FIC: Hear Her Calling (4/14)
Title: Hear Her Calling (4/14)
Author: Wysawyg
Summary: When a veteran marine friend of their father calls the boys for help when mysterious deaths start occurring on his fledgling cruise, it's not long before the boys end up in over their heads. Hurt!Dean and some Sammy!whumping for good measure.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Kripke and the CW. I am but a poor player who struts and frets her hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
Beta: Beta’d by the fabulous TraSan who correctly my hap-hazard tenses and took time out of her own writing to make this story better than it otherwise would have been.
Timeline: Mid-Season 2, after Sammy has found out The Big Secret.
Pairings: None, Gen.
Chapters: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 ]
There was something wrong with Sam’s brother. Admittedly there had been something wrong with Dean ever since he’d woken up in hospital floundering like a fish and choking around the tube down his throat. Sam had adjusted to the level of wrongness, got used to the fact his brother’s jokes always seemed that bit forced and his smile fake. Now Dean had gone and changed on him again though, plastering on smiles even more plastic than before and never quite meeting Sam’s eyes.
At that moment in time, the brothers were sat in the room Sam shared, debating over what they had found out from their last meeting, two nights before. Or rather, Sam was sharing the information and Dean was making the occasional reticent ‘uh-huh’ or ‘hmm’ or sometimes as much as ‘That sounds about right’.
At first Sam worked on the assumption that the people on the ship were getting to Dean but his hypothesis just didn’t stand up against the dramatic change between the last time they’d spoken and today. Sam met his brother’s eyes once more-a test-and noted as Dean held the contact for a second and then looked away, obviously trying to make it natural and failing miserably.
That led Sam to just one conclusion: Dean was hiding something…again. The obvious thing to be hiding was something about the hunt as there was hardly anything else going on-Dean was more likely to boast about some hook-up with the passenger than be abashed about it. The only reason for Dean to hide something about a hunt from Sam was if he knew it was something that would upset or anger Sam, possibly both, and of all the things Sam could think of, there just one inevitable conclusion.
Sam let out a sigh of breath and caught his brother’s gaze once more, “So, when did you see the mermaid?”
“What?” Dean said, a little too late and the intonation of his voice was shocked rather than confused. “What are you talking about?”
Sam knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. “When did you,” Sam pointed to his brother, “See,” Sam made glasses movements around his eyes, “The mermaid?” Sam tried to make splashing motions but he felt it looked more like demented seal motions.
“I,” Dean pointed to himself. “Have no idea,” He tapped his temple and made squirly motions, “what you,” He pointed to Sam. “Are talking about.” He made flappy movements to mimic a mouth talking.
Sam just pinned his brother with a look, “Odd how I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t pin your trust issues on me,” Dean quipped back.
“When did you see the mermaid?” Sam repeated.
“You know, that whole repeating a question incessantly until someone breaks is something you are supposed to grow out of after junior school.”
Sam noticed Dean not explicitly denying his question, the same way he had stated earlier that ‘no-one he’d spoken to had seen the mermaid’ which made Sam sure he was onto a winner, “When did you see the mermaid?”
Dean’s eyeballs went up to the left, a sure sign that he was trying to think up a plausible lie or half truth, “Disney channel, twenty years ago. You?”
Sam gritted his teeth, “When did you see the fucking mermaid?”
“Two days ago,” Dean finally admitted and Sam realised there had been a part of him that was hoping he’d got it wrong because it felt like someone just smacked him in the stomach with a sledgehammer.
“Two days ago,” Sam repeated, sounding out the words to himself as if trying to figure out how three such simple words could be so devastating. “Shit.”
“It’s not that bad, Sammy,” Dean attempted to reassure his brother, “I mean, I’m not exactly likely to dive head-first into the ocean just ‘cos a mermaid tells me too.”
“Just like you wouldn’t dive head-first into a snow bank because an old Irishman told you to.” Sam would have liked nothing more in that moment than to agree but his memory strayed back to a small Irish village and that’s when Dean wasn’t trying to deal with his father’s death.
Dean scowled, “That was hardly my fault. This is a different situation.”
Sam said nothing and let the silence speak for him, stretching out.
“Shit,” Dean finally concurred with his brother’s assessment. “We’ve still got a day.”
“We think we have a day,” Sam heard his own voice, harsh and grating, as he turned furious to face his brother. “We still have no idea whether Alan saw the mermaid and if he did, how long before then did he die? We have no clue why this thing is even showing itself before it kills.”
“She seemed to be trying to tell me something.” Dean admitted, his reluctance clear in his voice.
“She spoke to you?” Sam sounded startled.
“Not really, she made noises. It sounded like that freaky whale song crap you listen to.”
“I listened to it once,” Sam argued and quickly realised that was just another of the patented Dean Winchester distraction techniques. “So did the music fill you with any sort of desire to lob yourself off the back of the boat?” Sam asked.
Dean shook his head, “Not in the slightest. It wasn’t that pleasant but hardly bad enough to bring about suicidal tendencies. Maybe the men who died were just really sensitive.”
“Not from what Dan said. Hard-ass bastards by the sounds of it but then that seems to describe most of the passengers when it comes to the business floor.”
“Maybe she wasn’t showing herself to me because she was going to kill me. Maybe she just realised I was a hunter and wanted to warn me off.” Dean suggested.
Sam shook his head, “That makes no sense. How would she know you were a hunter just from seeing you up on the ship rail?” Sam thought about it some more, “It’d also be an unsound tactic to let a hunter know what they are up against, especially as I’ve never met a hunter who’d just give up.”
