Episode Eight: Deep Waters

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Sam ignored the remark, frantically waving past Dean to Tim at the controls. “The sub’s out there. We’re too close! We’re gonna hit it!”

Dean squinted, wanting to see what his brother already had glimpsed through the smog. At first, there was nothing. Then, as his eyes became more adjusted a shape began to emerge from the spiraling mist. It was low in the water, but visible enough to discern a tall black con tower protruding from its mass and shadowy figures running along the decking.

The sub was already so close Dean felt as if he could reach out a hand and touch its cold metal plating. He tensed, his muscles readying themselves for the impact that would surely come.

In the Spindrift’s cabin, Walker saw the looming con tower and Sam’s frantic, almost harried signaling and he slammed the charter boat’s engines into reverse.

The little craft groaned in protest as it was asked to perform a task way beyond its design limits. Still, Walker asked for more from it, spinning the controls hard over to desperately try to miss the ghost boat. The Spindrift slowed, but its momentum carried it onwards for painful seconds.

Sam held a breath without even realizing it, and when the Spindrift’s reversing screws finally began to tug the ship back, he exhaled deeply. “Man, that was too close.” He glanced at his brother and then out into the haze of night where their quarry still sat waiting.

The sub hadn’t moved, but there was more activity now. Voices strained in German as angry crewmen realized another ship was in the water close by- a ship that belonged to the enemy.

“Yeah, and it’s not over yet, Sammy.” Dean grimaced as phantom German sailors made a beeline for the U-boat’s twin gun towers. The sub was sixty years out of date, but its deck guns were still powerful enough to tear the Spindrift to pieces in minutes. “Walker, get us the hell out of here!”

Dean let a hand slip under his jacket to retrieve his hidden shotgun. He gestured to Walker with it but the skipper had already gotten the message. If he could have forced the Spindrift’s already struggling engines to work harder, he would have.

The little boat leaned in the water as its master pulled hard over to port, tearing through the night in an attempt to escape the mist and the deadly submarine.

The sudden list caught Sam unawares, and he found his body being tossed sideways as he slid across the deck face. The sea’s choppy surface came into his field of vision and he unconsciously wanted to close his eyes and pray. If he found himself overboard, the ghost sailors would undoubtedly strafe the water with machine gun fire and his life would be over.

“Not exactly gotten your sea legs yet, huh, Sammy?” Dean caught Sam’s forearm with his free hand and stopped his brother’s ungraceful roll across the Spindrift’s deck.

With a second tug, he pulled his brother to a somewhat safer position at his side in a fairly hidden spot in front of the main cabin.

Sam inhaled and bobbed his head in thanks. “Still think this is a wild goose chase?” he asked, daring to peek from his concealed position to check what the submariners were doing.

Dean scowled, but not at his brother’s comment. On board the U-boat, the deck guns were spinning into position ready to fire at their intended target. Along with the gun towers, a row of sailors with submachine guns had formed and were shouting in their mother tongue. He was no linguist, but Dean guessed the apparitions were cursing his relatives pretty vehemently. He was tempted to shout over a few choice comments of his own, just for the hell of it, but then it was pretty unproductive to argue with several sixty year old spooks.

“Think those gun towers will actually work on us?” Sam wedged his body up against the front of the cabin as the boat rocked violently with Tim’s maneuvering. He had no intention of almost being tossed into the water again like earlier.

Dean raised a brow and edged cautiously around the wooden boat section they had taken cover behind. In answer to Sam’s query, a spray of bullets narrowly missed Dean’s head and tore into the timber.

Dean whistled and poked a finger into one of the gaping entry points. There was no bullet, only damage. “I guess that’s an affirmative.” His brow creased. “And if an invisible spook bullet can do that, those deck gun shells are going to tear us and this boat a new one…”

Another barrage of gunfire erupted as he spoke; ripping through their hiding place as if it wasn’t even there. Splinters of wood exploded, showering the brothers with tiny shards of the Spindrift.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean sprang up in annoyance and pulled back hard on his shotgun’s trigger. If he was getting bombarded with non-existent, but very damaging bullets then he was going to return the favor.

