Dead Men Tell No Tales

Disclaimer: I own not, Supernatural, Disneyland or anything affiliated with either of them. I do own FOUR dogs now though.

Beta'd: By Wysawyg who has graciously taken time from her own writing to help me with mine. A thousand thank you's, girl! You are the best.

A Special Thank You: To Muffy for helping me talk like a pirate. An extra special thank you to Lori. Lori kindly offered to lend me some Disney expertise. Thank you so much for going above the call of duty, Lori.

AN: So, I've only ever changed the tag to a story after it was posted once before and I've NEVER changed the title once it was posted. Ever. However, I tried writing the tag at 23:30 the night I posted and nothing came to me, so I just threw it out there. When I started trying to think of a new tag I thought, "I should have just used the quote from the ride, 'Dead men tell no tales,' and left the rest out."

I thought about that for a little while and had one of those light-bulb epiphany moments. The whole blasted story should have been Dead Men Tell No Tales. The double meaning alone coupled with the fact somehow, someway, the ghosts and spirits the boys go after always seem to surrender their secrets to the Winchesters adds just a touch of irony.

Unable to resist – the title changed, the tag changed – only content remained the same.

So, if you found your way back here despite my whim, your detective skills are to be applauded. And thank you, for reading!

Time Line: Set between TKAA and BDABR.

….….………………………………………………Chapter Two…………………………………………………………….

It was the smell he noticed first. The distinctive odor of hospitals: that mix of stale air, antiseptics and the sour scent of sick. He took a mental inventory attempting to ascertain what had landed him in the hospital again. His head and his shoulder were both throbbing, one as a dull ache and the other as a sharp, piercing pain. He listened carefully for sounds of his brother nearby. He was able to pick Dean out of a crowd with his eyes closed. The realization that Dean was not in the room brought Sam to the final moment of awareness.

"Dean!" he shouted, bolting upright. His vision swam and nausea rose to the top of his throat. He sucked in deep, gulping breaths and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"He's going to be sick again, grab the emesis basin," a disembodied baritone commanded.

Sam felt a hand on his back and the basin placed in his hands. He shook his head. He didn't need the basin. He did feel sick, but it was at the thought of his brother, still lost in the dark, churning water of the ride. "Where's Dean?" he gasped. "Where's my brother?"

"Just breathe, you'll be okay," a female voice this time, her genuine concern palpable as she patted his left shoulder. Sam blinked open reluctant eyes and squinted against the bright florescent lights.

"I'm fine. Where's my brother? Where's Dean?" He looked around the room hoping to catch sight of Dean even though he knew his brother wasn't there.

"Security shut down the ride and they're looking for your brother now," the deep voice said in a derisive tone. Sam focused bleary eyes on a man not much older than Dean. He choked back a snort. The man could not be more than five foot eight and his tone and posture indicated he was trying to intimidate him.

"Not very reassuring," Sam muttered. He swung his legs off the hard exam table and cradled his head in his hands. He wouldn't be going anywhere quickly. Sam's mind churned through the facts. Cobb's body had been found approximately seventy-two hours after he'd been pulled off the boat.

The report indicated he had been dead less than twelve hours when he was found and the cause of death was strangulation. Sam glanced at his watch and tried to bring the display into focus. That gave him less than sixty hours to find Dean.

Sam pressed his hands against the table and pushed himself to standing. The room spun awkwardly on its axis before slowing to a near stand-still. "Where do you think you are going?" the shorter man demanded.

Sam rolled his eyes. Spare me from men with Napoleon complexes. "Look Mister…"

"Doctor," he corrected. "Dr. Spangler."

"Look, Dr. Spangler," Sam started again with an involuntary eye roll. "I'm not going to sit here while my brother is lost. He could have hit his head when he was pulled off the boat…"

"He jumped off the boat." Sam's head snapped in the direction of the new voice. He hadn't even heard the door open. A tall, dark man in a charcoal gray suit filled the doorway. "The tape clearly shows…"

"You're going to have to wait outside," Dr. Spangler said. He pointed a finger at the newcomer. "I told you, Mr. Johnson, I won't let you in here until I've completed my examination."

