Bay of Fire: 'Supernatural'

By Scullspeare © 2008

CHAPTER ONE

He’d lost track of time, of how long he’d been hanging on to his brother.

He closed his eyes, fighting violent shivers and the unrelenting pull of unconsciousness, and tightened his hold. As determined as the ocean was to pull Sam from him, Dean was more determined to hang on.

The elder Winchester lay on a floating piece of cracked wood and fiberglass – all that was left of their boat. Sam was in the water at his side, unconscious, only Dean’s iron grip on his wrist stopping him from slipping away and disappearing into the dark Atlantic.

Dean tugged on Sam’s arm, shaking him as hard as his waning strength allowed. “Dude, w-wake up.” His voice was hoarse, his words tripping over the shivers.

He shook Sam’s arm again. Each time before, it had been enough to rouse him, to draw out a mumbled protest or a flash of hazel eyes as they blinked dazedly at him. Now, there was nothing – no laughable ‘I’m fine,’ or quiet ‘keep still’ as Sam instinctively worried more about Dean’s injured back than the hypothermia rapidly stealing his own strength.

Dean peeled open his eyes. Sam floated silently beside him, deathly still. His head hung forward, dark hair painted white with ice and salt, his skin a pallid grey.

The fog curled tightly around them, thick and heavy, white mixing with grey as it tumbled across the ocean rising and falling beneath it. It teasingly pulled back one moment then darted closer the next. Help could be feet away and they’d never know it. Dean had listened constantly, hopefully, for any sign of an approaching boat, calling out sporadically until his voice was almost gone but there had been nothing, no one.

The ocean heaved and fell, once more trying to pull Sam from him. Eyes screwed shut, Dean tightened his hold, clenching his teeth as pain flared in his back. His eyes snapped open and he glared out at the water, an unspoken dare to try and take his brother from him.

His challenge was accepted. The ocean picked them up and dropped them suddenly, a heavy wave washing over them, almost tearing Sam from his grip and threatening to capsize their flimsy raft. Dean clung desperately to both, coughing up salt water as he pulled his brother closer. “I know, Sammy. Taunting Mother Nature – that n-never ends well.”

Dean’s chest tightened suddenly, heart pounding wildly when he saw that Sam’s face had lolled forward, his chin dropping below the surface. He looked…..

“No, no.” Dean adjusted his grip, holding his breath subconsciously until he felt the faint but steady beat of a pulse beneath his fingers. He exhaled audibly, his chest heaving in relief.

Without warning, the ocean again swelled beneath them, pushing them up into the cloak of fog before dropping them quickly, the waves around them rising to form watery walls that trembled briefly before collapsing on top of them in a torrent of icy water.

Dean gasped at the sudden drenching and the jolt of pain in his back, choking in the saturated air, eyes stinging from the salt water assault. The raft rocked wildly.

Another swell rose almost right behind the first, this time hitting them at an angle. The raft tipped as it was picked up and Dean started to slide, gravity almost dumping him into the roiling water and trying fiercely to pull Sam from him.

“SAM!” Dean strained to maintain his grip on his brother, then startled when he felt a strong arm wrap around him and haul him back aboard the makeshift raft. His brother’s substantial weight suddenly lightened considerably.

For a second, Dean panicked, thinking somehow Sam had slipped from his grasp. He blinked to clear his vision. His brother was still floating in the water beside him, Sam’s wrist firmly locked in his hand.

Dean’s eyes darted round. They were alone in the water – but it felt like someone had their arm around him, holding him securely in place, stopping him from slipping off the raft and letting him concentrate on hanging on to Sam in the ever-increasing swells

He jumped as a disembodied voice whispered in his ear. “Help’s on the way.”

xxxXXXxxx

Earlier that day………..

Sam stared at his brother incredulously. “Could you be a bigger geek about this?”

Dean grinned, a rare face-splitting, Christmas morning, kid-in-a-candy store grin, as he tested the weight of the weapon in his hands. “Come on, Sam; when are we ever gonna get another chance to use one of these?”

The weapon in question was a Korean War-era rocket launcher, almost five feet long with a 3-1/2-inch muzzle. Capable of hitting a target up to 150 yards away, it weighed close to 14 pounds – and that was before they’d loaded it with a 3-1/2 pound rocket.

Sam glanced from the EMF detector in his hands to his brother, shaking his head as he studied the bazooka Dean held. “This is too weird, man - even for us. I mean, trying to take down a ghost ship with a rocket launcher?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s a big ship – we need a big gun.” He hoisted the bazooka to his shoulder, widening his stance to steady himself against both the weight of the weapon and the rhythmic rocking of their boat. He flipped open the sight and scanned the water for any sign of the ghostly vessel. “This puppy’s gonna deliver three pounds of rock salt in one blast, blow the ship out of the water - give Bobby and Ted the time they need to take care of the wreck.”

Sam checked his watch. “They should be planting the first explosives any minute now.”

Dean squinted through the sight. “In the mean time, if Captain…..” He turned to face Sam. “What’s his name again?”

“DaSilva. Umberto DaSilva.”

Dean rolled his eyes, before refocusing through the sight. “Course it is. Anyway, if the ghost of Captain Bert shows up, we’re ready for him.”

A call from Bobby had brought the brothers to Chaleur Bay, a tiny coastal village in northeastern Massachusetts. Until recently, the local legend of a fiery tall ship that sailed the waters of the bay had been little more than a tall tale of the sea to enchant children and visitors. But six boats had gone down in the past five months. Eleven people were dead and the survivors’ stories were eerily similar – of a tall ship that burst into flames moments before ramming the smaller craft.

Bobby’s old friend Tommy McKay owned a fleet of small, deep-sea fishing boats that sailed out of Chaleur Bay. He had lost a boat and her crew in the fifth attack, and there had been no survivors - only a garbled radio transmission, quickly eaten by static that told him the ghost ship was responsible. After consoling family members at the empty-coffin funeral for his men, he had called Bobby. The sixth boat had gone down the day before Bobby drove into town.

There was no mystery as to the identity of the ghost ship. Every resident of Chaleur Bay knew the legend of the Mari-Elena, a Portuguese trading ship sabotaged by rivals in 1602 and destroyed in a spectacular fire. The puzzle for Bobby had been figuring out why the attacks had started now, more than 400 years after the ship went down.

The answer came from a guy named Cody Tremayne, the owner of a local dive shop. Cody ’s grandfather had discovered the wreck of the Mari-Elena in 1964 and Cody and his dive partner, returning from a dive to the wreck, had rescued the victims of the latest attack.

Cody was about the same age as Sam, of similar height and with long, streaked blonde hair that hid three small, gold hoops in his left ear. He wore a baggy T-shirt, knee-length shorts and sandals, despite the fact it was mid-April and the chill had yet to leave the air.

Bobby stashed away the NTSB badge he had just flashed and studied the photos on the dive shop wall. Most were underwater images showing the wreck of the Mari-Elena. He glanced at Cody. “You take these?”

Cody crossed the shop and stood beside Bobby, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. “Most of ’em.” He pulled a hand from his pocket and pointed to a couple of older photos. “Those ones my grand-dad took, the year he found her.”

Bobby nodded, his eyes traveling to a photo of three people – Cody, around the age of eight, dive mask shoved up over his wet hair and grinning widely, with his father and grandfather. Each had the same easy-going smile and soft grey eyes. The grandfather’s arm was thrown around the shoulders of his son, whose arms were wrapped around his own son. Bobby smiled sadly; the photo made him think of the Winchesters, of all the ‘normal’ happy moments that had been stolen from their family when the Yellow-Eyed Demon entered their lives.

He turned back to Cody. “You rescued the victims of the latest accident, right?”

Cody nodded, crossing his arms. “Yeah. Yesterday. Fished’em out of the wreckage. How they doin’?”

Bobby had stopped by the hospital earlier in the day to interview the survivors. “Both will be fine.”

“Good.” Cody shook his head. “For a moment, I thought we had more fatalities on our hands.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Why.”

Cody shrugged. “When we got there, I could have sworn there were five people in the water. We hauled out the first guy, got him on board, then when we went to grab the next guy, he was the only one still in the water. My partner, Chris, he even jumped in lookin’ for the others – until one of the survivors told us there were only two on board.” He shook his head. “Eyes playin’ tricks, I guess…..just weird that Chris and I both saw the same thing.”

Bobby stroked his beard. “The survivors tried to tell me their boat was rammed by a ship on fire, a large ship ‘like out of the history books.’” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You think there’s anything to these wild stories?”

Cody shook his head. “I dunno, man. I know the Mari-Elena was real - the wreck is proof of that. But I also know tall tales get taller over time. I’ve spent almost every day of my life out on that water and I’ve never seen her.” He glanced up at Bobby. “Somethin’ caused those boats to go down – I’m just not ready to buy it’s a ghost ship.”

Bobby nodded. “So what do you think is behind it?”

Cody rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Not a clue, dude. But I know most of the men who were lost, heard the radio transmissions before they vanished. They were straight-up guys and ………” His voice trailed off. He was quiet for a moment then cleared his throat. “I just hope you NTSB guys can figure it out before anyone else gets hurt. Forget the fact that fishing season’s under way, after what happened this winter, the waters around here are about to get seriously busy.”

Bobby frowned. “What happened this winter?”

Cody’s eyebrows quirked as if he was surprised Bobby didn’t know. “The wreck split in two, man.” He moved toward a map on the dive shop wall, pointing to a section of ocean just beyond the mouth of the bay. “The Mari-Elena sat on a shelf right here, about 250 feet down. Sometime during a major storm that hit in December, the shelf shifted – the wreck broke apart and the stern landed here,” he dragged his finger slightly to the left, “another 50 feet down.”

He turned to Bobby. “In the dive world, this is big stuff; gives us access to parts of the ship we couldn’t get to before – outta respect for the dead, you know? We don’t go pokin’ inside a ship if she’s the final resting place of her crew. But since she split open, you can see the hold, some of the cabins, without actually going inside. It’s fascinating stuff. Ever since I posted the first few photos online, the calls have flooded in, from Boston to Beijing; divers can’t wait to get down there and see her for themselves.”

Bobby studied the photos of the barnacle-covered wreck. “Thought she mostly burned up before she went down?”

“Fire and water, dude. The minute she sank, fire went out.” Cody smiled. “Remember what I said about tall tales.” He stepped closer to the photo Bobby was looking at. “Her sails and her masts are long gone, but other than these,” he pointed to two gaping holes in her hull near the stern, “she’s basically intact.”

Bobby turned to Cody. “She went down fast, huh?”

Cody nodded. “Yeah, trapping most of her crew on board.”

Bobby’s heart started racing as the puzzle pieces snapped together. The spirits of the Mari-Elena’s doomed crew had been trapped inside the wreck for almost 400 years but had somehow been released when she split in two. Now the ship in spectral form had set sail again, her crew seeking revenge for her destruction.

Bobby stuck out his hand toward Cody. “You’ve been a big help. I promise you, we’ll do everything we can to figure this out.”

Bobby walked out of the dive shop and had his phone out and was dialing before the door closed behind him. It rang only twice. “Dean? How close are you to Massachusetts?”

xxxXXXxxx

The Winchesters rolled into town late the following day, meeting up with Bobby at a wharf side bar called The Blazing Sails. There, Bobby introduced them to Tommy McKay and to another old friend, a hunter named Ted Casey.

Tommy was a tall, heavyset man; his balding head hidden underneath a black fisherman’s cap, his face deeply tanned and wrinkled, marks of a man who had spent his entire life out on the open water. He said little but his smile was warm, his handshake firm, and both Sam and Dean trusted him instantly.

Ted was a small, wiry man, standing chest height next to Sam, and around the same age as Bobby. His close-cropped grey hair and ramrod-straight posture were testament to his military background.

“Marines?” Dean had guessed.

“SEALs,” was the reply.

Dean smiled. While he had youth and size on his side, he knew instinctively that if circumstance ever pitted him in a fight with Ted, he’d have his hands full. He was grateful he was an ally not an opponent.

Sam took a sip of his beer as he tried to figure out how much Tommy knew about hunting and hunters.

Bobby caught the look. “Relax, Sam. He knows what we do.”

Tommy put down his empty beer glass and smiled at Sam. “Look, I’m a simple man. A lot of what you do is hard for me to swallow but Bobby helped me out 10 years ago and, well, I know enough now to go to church on Sundays and salt my doors at night.

“Bottom line, I lost three good men out there – and I heard the fear in their voices when that last radio transmission came in. They saw somethin’ – and I owe it to them, and their families, to find out what it was before it hurts someone else. You men seem like the best ones to do that.”

Sam leaned forward, his voice softening. “The radio - what did they say?”

Tommy shuffled uncomfortably at the memory. “They seemed in awe at first. Bill just kept repeating, ‘It’s her, Tommy. It’s the goddamn Mari-Elena.’ The transmission started breaking up at that point. The next thing I heard was Bill yelling, ‘Jesus Christ, she’s gone up in flames and she’s turning on us.’” He looked up at Sam and shrugged. “The only thing I heard through the static after that was something about the engine stalling.”

Tommy stared down at the table, his finger absentmindedly tracing a knot in the wood. “We found debris from their boat the next day but never did find my crew – the tides took’em.”

Dean drained the last of his beer. “Well neither the ship or the tides are takin’ anyone else if we can help it.” He turned to Bobby. “You know where the wreck is, right?”

Bobby nodded. “Yup. She’s in two pieces, about 250 feet down just outside the mouth of the bay.”

Dean’s eyebrows arched. “So, we just need to salt and burn a 100-foot ship that’s under 250 feet of water – that pretty much it?”

“Pretty much.” Bobby placed his empty glass on the table. “I know it sounds tricky - but she’s been soaking in salt water for more than 400 years so the salt part’s taken care of. As for the burn,” he nodded at his old friend, “that’s where Ted comes in.”

Ted smiled at Sam’s raised eyebrows. “My job with the SEALs was underwater demo. I’m used to planting charges on more modern targets but I should be able to take care of this one without waking up the whole town. We’re gonna dive down, set charges on both halves of the wreck, get clear, then ‘boom’ - hopefully put the spirits of her crew to rest once and for all.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Wait, we’re gonna dive down? I know you’ve done some diving, Bobby but -

Bobby cut him off. “We meaning Ted and I. A night dive to that depth, hauling explosives, is a bit much for a first dive – even for you two.”

Sam nodded. “Fair enough - so what do you need us to do?”