As ever, the young hunter’s aim was right on the money. Both rock salt-filled shells slammed into the lead German sailor’s torso and he dissipated in a fiery ball of angry, non-corporeal energy.

Dean didn’t wait to see what happened next. He quickly ducked back down and broke the barrel of his weapon. In a second, he’d rammed home more shells and was ready to fire again. “I think its time we found a new hiding place. We’re sitting ducks. Head for the main cabin…I’ll cover you.”

Sam took a breath and then followed Dean’s advice. Like a trained athlete, he rolled over the decking, keep his body low, while taking into account Tim’s evasive steering.

“Hey, come and get some of this!” While Sam made a dive for Tim’s position, Dean purposefully revealed himself to their foe. They were still close enough to hit a target with hand weapons and he had no intention of losing the opportunity.

Bringing the twelve gauge up to eye level he picked out another dead sailor, aimed and fired. The shotgun kicked, but he never even noticed. Dean saw the look of miscomprehension on the spirit’s face as it vanished back to some rock salt enforced hell, and he savored it.

The remaining Germans returned fire just as Dean managed to scramble into the main cabin. A lump of wood near the door obliterated as he passed through it, taking a small chunk of flesh from his brow with it, but Dean didn’t even flinch.

“How long until we’re out of range of those deck guns,” he hastily asked Walker.

“Too long.” The skipper shook his head, trying to recall all the old sea tales his dad had bored him with as a youngster. At the time, he’d dismissed them, but right now any information the stories could give was a bonus. “We’re still too close…” He grimaced as a memory brought unwanted answers to mind.

“Can’t we get anymore speed?” Sam rifled through his duffle bag and pulled out a pump action shotgun of his own. Dean’s expression told the brother it was a little too late in the game, but Sam held onto it anyway.

“No, the engines are straining now…”

Walker didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The sub’s forward gun tower crew had finally lined up their sights on the Spindrift, and as a resounding boom filled the night air, an invisible shell tore into the speeding boat.

The phantom shell hit home just to the right of the main cabin, literally annihilating a portion of the rear section and almost taking Dean with it.

Tim tackled the young hunter to the floor just as wood, metal, and electronics exploded in a shower of light and sparks where he had been standing.

The radar screen faded to black as did half the Spindrift’s instruments. A hiss followed by a thin wisp of smoke signaled the charter boat was losing its electrical systems after the hit.

“Dude, you’re seriously crowding my space.” Dean groaned as he tried to shove Walker away from him.

Tim rolled over, pushing fallen debris from his body in an attempt to stand. His legs didn’t want to hold him, and when Sam offered a hand, the skipper quickly took it. He glanced down, checking on Dean, and when he was satisfied his guest hadn’t been seriously hurt, he returned to the boat’s controls. “Don’t thank me for saving your butt,” he offered tersely. “Despite the fact you just helped get my boat trashed.”

Dean grinned. He was getting to like Walker. “Where’s the sub?” He rubbed at the nick to his brow as he tried to see into the receding fog.

“It’s gone.” Sam finally slid his weapon back into his bag. “It vanished just after that last shell hit.”

“Unless she’s submerged.” Tim suggested glumly. “If we take a torpedo now, we’re as good as fish food.” He leaned forward, flicking various buttons on the Spindrift’s radio unit, but as he already knew, it was dead, just like his business. He didn’t know how or why the U-boat had returned, but it had virtually destroyed his boat and his job too.

“It’s not coming after us.” Dean let his comment hang in the air, and when no one decided to argue or ask where he got his logic, he shrugged and vanished below deck.

Tim watched him go, then let his gaze fall on the rapidly approaching Teufel Point. He’d never been so happy to see the stark outcrop of rock in all his life. If they were lucky, they may just make it back to the marina in one piece. No, not one piece, several pieces…

“Your brother is quite a shot.” The skipper stole a glance to his passenger and smiled. He may not be a rocket scientist, but picking up on people's conversations they didn’t necessarily want heard was a specialty of his. “Who do you really work for?”

