Land's End
By EB
(c)2007
2.
"Look, you wash out, there's longshoreman work. Canneries, maybe." Larry's not even looking at him, just piling shit on the counter, and Dean's brain is adding up figures, thinking he's gonna be a thousand in the hole before he even sees what kind of tin can they'll be shipping out in. "Join the union, pay's all right."
"I'm not gonna wash out," Dean says thinly.
Larry comes back with a slicker and adds it to the pile. "Maybe not."
He's right about the cost, notes the respect on the sales guy's face when he sees the logo on Larry's jacket. The Long Tall Sally, the name of the boat, and a mermaid curled seductively around the S. Named for Gib's redheaded wife, but that picture doesn't look anything like the apple-cheeked woman Dean met. The mermaid sure as hell hasn't had all those kids.
It feels like an amputation, leaving the Impala behind, but it ain't like he can stow her under a bunk on board. He leaves her in long-term parking, covered so she won't get eaten alive by salty Washington air, and mentally consigns another chunk of his pay to oblivion.
Back at the motel he packs the new gear, sticks his Glock in a plastic bag at the bottom of his duffel with a few extra magazines. The knife goes in a bag, too. He's seen what salt does to metal, and the only real consolation is that demons really, really hate salt water. If he runs into a triton, or you know, freaking Poseidon or whoever out there, he'll just have to improvise.
But he takes a few things, just in case. Rue, sage, arnica. Shipmates'll probably think it's pot, but who the fuck cares as long as they don't try to smoke it. A bottle of holy water, and a crucifix. One of the Glock's magazines holds iron rounds, and another has three silver bullets. He hopes he'll be thinking straight if he has to load, remembers which is which.
Larry bangs on his door at three-ungodly-thirty in the morning, and Dean sleepwalks his gear to the truck, nods wearily at Larry's wife and slumps in the back seat. It's cold, wet, and disgusting outside, and all things being equal, he'd rather be in fucking Boise.
It's too dark to see the boat. All he can tell is it's big and floating. Larry's beaming, though, and there's all kinds of talking and back-slapping going on, and Dean just stands there waiting for someone to tell him what to do. It's raining harder, and he wonders just what the hell he's gotten himself into.
"Dean here's our greenhorn," Larry says, and grabs Dean's shoulder, gives him a shake. It's sort of like getting a concussion, only without the actual impact. "Dean, this is Dave, Alex, and Gary."
Dean nods at the three random guys, who kinda smirk at him. "Greenhorn," one of them says – he thinks that might be Dave. "So you never fished for crab before?"
Dean clears his throat. "Ate one once. Hated it."
Somebody else snickers. "Learn to love it, boy. Money in the bank."
"Larry, where'd you find this guy?" It's the tallest of the three, practically Sam's height, either Alex or Gary.
"He's a good man. He'll do all right."
"Too damn pretty to be a crabber."
There's real laughter this time, and Dean grits his teeth and feels his hands clenching into fists while the tall dude says, "Pretty Boy, salt water's bad for your skin, didn't you hear that?"
"Brought my moisturizer," Dean says, monotone, and that gets an even louder laugh.
"Come on then," Alex-or-Gary says. "Skipper's trying to be first one out."
The boat stinks. Fuel and rust and underneath it, the reek of old fish. Dean swallows and hauls his gear, feeling his toes curl while the floor – deck, he reminds himself – moves lazily beneath his feet. Larry takes him across and down into the hold, narrow hallways and the ancient odor of unwashed bodies to add to the ambience.
"Bunks're this way," Larry says. He's still grinning, like being here's the best thing imaginable, and Dean follows him to a tiny room, slings his gear on a bunk when Larry pats the mattress. "Greenhorn gets the top bunk."
"Farthest to fall," Dean mumbles, and smiles a little when Larry laughs.
Back up on deck, it's still dark and raining like a bitch, and the crew have jobs to do, all except Dean, who just tries not to get in the way. He can see better now, scans the line of a big thumb crane, the metal bulk of dozens of cages stacked two or three high over more than half the deck.
"Crab pots," Tall Guy says behind him. "Ever seen one, Pretty Boy?"
Dean shakes his head.
"Gonna get real familiar with them. Greenhorn handles the bait."
"Oh, goody," says Dean under his breath.
Finally whatever they're all doing appears to be done, and everyone's waving and yelling at people on shore, not that you can actually see any of them very well. Dean stands back and shoves his hands in his pockets. Wonders just how much hell Sammy would have given him, if he'd known Dean was agreeing to this.
Maybe a whole lot. Maybe Sammy just would have done more shrugging and looking like he'd rather be someplace else, like he did his senior year.
