“Fuck or be fucked,” Dean said. “There is nothing else.” He was turned away in bed, the swill of ketamine and marijuana guiding his thoughts and words. He knew he was being a dick, but he was compelled to say things he thought were clever, despite his better judgment.
“Really? There’s nothing more?” From Sam’s tone, Dean could tell they were trying to keep their calm. They looked up at him from behind their emo-swoop of dark hair, scowling.
“Not for me,” Dean said. There was a pause. “So which one are you?”
Sam said nothing. They grabbed their black hoodie, got up from the bed, and left the room.
After a few minutes alone in the dark, guilt started to nag at Dean. He tried his best to ignore his conscience, closing his eyes tight and crossing his arms. It wasn’t going to work.
He got up, left the room, and walked across the cavernous landing that overlooked the first floor of the house. His footsteps echoed off the vaulted wood ceiling. The floors creaked slightly with each step. He knocked on the master bedroom door. “Sam?”
No answer. He turned and headed towards the stairs and down into the living quarters, expecting to find them at the kitchen table. No luck. He decided to look out on the porch, where they often sat writing poetry, listening to music, and talking. The orange porch lights, surrounded by swirling moths and mosquitos, illuminated the black leather couch. Empty.
Dean whistled into the darkness across the large field. He and Sam19 often whistled in this way to locate one another on the property. He heard a distant, indecipherable shout from the dock of the lake.
He felt his pocket, searching for his phone. He had left it upstairs. No light then. He hurried down the porch steps and into the field. As he neared the water, tall grasses caught at his bare feet and obscured his vision. He was disoriented. The drugs were still hitting him hard. He was scared.
“Sam?!”
“Are you lost?” The voice was deep. It was a judgment, not a question.
But the sound of the voice helped Dean to reorient himself. He battled through the weeds and eventually reached the dock.
It was very dark, but he could still see that the person before him was not Sam19. This was a tall man with more bulk. He stood faced away at the edge, overlooking the water. The way he held himself had a menacing effect.
“Dean, where are we standing?”
“What?” Dean said. This definitely wasn’t anyone who lived on the property. But he knew Dean’s name. “I took hallucinogens,” Dean reminded himself.
“Sam?” Despite misgivings, Dean stepped towards the figure until he stood beside him. The man was looking down at the water. Dean got a better look at him as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He had nearly shoulder length, dark hair and a goatee. He was handsome. Wolfish. Sullen. He was dressed in a cloak, despite that it was a warm summer’s night.
“What manner of creature are we?” the man asked, still staring at the black water.
“What?” Dean said. He was almost amused but mostly nervous.
“What manner of creature are we, Dean, that we should look down upon the stars?”
Dean looked down at the black water and saw that the entire sky was perfectly reflected. He felt dizzy as he looked into the abyss. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“What. Manner. Of creature. Are we?” The man repeated. Then silence.
“Who are you?” Dean asked.
“I am Sam,” he said.
This was definitely not the same person as the Sam he knew.
“Are we gods?” Sam continued. More silence, as if he expected an answer from Dean. This Sam, wherever he had come from, was clearly also on drugs.
“I don’t understand,” Dean said.
“Are we gods, Dean, to look down upon the stars?”
Dean said nothing. How do you answer that?
The man turned towards him. “What is it you want, Dean?”
Dean Angeles 