Chapter Eight:

Nurturing Nature

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Nine months and the pull returns. Baffling Sam why the pauses are never predictable. He accepted it as something that always, eventually happens. For the first few days or weeks of it starting up again, he reminds himself that it's most likely going to be in a new spot and to reorient himself to the new location. It would have been nice if it stayed put his whole long life, because then he could have used it as a reliable way to find out where his original home had been. Not to mention the various locations he stayed and to find things he'd left behind. However, since the pull keeps moving locations each time it starts up, he looses everything, and has to rely on migrations of animals and times of year to tell roughly where he is.

Every specie of dolphin, whale, and many fish have their own paths they take certain times of the year. Sometimes they even taste differently when he has the urge to munch on a mouthy whale or swarm of fish. He would never eat dolphins though, they're just too smart and cute and remind him of his brother despite being so small compared to him now. The longest dolphins are barely the length of his elbow to wrist. In his memories, Dean's always bigger than him, and he can't imagine what he'd look like now if he'd lived. Sam doesn't even know what he looks like either since there's no reflective surfaces big enough, and no one around to describe his facial features. Some of the sunken things had disks that were yellow or shiney gray in color and reflected nicely, but he's just too large to see himself in them anymore. Needing to go by touch and his imagination for the parts he can't twist in front of himself to see.

Cutting his hair without seeing what he's doing is always an annoying chore and he only does it once a year and even then, he likes having it hang down to his shoulders. When he's resting, he lets his hair out from behind his pointed ears to sit and float in front of his face to scare away smaller fish that might try and swim up his nose again. Sam hates that. The whales and dolphins don't have that problem, Sam pouts.

When he's around, dolphins tend to stick around longer. Sam rarely goes too close to the surface, grabbing the plant life he needs and sinking back to the deeps. However, he'll linger up there for a bit to make it easier on the dolphins that need to breath air to live. Every once in awhile a few will venture down to the deeps, and he spots them here and there. Scaring a swarm of fish up to them to eat while he dines on kelp and watches their antics. He'll meet them halfway to the surface, but, being so far down for so long has adjusted his eyes to the dark more than the harsh light above the water. They don't seem to mind his hesitance and they play around for a few days or even weeks before moving on. Some will even leave him gifts of scraps of kelp once they notice that that's what he eats. He's seen them play with kelp and debris and bubbles and tried joining in. Sam could do everything but make any bubbles, so he would compromise and bring the air down to them.

It happened on accident that first time, but the dolphins loved it. He'd gone close to the surface to grab more kelp and spotted the youngsters frolicking. He swam in a tight circle or two around the young dolphins and a spinning form developed in the water. It was startling and new and he saw one of them caught up in it. Spinning and swimming on down the moving cone until the air cone slowed and retreated back to the surface. Sam's heart was racing and he stared at the surface. What was that?!

It took the dolphins only a minute to figure out what happened and how to get it to happen again. And an hour to convince him to do it again. Sam was tempted to swim away, not wanting any of them to get hurt by that spinning cone of air. But after watching the 5 dolphin youngsters try and fail to make their own by rapidly swimming in circles close to the surface he gave in and got closer to the surface again. Sighing heavily out of his gills and shooing them off to give him room.

He looked up to the bright surface and then started to circle around a couple of times in a wide loop, hoping that would create the air cone but all it did was make a slight one no more than a hand length deep. He had to get tighter and used his hands to push the water and himself faster, his back wing fins tightening up to his body to make it more sleek, only darting out and down to push himself just a bit faster before he twirled down deep before breaking off in one direction to the side. The air cone was dragged from the surface all they way down to nearly touch the ocean floor.

The dolphins were simply ecstatic and dove for the cone that was far stronger than the first. Seeming to go on for ages. The bottom tip of it trailing along in random directions. Several dolphins would take running leaps, trying like mad to jump over the upper mouth of the cone but always got swept up in the current. Sam stayed back but watching with glee as they played. If they got a really good head start, they could make it through the cone if they started off going in the opposite direction of the spin. He cheered for them and saw that after just a couple minutes they had to retreat and get their heads on straight again.