Bobby adjusted his ballcap, scratching his head. “I cross-checked the dates and times. Every time there’s been an attack there’s been divers down at the wreck.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Pokin’ around, pissin’ off the spirits even more.” He glanced from Bobby to Sam. “So we’re the decoy while you set the charges?”

Bobby frowned. “I was thinking more like sentry. Tommy takes us out to the wreck, stands by till we’re done. You two are in a second boat to watch our backs while we’re underwater – and take care of the ship if it shows up. Keep it out of the way ’til we can get rid of it for good” He glanced from Dean to Sam and back. “You game?”

Dean’s frown morphed into a wide grin. “Bring it on.” He glanced at his brother. “Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “I’m in. So when are we gonna do this?”

“Tonight.” Bobby leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The kid who runs the dive shop says he’s taking a group down to the wreck day after tomorrow – we need to take care of this before any of them get hurt.”

Dean nodded, then frowned. “Just one thing; if we do run into this ghost ship, how are we supposed to take it down? Something tells me my shotgun ain’t gonna cut it.”

Bobby smiled. “Yeah, we thought of that. Don’t worry, Ted’s figured out something I think you might like.”

xxxXXXxxx

Dean steadied the bazooka, thinking back to that conversation in the bar and his subsequent meeting with Ted at an old quarry outside town where the retired SEAL had given him a crash course on firing the rocket launcher. If the ghost ship showed up, the rock salt-filled rocket would blast it out of the water, hopefully buying Ted and Bobby enough time to set the charges.

Dean glanced at Sam. “You picking up anything?”

Sam studied the EMF then shook his head. “Nothing.” He shoved the detector into his pocket, leaned inside the wheelhouse to grab a pair of binoculars then crossed the deck to stand beside his brother. He lifted the binoculars and focused on Tommy’s boat, the Rod Bender, 100 yards away. He could see Tommy on the deck, basically doing the same thing they were doing – waiting. “Dive flag’s still up - which means Bobby and Ted are still down at the wreck.”

“Rather them than me.” Dean lowered the rocket launcher and turned to place it back in its case which had been secured to the deck, closing the lid to protect it from the salt spray. He glanced at his watch. “They’ve been down, what – 25 minutes?”

Sam checked his watch and nodded. “Yeah – they need about another 15 to finish setting the charges, then another 20 to surface and get clear.”

Dean nodded. “Good. If all goes well, within the hour that ghost ship will go back to being nothing more than a tall tale.”

Sam lowered the binoculars, but continued looking out across the water. They were more than two miles from land, beyond where the Atlantic coastline turned inland to form the entrance to Chaleur Bay.

The night was clear, the waxing moon casting a silvery light onto the calm sea that lapped softly against the side of their boat. The inky sky was full of stars, all pinpricks of light reflected onto the water below, the reflections jumping and twisting with each gentle swell.

Sam closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and tasting the salty air. The winds racing for shore tousled his hair and misted his face with ocean spray.

“You gonna puke?”

Sam’s eyes snapped open to find Dean frowning at him, one eyebrow quirked as if he couldn’t decide whether to worry or poke fun. “No.” Sam returned the frown then shrugged. “It’s just, well…….it’s really beautiful out here …. peaceful, you know? Well, except for the whole vengeful ghost ship part.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Yeah, except for that part.” He shook his head. “I don’t get this ‘love of the open sea’ crap. Gimme four wheels, a V-8 engine and the open road any day of the week. If man was meant to be out on the water, he would’ve been born with webbed feet.”

Sam smiled as he turned from the rail and walked back toward the wheelhouse, staggering slightly to reclaim his balance as the boat rose and fell in the gentle swells. He stowed the binoculars back in the wheelhouse before turning back towards Dean. “You mean you wouldn’t trade in the Impala for the lovely Stella here?”

“Lovely?” Dean glanced round at their boat. The Stella Maris was a 34-foot Cape Islander, a fishing boat designed for reliability and practicality, not flash or speed. Her bow was raised, her stern square and her deck open. The white, rectangular wheelhouse stood eight feet high just behind the bow, topped by satellite and radar antennas that rose another eight feet from the roof. Her hull was dark green, with a wide black stripe just above the waterline, the paint worn in places, patched in others. Rust mottled the metal hinges of the wheelhouse door and the bolts of the winch at her stern. Dean wrinkled his nose. “No offence to your girlfriend, but she’s a little homely for my taste.”

“Ouch.” Sam patted the doorframe to the wheelhouse soothingly. “Don’t listen to him, Stella. He doesn’t appreciate your inner beauty.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re talking to a boat, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows peaked as he bit back a smile. “What’s the matter? Afraid your baby will get jealous?”

“My baby has nothing to fear from this rustbucket. She……” Dean’s voice trailed off when he realized Sam was grinning widely, point made. “Wiseass.” He motioned toward the wheelhouse. “Go check in with Tommy. I’ll keep watch. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back on dry land.”

Sam ducked his head to step down into the wheelhouse. He was still smiling as he straightened up and glanced at the equipment crammed into her bridge. Tommy had spent little on Stella’s appearance but she was equipped with all the latest technology – radar, sonar, GPS, satellite phone – even a computer terminal with satellite access to the Internet. “She doesn’t need to be pretty,” Tommy had told Sam as he gave him a quick lesson on operating the boat, “just watertight and properly maintained and equipped. That’s what’ll keep my men safe.”

Sam picked up the radio handset and pressed down the button to open a channel. “This is the Stella Maris calling the Rod Bender, come in.” He released the button but the only response was a loud crackle of static. Sam frowned. He turned to stare at the Rod Bender’s lights in the distance. “This is Stella Maris calling the Rod Bender; Tommy – come in.” Once again he heard nothing but static.

Sam replaced the radio handset and was reaching for the satellite phone when the radar display caught his eye. The steady sweep of the electronic arm, turning in sync with the transmitter on the wheelhouse roof, slowed then stopped completely before fading into a sea of white static. The EMF detector, shoved in his jacket pocket, suddenly came to life, emitting the familiar high-pitched whine and crackle. Sam’s eyes jumped from the bridge to the square windows that ran along the front and sides of the wheelhouse.

There was no sign of any ghost ship but the night was no longer clear. Thick fog was rolling in toward them. Already visibility was cut in half, the fog quickly swallowing the lights of the Rod Bender and still on the move.

Sam stepped back out onto the deck. Dean glanced up at him then gestured with his head toward the fog. “I could have done without this.”

Sam held up the squealing EMF.

Dean’s eyebrows peaked. “Here we go.” He stepped back and crouched down to flip open the case holding the rocket launcher, his eyes constantly scanning the encroaching fog.

The water was eerily quiet, the only sounds the gentle lapping of swells breaking against the hull of the boat and the electronic squawk of the EMF. The fog raced toward them, rolling along the surface of the water, grabbing each wave and pulling them under its thick cover as it closed in on the boat. Its long arms snaked out, wrapping the Stella Maris in a tight embrace until they could see nothing through the solid blanket that encircled them.

The squeal of the EMF dulled and Dean was acutely aware of his own breathing, of the rising of his chest as he breathed in and the gentle huff of air as he breathed out. His heart was beating steadily, the rhythmic thumping strangely audible in the eerie silence.

The EMF wailed again, breaking the spell cast by the fog. Dean glanced up at Sam then grabbed the rocket launcher. As he stood up, he felt a tap on his arm.

“Dean…….”

He looked at Sam; his brother’s eyes were wide. Hoisting the rocket launcher to his shoulder, he followed Sam’s gaze.

With a creaking groan of worn timbers and the sound of rushing water, a ship in full sail appeared out of the fog, gliding beside them and dwarfing their fishing boat. She was bathed in an unearthly blue light that pushed aside the fog and highlighted every detail.

It was the Mari-Elena – a 16th century caravel, more than 100 feet long and one of the fastest ships of her day. Her pointed bow cut easily through the gentle swells, her square stern keeping her stable. She had four masts; the short foremast and towering main mast each carrying square-rigged sails, designed to catch the wind and give her speed. A third, much smaller square sail flew from high atop the mainmast, beyond the crow’s nest. The two smaller aft masts each carried large, triangular sails for maneuverability, allowing her to turn quickly and give chase, or flee, when necessary. Rigging fanned out from the crow’s nest on the main mast like a giant spider web spanning the width of the ship.

The brothers watched in awed silence as the caravel sailed by. Her sails billowed softly, catching the gentle ocean winds that pushed her silently toward shore.

Dean’s fingers clenched tightly around the rocket launcher. He flipped open the sight then froze as he caught sight of a lone figure standing mid-ship on the caravel, behind its pillared railing.

His posture and bearing told Dean he was a man of authority – likely the Captain DaSilva Sam had read about when researching the Mari-Elena. The captain’s dark hair was long, tied loosely with a leather rope at the nape of his neck, his face covered by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His shirt was laced at the neck, the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the hem untucked over dark britches that disappeared inside knee-high boots. Wide belts criss-crossed his hips, one holding a holstered pistol, the other the scabbard for his sword.

Dean stared at the phantom captain who, in turn, stared back at Dean, each man sizing up the other suspiciously, assessing the threat he posed. The captain’s gaze turned to Sam, who subconsciously took a step closer to his brother, an unspoken declaration that the Winchesters stood united against this potential foe.

A loud explosion mid-deck on the caravel made all three men flinch. The ghostly captain turned quickly, now silhouetted by an eerie orange glow as flames shot up from the deck behind him. Mid-ship was suddenly a hive of activity as more phantom crew members appeared, desperately trying to extinguish the fire.

But the flames were ravenous, hungrily licking at the main mast and greedily climbing higher and higher despite the crew’s frantic efforts to hold them back. With a loud roar the main-sail caught, becoming a giant sheet of flame. The howl of the fire became deafening as rogue flames jumped fore and aft, setting the smaller sails ablaze until all five were fully engulfed.

The ship itself was also on fire, the wood snapping and popping as thick, black smoke billowed from her hold and portholes to stain the fog which still enveloped them. The fire consumed the ship with unnatural speed until the Mari-Elena was painted in flame from stem to stern.

The breathtaking ship from the pages of history was gone, replaced by a terrifying specter, roiling fire twisting and turning in a macabre dance over her blackened hull. But the fire showed no signs of abating; the sails that in reality would have been quickly destroyed, blazed on – canvas replaced by sheets of flame.

The captain appeared again at her rails, seemingly untouched by the flames and barking out orders in a language neither brother understood, before pointing toward their boat – a gesture they understood completely. The caravel started to turn, her timbers creaking in protest and spewing flame, smoke and ash, as she turned toward the Stella Maris.

The movement snapped the brothers into action. Dean re-settled the rocket launcher on his shoulder. “Sam….”

Sam was moving, even before Dean said his name aloud. “Got it.” He had to move the boat. The ghost ship was less than 20 feet away, much too close for Dean to use the rocket launcher. Ted had cautioned Dean that if he fired the rocket inside 50 yards, there was a good chance it would pass straight through the intended target and explode on the far side. At least that held true in real-world applications; as Ted had admitted, scratching his head, its use against supernatural targets was completely untested.

Here there was also the added complication that the Rod Bender was hidden in the fog on the far side of the caravel; if the rocket passed through the ghost ship, there was a chance it could wipe out Tommy’s boat and that was a risk the brothers weren’t willing to take.

Sam crossed the deck quickly and disappeared inside the wheelhouse.

Dean heard the boat’s engine firing even as he took aim at the Mari-Elena. “Get her to chase us, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he fired the engines and pushed forward the throttle. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he muttered as he spun the wheel to the right.

The instruments were still useless, the compass spinning crazily, the radar a sea of static. While the ghost ship was illuminated by the fire, visibility elsewhere was zero thanks to the fog. Sam had no idea where Tommy’s boat was so simply turned the Stella Maris in the opposite direction to where they had last seen her.

Dean’s left hand dropped to the railing to steady himself as the Stella Maris lurched into motion. He blinked and refocused through the sight – and once more found himself locking stares with the caravel’s ghostly captain. This time though the specter had his pistol drawn - and pointed at Dean.

The explosive crack of the pistol firing echoed loudly through the fog, drowning out both the steady throbbing of the fishing boat’s engine and the eerie rush and crackle of the flaming tall ship. Time seemed to slow down as Dean turned to get out of the bullet’s path but, weighed down by the rocket launcher, he wasn’t fast enough. The spectral bullet slammed into his shoulder, knocking him off his feet and back onto the deck. The bazooka tipped forward and fell with him, landing with bruising force on his chest.

The pistol shot and Dean’s cry of pain were loud enough to reach Sam inside the wheelhouse. “Dean?” When there was no answer, he throttled back the engine, the boat slowing gradually, and scrambled back out to the deck. “DEAN!”

Dean was lying on his back, his right hand pressed to his left shoulder covering up the blossoming bloodstain soaking through the shirts beneath his life jacket. Sam’s eyes jumped from Dean to the fire ship beside them. She was still turning, preparing to ram them - and her captain was reloading his pistol.

His eyes snapped back to his brother; Dean was pushing himself up. He shot a look at Sam, muttering “M’okay. Go,” through clenched teeth.

Sam nodded then turned and quickly stepped back into the wheelhouse. He shoved forward the throttle, and spun the wheel hard right. The fishing boat picked up speed. Sam's eyes stayed glued to the burning ship through the side window even as he steered the Stella Maris away from the caravel and into the fog. He flinched when he heard a second gun shot.

“Dean?” He listened intently but there was no response. “Answer me. You okay?”

A war between emotion and logic raged in Sam’s head as he pushed their boat forward, trying to open up the distance between them and the caravel and yet keep her in sight. The brother in him wanted to go to Dean, see how badly he was hurt, take care of him. The seasoned hunter knew the best way to do that was to get them to a position where Dean could safely, and successfully, fire on the Mari-Elena. He opened up the throttle and pushed her forward.

The caravel stayed with them for 10 minutes, Sam unable to increase the distance between the two craft even as he dodged and weaved his way across the ocean. Then, with a crack that sounded like lightning, she was gone. Heart racing, Sam stared out into the fog. It billowed and roiled but there was no sign of the ghost ship.

Sam swallowed. Dean wasn't known for his patience. If he could have, he would have taken a shot. The fact he hadn't scared the hell out of Sam. He throttled back the engines. For now, at least the caravel was gone and that meant he could check on his brother. “DEAN?”

The mumbled response was unintelligible. Sam grabbed the first-aid kit and scrambled out on deck.

“Dean?”

His brother was sitting on the case that had held the bazooka, the rocket launcher resting across his knees. His life jacket was discarded on the deck and he was struggling to shrug off his flannel overshirt. He winced at the pull on his injured shoulder as he pulled his arm free, then glanced up as he sensed Sam’s presence.

