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Always wanted to do a third Land's End/Fisherman!Dean story, hoping to squeeze this one into hiatus-time. Will not make a lot of sense unless you're familiar with the first two stories. This also contains spoilers for everything aired thus far this season, although nothing detailed. Unbetaed, and rewritten so many times I'm flinging up my hands and gonna go from here, see what happens. Hope you enjoy. EB.
That Fine Simplicity
by Emily Brunson
(c)2010
Chapter One
In October he calls Gib.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me."
It's been a long time, and Dean isn't fresh on reading the skipper's tone. Could be bad. "Yeah, it's, ah." He clears his throat, glances over his shoulder. "Been a while. How you doin', Skip?"
Gib's silent long enough to see Dean's heart climb into his throat a few inches. Then, "Motherfucker. Dean motherfucking Winchester." Now he can hear a smile. "I thought you were dead, boy. Jesus."
I was, Dean thinks, and now I'm not. "You retired yet?"
"Not yet, no. Jesus. Janie," he yells suddenly, and Dean hears a female voice, sounds like a question. "It's Lucky. I don't fucking believe it. Lucky."
Lucky. He hasn't felt lucky in a very, very long time. His throat aches worse. "You remember," he starts, and has to swallow, once, twice. "Remember what you said to me."
"I remember," Gib says fast. "I remember."
It's tears aching in his throat now, tears of relief and regret, and hope as sharp and bright and painful as a solar flare. "So," Dean whispers. "Think I'd like to take you up on it. If you still. You know."
There's another silence, and then Gib says, "Get your ass on up to Seattle. We ship out soon."
Dean closes his eyes. Thinks, Thank you, and says, "Got it."
"Dean --"
"See you soon," he whispers, and hangs up.
He makes a huge supper and watches Sam and Bobby demolish the food, and when they're done he says, "Gotta head up northwest for a while. You be okay?"
Sam wipes his mouth on a paper towel and frowns at him. "What's up there?"
Dean shakes his head. "I used to do some work with this guy. Gib, Gib Fallows. Now that we're, you know." Done, he thinks. Finished. Holding you together with duct tape and superglue. "Thought I'd head back up for the season."
"Oh," Sam says. "Well. Okay."
Washing dishes, Bobby clears his throat. "This a job?"
Dean hears it in his voice, is this a job or a Job? Job, like we used to do, back when Sam was Sam and -- back when. "Nah," he tells him. Wipes a plate dry. "Back when Sammy was in school. Spent a couple of seasons doing some work up there, and Gib, he says he's still got a place, so." He scrapes his thumbnail over a tiny speck of leftover food. "Couple, three months."
Bobby nods. "He'll be okay."
"I know. I know."
"Sure you do."
Dean stacks the plate on top of its brothers.
Sam's standing on the porch, drinking a can of Pabst and watching the darkness. It's late enough in the season that it's downright nippy, and Dean pops the top on his own can and wishes for a set of Carhartts. Soon enough.
"How you doin."
Sam stares out into the dark. "I won't fall apart," he says quietly. "You can go, Dean."
Dean watches him, and blurts, "Come with me."
Sam looks at him, eyes dark and impossible to read. "Where?"
"Does it matter?" Dean slugs beer he doesn't want, and feels Sam's gaze like weight on his shoulders. "What are we doing here, Sammy? Waiting? For what, dude?"
Sam's silent so long, Dean takes a breath finally, and then Sam says, "For you to believe I'm your brother again."
His voice is rough as old bark, and Dean says, "You're wrong," but he isn't. He isn't. "Come with me. It's good work. Hard, but man, we'll make a shitload of money."
Sam returns to study the empty dark, beer can dangling forgotten in his fingers. "It isn't about money," he says.
"I know that. Let's go, Sammy. Let's figure it out."
After a long time, Sam says, "Okay."
The silence has grown familiar. Dean doesn't know what to say to break it, what will bring Sam back to the moment, so he settles for driving, miles spinning out between their wheels like hundreds of clunky metaphors. They eat at the same diners, fast-food joints, bars they always did. Drink the same beer and spend two nights in motel rooms so familiar Dean's dead certain they've been there before.
Sam reads, another in a succession of flaky woo-woo books he started picking up not long after he got his soul back. He doesn't discuss what's in them, and Dean doesn't want to know. Nothing that will help, he could tell him, but it wouldn't matter. Sam isn't reading them for solutions. Just looking for others as jacked up as he is. As they are.
Could just glance over at the driver's seat, but Dean doesn't say that, either.
At a tiny rundown diner outside Ellensburg he calls Gib, gets his voice mail and says, "Be there tonight. Let me know what time we're shipping out, oh-dark-thirty or whatever. Thanks."
Sam nibbles at a grilled ham and cheese, and the look he gives Dean when he comes back to the table holds no curiosity at all.
They stay at a motel a few blocks from the water. It's spitting rain, cold and unpleasant and familiar as a neighborhood he dreamed he grew up in. While Sam takes a shower Dean digs through his duffel, pulls out the old Sally jacket. Sam's never seen it.
His phone rings while he's sitting there, fingering the logo.