"I don't care what you think you saw on the tape," Sam said raising his voice and completely ignoring the pointed glare from Dr. Spangler. He straightened to his full height, leaving only his fingertips resting on the bed for balance. "Dean did not jump off the boat."

A soft grip on his arm, gently tugged him back until he was once more sitting on the exam table. "Sir, you really need to let the doctor finish his exam."

Sam turned his head to look at the brown-haired nurse standing behind him. The concerned look on her face ordinarily would have spurred him into trying to reassure her that he was fine, but he couldn't spare the time right now. I have to help my brother. "I can't wait."

"We're not letting you back inside," Mr. Johnson said dismissively. "And I do need to get a statement from you before you leave the hospital."

"I don't recall asking if I could leave," Sam replied, his voice dropping dangerously low.

"You," Dr. Spangler said, pointing at Johnson. "Outside until I finish my exam." He waved a hand towards the door. The large security officer opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to change his mind and press his lips firmly together. He spun on his heel and left and Dr. Spangler turned back towards Sam. "And, you, sit here and let me finish my job."

"I need to look for my brother," Sam said. He slowly stood and took a step away from the exam table. He was secretly pleased when he managed it without staggering.

"It doesn't matter," Dr. Spangler replied dismissively. "Security won't let you back inside and I'm not releasing you from medical care."

Hazel sparks flashed in Sam's eyes. He took another step and said, "I'm leaving."

"I think you should listen to the doctor," the nurse remarked.

Sam didn't risk turning around to face her this time. He was afraid he might lose his equilibrium and face-plant on the floor. Instead he continued to address the doctor. "My brother, Dean, was pulled from the boat and I'm not going to sit here doing nothing while other people search for him."

He took a step to move around the doctor and Dr. Spangler put a hand on his chest to stop him. "I haven't even checked you for a concussion yet and while I was able to put your shoulder back into place, it should be immobilized."

Sam shook his head in the negative. An act he regretted when his stomach did flip-flops. "I'm fine. I'll watch the shoulder. Thanks."

"Now see here," Dr. Spangler snapped. "They won't let you in to search anyway and I can't let you leave and only to have you pass out wandering the city in this heat."

His patience worn thin, Sam stated slowly and deliberately, "I. Am. Leaving." Sam's voice dropped in pitch and gained volume. He walked closer and towered over the diminutive doctor. "Now move out of the way."

Dr. Spangler scuttled to the side and quickly exited the room, mumbling under his breath about Sam's questionable parentage. Sam followed slowly behind the doctor and stepped out the door. He looked down the hallway in either direction looking for any sign of Johnson.

Hospital staff moved busily between exam rooms, pushing patients in wheelchairs, carrying supplies and comforting loved ones. There was no sign of the security guard. He felt a hand on his arm and shrugged out of the light grasp.

"Here, take these," the nurse whispered conspiratorially, dropping several single-dosage pouches of ibuprofen into the palm of his hand. "You'll want the painkillers later. It would be best to take a couple now and then two more every four hours to reduce inflammation and keep the pain under a little more control."

Sam smiled appreciatively and shoved the pills into his jeans pocket. "Thanks, uh?"

"Janet," she supplied. Her brown eyes flashed in concern. "You really shouldn't be leaving."

"I have to go." Sam moved away from Janet and looked down the hallway again trying to figure out which way lead to the exit.

"The nearest exit and the parking garage are that way." Janet pointed to his left and Sam nodded marginally.

"Thanks." He walked slowly down the corridor, gaining confidence and steadiness as he went. He could always 'borrow' a car to get back to the park, after all, when in Rome…

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Charlie moved stealthily through the macabre dancing pirate display, his clammy jeans and shirt hugging his skin. The simulated gaiety was a stark contrast to his reality. At least the replica pirates had stopped dancing and singing some time ago and he could think a little more clearly. He needed to secure the area and set up his base camp. His attacker would be back soon and he had to be ready to defend himself.

His head throbbed in beat with the now silent music as he moved in the darkness searching for a weapon of any kind. He picked his way past the eerily still mannequin villagers. Human size dolls meant to represent life lay dormant along the ground, draped out of windows and frozen in mid-stride. He shuddered involuntarily as the chill of the images seeped into his sluggish brain.

