Chapter Text
A week ago
“So, get this.”
Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to get anything. He and Sam are in the motel room in Grinnell, Iowa, that they used as their base for the latest hunt and fucking forgive Dean for wanting to have some chill downtime after closing the hunt. Movies might make it look easy but chopping off vampire heads is hard work, damnit!
And that fact aside, Sam had gotten hurt in the last fight and now sits with his sprained ankle on pillows, walking all wobbly and shit.
“A bunch of fishing trawlers have been upended north of New York,” Sam continues as if Dean had asked.
Dean considers turning up the volume on the TV to try and make the Scooby gang drown out Sam’s incessant droning.
“So? Choppy waters out there.”
Not that Dean would know but fuck, he’s just not sure he’s in the mood to indulge Sam’s hunting needs right now. To be completely honest, Dean kind of wants to have some time off overall. Hell, he spent all of last year being scared of going to, well, Hell, and now that that mess has been sorted, he might want to slow down a little, Sam. Not to mention Sam’s foot needs to heal.
“Choppy, sure, but I don’t think waves can do this kind of damage to a boat.”
Like fine, maybe Dean feels relieved about not having to go down to Hell. Maybe he’s really grateful to Bobby and Sam for helping him kill Lilith to weasel out of the contract, even though they might be in debt to this Crowley figure now but fucking fuck, that doesn’t mean he needs to hunt down every monster that pops up on their radar. He gets that Sam wants to give back to the universe and Dean does too but he needs a vacation too, okay?
“Look at this.”
Dean inhales slowly to keep from saying something mean and instead leans over to look at Sam’s laptop and the picture of an absolutely smashed trawler.
“Waves could do that,” he argues but it’s a weak argument because there are marks that look like something took a bite out of the boat too. Also, what is that in the background? “Is that taken in the place where it’s happening?”
“Yeah,” Sam says and launches into arguments about the teeth marks. Meanwhile all Dean can see is the sunny skies and hint of sandy beaches.
“Where is this again?” he interrupts and Sam cuts himself off, looking confused for a moment and then clicks around on his laptop, bringing up Google maps and zooming in.
“Fisherman’s Cove, over in Maine,” Sam says, pointing unnecessarily. “Just between Elmore and Martinsville, south of St. George.”
“Maine is an almost two day drive,” Dean mutters, losing interest fast. Although he would lie if he said he wouldn’t like to see the east coast. Maybe some fresh ocean air would do him good. “And you need to rest.”
Sam looks sad and it tugs at Dean’s heart. “I know,” he mumbles, looking down at the laptop. “But do you really think it’s just harsh waves?”
Dean’s hunter upbringing screams at him. Of course it’s more than that, you don’t have to be in the know-how to understand that the trawler from the picture didn’t just run aground. It was cut in half for fuck’s sake.
Closing his eyes, he inhales again, this time with more determination than annoyance.
“How about I go ahead of you?” he holds up a hand when Sam opens his mouth to protest. “You shouldn’t be in a car for that long and you know what? You’re not the one with a healthy amount of respect for flying.”
That makes Sam smile. Good, Dean thinks. For how annoying he sometimes finds his little brother he sure as fuck wants him happy more than anything.
“We’ll see,” Sam says, closing his laptop. “Might be that I’ll be able to drive myself in a few days.”
Dean nods and turns back to the TV. “Sure. Lemme just rest tonight and I’ll drive first thing in the morning. Then we can touch base once I land in, uh, Fishtown whatever.”
“Fisherman’s Cove,” Sam corrects and Dean nods absentmindedly, mind already back on the rerun episode of Scooby-doo, convinced whatever is happening over in Maine is just another run-of-the-mill hunt.
*****
Fisherman’s Cove is quaint, there’s no other word for it, not that Dean can think of when he parks his beloved Impala outside the only motel around. The Manic Manatee looks anything but manic and after the drive Dean has had he is thankful for the peaceful appearance of the crooked wooden building.
It’s painted a dark red, like many of the houses in the little fishing village, built with a wooden exterior that seems impractical standing against the winds and damp coming in from the ocean. The inn is situated on top of a small hill, overlooking the rest of Fisherman’s Cove and the glittering Atlantic Ocean with the curved horizon brightly lit by beaming sunlight.