Sam’s jaw clenched in worry. “How bad?”

The boat’s harsh light, mounted atop the wheelhouse, did Dean’s complexion no favors. His skin was grey, a sheen of sweat forming despite the chill in the air. He winced again as he wadded his shirt and pressed it against the wound. “Bad enough. For a frigging ghost bullet, it sure feels like the real thing.”

Sam knelt beside Dean and gently pulled away his brother’s hand and the wadded shirt. He frowned at the blood soaking through Dean’s T-shirt and the torn, bruised skin beneath. “Looks like the real thing too.” He reached into the first aid kit for a pair of scissors. “I heard a second shot – you hit anywhere else?”

Dean shook his head. “Second shot missed.” He grimaced as he waved his right hand toward the rear of the boat. “Hit somewhere back there.”

“Good.” Sam nodded distractedly as he concentrated on cutting away Dean’s T-shirt from around the bullet wound. “What about the ship? She disappeared but I didn’t hear the rocket fire.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. Damn bullet knocked me on my ass. Then, um …….”

Sam glanced from the wound up at Dean. “What?”

Dean sighed. “Now don’t get your shorts in a knot but I got a little dizzy.”

Sam glanced at Dean’s stained shirt, breathing out heavily. “Blood loss.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well I’m blaming your driving. You were all over the place, dude. Anyway, by the time I got myself on my feet, got her lined up, she disappeared. Fog closed around it and ‘poof.’”

Sam’s fingers gently probed around the bullet wound. “Poof?”

Dean waved his good arm dismissively. “Cut me some slack, I’m a wounded man here. Ow!” He scowled as Sam pulled him forward to look at the back of his shoulder.

Sam sat back on his heels, dropping his hands to his sides. “Huh?

Dean frowned as he sat back up. “What?”

Sam reached for Dean’s discarded life vest. The shot from the captain’s pistol had traveled straight through the vest into Dean’s shoulder. Sam poked his finger through the hole in the vest. “Looks like this thing may have taken the brunt of the impact; I don’t think there’s any bone damage.”

Sam opened the first aid kit and pulled out an antiseptic wipe. “What doesn’t make sense is there's no exit wound but it doesn't feel like the bullet's still in there."

Dean’s scowled. “Sure as hell feels like it from my end.” He stared down at the wound. “Just patch me up and we’ll deal with it later. First order of business is the damn ship.”

Sam ripped open the wipe then gestured toward the rocket launcher before turning back to clean the wound. “Just tell me how to fire that thing then…..

Dean glared at his brother. “No way, Sam. I’m taking her down.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Hate to point out the obvious, but you’ve got a bullet hole in your shoulder.”

Dean’s scowl deepened. “Not the shoulder I need to fire the bazooka.” He pointed out to sea. “That bastard out there shot me. I owe him.”

Sam finished cleaning the wound as best he could and then taped on a pressure bandage. He glanced down at the rocket launcher and then up at Dean. “I can do it.”

Dean’s voice softened. “I know you can, but I’m doin’ it.” Dean offered Sam a tight smile. “Now help me up.”

Sam lifted the rocket launcher off Dean’s lap and laid it down on the deck. He frowned as he offered Dean his hand and helped him to his feet. His brother was shivering visibly, goosebumps covering his bare forearms. Sam pulled off his life jacket, dropping it onto the deck, before shucking off his jacket and flannel shirt, offering the latter to Dean. “Here, put this on.”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I…..”

Sam gestured again with the shirt. “Yours is a mess and you’re freezing. Just take it.”

Dean frowned at Sam. “What about you?”

Sam pointed to his jacket. “I’ve got that. Just take the damn shirt.”

Dean took it with muttered thanks. He winced as he tried to pull it on over his injured shoulder, begrudgingly accepting Sam’s help to slide his arms into the sleeves. Sam reached down, picked up the bazooka and handed it back to Dean just as the EMF started squawking again. The brothers exchanged a glance, before turning to scan the fog for any sign of the caravel.

The Stella Maris bobbed gently and an unearthly silence settled over the boat once again. The hairs on the back on Sam’s neck bristled and he turned slowly, his eyes widening. Behind them the fog glowed orange, parting slowly to reveal the Mari-Elena in full flame charging at them at top speed.

Dean had sensed it too. He whirled around, barely suppressing a grunt of pain, and re-settling the bazooka on his shoulder. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead to clear away the sweat before flipping out the sight. He blinked to clear his vision then reached for the trigger. “Stand clear, Sam.”

Sam took a step away from his brother, eyes darting from the rocket launcher Dean held to the flaming ghost ship bearing down on them. They were well within 50 yards of the ship but they had no choice.

Heart racing, he swallowed as the speed of the ship registered. She was really moving. Whether Dean blew her up or not, she was going to hit them.

An inflatable life raft was lashed to the side of the wheelhouse. In three steps, Sam was beside it, unleashing the restraints. He pulled it free and threw it over the side, the loud hiss as it inflated wiped out suddenly by the explosion of the bazooka firing.

Sam’s head snapped round. Dean’s shot was true. The rocket plowed into the port side of the caravel’s bow even as she bore down on them with terrifying speed.

Dean lowered the rocket launcher from his shoulder and dropped it to the deck with a grunt. There was a loud explosion toward the Mari-Elena’s stern, bluish-green flames suddenly mixing with red and orange, but still the ship came at them.

Eyes never leaving the caravel, Dean moved sideways toward his brother, pushing Sam toward the rail. “Jump, Sammy.”

“Dean?”

“Now!”

Sam stepped up onto the rail of the boat and, with a shove from his brother, jumped over the side, landing with a soft thud in the rubber life raft bobbing below. He rolled to the side and looked up to see Dean jumping into the boat right behind him just as a deafening explosion echoed through the thick fog, followed immediately by the sickening crunch of shattered timbers.

The rock salt did its job, but not before the caravel slammed into the Stella Maris broadside. The impact lifted the smaller vessel briefly out the water before slamming her down again and splitting her in two.

The Mari-Elena crumpled like a piece of paper tossed in the fire, blazing briefly before collapsing into dancing embers. The wind picked up with a mournful howl and the embers died out, fading into a rain of blackened ash that briefly stained the fog before disappearing into the sea.

The caravel was gone but the Stella Maris was mortally wounded. The water churned wildly as she was lifted and dropped. The brothers clung desperately to the violently bucking life raft as it was pushed away from the dying vessel and then sucked back toward her, waves washing over the sides, drenching them and threatening to take them under.

Dean coughed out a mouthful of water and looked up, eyes widening in horror to see the broken fishing boat toppling toward them. Pulled over by the top-heavy wheelhouse, the fore section rolled quickly. There was no time to get clear.

Sam was lying on his stomach, his back to the broken boat as he struggled to push himself up. Dean’s eyes widened. Ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder, he did the only thing he could; he threw himself protectively over Sam as the Stella Maris capsized, slamming down on top of the life raft, pushing it under the water and trapping it underneath her dying hull.

CHAPTER 2

Eyes stinging from a face full of salt water, Sam never saw the boat roll onto them. He was swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, clearing his burning vision, when Dean’s weight hit him full force, flattening him to the bottom of the life raft.

The impact drove the air from Sam’s lungs, his grunt strangely audible in the silence that suddenly enveloped them. Frowning, Sam tried pushing himself up but his brother’s muscular frame pinned him in place. “Dude, get off me.”

Dean didn’t move. Sam blinked rapidly, eyes fighting to adjust to the darkness, the tiny LED lights embedded in the sides of the life raft now their only illumination. “Dean?”

Worry ratcheted up to panic when Dean’s arm flopped limply next to Sam’s face. Sam squirmed to pull himself free, reaching behind him to grab Dean’s shirt and pull him to one side while sliding to the other. Without a word of protest, Dean flopped beside him.

Sam rolled onto his side, his back pressed against the edge of the life raft and stared horrified at his unmoving brother. Heart hammering against his chest, he reached out to squeeze his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Dean?”

Dean lay on his stomach, face turned toward his brother, eyes closed. Sam shook him again, this time more urgently. There was still no response. Sam slid closer, pressing his fingers against Dean’s neck. He let out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he was holding; the pulse beneath his fingers was fast but strong.

Sam’s hand rested on the back of Dean’s head, the contact steadying him as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. His mind was racing, images of the blazing Mari-Elena, the destruction of their fishing boat and their wildly bucking raft as the Stella Maris capsized blurring together. His eyes darted around the raft; the sea and sky were no longer visible, the wide deck timbers of the Stella Maris now forming a ceiling over the two-foot deep sides of the raft. Sam swallowed. The broken front section of the fishing boat had rolled over, turtled over top of their life raft – sealing the brothers inside and trapping them under the dying boat.

Sam had barely processed that when he realized his fingers were sticky with blood. His eyes darted back to his brother, quickly finding a jagged gash just under Dean’s hairline. He looked closer. The cut was superficial but, typical of scalp wounds, bleeding heavily.

A dark stain in the middle of Dean’s back also caught Sam's eye. His brother’s flannel shirt and T-shirt were torn and wicking up more blood from a hidden wound beneath.

Sam hauled up the shirts, eyes widening at the injury below. The cut across Dean’s back was shallow, more a scrape than a slash, but the skin was swollen and already starting to bruise. The discoloration spreading out in an eight-inch span around Dean’s spine said something had hit him with pretty significant force.

Sam rested a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, both offering comfort and taking it from the simple connection, as he glanced upwards. His stomach lurched when he took in the broken wood of the ‘ceiling.’ The deck had heaved when the boat rolled, the timbers cracking and buckling. Water dripped from holes where pieces had broken free and jagged splinters pointed down at them like stalactites from a cave roof. Two of the thick, splintered pieces of wood, right above where Dean had been, were smeared with blood. As the boat had smashed down on top of their raft, the broken timbers had been driven into Dean’s head and back.

Sam quickly assessed the injuries. The head wound didn’t seem too bad; enough to knock him out, obviously, but the goose-egg was small and already the bleeding was slowing. The back injury was something else. Sam lightly pressed his fingers along Dean’s back and ribs near the bruising. Nothing felt broken but a soft moan of pain, even in unconsciousness, confirmed the injury could be serious.

In a perfect world, he wouldn’t move Dean; he’d call 911, let the paramedics strap him to a backboard to keep him stable until the extent of the damage could be fully assessed in a hospital. Sam was fighting to control his emotions. Trapped in a raft pinned underneath a sinking boat was galaxies away from a perfect world.

Sam ripped a strip off Dean’s flannel shirt, then wadded the fabric and pressed it gently to the back of Dean’s head, the light pressure eliciting a muffled groan of pain.

His chest tightened. Dean had been hurt protecting him; the instinct to throw himself in front of whatever threat was directed at his younger brother ingrained so deeply he couldn’t stop himself. It didn’t matter that Sam was bigger and more than capable of taking care of himself; In Dean’s eyes he would always be the little brother who needed protecting.

What Dean was only just accepting was that the same protective instinct ran equally strong in Sam; his need to look out for Dean equally impossible to ignore. Here, now, that instinct steadied Sam and strengthened his resolve. His brother had saved his ass, now it was his turn to look out for Dean until help arrived. Bobby would come looking for them – eventually. They’d just have to hang on until then.

The raft tilted suddenly as the broken Stella Maris above them shifted with a shuddering groan and slid further under the water. Sam rolled onto his back, one hand grabbing for the side to steady himself, the other wrapping protectively over Dean as they slid down the raft. The raft lurched again, both brothers slipping closer to the end as the angle steepened.

The raft stilled and Sam let go of the side, pushing himself closer to Dean. As he moved, his foot sloshed noisily in water. His eyes jumped to the end of the raft and his chest tightened.

The side of the raft was collapsing. Punctured by a splintered deck timber, the rubber craft was losing air. As the air escaped and the side became soft and pliable, the water outside was forcing its way in. The wreck above shifted again and the raft tilted further. The breech widened, the water sputtering then pouring in faster, the deepening pool by the breech rapidly covering Sam’s feet.

A groan snapped his attention back to Dean. His brother’s eyes were blinking slowly, his face contorting in pain as awareness returned.

Sam picked up the piece of fabric he’d dropped when he’d tried to stop their slide down the raft, and again pressed it to the back of Dean’s head. His voice, sounding far calmer than he felt, echoed strangely in the confined space. “Hey. How ya doin’ in there?”

Dean hissed as he tried moving. “Sonovabitch, Sammy.” His eyes narrowed as they focused on his brother, his own pain pushed away quickly behind concern for Sam. “You okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, thanks to you.” He lifted the makeshift bandage, gratefully noting the bleeding had almost stopped. He smiled tightly at Dean’s questioning frown. “In case the blow to the head scrambled things, the boat fell on top of us. Near as I can tell, she’s goin’ down – fast – and about to drag us with her if we don’t get outta here.” He glanced worriedly at Dean’s injured back. “Can you move?”

Dean grimaced as he tried to push himself up, his next words muttered through clenched teeth. “Do I have a choice?”

Sam dropped the blood-stained cloth and reached up to break off a small shard of wood from the deck timbers above them “Not really. The raft’s punctured and filling with water. We stay put, we drown.”

Pain deepened the lines around Dean’s eyes. “Not liking that plan. What else you got?”

Another creaking groan from the dying Stella Maris filled the water around them. The raft lurched again, its angle growing steeper. Both brothers slid further down the raft, their knees folding as their feet hit the end. Dean screwed his eyes closed, an involuntary groan escaping as the movement jarred his back.

Sam turned back to his brother and held up the six-inch shard of wood. “I’m gonna take this, punch some more holes around the breech, make it collapse faster – make a hole big enough for us to fit through.” He looked worriedly at Dean. “Water’s gonna rush in pretty fast when I do. I’ll push the raft out of the way, you just haul your ass through and make for the surface. Got it?”

Dean grimaced as he began moving. “And you call me bossy.” Despite the veiled protest, Dean was turning himself around, ready to push himself out of the boat. “How deep are we?”

“Dunno.” Sam tilted his head, considering the variables. “But if the Stella Maris is still rolling, hopefully part of her is still above the surface. That means we can’t be too deep – 30 feet maybe, depending on which way she’s goin’ down.”

Dean winced as he glanced back at Sam. His words were terse but his eyes held a mix of gratitude and pride. “That’s deep enough. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

Sam nodded, waiting until Dean had turned around so they were laying head-to-toe, with Dean’s head at the lower end of the raft by the breech. “Hold still while I pull off your boots. They’ll just weigh you down.”

