Dean Winchester ran quickly through the bustling streets of Southampton, England, carrying only the clothes on his back and a somewhat large bag of money he had just won from hustling poker. His garb was simplistic and worn out, but not necessarily rags. A few boys behind with the same type of clothing ran a few yards behind, trying to catch him and yelling, "Get back here you son of a bitch!"
Dean's younger brother Sam, who had been playing the game alongside him, was fighting to keep up with Dean's fast and trained legs. Dean looked back every now and again not to see if the other boys were catching up to him, but to make sure they hadn't gotten to his brother. Sam whooped loudly, filled with an interesting mixture of excitement and fear. Dean looked back and laughed as he stopped and waited for Sam to pass him, before throwing a barrel behind him, scattering the contents of apples and oranges across the street, stopping the people that had been chasing them. "You ok Sammy?!" Dean yelled to his brother, who was now keeping up with Dean's pace and running at his side. "Never been better!" he yelled in reply before whooping loudly again.
They slowed to a walk as they reached the large crowd, all waiting to get on the recently famed ship, the Titanic. They scooted past a large horse and buggy which was brought to a halt. A nicely dressed man was helping a beautiful, auburn haired woman out of the carriage, and for some reason she was staring at the ship with distrust. Dean chuckled, finding it humorous that a first class woman wouldn't have gotten her sea legs by now. It's not like she was forced to be here or anything. You can't force a blue blooded woman to do anything nowadays except telling her to watch her language.
Sam stood on the tips of his toes, struggling to see over the crowds. "Uh Dean, do you think we have enough money to get on?" Dean snorted with amusement. "Have I ever failed us before?" Sam blinked a few times before contorting, "Yes. Several times actually." Dean glared. "Shut up and get on the damn boat."
Sam sighed, still not entirely believing him. Dean smiled. "Actually Sammy I lied to you. We actually have enough money for a second class room." Sam's eyes widened. "You mean, almost first class, but not quite, but pretty much?" Dean rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Sammy, you might break something."
Dean walked along the wooden bridge from the port up to a small hole in the boat which it took Sam a moment to realize was a built in door. Dean walked in and an older looking man said, "What class?"
Dean put on his best smile and handed him the bag. "Second class room please." The man looked skeptically at the satchel. "We don't appreciate being paid with stolen money sir. Was that obtained legally?" Sam slid his fingers along the side of the massive ship, tearing his hand away as the sun had caused the metal outer lining to burn him. Dean turned on as much charm as he could and replied, "To your knowledge, yes. Completely legal." The man was still reluctant. "Sir, I'm afraid I cannot d-"
Dean interrupted him by opening the bag and showing it to him. "Keep the change." The man merely scrunched his nose slightly and took the bag. "Welcome aboard sir."
Dean looked back at his brother and motioned for him to follow. "And that, if you were paying attention, is how to get on boat full of people who think they're better than everyone else." Sam looked up from his shoes, snapping back into reality. "What?" Dean closed his eyes and sighed, as they received their tickets. Sam read his out loud. "Sam Winchester. Second Class Passenger. April Tenth, 1912. Dean what does all this mean?" dean merely shook his head. "Think hard." Was his only reply.
When the ship left the dock there were cameras taking pictures and what looked like hundreds of men women and children from the second and third class waving their hats and their arms at the cameras. There were even two second class boys hanging from the port bow of the ship, one of which appeared to be Hispanic from a distance.
They walked down the white painted hallway with the hunter green carpeted floor, and Sam grunted from having to carry the heavy bags that held some clothes they had stolen and a little extra money.
When Dean found their room and opened the door, both of them stared in awe at the room, as Sam yelled excitedly, "I call top bunk." For a moment Dean felt like an excited child again as he replied, "Not if I beat you there!" then he quickly stopped Sam "Wait a minute, wait a minute. You realize everything here is brand new. These sheets have never been slept in." Sam looked back at his brother for a moment before slicing himself into the bottom bunk. Dean busted out laughing. "Well look at you, Christopher Columbus." Sam sat there laughing. Dean smiled. "You around the ship for a little while, I'm going to go up on deck and smoke."
He sat up on the upper part of the deck, watching the now much smaller group of people walk around on the lower part that jutted out further. He puffed away at his cigarette as another boy with the same style of clothes as he did the exact same thing. Except this other boy was staring at the same auburn haired woman that they had seen staring at the boat as if she were to be on a prison ship. One of the nicer looking passengers caught the boy staring and smiled. "Don't even try. It's a waste of time." The boy turned and smiled back the way Dean always smiled at people he was about to punch in the face. "Of course not. Wasn't even planning on it."
Dean kept looking over the edge and noticed an odd looing dark haired man, leaning over the railing in a way that seemed to be in an incredibly un-first class manner. Though the man was looking out at the sea, he was drawing a dismembered man that appeared to have tattered angel wings. Dean's brow furrowed in confusion as he watched the man's hand scrape at the paper quickly, yet for some reason occasionally looking up at the scene of the docks which was getting smaller and smaller as the boat drifted away. Dean could see well enough that the man's fingers were clenched tightly around the graphite drawing utensil, for his fingers were red from the pressure, and his knuckles were white from the skin stretching over the bone.
Dean flicked his cigarette before throwing the still burning, orange colored filter over the edge, and walked back to his room. He didn't know that this nameless man would for some reason have a leading role in the young man's dreams that night.
