So, anyone who knows me at all knows i love Pirates more than just about probably anything...and always love a good funny...so, in that spirit, i have combined my three favorite things into one story!! hope everyone enjoys!! bambers;)
Drink Up Me Hearties, Yo-Ho
Chapter One
Dean Winchester tiredly rubbed his eyes, and then glanced at his watch for what must have been the tenth time in so many minutes. "Another five minutes and I'm callin' it a night, Sam," he grumbled as he peered out over the water. "This has been a total freakin' waste of time. I mean, seriously, a phantom pirate ship that docks at shore at night so some ghostly pirates can pillage and plunder?"
Sam heaved an aggravated groan. "Dean, there have been at least ten accounts of women being raped on this beach, and all of them said the same thing when questioned."
"Yeah, I know," Dean rolled his eyes, "several shadowy figures that looked to be wearing pirate's outfits attacked an' plundered them."
"Do you have to keep saying that, dude?" Sam stood from his seat under the pier and stretched his stiff aching muscles.
"Saying what?" Dean asked innocently, although he knew exactly what his brother was referring to.
"Plunder," Sam snapped, glaring at Dean and shaking his head in irritation. "Don't really find the humor in women being raped."
"By ghostly pirates, Sammy." Dean stood, and sauntered to the edge of the water. "Seriously, let's put a little perspective on this. From what we read in the police reports, there was no evidence to substantiate any of their claims. Eight out of ten of them underwent physical examinations, and the rape kits turned up nothing to support the fact that they'd actually been raped."
"You of all people should know that doesn't mean anything in our line of work, Dean."
Dean turned to look at his brother, noticed two young women strolling along the beach, and ducked back into the shadows. "Think with the news in the — "
"Dean," Sam abruptly cut him off, and nudged his head toward the water.
Dean swung around to see what Sam was gesturing at, and his mouth dropped open as he noticed an old wooden ship with tattered sails making port. Dumbfounded, he watched as a small boat was lowered into the water and then at least eight men climbed down into it.
"Still think there's no such thing as a ghostly pirate ship," Sam asked as he too gawked at the ship.
"So definitely not the time for an I told you so, Sammy." Dean yanked his .45 from his waistband and leveled it on the men coming ashore.
As the first boat began to row toward land a second boat was lowered into the water. More men climbed over the side of the ship and dropped down into the awaiting vessel. From where Sam and Dean stood, they could clearly see a man who wore a long royal blue doublet and a tri-cornered hat standing at the front of the small craft and heard him barking out orders to the men.
"Avast ye scurvy dogs, put yer backs into it, or I'll be sendin' the lot o' ye ta the briny deep," the Captain boomed in a deep rich voice.
"Aye, Cap'n," his men uttered in unison and began to row faster.
Just before making shore, two men leapt out of the boat and dragged it to land, and then rest of the men hopped out of the worn wooden vessel. As the men worked to secure the craft, Sam and Dean stood awestruck listening to them speak, trying to decipher what they we saying.
"Arrrr . . . a fine wench and a good strong clap o' thunder is what I be lookin' fer," a short man wearing a crimson bandana uttered with a cheeky grin.
"Aye, a pint o' grog an' a fine bonny lass ta share me bed, that's what I be lookin' fer me self," another man, dressed in knee-length tattered breeches, billowing shirt and black vest, heartily agreed.
"Aye, tis been a long time since me spliced the main brace, an' a comely wench is always a fine thing," another pirate with long, greasy black hair and a hook for a hand, said with a toothless grin.
"Work smartly ye bilge rats, or ye'll be dancin' with Jack Ketch," an older man with a scruffy graying beard ordered to the younger men.
Hearing that, the men quickly finished their work, and then stood waiting for the Captain's orders. The Captain stepped from boat, and as he did so his steely gaze briefly fell to Sam and Dean and then to the guns the boys held in their hands.
Without looking away from the Winchesters, the Captain hollered out to his men, "No quarter, me maties, or ye all will be dancin' the hempen jig."
Sam cast a sidelong glance in Dean's direction as he quirked a puzzled brow. "Dude, what do you think a hempen jig is?"
"Dunno, Sammy," Dean scratched his head in confusion, "I'm still workin' on clap o' thunder, splice the main brace an' just exactly who Jack Ketch is." With a flash of a smile, Dean added, "although I thinkin' that bilge rat is probably like calling them sonuvabitches."
"Ya think, Dean," Sam uttered as he rolled his eyes at his brother and then hastily returned his attention to the pirates.
The pirates took one look at the Winchesters and yanked out their pistols and cutlasses that were held at the sides of their waists by long colorful sashes.
"Run the interlopers through, me hearties, an' send 'em ta Davy Jones' locker," the Captain ordered.
"Pretty sure that one meant he wants them to kill us," Dean said with a grin as he aimed his .45 at one of the men charging toward them, and fired.
"Seriously, Dean," Sam said dryly as he narrowed his sights on the pirates and took aim. "Cause I thought it meant they wanted to invite us out for drinks."
Dean's bullet hit the man dead-on and the pirate exploded into fiery ash, only to return a few moments later even closer to the boys. More men charged at them, and the boys both fired their weapons repeatedly, always with the same results. Within a matter of moments all the pirates converged on the Winchesters, and quickly disarmed them of their weapons. Grabbing a hold of Sam and Dean by the arms, the pirates held them firmly as the Captain strode forward. Sam and Dean thrashed violently, kicking and jabbing their elbows into the pirates, but the men only tightened their hold on the boys in response, trapping them there.
"Any words afore ye meet Davy Jones, ye scurvy dogs?" the Captain asked as he eyed the Winchesters.
