Title: In Roaring He Shall Rise

Prompt/Summary: Written for pyrebi for Novakfest. Her prompt was for a high seas AU in which Jimmy gets press-ganged into the Royal Navy.

Characters: Jimmy, Sam, Dean, Castiel, Crowley, Bobby

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 16,625

Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable in this fic belongs to me.

Warnings: Complete disregard for canon. Misuse of 18th-century ships. Minor character death.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: I veered away from the prompt a little bit, but I'm hoping I at least got the spirit of the thing right. This thing was evil and ate my brain and caused me no amount of trouble because of how I chose to tackle it, but I think it turned out pretty decently, overall.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: So you will notice that none of the characters come close to talking the way they do in the Show. I waffled about this for the longest time, but eventually I decided I couldn't stomach that many anachronisms in my fic. I like to think that I kept them at least a little bit in character, bearing in mind that this is an AU and that therefore there is a whole lot less angst than current canon has established, and also that almost none of them are actually of the same nationality as they are in the show.

Neurotic Author's Note #3: Writing this was probably the worst idea of my life, because know nothing about eighteenth-century sailing ships. Anyone who knows anything about it, I apologize deeply for every heresy I have committed in this fic, because all of it is stuff gleaned from the internet and/or pulled directly from my ass. I am so sorry. /o\

Neurotic Author's Note #4: Furthermore, I will beg the indulgence of my readers, as there are holes in the plot big enough for a Kraken to swim through. Let's just all pretend we can't see them, m'kay?

Neurotic Author's Note #5: Speaking of stuff I know nothing about, I will also apologize for the likely entirely Canadian diction of characters who are meant to be British. I've tried very hard to keep it reasonably neutral-sounding, but I'm sure there are instances of massive fail.

Neurotic Author's Note #6: (Yes, I can totally have six A/Ns if I want!) All my thanks and adoration to the awesome mods of Novakfest for putting this together and for being super understanding with me and giving me the necessary extensions to get this thing done and beta'd. You guys rock! Furthermore, I would like to extend my thanks to pkwench, beta and all-around rockstar, who helped me brainstorm this monster and gave me some of the best ideas in here. Mwah!

November 2nd, Year of Our Lord, 1797

My dearest Amelia,

I have no idea if this letter will ever have the good fortune of reaching you, but I am writing it in the hopes that, the next time we make port, I will find a way of posting it.

It has been three interminable months since I was last able to write, and I am afraid my news is grim. Since I last wrote to you, my fortunes have taken a turn for the worse, and I am not sure whether I shall ever see you or our darling Claire ever again. I am sorry to send such ill tidings, my dearest, but I would rather you know the truth by my own hand, than spend the next years in ignorance of my plight. I would not have you in the dark any longer than necessary. I don't know why I find myself so reluctant to put this to paper, even after resolving to do so: perhaps because I fear in my heart of hearts that it will make this nightmare become real. I have been impressed into service for the Royal Navy.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning of this sorry tale. The Independent Spirit was bound back to America when it happened, of all the ironies. The attack upon our ship took us all unawares, I am afraid to say. It was before dawn on the morning of the seventh of August, and the world was bathed in mist as far as the eye could see. Although I have been a seafaring man for many a year now, I have never ceased to marvel at the strange quiet that befalls the oceans at these times, the fog dampening even the occasional shouts of the sailors, as though nature itself cannot countenance a disturbance of the peace. I have come to relish those few hours of tranquility, and it had become my habit to come up on deck even when I was not on duty. It was thus that I was present when the officer of the watch sounded the call to quarters.

At first, it seemed to be naught but a false alarm. Captain Pike hastened up on deck, and there was a hurried but quiet exchange between the officers that I could not make out from where I was stationed. The telescope changed hands a number of times, while the rest of us were left to squint toward the invisible horizon, to no avail. There was nothing to be seen but mist and cloud. Just as we were preparing to stand down, the sky erupted in flames, the clouds glowing crimson and saffron as the enemy guns came to life. We found ourselves scrambling to our posts, attempting to man the guns and return fire while the captain barked orders as quickly as he could. Confusion reigned, even as broadside after broadside raked across our bows.

Alas, you must know all too well that the Independent Spirit is no match for a frigate, being merely a merchant brigantine with twelve guns. We were severely outclassed by the Hellhound, which had come out of the mist living up to its name, belching smoke and fire. We put up a fight as best we could, but within half an hour our vessel was overrun, and Captain Pike was forced to surrender his sword, even as we stood amidst the wreckage on our deck. The captain of the Hellhound, a self-important, disagreeable little man named Crowley, soon made it clear that he had no respect at all for the sovereignty of our ship. The Royal Navy, as you know, often has few compunctions when it comes to American vessels. They don't respect our flag, or indeed anything about us. Captain Crowley fairly spat on the letter of marque we carried, and seized the ship on the spot, sending her back to Portsmouth under a newly-appointed captain from his crew.

You must have guessed our citizenship papers meant no more to him than scrap paper. When I attempted to protest the impressment, the man simply sneered at me.

"Your papers are worthless," he said, his accent betraying him as being from the lower classes. As impressive as his progression through the ranks must be, I cannot say the man has endeared himself to me in any fashion, however. "I own you now, mate. Body and soul."

In essence, the British government cares not one whit that I have lived almost all of my life in America: it only cares that I was born on British soil. As it is, a half-dozen of us have found ourselves press-ganged into service aboard the HMS Hellhound, where we have been ever since, with little hope of ever being able to return home.

Life on board this new ship is nothing like it was aboard the Independent Spirit. The days are long and brutal, and Captain Crowley is overly fond of the lash, though I am lucky enough to have escaped such a punishment so far. Others have not been so fortunate, however. Young Lucas, the lookout from the Independent Spirit who first spotted the enemy ship, was press-ganged along with me in order to replace a boy who was killed during our skirmish. The unfortunate lad failed to salute Captain Crowley one morning, and was given twelve lashes for his insubordination. I am sorry to say that he has not fared well since: his wounds have suppurated, and the ship's surgeon has been able to do little for him.

The rest of us have all begun to show signs of fatigue and illness, which I believe is due in part at least to the terrible quality of the rations we are issued. The water here is foul, and I fancy there are more weevils than flour in the supplies. We are all exhausted, my muscles ache with every movement, and it is increasingly painful to rouse myself in the morning. Already I have lost one tooth, though luckily it was a molar that has been troubling me for a while now. I don't relish the prospect of losing more teeth, though. Loose teeth make it difficult to chew the hard tack we are given, and I daresay that you would find me a good deal less attractive, my dear, if I came back to you toothless. Please try not to worry when you read this: I will endeavour, the next time we make land, to avail myself of fresh fruit and vegetables. That has always kept me before, and doubtless it will again.

I miss you and Claire every minute of every day. I know that you must have already begun to worry by now, since our ship was due to return nearly six weeks ago, and it breaks my heart to think of you, waiting anxiously for news where there is none. Perhaps someone has managed to get word to you, but I rather think not. It is too soon, for one thing. With any luck, I shall find someone to take this letter and send it to you.

Please give Claire a kiss for me, though I hope that you have been doing so every day since I have left. And please remember that I love you.

All my love,

Jimmy