When they were all clear, he beat his tail at the cone and disrupted it enough to stop the spinning. The dolphins swam around his many fins that ran all along his tail, diving and arching over and under them in the row. Sam has five fins on each side of his tail and after awhile, they started racing each other down the length and back. He paddled in the water with his hands and arm fins to stay still in the water and stretched out his back wing fins and they played around those as well. Laughing to himself at how much they tickled whenever he moved his fins to touch their passing forms.

Sam was tempted to hang out with the dolphins longer than these few days, but, knew that they couldn't stay with him forever. Needing to get back to their migration and to find more food in new hunting grounds. Sam was heading in the other direction, and even though he never had a set schedule to follow, he felt like he should keep going along this trench he'd been exploring and keep burying the various sunken floating things. Cleaning up one wreck at a time.

The only ones he'd left were the ones that already had some sea life living on them. Coral, anemones, plant life. Those were now homes to those creatures so he let them be. The ones he was after were the ones that smelled funny or were making the water cloudy. Poisoning the area. Those were buried right away as he held his breath to keep from getting any of those toxins in his body. Remembering that that's what likely killed off that unfortunate Pod.

He wished he could have talked to them more. He had so many questions to ask the elders. The biggest questions dealt with the Pull. Did it really happen to every Merperson or is it just him? Is it because he lost his family when he was a small child or some other reason? What was it that made him so special to feel it if no one else does? What is it meant to be? What is he meant to do with it?

More often though, he thought he felt something inside the various times the pull happens, like an old voice from ages ago. He couldn't remember any of the things being said from his memories. They went back over a hundred years and each time it seemed as if the pull's... vibration? Was different. He couldn't really explain it - even to himself. Sometimes in the dead of night when it was nothing but calm waters, he'd lay in a pit that he'd dug for the night in the sand and try to quiet his mind to sleep. Sleep would come when it wanted, and he had no problem with laying around until it happened.

In those quiet hours, he could feel things inside the pull if he let his mind wander to it long enough. Imagining that there were more things going on than the mild urge to go in that direction. A vibration heard in the water, or maybe not outside but inside his head. Sound vibrations that moved inside memories or it could be picking up something else entirely.

He was getting worked up and sighed to himself. He got up and dug the pit a little deeper, dragging away a few rocks in the ocean floor that must have been irritating him. Padding the area on top of that with a few dozen fistfuls of kelp that he was saving for breakfast. Clearly he just needed sleep.

Once his body settled it's long form down into the pit he wriggled to get comfortable. His wing fins wrapping around his upper arms to drape in front of himself. They barely touched in front from wing wrist to tip, but they helped. It was almost like a hug. Sam folded his arms around his middle under the wings and let his tail curl over itself so he could feel those fins as well. Sinking further into the sandy bed and adjusting himself to have the four long fins at the end of his tail cover up his head. Within the little fin cocoon, he felt the water inside still and his body relax. Counting the types of fish he'd seen that day. Keeping his mind mildly occupied but not to the point of it being interesting. He wanted sleep, not a new project done tonight.

It seemed to be working, right up until the point where he'd heard a voice in his head talking as if to someone else. It wasn't anything he could understand. A rumbling he'd never heard before as if it was coming from his own mouth instead of his normal clicks, whistles, and songs. His rumbles had been far deeper and boomier than when he was a kid. Now the water vibrates with his voice and scare off everything around, so he learned not to use his big rumbling voice too often.

However, this voice, if it could be called that, sounded unlike anything he'd ever heard before. The sounds moving as if unhindered by water. Which is such a foreign concept to him, but he couldn't figure out what else it could be. It just came to him. That this is what sound is like without water in the way. Sometimes Sam could hear dolphins and whales speak to each other above the water's surface and even though he was still underwater, he could tell that it was definitely different.

These strange voices that aren't voices seemed to have changed with each new pull. They were happening without any context for him. He didn't know if it was 'speaking' or if each of the different pull voices were even the same species when it came back around. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was caused by an infection in his ears. Maybe they weren't there, maybe they were.

His head hurt.

