When they passed the wreckage of the ship, the last thing any of the crewmembers aboard the Impala expected to find was a survivor. The bow and part of the mast of the ship were sticking up out of the water, the tattered sail and wooden planks still aflame. Debris floated on the surface, ranging from small planks of wood and barrels full of god-knows-what, to large parts of the hull broken off of the main body of the sloop. Or, it was assumed to be a sloop, judging from the large boom still floating in the water and the single visible main mast. And every few feet, something more sinister would be found bobbing along the surface, including several severed limbs. But coming up along the starboard side of their own ship, a couple riggers spotted a man atop a wooden door. He wasn't moving, but the seemingly unharmed state of his body and the rising and falling of his chest (though it could have been mistaken for the swell of the waves) suggested that he was still alive.
"Man overboard! Starboard side!"
"'E's still breathing!"
"Bring 'im aboard! Grab the ropes!"
"Call the carpenter!"
The man was raised up to the deck, and unceremoniously dumped on the hard floor. The carpenter, a scruffy, stout man by the name of Benny Lafitte crouched next to the sole survivor, straightening the black cap perched atop his head. Now, Benny was nowhere near qualified to be a doctor, but he was the closest thing the Impala had to one. So he took the man's pulse, confirming that he was alive.
"Ah, he's breathin'!" Benny put his hands on either side of the man's head, and carefully examined him.
The man was about average size, with somewhat pale skin for a sailor. And it was quite obvious that he was a sailor of some kind, from the clothes he wore. He had on a loose, white shirt, pulled together at the front in a large knot. Over that, he had on a brown leather vest, haphazardly buttoned. An indigo sash was at his waist, and overtop of this other clothes, he wore a tan trench coat, with the sleeves torn off and the bottom slightly frayed. The man was also fairly attractive, with a harsh jaw line (with stubble, no less) and full, pink lips. A mop of dark, disorderly hair framed his square face, shifting with each breath.
"He's not injured, is he?" a wary voice wondered aloud. Turning around, Benny saw a woman with fire-red hair, and a slightly younger Asian boy standing with her. Charlie, one of the riggers to first see the man, and Kevin, the navigator and ship-musician, had wandered over along with several other members of the crew. Charlie, the one who spoke, looked over the carpenter's head, assessing the survivor.
"He ain't injured. Awful strange, considerin'," he didn't finish his sentence, though all the crewmembers surrounding him understood. He had an American accent, probably southern from the way he dropped his "R's" and slurred his vowels. It was a rarity in this part of the world, to find an American sailor. "We should move him off the deck, to somewhere quiet'ah." Benny continued.
Just then, the man in question began to stir. He cracked his eyes open a fraction of an inch, before slowly bringing his hands up to his face. He rubbed his eyes, and groaned groggily. If Benny didn't know any better, he would have thought the man was drunk.
"Ah, here yah go, friend." Benny helped the man sit up carefully. He looked around cautiously, stunningly blue orbs shifting from person to person. Over half of the crewmembers now stood around the man, their curious gazes fixed on him.
"I'll take it from here," A man said, addressing Benny. The voice belonged to Sam Winchester, the quartermaster on the Impala. He towered over the other people, easily commanding attention not just from his size, but also from the air of confidence about him. "So, sailor, what are you called?"
The man licked his lips, and in a deep, gravely tone, said, "My name is Castiel Novak."
When Castiel came to, he was nervous to say the least. His ship was sinking and friends dying one minute, and then he was being observed by a huge group of men the next. He scanned the crowd and the ship, trying to figure out where he was. Looking up, he saw a dark Jolly Roger rippling in the wind. Upon further inspection of the crew, seeing the amount of jewelry and weapons about them, realized the kind of ship he was aboard. Pirates, he thought to himself. And what ship are we on, then?
He was pulled from his thoughts when a large man asked him a question. He was at least a head taller than anyone around him, and obviously had some authority. His long, brown hair was pulled back into a deep red bandana, and his checkered shirt hung loosely around his torso.
Remembering that he was asked a question, Castiel responded, "My name is Castiel Novak."
"Novak?" Sam repeated, with a distant look in his hazel eyes. "I might've heard that name before..."
"If you don't mind my asking, what vessel are we sailing on?" he asked, interrupting the man's thoughts.
"Not until you answer some of our questions, first." the quartermaster stated, drawing his sword. He held it at his side, not directly threatening Castiel with it, but keeping it in his line of sight as a sort-of warning.