Dean frowned at the need for help but said nothing as Sam unlaced his boots. He returned the favor by unlacing Sam’s sneakers.

Sam glanced at his brother, making no effort to hide his worry as he tossed Dean’s boots aside. “Your shoulder, now your back…….you still gonna be able to swim?”

Dean nodded brusquely. “Shoulder’s fine, Sam. It’s not even-” His head snapped round when Sam pulled up his pant leg. “What the hell, dude?”

Sam held up the shard of wood and tossed it aside. “The knife in your ankle holster will work a helluva lot better than that thing.” He pulled out Dean’s knife then shuffled around, banging his head on the boat deck above in the process and gasping involuntarily as his bare arms plunged into the cold water that was now 10 inches deep at the broken end of the raft.

Toeing off his sneakers, Sam turned his face away from the steady stream of water now forcing its way through the breech. “No bullshit, Dean. You can do this, right?”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Or what? Stay and drown? Just do it.” He grabbed Sam’s arm. “And you better be right behind me.”

Sam nodded, breathing out audibly, as he studied the life raft. “This thing is full of carbon dioxide. Make sure you take a deep breath before I puncture it, okay?”

Dean shot Sam an incredulous look but nodded.

“Alright. On three.” Sam swallowed. “One……two…….three.”

Both brothers inhaled deeply, then Sam plunged the knife repeatedly into the rubber raft. The rush of escaping gas was quickly drowned out by the torrent of water flooding in as the side of the raft collapsed completely. In seconds both brothers were underwater. Sam fought with the deflated rubber raft that wrapped itself tightly around them as it lost air and rigidity.

The brothers worked together to pull down the side of the raft and create a hole big enough to slip through. Sam wedged his shoulder against the overturned deck above them, pushed down another handful of collapsed boat, then grabbed Dean by the shirt and motioned for him to swim through the gap. Dean nodded, reached forward, pulled himself through then turned around to hold open the gap for Sam.

Sam shook his head, pushing Dean away and motioning to him to swim for the surface. Dean resisted stubbornly, staying in place and fighting with the collapsing raft to make sure Sam could get clear.

Sam’s glare carried little impact in the dim underwater light but Dean’s help made getting clear easier. The rubber raft seemed determined not to relinquish its hold on him, wrapping and folding round his arms and legs as he pushed his way out. He struggled briefly and then was free. Dean flashed a thumbs-up sign then motioned for Sam to follow him.

Sam looked around as he swam. Eyes adjusting quickly to the murky waters, they were drawn to the light atop the upside down wheelhouse, somehow still lit and casting an eerie glow and ghostly shadows into the waters beneath the sinking boat. The open wheelhouse door slowly moved back and forth as water rushed through the bridge and into the empty cargo hold. As water replaced air, the boat was slowly being pulled under. The broken boat was listing to one side, her bow pointed down, her torn midsection closest to the surface. Sam knew it was only a matter of time before she slid into the ocean depths, disappearing completely.

Dean tugged urgently on Sam’s arm, motioning that they had to get clear.

Sam nodded, following Dean as he swam along the underside of the inverted boat. Dean had just cleared the side rail when a loud groan filled the water around them.

The Stella Maris dropped heavily on top of Sam, pushing him further under the water. He grunted in surprise at the crack on the head, reflexively lifting his hands to protect himself when the boat rolled suddenly, listing steeply in front of him and cutting him off from Dean.

Sam pushed back rising panic when he realized his brother was gone. He’d seen Dean clear the boat; his brother was clear and kicking for the surface – he had to believe that. Now he had to do the same.

Lungs already burning and momentarily disoriented, Sam’s eyes darted round to get his bearings. He sacrificed a small burst of air to watch the bubbles rise and make sure he knew which way was up.

Instead of being directly above him, the boat was now tilted at a 45-degree angle in front of him. Sam had two choices. To clear the boat, he could follow the angle of the deck down, further away from the surface and the air his lungs were screaming for, then swim for the surface, hopefully breaking through in the same place as Dean; or, he could turn around and follow the angled deck up, a more direct route to the surface but taking him away from his brother.

Sam hiccupped, fighting the instinctive urge to breathe in. As much as he hated it, he had no choice – he had to take the shorter route to the surface or he was going to run out of air long before he got there. He turned around and kicked upwards, his mind focused on just two things - getting to the surface and then finding his brother; the only way the two of them would last long enough for help to arrive would be together, fuelling each other’s stubbornness, pushing each other not to give up.

The cold water was quickly stealing Sam’s strength but he kept moving, grabbing hold of what he could to move himself along the tilting deck until he reached the side of the boat. He grabbed hold of the rail, hauled himself around it, then pushed off the outside of the boat toward the surface.

He looked up as he moved through the water, battling the instinct to open his mouth and breathe deeply as his lungs screamed loudly for air. He had no idea how far he was from the surface, dark water and night air above it blending seamlessly. He struggled upwards, fear consuming valuable oxygen as doubt cruelly suggested he might not make it.

No. He pushed aside those thoughts. He had to make it, for Dean’s sake as much as his own. He kicked out harder even as his chest tightened and his limbs grew heavier.

Sam started to cough, no longer able to fight his body’s reflexive need to suck in air. Salt water poured into his mouth and throat, turning his coughing into choking. But still he propelled himself upward, his body on auto-pilot, clawing frantically through the water, even as he felt consciousness slipping away

He broke through the surface suddenly, unexpectedly, with an audible, desperate inhale. Hacking coughs ripped through him as he sucked in air and vomited water. He forced rubbery legs to tread water and burning eyes to open, grimacing at the tightness in his chest in the struggle to simply breathe.

But he was breathing. Still coughing, Sam scrubbed a hand across his face to clear the stinging salt water from his eyes. Heart pounding, he smacked his fist against the surface of the water in frustration – he could see nothing.

There was nothing wrong with his vision, he was simply in complete and total darkness. All light from the boat was gone and the thick fog hid any light from the waxing moon. Sam’s already harsh breathing escalated as the dark and the fog knit together in a suffocating blanket that wrapped itself tightly around him.

“SAM!”

His head whipped round at the sound of Dean’s voice. His brother sounded scared.

“SAM!”

“Dean.” Sam cleared his throat, surprised by how small his voice sounded in the open ocean, how quickly the fog seemed to smother it. “DEAN.”

“Sammy?” Relief replaced fear as Sam answered. Dean now sounded exhausted. “You okay?”

Sam turned slowly in the water, moving silently as he tried to pinpoint where Dean’s voice was coming from. “Been better. You?”

Now Dean's voice was punctuated with coughs. “Did I mention I hate the friggin’ ocean?”

Sam’s smile turned into a grimace over the tightness in his chest, his lungs protesting their recent abuse. “No argument from me on that one.”

Dean was silent for a moment. “You scared the crap out of me, Sammy. Where the hell d’you go?”

Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on Dean’s voice. He swallowed. “Had to turn around to get clear when the boat dropped between us. Did the boat hit you when it rolled?”

“No.”

Sam frowned at the lengthy silence that followed the weak response. “Dean?”

“No. I got pushed outta the way. I came up near the stern – what’s left of it anyway. Hangin’ on to it now.”

Sam kept as still as he could, bobbing gently in the ocean swells as he closed his eyes and tried to zero in on Dean’s voice. His brother sounded fairly close by. “Good, just stay there and keep talking; I’ll come to you.”

“Okay.” There was a faint laugh. “I’m over here – waving at you.”

Sam kicked out and started to swim, listening intently but the fog was playing games with his brother’s voice. Now he sounded miles away. “Very funny. I can’t see two feet in front of me.”

Dean snorted. “Guess you need your eyes checked when we get out of here.”

Sam moved silently through the water, worried by what he was hearing. Humor was a natural defence mechanism for Dean whenever he was in pain, scared, worried, or any combination thereof. Experience told Sam to simply play along. “It’s not my eyes, jerk. It’s the fog.”

Another tired laugh. “Look, if the doc tells you you need glasses, I swear…. I won’t laugh……… I’m sure they won’t make you look too goofy.”

Dean’s laughter was even fainter now. He was hurt and the adrenaline rush of their escape from the sinking ship was fading; if Dean passed out, slipped under the water before Sam found him……Sam shuddered at the thought. He pushed himself to swim faster, pushed Dean to keep talking “Did you just giggle?”

“What?” There was a slight hitch in Dean’s voice. “Hell, no. That was a……..a manly guffaw.”

“Right. So that’s what Goldie Hawn was famous for, huh – her manly guffaw?” The fog was almost a living thing, an ethereal being twisting and darting around Sam as he swam, teasing and tormenting as he tried to find his brother. Cold fingers covered his ears, distorting sounds and making his brother sound right beside him one moment, a mile away the next, or wrapped round his eyes, making it impossible to see, before pulling back, teasingly allowing the stars to shine through, before quickly closing the curtain again.

“Don’t you be dissin’ Goldie. Goldie’s hot.” Exhaustion was evident in Dean’s voice. “So’s her daughter Kate….. Mmm…… Mother-daughter hotties – that has so much……….potential.”

“You are one twisted individual, you know that?” Sam almost swam straight into the broken stern of the Stella Maris. It bobbed drunkenly in the growing swells, the weight of her motors tilting the broken end up and out of the water. He rested his forehead against it gratefully.

Dean’s voice came from the far side. “You’re such a prude. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Sam worked his way around the broken boat. “This isn’t enough adventure for you?”

He heard a faint snort. “Well, put it that way…….”

The fog pulled back suddenly, enough for Sam to see the outline of a huddled figure against the shattered stern. He blinked, unsure whether what he was seeing was real or a welcome hallucination.

The figure’s head lifted and looked directly at him. “You look like crap, Sam”

Sam let out a sigh of relief. It sure as hell sounded like the real thing. “It’s pitch black. No way can you tell what I look like.”

“You tellin’ me you look good?”

Sam shook his head as he swam toward his brother. “No, it’s just-:”

Dean cut in. “See. Like crap. Big brothers know these things.”

As Sam got close, he could see the outline of Dean hanging on to the small ladder that ran up the port side of the stern, his arms wrapped around the rails, his head resting on one of the steps. Sam swam up to the ladder and grabbed hold of the side, his fingers closing around the cold metal. He offered Dean a tired smile, knowing he probably couldn’t see it, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “How’s your back?”

Dean shook his head. “Quit worrying, Sam. It only hurts when I move.” Sam saw his brother’s silhouette tense as a spasm racked through him. Dean blew out a breath, swallowed and his body relaxed. His nodded at Sam, knowing the dark had hidden none of the spasm from his brother. “It’s okay now. Really. Cold water’s numbing the pain.” He snorted. “Numbing everything, come to think of it.”

Sam’s gaze was still fixed on Dean. “Yeah. We need to get you out of the water.”

Dean lowered his forehead onto one of the steps in front of him. “You and I are gonna have to have a talk about this bossy thing you’ve got going. You are seriously trespassing on big brother turf.”

“Whatever.” Sam was studying the broken stern in front of them, running a hand over its hull, assessing its potential as a makeshift life raft. “I think if we-” He jumped when something brushed against his leg under water.

Dean caught the reaction. “What?”

Sam searched through the water beside him then relaxed visibly. “It’s nothin’” He scooped up a length of mooring rope and lifted it out of the water. “It’s just rope. Brushed against my leg.”

Dean’s head was again resting on the ladder in front of him but there was a smile in his voice. “Jaws flashback? That movie scared the crap out of you.”

Sam shot his brother a look even though he knew it wouldn’t be seen. “I was seven, Dean – and you told me it was a comedy about a man with braces.” “

Dean’s quiet laugh was sheepish. “I was kind of a little shit, wasn’t I?”

“Kind of? You - ” Sam’s retort was cut off by a muffled, creaking groan from under the water.

Dean tensed as he listened, his body relaxing as he recognized the sound. “Say good-bye to Stella, Sammy. Sounds like she’s goin’ down for good.” He patted the stern. “At least the front part of her, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s eyes snapped back to the broken stern in front of them as it lurched then rocked violently.

Dean hissed at the jolt of pain the jarring motion sent up his back. “What the hell?”

The rope in the water beside Sam vibrated suddenly, banging against his leg. He stared into the dark water, again grabbing the mooring rope. It trembled in his hand.

Dean didn’t like the sudden silence. “Sammy, what is it?”

Hand over hand Sam traced the path of the rope. It floated loosely in the water beside him before passing in front of him along the side of the broken boat. From there, it appeared to wrap itself around the stern in front of Dean before disappearing around the far side, likely attached to a hitch there. The rope hummed again as it was pulled tight and Sam let it go quickly, his eyes widening. “Get away from the boat, Dean.”

“What?”

“Let go and get away from the boat.” He grabbed a fistful of Dean’s wet shirt, pulling him off the ladder.

Dean grunted in pain then grabbed at Sam’s hand, still fisted in his shirt. “Dude, get off me. What’s wrong?”

Sam tugged again at Dean’s shirt, physically pulling him away from the broken boat. “The rope, Dean; it’s caught up in the front half of the boat.”

Dean stopped fighting Sam, the implications of his brother’s warning quickly hitting home. The rope was somehow attached to or caught up in both sections of the broken fishing boat. As the fore section sunk deeper, the tension on the rope was increasing and the stern was about to be dragged under.

The brothers threw themselves to the side, but they were too close. As the front section dropped again, the tension on the rope tightened and the stern spun around, smacking into the brothers as they tried to get clear.

The dying boat hit Dean first, knocking him under the water before plowing into Sam. An ocean swell picked up both the stern and Sam, then collapsed suddenly. The rush of water sucked Sam under and momentarily released the tension on the rope, which folded and looped.

Sam broke through the surface, spitting out water and pushing away from the boat with his right hand. His eyes widened in fear as his left arm caught in a loop of rope. He moved to pull it free just as the sinking fore section dropped again. The rope pulled taut, yanking his arm viciously, tearing at the muscles in his shoulder. Sam screamed out in pain, a scream that grew louder as, with a sickening pop, his shoulder joint dislocated.

Dean reappeared suddenly five feet away from Sam, coughing up salt water after fighting his way back to the surface. Exhaustion and pain morphed quickly into fear at the sound of his brother’s scream. “Sam?”

Adrenaline again masked the pain in his back as he moved to Sam’s side. He slid his hand down his brother’s face. “Sammy? Talk to me.”

Sam’s voice was barely audible. “Arm’s trapped.” The boat lurched again as it was pulled further under and Sam yelled out, eyes glassing over as pain almost pulled him into unconsciousness.