“The things we hunt aren’t exactly known for their smarts. Well, apart from the Wendigo but that thing is just a freak.”
“It’s still too much of a coincidence. James saw the mermaid first too.” Sam thrummed his fingers on the metal post of his bed.
“This could be a good thing.” Dean ventured and Sam felt his eyebrow shoot up into his hairline. Dean didn’t give him a chance to interrupt though as he kept talking, “This way we don’t need to chase around the hundred or so passengers on board to figure out which one of them might be taking amateur swimming lessons sometime soon.”
Sam hissed in irritation, “Yeah, instead it’s you that is going to be making a bid to raid Davey Jones’ locker. Forgive me for not seeing that as a drastic improvement.”
“You’d rather find out who the intended victim is when they are already blue and cold?” Dean pointed out, “Usually it takes two or three victims before we can track down what the monster of the week is. We only get one shot at this or Jerry’ll have to go out of business and the mermaid will lurk around for the next group foolish enough to include this area on their shipping route. What happens if the mermaid gets entrepreneurial like that fucking plane spirit and starts just sinking the whole damn boat?” Dean’s voice got angrier and louder as he spoke and Sam waited in silence for moments after he finished to make sure there were no footsteps heading their way.
“We just lost Dad. Is it so shocking that I don’t want to lose you too?” Sam pled.
“You aren’t going to lose me,” Dean bashed his hand down on the bed frame then winced and rubbed at his hand. “Come on, all we need to do is figure out why Ariel got huffy in her old age, figure out a way to kill her and then lay back and enjoy the rest of the cruise.”
“Fine, but I am not letting you out of my sight from now on.” Sam said in his most determined voice, “I’ll sleep in your room from now on so you can’t pull the old sleep-walking trick.”
Dean blinked, “Don’t you think that might raise a few eyebrows?”
Sam shrugged, “From the sounds of it, one of my room-mates has already had at least two hook-ups among the male passengers so it’s not that unusual.”
Dean squidged up his face in an expression of distaste, “But still, I’m kinda relying on my flirting skills here to get information and that might cause problems if the ladies think I bat for the other team.”
“I’m not suggesting we got around announcing it,” Sam pointed out. “Unless you’ve been inviting women back to your room every night.”
“From the shrews aboard?” Dean scoffed. “Not a chance. Half of them slut it about so much among the rich and famous that I could pick up an ABC of STDs.”
“Nice, Dean.” Sam shook his head at his brother, “So there’ll be no problem.”
“Apart from the fact there’s only one bed in my room.”
“It’s not like it’d be the first time we’ve shared a bed.”
“You might not have noticed but you sprouted up a few dozen inches since we were kids and I really don’t fancy being woken up by bony elbows sticking into my side.”
“I do not have bony elbows,” Sam said indignantly, “And if I do, you’ll just have to put up with them.”
“The trials of being an older brother,” Dean stated with a melodramatic sigh.
---
Dean paused somewhat nervously at the front door to his suite, checking the hallways to make sure no other passengers were around including his platinum-haired stalker. Once the coast was clear, he motioned his brother through. It always amazed him that Sam managed to ever be stealthy given his lanky frame and the clod-hopping large feet. Dean cracked open the door, took a deep breath and went inside.
He heard Sam’s exclamation almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of the place and felt a cuff on the back of his head, not quite hard enough to make him wince but enough to make a point. “This is your room?” Sam questioned in amazement.
“Uh, kinda, yeah. I had to look the part of a rich guy.” Dean said, scuffing his feet in an abashed manner on the luxury thick-pile carpet.
“You have paintings up your wall,” Sam says in a tone composed of equal parts awe and envy. “Real oil paintings and,” Dean sees his brother’s eyes scan the rest of the room, “You have a fucking piano?”
Dean coughs into his hand and makes a half-shrug, “Yeah. Had a go on it earlier. Turns out I suck at playing the piano.”
“I’ve been sharing a room with snoring Sven, coughing Calum and Kamp as hell Kevin and you had a fucking piano?” Dean was beginning to worry that his brother was a little fixated on the piano.
“It’s just part of the act, Sammy.” Dean attempted to pacify his brother, “To be rich enough to act so gauche around them, I had to pretend to be the richest of them all.” Dean hoped to derail his brother’s rant for a moment by using an uncharacteristic word like gauche.
From the way that Sam was staring like a kid in a candy store around the room, Dean was fairly sure his ploy wasn’t working. Sam dropped the small carrier of clothes that he’d hastily packed in the centre of the room and started walking around, eyes flickering like a startled fawn to each new extravagance he found. Dean was dreading showing Sam the bedroom.
Finally Sam settled a little and just returned to his dropped back and shook his head, “Next time, I get to be the passenger.”
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean hastily agreed. “Next time we get a free ride on a luxury cruise, you get to be the passenger.” Dean remembered one of his father’s lectures about inappropriate times for sarcasm when his brother turned the kicked puppy glare on him.
Sam scooped up his incredibly meagre looking carrier again and shrugged at his brother, “I suppose I should dump this in the bedroom.”
Dean quickly moved to place himself between his brother and the bedroom, “No rush. Don’t you have a shift starting soon?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he walked at a steady pace towards his brother, ignoring Dean’s attempt to block the door and just using those bony elbows to full effect in the edges of Dean’s side to get past and into the bedroom, “Holy fucking crap,” came Sam’s exclamation.
