AN: hey! Thanks for all the alerts and reviews - you guys are the greatest! This story, as well as graphics based on it, is also being posted on my tumblr simultaneously (itshellfiredean).

Warnings in this chapter for characters being drunk and dorky. Enjoy!

Also, the cover for this story is taken from an edit by tumblr user samsfire made for this story - thanks for all the inspiration!

Castiel watched Sam sleep.

Sam had decided he would allow himself to sleep, now that it was obvious Castiel wouldn't be able to escape this place without him – well, wouldn't be able to escape without him alive.

The young pirate slept fitfully, while Castiel stayed up and stared at his surroundings: the beautiful sea, glistening in the light of the moon; the fire beside him, dancing and crackling and warming him; the stars, ethereal and yet somehow almost touchable on a night as clear as this – they had always been one of Castiel's favourite things about his career as a sailor. He was always happy to take a night watch, as long as he could count off his favourite constellations.

However, though these things were complex and special in their own ways, none of them even came close to the man sleeping beside him.

He simply could not figure Sam Winchester out. More accurately, he was having trouble reconciling the Sam Winchester he'd heard so much about, with the one he now knew.

Sam had admitted to him earlier that he'd stolen and sinned; he didn't deny his crimes, and yet . . . He seemed almost pleasant. However, knowing that the devil often appeared attractive and reasonable so as to appeal to men, and lead them astray, he resolved to remain wary.

They had spoken a little over their dinner of cooked bird. Castiel had to admit, he'd been hungry: coconuts were all well and good, but the sustenance the meat had provided had been much appreciated by his stomach. After two days of eating little, it had been rewarding.

The Winchester boy hadn't even been awake two days. He knew not how Castiel had spotted him passed out and sinking into the briny sea, and had dragged him ashore. He clearly did not remember Castiel helping revive him, and spill the water from his lungs. He did not recall how Castiel – knowing it was the correct thing to do, no matter how evil he was – saved his life.

He'd hardly thought about the initial act of saving the human: it was standard procedure to pull a drowning man from the jaws of death. But the following day, his doubts grew, and he thought more and more about how his situation was Sam's fault, and how the boy had done nothing but evil his whole life. No: the real fight had been not to kill him before he woke.

Castiel saw, now, that Sam hadn't only done evil in his life: in the small acts of kindness and helpfulness the younger Winchester had extended to him, he saw glimpses now of a life poorly lived, but full of mercy and – God help him – good deeds.

Thinking of pulling a man from the sea – he considered Zachariah, and the fact he had not been rescued by him. There must have been some sort of . . . Misunderstanding. He could not have decided to leave him behind on purpose – Castiel was his First Mate.

And his cousin.

But perhaps . . . Well, Sam had made the point earlier that they'd left without him, or even so much as trying to find him. Perhaps he was right when he said that being on the side of the authorities did not necessarily equate to being a good person.

Looking down at the young man, his head tucked into the crook of his elbow, and his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, Castiel felt as if he were looking at him for the first time. He kept twitching in his sleep, and his face was twisted into a frown. Castiel wondered if he was having a nightmare about the fate of his brother: he didn't care much for Dean Winchester – in fact, as the Captain of a famously-evasive pirate ship wanted for a multitude of crimes, he actively disliked him – but he envied Sam, in that he had relatives who cared for him.

Unlike Zachariah.

. . . Castiel shook his head, clearing his mind of that idea. No, he thought, this is the boy, getting into my head. He frowned, marvelling at how easily he'd been convinced that he'd been left behind on purpose. This Winchester boy was smart . . . Perhaps he'd tricked him into thinking such a thing on purpose.

Suddenly, Sam sat up, panting and grabbing for something or other with flailing limbs. Castiel watched him warily, as he gathered his bearings: first looking into the fire and then at Castiel, with eyes blown wide with fear.

Gradually, his breathing eased off, as he calmed down. He brought his knees to his chest, crossing them at the ankles and resting his arms on his knees.

Castiel realised he should not intervene or ask questions if he was to remain distant from Sam, but . . . In the firelight, his face looked even younger, and infinitely more vulnerable. The result of their predicament and his dream alike, surely. Castiel hadn't before thought that he was as scary to Sam, as Sam was to him. They were natural enemies, of course.