Dean ran his hands down Sam’s arms, quickly finding the inch-thick mooring rope snaked securely around his left. He pulled on the rope, face reddening with effort as he tried to create some slack, but the tension was too tight. Breathing heavily, ignoring the flare of pain in his back, he turned back to Sam. “My knife? You still got it?”

Sam’s response was filtered through clenched teeth. “Waistband.”

Dean slid his hands down his brother’s sides, finding the hilt of the knife just above Sam’s hip. He hoisted up his T-shirt and carefully slid out the blade. Dean then moved to Sam’s left, grabbing the rope in his left hand and sawing into the rope with his right.

The thickness of the rope, Dean's shaking hands and the fact he was cutting blind underwater slowed the process considerably. The submerged boat dropped again and Sam cried out, desperately stretching his neck to keep his head above water as he was pulled further under.

Dean spat out a mouthful of water, glancing again at his brother. “You hang in there, Sammy, you hear me? Almost through.” Dean then sucked in a breath and dropped underwater, no longer able to reach the fraying cut from the surface.

The sinking boat dropped again and Sam gulped in air frantically as he felt himself dragged below the surface. Pain from his injured shoulder ratcheted up and he bit back a scream, fighting to hold his breath.

The rope gave suddenly. Dean jerked in the water as the end he held snapped back with the release of tension. Sam then felt his brother gently unravel the rope from around him, slip an arm round his back as they both pushed for the surface. They broke through with a collective inhale, Sam giving in to a yell of pain that had been building since he was pulled under the water. The yell led to retching, then he threw up violently. Dean held on to him, treading water at his side until Sam's stomach settled, sharp, rhythmic breaths helping to rein in the nausea and pain.

Dean stayed close, his arm wrapped securely around Sam’s back, his voice tight. “I gotcha, Sammy. Never a doubt.”

Behind them the broken stern of the Stella Maris swayed drunkenly. The rope attaching it to the sunken front section had been severed but the stern had been swamped one too many times. It tipped suddenly then slid below the surface in a quiet rush of water.

Neither brother said anything as the last remnant of their boat disappeared but it hit home then how completely alone they were. In so many facets of life, especially since their dad died, it was the two of them against world. There were friends, like Bobby, they could rely on but, chiefly, they had only each other. Here, now, floating in the open ocean, that fact was never more clear.

Dean’s arm tightened around Sam’s waist. As Sam’s breathing leveled out and his nausea quieted he became aware of Dean’s harsh breathing behind him. He turned to face his brother, nodding his thanks. “It’s okay……I’m good.”

“Good?” He could feel Dean’s chest heaving against his back, hear a clear note of disbelief in his voice. Dean coughed up some water, his face crumpling in pain. “Not buyin’ it.”

Sam flinched as his brother’s arm squeezed his waist convulsively. It suddenly clicked that while emotionally Dean was supporting him, physically Sam was supporting his brother. “Dean?”

“Sorry, Sammy.” The elder Winchester loosened his hold, patting Sam on the back, in a feeble attempt to shrug off Sam’s concern. “Thought you liked cuddle time.”

Dean let go of his brother and it quickly became apparent that the elder Winchester was having a hard time keeping himself afloat.

Sam spit to clear his mouth, his stomach roiling now for completely new reasons. “How bad?”

Dean turned away, another failed attempt to hide the pain he was in.

“How bad, Dean?”

“Bullet point version?” Dean turned back to face Sam, his voice quiet. “My legs aren’t workin’ right.”

Sam’s chest tightened, thinking back to the bruising he’d seen around Dean’s spine. “Since when?”

Dean breathed out slowly. “Since that rope snapped. Somethin’…..I dunno…it wrenched...” He looked away from Sam. “Just gimme a minute. It’ll pass.”

Sam turned, fighting to keep his injured arm as still as possible, and moved behind Dean, turning his face as a rogue wave slammed into them. Dean slipped under the water then came up coughing after Sam grabbed for him.

“Sonovabitch.” Once again fear tinged Dean’s anger.

Sam moved closer. He wrapped his right arm around his brother and pulled him in so Dean’s back rested against his chest, his head on his right shoulder.

Dean frowned, weakly batting Sam’s arm away. “Sam, no.”

Sam tightened his hold, fighting to keep treading water and hang on to his brother. “Just relax. Lean against me, let the water support you. It’ll take the pressure off your back.”

Dean smacked Sam’s arm, annoyed at the need for help. “You’re flying with one wing, dude. You can’t support both of us.”

“Watch me.” Sam gritted his teeth. “Just keep still, would’ya. You’re killin’ my shoulder.”

Dean stopped struggling. His voice was quiet but deadly serious. “Lemme go, Sam.”

“No.”

“Sam….” There was a warning growl to Dean’s voice.

Sam’s jaw clenched. “You started this.”

"And I’m endin’ it.” It was a Winchester stubbornness standoff. “We don’t know how long we’ll be out here. How long do you think you can keep this up?”

Hidden by darkness, Sam’s eyes flashed. “Long as it takes.”

Dean lifted his right hand and rested it on Sam’s arm. “You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?”

Sam adjusted his grip on his brother, fighting to relax and let their natural buoyancy support both of them. “Can’t think where I get that from.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, then tapped Sam’s arm. “Promise me something.”

“No.” Sam felt Dean start in surprise. “Whatever it is won’t be good - so no.”

Dean’s voice was quiet. “If it comes down to it, Sammy, let me go. If it means you’ve got a chance, just –“

“Shut up, Dean.”

Dean did – for a moment. “I am so gonna kick your ass for this.”

Sam had to smile at that. “Can’t wait to see you try.”

Dean looked around. The fog was still thick, visibility close to zero. Bobby and his friends would come looking for them eventually but they would be hard to find. The GPS transponder on the Stella Maris was at the bottom of the ocean and both brothers had shucked their life jackets, equipped with locater beacons and lights, after Dean was shot by the captain of the ghost ship. They were cold, beat to hell and had no idea how long they would have to wait for help.

Dean rolled his head across Sam’s shoulder and looked up at his brother, blinking tiredly. “You’ve got this bossy thing down pat, Sammy. So what now?”

Sam met his brother’s gaze. “We wait.”

xxxXXXxxx

Ted reached out a hand and took the oxygen tank from Bobby, who then pulled off his scuba mask and clambered back into the boat.

Tommy nodded at the two men, offering a tight smile. “All set?”

Ted nodded. “As we’ll ever be. Charges are in place. Another few minutes and, hopefully, you’ve seen the last of that ghost ship.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed at the fog that hadn’t been there when they under the water. “When did that roll in?”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Just before the Mari-Elena showed up.”

Bobby and Ted froze, Bobby’s gaze quickly turning to where he knew the Stella Maris had been when they went in the water. “The boys take care of her?”

Tommy shook his head. “Dunno. Lost visual contact when the fog rolled in. Been trying to get’em on the radio since but I’m gettin’ nothin’ but static.”

Ted followed Bobby’s gaze. “You hear the rocket go off.”

“Hard to say.” Tommy gestured off the port side. “Sounded like something went off in that direction but was far enough away couldn’t say for sure.”

Bobby was still scanning the fog. “She show her face after that first time?”

Tommy shook his head

Bobby nodded. “Then I’d say the boys took care of her.” He looked back out to sea. “If we can’t raise’em on the radio, we head over there, where we left’em. Hopefully meet up as planned.”

Tommy swallowed. “It’s not just the radio that’s dead. I lost the GPS signal from the Stella too. Hopefully it’s just the instruments but……..”

“Damn it, boys…..” Bobby’s knuckles whitened as he squeezed the railing of their boat. “If anything happens to those two, I -"

Ted squeezed Bobby’s shoulder. “We’ll find ’em. First things first; we blow up that ship. Then, like you said, we head out to their last known position, start from there.”

Bobby stared out into the fog, saying nothing.

Ted turned to Tommy. “We need to get clear; even as deep as the wreck is, those charges are gonna send out some pretty nasty shock waves when they blow.”

Tommy nodded then turned to step into the wheelhouse, glancing through the windows and crossing himself as he said a quick prayer to his lost crew. “Bill, Davy, Jack. This is for you. Rest in peace.”

He fired up the engines but as the boat began moving, the fog suddenly roiled and glowed orange, bathing the three men aboard the fishing vessel in an eerie, reddish-gold light. Fully aflame, the Mari-Elena sailed out of the fog, heading straight for them.

The air was filled with the steady hiss and crackle of flames. The wind picked up, pushing aside the fog, filling the ghost ship’s sails and seemingly feeding the ravenous fire. The flames roared and Bobby recoiled at the heat as she drew near. He could smell burning wood, see the ethereal figures running across her deck in a futile battle to control the fire.

Bobby’s eyes were glued to the Mari-Elena. The caravel was bearing down on them – fast. “How long till the blast?”

Ted glanced down at his watch. “Another 30 seconds.” His gaze returned to the caravel. “We make it through this, I’m kicking Harry Morgan’s ass to hell and back.”

Morgan, the arms dealer hunters often turned to, had only come up with one bazooka when Ted had asked for two.

Both men grabbed the rail tightly as Tommy gunned the engine and cut to the right to get them out of the path of the charging caravel. The flaming tall ship veered to its left, matching the smaller boat’s moves. Tommy cut right yet again as the fog thickened around the tall ship. With a sharp crack of electricity, it was gone.

Bobby’s eyes darted across the fog. “Where the hell’d it go?”

Ted’s gaze was now glued to his watch. “20 seconds.”

Tommy still had the engine running flat out. He was navigating purely on instinct and experience, his instruments useless – the radar was a sea of static, the compass tilting and spinning.

Behind him, from out on deck he heard Ted shout out. “Ten seconds.”

Tommy scanned the fog, his heart pounding wildly. Ted’s voice boomed again. “Five seconds.”

The fog directly ahead suddenly glowed orange. With a roar of flame, the caravel reappeared less than 50 feet directly ahead and charging at them. Tommy jerked the wheel to the right, faintly hearing the countdown behind him.

“Three….”

When the boat veered right, Bobby was thrown slightly off balance.

“Two.”

Bobby grabbed the railing tighter to right himself, regaining his footing just as Ted finished counting.

“One.”

In the distance, 250 feet down, a series of explosions ripped through the wreck of the Mari-Elena, sending shock waves through the water and incinerating the remains of the old trading ship.

But the ghostly version of the Mari-Elena kept coming, if anything picking up speed, even as Tommy pushed the fishing boat to go faster. The caravel was bearing down on them broadside, when a huge explosion erupted on the mid-deck of the tall ship. The sails crumpled and the main mast toppled.

The water boiled as the flaming debris fell into the ocean. Bobby and Ted again felt the heat of steam and flame. The caravel kept coming. She was within 10 feet when a second explosion blasted apart her bow. The two men flinched at the power of the explosion, the burst of flame lighting up the fog, brilliant embers raining down around them. The winds erupted, snatching away the embers, before dying out suddenly. The embers then faded into ash that rained down into the sea.

The Mari-Elena was gone. Tommy throttled back the engine and the Rod Bender slowed, bobbing gently in the open water swells.

Ted glanced at Bobby, offering his old friend a small smile. Bobby nodded.

Tommy appeared in the doorway of wheelhouse. “You two okay?”

Bobby turned toward him. “Yeah. Now let’s go find the boys.”

CHAPTER 3

“Dean…..we gotta move.”

Dean blinked dazedly at his brother. “What?”

Sam nodded to their right. “Think I found us a little help.”

The fog was patchy now, clearing one moment and pea-soup thick the next. Right now they were in a clear patch, moonlight cutting through so the brothers could see each other and a small patch of water around them. And a broken piece of the Stella Maris’s hull that had floated into view.

Sam moved them through the water toward the debris. With his left arm out of commission, his right arm wrapped around Dean, it was slow going. He tried not to jostle Dean’s back or his dislocated shoulder but was less than successful on both counts, both brothers biting back groans as they moved.

“Damn, Sam,” Dean muttered through clenched teeth. “We sound like we’re ready for the old farts’ home.”

The piece of boat debris was about six feet long and two feet wide, raised slightly in the middle and jagged at both ends. It looked like a piece that had broken free from the fishing boat’s mid-section when she’d split in two.

Sam glanced at his brother. “Grab hold.”

Dean nodded, taking hold of the edge.

Sam winced as he grabbed the end of the board. “I’m gonna shove down this end. Slide onto it when I do.”

Dean frowned. “What about you?”

“Just do it.” Sam grimaced as he used his weight to submerge one end of the debris until it was at an almost 45-degree angle. Dean pulled himself slowly on top of the board, and then rolled onto his back, face screwed up in pain as he did so. Exhausted by the simple effort, he lay panting with his eyes closed as Sam slowly released the pressure on the board until it was horizontal. He grabbed on to the board near Dean’s head and nodded at his brother as Dean’s eyes slid open. “You good?”

Dean nodded but his frown deepened. “I said ‘what about you’?

Sam looked deliberately blank. “What about me?”

Dean’s frown turned into a glare. “You need to get out of the water too. You’re already shaking more than a blown tire.”

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Board’s not big enough for both of us. I’m fine here now I’m not haulin’ around your heavy ass.” Dean started to move, causing the makeshift raft to rock precariously. Sam placed a hand on his chest. “Dude, keep still.”

Dean smacked Sam’s hand away. “If I sit up, there’s room for both of us.”

Gently, but firmly, Sam pushed Dean down. “Back injury, remember? You need to lie down, keep still so you don’t do any more damage.” He sighed. “With both of us on this thing, we’re likely to sink it – then what good does it do?”

Dean glared again at Sam. “We take turns – keep trading off ’til Bobby gets here.”

Sam returned his brother’s glare. “Which part of ‘no’ is giving you trouble?”

For a moment they floated in stubborn silence, the fog swirling round them in a strange, hypnotic dance. The ocean swells rose and fell beneath them, the winds driving the chill even deeper. Sam thought back to his earlier statement about how peaceful it was out on the water. Now the ocean seemed to be toying with them, taunting them, just waiting for a chance to pull them under.

Dean stared at his brother, pride, anger and worry mixing indistinguishably. Sam knew damn well that staying in the water was going to speed up the onset of hypothermia but his focus was completely on Dean, on making sure he was okay. Dean trusted his brother implicitly, trusted his judgment, trusted his instincts, but it didn’t make Sam’s need to sacrifice himself for Dean’s sake any easier to swallow.

He glanced down at Sam’s right hand, tightly gripping the makeshift life raft; it was shaking noticeably. Dean’s voice was quiet. “You can’t stay in the water, Sammy. We gotta try getting both of us on this raft.”