It's peaceful, and quaint, and Dean kind of fucking likes it. Likes the lushness of the greenery scattered around the village and likes the small cottage houses that dot the two main streets that run perpendicular through the village. It feels like a vacation spot yet to have been discovered and commercialized, a hidden gem, and it contrasts sharply with the thoughts of potential monsters to hunt.
But something is for sure going on, if Sam’s increasing reports have any merit and, sadly, they usually do. During Dean’s drive, which had been cut down to only a day and a half because Dean’s one hell of a driver like that, Sam had even taken the opportunity to call on Bobby, who seems even more convinced it’s a sea monster.
“Did he say what kind?” Dean asks as he walks up to the inn.
To be honest he’s kind of happy Bobby is in on this hunt now too, not because Dean thinks they need the help but because he likes the old hunter, considers him family, and he thinks it’s good for Bobby to get out more.
“He’s still working on that,” Sam answers, distracted as if he’s reading at the same time. “Must be some kind of leviathan from the depths though, right?”
Dean rolls his eyes. “And what would’ve woken that up all of a sudden?”
“Oil drilling?” Sam suggests and Dean snorts out a chuckle.
“They dug too deep,” he recites and to his delight Sam chuckles too.
“You never know.”
“Whatever,” Dean makes eye contact with the clerk of the inn as soon as he goes inside. “I’m gonna get myself a room now and then check out the town. Talk later.”
Turns out getting a room isn’t hard at all since there are more vacancies than usual this time of year.
“Is that for a reason?” Dean had asked when he was getting his key from the elderly man manning the front desk.
“A lot of our boats have been destroyed,” the man said, shaking his head sadly. “Scares away the vacationers and their fancy boats. And it hurts the fishing in the village.”
“Do you know what destroys the boats?”
The man had looked a little spooked. “Sudden waves I would suppose,” he’d said, looking as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Such tragedies. You know last week we had a death,” he’d shaken his head again and Dean had frowned. Had that been in the newspapers? “Such calamity. But please, Mr. Gilmore,” he’d said, addressing Dean by his fake name. “Don’t let that mar your visit to our beautiful little village. What did you say you were here for again?”
“Um, mending a broken heart,” Dean had blurted, hastening to end the conversation and go up to his room.
Objectively it’s a very nice room, even if there are one too many doilies for Dean’s liking, but Dean doesn’t spend too much time in it, more than eager to go out and talk to the townsfolk now that it’s approaching evening and a lot of them will be sure to gather around the local watering holes.
The inn should have probably been one of those but it’s still as empty as when Dean checked in so he plucks one of the tourist maps from the now unmanned front desk and goes out into the sunny weather. It’s hot, probably hot enough for shorts if Dean had been that kind of guy, which he isn’t, and Dean feels good about strolling down the street accompanied by the sounds of gulls flying high above him.
The pub he comes across is down by the docks and called The Scummy Seafarer and Dean starts suspecting that everything in this quaint village will have quaint names like that. He doesn’t mind a theme but damn, looking at the funny name and the funny sign outside depicting a stereotypical pirate, he expected a jollier mood inside.
Instead, the pub is pretty quiet and dark, the people sitting around round wooden tables looking more like they’re drinking their sorrow than for fun or to relax.
“Hey,” Dean says, sitting down on one of the many empty barstools and flagging down the sullen bartender. “What’s with the mood, no happy hour in this town?”
The bartender gives him a look, clearly appraising him.
“New in the Cove?” he mutters, nodding when Dean points to a bottle of bourbon.
“Just arrived today,” Dean says brightly, very aware that he has more than the bartender’s attention. “I was told this is a great place to relax and marvel at the view.”
“Normally,” the bartender says gruffly, pouring more bourbon than Dean asked for. “Just been one too many unlucky things happening, I s’pose.”
“You callin’ Jamie dyin’ unlucky?!”
One of the patrons behind Dean’s back is suddenly standing up, waving his empty tankard at the pub at large, clearly intoxicated and now upset.
“Jamie was a shit sailor and you know it!” another patron bellows.
Dean turns back to the bartender just as a scuffle breaks out between the two men.
“You gonna stop that?”
“I ain’t getting’ in there,” the bartender scoffs. “Bad blood will be bad blood.”
“How Taylor Swift of you,” Dean remarks dryly, ignoring the bartender’s questioning look. “Look, the innkeeper also told me you’ve been having, uh, accidents out on the waters. Are they really just that? Accidents?”
