from their beds, begging and pleading to go to the beach every day, none of them would dive into the ocean's cold waves, holding their breath and swimming alongside the fish until his skin was pruned and the sun was setting. All kids liked things, had something they were fascinated with, but not to Dean's extent. Not something that lasted for years and years. Where some kids had enjoyed running in the sand or searching for shells, Dean didn't go running back home when the waves got too rough or sandy too itchy. More often than not, his mother or father had to drag Dean home from the beach.

He wonders at that moment what it was that drew him to the waves, unlike the other kids.

Was it a fascination that had first sprung from childhood visits to the beach with his family? The four of them walking from their small cottage in their little town to the rocky cliffs by the beach, tossing aside their shoes the moment rock and grass became sand. Was it from their picnics on the sand, shooing away seagulls that dared to come too close for crumbs, laughing as they raced to see who could build the largest sandcastle? Was it searching the cove with his mother, carefully walking along the dark grey rocks as the waves crashed into those farther down, checking tidal pools for shells or sea stars?

Or was it something else? Something deeper within him that Dean had never quite known existed, awoken from its slumber only by the beating of waves, the feels of sand underfoot, the taste of salt in the air?

He couldn't tell.

The crashing of the waves sound louder, and blinking, Dean realizes that he had somehow left his house and was now standing at the edge of his property, standing at a safe distance near the cliff.

"No," he says softly, out loud to the waves. "I hear your call but I'm not going down to you."

He can't, especially not today. Not when he has so much to do.

The waves continue to call out, calling for him to come down to the beach. But Dean can't. So instead, to try to ignore the call, he marches back to his small house, shutting the door and then shutting all the windows for good measure.

"I can't be distracted by you," he explains to the closed window before sitting back down at the table in his kitchen. "I have important things to do."

He picked up the pen and looking back down at the papers in front of him, Dean rereads them from the beginning. The sound of the waves is softer, muted by the glass and he sighs. It's for the best, he reminds himself, staring down at the sheets his father had dropped off the day prior. Dean had meant to read them yesterday, but he had gotten distracted, pushing them aside for other things, and now, he was forced to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon locked up in his house reading page after page of writing from his father. Rules and regulations and other dry shit that Dean knows he should care about, but can't.

"Why can't I go outside and play?" Eleven-year-old Dean complained to his father as he sat at their dining room table. "Sam gets to go play with his friends, and all of my friends are out playing so why do I have to sit inside with stupid pieces of paper?" He grumbled.

"Because you have more important things to do son," his father stated.

"This is boring."

"These are some of the duties and rules I must implement and follow as mayor, Dean. And, when you're older and I retire, you will be mayor, and to be mayor -"

Dean finished the sentence. "You have to know the rules and duties. Dad, I know. But still, it's not fair. I've got loads of time to learn this."

His father fixed him with a stern look. "No arguing. Now, let's begin." His father's tone leaves no room for disagreements and with a huff, Dean leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and listens to his father speak.

He can hear the waves through the open window and thinks about how this isn't fair. Sammy doesn't have to sit and listen to stupid boring-ass rules. (And who said he wanted to be mayor of this dumb small town anyways?)

Dean realizes he has zoned out, staring at the words on the paper. He sighs, rubbing his face with one hand. Why is this so difficult? He wonders. It's not like he hasn't been practicing almost this whole life for this moment, the moment when, tomorrow, his father will announce his retirement and Dean will step up into his place.

"You'll be a great mayor, son," he can hear his father say, pride lacing his words that drag Dean down like lead. He can practically feel his father's hand on his shoulder, as heavy as those words, and at that moment, Dean feels like he's eleven again in their small kitchen, disagreeing with his father. He wouldn't make a great mayor, or even a good one if he didn't want to be mayor in the first place.

He can't tell anyone that. They won't listen. They didn't listen when he was a kid and they won't now. They'd all just talk about how great he'd be, echoing his father's words over and over until Dean wanted to rip out his hair, not listening to a word he had said. His mother had been more sympathetic, a better listener when he was younger, nodding along to his moaning and groaning about how he wanted to be something else besides just mayor of the town, but even Mary, who had kindled and helped Dean's love for the ocean flourish could only do so to make it seem less dull.

After her passing, however, his father had gotten stricter in his lessons.

What had started as weekly sessions had become daily, and his father always made it certain that Dean was, under no circumstances, to go down to the beach. Almost every time Dean snuck away, his father would catch him and drag him back to the house and they'd have another of their sessions where Dean would pretend to listen as his father spoke. For eight years, he had to put up with these sessions while his friends and little brother got to live their lives doing whatever they pleased to do.