He raised a hand to his head in a futile attempt to push back the pain. He knew there was something, someone he should be looking for, but all that seemed to be running through his mind was the need to protect himself and defend the area against the next attack.

A banging sound on his left drew Charlie's attention to a spot near the bridge. He crouched down behind a wooden barrel and peered into the darkness. People. The banging sound was a hidden door slamming shut beside the bridge and people were filing into the area. Beams of light bounced off objects in the surrounding area as they moved out in different directions. At least he had slowed them down when he had disabled the lighting system.

His right hand fumbled blindly while he kept his eyes glued to the newest threat. Trust no one. The wood beneath his hand felt rough and swollen from years of water exposure. It smelled vaguely of mold and Charlie rubbed a hand under his nose to clear it of an itchy, expectant sneeze. His fingers closed around a smooth, cool object and he diverted his eyes long enough to identify a metal sword. His lips curled into a smile as he silently pulled the sword towards him.

He sighed in relief when the intruders moved away, but he continued to grip the sword tightly in his hand. He carefully picked his way towards the water. He needed to get back to his base camp before the interlopers returned. They wouldn't be able to track him through the water and he needed time to set traps and assess his modest arsenal.

The stagnant water smelled like a sweaty sock left too long in a closed duffel bag. He wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant scent and jumped into the water. The cold water assaulted his nerve endings and caused the tiny hairs on his legs and arms to prickle.

Water filled his boots and sucked his jeans and shirt tightly against his skin. He shivered and gripped the sword tighter in his hand. The hilt was slick in his numb fingers and he quickened his steps. He wanted out of the water.

The darkness that kept him hidden also hid his destination from him until his toes hit the submerged wall. Charlie cursed silently and placed his weapon on the ground in front of him. Pressing his hands onto the ledge, he pulled himself out of the water.

Water pooled around his knees as it ran in rivulets off his clothing and the cool, underground air chilled his skin. He knelt on the ground with his head bowed allowing a fresh wave of pain to roll off his curved back. His chest heaved as he breathed through the pain and his clammy shirt hugged his chest tight. The wet, constricting shirt would get in his way if he needed to fight. With cold-numbed, white fingers Charlie pulled of his shirt and let it fall with a slap to the hard floor. Water beads danced away along the hard surface.

A bouncing light to his left caught his attention and he crouched low to the ground to observe the newest threat. Whoever it was, they were searching the area in a logical pattern. The tall figure moved silently through the pirate town on Charlie's side of the river. Every so often, the man would stop and shine the flashlight over the water and into the dark recesses. Charlie quietly retrieved his sword. He silently wrung out his shirt and tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans.

He stayed low and duck-walked further into the treasure cave. Jewels and gold pieces dulled by time filled chests, artifacts were scattered haphazardly about the room and the bones of Myra Jenkins gleamed ghostly white from the nearly all artificial skeleton. She had been such a bright and lively wench and now he found her a pale imitation of her former self. It seemed with each replacement piece, her spirit waned a little.

Light caught him full in the face and Charlie screwed his eyes closed. "Douse the light!" he commanded.

"Dean, thank God." The tall man, who had been searching the area, stepped forward with his light held low. A smile graced his face and he looked strangely familiar. Charlie, or rather the other whose body he shared, knew this man. Trust no one.

He stepped back and away from the man. "Stay back," he insisted, tightening his grip on the sword.

"Dean, are you alright?" the taller man asked. "You had me pretty worried."

"I said, stay back," Charlie repeated, lifting his weapon. The man's face contorted in confusion, his brow scrunching, his lips turned in a frown.

"Dean, what the hell?" the man asked, his voice did not sound angry, but rather concerned. "What's wrong with you?" He took a step closer to Charlie, but stopped short when Charlie lowered his sword point towards the man's belly.

"I'll run you through, if you don't stand down, lad," Charlie retorted, his lips pressed into a thin line of determination. "There's only enough treasure here for me and my crew. You can go back to whatever barnacle bottomed wreck you sailed in on and leave here as empty-handed as you arrived. Or, I'll teach you a lesson you'll not soon forget."

"Dude, that's not funny," the dark-haired man snapped, his hazel eyes flashed bright green sparks despite the darkness surrounding them. "There's at least ten guys from security searching for you, I've been worried you drowned down here and you're playing pirate?"