“What else would they be?” the bartender shakes his head, picking up a glass to start wiping down even though it looks clean. Behind Dean Team Jamie and Team Shit Sailor has been calmed down enough to sit down and drink again.
“I dunno, I saw a picture of something that looked like bite marks…”
That was a stupid thing to say, Dean can immediately see as much. The bartender’s eyes darken and he leans over the pub to get all up in Dean’s face.
“Oh I see,” he growls, his breath reeking of pickles and beer. “You’re one of them fancy city journalists comin’ here sniffin’ for a story to write.”
“No, I—”
“Well lookie here, mister,” the bartender interrupts. “I know that good-for-nuthin’ Stephen King has gone and made Maine very exciting with his funny stories about monsters and whatnot but the truth is that we’re a nice, quiet state. Okay?”
“Okay,” Dean says, although he doesn’t think most of King’s work would be described as funny by basically anyone. “I didn’t mean no harm.” He smiles as disarmingly as he can, aware that the pub has gone quiet behind him. “I’m really here just because my wife left me and I’ve been needing to get away.”
The bartender leans out slowly, clearly considering if he’s about to believe Dean’s lie or not.
“That so?”
“It was my uncle who tipped me off about this village,” Dean goes on, still jovial and smiling. “He’s an old Marine, used to be stationed up in Brokerage.”
That, in contrast to Dean’s earlier words, seems to be the absolute right thing to say.
“Is that so?” the bartender repeats, smiling this time and topping off Dean’s glass.
“Yeah,” Dean grins charmingly. “The bite marks picture was something my brother found online, he’s just a worrywart like that. Uncomfortable with me leaving home right now, y’know?”
“Well,” the bartender says then, suddenly gruff in a tender sort of way. “Maybe he’s just concerned because he knows what a broken heart can do to a man.”
“Hear, hear,” Dean says, raising his glass.
“Hear, hear!” the rest of the pub agrees, scaring the absolute shit out of Dean.
Well, he thinks as he spends too much time drinking with the locals, if one thing is for sure it’s that he kind of has to help save this village, considering how supportive they are of people with broken hearts.
In a world cast in hues of green and brown, black and dark yellow, earthy tones, it was easy for the little tribe of Nagas to become enthralled by the sudden burst of color and grandeur that crashed into their lives in the darkness of the cold season.
She called herself Queen Amara and came riding a beast of a squid like no squid any of the poor Nagas had ever seen. Its tentacles were longer, thicker, the suckers on them bulbous, its beak replaced by a maw of glistening teeth and its eyes bloodshot and protruding. On top its deformed head sat an enchantingly beautiful female Naga, her scales shining in the light from the underwater lichen and a glowing necklace she wore, the color of the scales like nothing the Nagas had ever seen on their own bodies. Deep purple blended with pretty pink, her fins bright yellow and matching the cowl around her head in an almost unnatural way.
“My sweet Nagas,” she’d said, the tone of her voice making the flattering words sound insulting. “I am your Queen, Amara. I have come to liberate you from the tediousness of your mundane lives.”
This had confused the Nagas for several reasons. For one, none of them really thought that their lives were tedious or mundane. Theirs was a peaceful tribe and had been so for generations. Their days were spent farming kelp, tending to their smacks of jellyfish and consortiums of crabs, hunting fish and other sea creatures for food and gathering shiny things to decorate their homes with. None of them had known war or strife, aside from the occasional shark attack that tended to happen around hatching season since the sharks seemed to enjoy the taste of Naga tadpoles, and the introduction of this new kind of Naga both terrified and intrigued them.
Because she looked like a Naga, swam like a Naga, but she didn’t smell like a Naga and her speech had odd inflictions that none of them could place, not even those who frequently traveled out of their tribe to trade with other Naga tribes.
Her eyes shone with malice even as she spoke sweet words of comfort and so, even though the Naga tribe was fast to fold to her will, none of them truly accepted her as one of them. She came and went, this “Queen” Amara, demanding tributes and absolute obedience and she had it, for now, more out of fear than true loyalty. No, the Nagas distrusted her and her shining jewelry and shuddered every time she came riding her monstrous squid.
“But surely if we do as she says, she will leave us alone,” the Naga elders reasoned and mostly she did. She came once in a while, with a consistency the Nagas didn’t have resources or knowledge to track, but out there in the murky darkness her monster lurked.