"Gonna kill you sonuvabitches," Dean snarled as he stomped on one of the pirate's feet, and almost managed to break free until two more men grabbed a hold of him.
Without giving the boys a chance to say another word, the Captain yanked the cutlass from the sash at his side, grabbed hold of Sam by the shoulder and drove the blade through his stomach. Jerking backward on the blade, the Captain released his hold on the youngest Winchester, and Sam dropped to his knees, a scream of pain bursting from his lips.
"Sammy!" Dean hollered as he saw his brother fall face first into the sand, and stayed there unmoving.
Dean never got a chance to say another word as the Captain drove his cutlass through Dean's stomach and yanked upward on it before pulling it out. Dean fell to his knees beside Sam, gasping for breath. Blood bubbled from his lips as he tried one last time to call out to Sam, and then he too fell face first into the sand.
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Dean blinked several times, the near-blinding light above hurting his eyes. When his vision finally cleared, he sat up and glanced around, noting seagulls flying overhead, dirty, tattered sails and the foremast of a ship. "What the holy hell," he uttered, his mouth dropping wide open.
He made to scratch his head in confusion and felt a bandana where his hair should be, then his fingers trailed down to the gold hoop earring in his right ear. "Okay, I'm so dreamin' right now." He quickly surveyed the rest of his clothing, cocking a quizzical brow as he noticed he was wearing a black leather vest with no shirt beneath it, tight fitting black breeches and thigh-high black boots. "Huh, like the boots," he muttered with a bemused grin.
"Dean," Sam groaned as he slowly sat upright, and looked around with the same befuddled expression on his face that Dean knew he was sporting. "Where the hell are we?"
Dean peered around the ship once more and then his steady gaze fell to Sam, and he had to chuckle. With a cream-colored billowing shirt, deep blue vest with matching bandana, tight-fitting black breeches and thigh-high black boots, Sam looked positively rakish instead of his normal scholarly self. "If I had to venture a guess, I would say we're aboard the Flying Dutchman, Turner," he said, then threw his head back in laughter seeing Sam look at himself and then at Dean's clothes.
"Guess that would make you Boot-strap Bill then," Sam countered smoothly.
"Naw, I would be Cap'n Jack Sparrow," Dean said with a roguish grin.
"Bring a spring upon 'er cable, One-Eyed Jack," an imposing looking man with a flowing black beard barked out the order as he strode toward Sam and Dean, "an' head fer the shores of Tortuga."
"Aye, aye, Cap'n," a tall muscular man with a patch over his right eye, hollered back as he turned the helm and brought the ship around.
"Ye scurvy dogs be me new recruits fer the Flyin' Dutchman?" the barrel-chested man asked as he crossed his arms in front of himself, and quirked a brow at them.
Sam and Dean clambered to their feet, and both looked over the side of the ship and noticed nothing but water in every direction.
"Umm . . . before I answer that question," Dean shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the distance hoping to see even a speck of dry land, but still saw nothing, "how long till we reach land?"
The man laugh heartily, exposing decaying yellowed teeth. "The Dutchman, she be cursed. Ye'll never be seein' dry land again."
"Huh," Dean gave a curt nod, "then, yep, I guess we're your new recruits. An' Sammy, here," he smirked as he clapped his brother on the shoulder, "loves to swab decks. Give him a mop an' a bucket an' he's a swabbin' fool."
Sam turned to stare incredulously at Dean, a deep scowl forming on his features. "Thanks, a freakin' lot, Dean."
"Arrrr . . . thee decks could be usin' a good swabbin'." The Captain nodded in agreement. "An' ye," he motioned to Dean, and then pointed to the main top mast, "up ta the crow's nest with ye, an' keep a weather eye on the horizon."
Amidst Sam's sudden burst of laughter, Dean's head fell back onto his shoulders as he peered up at the narrow unenclosed perch high atop the main sail.
"Just think, Dean," Sam chuckled as he too glanced up at the crow's nest, "bein' all the way up there with nothin' but the wind in your face, betcha can't wait. Imagine it will be just like flying, and I know how much you love to fly."
Swallowing hard, Dean lowered his head to look at the Captain. "Probably not the right man for the job . . . I don't even know what a weather eye is. I mean seriously, is it my right eye or my left? An' if it is my right, an' I ended up like One-Eyed Jack over there, would my left eye become my weather eye? An' truthfully, can a person just switch a weather eye midstream like that? Would think a person could only have one good weather eye."
"Up there with ye or ye'll be kissin' the gunner's daughter, savvy?" the Captain boomed in a deep rich voice.
"Think I might just take my chances with the gunner's daughter," Dean replied with a devilish grin, "I mean seriously, how bad could she look anyway."
"Dean," Sam said with a tight-lipped smile and a curt shake of his head, "don't think he's actually talkin' about kissing a girl."
"You're not?" Dean turned to stare at the Captain and saw the man's scowl deepen as he pointed to one of the cannons. Looking from the Captain to the cannon and then back again, Dean realized that kissing the gunner's daughter was some sort of pirate punishment. "Huh, think I'm gonna head up there to the crow's nest an' keep a weather eye on the horizon."
"Aye, thought tha' ye might."
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Note: all pirate terms and definitions cited from A Pirate's Glossary of Terms and The Pirate Game: Pirate Glossary
Glossary of pirate terms:
clap o' thunder: a strong alcoholic drink
spliced the main brace: to have a drink or several drinks
dancin' with Jack Ketch: Jack Ketch is the hangman. To dance with Jack Ketch is to hang
dancin' the hempen jig: to hang
Bring a spring upon 'er cable: to come around in a different direction
kissin' the gunner's daughter: to be bent over the ship's guns and flogged