Charlie shifted his feet and adjusted his grip on the weapon. "I'm not playing anything," Charlie protested. "There be real dangers down here in the depths of the treasure cave. What brings ye into my domain?"

"Knock it off," the man replied, his brow furrowing. Concern leaked into his voice. "What's wrong with you? Are you okay?"

Charlie tilted his head to the side and appraised the man standing in front of him. He was tall and seemed able bodied. There was also something very familiar about him that Charlie couldn't put his finger on. He held the sword steady, aimed directly at the younger man's stomach. "I wouldn't worry about me, I'd worry about you."

"Dean," the man protested, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Charlie furrowed his brow and pressed the sword point against the man's belly. "You be mistaking me for someone else, mate," he said.

The young man in front of him scrunched his eyebrows together until they met in the center. "Dean, you need to put the sword down. We'll figure this out together."

The calm voice annoyed Charlie. How dare this young thief try to steal from him and then treat him as if he was crazy? Voices to his right reached his ears and Charlie pressed the sword point tighter against the man's flesh. "Shshshshshsh," Charlie hissed. "If you do anything to alert your men, I'll run you through."

The tall man nodded and turned his head in the direction of the voices. Charlie took advantage of the other man's distraction and shifted positions, placing the edge of the sword at his throat and pushing him backwards until he hit the wall.

The bobbing lights and moved throughout the pirate village and people called to one another with status reports. "Hey, over here! George is missing his sword." Charlie could not hear the muttered reply, but he wasn't going to wait around to be captured.

He tugged insistently on the nape of the interloper's shirt. "Down low and stay close to the wall," he whispered. "Go. Now."

With another backwards glance towards the people on the opposite shore, Charlie herded the shaggy, brown-haired man in front of him towards the hidden cave.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam crawled into the opening of the small alcove, staying as low to the ground as possible. He doubted he'd even be able to sit upright in the cramped space. He sat down on the damp floor and scooted further to the back of the cave-like area when Dean squeezed in beside him. Dean gripped the prop sword tightly in his hand and Sam wondered what had gotten into his brother.

He didn't seem possessed by a spirit and even if he was, why a pirate and a bad Hollywood version of a pirate at that? Although a few of the medical specimen bones remained from Walt's first skeletons on the ride, most had been replaced throughout the years by realistic plastic versions. Even the few that had not, the original donors would not have been pirates.

Sam frowned when Dean pushed him even tighter against the wall. He was not a claustrophobic person, but his knees were jammed up to his chin and his shoulders were hunched just to fit him into the cave without knocking his head on the ceiling. "This is all the tighter I can fit," Sam hissed. "Stop pushing."

Dean's lips curled into a wide smile and for a second Sam thought whatever had gotten into his big brother was gone. "Ya need to shut your blowhole, lad or I'll close it for ya," Dean threatened, the smile darkening while his eyes took on a dangerous glint that Sam had never seen in his brother's eyes, at least not directed at him.

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't speak. The last thing he wanted right now was to antagonize his brother. Again he wondered what exactly was happening to Dean. The news article that had drawn them here in the first place had hinted that the ride was purportedly haunted by a resident ghost, but that didn't exactly shout pirate possession.

He rocked his hips, trying to ease the pressure of the cramped position. His shoulder banged the hard wall when Dean, apparently annoyed by his rocking, pushed him again, cramming him impossibly tight into the limited space. Pain radiated from his injured shoulder, up his neck and settling into his head. He pressed his forehead tight to his knees and bit his lip to keep from yelling. A coppery taste on his tongue convinced him to stop. He used the neckline of his t-shirt to wipe his mouth and turned his head marginally to look at Dean.

Dean's clothes and skin were wet and the dampness penetrated the thick denim of Sam's jeans and the light cotton of his t-shirt. Obviously Dean had fallen in the water when he had been pulled from the boat, but he seemed very wet for something that had happened over four hours ago. Dean didn't appear to be sporting any fresh cuts or bruises and he didn't seem to have any difficulty squashing him into the alcove until he was Sardine Sammy.

It didn't negate the possibility of a head injury though and Sam leaned a little closer to get a good look at Dean's head in the practically non-existent light. Sam could not see any bumps or swelling, but that didn't automatically mean Dean hadn't hit his head. But, if it wasn't possession and it wasn't a head injury, what was it?

