A/N: My wonderful, wonderful readers! Thank you for your reviews, my stellar starlings. Your rewards are forthcoming.
In slightly related news, I thought I might warn you that this is going to be a long, long story. I can already tell. I'm going to try and keep the updates coming in a timely manner, and I WILL finish this thing no matter what, but of course your reviews go a long way toward making this process speedy. I'll try not to beg you shamelessly every chapter because that gets old, but reviews are what show me that people are actually interested in what I'm writing. It makes me feel less like I'm just casting these chapters out into the ether, and more like I have an audience. So now you know!
In less related news, the story's already getting away from me! Characters are already doing things I did not plan for them to do, and generally being ornery and doin' whatever they want. So STRAP IN, folks! STRRRRRAP IN! IT'S GONNA BE AN INTERESTING RIDE!
Also, side note: I know I promised romance, and I feel really bad for being 3 chapters in without delivering on that promise, but these things take time. I won't let you down, I swear, it's just that these characters are so fuckin' ornery. They won't make out unless I give them a good reason. I know, right? THE NERVE.
Okay, okay, I'll shut up. The chapter is below.
The Impala was a large ship, an East Indiaman whose passenger cabins had been gutted and retrofitted with cannons. Three masts, eleven hundred tons, a length that rivaled any ship of the line; it often dwarfed any man who stood at the helm, her massive wooden hull creaking beneath his feet and her enormous sails billowing above his head like the bedsheets of a giant hung out to dry. On a dark night she made a sailor feel safe, and in the searing daylight she made him utterly humble. Dean fondly referred to her as a beast.
Right now, the Impala was a mere dark speck in the expanse of glittering ocean surrounding them. A tiny speck of grime on a vast swath of sequined blue brocade. Flotsam.
"I know there's an island out there," Dean said, squinting through his telescope. He stood at the prow of the ship, which promised the best view. "We practically tasted the thing. It almost turned us into pirate jambalaya."
"But that was hours ago," Ash reminded him, shading his eyes with his hand and peering into the surf. "During that little seaweed party we were having, remember? That island could be leagues away in any direction."
Dean collapsed his telescope with a snap, and glared at Ash. "Did I ask you for your input?" he growled.
Ash grinned and scratched his belly lazily; in his ususal fashion, he'd stripped down to breeches and nothing else. "Nah, you just seemed hopelessly in need of it," he replied.
"I am your captain," Dean reminded him. "You could show some respect."
"You may be captain," Ash said, "but I'm the best damn cartographer in the Caribbean. Although…" He put up his hand again and screwed up his face, examining the sky and the sea. "I'm not entirely positive we're in the Caribbean anymore."
Dean groaned and closed his eyes.
Meanwhile, an unrelated situation was brewing belowdecks, and in a moment it would boil over and froth up onto the deck in a mad chaotic cacophony. The bystanders of the incident, who apparently all witnessed similar yet slightly differing events, would relate the tale very insistently to Dean and demand action. By cobbling together the common elements, Dean managed to put together the basic outline of what had happened.
It seemed that Sam had gone down to the berth deck to tend to the wounded and help string up their hammocks. He had a small sickbay attached to his cabin in the deck above, the gun deck, but when many suffered from generally small complaints like this, he simply set up camp in the berth and worked there. He strode into the room purposefully and competently (the accounts were very clear on this point – Sam was a well-liked man) and attended each pirate with the attention he merited, his large hands stitching delicately and nimbly; he was steady as a rock and compellingly handsome. (This detail was volunteered by Barnes, who had a troubling case of hero worship.)
About fifteen minutes afterward, Castiel entered the berth. Accounts varied on the manner of his entrance. Some said he slipped in unnoticed and unassuming, glancing about curiously. Another said he lingered on the stairs and stared at each man piercingly, one by one, staring into the depths of his soul. In any case, he made his way to Sam and offered his help. "I have some experience," he said in his odd scraped-low voice. "If you'd like my assistance."