Sam shook his head. “I told you, no. We’ll swamp it and then we’re both screwed. Just stay still.”

Dean held out his hand. “Grab my hand.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m okay.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. “No you’re not. You’re shaking so bad you’re either gonna lose your grip or tip the raft. If you won't get out of the water, the least you can do is let me make sure you don't float away or sink.” Dean held out his hand again when Sam didn't move. “Look, we did things your way before – now we’re doin’ things my way.”

When Sam still hesitated, Dean threw out the heavy artillery. “Take my hand or I’m rolling off this raft.”

Sam stared defiantly at his brother, the same defiance staring right back at him. He hesitated briefly then let go of the raft. Dean clamped his hand firmly around Sam’s wrist. In turn, Sam’s fingers curled around Dean’s wrist.

Sam shivered and Dean flashed back to distant memories, when Sam was four or five, long before he knew about hunters and the things they hunted. The things that scared his little brother most back then were ordinary people who threatened their family. He’d witnessed more than one confrontation between his dad and a social worker or his dad and a landlord, not understanding much but picking up on phrases like “we can take Sam away,” or “wouldn’t want somethin’ to happen to your boy.”

As these face-offs unfolded, Dean would stand there defiantly, hiding his fear for Sam’s sake, while Sam would sidle close, slipping his small hand in Dean’s if tempers flared and tensions escalated. In those instances, Dean never protested the gesture; he’d squeeze Sam’s hand tightly, offering reassurance and a sense of security. It was only when Sam was much older that he realized how double-edged the gesture had been, comforting Dean as much as Sam and symbolically reinforcing the bond strangers were trying to tear apart.

His brother was a long way from five now but as Dean clamped on to Sam’s wrist and he felt Sam take his, once again the reassurance flowed both ways.

xxxXXXxxx

Tommy throttled back the engines and turned to Bobby. “This is the last location we had a signal from the Stella Maris.’

Bobby scanned the fog, still swirling heavily around them. “Dammit. We could roll right over them in this soup and never know it.”

Ted scanned the fog on the far side of the boat. “We gotta do a grid search. Instruments are starting to come back so we can use sonar to help us, go slow- ”

“The hell with slow,” Bobby growled. “The water’s damn cold. If the boys’ boat was destroyed, if -

“They could be in the life-raft, Bobby.” Tommy’s eyebrows peaked hopefully.

Bobby’s gaze was stony. “Wouldn’t the lifeboat having a tracking beacon?”

Tommy swallowed. “Yeah.” As soon as the instruments began working again, Tommy had checked for any signs of other craft in the water. There were none.

Bobby’s face softened and he squeezed his friend’s arm. “Sorry, Tom. But you don’t know that family like I do. Fate seems to deal the Winchesters the short end of the stick every damn time.”

Tommy nodded. “I know they mean a lot to you but, Ted’s right; we gotta go slow. You said it yourself; it would be damn easy to roll right by’em.”

Bobby knew he was right but guilt over getting the brothers involved in this hunt was eating him up. He thought about the number of arguments he’d had with their father over John’s willingness to throw his sons into the line of fire and here he’d done the same damn thing.

He knew the Mari-Elena had shown up and was convinced the brothers had blasted her with rock salt to hold her at bay until he and Ted planted the explosives. It had kept Tommy safe as he waited on the boat, then given the three of them time to clear the blast zone before having to face the caravel. Now he had to make sure they got home safe.

He turned to Tommy, banging his fist against the rail of the ship. “Fine. Grid search it is. Where’s the map?”

xxxXXXxxx

Dean rolled his head toward Sam. “I want one of those T-shirts.”

Sam frowned, his shivering now uncontrollable. “W-what?”

Dean’s eyes closed but he smiled. “You know…….. the ones we saw in that souvenir shop.”

Sam managed a smile despite the tremors racking his body. The smile became a grimace when the shivers jarred his injured shoulder.

Dean pulled Sam closer, the gesture physically and emotionally symbolic. He stared at his brother, forcing another smile. He needed to keep him talking. “You remember the T-shirts, right Sam?”

Sam’s eyes slid closed but he nodded. The T-shirts, obviously aimed at tourists, featured a drawing of a listing Mari-Elena, fully aflame, a cartoon face painted on her bow smiling drunkenly. It was accompanied by the saying ‘I got wrecked in Chaleur Bay.’ “Y-you’re warped.”

Dean coughed. “Hey, we get out of this mess, least they can do is give us a freakin’ T-shirt.” He opened his eyes and saw Sam’s head lolling forward. “Dude, wake up.”

Sam groaned loudly as Dean shook him, the tug on his right arm jarring the torn muscles in his left shoulder. His voice was little more than a mumble. “Dammit, Dean. That hurt.”

“Sorry, Sammy – but no sleepin’ on the job. You’re watchin’ out for me, remember?”

Sam shook his head. “Uh-uh….your turn. You said so.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Now you listen to me? Your timing seriously sucks, dude.”

Dean felt like crap. The pain in his back spiked occasionally, especially as his shivering escalated, and his legs alternated between violent pins and needles and complete numbness. He was fading and worried as hell what would happen to Sam if he passed out.

His brother was fading even faster. His hazel eyes were glassy and unfocused, his speech slurred, his words more and more nonsensical.

Dean shook Sam’s arm again. “Come on, Sammy. Thought you liked playin’ in the big brother sandbox, liked bossin’ me around.” Dean’s voice softened. “I’m givin’ you a freebie, dude. Not gonna happen after today, I guarantee you that. So take advantage while you can.”

Sam’s eyes blinked dazedly. “Keep s-still.”

Dean studied his brother worriedly. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Sam’s eyes slid closed. “You talk too much.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Oh coming from you, that’s rich.”

The ocean rose suddenly beneath them, the swell lifting them up into the foggy canopy before dropping them abruptly, a wave of icy water washing over them. Dean gasped, but held tightly to Sam with his right hand, to their makeshift raft with his left.

The sudden movement and face full of cold water roused Sam briefly, a jolt of pain snapping him back to coherence. He coughed, eyes darting worriedly to his brother. “Dean?”

Dean nodded at his brother then screwed his eyes closed. “Just need a second.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist. There was little strength in the gesture but the intent hit home. Dean peeled open his eyes, smiling his thanks through gritted teeth.” He swallowed. “Want some good news?”

Sam frowned. ‘What?”

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on Sam, willing him to stay conscious. “My shoulder doesn’t hurt any more.

Sam’s eyes rolled, more attitude than the tease of unconsciousness. “Liar.”

Dean shook his head. “No bullshit. Shoulder feels good. Back hurts like a sonovabitch but shoulder’s good as new.”

“Wish mine was,” Sam mumbled.

Dean frowned worriedly – Sam’s eyes were quickly regaining that glassy, unfocused look. “Sammy, you stay with me.”

Sam smiled tiredly. “Where am I gonna go?. You won’t let go.”

Dean returned the smile, his equally tired. “You got that backwards – it’s you who won’t let go of me.”

Sam’s eyes slid closed, his face a puzzled frown.” Quit it, Dean. You’re makin’ my head hurt.”

Dean swallowed. Muddled thinking was another symptom of worsening hypothermia. He had to keep Sam talking, keep him fighting.”

“Kay. You tell me. What d’you wanna talk about?”

Sam’s eyes stayed closed. “Don’t wanna talk.”

Dean snorted. “Since when? You ALWAYS wanna talk.” He forced a smile. “Unless you’re pissed at me. Then I get the silent treatment. You pissed at me, Sammy?”

Sam frowned as he forced his eyes open. “No.”

“Good, but if you’re not picking the topic, I will.” Dean shook Sam’s arm gently, eliciting a slight groan but temporarily grabbing his brother’s attention. “If you could have a little MILF action, who’d you pick – Kate Hudson, Goldie Hawn or Angelina Jolie?”

xxxXXXxxx

Ted poured a cup of coffee from the Thermos and handed it to Bobby.

Bobby shook his head, scanning the waters beside the boat.

Ted gestured again with the cup. “Take it, Bobby. We’ve been out here more than three hours. You need to warm up.”

“The boys have been out here just as long. Whether they’re in a lifeboat or not, they’ll be a helluva lot colder than me.” Bobby kept scanning the water, using the light he held to alternately illuminate the water and signal into the fog, hoping it might be seen.

Ted narrowed his eyes at Bobby. “Last time I checked, you’ve got two hands. Drinking coffee ain’t gonna stop you from searching. Just take the goddamn cup.”

Bobby’s eyes met Ted’s briefly. He said nothing but took the proffered coffee then returned immediately to searching the water. Ted moved to the far side of the boat, picked up the flashlight he’d stashed there and began mirroring Bobby.

Tommy was in the wheelhouse, steering the boat slowly in the grid search pattern, flashing the light atop the wheelhouse in short bursts, hoping that if Sam and Dean were in the lifeboat, they had found the flashlight stowed onboard and would use it to return the signal. He alternated between scanning the fog and tracking the sonar and radar displays.

He glanced at his watch. They were heading toward their fourth hour of searching. The fog was breaking up, now thick in patches, murky and becoming clear in others. Daylight was breaking too which would be a huge help if and when the fog lifted for good.

The biggest problem was the water temperature – it was only mid-April and the coastal waters were still in the low 60s Fahrenheit. In deeper water it could drop into the 50s. At that temperature, hypothermia could be fatal in as little as five hours. Tommy’s biggest fear, next to not finding the Winchester brothers, was finding them too late.

Tommy shivered, the temperature in the wheelhouse dropping suddenly. He rubbed at the goosebumps on his forearms, his eyes widening as the bridge compass began spinning crazily. He jumped as a cold hand gently squeezed his left arm. His head snapped round, eyes widening as a familiar face stared back at him.

“Bill?” It was one of his crewmen who’d been lost at sea following the fifth attack of the Mari-Elena. The translucent spirit, dressed in heavy fisherman’s sweater, jeans and wool cap, stood beside Tommy on the bridge.

Tommy’s heart was hammering wildly. He knew what Bobby, Ted and the Winchester brothers dealt with as hunters, had believed there was more to the spirit world than ghost stories since Bobby rid his century home of a poltergeist more than a decade earlier, but to see the spirit of an old friend, one whose funeral he’d been at only weeks ago, left him frozen in place.

The spirit of Bill Emerson smiled sadly at Tommy before turning toward the laminated search map spread out across the bridge. On the map, the waters the two men had sailed their entire adult lives were divided into squares, each one that had been searched crossed off with a grease pencil ‘X.’ Bill stretched out a ghostly hand, using his index finger to point to a specific square.

Tommy’s eyes jumped from the map to Bill’s spirit and back in wide-eyed disbelief. He swallowed, then placed a trembling finger on the same square Bill had pointed to. Instinctively he knew what his friend was showing him. “They’re here?” His voice was barely audible.

Bill nodded, then faded from sight as quickly as he had appeared.

Tommy’s heart was racing but he stood frozen in place, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Suddenly, he lurched into action. He swept the map from the bridge, spun the wheel and pushed forward the throttle. The Rod Bender’s engines revved and the boat picked up speed.

Bobby and Ted appeared quickly at the wheelhouse door, confusion painted across their faces as they grabbed the doorjamb to regain their balance. Bobby stepped into the wheelhouse. “What the hell, Tommy?”

Tommy turned to face them, breathing heavily as he pushed the boat forward. “I know where the boys are.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam was no longer shivering. Dean wished that was a good thing but he knew better. His brother had been in the water too long and hypothermia had taken a firm hold.

Dean wasn’t far behind but on their makeshift raft he was at least out of the water. The air temperature was warmer than the water, so hypothermia was advancing more slowly.

Dean swallowed as he took in the worsening weather, his vision sliding in and out of focus. He fought to keep his eyes open, maintain a visual connection with Sam as well as a physical one. His brother had been unconscious for a while now and Dean was terrified that, if he lost consciousness too, Sam would slip from his hold and disappear into the dark Atlantic.

Dean had kept Sam talking as long as he could, his brother’s responses increasingly nonsensical as hypothermia tightened its grip. Dean hated when illness or injury messed with Sam’s head. His brother’s curiosity and thirst for knowledge had always been insatiable; as Sam grew up, Dean tolerated his incessant questions with varying degrees of patience, depending on mood and circumstance, but he’d always loved how Sam’s mind worked, how he processed and analyzed everything from simple problems to complex cases. That made the effects of delirium or concussion even harder to take; not only was Sam injured, but seeing him not able to understand even the simplest instructions or questions left Dean raging with helplessness.

Here, lost in the Atlantic, that same sense of helplessness was overpowering him. He needed to fix this, do something to get them both to safety. He glanced at his brother, tightening his hold. “Don’t you give up on us, Sammy,” he rasped. “I won’t.”

Without warning, the ocean swelled beneath them, pushing them up into the fog before dropping them suddenly, the waves crashing over them in an icy torrent.

The raft rocked wildly. Dean gasped at the sudden drenching and the jolt of pain in his back while fighting to maintain both his balance and his grip on Sam. Another swell rose almost right behind it, this time hitting them at an angle. The raft tipped as it was picked up and Dean started to slide, gravity and the turbulent water trying to claw Sam from him.

“Sam.” Dean strained to maintain his grip on his brother, then startled when he felt a strong arm wrap around him and haul him back aboard the makeshift raft, his brother’s substantial weight suddenly lightening considerably.

For a second, Dean panicked, thinking somehow Sam had slipped from his grasp. He blinked to clear his vision. His brother was still floating in the water beside him, Sam’s wrist firmly locked in his hand.

Dean coughed up more water as his eyes darted round. As they had been since they boarded the Stella Maris, he and Sam were alone. But there was another presence; it felt like someone had their arm around him, holding him securely in place, stopping him from slipping off the raft and letting him concentrate on hanging on to Sam in the ever-increasing swells.

He jumped as a disembodied voice whispered in his ear. “Help’s on the way.”

His eyes widened as a figure materialized beside him. It was a man about his age, startlingly blue eyes staring at him from under a black wool cap. His cheeks were red with windburn, his face stubble-covered. While the man’s arm felt solid around his chest, Dean could see right through him. The spirit smiled softly and nodded, raising his free hand to point to Sam. Dean’s head snapped toward his brother.

A second spirit was in the water beside Sam. He was older, heavier set and wearing a black, peaked cap. His arm was wrapped securely around his brother.

Dean’s eyes jumped from one spirit to the other. “Who….” His voice was a faint croak, barely audible.