"What purpose did you serve aboard that ship? Are you a merchant trader? A pirate?"
"Nay," Castiel responded. Deciding to stick to the truth, he added, "I am a trader by stealth, if you must know."
"A smuggler, then."
"Yes."
"Your name was Castiel Novak, right?" the low voice of Kevin asked from around the tall man.
"That is correct,"
"Sam, do you realize who this is?" Kevin asked, talking to the tall quartermaster. "He's the Angel!"
A couple members of the crew gasped at this revelation. Sam turned back to Castiel, raising his sword. "Is this true? Are you the Angel?"
"That is what some call me."
Sam's eyes flashed only for a second, before he continued, "Do you know where we are?"
"No, I believe I do not." Castiel was getting more anxious by the minute. He thought that, as pirates, they would be less suspicious of him. But once it was revealed that he was the infamous "Angel", their distrust seemed to grow. Castiel had no idea what ship he was on, or in whose company, and he had just been pulled from the wreckage of his ship moments before. He was definitely stressed.
"We are on the Impala, a few days off the coast of England." Sam spoke the weighted words slowly, allowing Castiel time to comprehend the meaning.
Aboard the Impala? But that was captained by...
"Wait, this is the famous Impala?" Castiel wondered, incredulous. "Captained by the Hunter?"
Sam and some of the other crewmembers nodded.
Suddenly, a voice broke out from all the rest. "What is this commotion? Did we really capture the Angel?" The crowd parted, allowing a man to walk through. He was fairly muscular, with tanned, freckled skin and bowed legs. His caramel hair was slightly windblown, and he unconsciously ran his hand through it. This was Dean Winchester, captain of the Impala, bane of the Royal Navy's existence, known only to most as "The Hunter". But he stopped dead in his tracks once he saw Cas. Sapphire eyes met emerald. Castiel's heart seemed to stop in his chest.
"Dean," It was barely a whisper, a breath that escaped passed his lips.
"Lower your sword, Sam. For god's sake, lower your sword!" Dean surged forward, and grabbed Castiel's wrist. In one swift motion, he pulled him to his feet. "This man is harmless, and I don't want anyone to lay a finger on him, is that understood?" He looked around at the other crewmembers, who shared confused glances. He led Cas out of the crowd of people, and with the urgency of a madman, he dragged him stumbling into his cabin.
Dean had him pressed up against the wall, the dim lights reflecting in Dean's watery eyes. They breathed the same air for a moment, staring at each other, not daring to believe the other was real. Dean's eyelids fluttered and he brushed his lips against Cas's. He brought them together in a tender kiss. Castiel moaned, and bit at Dean's lower lip. This was all the invitation Dean needed, for his tongue pushed passed Cas's lips, and began exploring his mouth. They battled for dominance, Castiel entangling his hands in Dean's soft hair. He was filled with pure want for Dean, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.
Dean broke free for air. Panting, he gasped, "Cas, baby, I never thought I'd see you again,"
Cas stared back into his green eyes, remembering the last time they saw each other. "And I you,"
Dean crushed his lips to Castiel's, effectively silencing him. Dean moved lower, licking at his jawline. Breathing heavily, Cas said, "I had no idea... that you were... the Hunter, Dean,"
"I didn't know you were the Angel, Cassie," Dean mouthed against Castiel's jaw.
"Mmm, we both made a name for ourselves, didn't we?"
Dean continued kissing down his neck, sucking at one spot at the base. "Oh, how I've missed you."
They were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door. "Captain?" the person called.
With a sigh, Dean pulled away. "Hold on," he spoke loudly. He straightened his shirt and ran his hands through his hair. Then, he did the same to Castiel. "Can't go out looking like that, huh?" he asked, pressing a quick kiss to Cas's mouth.
Dean opened the door, seeing one of his crewmembers standing there anxiously. "Er, what are we gonna do about the Angel?"
"His name is Castiel. And he shall share my quarters from now on." Dean said, voice taking on an uncharacteristic edge. "Remind the others that he will be our guest, not our prisoner."
The sailor scurried away, and Dean sighed again. He leaned against the doorframe, beckoning to Cas. "I want you to wait in here. I must talk to my brother," he whispered to Castiel.
"But I just got you back!" Castiel whined.
"We can catch up later. But for now, I really must leave." Dean brushed his hand along Cas's jaw, before exiting the cabin.
Cas wandered over to the mattress in the center of the room, sitting down. And he waited.