He decided to say something anyway.

"Nightmare?" He asked quietly. Sam's head jerked up to look at him, a weary expression gracing his features.
"What do you care?" Sam asked standoffishly. Castiel blinked, realising that the boy's lashing out at him was a defence to protect himself, rather than to harm him.

He noticed Sam worrying the skin at the hollow of his throat – the area Castiel had been so keen to strangle with a length of rope, not twenty-four hours ago. He wasn't so sure of that goal now, and he watched Sam's long fingers trace the skin hesitantly.

He frowned as he watched Sam's fingers dip lower, to grasp something settled against his chest. He tried not to appear as if he was craning his neck inquisitively for a better view, while discretely observing the younger Winchester. A necklace.

"Is that a pirate medallion?" Castiel asked conversationally. Sam looked up at him, trying to read him: he suspected Castiel would be disgusted or disapproving of such a thing, but he merely seemed curious. Interested, even.
"No . . . No, it's an amulet," Sam corrected.
"I see," Castiel replied, expecting Sam to go on. After a long pause and an equally long sigh, Sam obliged:
"It belonged to my brother . . . I gave it to him as a gift, but he-" Sam swallowed, trying not to be overcome with emotion; the light of the fire gave away the shine of tears in his eyes. But he wouldn't let them fall. ". . . A while back, he decided he didn't want it anymore,"
"But he is your brother," Castiel replied, frowning. "Why would he do such a thing?"

Sam closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.
"I . . . Trusted the wrong people," He gritted out. Castiel nodded once in understanding, looking down at his feet, and feeling – for some reason – ashamed. Sam continued, ". . . I trusted others over him, for what I thought was his own good, but . . . They betrayed me. And we weren't the same, after that, Dean and I,"

Castiel thought back to an argument with his sister, Anna. Their family had been involved in the royal navy for many, many years; generations of Captains and Commodores. But Anna, after having gone along with their family profession for years, had rebelled: she'd tried to persuade Castiel that to kill pirates was wrong. They deserved prison – or, in some cases, to be left be.

As he stared at Sam, he wondered if she might have been right.

"We patched it up – but not before he threw this thing out," Sam looked down at the amulet, stroking it lightly with his index finger. "I never let him know I kept it . . . And that's why I have to see him again. He can't die til he knows, Cas. He can't d-"

Sam cut himself off at that point, before he began to get overly-emotional. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, and when they reopened, they were dull and miserable, rather than sad and emotional.

Castiel observed the change with a grim fascination: after years of living at sea, he himself could not have masked such feelings in such a short time as that. Sadly, he realised that Sam had grown up in the company of pirates and hardened men, who were not known for being overly sensitive, or in touch with their feelings.

Castiel marvelled that Sam's father – the infamous John Winchester – had allowed Sam's skills of masking his emotions to develop to almost uncanny levels.

"Rest, Sam Winchester. We have a long journey ahead of us," Castiel told him. Sam glanced up at him, and studied him for a moment, as if making some important decision. He then nodded once, both in acquiescence and thankfulness. He settled down once more, pulling his coat around him, and staring into the fire until his eyes drooped once more, and he fell asleep.

Though he knew there was a good chance he would regret it later, Castiel felt himself make an important decision at that moment, as he caught himself thinking:
I will make sure your brother wears his amulet again.

When Castiel awoke, he cursed himself for falling asleep. He hadn't meant to: after all, Sam could flag down a pirate ship on his own, and arrange his own assault on St. Mary's port, without Castiel. It would be a hundred times more difficult and he would probably fail, but he could still attempt it without the officer, he knew.

So, he'd meant to stay up, until they had been removed from the island, and were on a ship, and then . . . Well, he had not thought that far into his plan. He realised he would have to sleep at one point, but he was reluctant to do so on a ship full of pirates. So he would have been at a loss for when to get some much-needed rest.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep in Sam's presence, but now that he had – and had survived the night – he had been shown that, truly, Sam would not murder him the first chance he got. And he was thankful for that, at least.

He cast his gaze around, and realised he was alone. The fire was still going, with a bed of greenery burning nicely on top of it, but with no sign of the man who had put it there. As he sat up and cast his gaze around, his eyes sought out Sam's coat.