Sam contemplated another lie. Sometimes a little subterfuge was a lot less painful than the truth of what lay in the darkness. This time, though, he figured Walker deserved honesty. The skipper had gotten his boat blown to bits for them. What would Dean be like if this was the Impala?

Sam pushed that particular thought aside. It had been the Impala a few short months ago, and he had been the cause of its damage. A flashback of the demon-driven, illusory truck made him blink, and he knew he had to stay focused. “We don’t exactly work for anyone,” he admitted elusively.

Walker wanted more- no, he demanded more. “You hire my boat and then pretty much destroy it and you think I’m going to settle for that explanation?”

“You won’t believe the truth.” Sam’s cell phone began to ring and he became distracted from the conversation by its incessant warbling. After four rings he looked apologetically to Tim and tugged it from his pocket.

Checking the caller ID he noted it was Harve. Maybe now they would all have a little more to go on. He pointed below deck, indicating the call was private, and then began climbing down to join Dean.

Tim slapped the Spindrift’s damaged controls in frustration. “I won’t believe the truth?” He huffed sarcastically. “I just got my boat screwed up by a sixty year old ghost sub, but hell, no, I won’t believe…”

* * * *

Sam picked up Harve’s call just as he entered what was left of the Spindrift’s cabin below deck. What had once been a tidy living area now had items strewn randomly across its width and breadth. Anything that hadn’t been purposefully fastened down had been tossed around by Tim’s manic moves.

“Hey, Harve, what have you got?” Sam frowned at the mess around him, and then nodded, acknowledging his brother as Dean appeared from the shadows. “Everything?” The younger Winchester continued his conversation but pointed to his backpack, which Dean quickly retrieved. “Thanks, Harve, we owe you one.” Harve apparently suggested it was ‘more than one’ and Sam hung up with a grin before addressing his brother. “He sent everything he has to the laptop.”

Dean had already guessed as much. He slid the silver laptop from the backpack and flipped it open with one hand. “Something tells me Ahab is pissed about his boat,” he suggested as he waited for the machine to boot.

“Considering it is his livelihood, I think that’s a fair assumption,” Sam pointed out. “We’re going to have to tell him what we know when we reach the marina. I mean everything, Dean.”

Dean cocked his head and his cheeky hazel eyes twinkled with mirth. In his book, there were always varying degrees of ‘everything.’ “What say we get some answers ourselves before we go spilling the beans to the natives?” He hit a key, accessing the laptop's mailbox. After a moment, a message with a file attachment appeared from Harve.

“Anything we can use?” Sam questioned as the Spindrift pitched and he had to catch the table to keep his balance.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Dean’s eyes darted from one piece of data to the next. He leaned sideways slightly as he read on, allowing Sam to see the screen at the same time.

“According to this U112 was commissioned but never built. Designed in 1937 she was a monster that would have held over twice the crew of a normal submarine,” Sam read the information aloud, earning a scowl from his brother because it suggested he needed a narrative. The younger Winchester continued anyway, “Twin 127mm deck guns, six torpedo tubes, and an Ar 231 small aircraft on board…”

“Yeah, well considering she was never built, those deck guns tore us a new butt less than half an hour ago. Care to explain that one?” Dean sat back on the bench and decided he needed a beer. While Sam put his attention on research, Dean began scouring the cabin for a refrigerator. When he didn’t find his elusive quarry, his eyes settled on a small CD player instead. I’ll bet ten to one Ahab likes girlie music…

“If you’d just read on,” Sam tapped the laptop screen. “Harve’s dug up a little more through some of his contacts. It seems according to unconfirmed reports some of these subs did get secretly built. They were painted black and were used for special clandestine missions. Harve can’t get anyone official to confirm or deny U112 existed, but more rumors suggest she set sail in June 1943 on a mission to disrupt U.S. supply ships. She was captained by a man named Klaus Kindermann and she never returned home to Germany.”