The spirit holding on to Dean shook his head then pointed out into the fog. Dean turned in the direction of the point. The last of his strength was ebbing quickly and he was losing his fight to stay conscious. He frowned as a light cut through the fog, blinking rhythmically on and off.

His eyelids growing increasingly heavy, he turned to his brother. “It’s a boat, Sammy.”

The spirit next to his brother smiled. It was the last thing Dean was aware of before unconsciousness reached out and pulled him under.

xxxXXXxxx

“It was Bill.” Tommy shook his head. “I worked with that man for 25 years, was best man at his wedding. He was standing right beside me on this bridge like he’s done a thousand times before.” He looked unsurely at Bobby.

Bobby smiled softly. “If you think I’m gonna tell you your nuts, you’re wrong.” He adjusted his ball cap as he scanned the waters ahead of them, the fog now rapidly thinning out. “In fact, I don’t think this is the first time your crew helped save someone from the Mari-Elena.”

Tommy startled. “What?”

Bobby turned back to face him. “When I was talking to that kid in the dive shop, he said when he came across the wreck of the last attack, he thought he saw five people in the water. He and his partner wrote it off as their eyes playin’ tricks, especially after the survivors confirmed there were only two on board - but I’m guessin’ he saw your crew, watchin’ out for the survivors till help showed up.”

Tommy stared out to sea. “But why haven’t they, you know, moved on? They were good men, all of them. From what you’ve told me, spirits stay behind because they angry about something…..”

Bobby shook his head. “Not always. Sometimes they just have unfinished business. I think your crew hated that other people may lose their lives at the hands of the Mari-Elena. and somehow stuck around to make sure it didn’t happen.”

Tommy smiled sadly. “Sounds like’em. Davy was the loudest guy you’d ever meet but the gentlest soul I know – except on the football field. Always stickin’ up for the underdog. Bill and the kid, Jack, they were just good, hard-workin’ men. Busted their asses every day, played just as hard but always put their families first.”

Bobby nodded. “Sounds like they didn’t want any other families to lose loved ones to that ghost ship.”

Tommy smiled then blew out a breath to get his emotions back under control. He scanned the bridge, checking the instruments, then reached to the side and pulled back the throttle. “This is it – the co-ordinates Bill pointed to.”

Bobby nodded and headed out on deck.

Ted, who’d been listening in from the doorway, gestured to the back of the boat. “We’ve got company again.”

Bobby stood in the doorway. Bill’s spirit was standing beside the railing. He turned toward Bobby, nodded, then pointed off the starboard side. Bobby shouted back to Tommy. “Turn her to starboard.”

For the next five minutes they followed the spirit’s directions, until Bill lowered his hands, grabbed the rail and nodded at Bobby. “Shut off the engines.” Bobby looked frantically over the side. There was nothing. Ted was also scanning the water. The fog swirled around then dissipated suddenly.

Bobby’s eyes widened. “There.” His heart was pounding. As the fog pulled back, it revealed Dean laying on a jagged piece of wreckage. Sam was floating in the water beside him. Neither was moving. Two spirits were also in the water, seemingly watching over the brothers.

“Dean!” Bobby yelled over the side, waiting, hoping, for a response. There was none. “Sam, can you hear me?” Nothing.

Tommy had appeared at Bobby’s side after shutting off the engines. His chest tightened again at the sight of the three spirits. As much as he wanted to talk to them, ask them what happened, see if there was some message he could pass along to their widows and children, he knew that his focus now needed to be on the living. On keeping them living. Bill stared at him, tacit understanding in his smile.

Bobby and Ted had already lowered the ramp at the back of the boat and quickly jumped into the water, protected from the cold by their insulated dive suits.

Tommy returned to the bridge, maneuvering the Rod Bender around so the open ramp was right next to the brothers.

Bobby reached Sam first. The spirit beside him moved out of the way to let him get close but didn’t disappear. His hand shaking, afraid of what he might find, Bobby pressed his fingers to Sam’s neck in search of a pulse. Relief flooded through him when he found one. It was weak, unsteady but it was something.

He glanced at Ted. “Sam’s alive.”

Ted nodded. “Dean too.”

Bobby felt like someone had lifted a 1,000-pound weight from his shoulders but knew the brothers were far from out of danger. “Okay let’s get’em the hell out of the water.” He tried to move Sam but met resistance; Dean still had an iron lock on his brother’s wrist.

Ted moved to pull Dean’s hand off Sam’s wrist. He frowned at the strength evident in the hold. He glanced at Bobby. “Protective, huh?”

Bobby nodded, trying to prise Sam’s fingers lose. “Yeah. They can butt heads with the best of ’em but God help anyone who threatens one if the other’s around.”

With a grunt, Bobby pulled Sam’s hand free and the younger Winchester slumped against him. Ted glanced up as he checked over Dean. “You got him?”

Bobby nodded, wrapping his arm around Sam’s chest to pull him the short distance through the water to the boat ramp. “Come on, kid. Let’s go home.”

At the ramp, Tommy took Sam from him while Bobby clambered aboard and then the two men lifted him carefully out of the water and safely inside the boat. Bobby nodded at Tommy, patted Sam gently on the chest then returned to the water to help Ted get Dean on board.

Tommy quickly noticed Sam’s left arm was at a strange angle. “Jeez, kid, what the hell happened?” The first-aid kit had been hauled onto the deck and Tommy reached inside for a pair of scissors. He cut open the sleeve of Sam’s T-shirt, grimacing at the vivid bruising that covered his shoulder and quickly recognizing that the shoulder was out of joint. A lifetime spent aboard fishing boats told him the angry abrasions, irritated by the salt water, which circled Sam's arm were rope burns. Tommy smiled sympathetically at the young man he’d only just met but already liked immensely. “Looks like you had a close call, in more ways than one. But the worst is over – I promise you that.”

Back in the water, Bobby frowned when he realized Ted hadn’t moved Dean. “Problem?”

Ted nodded. “Yeah. Our spirit friends here seemed reluctant to let me move him. No broken bones that I can find but, if I’m reading their gestures right, they’re worried about his back. I don’t want to risk jostling his around any more than we have to; Safest thing is to assume the worst till we know different.”

Bobby nodded then turned to the boat “Tommy.” His old friend appeared suddenly in response to Bobby’s shout. “We need the backboard.” Tommy disappeared from sight, reappearing a few seconds later to lower the backboard over the side. Ted grabbed it then lay it on the water parallel to Dean.

Both men were experienced in first-aid and Ted trained in sea rescue. They quickly slid Dean from the debris which had helped save his life and onto the backboard which would allow them to get him out of the water without further aggravating any injury. As they fastened the thick Velcro straps around his head, chest, waist, thighs and calves, Bobby risked a glance at the spirits still hovering off to the side, nodding his thanks before turning back to Dean.

The spirits of the fishermen, sensing that their charges were now safe, that their job was done, faded from sight.

Bobby and Ted moved the backboard through the water until it was lined up with the ramp. Ted hauled himself quickly out of the water then held onto the backboard while Bobby did the same. The two of them then quickly pulled Dean safely inside.

Bobby grabbed a pair of scissors from the first aid kit to cut off Dean’s soaked clothes, glancing at Sam as he did. The younger Winchester’s clothes lay in a wet pile beside him, blankets already swaddling his legs, torso and head. As Tommy finished wrapping him in the blankets, Bobby noticed Sam’s left arm was strapped across his chest. He shot a questioning look at Tommy.

His old friend caught the glance as he was fastening an oxygen mask on Sam’s face. “Kid’s shoulder’s out. Looks bad. Best we can do for him now is keep it immobilized and let the hospital sort it out when he’s got some good drugs running through his system.”

Bobby nodded then turned back to Dean. Within a minute, Dean’s wet clothes were also gone and he too was cocooned in thick blankets and breathing with the aid of oxygen. As Bobby was cracking open chemical heat packs to place between the layers of blankets for both brothers, Tommy reappeared from the wheelhouse with what looked like two bulky orange sleeping bags. He handed one to Ted, who now knelt beside Sam, and the other to Bobby, who was tending to Dean.

Bobby looked from the sleeping bag to Tommy.

Tommy shrugged. “Had a feeling we might need’em.” He smiled sardonically. “Course, I thought it’d be you two warming your old bones inside’em.”

Working quickly, they soon had each brother inside a sleeping bag, hoods pulled up around their heads, drawstrings pulled tightly. For Dean, the bag was big enough they could slide the backboard inside and still zip it around him.

Tommy disappeared inside the wheelhouse, fired up the engines and turned the boat toward shore. He’d called ahead and there would be an ambulance waiting for them at the dock, ready to take the Winchesters to the local hospital as soon as they pulled into port.

Bobby shook his head as he looked down at the brothers, lying side by side on the deck. They were barely recognizable inside the life-saving layers of blankets, eyes closed, faces hidden behind oxygen masks. It seemed days ago, not hours, that they had all been sitting around the table at the bar, drinking beer and planning out the hunt.

He kicked himself for making that phone call, for dragging the boys into this case. The Winchesters had lost far too much in the name of helping others, in the name of vengeance. He felt guilty as hell as he watched over them, willing the boat to go faster, wishing he could do more.

He frowned as he saw Dean’s sleeping bag move slightly. He thought for a moment it was wishful thinking, but Dean was indeed stirring. Bobby dropped to his knees at the side of the sleeping bag. Dean was barely visible, the blankets and sleeping bag wrapped tightly round his head, the strap from the backboard running across his forehead, immobilizing his head, and the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. But, between them, two tired green eyes slid open.

Bobby smiled, placing a hand on the side of Dean’s head, hoping he could sense the gesture through the layers of blankets. “Hey, kid, good to have you back.”

Dean’s eyes blinked, still unfocused. He coughed, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask, then frowned in apparent annoyance.

Bobby leaned in closer. “Looks like you hurt your back. We’ve got you strapped to a backboard till docs can figure out how bad it is. Try and relax; you’re gonna be safe on dry land before you know it.”

The frown remained and Bobby realized Dean was trying to say something. He leaned in closer but still couldn’t make out the words. Dean, still not fully conscious, was quickly becoming agitated. Bobby pulled aside the oxygen mask and placed his hands on either side of Dean’s face. “Hey now, gettin’ yourself bent outta shape ain’t gonna help anyone. You gotta relax, Dean.”

Hazy green eyes were staring up at him, barely focused but in a weak attempt at a glare. The reason became immediately apparent when Dean was able to form one word. “Sam.”

Bobby smiled. “Sam’s right here. Bundled up just like you. We fished you both out now we’re just trying to keep you warm till we get to the hospital.”

Ted, who had been watching over Sam, stood up and disappeared suddenly into the wheelhouse. He emerged a few seconds later with a mirror usually hanging near the bridge to help with navigating near docks. He handed it to Bobby who frowned, then smiled when he realized what Ted had in mind.

He moved from between the two brothers and knelt at Dean’s right, lifting the mirror over Dean. With Dean’s head held stationary by the backboard he couldn’t turn to see Sam. Bobby tilted the mirror slightly. “Look in the mirror, Dean. Sam’s to your left.”

Dean’s eyes blinked a few times then turned upwards to stare at the mirror, eventually sliding to the left. The tension Bobby had felt radiating from Dean dissipated slowly. His eyes stayed on Sam until, unable to fend off exhaustion any longer, they slid shut.

Bobby lowered the mirror and nodded his thanks to Ted. “Good idea.”

Ted smiled. “Figured he needed to see for himself his kid brother was okay.”

“Yeah.” Bobby nodded, glancing from Sam to Dean and back “And we just need to make sure they stay that way.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam’s eyes blinked in confusion. Dean was talking but he had no idea what he was saying; the timbre and cadence so familiar but the words warped and twisted like he was speaking a foreign language. His brow furrowed as he concentrated harder.

“Come on, Sammy. All the way. You’ve slept long enough – missed all kinds of crap, including Bobby in a wetsuit. Okay, scratch that – love the guy but that’s somethin’ neither of us needed to see.”

Sam’s frown deepened. His brother was rambling and that meant he was worried, doped up – or both. That was the push Sam needed. He peeled open his eyes, but was still fighting to find focus.

He squinted against the bright, artificial light, taking in the pale blue walls of the small hospital room and the white blanket that covered him. He felt stiff, sore, like the flu had sapped all his energy, with the added bonus that his left arm was strapped across his chest and completely immobile. Pain sparked dully as he tried moving and he quickly gave up on the idea. His vision settled on Dean, dressed in scrub pants and a white T-shirt, who was pacing slowly beside his bed. Well, pacing was too generous – shuffling like a 90-year-old was more accurate.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper but it was enough to stop Dean’s ramblings.

“Sammy?” A broad smile lit up Dean’s face as he moved to the side of Sam’s bed. “Bout friggin’ time you woke up.’

Sam cleared his throat, grimacing at the pasty taste in mouth. “No bullshit, Dean. Why’re you walkin’ funny?”

“Never mind me, you in pain?”

Sam frowned. “Don’t change the subject.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “My back got a little banged up. Docs took care of it.”

Worry was helping push back the last vestiges of sleep. Sam’s eyes darted from side to side as he sifted through his fuzzy memories. He flashed forward quickly from being trapped underneath the capsized Stella Maris, through the struggle to reach the surface, and the search for Dean. He winced as he remembered his arm being caught in the rope and pulled out of socket, his right hand absently rubbing the sling that immobilized his injured limb. His focus quickly returned to his brother as he remembered Dean’s legs ‘not workin’ right’ and the struggle to keep him afloat, both in the water and on the raft.

He frowned at Dean. “You couldn’t feel your legs.”

“Can now. See.” Dean took a couple of unsteady steps backward and then forward to prove his point.

Sam’s frown remained. “That’s not walking, that’s shuffling.” Sam cleared his throat. “Why?”

Dean frowned. “Why, what?” He moved forward slowly and pressed a button to raise the head of Sam’s bed so he was more-or-less sitting up. He reached for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table, poured water into the plastic cup beside it, then handed the cup to his brother.

Sam took a sip through the straw, nodding gratefully. “Why were you having trouble moving your legs?”

Dean shrugged. “Some fancy name for it, I don’t remember but, basically, whatever hit me caused some swelling around my spine; stopped a few of the nerves there from getting signals down to my legs.”

The furrows in Sam’s brow deepened. “And now?”

Dean shrugged. “After a few days of happy juice, swelling’s gone down, goin’ down anyway – now it just feels like a bad case of pins and needles again.”

Sam kept pressing. “But that’s not permanent, right? Your legs’ll be okay?”