Sometimes, sitting there at the wooden table, Dean would imagine himself alongside them, playing whatever games they were playing or talking about whatever they were talking about. Other times, he'd sit, stewing in his jealousy as his brother got to come home, chatting about his adventures while Dean had to read about fishing rules.

Some days, Dean got lucky. Some days he could sneak away and spend the whole day at the beach, hidden away on the rockier sections near the cliffs. He'd spend hours with his feet in the water, letting the teal-coloured waves lap at his ankles, and imagine himself someplace else. He'd remember the stories their mother would read them as children of pirates and mythical creatures and would imagine himself in one of them. Dean would picture himself aboard giant pirate ships, being whisked away from his small boring town to someplace new. Someplace he had never before seen where he didn't have to memorize rules and duties and be something he didn't want to be.

Dean's mind would weave fantastical adventures that rivaled the stories his mother read, rival the books he had read to his brother, of flying over jungles in hot air balloons, crossing hot deserts on the backs of camels, of climbing the highest mountain peaks.

Dean, stand tall! Dean, do as you're told! His father's voice would ring in his ears, constantly day in and day out only drowned out by the waves that called for him.

And after a few years of those words, those reminders stamping down on dreams and adventures, Dean found himself still shackled and chained to his small claustrophobic town, waiting to be the new mayor.

But, if he closed his eyes, sometimes he could still feel the waves wrapped around his ankles, could still feel the longing of wanting them to wind 'round and round like the thick rope of their fishing nets and pull him into the ocean. Pull me away from this place, he'd always ask the ocean but it could never break the chains his father had put on him.

The waves call out, crashing against the rocks and Dean wishes it would just go away, just stop. They weren't strong enough to pull him away so why did they keep taunting him?

But still, it calls, and still, Dean's heart longs to follow, to tear up the papers on his table, cut his chain and just run free. He sighs again, forcing himself to look down at the papers on the table.

Ignore it. Ignore it, he tells himself, like a broken record as his eyes scan the small font. But the words don't stick, and by the time he reaches the bottom of the paper, all that's going through Dean's mind is ignore the ocean.

"Great, you just have to make this difficult for me, don't you?" He gives a huff, glaring at the closed window. "And now I'm talking to the ocean. Awesome," he continues. "If anyone heard me they'd think I've officially lost it."

The ocean doesn't respond (of course it doesn't. It's not a living person with the ability to communicate.)

Dean nearly smacks himself in the face for that. Looking up at the clock that hangs on his wall, he sees how he's been sitting here for almost three hours, trying to read through the stupid pieces of paper his father had left. Or well, paper, at this rate. He hadn't even made it to the second one, and to finish the rest? It'd take him well past midnight. Slumping in his chair, Dean accepts his defeat for now.

"Fine, you win. Happy?" He calls out to the ocean, throwing his hands up in the air. "I'm going on a walk and when I get back, I'm finishing this. No interruptions, no tricks." Dean's not quite sure why he's still talking to the ocean as if it were a person. It's not like it can hear him or answer back.

Getting up from his chair, he marches over to the door, flinging it open roughly and grabbing his leather jacket. Leaving his property, Dean makes his way down the dirt path from his house that leads through the town towards the ocean. As he passes, some folks wave or call out to him, and Dean returns their welcomes almost absentmindedly. He's not focused on them. It's the ocean he's walking towards - it's calling out to him, has been calling out to him for years, and he wants to know why. No, he needs to know why.

Sam never experienced this longing for the ocean, not like Dean. His little brother had always enjoyed their trips as a family down to the sandy area for picnics or shell hunting when they were younger, but his fascination hadn't grown further than that. Instead, Sam's had then turned to books and the boy had spent his days cooped up in the town's small library reading and rereading every book they had. A bright kid who seemed to be the exact thing their father wanted for Dean. Working a good sturdy job with a lovely girlfriend.

Whatever happened to you, Sammy? Didn't you want to run off and leave here too? It can't just be me that wants something more, can it? Dean wonders as he moves further through the town.

"Maybe I'll leave one day," Twelve-year-old Sam tells his brother as the two sit at the edge of the docks.

"Oh, will you?" Dean teases, nudging his brother's shoulder. "And where will you go?"

His younger brother pauses, thinking carefully. "Somewhere. Anywhere. I want to see the world, see something beyond our small little town." Sam's eyes are bright as he looks over towards the horizon. "I'll hop on a boat, the first boat I see and ride it to wherever it decides to stop next. Or, maybe I'll hijack a car, drive off past the cliffs and mountains, further inland, see what else there is," he adds.

"And then what? You sound like one of those characters from the books you've read."

"Don't mock me. I know it sounds silly but -" Sam turns his head, pulling his eyes away from the ocean to look up at his big brother. "Don't you get tired of this place too? I can't be the only one who finds this place suffocating."