“So, we sank the damn thing.” Dean headed for the CD player suddenly finding its contents intriguing. “Scratch one up for the allies.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s the thing. Even though the German Kriegsmarine considered the sub lost, none of the allied forces claimed her sinking. She just vanished. Until now, that is…”

A bump, followed by the Spindrift jarring in the water made both brothers pause. When the little boat seemed to bob then settle, they continued their conversation.

“So, we have a ghost sub no one claims to have sunk. Why would the allies deny it if this tub was something special? And if we didn’t destroy U112, who the hell did?” Dean pressed open the player and tugged out a rather dusty CD. He frowned. It seemed Walker wasn’t into girlie music after all.

“I’m not so much worried about who sank her,” Sam concluded. “But more to the point why has she waited over sixty years to reappear?” He watched, fascinated as Dean ignored his comments and placed the disc back in the player.

Sam was about to suggest there would be no power, when Metallica's 'Unforgiven' began to blurt from the rather tinny sounding speakers.

Dean grinned, turning up the volume even though it made the music sound distorted. “Ahab has taste after all.”

“Yeah, great taste in music, but terrible people skills. Otherwise I’d have sent you two packing when I had the chance.” Walker appeared from topside and shot Dean a look that oozed frustration. “We’re back at the marina. Now how about some answers before I call the cops? I’m pretty sure impersonating an official would get you some serious prison time…”

“Let’s just say we deal with unusual cases like this.” Sam turned the brothers’ laptop so the skipper could see it.

After reading just the first few lines Walker looked away, somewhat dazed that he really had encountered forces from beyond the grave. He had known deep in his subconscious, but to actually have the details laid out in black and white made the truth hit home even harder.

He paced the tiny cabin with his back to the Winchesters, assimilating everything before he said more. “So, you’re some kind of ghost hunters? Are you any good?” Tim let the question hang. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he’d believed in ghosts until recently. Did he really believe there was a real live version of ‘Ghostbusters?’

“We know our stuff. You can count on it.” For once, Dean didn’t offer any sarcasm. There was a fine line and he knew when and where to hold the wit back. Now was such an occasion. He did offer his trademark smirk, because that was something he never could resist.

Tim nodded. Sam was the brains and Dean was the wiseass brawn. Together he thought they made a pretty good team- even if they had gotten the Spindrift shot to pieces. “So, if you’re so good, answer this. Why has the U-boat come back? Why here? Why now?”

Sam leaned forward, letting his hands rest on the table. “Usually it’s because the remains have been disturbed. In this case, that could be the actual submarine’s remains, or those of its crew.”

Tim’s eyes widened slightly as the reply sank in and his complexion turned ashen. Not once had he considered the ghost boat’s return could have been caused by someone’s actions. Now that he understood the facts, everything was slipping into place almost too easily.

Walker rubbed at his brow, trying to recall a recent talk with a fellow fisherman. “I think I know how they were disturbed,” he looked to Sam. “A friend’s nets got snagged on something a couple of months ago. It damn near sank his boat, and when the nets tore free, something came up from the ocean bed with them.”

“You think he got caught up on U112?” Dean tapped on the table in time to the music, enjoying James Hetfield's screeching despite the topic being discussed. Being on the sea had its downside, because it kept him away from the Impala and his mullet rock.

Tim found the incessant drumming annoying, but he let it slip. “Why don’t we go and find out?”

St. Michael’s Bay Marina
11.27p.m.

Garrett O’Leary rarely slept. The only time he found himself in bed was usually the result of overindulgence with a whiskey bottle. Right now, he was halfway towards the latter.

The stocky little Irishman had had no luck since his fishing boat had almost sunk two months ago. He had no clue why, but his nets came up empty more far often than he caught a damn thing these days. Of course, he put it down to natural causes. Over fishing had already left the oceans a lot sparser than they used to be, but then, did he really think that was the reason?

The superstitious, Irish part of him told him he didn’t. Whatever had nearly taken his boat down to Davy Jones' locker was the cause.

O’Leary peered at the bottle of Jameson’s on his lap and decided it was time for another shot. With a frustrated twist he pulled off the top and swigged at the fiery liquid as if it were soda water. The taste did little to quell his exasperation, but it did help to dull his senses enough so that later, just maybe he might sleep.