Whatever the voice was, it sounded differently and felt differently each time, but, that could mean nothing. Sometimes the males and females of fish looked completely different from each other. Or how there were different species of dolphins that had their own unique language, but they all shared the same traits that made them dolphins. Maybe this was the same?
Of course, he could only examine this most recent pull event in depth. The other voices were ignored for the most part when they happened, so he had to rely on his memories of them for any information. He wished he'd paid closer attention to that near silent internal voice that accompanied the pull time and time again. Sometimes he felt like there should be even more, like feelings or images, but, nothing came to mind specifically.

He did find himself dreaming of his brother more often. Usually when the pull starts and stops.

If he didn't outright ignore it, he'd usually chalk the voice up to his mind playing tricks on him. Being lonely for so long that he made it up for company. Or thinking that it was remembered conversations his family had when he was still a tiny kid. Or maybe it's all shark shit.

Sam started counting fish over again in his head. Not giving up on sleep just yet. Calming his mind once again and relaxing into the seabed. Flicking his tail back and forth at the end to bop his own head with the four long end fins.

His mind merrily worked away on the problem in the background of his counting.

It was almost as if he could hear new conversations held right that minute. But that was impossible. Memories don't just change like that. Sure they get hazy but they don't make up new material... do they? Maybe the voice wasn't from a memory... maybe it was just him.

Sam jolted awake from his doze. He had the sudden idea that it was something far worse than imagination. He knew now that he must be going mad. His long years alone were driving him insane. The reason being because he had heard as much coming from the sick Pod.

Some of the overheard conversations that his friends talked about were about one of their female friends that were about the same age, that was lost after a training hunt. A gang of sharks had surprised the young new hunters and scared them all into hiding. Most returned safely to the Pod except for their female friend. There was no sign of her for days so the Pod moved on, thinking that the missing Mergirl would meet up with them at the next stop, but she didn't show for months. Given up for dead.

When she found her way back to the Pod, she insisted she heard voices when she was all on her own and close to death. Starving and ranting as she tried to make them understand. Her friends pulled her aside to feed her and for a short while tried to understand why she would say such things. She kept trying to go to the elders and explain what happened to her but her friends kept her from them for as long as they could. No one would believe her story. That there were voices in her head, but that she was totally sane.

Clearly she had lost her sanity and was going to become dangerous. They all knew what to do with insane Merpeople. Her friends were frantically trying to silence her from telling the stories too loud, and she kept getting worse and worse, pulling at her hair and scales in frustration. She was hearing voices, and no one was hearing hers.

She finally broke free of her circle of friends and swam right up to the elders to tell her tale straight to them. Hoping that they at least would remember something like this happening to another of their kind before. That they will understand that she's ok. That the voices inside her head were real. She said that she just had to return to the Pod and tell the others what she heard. The elders wouldn't listen though. They were quietly assessing her bedraggled body and darting eyes. She began to show signs of aggression when they remained quiet, and she started to scream her story at them repeatedly.

She was mercifully killed as per tradition.

Merpeople that lost their sanity were a danger to themselves and others. They were simply too big and potentially too deadly to allow to live. Nearly every case of insanity led to mass extinctions in wildlife as the Merperson would go on a killing spree either aware or not of their own actions. Thrashing out at others with claws and fangs. There was no treating them. No place they could put them and hold them safely. There was no cave large enough to trap them. And simply no way to tie them down.

Any Merperson that was insane and showing signs of hostility was immediately killed. Sometimes it would take nearly the whole Pod to bring them down, depending on how large they'd grown and how violent they were.

Sure there were some that may have been a little unwell, but they were usually harmless and cared for by the families. They had a place in the Pod so long as they never showed signs of intense anger or hostility.

The elders in this Pod were far less forgiving.

Merpeople aren't in the habit of fighting each other with more than words. It only happens sometimes when Pods ran across each other, and decided to fight for territory or for mating rights. Showing off their skills in other ways than brute force when it came to attracting mates from across Pods. Since they live so long, and grow so large, there are only a few young born at a time. Not everyone is allowed to have kids. It is imperative that only good healthy genes are passed on to the next generation. That was almost always decided on by the elders and of course, they would choose themselves every time. Claiming it was to pass on the 'strongest genes' and not because having offspring meant higher status among other elders and other Pods. It would mean more if they bothered to raise their own offspring rather than dump them on others. But they never saw it like that and any challengers to the way the elders ruled the Pod were usually cast out or killed. It would take the entire rest of the Pod to be on board with overthrowing the elders because they were simply so much larger and more experienced than everyone else. But, it could be done. So it was in the elders best interest to not piss off the majority. Loyalty to tradition only goes so far.