Hunting grounds that used to give abundantly to the Nagas were suddenly stripped dry, feeding the squid. Going out to explore and looking for trinkets became dreadful tasks now that everything good and precious they found went to Queen Amara.
“Instead of delivering us of tediousness, she brought it,” some of the Nagas argued in the shelter of their caves, in the privacy of the dark, far away from prying eyes and ears.
“The waters are more dangerous now than ever before,” others complained and they weren’t wrong. The sharks might like to prey on small Naga younglings but mostly they stayed away from the adult Nagas, even if they were alone.
The monster squid, however, didn’t show any such discrepancy and freely engaged in combat with the Nagas, preferring to eat them rather than starving. Queen Amara didn’t listen to that special plight, however.
“The squid is here for your own safety,” she told them haughtily. “I know that you, my sweet innocent Nagas, don’t know what’s truly hiding out in the depths of the ocean but trust me, there are much more dangerous things.”
Of course they didn’t trust her but no one dared say that. For all their hunting prowess, impressive speed and strength, none of the Nagas in this little tribe were truly fighters. The closest came the perimeter guards, but they only guarded against sharks and the occasional sperm whale or orca and though big, not even sperm whales could compare to this strange squid.
“She must mean humans,” some of the Nagas whispered. “Humans are dangerous, right?”
But humans, in contrast to the squid, hadn’t bothered the Nagas for as long as they could remember and also lived on land, far away from the depth where their tribe lay and where the squid lurked, suddenly now preying on them. Queen Amara didn’t care about that, though, and seemed to think their concerns were misplaced.
In response, the Nagas started forming hunting parties to go out and direct schools of fish closer to the squid to tend to its most basic need. It was of course a short term solution and as time wore on, the cold yielding to the warmth like always, more of them started to think they needed another kind of solution and they, though not outright, started questioning Queen Amara and her unexpected rule over them.
One of those Nagas is Castiel and he’s currently busy working on fixing one of his nets for catching fish for the Nagas to eat.
“Michael is going out to try and feed the squid again,” Gabriel, another Naga, says conversationally when he joins Castiel.
Michael is a strict Naga previously in charge of their perimeter defense and now indirectly demoted to dealing with the monster squid. Something Michael is far from bragging about.
“And I wish him all the luck,” Castiel murmurs, shaking out the net to look for mistakes in the knots. The net spreads out and then sinks slowly back down to his workbench, small bubbles spreading out that Gabriel waves off.
“I think he’d appreciate your help,” Gabriel says earnestly. “Everyone knows you’re a great hunter.”
Castiel levels Gabriel with a flat stare. Gabriel might be one of Castiel’s best friends but the truth is that everyone knows that Castiel is an oddball. Sure, he’s good at swimming and he usually returns to their tribe with fun treasures, that now all sadly go to Queen Amara, but a great hunter he is not. The elders call him an explorer to his face and a strange one behind his back. Kind old Joshua calls him an adventurer at heart and is the one who most indulges Castiel’s curious spirit with stories of the past and present.
The truth is that with scales along his serpent tail that shift in hues of dark blue and black, a stark contrast to the other Nagas whose scales mostly stay in the brown and black range with the occasional green, Castiel already stands out as a marvel. In another life he would probably have been a very attractive mate for the other Nagas in his tribe or otherwise, but his own disinterest for the potential mates, not to mention his wandering nature and aloof disposition, puts him apart from his kin.
Not that he is shunned, on the contrary he is just as well-liked as anyone save perhaps old Joshua who is everyone’s favorite, but he has set himself apart from the other Nagas and even though he is not particularly sad about that, he does wish he knew if it serves a greater purpose.
“Michael should work on those plans of his,” Castiel says in answer to Gabriel’s words. “So we won’t have to feed the beast no more.”
Gabriel’s eyes shift to the sides, clearly checking that no one has heard them but Castiel’s workshop is empty save for them and a stray jellyfish that has taken a liking to one of Castiel’s glow orbs.
Made up of mother-of-pearl and stuffed with underwater lichen that glow faintly in the dark, it’s an ideal tool to use for the darker times. The Nagas of this particular tribe, though possessing excellent darkvision as all Nagas do, have all embraced a want for shinier, brighter things and the lichen makes most everything look better.
“You don’t have to worry,” Castiel says dryly. “Even if someone heard me talk about such treason, no one would bat an eye.”