"Uh, sure," Sam replied, looking up from the gash on Barnes's arm. "If you don't mind. Why don't you help Joe over there? Make sure he's comfortable, find out what's wrong." That was Doc Samuel for you, smooth as ever, always grace under fire. (Again, Barnes's words.)
So Castiel approached little Joe the cabin boy, who was just in the next hammock over with a pale face and an arm curled close to his chest. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the hammock.
"My arm," Joe said. He looked so pathetically small that way, and he was clearly in pain but he didn't whimper or let it bleed into his voice. He was a brave kid.
Castiel looked at Joe. Some said he gave him a passing glance, but a few insisted that he leaned in closed and skewered Joe with his burning gaze, inspecting him so thoroughly with his eyes that Joe blushed and cowered. "Show me," he said.
After a moment of uneasy hesitation, Joe held out his arm.
Castiel examined the arm, feeling the muscles gingerly, extending the fingers, noting when Joe winced or sucked in a breath. A few seconds later he said, "I think it may be broken along the forearm. A very small break. Wear it in a sling until it heals."
"Thank you, Mr. Castiel," Joe said. "I'll see what Sam thinks of that." Over by Barnes's side, still stitching carefully, Sam smiled to himself and a dimple formed in the corner of his cheek.
Castiel nodded. "Would you like some spirits, for the pain?"
Joe shook his head and smiled forcibly. "No thanks, I gotta get back up to lookout in a few minutes here. I don't want a cloudy head way up there."
Sam snorted quietly, and Barnes could tell he had no intention of letting the kid climb up to the crow's nest with a broken arm.
And then Castiel stood, patted Joe's good shoulder, and said, "You're a strong woman."
Sam looked up.
Barnes looked up.
Joe's face was hot and red, his fists clenched, and he bit out, "Oh, you think that's funny, do you? Callin' me a girl? Just 'cause I don't shave I'm not a real man?"
Castiel stared at him blankly. "No," he answered. "You're not a real man because you're a woman."
Everyone else in the berth looked up.
Castiel looked around, realizing the berth had fallen silent. "Was it a secret?" he asked. "I didn't know."
Sam stood up. "Mr. Castiel," he said slowly, "I think you're confused. That's Joey. Joseph Harvelle. A young man."
"I apologize," Castiel said sincerely. "I didn't realize you believed her to be a man. I assumed it was impossible for you not to know. I'm sorry."
And now everyone was staring at Joe, little Joey, who was fiercely red and petite and smooth faced, and something like doubt and understanding crept over Sam's face, and he said quietly, "Joe?"
"It's not true!" Joe insisted, tears welling in his eyes. "He's a goddamn liar! We're, we're pirates! We know each other! We've fought together! Why are you listening to this guy? I'm as much of a man as you are!"
Sam, with terrible compassion in his big soft eyes, asked softly, "Can you prove it?"
Joe stared at him, with a pitiful and pleading face.
The entire berth held their collective breath.
And Joe pressed his hands tightly to his face, and his chin trembled, and she shook her head no.
…
After hearing all the accounts, none of which were asked for but all of which were loudly volunteered, Dean called a meeting of the crew on the top deck, the weather deck. He ordered them all to simmer down and shut up, and he stepped up onto a crate he kept handy for addressing the crew. He took a deep breath.
"It has come to my attention," he began, "that our cabin boy, Joseph Harvelle, is in fact a cabin girl by the name of Joanna."
A group gasp went up, followed by scandalized mutterings. Jo herself was not present, but hidden away in the sick bay. Castiel looked downward at his feet, and Sam crossed his arms and looked up at the sky.
"Simmer!" Dean barked. "Now, I'm the captain, and on this ship I am the law. Therefore, many of you have come forward to me to plead Joanna's case. In the navy, Joanna would be in some serious trouble for these kinds of antics. She would face a tribunal, and probably spend the rest of her journey in the brig until we made port and she could face the crown's justice."
The faces of the crew were grave. A few crossed themselves.