"Five o'clock. You're late, we're --"
"Gone, yeah," Dean says, while he opens the door and eases out. "Got it. Hey, Skip, I, ah. Well. I gotta ask you a favor."
There's clattering in the background, a young voice complaining about something. "Shoot."
"It's, yeah. I brought my brother."
Silence, then, "You got a brother?"
Dean smiles, blinks in the light of a car pulling into the parking lot. "Yeah, actually, I do."
"He anything like you?"
"Not a whole lot. He's. He's a good kid. Strong. You got no idea how strong."
"He willing to be greenhorn?"
"Absolutely."
There's a pause, and when Gib speaks again there's less background noise. "I held a spot every year," he says evenly. "Ever goddamn year, Lucky, and never heard a word from you. Hell, Alex, he practically held a wake. Now you -- you're back, and you got a brother, and -- Christ, Dean. I'll tell you this much. I'd consider myself the lucky one to have you back, and I don't got a slot but I'll goddamn make one if this brother of yours is anything like you." He pauses, and Dean pictures him dragging on a cigarette. "But I gotta depend on you. You can't just --"
Dean waits, but Gib doesn't go on. "Skip," Dean says hoarsely. "You told me, you said -- You said I was a fisherman who hadn't found the sea yet."
"Damn straight."
Dean tries to swallow. "You were right," he whispers. "My dad. What you said."
"God damn," Gib spits out, sounding as thick as Dean. "I ain't gonna cry about this, Lucky, you just get your ass on board in the morning. You got me?"
"I do."
Sam's out of the shower and pulling on a tee shirt when Dean goes back in. "You wanna order a pizza or something?" Sam asks. "Need some food."
"Sure," Dean says. "Hey, listen. Need to talk to you."
Sam's fox-slanted eyes are unsurprised. "Gonna tell me why we're here?"
Dean's mouth is dry, dry as Seattle isn't. "When you were in college," he says hoarsely, "I worked up here. Couple of winters."
"Okay. Doing what?"
"Fishing."
Sam blinks twice, three times. "Fishing."
Dean finds a shaky grin on his face. "Yeah. I know, I mean, me, right? But yeah. This guy, Gib, he's the skipper of the boat I worked on, and he's got a couple of spaces this season. For us."
"Okay, wait." Sam shakes his head, looking as bewildered as Dean's ever seen him. "Wait a second. You got us FISHING jobs?"
"It's hard work, Sammy, real hard, but it's a good crew, I mean, the best, and we'll earn some seriously good money, and Gib's a good guy --"
A smile twitches the corners of Sam's mouth, and Dean stops. "I was."
"Babbling. Yeah." Sam lets out a tiny laugh, as warm and welcoming as a Tahitian breeze. "Dude, whatever. Okay. Let's go fishing."
TBC. EB
That Fine Simplicity
by Emily Brunson
(c)2010
Chapter One
In October he calls Gib.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me."
It's been a long time, and Dean isn't fresh on reading the skipper's tone. Could be bad. "Yeah, it's, ah." He clears his throat, glances over his shoulder. "Been a while. How you doin', Skip?"
Gib's silent long enough to see Dean's heart climb into his throat a few inches. Then, "Motherfucker. Dean motherfucking Winchester." Now he can hear a smile. "I thought you were dead, boy. Jesus."
I was, Dean thinks, and now I'm not. "You retired yet?"
"Not yet, no. Jesus. Janie," he yells suddenly, and Dean hears a female voice, sounds like a question. "It's Lucky. I don't fucking believe it. Lucky."
Lucky. He hasn't felt lucky in a very, very long time. His throat aches worse. "You remember," he starts, and has to swallow, once, twice. "Remember what you said to me."
"I remember," Gib says fast. "I remember."
It's tears aching in his throat now, tears of relief and regret, and hope as sharp and bright and painful as a solar flare. "So," Dean whispers. "Think I'd like to take you up on it. If you still. You know."
There's another silence, and then Gib says, "Get your ass on up to Seattle. We ship out soon."
Dean closes his eyes. Thinks, Thank you, and says, "Got it."
"Dean --"
"See you soon," he whispers, and hangs up.
He makes a huge supper and watches Sam and Bobby demolish the food, and when they're done he says, "Gotta head up northwest for a while. You be okay?"
Sam wipes his mouth on a paper towel and frowns at him. "What's up there?"
Dean shakes his head. "I used to do some work with this guy. Gib, Gib Fallows. Now that we're, you know." Done, he thinks. Finished. Holding you together with duct tape and superglue. "Thought I'd head back up for the season."
"Oh," Sam says. "Well. Okay."
Washing dishes, Bobby clears his throat. "This a job?"
Dean hears it in his voice, is this a job or a Job? Job, like we used to do, back when Sam was Sam and -- back when. "Nah," he tells him. Wipes a plate dry. "Back when Sammy was in school. Spent a couple of seasons doing some work up there, and Gib, he says he's still got a place, so." He scrapes his thumbnail over a tiny speck of leftover food. "Couple, three months."
Bobby nods. "He'll be okay."
"I know. I know."
"Sure you do."
Dean stacks the plate on top of its brothers.