Got his wish. Screw him.
When the boat steers out into the lock, Larry stops at Dean's side. "Wanna call anybody, better do it here," he says. "Reception's crappy once we leave the coast."
He gets Dad's voice mail – starting to think there's no other actual service on the guy's line, just a message line – and says, "Yeah, Dad, ah -- Something's come up, gonna be out of pocket for a little while. Heard about a job, gonna check it out. I'll, ah. Yeah, talk to you soon. All right."
He swallows and starts to put the phone back in his pocket, and then reconsiders and trots back down to the crew quarters. Last thing he needs is to drop it in fucking Puget Sound.
"There's electrics and hydraulics. You know anything about engines?"
Gary's got this look on his face, like no way will Pretty Boy risk breaking a nail on a damn engine part. Dean looks at him. "Thing or two."
"This isn't a car, man. It's –"
"Bigger, yeah, I see that. I grasp the concepts, dude."
Gary looks away. "Yeah, okay."
There really isn't that much to do. He's poked around the ship, figured out the things no one's tried to show him yet. It's pretty freaking boring, and he's only been here about three hours.
Also, he's feeling sick as a dog.
He sucks it up another hour, and then the boat does another nauseating sideways lurch and that's it. The guys are already laughing while he horks over the rail, funniest goddamn thing they've ever seen.
When there's nothing left to throw up, Larry takes pity on him, takes him down below and shows him where the head is. "Don't worry about it," he says, although he's kinda smiling a little. "Believe me, when the weather gets bad enough you won't be the only guy here blowing chunks."
Dean's stomach lurches again, and he closes his eyes.
"You know, best thing if you can do it is stand on deck. Watch the horizon. Keeps you grounded."
He nods and then claps his hand over his mouth, groping his way to the toilet.
It's a couple of days before he sees the deck, the horizon, or much of anything but his bunk and the head. Even when he isn't puking he's feeling like puking, so sick he gives some serious consideration to taking out the Glock and putting one of his silver bullets to good use. Hey, if he's gonna eat a bullet, might as well be a pretty shiny one.
Larry and Dave bring him crackers, medicine, a bunch of crap he just pukes up again. And finally – he can't tell if it's been days, weeks, maybe years later – somebody turns on the lights and he squints over and sees the captain standing there.
"Come on." Gib grabs his shoulder, shakes him, not hard. "Need some daylight."
It actually smells pretty good in the hallway, even if it's cold as shit. Then again, if it isn't puke it smells like roses. He's shaking and the deck still feels alien under his feet, and when Gib hauls him up on deck the sun hits him like a clenched fist.
"It's aliiiive," Dave calls, and the guys give him a little shit, but it's not as bad as Dean had figured it would be.
"Crackers," Larry says. "Does the trick."
"Coke." Gary looks around. "Coca-COLA, you fuckheads."
"Too heavy."
Larry grabs Alex and slings an arm over his shoulders. "Kiddo here yacked all the way to Dutch last season. Didn't you?"
Alex is younger than the other guys, looks maybe a year older than Sammy. He just shrugs. "I got over it. He will, too."
"Course he will."
"Hopefully faster than you," Gib says.
"Gimme a break, Dad."
And that's how Dean figures out this is a family boat. Over food in the narrow, neat galley, Gary explains that Alex is Gib's son and Gary himself is Gib's cousin. It's Alex's second season, and according to everyone, after a rocky start he did just fine. Last season the Sally cleared her best take since her maiden season, and nobody plans to do anything but better this year.
"You got family, Pretty Boy?" For whatever reason, it's not quite as annoying anymore when Gary says it. "Wife, girlfriend?"
Dean's feeling better, but the thought of food still isn't really tripping his trigger; he pokes his fork into the stroganoff on his plate and shrugs. "Nobody special."
"So what do you do when you aren't puking?"
"Travel around. Odd jobs." He glances at Larry, who stuffs his mouth with half a slice of bread and – wisely, Dean thinks – says nothing about how they met. "Me and my dad."
"See?" Gib reaches across the table and rubs his hand over Alex's exuberant hair. "Father and son. Way it should be."
Dean smiles, listens while Alex bitches a little and Gib gives him shit, thinks about Dad and what the hell he's doing right now. He'll be done with Mississippi, surely, but there's no telling where he's off to next. Last month they met up in Nebraska, but Dad's funny, can't tell what the hell is going through his mind, not since Sammy split and things went so far south. Dean just hopes he's kept himself relatively safe, thinks about how this damn money is gonna see them through the spring, and they damn well better have a good season here on board. Make it all worth it.
Cont. in ch 3