Out of nowhere, Alfie-Con decided to dictate another chapter, which was highly inconvenient, since I have other things to do, but the little wretch WOULD NOT SHUT UP, so here's another chapter.

So, here's my proposal: I've posted two chapters today, so you leave me two reviews. One for each chapter, okay? You know what a review addict I am; reviewing more than one chapter per review is cheating. Like giving somebody who was born on December 25th a combined birthday+Christmas present. I post again, you review again. Do we have a deal? Good. No kissing required. So, if you haven't reviewed the previous chapter, go back and do it now, before you read this one. Go on, it'll still be here when you get back. I'm watching you…

JIMIVERSE CSA: May I just remind everybody that Action Figure Therapy is utterly hilarious, utterly entertaining, and UTTERLY NSFW. Srsly, with an episode entitled 'Honey Badger Blood Orgy', and a catch-phrase like 'Moustache with titties', it's NSFW. But it's all toy action figures, so if you put your earbuds in, you should be safe.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"It doesn't make sense," Sam muttered, listening to the recording of the spell again, "On the face of it, Rachel knows her stuff, to pull this spell together – but how does somebody who looks like that actually manage pretty competent practise of The Craft?"

"Hiding in plain sight?" suggested Dean as he put RJ to bed in his travel crib, then went back to the laptop to recommence clacking away furiously. "You know, if you look like somebody who has no frigging idea what a witch actually does, then anybody who does know what a witch actually does, will look at you and think, hey, she's wearin' the beaded curtain from that Danish porn shop in the main street, she can't possible have any frigging idea what a witch actually does…"

"Kind of reverse camouflage?" commented Sam. "Well, it worked on me. She just gives out the impression that she's well-meaning if not terribly effective. But this…" he waved a hand at his cell. "It's good. It was genuine. But if she's that good, how could she not realise the problem, the potential danger, of not 'aiming' a spell carefully?"

"So, you think it could work?" asked Dean, not looking up.

"Well, yeah, theoretically," opined Sam. "Or, it could be so non-specific as to end up pretty much ineffective. Or, having a loose end flapping around, it could be dangerous. But if she's good, maybe it will work. There's no way to tell until…" His voice trailed off. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"I'm re-writing some of my story," Dean peered at the screen. "I mean, it's great, my fans love it, but I think it could be improved."

"Show me that." Sam reached across the small table and snatched the laptop. Ignoring Dean's yapping protests, he spun it around to see what his brother had been writing.

When Captain Dean Winchester swaggered into the Salvage Yard tavern of London fresh from the bath house and made his way to the bar, he found that two of his senior crewmates were already there, apparently deep in serious conversation.

"Well, don't you just smell like the inside of a Turkish brothel," growled Bobby Singer, the grizzled and grumpy Quartermaster of the Impala.

"And how exactly would you know what the inside of a Turkish brothel smells like, old man?" Dean shot back breezily. He was ashore again, with treasure in his strong room and gold in his purse, and he refused to let Bobby's habitual grumbling ruin his evening.

"I sailed them waters when you were just your Pater's cabin boy, playin' with his spyglass and gettin' under the carpenter's feet," Bobby humphed, "And you smell just like one of their wimmen."

"In the Barbary lands, it is customary to visit the hamam, the baths, several times a week," intoned Castiel Godson, the serious-faced First Mate of the Impala and Dean's best friend. "They believe that purity of the body promotes purity of the soul. Although they are heretics, the philosophy has much to recommend it." Having visited the stews himself for a thorough washing after a six-month voyage, he turned a disapproving eye on Bobby. "It is not so much that he smells of anything as he now no longer smells unwashed."

"Don't you berate me about cleanliness, you damned Puritan," Bobby muttered, "Aint safe for a body to sit in all that water. Unhealthy for the pores. I got washed when I was baptised, I'll get washed afore I'm buried. That's all the washin' a Christian man needs. Besides, there was that storm three weeks ago, that gave everybody a more thorough washin' than the Good Lord ever intended."

"A pirate's bath is the only one Bobby will ever take, Castiel, you know that," Dean grinned and gestured to the keeper of the tavern, "Now, tell me, why is it that we are back from a successful voyage, yet I find you both with the appearance of men on their way to Tyburn? Ellen, fetch me a bottle of your best grog to cheer these two up."

"Show me your coin first, you pirate," growled the woman who kept the tavern.

"Why, Ellen, you wound me," replied Dean in a hurt voice. "I am no pirate, but a privateer loyal to His Majesty's desires and interests. Why, I carry his Letter of Marque. Castiel here could read it to you."

"It is not a lack of strong drink that distresses us," commented Castiel in his usual serious tone, "But the receipt of most uncomfortable intelligence."

Bobby's face darkened, and Dean realised that his grumpiness was covering real concern. "Dean," he began, "We got some bad news. About your brother, Sam."