Dean let out a heart-felt sigh and followed his brother into the room. He wasn’t quite sure what had prompted the exclamation whether it was the queen-sized bed pressed against the wall and made up with silk sheets, it could have been the sheet water feature that occupied the opposite wall (which had the pesky side effect of making Dean wake up in the middle of the night needing to pee), it could even have been the well-stocked mini-bar that took up a corner of the room, oak panelling giving the impression of a well-to-do New York wine bar. Frankly it could even have been the large oriental rug that spread out across the floor. “It’s not bad.” Dean said.
“You suck,” Sam stated. “You royally and utterly suck.”
“Hey, I’m the one on a death sentence here,” Dean said and instantly regretted it as Sam’s kicked puppy look migrated to the tortured and damp and oh so sad puppy look, “Right, inappropriate times for humour. We can probably push a couple of the chairs in the lounge together and I’ll sleep on that and you can have the bed.”
Sam shook his head, “Not a chance. I’m going to make sure that the only way you get out of this room is to clamber over me to be sure you’ll wake me up. I’m not taking any chances this time.”
Dean got a sudden flash of just how much hell Sam was going to make his life over the next few days. Sam had oft accused Dean of being over-protective when they were kids and Dean would be the first to admit, to anyone but Sam, that he was incredibly protective of his little brother. Sam however could be a mother-hen, fussing and clucking and pecking over everything to be sure everything was alright. “Come on, Sammy, you know I always sleep between you and the door.” It was the previously unspoken Winchester rule. Their dad had always slept between Dean and the door and Dean slept between Sammy and the door.
“Not this time,” Sam said. Sam twisted his arm and glanced at his watch. “My shift starts in about ten minutes. You should head to the bar and I expect to see you in there drinking until I get off shift, no wandering off.”
“Of all the times you had to pick to drag me into a bar,” Dean grumped.
--
Despite his grumping, when Sam’s shift started, Dean meandered into the bar and plopped himself down at one of the tables, quickly acquiring a crowd of people eager to natter about what little was occurring in their heads. Screw the luxury room, Sam owed him for this. He made sure to keep himself in Sam’s line of sight no matter how busy the bar became. The last thing he needed was Sam having some girly freak-out and blowing the whole gig.
Dean was still sure Sam was going a little over the top about this. Yes, Dean had seen a mermaid but then so had a lot of people in the past and none of them were dead else where had the stories come from? There was nothing to say that Dean had even seen the same mermaid as the other two men. After all, mermaids and mermen were supposed to live in big sea-shell formed communities under the sea so there must be plenty of them around. Dean paused at that thought, Disney had obviously corrupted his brain.
The biggest problem with being seated out on the open, apart from the mind-numbingly dull conversation, was there was no opportunity to covertly read Dad’s journal. Dean wanted to cross-check the facts and see if there was any reference to mermaids which remotely matched the image he had seen instead of the idealised busty version. Instead Dean had to discuss stocks and listen to the women endlessly try to couch an invitation in polite terms. There was a reason that Dean adored the women who frequently diners and bars and that was because they were open and unashamed of who they were unlike these cut-glass bitches who hid beneath posh manners and exquisite clothing.
As Dean knocked back his fifth, or maybe sixth, possibly seventh whiskey, Dean decided it would be adequate revenge on Sam if his brother had to carry his paralytic form back to his room, not to mention a good excuse for the bartender to be in Dean’s room. The more Dean thought about it, the better idea it seemed: the fact that his confidence in the idea had a direct positive correlation with the amount of whiskey consumed seemed of little matter. Around the eighth (give or take four) whiskey, Dean discovered that the people around him were in fact incredibly fascinating and wonderful and he loved them all. It was about this time that the barman, who looked a little familiar in that floppy haired way, tapped him on the shoulder and suggested he may want to retire to his room.
Dean pointed out and into the barman that he was absolutely positively fine and this wonderful lady was just telling him about her corgi collection. Did he know that the Queen of England kept corgis? Apparently he did which was good, he seemed like a smart person. All people with long hair were smart if they were men. If you were female, you had to have short hair then you were either very, very smart or a lesbian or possibly both. There were, according to Nathaniel Edenridge, a lot of very smart lesbians except that they didn’t find Nate hot which was obviously very stupid.
The barman seemed to be a bit annoyed at him which was odd because didn’t barman like people drinking? It seemed a little silly to be a barman and then go and object to people drinking. Dean pointed this out to the barman but he didn’t seem amused. Instead he just lifted Dean up and began to manhandle him towards the exit.
Around five footsteps away from his room, Dean discovered that the motion of the boat was not the best thing on a roiling head and he dashed the last distance under his own steam, clattering open the door and diving towards the (marble-bedecked) bathroom and set about trying to redecorate the ivory, pristine toilet with the contents of his stomach. The barman hovered over him, alternating between looking worried and looking pissed off.
When Dean was finally sure that there was nothing left in his stomach that could come up, the barman levered him up and helped him into the bed, tugging off the vomit-splattered clothes until Dean was just in his boxers and dumped the clothes in a (silk-screen) laundry basket that sat in the corner of the room. When the barman got into bed, perched on the corner, back to Dean, Dean was tempted to point out this was very forward and Dean didn’t swing that way. He was just about to point that out when blessed unconscious gripped his mind and pulled him down into sleep.
---
Dean was never, ever, ever drinking again. Never. Never ever. Ever. At all. Ever. He’d woken in the middle of the night thanks to that fucking water sheet and had had to scramble over Sam’s prone form to make it to the bathroom in time to empty that last shred of stomach lining that hadn’t already made its way out. His head was pounding like there was the entirety of Jamaica stuffed in there having a steel drum contest.