However, everyone could see and everyone knew the rules surrounding dangerous Merpeople. They had to be killed before they start killing everything and everyone.

The young Mergirl had to die.

Sam had a lot to think about after hearing about the ranting stories from that poor girl.

He hadn't really had the chance to talk with either the Pod proper or his friends long enough to ask about the pull he feels. Why it happens, what it means, what he should do about it. But especially why it keeps happening instead of staying a constant throughout his life. If it's a mental scar from his past, shouldn't it have stayed with him? Like the shark bites that he still has on his hip and mid-tail?

He'd adapted to using the fins below the shredded one as well as his wing fins to compensate for it's damaged area. Meaning he was still healthy enough to live on his own physically. The oval shaped bite mark scars only faded a little over the decades, and as he grew - they did as well. When he was younger, the bites were bigger on his little body. He wasn't fully formed at the time, just a chubby limb-ed nestling. As a result, the bite marks are not as large as they should be compared to his current body size. He's grown considerably longer and leaner and so the bite marks don't look nearly as bad as they were when they were first made. However, the bite marks are now larger than the entire body of the shark that attacked and killed him and his brother. Making it appear that there's a monster sized shark out there large enough to take on a 100+ ft long merman in his prime. Sam used to be bothered by the scars, now it shows that he's able to take on monsters and win since he's still here and alive to able to show off the scars.

Sam doubts that he will correct the silent assumptions others have of him because of it. It would make potential enemies think twice about attacking him.

He can't say the same for his own psyche. He's starting to think that maybe he is going insane. Merpeople aren't meant to be alone and save for the short time spent with the sick Pod, he's been on his own for a century. Of course he'd go a little crazy.

Sam consoled himself with the fact that since meeting with that sick Pod, he's actually feeling better than he had before the run in. he feels calmer and the pull hadn't changed one bit before during or after the meet. So... it might not be related to insanity caused by loneliness. Sam vowed to keep track of his own mind better. If it started to look like he was loosing it, he would kill himself. One part of his mind laughed at the idea that he'd know when he's going insane, but, it's just him out here. Nothing else save for another Merperson or an attack from those floating things could kill him. So. He'd just have to pay attention to his habits and thoughts and if he suspects he's loosing it, he'll go to the surface and wait for a floating thing to come by and let it kill him if he can't kill himself.

Oddly enough, it eased his mind to have a plan. He loved the ocean. He didn't want to see it destroyed by his own hands if he lost his mind and went on a violent killing spree.

He'd stopped trying to find the still floating things many decades ago. He also stopped hunting sharks. Realizing that it was a pointless endeavor. Besides, the populations were dwindling fast and the ocean actually needs it's top predators to keep nature in check. He could only go after prey he can see, and there was no way he could eat all the tiny nearly invisible fish that those sharks take care of. So, he had let his mission to kill all sharks go. Dean wouldn't have wanted him to spend his entire life doing something so pointless.

Sam even slowly stopped eating meat everyday. It was getting tiresome trying to catch the small fish and there just weren't enough giants in the deep to satisfy his growing hunger. His new diet of plant life had actually changed his teeth over time. The sharp points of his front fangs gradually ground down to flattened horizontal blades. Making it easier to chop the thicker strands of kelp and seaweed into more manageable pieces. Or course, kelp and seaweed need light to grow so he has to head to slightly shallower waters to harvest what he needs to eat. Filling up his stomach and grabbing an armful for later each time. It usually lasts him a week if he isn't too active.

Thinking about the voice was getting to him. He'd need more fatty meat in his diet if he's going to be burning fat stores for added brain power. Some problems can't be run on an algae filled belly alone. And that sounded like too much work for him at the moment.

He started to sympathize with more and more animals in his ocean. Eating them just to work on a problem that's not really a big problem was kind of a mean thing to do. He can live comfortably on plants and decided to limit his meat based meals. He's not adverse to killing and eating animals to live, it's in his nature. He was meant to keep an eye on the animal populations in the ocean and keep them in check. If one became too abundant for the area, he'll eat them till it evens out. Till then, he'll stick to salads. No need to stress eat this mental problem away. It's not a problem yet. It might never be a problem.