He's right, but Dean doesn't say so. He doesn't tell his brother how he understands that feeling, of being trapped in their claustrophobic town wanting a break from the cycle of everything. Everyone around him works and talks and laughs and repeats the same cycle day in and day out and how does he voice how it drives him nuts too?

"Or, maybe I am," Sam continues, mistaking Dean's lack of response as a no. He kicks his dangling feet, kicking up some water. "I mean, you don't seem miserable here. And you're gonna be mayor one day, so that means you have to love it here."

No, I don't. I'm miserable too! Dean tries to tell him, but the words are caught in his throat, his tongue too thick to let them slip past. So instead, he just offers Sam a shrug. "I wouldn't mind travelling, you know," he says slowly, looking at the ocean.

Sam's silent and Dean doesn't continue. Instead, the two just sit and listen to the seagulls flying above their heads.

Why didn't you leave? He wants to ask. You wanted more, you said how it felt like you were sinking and now I am too. Reaching the edge of the town, he follows the path as it winds downwards, grass and dirt becoming sand and he kicks off his shoes, ditching them and stepping onto the sand.

He keeps walking along the warm sand, moving forwards until it becomes damp underfoot and the waves are licking at his toes. Staring out at the ocean, he still feeling that longing that tugs and yanks like a string wrapped around his chest.

Come, come, it still calls to him, even as he's here now.

But why? Dean wants to cry. Sitting on the cool sand, he shifts so the waves only brush his ankles. When they recede, Dean can still feel the cling of salt to his skin, and where it once calmed and comforted him, leaves him only more confused.

Why do you call out to me, and only me? He pleads silently to the welcoming waves. Why do I long for more while everyone else here is satisfied?

One arm draped over his bended knees, Dean sighed heavily.

"Why can't I feel the same satisfaction the others here do?" He asks out loud, voicing the thoughts he's carried for ages it seems. His other arm brushes the waves, letting them lap at his fingers. "Is it that I don't belong here? Is that why I feel this longing, that I hear your call and no one else does?"

Dean can imagine what a funny sight he must look like - the soon to be new mayor questioning the ocean.

"Just as crazy as dad," Sam might tease, with an easy grin on his face as he'd drape an arm across Dean's shoulders. "You'd make the perfect mayor after all."

And maybe he was crazy, maybe Sammy was right. But was he crazy for hearing this call, or crazy for thinking he could pretend to be happy as the mayor here, with everyone depending on him to not fail them, to not disappoint them? Dean was no fool - his father would leave behind shoes with depths of oceans that Dean could never fill no matter what he might try to do. But to even fill it slightly? It was a task that grew more and more daunting with the passing of every day.

"Just go away, for once. Please. I can't go, I can't follow your call. Not-" he stopped and hung his head. "Not when they're all depending on me."

He goes silent, and it's only the waves, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He has to accept this is his life. He's not a child anymore with his head in the clouds, living off tales of pirates and journeys to new lands. That's not his life - that only happens in children's books and silly stories told my mothers. Dean gets to his feet. "I have to do this. I can't keep chasing your calls again and again. Not now."

He has to do the right thing, do what's expected of him - regardless of how much he hates the thought of it, regardless of how much he wants to run and escape and leave and never come back. Dean needs to do this and can't let himself think of what might happen if he doesn't.

Can't think of what might happen if he goes down to the docks, boards the first boat there, fingers deftly and easily untying the knots in the rope that held it docked and sail off to the unknown.

All of that's possible - he can drop all this and run, climbing onto storm-weathered boards, tasting salt on his tongue, the wind in his hair, sailing across the waves that have called out to him since forever. He can find where -

No. Stop, he yells at his mind as it twists and goes down the exact train of thought he's avoiding. I have everything I need right here, he lies because if he doesn't, Dean's not certain he can walk away.

Shaking his head, he brushes off the sand from his jeans. The longing still clings like wet sand, and knowing no amount of scrubbing will get rid of it, Dean ignores it. He ignores the itching, the pulling, and walks back towards the path to his house. Nicking his shoes as he leaves the beach, Dean exhales softly, looking over his shoulder.

He'll be back - one way or another. No matter how hard he tries, Dean always returns to the ocean. Always. Just like the waves to the beach.

That's one thing he must accept. Another is this: "I want to leave, but I can't. No matter how much I don't belong here."

It's not easy to say those words and still keep his back to the ocean, to the one thing that had, since he was a child, made him feel free and as he belonged somewhere.

Shoulders slumped, Dean feels small and tired. There's no response and he starts the long walk back to his house.

Leave a comment if you liked this! If you didn't let me know why or what to improve on for my next fic!

-Twist