The great brown thing was discarded on the floor, a little way away from the fire pit. His eyes followed a set of large footprints, and he frowned when he saw a discarded shirt . . . And boots . . . What the-?

Then, he raised his eyes, and saw him: Sam was standing in the shallow water, his hair dark with its dampness and sticking out in all sorts of directions. He appeared to be stabbing into the waves with a makeshift spear – a piece of sharpened wood – trying to catch fish, no doubt. There was already a small pile of them by his side, Castiel noticed. But it wasn't the fishing or the pile of clothes that made him do a double take. It was Sam's bare chest.

The boy was covered in tattoos.

His body was littered with them, from the strange star-shaped design above his heart, to the ornate yet unreadable lettering that lined the majority of his ribs. Even from this far, Castiel could see them: he'd always presumed that pirate tattoos were vulgar and the domain of human detritus, unwittingly identifying themselves as the criminals they were . . . But the way they stuck out from Sam's tan flesh was enough to persuade Castiel to reconsider. He had to admit was very aesthetically pleasing . . . Or was that just the body underneath?

Though mesmerised with the way the ink moved as Sam's muscles flexed and extended, glistening with salty seawater, Castiel forced himself to look away. It did not do to have such thoughts about pirates.

As if he had heard him, Sam looked up at that moment, his eyes scanning the beach, until they reached Castiel. And he smiled.

Castiel found himself – oh, so strangely – smiling back, albeit weakly. He was a little distracted at that moment. Pirate or no, the boy kept himself in impeccable shape. And perhaps it was Sam's faith, or his general politeness, or the emotional vulnerability that he'd shown last night, but . . . Castiel decided that tattoos were not strictly for ruffians and pig-headed vagabonds.

Sam made his way from the sea, discarding the spear as he splashed his way onto the wet sand that clung to his feet. The fabric that covered his legs clung to them, showing muscle definition that made Castiel simultaneously jealous, and awed. The pirate shook his hair out, running his hands through it and scrunching his face up as he made his way back to the fire pit.

"Mornin', Cas," He greeted cordially. Castiel just stared at him.

Sam raised his eyebrows, taken aback at the scrutiny he was being put under, and wondering what he'd done wrong this time.
". . . Castiel?" He asked cautiously.
"Good morning," The officer replied, snapping out of his stupor. Sam raised a doubtful eyebrow at him, before turning away to grab some of the foliage he'd collected yesterday, adding it to the fire, and causing the smoke to rise into the air – hopefully, a good enough signal to any ships that might come by. He sat by it, drying himself on it, as well as relying on the late-morning sun for the same purpose.

". . . You have collected fish," Castiel stated.
"Yup," Sam replied shortly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it was. "Sorry, I know you're against killing animals or whatever-"
"You are forgiven. At least, this time," Castiel replied, adding on the last part quickly, in a way that Sam found strange. Despite only having known the man a couple of days, he could tell that something wasn't quite right with him.

But he decided not to ask. He remembered his emotional confession regarding his and Dean's relationship – and the amulet – and figured he'd already said too much. It was probably a bad idea to engage in much more personal talk from this point on, he decided. A least – if he could resist.

He rubbed his hand down his face, brushing lightly against his stubble, and deciding to cast the thought of getting closer to Castiel from his mind. No matter how cute he looked sitting there bleary-eyed in the sunlight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. And no matter how closely he'd seen the officer watching him as he'd been fishing, and walking to the shore in wet pants. Something twisted in his stomach, but he dampened it down, clutching his amulet and thinking steadfastly of Dean, and how miserable he was right now, and how he needed merely to use Castiel, not – well, not use him, he was just-

"I'm thirsty," He said plainly, trying not to give his thoughts away with his facial expression. "We got any coconuts left?"
"No. I believe we used the last of them up yesterday. I could go and get some-" Castiel replied.
"No – I'll just, drink this-" Sam replied, reaching for his rum before Castiel had even finished his offer. Pulling it from the bag, he uncorked it and took a long swig. Castiel looked at him doubtfully. Sam handed him the bottle.

"I do not wish-"
"I didn't kill you in your sleep, did I?" Sam pointed out.
"I find it hard to believe that that is the epitome of a trusting relationship," Castiel countered.