He decided to leave the pull and the silent voice out of determining his sanity. They weren't hurting anything and they didn't determine what he did with his life. He never once decided to follow the pull to it's origins, so obviously it is not strong enough to influence him. So... ergo... harmless.

Even the voice get a little stronger, he still can't tell what it's saying really. Just that it seems to be speaking to others and hearing responses back that he himself cannot. One sided conversations.

The only reliable thing about the pull is that it changes direction, not much change in intensity while it's happening. He feels like it's too far away to reach or even pinpoint, so he doesn't bother reaching. It stays more or less in the same spot for as long as it lasts until it stops. He never knows how long it will last, or where it'll pop up next after the months of unnerving quiet nothingness.

This time it lasted for many decades again. In that time, he's tried focusing more on the 'voice' and what it could possibly be saying - or if it's intelligent at all. If it's from his time as a Merkid, he wants to remember it. If it's going to get more intense or suddenly start making sense, he wants to be aware of it. If it makes him go insane, well, then, he has a plan for that too. Nearly every night he would spend a good hour stretching and calming his mind before bed. Finding a peace come over him at the repetition. Keeping his body in shape rather than letting it get blubbery.

The pull stops after 71 years and Sam simply waits patiently for it to start up again. Confident that it will before the year is out. He no longer fears its absence for long. Merely counts the months in the dark for it to come back.

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Dean was born in 1927 into a family of gardeners for hire. They tended to the lavish gardens of the rich and influential and kept to themselves mostly. Dean grew up learning about the various plants and small creatures that lived among the gardens they worked on. The owners of the estate that they were employed to work on the most had a garden that was larger and more elaborate than some grand properties in the old countries. His family spent so much time outside in the earth that they rarely had much use for knowing who's who and the latest and greatest inventions out there. Their wages were decent and the Lord and Lady of the estate let them live in the guest house on the far end of the property to keep them close by in the peak seasons.

The great depression started in 1929 when Dean was just 2 years old, and it hit half of the families they worked for later on in the mid 1930's one by one. They were damned lucky that they were allowed to stay in the guest house even as the lord and lady were discretely selling off their fine things. They couldn't just kick Dean's family out with nowhere to live. Their hearts going out to them especially due to Dean's young age and his even younger twin sisters that were a complete surprise. They did have to cut their wages to afford their services, however, but so long as they had a roof overhead, Dean's family didn't complain. Having gardeners was a luxury not many could afford now.

It wasn't long before most of the useful parts of the property and garden that were still mainly grass, was transformed into a temporary food garden to provide some kind of sustenance for the property owners, house servants, and Dean's family. Even at the tender age of 7, Dean was taught what foods would grow best in their climate and area that would produce something for most of the year, and everyone tended the micro-farm for free, so long as his family can eat a portion of the harvest. The toddlers were in charge of scaring off rabbits with their playful shrieks.

It was more backbreaking labor than usual, but it meant that they were faring far better than their neighbors. At nine, Dean had to pick up a firearm alongside his dad to protect the land from thieves and hated himself for having to drive them off. Nearly all of them were just hungry kids. Dean made sure no one saw the few odd potatoes that would go missing every night, or the half ripe tomato, or cucumber. Misshapen food was still food and always gone by morning. No one dared snitch on his kindness.

Eventually, jobs were coming back and the economy was recovering slowly. The Lord and Lady decided to keep the micro-farm going for another couple years. They grew to love the fresh fruits of their labor. Selling the guest house to Dean's family to make sure they stayed. Becoming close friends of the family during those trying years.

The property owners rarely had guests over, but when they did even during the depression, they were the Crème de la Crème of society. Dean grew up eventually noticing more and more that even though he saw many famous people going in and out of the houses and manors that they worked for every odd weekend, that other kids his age wouldn't. He'd assumed that famous people always made the rounds to everyone's homes.

When Dean was still little, he started up conversations innocently with movie stars and politicians and they humored him. He had his very first picture taken when he was 6 by some traveling photographer that thought he was cute in his overalls picking dandelions.