Dean was immediately on the alert. "What?" he demanded, immediately concerned for his younger brother, who was serving on a Navy vessel. "What has happened? Tell me!"

"A number of weeks ago, your brother's ship, the Stanford, and her sister ship the Chevrolet saw action against a buccaneer," Bobby told him, "But they were bested – the Chevrolet went to the bottom with all hands, and the Stanford was left a wreck, with no more than a handful of survivors, slowly sinkin', and if a passing merchantman hadn't chanced upon 'em, they'd have vanished without trace."

Dean staggered and sat down heavily, the sudden wave of dizziness washing over him having nothing to do with him still recovering his land legs. "Sam," he croaked, "Sam, my brother, was he… was he…"

Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "He was not aboard the Stanford when the merchant vessel spotted her," he said gravely, but he hurried to continue as Dean's face drained of colour, grabbing his friend's shoulder. "Dean, your brother did not die. He was gravely wounded, and taken prisoner by the buccaneer, but he did not die."

Dean's face drew into a snarl. "Incompetent idiots!" he growled, "Those Navy wretches, they are incompetent idiots! Incompetent, vainglorious knaves and wretches! Appointed rank according to who their connections are, and how much they can pay for a commission! Most of 'em are not fit to skipper a manure scow, d'you hear me?" He turned a savage visage to his shipmate. "Fools who could not secure a two-against-one victory, and now my brother is abducted, and subject to who knows what fate, pressed into serving aboard a pirate vessel, sold into slavery…what vessel?" he demanded. "What vessel sank my brother's ship and abducted him?"

Bobby and Castiel exchanged a look. "There is some… conjecture about the vessel involved," Castiel eventually said carefully.

"Conjecture?" scoffed Dean, baring his teeth, "Conjecture? Either there was another vessel, or there was not. Or perhaps there is suggestion that God Himself struck these ships from the ocean? Davy Jones himself appeared, sailing in a ship of bones, and claimed them, perhaps?"

"The survivors were not best able to give a concise account of the action," Castiel went on, giving a distinct impression of a man standing too close to a cannon that has been lit, but has not yet fired.

"Not best able to… well, by thunder, why not?" raged Dean, "Have those useless fops and milksops of the Navy not thought to question them? Those worthless sons of she-dogs, I'll do it myself if I have to!"

"That would not be advisable," Castiel continued, with the maddening patience that he often deployed in the face of his captain's restless rashness.

"And why not?" Dean rounded on his First Mate.

"Because, you idjit," Bobby snapped, cutting in to derail Dean's angry tirade, "Because, on of 'em is in Haslar, dyin' of his wounds, and the other two are in Bedlam."

The snap of the old man's voice brought Dean up short. "Bedlam?"

"They have been committed to Bethlem Hospital," confirmed Castiel, "They were raving, and they were clearly rendered unsound of mind by their experience."

Dean dropped his head into his hands. "How am I to find my brother?" he asked in a small voice, "If I cannot even find tell of the vessel that has taken him, where do I begin my search?... what?" His face hardened as Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "What is it? Tell me!"

"Son, you have to understand, the two men in Bedlam, they aint right in their minds," Bobby began, "So what they were supposed to be sayin, it aint necessarily anything except the product of a lunatic mind."

"Anything," Dean said earnestly, "Anything that could give me a clue. What did they say?"

"Well, there was tell," Bobby swallowed, "There was tell that they claimed their vessels closed with, and were bested by… the She-Wolf."

Dean groaned as if he was in pain, and Ellen came from behind the bar, a concerned expression on her tired face. "Here," she placed a tankard at his elbow, "Drink this."

He took a long swig of grog, and sighed in defeat. "The She-Wolf is a myth, a phantom," he peered into the drink then took another long draught. "There is no such ship." A small smile found its way onto his face. "Sam said that on the last vessel where he served as a midshipman, the Master used to tell the youngest ones that if they did not learn their lessons and perfect their navigation, he would make an offering to the Witch of the Sea, and summon the She-Wolf, so they might be borne away and devoured by her monstrous captain."

"And yet, reports of sightings of, and encounters with, this vessel persist," Castiel pointed out.

"Aye, they do," confirmed Ellen, "I have kept this tavern longer than I care to remember, and for many years, seamen, from many countries, have spoken of her. Strange, wild tales, incredible things."

"Drunk men will spout any sort of folly," Dean sighed.

"In vino veritas," Castiel intoned. "In wine is the truth. Get a man drunk enough, and he will say what he is really thinking."

"Especially if he thinks it will prompt his audience to buy him more grog to encourage his entertaining fictions," Dean snapped.

"Castiel is right," Ellen insisted, "Men from the known corners of the world drink in my tavern, it's known I'm one of the finest brewers in London, and thought the tales may be difficult to credit, yet there are things that recur in the tellings."