Sam simply offered him the bottle again, without comment. Castiel sighed, took the bottle, and drank from it after a cautious sniff that made Sam grin. When Sam grinned, Cas unfortunately did, too.

It tasted vulgar and gross to the officer – although, having eaten plenty of sea biscuits in his day, he had a strong stomach for rancid tastes now. But alcohol . . . That was another matter.
"What you said about me not being a drinker," Castiel said, handing back the bottle to the pirate, he drank from it again, "You were right. I do not drink spirits often," Of course, out on the open water, weak mead was the drink of choice – but it was hardly comparable to the rum Sam was gulping down.

Castiel watched as the boy drank, the occasional drips of liquor running down from his face onto his neck, and then his chest. Castiel licked his lips, before averting his eyes, before Sam caught him looking as he offered the officer the bottle again.

"Yeah? . . . Me neither – well, I'm a bit of a lightweight, actually," Sam confessed, with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm just so damn thirsty,"
"Indeed," Castiel agreed, drinking once more.
". . . I have two bottles," Sam pointed out, looking Castiel up and down, sizing him up. He noted that their silences were a lot less loaded or icy now; Castiel did not fear that he was about to be poisoned, or feel that he needed to point out that Sam was a pirate at least once a minute.

"Good," Castiel replied, smiling genuinely back for the first time, as he felt a warmth that was nothing to do with the fire or the midday sun warm his cheeks.

". . . It turned out to not even be a ghost. Or a monster – it was just a bunch of humans!" Sam enthused, gesturing wildly, though still being of sound-enough mind that he didn't spill his drink. "But let me say, while I was in the brig of some slaver ship, in the middle of nowhere – man, they sure scared me more than any werewolf or vampire," He chuckled to himself lightly, glad he could laugh about it now. It had taken a good few days, but Dean had tracked down that ship, and that family had had hell to pay. That wasn't the first time, nor the last, that Dean proved that no one got to fuck with his little brother. Not if they wanted to live.

Castiel was chuckling too at his side, in the early evening haze. His eyelids were drooping: they were both pretty drunk, having finished one and a half bottles of Sam's incredibly strong rum between them. After eating so little – and generally, being lightweights when it came to drink – its effect was starting to take its toll.

The conversation had started out as a discussion about the likely ports they would stop at on route to St. Mary's, and whether or not they would be able to get all the way there with one ship, or would have to bargain their way onto another. That had then progressed into the two of them talking about their favourite ports – their favourite, and least favourite, voyages . . . And eventually, Sam's horror stories from being a pirate that Castiel, while not approving of them, found fascinating.

When the laughter died down, and the two of them were just staring at each other, breathless and smiling, Castiel found that he was beginning to feel – well, he supposed he would refer to it as affection for Sam Winchester. He admired him, truly. And with the way the pirate was swaying where he sat – having consumed more alcohol than the officer had – and the fog of alcohol he himself was currently labouring under, he looked . . . Well, he – he was-

"But seriously," Castiel interrupted his own thoughts, "You cannot truly believe in the creatures you describe," He wagered, slurring his words slightly.
"Pfft," Sam waved his doubts away, gulping down more of his drink. "Why would I make them up?"
"To hide your crimes?" Castiel guessed.
"Yeah, cause I've done such a good job of that so far," Sam pointed out sarcastically. "I mean, here I am, with you – and, well, people know my name, they know what I do! Well, maybe not everything I do, and they might not know me by my real name-"
"I see. You are somewhat of a-" Castiel hiccupped, "-celebrity,"

Sam laughed. It started as a giggle at the surprisingly cute little noise Castiel made when he hiccupped, then progressed to a full belly laugh as he thought about the concept he'd just broached.
"Yeah, right!" Maybe he was an urban legend or an underground antihero, but he wasn't famous. He could hear Dean's reaction to that right now – if I'm so famous, how come I don't get laid more often?

In his fits of laughter he slumped down onto his side, unwittingly hitting a rock on his way down. He cursed, rubbing the back of his head, and pouting like a small child might. Castiel laughed to himself – it seemed he was doing more and more of that as he imbibed greater quantities of alcohol.

And as he spent more time around Sam.