It wasn't until he was 10 years old and going to school on a regular basis that he learned his classmates didn't have such luck meeting famous people. Many bugged him to go to his house but his parents had to put a stop to it the very first day. They could not afford to loose their jobs because their son had invited 20+ boys and girls over to try and spot Charlie Chaplin, Bessie Smith, Babe Ruth or even the president, Herbert Hoover. Even though he told them that none of those guys in particular ever came over, the classmates had high hopes.

Being denied a free pass to see what Dean takes for granted, gave Dean a lot of enemies at school. As if it was his fault for not knowing that it was a social faux-pas to talk about it. Many kids thought he was lying and started to bully him. Dean had to learn how to fight or talk down all manner of bullies real fast. Working with his hands his whole life did give him a slight edge in that he was stronger than all of his classmates. Even most of the ones above him as well as a few in the grades above that one too.

Other kids learned to leave him be when they figured out that he wasn't going to back down. Growling quietly with his fists raised and ready to throw down. Luckily, the principal and half of the teachers knew his parents and knew that he was actually a good kid, and not once did he instigate any of the fights. Once the fights were over, he was in a sour mood for a few days, but didn't seek revenge. Unless, of course, the bullies threatened his family. Then it was on. It awarded him many nights in detention, but he didn't care, so long as the bullies learned their lesson.

Dean wasn't an A student, but he did pretty well in school. Usually more interested in watching shiny automobiles after school instead of going to the soda shop, dance hall, or movies. He said there was no point spending money on movies, he'd already seen a few of the actors in real life. Mentioning to his friends alone how some of the silent movie stars never sounded like he thought they would. His new friends never believed a word.

Dean didn't care, he just wanted to spend his free time sitting on a city bench, watching the latest makes and models of automobiles go by. Spotting a few new innovations that he felt inexplicably deeply proud of. A feeling like he saw those before anyone else, but dismissing it as déjà vu .

Despite the troubles he faced, he managed to make it all the way to high school which is a few years more than his parents did. His young siblings were lucky to have him as an older brother because his reputation meant that nobody messed with them at all. They were left alone to grow up like normal kids.

Dean chose to stay home and help with the gardening work alongside his parents, and saved up to help with his sister's futures. Sacrificing his own future for them, insisting that he was fine with continuing the family business. Finding himself comfortable with the idea of keeping it going. A quiet honorable job.

When Dean turned 12 in 1939, World War 2 began. Dean spent those years fretting about his father being taken into the army. Kids not much older than him were being sent over to never return. Dean had a big growth spurt at 16 and tried like crazy to get into the military and fight so that they wouldn't take his dad. Of course, height aside, he couldn't pass for 18 with no paperwork to prove his age. So he was rejected time and time again.

His dad was taken in the end, and died on a beach somewhere before he even got to raise his rifle.

Dean kept on trying to join for years, this time for revenge. But when he finally turned 18, war was over and everyone was coming back home. Dean was furious and kept trying to enlist anyway, but due to an internal medical condition he couldn't rightly pronounce, he was denied. Wanting desperately to defend his country, he tried again the next few times wars broke out, but being unable to ever join.

Decades would pass. Dean was working hard to keep up with everything. His mother eventually passed away from illness, leaving the modest gardening business to him and his sisters. His sisters said they were doing pretty well for themselves in the city, and not to worry about them.

He admitted to his old friends that the late 1960's and 70's were interesting to him, if a little boisterous. With music that really spoke to him unlike the instrumentals of his youth. He grew up overhearing music played during silent movies and the odd town or church festival here and there, but now there was music everywhere. Everyone had a new radio and played all kinds of music on them all the time. It was wonderful.

He broke down and bought a decent radio himself. One he could take with him anywhere on the grounds instead of working within the radius of his house or the main house's he worked for. Now he wouldn't have to hear them complain about the volume of his songs while he worked.

Dean liked the new generation's ever evolving energy, but insisted that he was 'too old' to enjoy the rest of the free love movement. Letting the hippies do what they do and sticking to his gardens. Amused at how much and how fast the world is changing around him but how plants remain plants.

Years later, in the early 90's, at one of the yard maintenance jobs that he's working part time, Dean overheard a young lad having an argument with his father about the path he was expected to take. The short teen, Castiel, wholeheartedly rejected the plans his family had for him in politics. Listing off the many reasons why that was a terrible idea considering all that's happening in the world. Castiel wasn't even big enough to reach the peddles of the family car, and he had opinions.