Sam had woken at Dean’s movement and now stood in the bathroom doorway, watching somewhat impassively as Dean paid penance to the porcelain god. Just when Dean thought it was over and attempted to raise himself dizzily up to his feet, he found that it wasn’t and had to flop back to his knees in order to dry heave, retching until a stream of yellow bile was all that got deposited into the toilet.
Dean’s throat felt like someone had gotten a handful of sandpaper and scraped it to red raw. His eyes felt gritty and even the mild light cast from the doorway of the lounge into the bathroom was enough to stab needles into his brain. Even when the dry heaving stopped, he clung to the toilet, willing himself to fall unconscious just to put an end to his misery.
He heard the sound of running water and then there was a wet flannel pressed to his face and Sam’s face looking in his view, gigantor hands wiping the flannel across Dean’s face, wiping off the traces of sick left behind. Dean gave his brother a weak smile and sagged against the toilet. Soon the muscle tremors that always hit after being sick came and Dean felt his grip on the toilet loosen and he tottered backwards.
Before he could fall, his brother’s hands were there, guiding him gently backwards until he was leant with his back against his brother’s chest, trying to still the shudders that ran through him. Sam’s hands brushed Dean’s short hair back from his face and ran that flannel over Dean’s cold-sweat damp skin once more bringing brief, blessed relief.
“S-Sammy,” Dean croaked out, trying to work some saliva into his dry, stomach acid-burnt mouth.
“Shush, Dean.” Sam’s voice was soft and quiet, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Sam’s voice sounded like he was trying to be annoyed but couldn’t quite manage it. “You feel up to moving back to bed?”
Dean shook his head and quickly regretted it as pain stabbed into his head once more and he had to lurch back forward to the toilet, chest and stomach heaving up nothing. He felt Sam’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his back and felt a little guilty for the way he’d wound up his brother during his own hangover at the creepy doll hotel. The thought of those creepy dolls was enough to make Dean’s stomach lurch once more, even if nothing dribbled out of his mouth but spit.
By the time Dean had finished, he felt lamb-weak with his wrenched stomach just one big ball of ow. Sam ended up carrying him back to the bed and tucking him under the covers like he was five years old. Sam proved to have a practical side as he placed a basin close to Dean so he wouldn’t need to lurch out to the bathroom again the next time his stomach rebelled. The glass of water on the bedside made Dean queasy just thinking about it but Sam held it up to his mouth until he took slow sips which thankfully stayed down for that moment.
When morning came as evidence by the increasing noise of footsteps going up and down the hall, he heard Sam lean over him, “Dean.” He said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got to get onto my shift. I’ll lock the door so just stay in here. I’ll try and get some time to check in you, okay?”
Dean had been worrying if he could possibly feel worse but Sam’s ever-so-kind words were just enough to plunge him over into the abyss. He mumbled something as an acknowledgment and tried to sink into the far too soft pillows and blessed oblivion once more. He woke up a few more times during the day, twice to relieve his bladder and once to relieve his stomach of the small amount of water he’d got down. Dean was beginning to think that this hangover might rival the great hangover of 2001, the day after Sam had walked out of the door and out on his family to live the all American dream.
There was a few hesitant taps on the room door during the day and the piping voice of some woman or other calling Mr Edenridge to make sure he was alright after he was ‘taken ill’ last night. Dean ignored them all, fairly sure his unsteady legs wouldn’t have made it from the bed across the gaping expanse of space to his room door anyway.
Sam returned just as the bell for dinner was rung and Dean felt his stomach cramp into an impossible knot just at the mere thought of food that flittered across his mind. Sam sunk into the comfy chair opposite the bed and perched his feet on the end of the bed, “How are you feeling?” He asked in a normally pitched voice.
Dean let out a pained groan as a response, “Never ever drinking again.”
Sam chuckled, “You know, you are quite the sensation according to the in crowd. Apparently Nate, or Natey as he likes to be called, is witty and urbane and oh so charming. I heard some women are already ordering their lawyers to draw up the pre-nup.”
“You trying to make me spew what’s left in my stomach, Sammy?” Dean croaked, rolling over to grip the basin even though nothing was left in to come out.
“I’m a little curious about what last night was about,” Sam said in that ever so casual voice that Dean knew was dangerous. “At first, I thought you were just trying to piss me off for committing the number one Winchester sin: actually worrying about a family member but I think that was a little showy even for you.” Sam leaned back, the chair creaking a little under his weight.
“If this is going to be a chick-flick moment, can you let me know so I can pass out again?”
“That depends,” And Sam’s tone was dangerous now, that particular blend of hurt and anger and disappointment that only Sammy could manage, “Does figuring out that my brother would far rather get absolutely slaughtered and flirt with a bunch of social bitches rather than actually talk to me about what’s on his mind count as a chick-flick moment?”
“Yes,” Dean answered, attempting to bury his head down under the fluffy cloud of the pillow to make the rest of the world go away. He felt the pillow meanly tugged away and Sam’s hand flip him onto his back. Dean stared up at his brother, squinting his eyes against the light, “Come on, Sammy. Can’t we just talk about this in the morning? This hangover is killing me.”
Dean flinched at the words as soon as he said them, watching Sam recoil. “Fine, Dean.” Sam returned to his chair, propping his feet back onto the bed, “But you better believe that we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Dean tugged another pillow over his head and sank back into sleep.