". . . Can I tell you something?" He asked Castiel, rolling his head to better see the officer. Sighing, Castiel shuffled closer, until he was kneeling above Sam. In the light of the sunset, and the flickering luminescence of the fire, the tattoos on Sam's bare chest seemed to dance and flicker, as if the ink were running, trailing from his skin like words from the pages of a book.

That was what he supposed Sam was, really. More than a pirate – more than the sum of his parts. These tattoos, while being a part of his pirate lifestyle, also detailed it like a story – each from a different, often difficult time in his life; each with its own purpose. He didn't need Sam to tell him that, explicitly. Maybe it was the alcohol, and maybe more time staring at them, but . . . He got it now. He could read Sam's life like a book, with his skin as the paper.

But he didn't know every story. So he let Sam tell another.

"Of course," He replied, after a long pause. Sam was just grinning up at him, no doubt amused by Castiel's long pause, and assuming it was just due to a drunken stupor setting in . . . Maybe it was, he reasoned, as he saw a glazed-over quality to Sam's eyes.

". . . I didn't choose this," Sam said, staring up at the stars, which were fading into focus in the midst of the purple and blood-orange sky.
"You were born into it. I know," Castiel replied – not dismissively, but empathetically. Sam, in his inebriated state, may not have realised that Castiel was also referring to his own career path, and the fact that his family had all but forced him into it.

"I wanted to be a writer, or a . . . A scholar," Sam added, frowning as he momentarily sought the words he was looking for. "I never wanted this life. I used to hate it," His speech patterns were erratic, but the confession was clear.
"Used to?" Castiel asked, dragging his eyes from Sam's body to look at his face. Sam's arms shifted, the muscles swimming beneath the skin, until he was resting his head on his hands. Castiel swallowed, feeling rather conflicted about this whole situation.

He'd already crossed the line. He was getting drunk, with a pirate – a wanted, smart, attractive-

"I got out, once . . . For years – three, four-" He waved his hand, before replacing it beneath his head. "But the life came back – it always did . . . They found me,"
"The navy?" Castiel presumed. But the younger man shook his head, his eyes wandering off to peer into the midst of the fire.
". . . The demons," He whispered.
"Demons?"

Sam nodded, shutting his eyes for a moment, and taking a deep breath that made the sigils on his ribs expand, before shrinking once more, with the minute stretches and movement of his muscles and skin. Castiel watched, fascinated. It seemed he enjoyed staring, when he was drunk. Sam didn't notice at that moment.

"Yeah, they – well, Dean came and got me. Said there was a job that needed doing near the town where I lived, and dad was missing, so . . ."
"You completed the job?" Castiel prompted.
"Yeah – a woman in white. Type of ghost," He clarified, opening his eyes and staring up at the sky.
"And you returned home?" Castiel pressed, thoroughly interested now. This was a side of the pirate he had never been looking for; had never tried to find.
"It . . . Wasn't my home anymore. Not without her," Sam replied, finally looking Castiel in the eye.

Castiel's heart sank with the implication. Both the fact that Sam's espoused had died, and the fact that, well . . . 'Her'.

"I am sorry," He said solemnly.

Sam cocked his head to one side, leaning up on his elbows suddenly, and really examining Castiel – as if for the first time.
"You . . . Really meant that," He realised.
"Of course," Castiel replied, nodding sincerely.
". . . Huh," Sam replied, slowly lying back down, and taking a minute to adjust to the change in position. His head was spinning. ". . . After that, it was just sailing for me – forever. You see the one there?" He asked, pointing to his left calf. Castiel craned his head to view the tattoo he was referring to, and Sam lifted up his leg, almost kicking him in the face. He dodged, and Sam snorted quietly to himself at the sight of Castiel rearing back unceremoniously from the limb. The officer grabbed it, and held it up, looking where Sam was pointing.

"The compass?" Castiel asked. The thing could almost have been mistaken for a star – but four of the points had the points of the compass etched in next to them.
"Yeah – I got that two weeks later. To remind myself who I really am. I'll always find my way back to this . . . It's in my blood, I guess," He finished softly, his eyes drooping slightly. The sun was down now – it was getting darker. He felt the brush of Castiel's fingers against his tattoo, feather-light and sensitive, as if Castiel didn't wish to sully himself with the taint his skin might bring. But, Sam thought as the touches made him relax for the first time in days – weeks, months, years – he wasn't stopping.