He’s not wrong, all Nagas in this tribe detest Queen Amara. But the fact is simply that none of them are equipped to fight her and she scares them.
“You never know,” Gabriel mutters, eyeing the jellyfish. “She has controlled that behemoth of hers, who knows what else she can control?”
“True enough,” Castiel concedes, moving over to a stone chest where he has spare kelp thread for his net. Pushing the jellyfish so that it floats out of his way, he hunches down, rifling through the chest.
Behind him, Gabriel hums and haws. “I just, I dunno…”
“You think we need to deal with the squid.”
“Well hatching season is soon upon us,” Gabriel bursts out. “What if it eats the eggs? The tadpoles?”
Castiel grimaces at that thought. When he was but a youngling there had been a shark attack on the eggs hatching the season after him and a lot of hatchlings had perished to feed the sharks. Such is the life of the Naga and though the tribe mourned them, life moved on. But an attack from sharks trying to feed themselves is natural. Queen Amara and her monstrous squid are not.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Castiel says and tries to sound confident. “The hatchling grounds will be placed on the opposite side of where that squid rests.”
He isn’t wrong but it’s a weak argument, a small comfort, and he can see on his friend’s face that it’s more than insufficient.
“Castiel…”
“There’s not much for us to do,” Castiel says, inwardly cringing at how harsh his words sound and the way Gabriel looks so defeated. Gabriel never looks like that. He’s usually jovial and lighthearted, almost to a fault, but the past season he has been subdued and it’s not hard to see the correlation with Queen Amara’s introduction and their tribe’s descent into lethargy and depression.
“That doesn’t mean we should just roll over, belly up, and give in.”
Castiel agrees but it’s been a long time now and no one has dared to do anything and he fails to see why he should be the one to do it when they have such capable Nagas like Michael.
“We shouldn’t,” he agrees in a placating tone. “But me going out hunting with Michael to hopefully bring some fish here so the squid doesn’t potentially eat our tadpoles doesn’t feed our bellies.” He holds up his now finished net, daring a smile. “We need fish for ourselves too.”
Gabriel considers Castiel and his net for a moment and then thankfully nods. “I suppose you’re right.”
Castiel nods too, putting down the net. “Come on, let’s see what Balthazar and the others are up to. And I can put this one back where it belongs,” he adds, scooping up the jellyfish.
With a whip of his tail, he is out of the workshop, Gabriel following him closely as they swim out of Castiel’s cave and into the gathering of caves and marketplace stands outside. It’s full of Nagas from their tribe as usual and they greet several of them as they slink past, not caring to stop and chat. In Castiel’s hand, the jellyfish quivers, almost nuzzling him, and Castiel smiles down at it, flexing his fingers.
It's light time right now and the market is buzzling, the lichen glowing less, instead storing the light for later, and Castiel and Gabriel easily find their way to the jellyfish farm, going along familiar routes. Castiel loves his tribe and loves the comradery, but unlike his peers the familiarity does bore him. To be frank, the introduction of Queen Amara had at first enticed him, simply because of the novelty of the event. But she and her squid have quickly grown boring and dreary, despite the obvious threat they present, and Castiel finds himself yearning for simpler times while at the same time feeling intrigued by the vastness of the sea.
“Maybe you’d do well to mate outside of our tribe,” the elders had suggested when he was younger. “To get out of here and into a sense of adventure.”
The thought, however well-meaning, had not seemed remotely interesting to Castiel. The truth is that none of the Nagas or their communities interest him. He has been many times both North and South of their tribe to trade with other Nagas but their tribes were too similar to his. Safe but boring.
Now, however, the thought of them incites thoughts of treason against their false queen. Because alone they might not be able to take the squid, even though Michael seems to hope so, but with the numbers of the other tribes they might stand a chance. Then again, Castiel thinks just as he puts the jellyfish back with its own, they don’t know what else Queen Amara is capable of.
“What’s wrong?” Gabriel asks the jellyfish farmer, Samandriel, drawing Castiel’s attention too.
Samandriel shakes his head, looking side to side just like Gabriel had done, scared no doubt of spies sent by Queen Amara to check on them.
“I just heard,” he mumbles, leaning on his cane, his tail restless beneath him. “Queen Amara is coming. She scares me.”
“She scares everyone,” Gabriel says wisely. “Do you know when?”
But Samandriel shakes his head. “During light time, I suppose,” he mumbles and that’s a fair assumption since Queen Amara has never visited them during the dark time and has only seemed displeased about just how dark even light time is down here.