Next chapter
Author: Wysawyg
Summary: When a veteran marine friend of their father calls the boys for help when mysterious deaths start occurring on his fledgling cruise, it's not long before the boys end up in over their heads. Hurt!Dean and some Sammy!whumping for good measure.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Kripke and the CW. I am but a poor player who struts and frets her hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
Beta: Beta’d by the fabulous TraSan who correctly my hap-hazard tenses and took time out of her own writing to make this story better than it otherwise would have been.
Timeline: Mid-Season 2, after Sammy has found out The Big Secret.
Pairings: None, Gen.
Chapters: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 ]
There was something wrong with Sam’s brother. Admittedly there had been something wrong with Dean ever since he’d woken up in hospital floundering like a fish and choking around the tube down his throat. Sam had adjusted to the level of wrongness, got used to the fact his brother’s jokes always seemed that bit forced and his smile fake. Now Dean had gone and changed on him again though, plastering on smiles even more plastic than before and never quite meeting Sam’s eyes.
At that moment in time, the brothers were sat in the room Sam shared, debating over what they had found out from their last meeting, two nights before. Or rather, Sam was sharing the information and Dean was making the occasional reticent ‘uh-huh’ or ‘hmm’ or sometimes as much as ‘That sounds about right’.
At first Sam worked on the assumption that the people on the ship were getting to Dean but his hypothesis just didn’t stand up against the dramatic change between the last time they’d spoken and today. Sam met his brother’s eyes once more-a test-and noted as Dean held the contact for a second and then looked away, obviously trying to make it natural and failing miserably.
That led Sam to just one conclusion: Dean was hiding something…again. The obvious thing to be hiding was something about the hunt as there was hardly anything else going on-Dean was more likely to boast about some hook-up with the passenger than be abashed about it. The only reason for Dean to hide something about a hunt from Sam was if he knew it was something that would upset or anger Sam, possibly both, and of all the things Sam could think of, there just one inevitable conclusion.
Sam let out a sigh of breath and caught his brother’s gaze once more, “So, when did you see the mermaid?”
“What?” Dean said, a little too late and the intonation of his voice was shocked rather than confused. “What are you talking about?”
Sam knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. “When did you,” Sam pointed to his brother, “See,” Sam made glasses movements around his eyes, “The mermaid?” Sam tried to make splashing motions but he felt it looked more like demented seal motions.
“I,” Dean pointed to himself. “Have no idea,” He tapped his temple and made squirly motions, “what you,” He pointed to Sam. “Are talking about.” He made flappy movements to mimic a mouth talking.
Sam just pinned his brother with a look, “Odd how I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t pin your trust issues on me,” Dean quipped back.
“When did you see the mermaid?” Sam repeated.
“You know, that whole repeating a question incessantly until someone breaks is something you are supposed to grow out of after junior school.”
Sam noticed Dean not explicitly denying his question, the same way he had stated earlier that ‘no-one he’d spoken to had seen the mermaid’ which made Sam sure he was onto a winner, “When did you see the mermaid?”
Dean’s eyeballs went up to the left, a sure sign that he was trying to think up a plausible lie or half truth, “Disney channel, twenty years ago. You?”
Sam gritted his teeth, “When did you see the fucking mermaid?”
“Two days ago,” Dean finally admitted and Sam realised there had been a part of him that was hoping he’d got it wrong because it felt like someone just smacked him in the stomach with a sledgehammer.
“Two days ago,” Sam repeated, sounding out the words to himself as if trying to figure out how three such simple words could be so devastating. “Shit.”
“It’s not that bad, Sammy,” Dean attempted to reassure his brother, “I mean, I’m not exactly likely to dive head-first into the ocean just ‘cos a mermaid tells me too.”
“Just like you wouldn’t dive head-first into a snow bank because an old Irishman told you to.” Sam would have liked nothing more in that moment than to agree but his memory strayed back to a small Irish village and that’s when Dean wasn’t trying to deal with his father’s death.
Dean scowled, “That was hardly my fault. This is a different situation.”
Sam said nothing and let the silence speak for him, stretching out.
“Shit,” Dean finally concurred with his brother’s assessment. “We’ve still got a day.”
“We think we have a day,” Sam heard his own voice, harsh and grating, as he turned furious to face his brother. “We still have no idea whether Alan saw the mermaid and if he did, how long before then did he die? We have no clue why this thing is even showing itself before it kills.”
“She seemed to be trying to tell me something.” Dean admitted, his reluctance clear in his voice.
“She spoke to you?” Sam sounded startled.
“Not really, she made noises. It sounded like that freaky whale song crap you listen to.”
“I listened to it once,” Sam argued and quickly realised that was just another of the patented Dean Winchester distraction techniques. “So did the music fill you with any sort of desire to lob yourself off the back of the boat?” Sam asked.
Dean shook his head, “Not in the slightest. It wasn’t that pleasant but hardly bad enough to bring about suicidal tendencies. Maybe the men who died were just really sensitive.”
“Not from what Dan said. Hard-ass bastards by the sounds of it but then that seems to describe most of the passengers when it comes to the business floor.”
“Maybe she wasn’t showing herself to me because she was going to kill me. Maybe she just realised I was a hunter and wanted to warn me off.” Dean suggested.
Sam shook his head, “That makes no sense. How would she know you were a hunter just from seeing you up on the ship rail?” Sam thought about it some more, “It’d also be an unsound tactic to let a hunter know what they are up against, especially as I’ve never met a hunter who’d just give up.”