“Chill, Sam. I’ll be fine. They haven’t cut me off the happy juice yet and they’ve got me in this gizmo.” He hoisted his T-shirt to reveal some kind of brace, Velcro straps extending from the back and around the sides to hold it snug. “You’re the one we’ve been losin’ sleep over.”

Sam’s face crumpled in confusion. “Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t wake up. You’ve got the hottest nurse in this place lookin’ after you and you’re on a snooze-a-thon.” Dean’s voice softened. “Seriously, you feelin’ okay?”

Sam grimaced as he tried moving. “Little stiff, head’s fuzzy – how long was I out?”

“Four days. Hypothermia did a real number on you.” Dean took the cup of water from Sam’s hand and returned it to the bedside table. “What do you remember?”

Sam shuffled again, trying to get comfortable. “Don’t remember our rescue if that’s what you mean. Bobby find us?”

Dean nodded.

“How?”

“With a little help from Tommy’s crew.” He shrugged at Sam’s puzzled frown. “Tommy’s late crew. Somehow the spirits of the three men lost in that fifth attack were still hanging round. One of them pointed the rescue boat in the right direction, helped Tommy find us. The other two stopped me from sliding into the drink, stopped you from goin’ under. I caught a glimpse of them….thought I was hallucinating but Bobby, Ted, Tommy – they all saw’em too.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Why’d you think they were still hangin’ round? The spirits, I mean.”

Dean shook his head. “Dunno. Sounds like they were pretty cool guys. Looks like they were on a mission to help other victims of the Mari-Elena until somebody stopped her.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “And we stopped her, right?”

Dean nodded. “Oh yeah. Ted’s explosives took care of the wreck. The ghost ship went after Bobby’s boat -”

“He’s okay?” Sam interrupted.

“He’s fine. Watched it blow up one last time before he started looking for us.” Dean smiled. “The disappearance of the wreck was a shock to that diver dude. It’s been kinda big news around here past couple of days.”

Dean's smile faded as he stared at Sam. “You remember anything since you landed in here?”

Sam shrugged, then blew out breath. “Not much before now. Last thing was, um, some doctor grillin’ me.”

Dean nodded. “That was yesterday – up in Intensive Care.” He smiled when he saw Sam’s eyes widen. “Relax, apparently it’s S.O.P. with hypothermia. Need to make sure the cold didn’t screw with your heart or your head.

“It didn’t,” he added to answer Sam’s unspoken question. His voice softened, for a brief moment his emotions laid bare. “Had us worried there, Sammy.” Dean cleared his throat and the familiar grin returned. “But your heart’s fine – as emo as ever. Your head - well nobody can help with that. Rest of you is a little banged up but, after a little time in the shop, you’ll be fine.”

Sam’s gaze was fixed on his brother. “Seriously, Dean – you okay?

Dean exhaled loudly. “Seriously, Sam – I’m good.”

Sam’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ll ask your doctor.”

Dean sighed. “I was up in ICU for the first day. They booted me down here when I woke up. I’ve been on happy juice since. Once the swelling around my spine goes away, I’ll be good as new. I’ve just been hangin’ around, goin’ nuts, waiting for you to wake up and your doctors to tell me whether you need surgery or not.”

“Me?” Sam glanced down at his sling. “My shoulder?”

Dean nodded. “They got the joint back in the socket but they might need to repair the muscle damage. But, now the swelling’s starting to go down, they tell me there’s more tears than rips – which, apparently, is a good thing. You’ll be stuck with that sling for a while but, fingers crossed, you should be able to avoid the knife.” He smiled. “You dodged a bullet there, kiddo.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Speaking of bullets, how’s your shoulder?”

Dean shook his head. “That’s a weird one.” He pulled down the neck of his T-shirt – the old scars were clearly visible, the burn caused by the hot poker the Benders had used to torture him, the knot of scar tissue from the bullet a possessed Sam had fired into him, but there were no new wounds.

Sam’s eyebrows peaked. “What the hell, Dean? We both saw the blood, saw the hole in the life jacket, the hole in your shoulder …….”

Dean glanced down at his shoulder. “No need to convince me, - I felt the damn thing. Lost a perfectly good T-shirt too.” He looked up at Sam and shrugged. “Pressure bandage you put on it was still attached when they fished us out. Bobby says he pulled it off to see what the problem was and – nada. Looks like it healed when the Mari-Elena was destroyed.”

Sam frowned. “The ER docs not question the blood on your shirt – where it came from?”

Dean shook his head. “Hypothermia had a pretty tight hold on us, dude. By the time we got to the ER our clothes were long gone. We were wearin’ nothing but blankets and birthday suits.” He bit back a smile when he saw Sam blush lightly. “A lot of blankets.”

Sam blew out a breath. “Well at least we don’t have to worry about cops and awkward questions - and one less thing for you to recover from.” He smiled guiltily. “That shoulder’s taken more than its fair share of abuse.”

There was a warning note in Dean’s voice. “Don’t go there, Sam.” He took a step closer to his brother, hands gripping the bed rail. “Shit happens that’s beyond our control – you know that as well as I do. The real test is how we deal with it. The crap we went through out there – we got through it together, watchin’ out for each other.”

Sam nodded. He glanced down at his right wrist and frowned. Underneath the IV that snaked from the back of his hand, up his wrist and to the pole at the side of his bed, his skin was bruised. As he studied it closely, he realized the bruise was in the clear shape of a hand. Dean’s hand. He glanced up at his brother who was staring at the same bruise.

Dean smiled apologetically. “Yeah, um, sorry about that, dude. Don’t know my own strength, I guess.”

Sam shook his head. “Like you said. Don’t go there. If you hadn’t held on…….” Rising emotion stole Sam’s voice.

Dean rested his hand on Sam’s wrist, his fingers shadowing the bruise in a far more gentle version of the iron grip he’d used out in the ocean. “Like I said, Sammy, we look out for each other. You didn’t let go of me. Couldn’t let you one up me now, could I?”

Sam snorted, clearing his throat to get his emotions back under control. “No.” He smiled up at Dean, eyes glassy. “So you’re kickin’ me out of the big brother sandbox, huh?”

Dean bit back a smile as he stepped back to press a button on the wall at the head of the empty bed beside Sam. “You can play - once in a while. Just don’t get too comfy. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, y’know?”

Sam nodded, his smile widening. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He motioned with his head to the button Dean had just punched. “What’d you do?”

His brother was grimacing as he hauled himself back into the empty bed. He was breathing heavily by the time both legs were under the covers. “Docs wanted to know when you woke up. Figured we should invite’em to this shindig.”

Sam frowned at the pain registering clearly on Dean’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Dean shook his head as he fumbled for the pole at the side of his bed, grabbed the IV line that had been hanging loosely from it and inserted the needle into the catheter in the back of his hand. “M’okay.” He blew out a breath then glanced at Sam. “Standin’ up or lyin’ down, I’m good – it’s just the transition between the two is kind of a bitch.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t supposed to be out of bed, were you?”

Dean pulled a face as he searched for the right answer. “Technically, no.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Technically?”

Dean shrugged. “‘Unsupervised’ was the word they used.” He turned to Sam, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “But, man, I got stuck with a Nurse Ratchet clone – real bony arms, walks like she’s always late for somethin’ - and her teeth make this funny clicking sound when she talks. She creeps me out, man.”

Sam smiled, shaking his head. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

Dean jabbed a finger toward Sam. “You rat me out, I am so putting itching powder down your sling.”

Sam snorted. “Better than the last place you put it.”

Dean grinned.

Sam stared for a moment, it hitting home how rare it was to see Dean really smile.

“What?” Dean was looking at his curiously.

“Nothin’. It’s just…… nothin’.”

Sam nestled his head into his pillow and closed his eyes. In the months following their dad’s death, one of the things he’d missed the most was Dean’s smile. Not the devilish grin he gave potential conquests, not the smirk when they’d pulled off another con but a simple, genuine smile. Life, as they knew it, gave them far too few things to smile about so, when Dean did smile, he knew things were good, were back to normal. At least as normal as things got when your last name was Winchester.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam looked up from the duffel bag on his hospital bed as he packed his things. The process was slow since he was working one-handed, his left arm still immobilized across his chest. “No apology necessary, Bobby. We knew what we were getting into.” Sam’s voice was soft, matter-of-fact. “And God knows we’ve gotten ourselves into far bigger messes.”

Bobby scratched his head under the peak of his ballcap, still looking guilty. “Yeah, the operative words there are ‘gotten yourselves into.’” He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing from Sam to Dean. “When that happens, I can chew you out in good conscience for bein’ idjits. When I’m the one who throws you to the lions…….” He shook his head.

Dean zipped his duffel closed, wincing as he pulled it off the bed and dropped it on the floor. “Come on, Bobby. You’ve known us long enough to know we don’t do anything we don’t want to. It’s just……..” He shrugged. “Sometimes things go a little sideways.”

Sam’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Sometimes?”

Dean considered the comment for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, most times.” He turned back to Bobby. “But, hell, I’ve lost count the number of times you’ve come through for us. ’Bout damn time we returned the favor.”

Bobby shook his head. “Well, from here on in, I’ll stick to askin’ for help with research; it’s easier on the ol’ ticker – for all of us.” His voice softened. “Thanks boys – for your help here, for……everything.”

The brothers had made it clear no apology was necessary but knowing how close he’d come to losing them, Bobby couldn’t shake the guilt. Hell, he’d threatened to shoot John Winchester for asking too much of his boys as part of his obsessive quest for vengeance and yet, here, now, he’d done the same damn thing in the name of a hunt.

Logically, he knew he couldn’t stop the Winchesters if they were hell-bent on throwing themselves into something dangerous but this case had made one thing crystal clear: it would be a cold day in hell before he was the one who dropped them in the deep end again.

“Bobby?” Sam was looking at him curiously, brow furrowing.

Bobby shook his head. Sometimes he swore the kid could see right into his soul. He cleared his throat. “I’m good. Look, I’m gonna bring the truck around. Since neither of you can drive for the next while, I’ve got the Impala hooked to the back. I’ll take the three of you back to my place till you’re ready to get back to work.”

Dean’s expression was more pained than anything related to his injuries. “You’re towin’ my car?”

Sam bit back a smile. “You can’t drive, Dean – not till your back’s better.” He tapped his sling. “And neither can I – so unless you want to stick around here for a couple of weeks……..”

“Hell no. Too much water around here for my liking – and nowhere near enough beach and bikinis.” Dean nodded. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby smiled, bending down to pick up Dean’s duffel. “No problem, kid. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.” He headed out the door leaving Dean leaning against the wall by the window and Sam packing his last few belongings.

Dean watched him for a moment. “Talked to you doctor, Sammy. Looks like surgery is off the table. He says your shoulder’s doin’ well – swelling’s way down, muscle damage is minimal. It’s gonna take a while, a little bit of rehab before we can start sparring again, but you’re gonna be good as new in no time.”

Sam nodded as he dropped his shaving kit into his duffel. “Yeah. I was lucky – we both were.” He looked up at Dean. “Had a chat with your doctor, too.” He smiled. “How did he put it? ‘Pleased with your progress despite a reluctance to follow doctor’s orders’.”

Dean waved a hand dismissively.

Sam glanced down at his right wrist; the bruising there was starting to fade, the black and blue morphing into yellow and green but the shape of his brother’s hand still clearly visible. He turned to face Dean. “In case I didn’t say it before, thanks, man – you know, for, um, not letting go.”

Dean stared at Sam for a moment then turned his gaze out the window. “Yeah, well we both had a little supernatural help on that score.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t doubt the spirits helped us but Tommy said the one in the wheelhouse didn’t show up till they’d been looking for us for almost four hours. You said you sensed the spirits with us just before you passed out. That means, for most of the time in the water, it was just you and me.”

Dean turned back to face Sam, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “We kept each other goin’, Sammy. It’s what we do, right? Besides, I had to pay you back for that cuddle time when my legs quit on me.” He pulled a hand from his pocket and jabbed a finger toward his brother. “And if you EVER mention that again, I really will have to kick your ass.”

Sam’s smile became a broad grin as he turned back to his packing. He reached into his bag, pulled out a T-shirt, held it tightly for a moment then turned and threw it at his brother.

Dean caught it reflexively. “What the hell?”

His brother turned to shove his journal and a couple of magazines into his bag. “I asked Bobby to pick it up for you.”

Dean unfolded the shirt, then snorted when he saw the front. It was the souvenir shop shirt, featuring the cartoon rendition of a drunken Mari-Elena under the phrase “I got wrecked in Chaleur Bay.”

A smile was tugging at the corner of Dean’s mouth when he looked up at Sam. “I dunno, after everything that’s happened, hits a little too close to home, don’t you think?”

Sam shook his head. ‘For you? Nah. Besides you need a new one – to replace the one with the bullet hole in it.”

Dean glanced again at the T-shirt. “But if you don’t mind, from here on in, when I get wrecked, it’ll involve lots of liquor, straight up. No water.” He looked over at his brother. “All set?”

Sam zipped the duffel closed and gave the hospital room one last glance. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Dean winced as he pushed himself off the wall. “Then let’s hightail it before Nurse Ratchet and crew show up with mandatory wheelchairs.”

Sam shot his brother a look. “Hightail it? Dude, the way you’re walking, I’ve seen patients from the geriatric ward overtake you in the hallway.”

Dean scowled good-naturedly as he walked toward the door. “You were such a sweet kid. How you grew up to be such a smart ass I’ll never know.”

Sam grinned, grabbed his bag and followed his brother. “Not a clue, Dean. Not a clue.”

End...

A/N: For those curious, this story was inspired by a ‘true’ legend, although I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron. Anyhoo – Chaleur Bay is actually the Baie des Chaleurs in eastern Canada. The translation from French is Warm Bay but, because of tales of a fire ship said to haunt the waters of the Baie des Chaleurs, it is know colloquially as the Bay of Fire.

The fire ship is thought to be 'ghost light' (or light of no known origin). The light is usually seen before a storm and speculation as to its cause ranges from rotting vegetation releasing natural gases to the naturally occurring electrical discharge known as St Elmo’s Fire.

But some insist it is a blazing ghost ship. There is no definitive story behind the legend; some say it is sailed by a Portuguese crew who swore to haunt the bay for 1,000 years after being attacked by natives (who, understandably, objected to being kidnapped for the slave trade); others say a dying woman cursed the pirates who killed her, saying ‘for as long as the world is, may you burn on the bay.’ Still another version says superstitious sailors blamed recent bad luck on a crew member and killed him. When the ship caught fire, it was thought to be spilled catholic blood reaping vengeance.

I added yet another twist to the legend. :) I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think.

 

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