A strange complaint indeed, and nothing Castiel has ever heard any other Naga complain about. All of them have excellent vision even in the dark, after all.
“Has anyone checked on the squid?” Castiel asks.
The squid, though residing a bit outside of their tribe, is oftentimes a good source of information regarding Queen Amara’s movements. It grows restless, agitated, when she approaches and though it’s hard to tell if that’s because it misses its queen and is happy for her arrival or if it’s because the squid detest her like the Nagas do it’s nonetheless a reliable way for the Nagas to determine if the queen is close.
“I don’t know,” Samandriel mumbles, eyes round. He is scared of the beast, and Castiel can’t fault the young Naga for that.
“Michael would know,” Gabriel suggests and Castiel nods even though he’s unsure about that statement.
With a wave of his hand, he and Gabriel move off, gliding slowly through the waters and past cave openings and Nagas of all ages tending to their lots. It saddens Castiel how much he can see the weight of Queen Amara and her monster squid in the faces of his Naga kin. There’s a darkness there now that was nowhere to be seen before, a weight on shoulders and a jerkiness in their movements. However short they had hoped Queen Amara’s reign would be, it’s clear that it has already taken its toll and something needs to be done.
Castiel closes his fists against thoughts like that. No matter what Gabriel indicated earlier, Castiel is not a hunter and he for sure is no fighter. No, if he would ever be able to do anything about this scourge that has befallen their tribe it would have to be done by subterfuge and guile.
They meet Uriel, one of Michael’s closest friends, by the perimeter that previously was just a few sticks in the seabed and some loose string with pretty embellishments but that now has been reinforced with stones. He is clutching his impressive spear and looks pinched, a look that doesn’t inspire great comfort.
“What’s wrong?” Gabriel asks when they drift close enough.
Uriel sneers but it’s clear it’s more directed at the issue at hand than at Gabriel and his question.
“Just had a scout go past on their way to the elders,” he says in his deep voice, the words monotone as if he’s trying to keep his calm. “They were with Michael when he met up with Queen Amara.”
Gabriel and Castiel share a glance.
“And?” Castiel ventures.
Realistically they shouldn’t have any new threats to fear, even if most of them dread the times Queen Amara comes to visit them. But there has been no indication that anything is wrong, not by the Nagas’ estimate anyway, and they have filled the allotted amount of treasure for her to collect like usual.
“And she seemed very upset,” Uriel says darkly. “She told Michael something about a new threat coming closer, looming, and she was the one who ordered the scout to swim ahead to warn the elders.”
Gabriel makes an appropriately aghast sound but Castiel can feel nothing but confusion.
“Threat?” he says, frowning. “What kind of threat?”
Uriel shakes his head. “She apparently didn’t say.” He grips his spear harder, staring out into the murky darkness ahead of them. “But just that it was great and she is displeased.”
“Sounds serious,” Gabriel says, a hint of fear in his tone, and Castiel won’t argue that, even though his thoughts have gone in a completely different direction.
“Just seems to me,” he says contemplatively. “That a threat which puts Queen Amara in a state of disarray might not be all that bad,” he meets Uriel’s and Gabriel’s eyes in turn. “For us.”
“So get this,” Dean has to stop himself, smacking his lips to get some moisture in his mouth. On the other end of the phone call Sam sighs.
“Are you hungover?”
“No,” Dean lies. “I just didn’t sleep well. No magic fingers in this place.”
Sam sighs again, as if Dean is insufferable. Well fucking excuse Dean for making nice with the locals. How was he supposed to know basically all of them had black belts in drinking people under tables?
“Did you find out something?”
Dean rubs his eyes, seeing stars and blinking until he can see the ugly doilies covering every surface in his room again. Then rubs his eyes once more.
“Lots of weird accidents with boats,” he croaks. The curtain on the only windows isn’t completely closed and a sliver of light is peeking in. It seems bright. “Most of the people around here seem to still think they’re nothing to be feared. Like, they think it’s just accidents, people being bad sailors, stuff like that. But, uh,” he stands, taking stock of his body and okay, maybe he will be able to handle this hangover after all. “There’s an underlying tone of, I dunno…”
“Fear?” Sam suggests.