"Dean, we need to go," Sam whispered. "Security is looking for you and I'd rather not have to explain your recent infatuation with all things pirate related to them."

Dean turned to look at him and for a brief flash, Sam could see recognition in Dean's eyes before it disappeared. "I'll not make this easy for ya," Dean whispered harshly. "Ya won't be gettin' your scurvy hands on my treasure without a fight."

Sam swallowed back a sigh of frustration. The easiest thing to do would be to somehow knock Dean unconscious and alert security to their presence. However, security meant the police would be right behind them and they could not afford to attract the attention of the police. He would have to get Pirate Dean to cooperate somehow.

"Dean, it's me, Sam," Sam said, hoping to bring out Dean out from whatever held him prisoner in his own body. "Your brother. You can trust me."

Dean scowled. "I can't trust anyone, ya scallyag, and I'd remember a brother. Had me a whole passel of sisters, but not one brother. 'Twas sad really."

"You'll have to trust me," Sam insisted. "I don't want those guys to find either of us. We need to get out of here and you can come back for the treasure later."

Sam had disabled the camera network in the ride when he had started looking for Dean a half an hour ago, but he suspected his sabotage would only remained unfixed for another hour or so and that left very little time to get his brother out. Whatever was happening to his big brother, Sam needed to get him back to the hotel so he could figure it out.

A slow grin spread across Dean's face. "Aye, a valiant effort, young thief, but I'll not be trusting you nor leavin' my treasure so your scurvy crew can make off with m'booty."

"Dean, we need to go," Sam urged quietly. The air was stale in the little cave and he breathed shallowly waiting for Dean to reply. If Dean did not agree soon, he would be forced to resort to plan B.

"You're right," Dean conceded. "But we won't be goin' far. You and I, young thief, are going to see Mama Collette."

This time, Sam did sigh…a voodoo priestess, of course. Why not?

……………………………………………………………Supernatural………………………………………………………

AN: Hmm…well…this has nothing to do with anything really. Other than – it solidifies my standings in the "Oogla Beyond All Measure" category.

I am in the choir at work. We practice together for weeks and then near the end of the Christmas season we carol around campus. This year, we also picked up a gig at the locally famous light display on a certain street of town as well as a choir round up at a local church with choirs from around the state. It was awesome.

Therefore, at our semi-yearly management meeting (which I do have to attend) we were asked to perform and we were asked to wear black pants and white tops. Anyone who knows me, understands, that me and a white shirt are only going to be compatible for a short period of time. Therefore, I wore other clothes all day and changed into my choir clothes at the theatre (yes, our meeting is held at a theatre).

I made it through warm-ups, through the performance (which did involve me getting off stage and gaining audience participation) and through the rest of the meeting all without getting a thing on my shirt.

My friend, who normally does not attend the meetings wanted to stay for food. They serve wine, cheese, desserts, snacks etc after the meetings and everyone stays and networks for awhile. I said, "I'll stay with you, but I'm not going to eat."

"Why?"

"First of all: white shirt. Secondly: White shirt. You know I'll end up with something on me."

"Come on, just a little something."

"No, really, no. I'll stay with you though."

Ah, would that I had stuck to my guns. Because when we hit the tables they had pear milkshakes. Perfect. Nearly white. It's in a glass. No problem.

Famous last words.

I had a sip and my friend had a sip and then she said, "I'm done, let's go." She'd managed to suck down a couple of snacks in that short time frame which is really unfair because she's got a great figure and she can eat a bunch of snacks like that.

Anyway, I turn to leave (mind you, I'm only five feet from the door) and a tall 6'3" guy from I.T. finishes his story which apparently involves elaborate gesticulation and his elbow connects with my cup sending milkshake into my hair, down my neck and from my shoulder on one side to my hip on the other in a sticky sash.

I start to silently giggle and my friend asked, "What? What's wrong?"

I turned around and displayed the mess. "From now on, can you just concede I'm right so I don't feel the need to prove it to you?"

We both started laughing so hard we were crying and luckily I did have spare clothes to change back into.

Really. I don't think you can take me anywhere.