SPN fic: A wild call and a clear call
Genre: gen AU
Characters: John, Dean, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: There is nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. erinrua seemed kind of intrigued by Sam and Dean as racing sailors, so I thought I'd indulge her (and myself) just a bit.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
- Sea Fever by John Masefield
A wild call and a clear call
There’s a wind off the Gulf this afternoon. Biloxi Bay is a roiling mess of iron-colored waves and skittering whitecaps.
“Rough day,” John Winchester says, standing on the dock with his back to the wind and leaning heavily on his crutches. Next to his plaster-encased foot, a cleat and a neat figure-eight secure the bowline of a Flying Scot. Her prow noses fitfully from side to side with the motions of the wind and waves. She’s nothing fancy, twenty years old if she’s a day, but she’s pretty with her freshly painted white hull and her blue stripe at the waterline. Dean keeps her in fantastic shape.
In her cockpit, he and Sam are working methodically. The jib is half-hoisted, fluttering and snapping in the wind, and both boys are cranking the mainsail as high as they can. They want the canvas tight and close to the wind today, letting all that power slide right by. The puffs are coming in at twenty-two knots, says the national weather service, and small craft shouldn’t be screwing around in that.
“Ease the vang, deck monkey,” Dean says, giving Sam’s stomach a quick smack to get his attention. Sam is fourteen now, and the boat is the only place he takes orders with any grace. He uncleats the vang line with nothing more than an eye roll.
“Be careful out there,” John says, loud over the jib’s flapping.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says without a trace of smartass. He knows what’s at stake.
“Power down, hike hard, and for God’s sake don’t fuck around on the downwind.”
Dean cracks a smirk. He races a Laser of his own, and in that fourteen-foot boat he can do whatever stupid thing he wants. On a broad reach, he’ll belly the sail out to a risky angle, lift the centerboard a little too high, and shift his weight a little too far. Then he planes on the bare surface of a wave’s back until the hull hums and the tiller goes weightless in his hand. When it works, the whole perfect balance is a thing of beauty. When it doesn’t, Dean death rolls spectacularly.
The kid sails like he does everything else, John knows. Which means that he doesn’t pull crazy shit like that when Sammy’s in the boat.
“Chill out, Dad,” Sam says, putting his whole weight into cranking up the jib. “The breeze will calm down soon enough.”
That is exactly the wrong attitude to take into heavy air, but John doesn’t say anything. Too often Sam is right about what the weather’s going to do next. Half the reason Dean lets him crew during big regattas is that he can look out over the race course, squint at clouds and waves and bobbing buoys, and say something like, “You feel that wind shift coming? A little to the south?”
And no, Dean doesn’t feel it, because the breeze has been moving northerly all day, but he takes Sam’s word, and they cross the finish line twenty boat-lengths ahead of the guy in second place.
So, yeah, sure, maybe the breeze will calm down by evening. John’s not going to argue.
“Put some cunningham on, will you?” he says.
“I’m getting there,” Sam says, prickly. He’s busy fixing the compass in place just aft of the mast-Mary’s compass. It once guided her boat the Angel Eyes. “Seriously, I’ve got it.”
John could bitch about the attitude. He could tell them not to let water touch the shotguns stashed under the deck. Don’t lose another one of my goddamn knives on that island, you hear me? And don’t look the morgen in the eyes, or she’ll drown your ass before you even realize how screwed you are.
Dean tightens the outhaul, tidies the mainsheet in its coils at his feet, and looks up expectantly. “Squared away, Sammy?”
“Squared away.”
“Keep to the plan,” John reminds them for the fourteenth time. “Sam, don’t leave the boat.” Sam clearly hates that order like poison, but he won’t disobey. Next summer, that might not be true.
“Dean, look after-“
But that goes without saying.
“Look anywhere but her eyes.”
Dean’s hand strays to his hip, where a silver knife is secured in a kydex sheath. “Yes, sir.”
This should be John’s hunt. In the fourteen years since Mary’s boat drifted to shore without her on it, he’s combed the marshes and salt-grass islands and learned how many ancient, bloodthirsty things still hide there. He’s tracked the old legends of the Biloxi Indians-horned serpents and underwater panthers-and the imported French and Spanish wraiths who mock him with flashing eyes and dead Creole tongues. Someday he’ll meet Devil Jonah himself and demand his wife back from beneath the waves.
Meantime, this is his hunting ground, and the morgen should be his kill. Three men drowned is not the sort of problem you leave to a couple of high school kids.
“Let’s get moving,” Dean says, taking the tiller in hand.
John can see the exhilaration under Dean’s businesslike calm. The sun has freckled and burned him, leaving messy lipstick stains across his nose and cheeks. He’s young and sandy-haired and invincible. He’s ready for this. He’s been ready.
Sam gives the dock a shove with his foot; Dean hauls sharply on the tiller. The Scot noses away, sails gleaming pearly in the sunlight.
“Watch the current in the channel!” John calls after them.
They can’t hear. The Scot lists with the weight of wind in her sails, her rigging creaks, and the boys grin and get her under control. They cut through waves smooth and easy, reveling in the power they've harnessed. That’s how I taught you to steer through chop, boy.
"Ready about," Dean warns, and glides the tiller away from him. "Tacking!"
The boat turns, the boom swings, and then the sails fill from the other side. On a new tack, the boys head east for the mouth of the bay and the Mississippi Sound.
They’ll be back in a few hours, Dean proud at the helm with a few bruises and some blood in his hair. Sam will bitch about sitting uselessly in the boat, and John will prop his cast on the coffee table and distribute beers.
He’ll think of Mary, lost at sea. And he’ll spin her compass in his hands and never let the needle settle.