“The things we hunt aren’t exactly known for their smarts. Well, apart from the Wendigo but that thing is just a freak.”
“It’s still too much of a coincidence. James saw the mermaid first too.” Sam thrummed his fingers on the metal post of his bed.
“This could be a good thing.” Dean ventured and Sam felt his eyebrow shoot up into his hairline. Dean didn’t give him a chance to interrupt though as he kept talking, “This way we don’t need to chase around the hundred or so passengers on board to figure out which one of them might be taking amateur swimming lessons sometime soon.”
Sam hissed in irritation, “Yeah, instead it’s you that is going to be making a bid to raid Davey Jones’ locker. Forgive me for not seeing that as a drastic improvement.”
“You’d rather find out who the intended victim is when they are already blue and cold?” Dean pointed out, “Usually it takes two or three victims before we can track down what the monster of the week is. We only get one shot at this or Jerry’ll have to go out of business and the mermaid will lurk around for the next group foolish enough to include this area on their shipping route. What happens if the mermaid gets entrepreneurial like that fucking plane spirit and starts just sinking the whole damn boat?” Dean’s voice got angrier and louder as he spoke and Sam waited in silence for moments after he finished to make sure there were no footsteps heading their way.
“We just lost Dad. Is it so shocking that I don’t want to lose you too?” Sam pled.
“You aren’t going to lose me,” Dean bashed his hand down on the bed frame then winced and rubbed at his hand. “Come on, all we need to do is figure out why Ariel got huffy in her old age, figure out a way to kill her and then lay back and enjoy the rest of the cruise.”
“Fine, but I am not letting you out of my sight from now on.” Sam said in his most determined voice, “I’ll sleep in your room from now on so you can’t pull the old sleep-walking trick.”
Dean blinked, “Don’t you think that might raise a few eyebrows?”
Sam shrugged, “From the sounds of it, one of my room-mates has already had at least two hook-ups among the male passengers so it’s not that unusual.”
Dean squidged up his face in an expression of distaste, “But still, I’m kinda relying on my flirting skills here to get information and that might cause problems if the ladies think I bat for the other team.”
“I’m not suggesting we got around announcing it,” Sam pointed out. “Unless you’ve been inviting women back to your room every night.”
“From the shrews aboard?” Dean scoffed. “Not a chance. Half of them slut it about so much among the rich and famous that I could pick up an ABC of STDs.”
“Nice, Dean.” Sam shook his head at his brother, “So there’ll be no problem.”
“Apart from the fact there’s only one bed in my room.”
“It’s not like it’d be the first time we’ve shared a bed.”
“You might not have noticed but you sprouted up a few dozen inches since we were kids and I really don’t fancy being woken up by bony elbows sticking into my side.”
“I do not have bony elbows,” Sam said indignantly, “And if I do, you’ll just have to put up with them.”
“The trials of being an older brother,” Dean stated with a melodramatic sigh.
---
Dean paused somewhat nervously at the front door to his suite, checking the hallways to make sure no other passengers were around including his platinum-haired stalker. Once the coast was clear, he motioned his brother through. It always amazed him that Sam managed to ever be stealthy given his lanky frame and the clod-hopping large feet. Dean cracked open the door, took a deep breath and went inside.
He heard Sam’s exclamation almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of the place and felt a cuff on the back of his head, not quite hard enough to make him wince but enough to make a point. “This is your room?” Sam questioned in amazement.
“Uh, kinda, yeah. I had to look the part of a rich guy.” Dean said, scuffing his feet in an abashed manner on the luxury thick-pile carpet.
“You have paintings up your wall,” Sam says in a tone composed of equal parts awe and envy. “Real oil paintings and,” Dean sees his brother’s eyes scan the rest of the room, “You have a fucking piano?”
Dean coughs into his hand and makes a half-shrug, “Yeah. Had a go on it earlier. Turns out I suck at playing the piano.”
“I’ve been sharing a room with snoring Sven, coughing Calum and Kamp as hell Kevin and you had a fucking piano?” Dean was beginning to worry that his brother was a little fixated on the piano.
“It’s just part of the act, Sammy.” Dean attempted to pacify his brother, “To be rich enough to act so gauche around them, I had to pretend to be the richest of them all.” Dean hoped to derail his brother’s rant for a moment by using an uncharacteristic word like gauche.
From the way that Sam was staring like a kid in a candy store around the room, Dean was fairly sure his ploy wasn’t working. Sam dropped the small carrier of clothes that he’d hastily packed in the centre of the room and started walking around, eyes flickering like a startled fawn to each new extravagance he found. Dean was dreading showing Sam the bedroom.
Finally Sam settled a little and just returned to his dropped back and shook his head, “Next time, I get to be the passenger.”
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean hastily agreed. “Next time we get a free ride on a luxury cruise, you get to be the passenger.” Dean remembered one of his father’s lectures about inappropriate times for sarcasm when his brother turned the kicked puppy glare on him.
Sam scooped up his incredibly meagre looking carrier again and shrugged at his brother, “I suppose I should dump this in the bedroom.”
Dean quickly moved to place himself between his brother and the bedroom, “No rush. Don’t you have a shift starting soon?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he walked at a steady pace towards his brother, ignoring Dean’s attempt to block the door and just using those bony elbows to full effect in the edges of Dean’s side to get past and into the bedroom, “Holy fucking crap,” came Sam’s exclamation.