Dean clasped his hands behind his back. "However, it is a point of pride on my ship that we are not the navy. And in case you haven't noticed during the short interims between your gossip sessions, we are dead in the water without any sign of shore, without bearings, without any idea of where in the entire ocean we may be." He eyed them all sternly. "We've got over a dozen men injured from the storm. We need all hands on deck. So Jo is going to continue to sail with us just like she did before, and if you have a problem with that, you take it up with me." He drew his sword with the satisfying slinking sound of metal skating on metal, and the edge glinted in the sunlight. "Am I understood?"
"Aye," the crew muttered.
And then, from above, came Andy Gallagher's echoing shout. "Land!" he called. "I see land, to the east!"
Everyone raced starboard, and Dean whipped out his telescope.
Sure enough, there in the distance –
A brief stripe of green.
"Hoist the topsails!" Dean bellowed. "We're headed east!"
The crew scrambled to their positions and hoisted the flagging sails, pulling them as taut as they would go, trying harness the ever-so-faint breath of wind that teased at the ship.
Whatever island it was, it didn't matter. They didn't even have to land, just so long as they could make out the shape and find it on the map – they were saved. Everything was going to be fine. Dean tried to ignore the uneasy twisting in his gut, and the calmness of the water, and how very little the ship was moving.
"An island."
Dean whipped around.
Castiel was standing there, uncomfortably close, watching Dean carefully like a specimen in a glass jar.
"Hopefully," Dean said, eyeballing him. "Is there something you need?"
Castiel just gazed at him evenly with his eerily blue eyes. "No."
"You know…" Dean collaped his telescope and crossed his arms, turning to face the odd man. "You really kicked the hornet's nest around here today. You should tread carefully."
Castiel cocked his head slightly, and his mouth turned up at the corner. "Is that a threat, Captain Winchester?"
A small unexpected shudder ran up Dean's spine, and he struggled to keep his face stony. "No," he replied calmly. "It's a word of caution. I don't need to threaten, because if you get on my bad side, then trust me… " He smirked, and gave Castiel a cocky wink. "You'll know it, sweetheart."
The curve at the corner of Castiel's mouth deepened, and he said, "You are exactly as I heard you would be."
"Oh?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And how was I described?"
Castiel stared straight into his eyes, he said, "Dangerously arrogant, and masculine to a fault."
Dean chuckled hollowly and leaned back against the rail of the ship. "That's all they told you?" he asked lightly, playfully, a forced casualness. "No one mentioned my paranoia or my violence towards strangers?"
Castiel looked away finally, looking out over the waves. "That goes without saying."
And it was something, something in his self-assured way of speaking and his completely irritating composure that flared up inside of Dean and burst through his mask of indifference, and suddenly he had one fist knotted in Castiel's collar and his knife pressed to Castiel's throat and he snarled, "I don't know who the fuck you've been talking to, or what the fuck you're doing on my ship, but it's my fucking ship you little shit, so you watch the way you speak to me."
Castiel gazed calmly, completely unmoved, even as the steel of Dean's blade edged with crimson.
"You make one wrong move," Dean growled, twisting his fist tighter, "and I'll cut your throat myself."
And Castiel said, deadly serious, without a hint of humor, "I think you'd regret that."
They stared each other down, locked together, neither willing to acquiesce.
Finally Dean shoved him away and made a face of disgust. "Go apologize to Jo. It's the least you owe her."
For the first time, Castiel seemed surprised. "It was unintentional. I didn't mean to expose her."
Dean snorted, and took out his telescope. "Well. You can go try and convince her of that." He set his sights on the green stripe on the horizon. "But the damage is done."
He stared out at the island until he felt Castiel turn away and heard his boots make their way across the deck, and then he sagged and leaned against rail and unscrewed his canteen with unsteady hands. He took a deep draught of rum, and doubted he would sleep easy until that bastard was off his ship. A month, tops, before they made a city where he could be unceremoniously booted off the Impala. Couldn't be more than a month.
He was very, very wrong.
