Chapter Text
Dean’s back from a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a while, and all he could think on the ferry ride over to Widow’s Bay was—
“Fuck Cape Cod!”
His outburst sends Sam, his kid brother (yes, yes, despite him graduating high school soon, let Dean have this), into a laughing fit. “Fuck Cape Cod,” Sam echoes.
The curse word sounds strange coming out of his mouth, and now it’s Dean’s turn to be pleasantly surprised. He laughs. Looks like Sammy’s growing up. At least Dad isn’t home to hear their expletives—he does have an island to mayor over, after all.
Sam leans forward off the dining room chair he’s perched on. He’s got that gleam in his eye. “Did Cape Cod force you to get those tattoos?”
He’s referring to the fresh ink sleeve across Dean’s arm. Dean thought it was a good idea at the time, hence the fuckening of Cape Cod in the present.
“Would you believe me if I said they were warding sigils?” Dean asks.
“No chance,” Sam says.
Well, Dean tried. For the record.
He goes on to tell Sam all about the month-long, oyster-filled hunt he just endured. Provincetown’s 300 foot long, six-eyed Sea Serpent was back from the dead. Was being the operative word there.
Sam’s eyes are wide as Dean recounts his swashbuckling tale—and honestly, it makes him feel like a pirate, which is pretty badass. “Is it the scariest monster you’ve ever hunted?” Sam asks.
“No,” Dean says. “That would be Portland.”
Silence lapses. Sam’s shoulders droop; Dean wonders what he said wrong.
And it’s quiet, but Sam mutters, “I’ve never been.”
Dean’s heart twists. That’s right—Sam’s never been off the island. He doesn’t remember before, when Dean and Dad and Mom lived in Lawrence, Kansas. What possessed John Winchester to pack up his life from Kansas to some random New England island? Hell if Dean knows.
Although, if he had to guess, it was probably the lobster rolls.
An idea strikes him suddenly, like a match to a flame. No kid should spend their days cooped up, and especially not Sam (because he’s nerdy enough as is).
Dean catches Sam’s eyes once he finally looks up from his staring contest with the kitchen tile. “And if you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Martha’s Vineyard.”
Dean nearly chokes on his spit.
“I’m kidding,” Sam says, awfully proud of himself. He thinks for a moment, then: “Stanford. I want to go to college there.”
After collecting himself for a moment (and since when could Sam catch him off guard?) Dean flashes a devil-may-care grin. “I guess we’re going to Martha’s Vineyard.”
…
Dean stands at his mother’s grave, breathing in the saltwater air that she can not. The spot is nice—on a bluff that overlooks the water. He always comes to see her when he’s home.
Sam is mussing the grass with his shoe a few paces away; Mom died when he was young, barely a toddler. It’s not the same for him. (Something both Dean and their father have had to accept.)
“I’m still putting those bad SOBs away, Mom, don’t you worry,” Dean says. “The ones who did this to you won’t get off so easy so long as I’m around.”
The bells of the island’s only church ring in the distance. Eight times.
Sam squints up at the afternoon sun. “You ready?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah.” Dean gives Mary Winchester’s gravestone a final tap.
Baby’s parked back at the house and it’s only a couple minutes walk down to the marina, where Dean plans to charm the nearest girl into a free boat ride. Sammy’s got a certain bounce to his step that has Dean kicking himself for not suggesting this sooner.
Scratch that plan. There’s just the one guy there working, around Dean’s age.
Well—
Oh, what the hell.
Dean leans against the dock, right next to his target. Sam stays a respectable distance away, as he’s no stranger to this song and dance.
Here goes nothing: “You come around these parts often?”
The guy turns, brow furrowed. “I work here. I am required to ‘come around’ here,” he says. “Often.” And his voice is… more gravelly than Dean would’ve expected. He must be a smoker. Alright, Dean can dig it.
Dean chuckles at what he assumes was a joke. “Think you could hook me up with some smokes? And while we’re talkin’—what’s a guy got to do for a boat around here?”
“I imagine hooking you up to smoke would be a complicated procedure,” he says, completely deadpan. “And boat rentals are billed by the hour.”
Clearly this isn’t working. Whoever this mysterious boat boy is—he’s too literal. Literally. Dean backpedals, resorting to a tactic he fears more than the monsters he hunts: the truth.
“Look, buddy,” Dean pulls at his forehead, “I’m only on the island for a few days and my little brother wants to go for a joyride. He’s never left Widow’s Bay. Could you hook—help us out?”
The man thinks on it, seemingly staring off into space. But next he nods, curt, and offers Dean a business card that reads:
CASTIEL NOVAK
BOATING & BUFFOONERY
67 Angel Way
Dean inspects it. “Bufoonery, huh?” Dean hopes this activity will classify as the latter.
“Yes.” The man—Castiel—nods again.
“So, do we got a deal?”
“Yes. But I have to ride in the boat with you.”
Dean claps his hands and looks back at Sam with a huge grin. Sam returns it and immediately comes jogging over.