Dean let out a heart-felt sigh and followed his brother into the room. He wasn’t quite sure what had prompted the exclamation whether it was the queen-sized bed pressed against the wall and made up with silk sheets, it could have been the sheet water feature that occupied the opposite wall (which had the pesky side effect of making Dean wake up in the middle of the night needing to pee), it could even have been the well-stocked mini-bar that took up a corner of the room, oak panelling giving the impression of a well-to-do New York wine bar. Frankly it could even have been the large oriental rug that spread out across the floor. “It’s not bad.” Dean said.
“You suck,” Sam stated. “You royally and utterly suck.”
“Hey, I’m the one on a death sentence here,” Dean said and instantly regretted it as Sam’s kicked puppy look migrated to the tortured and damp and oh so sad puppy look, “Right, inappropriate times for humour. We can probably push a couple of the chairs in the lounge together and I’ll sleep on that and you can have the bed.”
Sam shook his head, “Not a chance. I’m going to make sure that the only way you get out of this room is to clamber over me to be sure you’ll wake me up. I’m not taking any chances this time.”
Dean got a sudden flash of just how much hell Sam was going to make his life over the next few days. Sam had oft accused Dean of being over-protective when they were kids and Dean would be the first to admit, to anyone but Sam, that he was incredibly protective of his little brother. Sam however could be a mother-hen, fussing and clucking and pecking over everything to be sure everything was alright. “Come on, Sammy, you know I always sleep between you and the door.” It was the previously unspoken Winchester rule. Their dad had always slept between Dean and the door and Dean slept between Sammy and the door.
“Not this time,” Sam said. Sam twisted his arm and glanced at his watch. “My shift starts in about ten minutes. You should head to the bar and I expect to see you in there drinking until I get off shift, no wandering off.”
“Of all the times you had to pick to drag me into a bar,” Dean grumped.
--
Despite his grumping, when Sam’s shift started, Dean meandered into the bar and plopped himself down at one of the tables, quickly acquiring a crowd of people eager to natter about what little was occurring in their heads. Screw the luxury room, Sam owed him for this. He made sure to keep himself in Sam’s line of sight no matter how busy the bar became. The last thing he needed was Sam having some girly freak-out and blowing the whole gig.
Dean was still sure Sam was going a little over the top about this. Yes, Dean had seen a mermaid but then so had a lot of people in the past and none of them were dead else where had the stories come from? There was nothing to say that Dean had even seen the same mermaid as the other two men. After all, mermaids and mermen were supposed to live in big sea-shell formed communities under the sea so there must be plenty of them around. Dean paused at that thought, Disney had obviously corrupted his brain.
The biggest problem with being seated out on the open, apart from the mind-numbingly dull conversation, was there was no opportunity to covertly read Dad’s journal. Dean wanted to cross-check the facts and see if there was any reference to mermaids which remotely matched the image he had seen instead of the idealised busty version. Instead Dean had to discuss stocks and listen to the women endlessly try to couch an invitation in polite terms. There was a reason that Dean adored the women who frequently diners and bars and that was because they were open and unashamed of who they were unlike these cut-glass bitches who hid beneath posh manners and exquisite clothing.
As Dean knocked back his fifth, or maybe sixth, possibly seventh whiskey, Dean decided it would be adequate revenge on Sam if his brother had to carry his paralytic form back to his room, not to mention a good excuse for the bartender to be in Dean’s room. The more Dean thought about it, the better idea it seemed: the fact that his confidence in the idea had a direct positive correlation with the amount of whiskey consumed seemed of little matter. Around the eighth (give or take four) whiskey, Dean discovered that the people around him were in fact incredibly fascinating and wonderful and he loved them all. It was about this time that the barman, who looked a little familiar in that floppy haired way, tapped him on the shoulder and suggested he may want to retire to his room.
Dean pointed out and into the barman that he was absolutely positively fine and this wonderful lady was just telling him about her corgi collection. Did he know that the Queen of England kept corgis? Apparently he did which was good, he seemed like a smart person. All people with long hair were smart if they were men. If you were female, you had to have short hair then you were either very, very smart or a lesbian or possibly both. There were, according to Nathaniel Edenridge, a lot of very smart lesbians except that they didn’t find Nate hot which was obviously very stupid.
The barman seemed to be a bit annoyed at him which was odd because didn’t barman like people drinking? It seemed a little silly to be a barman and then go and object to people drinking. Dean pointed this out to the barman but he didn’t seem amused. Instead he just lifted Dean up and began to manhandle him towards the exit.
Around five footsteps away from his room, Dean discovered that the motion of the boat was not the best thing on a roiling head and he dashed the last distance under his own steam, clattering open the door and diving towards the (marble-bedecked) bathroom and set about trying to redecorate the ivory, pristine toilet with the contents of his stomach. The barman hovered over him, alternating between looking worried and looking pissed off.
When Dean was finally sure that there was nothing left in his stomach that could come up, the barman levered him up and helped him into the bed, tugging off the vomit-splattered clothes until Dean was just in his boxers and dumped the clothes in a (silk-screen) laundry basket that sat in the corner of the room. When the barman got into bed, perched on the corner, back to Dean, Dean was tempted to point out this was very forward and Dean didn’t swing that way. He was just about to point that out when blessed unconscious gripped his mind and pulled him down into sleep.
---
Dean was never, ever, ever drinking again. Never. Never ever. Ever. At all. Ever. He’d woken in the middle of the night thanks to that fucking water sheet and had had to scramble over Sam’s prone form to make it to the bathroom in time to empty that last shred of stomach lining that hadn’t already made its way out. His head was pounding like there was the entirety of Jamaica stuffed in there having a steel drum contest.