O’Leary sighed and was about to drink again when a knock came at his cabin door. The thought of visitors at this late hour was more than an annoyance, and he answered the rapping with a gruff bellow.

“Who the hell wakes an old man up at this godforsaken hour?” Garret was only fifty-eight, but because of his graying beard had been daubed ‘old man of the sea’ by the locals since he’d turned fifty. He liked the title, and often played on it at times like this.

“You might be old, you cranky cuss, but one thing I’m sure of is you weren’t sleeping.” The door opened and Tim Walker entered, despite not exactly being invited. He smiled at his long-time friend as he noticed the whiskey bottle in his lap.

O’Leary blinked, realizing who his visitor was through bloodshot eyes. “I’m old enough to be your father. You should treat me with more respect, Tim.” He squinted past Walker, noticing the young skipper was not alone. “Want to tell me why you’re bringing folks on my boat at almost midnight?”

Walker let Garrett’s attitude slide. He was always this way, and just lately it had gotten worse. That didn’t mean the old-timer wasn’t to be respected, but you just needed to know how to handle him. “We’ve come about the thing that snagged in your nets a couple of months past. Do you still have it?”

O’Leary frowned. “I wished to God I didn’t. That thing was like an ill omen or something. I’ve seen movies like it.” He scrutinized both Winchesters warily. “You going to introduce these two yahoos or do I have to guess who they are?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean. We’re in St. Michael’s Bay looking into the recent sinkings.” Sam watched O’Leary for a reaction but the elder skipper seemed more interested in his whiskey bottle. “Tim said your nets brought something up, something unusual? Could we see it, sir?”

O’Leary inspected how much alcohol he had left and then tugged his slightly inebriated form from his seat. He needed to grab another bottle, so he may as well show them what they wanted at the same time. Maybe that way they would leave quicker.

“Be my guest,” he indicated they go up on deck with a forefinger. “All you’re going to see is a rusted hunk of old junk, though.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Dean smiled roguishly. “One man’s junk is another man’s…”

O’Leary stopped dead in his tracks and his expression changed to that of as man not to be trifled with. Gone was the drunken skipper who drowned his business sorrows in whiskey, replaced by something much deeper. “Poison,” he scowled. “I know the expression, and I know that this relic is exactly that- poison to all that touch it. Don’t mess with this thing, boy. You’ll regret it.”

Dean backed off but couldn’t suddenly get the lyrics to Alice Cooper's ‘Poison’ out of his head. That’s it! I’m officially in classic rock withdrawal! “Whoa, dude, no need to take it so personal. You sound like some bad horror movie narrator or something.” He waved the old man on towards the piece of barnacle-covered iron.

O’Leary snorted. “You’re a young punk, you know that?” He waved his almost empty bottle to a tarp to the stern of the fishing boat. “What you wants under there.”

Dean nodded, bringing a small, pen-sized flashlight from his pocket. With one hand, he undid the line that secured the canvas, and with the other he let the light illuminate what lay beneath.

The thing was just as O’Leary had described it. It appeared to be nothing more than a long piece of iron, hidden beneath years of barnacles, rust and unknown microscopic sea creatures.

“Hold this for me will you, little brother?” Dean handed the tiny light to Sam while he tugged out his hunting knife. The glistening blade spent most of its life attached to his body, or under his pillow at night, but on certain occasions it did have other non-violent uses- like now.

Dean kneeled down, letting one knee touch the wooden deck as he leaned forward to grab the relic. The thing felt cold and slimy to touch, and part of him wanted to recoil at the strange sensation.

Dean ignored the urge and began to scrape at the barnacles with the serrated edge of his knife, teasing them from the object. After a few seconds, metal began to grate on metal and he slowed, carefully looking for any markings. “Sam, a little more light here…”

Sam’s towering frame loomed over his brother, as he focused the light where Dean was now pointing with the tip of his blade. “That’s German.” Engraved into the metalwork at the base were several words. One was easily discernable as ‘funk.’ “I think we’re looking at what’s left of U112’s radio mast.” He concluded.