Characters: John, Dean, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: There is nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. erinrua seemed kind of intrigued by Sam and Dean as racing sailors, so I thought I'd indulge her (and myself) just a bit.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
- Sea Fever by John Masefield
A wild call and a clear call
There’s a wind off the Gulf this afternoon. Biloxi Bay is a roiling mess of iron-colored waves and skittering whitecaps.
“Rough day,” John Winchester says, standing on the dock with his back to the wind and leaning heavily on his crutches. Next to his plaster-encased foot, a cleat and a neat figure-eight secure the bowline of a Flying Scot. Her prow noses fitfully from side to side with the motions of the wind and waves. She’s nothing fancy, twenty years old if she’s a day, but she’s pretty with her freshly painted white hull and her blue stripe at the waterline. Dean keeps her in fantastic shape.
In her cockpit, he and Sam are working methodically. The jib is half-hoisted, fluttering and snapping in the wind, and both boys are cranking the mainsail as high as they can. They want the canvas tight and close to the wind today, letting all that power slide right by. The puffs are coming in at twenty-two knots, says the national weather service, and small craft shouldn’t be screwing around in that.
“Ease the vang, deck monkey,” Dean says, giving Sam’s stomach a quick smack to get his attention. Sam is fourteen now, and the boat is the only place he takes orders with any grace. He uncleats the vang line with nothing more than an eye roll.
“Be careful out there,” John says, loud over the jib’s flapping.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says without a trace of smartass. He knows what’s at stake.
“Power down, hike hard, and for God’s sake don’t fuck around on the downwind.”
Dean cracks a smirk. He races a Laser of his own, and in that fourteen-foot boat he can do whatever stupid thing he wants. On a broad reach, he’ll belly the sail out to a risky angle, lift the centerboard a little too high, and shift his weight a little too far. Then he planes on the bare surface of a wave’s back until the hull hums and the tiller goes weightless in his hand. When it works, the whole perfect balance is a thing of beauty. When it doesn’t, Dean death rolls spectacularly.
The kid sails like he does everything else, John knows. Which means that he doesn’t pull crazy shit like that when Sammy’s in the boat.
“Chill out, Dad,” Sam says, putting his whole weight into cranking up the jib. “The breeze will calm down soon enough.”
That is exactly the wrong attitude to take into heavy air, but John doesn’t say anything. Too often Sam is right about what the weather’s going to do next. Half the reason Dean lets him crew during big regattas is that he can look out over the race course, squint at clouds and waves and bobbing buoys, and say something like, “You feel that wind shift coming? A little to the south?”
And no, Dean doesn’t feel it, because the breeze has been moving northerly all day, but he takes Sam’s word, and they cross the finish line twenty boat-lengths ahead of the guy in second place.
So, yeah, sure, maybe the breeze will calm down by evening. John’s not going to argue.
“Put some cunningham on, will you?” he says.
“I’m getting there,” Sam says, prickly. He’s busy fixing the compass in place just aft of the mast-Mary’s compass. It once guided her boat the Angel Eyes. “Seriously, I’ve got it.”
John could bitch about the attitude. He could tell them not to let water touch the shotguns stashed under the deck. Don’t lose another one of my goddamn knives on that island, you hear me? And don’t look the morgen in the eyes, or she’ll drown your ass before you even realize how screwed you are.
Dean tightens the outhaul, tidies the mainsheet in its coils at his feet, and looks up expectantly. “Squared away, Sammy?”
“Squared away.”
“Keep to the plan,” John reminds them for the fourteenth time. “Sam, don’t leave the boat.” Sam clearly hates that order like poison, but he won’t disobey. Next summer, that might not be true.
“Dean, look after-“
But that goes without saying.
“Look anywhere but her eyes.”
Dean’s hand strays to his hip, where a silver knife is secured in a kydex sheath. “Yes, sir.”
This should be John’s hunt. In the fourteen years since Mary’s boat drifted to shore without her on it, he’s combed the marshes and salt-grass islands and learned how many ancient, bloodthirsty things still hide there. He’s tracked the old legends of the Biloxi Indians-horned serpents and underwater panthers-and the imported French and Spanish wraiths who mock him with flashing eyes and dead Creole tongues. Someday he’ll meet Devil Jonah himself and demand his wife back from beneath the waves.
Meantime, this is his hunting ground, and the morgen should be his kill. Three men drowned is not the sort of problem you leave to a couple of high school kids.
“Let’s get moving,” Dean says, taking the tiller in hand.
John can see the exhilaration under Dean’s businesslike calm. The sun has freckled and burned him, leaving messy lipstick stains across his nose and cheeks. He’s young and sandy-haired and invincible. He’s ready for this. He’s been ready.
Sam gives the dock a shove with his foot; Dean hauls sharply on the tiller. The Scot noses away, sails gleaming pearly in the sunlight.
“Watch the current in the channel!” John calls after them.
They can’t hear. The Scot lists with the weight of wind in her sails, her rigging creaks, and the boys grin and get her under control. They cut through waves smooth and easy, reveling in the power they've harnessed. That’s how I taught you to steer through chop, boy.
"Ready about," Dean warns, and glides the tiller away from him. "Tacking!"
The boat turns, the boom swings, and then the sails fill from the other side. On a new tack, the boys head east for the mouth of the bay and the Mississippi Sound.
They’ll be back in a few hours, Dean proud at the helm with a few bruises and some blood in his hair. Sam will bitch about sitting uselessly in the boat, and John will prop his cast on the coffee table and distribute beers.
He’ll think of Mary, lost at sea. And he’ll spin her compass in his hands and never let the needle settle.