"I have heard such tales," Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "Stories of the kind that men to tell when the night is dark and the wind is howling. How the She-Wolf prowls the seas, lookin' for men to steal away. They say her captain is a monster, deformed and hideous. She's crewed by men who have the heads of dogs. A pack of wild dogs fight with the crew to take a vessel. I have even heard tell," his voice broke into a chuckle, "That her captain is a woman. And a powerful ugly one, at that."

"So, this ship, she does exist, and yet she does not," scoffed Dean. "How is a man to tell what amongst the tales is true, and what is not?"

Before anyone else could answer him, a low voice, as much of a growl as a voice, answered from the shadows behind him.

"All of it is true, yet none of it is true."

Ellen turned an exasperated expression to the figure in the corner. "Now, don't you go distressing my customers," she said firmly, pouring another tankard and placing it before the mysterious figure. "Keep your peace, and enjoy a quiet drink."

Dean turned and studied the man. A seaman, by his boots, his dress and his weapons, though his face was hidden in the recesses of a hood. "And who might you be, then? Don't skulk back there, sirrah, show yourself!"

The figure made another sound that resembled a growl.

"Andrew," Ellen began warningly, "What have I told you? I beg pardon for him," she turned back to Dean and his crewmates, "He is a sailor like yourselves, a ship's Master of long experience, but he has been sorely wounded, and his experience has left him… touched."

"Touched?" It came out as a sharp bark of amusement. "Touched, is it? Is that what you'd call it?" The stranger stood, and made his way into the circle of yellowed lantern light. "If it's the She-Wolf you seek, Captain, then I can tell you that she's real," he said. "Aye, she's as real as you or me or your damned Puritan standing there."

Castiel reached out to put a calming hand on Dean's arm as his Captain reached for his cutlass. "If you have intelligence of this vessel, we would be grateful for all detail you would vouchsafe," he said in a calm and polite tone. "My Captain fears for the safety of his brother, who, it is reported, was abducted by the crew of the She-Wolf after his own vessel was disabled."

"And well he might," the man Ellen named as Andrew chuckled unkindly, "For if the She-Wolf has him, he is seized on the direct orders of her captain."

"Wherefore?" demanded Dean, his hand straying to the hilt of his weapon again, "What is his design? Does he seek crew members, or captives to sell for Barbary gold?"

"Neither," replied the mysterious Andrew. "For the captain is a woman, and if your brother is a young and handsome man like you, Captain, she has taken him for one thing, and one thing only: she seeks a mate."

Dean gawped at the fellow, then laughed out loud. "A mate, you say?" he guffawed, as Bobby chuckled and Castiel smiled behind his hand, while Ellen rolled her eyes and muttered a prayer for patience, "She has taken him as a mate? Well, that should be a sight to see indeed! For I would pay good coin to see a woman attempt to force herself upon my brother. Indeed, I would pay a woman good coin to see a her force herself upon my brother, even a rampant pirate queen, for he is shy and virginal as a maid, and it would benefit him mightily to spend an evening in congress with a woman, and I tell him so as oft as I may…"

"She is not just a woman," Andrew snarled, "It is true that she is deformed and hideous, scarred and monstrous."

"Ah, Ellen is right," Dean wiped tears of genuine amusement from his eyes. "Poor fellow, you are touched. Here," he placed a heavy silver coin on the bar, "Drink on me tonight. And tell me more of your fabulous tale. You are more amusing than the most canny playwrights, and their fancy recitations. Come, most entertaining fellow," Dean seated himself, "I need cheering tonight. Tell me the tale of how you come to know so much about this beastly she-captain."

"There be not much to tell," growled Andrew, stepping into the light, and pulling back his hood.

The others gasped as the lantern's mantle revealed a face that had once been handsome, but had been disfigured as if by monstrous claws: the scars ran the length of his face, passing through the milky dead eye and into the long golden hair just starting to grey.

"I know this," Andrew seemed to take amusement from the shock on his audience's faces, "Because I was once her captive and I displeased her." He pushed the coin across the bar, towards Ellen's white face. "But you have offered to buy me drink, and so it is a fair trade that I shall tell you what I can."

Sam looked up from the screen and stared at his brother.

"Give me that back!" Dean hissed, snatching at the laptop. "I'm busy! You stick to figuring out whether that spell is actually gonna do anything."

"Uh," Sam stuttered, "I think that might be a yes."

Ohhh, not good, as a Jedi character in a laughably disappointing movie once said. What the hell is Alfie-Con playing at? Send reviews, because Reviews Are The Long Pointy Sticks Of Life With Which To Poke Plot Bunnies Into Further Dictation!*

*Pointy sticks can also be used to urge Winchesters to more enthusiastic scantily-clad dancing, but there's none of that just now, so stick with prodding the plot bunny.