Castiel preps a ratchety speedboat, free of charge, for them. Sam rocks on his heels—and Dean can almost feel his excitement. As they board, Sam whispers in his ear, “How did you convince him?”
“Your brother has nice eyes,” Castiel answers. Apparently he overheard.
They ride out in silence after that.
Sam takes it all in; the wind buffeting their faces, the choppy waves, the shrinking shoreline of Widow’s Bay. And if Sammy’s happy, Dean’s happy. Next stop: Martha’s Vineyard. And probably a massive scoop of ice cream accompanied by a fast approaching diabetes diagnosis.
Then Sam vomits.
Chunks float out to sea in a lackluster display.
“Woah!” Dean’s at his side instantly, patting his back. “You’re okay, you’re alright.”
Castiel watches the scene earnestly.
Sam’s face is gaunt, and it all seems to happen in a matter of seconds. Like someone flipped a switch. “I’m—I’m just seasick,” Sam says. He’s breathing hard. “I’m fine.”
(He looks like he’s been fish food for a damn shtriga.)
“Should we turn back?” Castiel asks, looking at Dean.
Dean glances at Castiel without saying a word—and apparently that’s enough. The engine roars to life.
…
John Winchester just broke a plate on the floor. Smashed it more accurately. And they were having such a nice dinner, too.
He’s screaming his favorite words again. “Damn it, Dean!”
Dean stands up from his seat now, taking note of the way Sam shrinks into himself at the table. “Oh real nice, Dad,” Dean says. “Is that how you lord over the folks at the office? No wonder this island’s gone to crap.”
Dad’s expression is heavy set; piercing. He’s stalking Dean like prey.
“Sam, to your room.”
Sam’s head shoots up. “But—”
“To your room.”
Dean offers a soft smile—the kind of reassurance he is only capable of giving to his brother. Sam worries at his lip, but he’s up the stairs to his bedroom soon enough.
Which leaves the two of them.
Dad starts. Great—Dean was hoping he would. “You have to look out for your brother. He should be priority number one, always.”
“I know that. It’s my job. Obviously I know that!” Dean takes a breath to ground himself. “But the kid’s seventeen. He should be allowed to leave for a day out—I mean, jeez, he needs some fun.”
“Are you his father?” Dad asks, each word sharp. Dean figures this is rhetorical so he keeps his mouth shut. “Because I decide if he leaves this island. I decide.”
And he should leave it be. He knows he should leave it be. But Dad didn’t see how psyched Sammy was to get on that boat—you’d think he’d never seen the sun before.
“Worried you won’t be able to control him?”
Dad scoffs. “Leave it.”
“Like you can’t control Widow’s Bay?” Dean’s voice rises. “Like you can’t control me?”
Well, someone looks awfully close to chucking another plate. “You made your choice, Dean,” Dad says. “Run back to your monsters.”
Dean has to chuckle; he always thinks of Mom at moments like these, when all the good parts of family are covered in salt and callously burned out.
He lets the door slam on his way out. How quickly Dean remembers why he left in the first place.
…
Dean bangs on Castiel’s door—only slightly desperate. Despite being a hunter, he’d be lying if he didn’t find Widow’s Bay a bit creepy after dark.
A beat passes. Castiel opens the door. “Dean,” he says.
(He says it like it's totally expected for Dean to show up at his doorstep unannounced.)
“I got your address from your—uh, from your business card,” Dean says. He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. Probably best to spit it out. “D’you mind if I crash here tonight?”
Castiel steps aside.
…
Dean’s back on the ferry the next morning, in a twist of déjà vu. Maybe he’ll head to Boston next. Or Providence… there is always something going down in Providence.
Just anywhere but Widow’s Bay.
The ferry departs the loading bay, and Dean finds himself watching out the window—his only regret, of course, is Sam. Some big brother he is. He’ll make it up to him in May, when Sam is a legal adult free to travel where he pleases and John Winchester is out of the picture.
“Psssst.”
Dean’s eyes go wide. Because there, peeking out from behind a nearby bench— “Shit. Sammy?”
Sam stands up, positively beaming. “I snuck on,” Sam says.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean says. He’s fighting a laugh and loses.
Sam slides in to join Dean on his respective bench. “I didn’t really sneak on,” Sam clarifies. “I paid for a ticket.”
“Of course you did.”
Now Sam’s got that puppy dog look that he knows Dean can’t resist. He’ll say jump and Dean’ll ask how high. In this instance, Dean doesn’t need any prompting. “You know, Stanford is only a couple days' drive.”
Sam lights up and opens his mouth to respond—but clutches at his throat instead. Within seconds he’s on his knees against the scuffed plank floor, wheezing, suffocating on nothing at all.
Dean’s terrified, and he’s calling for medical help, and he’s murmuring false comforts, “You’re gonna be okay, Sammy, I gotcha, I’ve gotcha.”
They need to turn this damn ship around. They need to get off of this—oh God. As paramedics swarm his brother, despite Dean refusing to fully let go of him, it finally clicks.
Sam can’t leave the island.
Fuck.