Dean couldn't help but catch the angry mutterings after one of their fights as the kid kicked rocks in the garden path. Letting off steam. Dean pretended not to notice when the kid realized that he wasn't alone out here. He apologized to Dean a few times and was about to put the rocks back, but Dean just waved a wrinkled hand for him to forget about it and come join him.

Dean had some trimmers and was working on some tall hedges that lined the main path. He imparted some wisdom on how to properly trim a hedge to young Castiel and the kid was just so relieved to hear a different topic coming from an adult than what he should do when he grows up. Castiel grabbed up Dean's other shearers and worked off some lingering steam on one of the more unruly bushes.

Dean chuckled when he saw what the kid had mangled into creation. It was a dog. It was actually pretty good shape for a first time trimmer. Dean patted the twiggy dog head and hoped that the kid's extensive trimming of the branches didn't just kill this poor shrub. Usually, it takes years to make living landscape art, but Castiel didn't care about all that at the moment. He found something that he could do that made him happy and brought some peace to his mind. Putting all that energy to use besides kicking rocks.

Whenever Castiel and his dad fought, he couldn't wait to go to Dean's shed and borrow some sheers and get to work. Dean had to stop him a couple of times from going too far again and showed him a better way to work with the plants. Handing him a roll of twine, some long straight sticks, and a trowel. Gardening was more than cutting things down, it was helping them grow. Imparting anecdotes and ideas to the kid and feeling very nostalgic.

Dean didn't miss how Castiel would visibly calm after spending time in the dirt and plants. Working with his hands and getting blisters.

Seeing Dean everyday, clipping, digging, trimming after a long, thoughtful consideration, made his whole demeanor seem purposeful. He couldn't tell his dad what he wanted to do with his life. He'd be disowned and Dean would likely get in trouble too for 'influencing' his son to be obstinate and stubborn with horrendous Free Will. Throwing away a lucrative career his parents worked hard to set up for him.

Castiel reluctantly stayed in school all the way through college, graduating in 1996. Sadly he was growing apart from Dean and their friendship. Too busy to talk to the gardener that worked for his parents. But Dean keeps his eye on his pseudo apprentice, and was happy when the young man came home 2 years later, surrounded by fellow half drunken graduates.

However, when Dean waved, the old gardener's heart broke a little to see that Castiel pretended to not see Dean at all while he was with his friends. Dean forces himself not to care and to feel glad that the boy grew into a man, and is doing well for himself. Making friends outside of 71 yr. old gardeners.

Castiel sees that Dean was having trouble with making clean cuts to his old dog hedge. Dean was pausing between cuts, not moving, as if he were waiting for something. Castiel, too, waited. Wondering if his old friend was waiting for him or just dozing off on the job. He was amazed that someone so tanned and weathered was still out here in the sun working away.

Castiel's friends were busy laughing, playing around, gesturing crudely at each other resulting in wrestling in the flowerbeds and trampling several plants. Their dates were dancing around on the stone fountain and they all were generally having rough and tumble fun on his family's property. A part of him was irritated at their lack of respect for the landscape and the work that went into maintaining it.

A glance back at Dean showed him still pausing between cuts. The pauses were taking longer each time and Castiel could sense something off. Finally, still as a cat in hunting stance, Dean made no more attempts at trimming. His hand moved tenderly over the dog shaped shrub he just finished, and cupped his weathered hand around a few flowers that bordered it. Dean sat back on his heels with a long satisfied sigh. Petting the dog head before letting his hand fall heavily to his side.

Castiel, intrigued, sidled nearer to Dean. He knelt down next to him and also ran a hand over the dog shrub's back, appreciating that his old friend kept the shrub alive and well. Huffing a fond laugh at the memory of when he shaped it into being. Castiel picked up and patted a pathway rock back into place.

Dean finally felt the presence next to him and turned his head slightly and grinned at the young man. A deep pride welled in his tired eyes. A tear slipping down his cheek before his face went lax.

And then, quiet as a rabbit, Dean fell over.

His ashes were spread all over his favorite spot in the garden.