Sam's standing on the porch, drinking a can of Pabst and watching the darkness. It's late enough in the season that it's downright nippy, and Dean pops the top on his own can and wishes for a set of Carhartts. Soon enough.
"How you doin."
Sam stares out into the dark. "I won't fall apart," he says quietly. "You can go, Dean."
Dean watches him, and blurts, "Come with me."
Sam looks at him, eyes dark and impossible to read. "Where?"
"Does it matter?" Dean slugs beer he doesn't want, and feels Sam's gaze like weight on his shoulders. "What are we doing here, Sammy? Waiting? For what, dude?"
Sam's silent so long, Dean takes a breath finally, and then Sam says, "For you to believe I'm your brother again."
His voice is rough as old bark, and Dean says, "You're wrong," but he isn't. He isn't. "Come with me. It's good work. Hard, but man, we'll make a shitload of money."
Sam returns to study the empty dark, beer can dangling forgotten in his fingers. "It isn't about money," he says.
"I know that. Let's go, Sammy. Let's figure it out."
After a long time, Sam says, "Okay."
The silence has grown familiar. Dean doesn't know what to say to break it, what will bring Sam back to the moment, so he settles for driving, miles spinning out between their wheels like hundreds of clunky metaphors. They eat at the same diners, fast-food joints, bars they always did. Drink the same beer and spend two nights in motel rooms so familiar Dean's dead certain they've been there before.
Sam reads, another in a succession of flaky woo-woo books he started picking up not long after he got his soul back. He doesn't discuss what's in them, and Dean doesn't want to know. Nothing that will help, he could tell him, but it wouldn't matter. Sam isn't reading them for solutions. Just looking for others as jacked up as he is. As they are.
Could just glance over at the driver's seat, but Dean doesn't say that, either.
At a tiny rundown diner outside Ellensburg he calls Gib, gets his voice mail and says, "Be there tonight. Let me know what time we're shipping out, oh-dark-thirty or whatever. Thanks."
Sam nibbles at a grilled ham and cheese, and the look he gives Dean when he comes back to the table holds no curiosity at all.
They stay at a motel a few blocks from the water. It's spitting rain, cold and unpleasant and familiar as a neighborhood he dreamed he grew up in. While Sam takes a shower Dean digs through his duffel, pulls out the old Sally jacket. Sam's never seen it.
His phone rings while he's sitting there, fingering the logo.
"Five o'clock. You're late, we're --"
"Gone, yeah," Dean says, while he opens the door and eases out. "Got it. Hey, Skip, I, ah. Well. I gotta ask you a favor."
There's clattering in the background, a young voice complaining about something. "Shoot."
"It's, yeah. I brought my brother."
Silence, then, "You got a brother?"
Dean smiles, blinks in the light of a car pulling into the parking lot. "Yeah, actually, I do."
"He anything like you?"
"Not a whole lot. He's. He's a good kid. Strong. You got no idea how strong."
"He willing to be greenhorn?"
"Absolutely."
There's a pause, and when Gib speaks again there's less background noise. "I held a spot every year," he says evenly. "Ever goddamn year, Lucky, and never heard a word from you. Hell, Alex, he practically held a wake. Now you -- you're back, and you got a brother, and -- Christ, Dean. I'll tell you this much. I'd consider myself the lucky one to have you back, and I don't got a slot but I'll goddamn make one if this brother of yours is anything like you." He pauses, and Dean pictures him dragging on a cigarette. "But I gotta depend on you. You can't just --"
Dean waits, but Gib doesn't go on. "Skip," Dean says hoarsely. "You told me, you said -- You said I was a fisherman who hadn't found the sea yet."
"Damn straight."
Dean tries to swallow. "You were right," he whispers. "My dad. What you said."
"God damn," Gib spits out, sounding as thick as Dean. "I ain't gonna cry about this, Lucky, you just get your ass on board in the morning. You got me?"
"I do."
Sam's out of the shower and pulling on a tee shirt when Dean goes back in. "You wanna order a pizza or something?" Sam asks. "Need some food."
"Sure," Dean says. "Hey, listen. Need to talk to you."
Sam's fox-slanted eyes are unsurprised. "Gonna tell me why we're here?"
Dean's mouth is dry, dry as Seattle isn't. "When you were in college," he says hoarsely, "I worked up here. Couple of winters."
"Okay. Doing what?"
"Fishing."
Sam blinks twice, three times. "Fishing."
Dean finds a shaky grin on his face. "Yeah. I know, I mean, me, right? But yeah. This guy, Gib, he's the skipper of the boat I worked on, and he's got a couple of spaces this season. For us."
"Okay, wait." Sam shakes his head, looking as bewildered as Dean's ever seen him. "Wait a second. You got us FISHING jobs?"
"It's hard work, Sammy, real hard, but it's a good crew, I mean, the best, and we'll earn some seriously good money, and Gib's a good guy --"
A smile twitches the corners of Sam's mouth, and Dean stops. "I was."
"Babbling. Yeah." Sam lets out a tiny laugh, as warm and welcoming as a Tahitian breeze. "Dude, whatever. Okay. Let's go fishing."
TBC. EB