Both Tim and O’Leary moved closer, wanting to see what the brothers had found. To Tim, it was simply proof that his theory was correct. O’Leary really had disturbed the souls on board a long lost submarine. To O’Leary, the markings caused more confusion.

The elder man backed up, his whiskey bottle swaying along with his body as the alcohol in his system numbed his reactions. “U-boat? I snagged a U-boat all those months ago? What the hell does that have to do with all those ships that have gone down?”

Tim put a hand up, hoping to calm his friend. “Garrett, I know this sounds crazy, but we think the sub somehow came back after you disturbed it.”

O’Leary battered his eyelashes, and then burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter. “You guys expect me to believe I snagged an old wreck and now its haunting St. Michael’s Bay? Man, I may be drunk, but you people are deluded.” He paused, noting that his guests weren’t laughing along with him. “Even if it were true,” he offered more soberly, “just what do you think you can do about it? You can’t exorcise a ship- especially one that’s not even really there, right?”

Sam looked over to Dean pensively. “He has a point. Even though we have a rough idea where her sunken remains are, we can’t exactly salt and burn her hulk when it’s that deep in the ocean.”

Dean rolled his eyes and abruptly wanted a shot of O’Leary’s whiskey. “Sammy, I’m having bad Cyrus Dorian flashbacks here, and no way am I playing bait like I did with that truck again- especially not in a boat. If I’d wanted to be a sailor I’d have joined the navy.”

“So,” Tim shook his head, “you’re the experts, the real ‘Ghostbusters,’ just how do we get rid of this thing?”

“Right now, we don’t know,” Sam admitted honestly. “Maybe if we check over all our research some more we’ll spot something we missed the first time.”

Dean’s quirky smile appeared. “Or,” he grinned, “you could always try hellhounds.com. I hear those guys are real good at this kind of stuff…”

Sam almost choked. The hellhounds had been a pain in the butt during a gig to fight a tulpa, but they had also been a constant source of amusement. He’d thought Dean may already have forgotten about the bumbling duo, but apparently he’d not. I wonder whatever happened to those guys?

“Hellhounds? You’re kidding, right?” Tim’s expression left nothing to the imagination.

“Yeah, he’s kidding,” Sam covered the radio mast back over with the tarp. “What we need now is a plan to lay this thing to rest before more people die.”

“Planning is your department, Sammy.” Dean stood from his crouched position and looked from Sam to O’Leary. “Meanwhile, how about you take us out to where you snagged on this thing?” It was a simple request but one Garrett had no intention of fulfilling.

“You people really are nuts! You come here with some crazy tale about spooks and then expect me to take you right into their lair. No way.” O’Leary waved his hands in a gesture that said his answer was final, and then quickly finished off the remains of his whiskey.

“At least give us the coordinates where you snagged the sub?” Sam asked in his usual soft, persuasive tones. “That’s all we ask.”

O’Leary rubbed at his grizzled, beard-covered features. “That I can do, but God help your souls if you go out there. That thing on deck is just a piece of it, but my business has been cursed ever since I brought it aboard.” He shakily took a small notepad Sam offered and scribbled down the latitude and longitude of where he presumed U112 lay on the sea bed.

“Thanks, we appreciate it.” Sam smiled at the old man. He might be scared and pretty cantankerous, but there was something he liked about the guy.

O’Leary sensed the younger man’s thoughts and for a second his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. Then, the deeper side to his personality took hold again and he put his attention on Dean. “You’re the gung ho side of this partnership, right? You think you’re going out there to fight something that can’t be fought, and you’ll go in all guns blazing.”

Dean was surprised at the sudden clarity of the old man’s mind. “You have a better idea?”

“Nope, but when the time comes, I’m pretty sure your brother will.” O’Leary winked mischievously like some ancient buccaneer and then stumbled forward, searching for something under yet more tarp.