Sam had woken at Dean’s movement and now stood in the bathroom doorway, watching somewhat impassively as Dean paid penance to the porcelain god. Just when Dean thought it was over and attempted to raise himself dizzily up to his feet, he found that it wasn’t and had to flop back to his knees in order to dry heave, retching until a stream of yellow bile was all that got deposited into the toilet.
Dean’s throat felt like someone had gotten a handful of sandpaper and scraped it to red raw. His eyes felt gritty and even the mild light cast from the doorway of the lounge into the bathroom was enough to stab needles into his brain. Even when the dry heaving stopped, he clung to the toilet, willing himself to fall unconscious just to put an end to his misery.
He heard the sound of running water and then there was a wet flannel pressed to his face and Sam’s face looking in his view, gigantor hands wiping the flannel across Dean’s face, wiping off the traces of sick left behind. Dean gave his brother a weak smile and sagged against the toilet. Soon the muscle tremors that always hit after being sick came and Dean felt his grip on the toilet loosen and he tottered backwards.
Before he could fall, his brother’s hands were there, guiding him gently backwards until he was leant with his back against his brother’s chest, trying to still the shudders that ran through him. Sam’s hands brushed Dean’s short hair back from his face and ran that flannel over Dean’s cold-sweat damp skin once more bringing brief, blessed relief.
“S-Sammy,” Dean croaked out, trying to work some saliva into his dry, stomach acid-burnt mouth.
“Shush, Dean.” Sam’s voice was soft and quiet, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Sam’s voice sounded like he was trying to be annoyed but couldn’t quite manage it. “You feel up to moving back to bed?”
Dean shook his head and quickly regretted it as pain stabbed into his head once more and he had to lurch back forward to the toilet, chest and stomach heaving up nothing. He felt Sam’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his back and felt a little guilty for the way he’d wound up his brother during his own hangover at the creepy doll hotel. The thought of those creepy dolls was enough to make Dean’s stomach lurch once more, even if nothing dribbled out of his mouth but spit.
By the time Dean had finished, he felt lamb-weak with his wrenched stomach just one big ball of ow. Sam ended up carrying him back to the bed and tucking him under the covers like he was five years old. Sam proved to have a practical side as he placed a basin close to Dean so he wouldn’t need to lurch out to the bathroom again the next time his stomach rebelled. The glass of water on the bedside made Dean queasy just thinking about it but Sam held it up to his mouth until he took slow sips which thankfully stayed down for that moment.
When morning came as evidence by the increasing noise of footsteps going up and down the hall, he heard Sam lean over him, “Dean.” He said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got to get onto my shift. I’ll lock the door so just stay in here. I’ll try and get some time to check in you, okay?”
Dean had been worrying if he could possibly feel worse but Sam’s ever-so-kind words were just enough to plunge him over into the abyss. He mumbled something as an acknowledgment and tried to sink into the far too soft pillows and blessed oblivion once more. He woke up a few more times during the day, twice to relieve his bladder and once to relieve his stomach of the small amount of water he’d got down. Dean was beginning to think that this hangover might rival the great hangover of 2001, the day after Sam had walked out of the door and out on his family to live the all American dream.
There was a few hesitant taps on the room door during the day and the piping voice of some woman or other calling Mr Edenridge to make sure he was alright after he was ‘taken ill’ last night. Dean ignored them all, fairly sure his unsteady legs wouldn’t have made it from the bed across the gaping expanse of space to his room door anyway.
Sam returned just as the bell for dinner was rung and Dean felt his stomach cramp into an impossible knot just at the mere thought of food that flittered across his mind. Sam sunk into the comfy chair opposite the bed and perched his feet on the end of the bed, “How are you feeling?” He asked in a normally pitched voice.
Dean let out a pained groan as a response, “Never ever drinking again.”
Sam chuckled, “You know, you are quite the sensation according to the in crowd. Apparently Nate, or Natey as he likes to be called, is witty and urbane and oh so charming. I heard some women are already ordering their lawyers to draw up the pre-nup.”
“You trying to make me spew what’s left in my stomach, Sammy?” Dean croaked, rolling over to grip the basin even though nothing was left in to come out.
“I’m a little curious about what last night was about,” Sam said in that ever so casual voice that Dean knew was dangerous. “At first, I thought you were just trying to piss me off for committing the number one Winchester sin: actually worrying about a family member but I think that was a little showy even for you.” Sam leaned back, the chair creaking a little under his weight.
“If this is going to be a chick-flick moment, can you let me know so I can pass out again?”
“That depends,” And Sam’s tone was dangerous now, that particular blend of hurt and anger and disappointment that only Sammy could manage, “Does figuring out that my brother would far rather get absolutely slaughtered and flirt with a bunch of social bitches rather than actually talk to me about what’s on his mind count as a chick-flick moment?”
“Yes,” Dean answered, attempting to bury his head down under the fluffy cloud of the pillow to make the rest of the world go away. He felt the pillow meanly tugged away and Sam’s hand flip him onto his back. Dean stared up at his brother, squinting his eyes against the light, “Come on, Sammy. Can’t we just talk about this in the morning? This hangover is killing me.”
Dean flinched at the words as soon as he said them, watching Sam recoil. “Fine, Dean.” Sam returned to his chair, propping his feet back onto the bed, “But you better believe that we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Dean tugged another pillow over his head and sank back into sleep.
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