“Apprehension,” Dean mumbles, going over to the window and daring to look out over the sunlit village. His eyes scream at him to retreat to the darkness but it does actually look nice outside. “They need to go out on the water, right? It’s their livelihood and some of those old coots probably won’t survive being beached.”
“But they’re aware something is wrong out there?”
Dean sighs. “So far there’s only been one death and the general consensus seems to be that he might have just as well been caught in rough waters. I dunno, I think I need to get out there.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea…” Sam murmurs and Dean can hear how uneasy his little brother is about Dean going too close to the supposedly dangerous waters.
He nods, even though Sam can’t see him. “I know but I don’t think I’ll get much answers from the locals. I’ll try and do a quick sweep of the bay area and then I’ll work myself inland.”
“Maybe don’t go out alone?” Sam counters and Dean wants to make a snappy retort about a civilian not being any good in a hunt anyway but he knows that’s not strictly true and besides, he’ll need a boat anyway.
“Of course,” he says, trying to sound cheery and carefree. “Not as if I’d get into a dinghy and row myself out there.”
Truth be told, Dean is a bit unsure of how much he’ll be able to discover out there either way. Guess he’ll be bringing his EMF and some other things for testing the waters, so to speak, and maybe, hopefully, his seasoned hunter senses will pick up on something. Or else he supposes it’s back to the drawing board, or The Scummy Seafarer.
“Maybe you should wait for me, though,” Sam says, clearly not amused by Dean’s attempts at humor.
Dean sighs. “How is your foot?”
“Fine,” Sam says in a way that lets Dean know it’s still not great.
“Okay good,” he says, sitting back down on the bed. Maybe he’ll just have another nap and then some food before heading out. “Then you’ll only have to rest a few more days and then you can join me.
“Dean…”
“Have you talked more with Bobby?”
Sam makes a disgruntled sound but thankfully doesn’t press the issue. They talk a little bit more, some about Bobby’s theories, and about the old man possibly joining them on this hunt. Dean likes the idea. Likes hanging out with Bobby in general and for sure likes pulling him out of his old house so full of memories the walls teeter on collapsing under the grief. And, if he’s being honest, Fisherman’s Cove has turned out to be a nice little place and Dean wouldn’t mind spending some time with his family here, hunt or no hunt.
In the end it takes Dean so long to lose Sam that he feels mostly okay by the end of the call. A cold shower and a hearty lunch at the motel and Dean is strolling down the streets of Fisherman’s Cove, accompanied by the gulls once more. Maybe it’s the same birds or maybe they take turns pestering the humans, Dean kind of likes them all the same.
Down by the docks he finds a shop that sells all kinds of fishing equipment and there, by the counter, he picks up a map of the bay and the waters outside. The owner of the shop is a friendly elderly woman who regales Dean with stories of her many winnings in fishing competitions for so long the next customer behind Dean starts politely coughing to get her attention. She’s nice, Dean thinks as he exits the shop, and she’d been kind enough to point him to where the fishing trawlers with the fishermen most likely to take Dean out have docked their boats.
It takes him three tries until he finds an old man with a big beard sprinkled with salt and pepper called Daryl who agrees to go out for a roundtrip.
“Not too far, though,” Daryl says, his voice rough as if the salt from the sea has worn down his vocal cords. “I have work in the morning, mind you.”
Dean sneaks a peek at his clock, finding that it’s barely afternoon. “Sounds good, man.”
“What do you want to do out there anyway?”
Dean shrugs, smiling. “I’m from Kansas, haven’t been to the ocean since I was a kid. I just wanna see it spread out.”
The lie is as good as any and seems to work wonders on Daryl, who gets a kind of faraway, peaceful look on his weather-worn face, the wrinkles smoothing out some as he turns to look at the glittering water.
“She’s a beaut,” he mumbles and Dean is just about to ask who is when Daryl turns abruptly back to Dean, expression serious once more. “But she’s treacherous, the lady of the sea is. She’ll take you unawares if you’re not careful.”
“Uh yeah,” Dean is to be honest not really prepared for the earnestness in the man’s voice. “I did hear about the accidents. That’s kinda why I need someone like you to take me, right?”
“Accidents,” Daryl scoffs and starts leading Dean down the dock, towards a trawler that Dean kind of hopes is hiding something better because that’s once sorry ass boat. Makes the one from Jaws look like a yacht. “Aye, there are many accidents happening out on the sea but a man would be wise to watch his shadow too.”