He reappeared moments later with yet another bottle of Jameson’s. It was always a good idea to have a stash in case of emergencies, at least, in Garrett’s humble opinion. “Care for a drink, gents, because where you’re going, you’re going to need one…”

St. Michael’s Bay Marina
7.36a.m. The Next Morning

Tim Walker rubbed at his temple as he pulled the Spindrift from its dock. He’d been foolish enough to take old O’Leary up on his offer of whiskey, and was now deeply regretting it. Not because he had a hangover the size of the Empire State Building, but because one Dean Winchester had manipulated him into this trip while he’d been under the influence of half a bottle of Ireland’s finest.

Walker inhaled and found even that motion jarred his throbbing skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked out at the bay and Teufel point with bleary eyes, wondering if he’d ever see the jutting piece of rock again after the trip he was about to make.

To be honest, the Spindrift couldn’t even really be called seaworthy after her last encounter with the sub, to ask the little charter boat to possibly face-off the phantom U112 again was nothing more than suicidal. And yet, here he was.

He checked his watch and then looked out over the Spindrift’s bow. Dean and Sam were out there, counting ammo and checking supplies. From what Walker could tell, the ghost-hunting brothers had brought every piece of spook hunting hardware they owned onto his tiny vessel. Just what good it would do was anyone’s guess. Could a few rock salt shells really make a difference?

Tim watched as Dean continued his weapons count and Sam paused to read what appeared to be some kind of diary or journal. He’d seen the younger brother with the leather bound book before, and he seemed to hold onto it as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Although, it was hard for the skipper to accept any of what was happening. Ghosts, phantoms- they were things he had always believed belonged in some twilight world that only lived in writers' minds. To have to believe now was not an easy thing. His long dead father would have called him insane for even considering the possibility, let alone making this trip with the Winchesters.

Tim checked O’Leary’s coordinates and leaned out of the hole made by the sub’s deck guns. “Guys, we’re getting close…”

Dean acknowledged with a small salute with his finger. It was time. “Ready, Sammy?”

Sam cocked his head. “That depends. Do we have a plan yet?”

Dean shrugged. “You heard what O’Leary said. You’re the brains. Do we have a plan?” He emphasized the word ‘do’ and Sam knew his brother was being a clown again, despite where they were headed.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be the lure in this gig?” He pulled a pained expression. “You still haven’t gotten over that thing with the truck on Route 666, have you?”

Dean grinned and filled his pockets until they were overflowing with rock salt shells. “Payback's a bitch, huh, little brother.”

Sam let his eyes roll skyward in exasperation. Dean would never change. Whether it was putting Nair in his shampoo, or setting him up as a fall guy with some evil spirit, he would always find some amusement by tormenting his sibling.

That said, Sam also knew if the time came, Dean would die for him without even questioning it. Heck, he almost had done so on numerous occasions. It was as if Dean somehow considered himself his protector, and that thought worried Sam. No matter how indestructible Dean thought he was, and how much faith he put in the damn amulet around his neck to shield him, he wasn’t immortal. What is he up to?

Sam blinked and found he abruptly felt queasy. Maybe he was worrying to much, or maybe it was the constant lurching of the Spindrift, but something was making him feel nauseous. He swallowed hard, realizing his stomach was not the only thing that had taken a sudden turn for the worse; his head was spinning too.

The younger Winchester grabbed a side rail and squeezed his eyes closed, trying to push away the pounding that was stabbing into his subconscious, but he knew it was no use.

“Sammy?” Dean put down the shotgun he was cleaning and moved to his brother’s side. “Too much of O’Leary’s whiskey?” He asked, concern filtering through the jovialness in his voice.

Sam continued to squint as he clutched his brow with his free hand. “No, it’s something else…”

“Sea sick? Yeah, well this will teach you to make fun of my fear of flying, huh?” Dean shot the quip at Sam, but didn’t really mean it. He was worried. Sam hadn’t been sea sick on their first trip with Tim, and that meant this was indeed something else.

Sam was white, and if Dean hadn’t caught a hold of him under one arm he would have slumped onto the deck in a fetal position, clasping at his skull as if it were about to explode.

Continue...

Discuss the episode here

E-Mail the Author!