Castiel nodded, looking up from the tattoo to Sam, still holding his leg up. He saw Sam's head drooping, and his eyes shut, and frowned.
"Sam?" He asked, setting his leg down and shuffling towards his head. Perhaps that knock on the head had done the boy more damage than first expected. He touched his neck, moving his hand up to cup his face with a frown, his fingers tangled in the messy shock of brown hair as he leaned over the younger Winchester. He felt no blood, so the damage couldn't have been too serious.

The younger Winchester's eyes fluttered open, and he was greeted with the sight of a frowning Castiel, worried and yet still amused at Sam's behaviour.
"Cas?" He asked, raising one eyebrow with a smile that Castiel had often seen on the faces of drunk men in drinking establishments.
"What?" The officer replied.

Leaning up on one elbow, Sam Winchester quickly swept in, pushing himself upwards until he was nose-to-nose with his ally and enemy. Before Castiel could even comment on the suddenness of the move, Sam moved in for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss.

Castiel's eyes widened, and he was frozen with his fingers still interweaved with the pirate's brown locks, caught in a moral dilemma for a moment. No, this is not – I should not be kissing a pirate – it doesn't matter if it is Sam Winchester –

That was the moment he realised that Sam had become worth more to him than other pirates. And, while he knew Sam was drunk – as was he himself, or he would not have approached Sam, or touched him, or encouraged him – and was probably just intending to use him, before abandoning him or worse . . . He kissed back.

Perhaps he will not remember this.

Perhaps no one will ever know.

Castiel was surprised how enthusiastic Sam was: while lengthy, the kiss had a pace that he struggled to keep up with. It surprised the officer, as Sam was usually so thoughtful and a little reserved when sober – but at that moment, he was acting on his baser instincts, it seemed.

The pirate just kissed and licked, nipping at the bottom lip of the other man without really thinking much at all. He wanted this – he needed this-

Castiel jumped when he felt Sam reach out with the hand that wasn't supporting him, to grasp his belt, pulling him closer in one insistent movement, until they were flush against each other. It was only then that he pulled away, looking doubtfully at Sam's face.

The pirate stared up at him, blinking blearily, his cheeks a watercolour of pinkish red, and his eyelids failing to obey him, even as he smiled still.

He needed this. He needed-

Slowly yet surely, Sam's elbow shifted beneath him, until it was no longer supporting him. Castiel smiled a little as his companion slipped to the sand beneath him, falling asleep in the middle of a slurred, "Do ya wanna . . . ?"

He grabbed Sam's coat, and placed in on top of the young man's body, even as he thought to himself, what have you done?

This was something that was not going to be forgotten easily – and frighteningly enough, he did not wish to forget it. Not just yet. He knew he and Sam were to part ways soon, but . . . Perhaps another night.

But that was all. He was a pirate, and eventually, he would hang. But for now . . . Well, he would to deny the boy what he wanted so badly (and what he had secretly wanted, too).

That is, until he was sober.

"Sam – Sam, wake up," Urged a voice right beside his ear, making him jerk into wakefulness.
"Go 'way, Dean-" He mumbled, rolling over and pulling one arm over his face.
"Sam! There's a ship – we have company,"

He removed the arm from his face, ignoring his killer headache to open his eyes. It was still dark – the visage of Castiel loomed above him, his gaze anxiously flitting between Sam's face and the sea. Sam sat up slightly, looking towards the water.

"Get your clothes on, gather your things – they're coming for us," Castiel confirmed, as Sam's eyes widened.

The light of the moon barely showed the figure shrouded in darkness, rowing towards them. It was clear where he had come from: in the distance, the silhouette of a ship sat, foreboding and shadowy. Sam, however, could still make out the colour of the sales: a sulphurous yellow.

Sam's heart sank, as he realised whose attention they had attracted; who, exactly, was coming for them. Castiel looked at him, his eyes full of anxious hope for the first time in days; it ebbed away gradually, as he saw the way Sam had paled upon seeing the ship. He frowned at Sam, who looked up at him nervously, before murmuring a gentle:
"I'm sorry,"