That sure as fuck catches Dean’s attention. “What do you mean? Watch for waves and stuff?”
Daryl shakes his head, stopping by the shabby trawler. Fuck.
“There are shadows in the water,” he says, voice low as if he’s afraid someone might overhear them. Dean wonders who, the people in the village who insist there’s nothing truly wrong, or the shadows.
“They drag you under?” Dean ventures when Daryl looks like he regrets saying anything.
The old man shakes his head. “One could wonder.”
With the bite marks Dean has seen one could fucking wonder indeed, he thinks as he climbs on the trawler. Daryl makes short work of the lines and fenders, clearly used to doing everything by himself, though Dean offers brute strength and carries some of the stuff to where Daryl wants it, which the old man seems to appreciate.
“So,” he says, steering them away from the docks. “Anyplace in particular you wanna see, boy?”
Dean unfolds his map and considers it. Daryl’s trawler is tugging along at a leisurely pace, or perhaps fast for a boat of this kind, Dean wouldn’t know. Above them some gulls follow them for a moment, screeching.
“What are on these islands?” he says, pointing to the map where the islands are nothing more than dots.
“Houses, believe it or not,” Daryl answers, showing Dean a crooked smile, the first since they met. “Some people don’t like company.”
Dean nods. Checks out. “And these? Matinicus and, uh, Monhegan?”
“Matinicus,” Daryl repeats and makes it sound as if Dean mispronounced the name. Sounds the same to him but whatever. “Small communities. Lighthouses, some touristy stuff, things like that.”
Dean nods again. “And where did the attacks occur?”
He realizes the slip-up as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He grimaces, turning to Daryl and full-on expecting him to get mad like the bartender last night. Only this is worse because he’s all alone out here with Daryl and is dependent on the man to get him back to land. Dean knows how to swim but he’s not what he would consider a great swimmer and if memory serves there are sharks in these waters.
A lie to cover for his stupidity is on the tip of his tongue but Daryl just looks thoughtfully at him for a moment and then looks down to point at the map.
“South of Metinic Island,” he says and then waves his hand. “Mostly. Some even further out.”
Dean considers saying something, like proclaiming how he’s not a journalist like he’d done last night, but the words seem redundant since Daryl doesn’t even ask.
“Thanks,” Dean mumbles, looking out over the waters. They’re not as calm as closer to shore but it’s still a nice day.
“It’ll take us little over an hour to go there,” Daryl adds and he’s grinning when Dean turns to look at him, an adventurous, almost boyish glint in the old man’s dark eyes.
Dean grins back, nodding. “Thanks,” he says again, more weight behind it now.
Daryl’s really starting to grow on him, Dean thinks as the old man cranks up the gear, the trawler’s engine sputtering indignantly.
*****
Since Dean didn’t check the time when Daryl first mentioned it, he doesn’t know if it has been an hour exactly when Daryl starts slowing down but that’s anyhow not the biggest of Dean’s concerns.
“Here?” he asks, voice lower for some reason he can’t pinpoint.
It could be the fact that the waters, though choppy not long ago, are now eerily still, or it could be the absence of sounds aside from what they make. Or it could be the sudden fog that rolls over the waters, swallowing the sunlight.
“I would say hereabout,” Daryl mutters, clever eyes cutting across the still waterline.
During their trip out here, Daryl warmed up quite a bit to Dean, telling him many stories of both his Marine days and trawler adventures and to be quite honest Dean kind of liked listening to Daryl. But that jovial mood has been replaced now and it’s not hard to tell that the reason is the sudden unnaturalness of their surroundings.
“Is it, uh,” Dean swallows, studying the fog. “Is this common out here?”
“No.”
Dean shudders at Daryl’s quick answer. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all. Dean hates giving Sam right but fuck, there was no way any of them could have suspected something like this. It’s a feeling in the air, an oppressiveness like the thickness in the air before a thunderstorm.
“When were you last out here?”
Daryl purses his lips behind his beard. “Few days I’d say. No fog then.”
And none in the reports Dean has been reading. Sam never mentioned a fog either. Well, considering the seasoned Daryl’s expression and reaction, Dean doesn’t have to be a fucking genius to figure out whatever they’re feeling right now has supernatural connotations. If Dean was a betting man, which he is and he’s damn good thank you very much, his money would be on witchcraft but fuck if it doesn’t seem very powerful for a regular ass witch.
Either way, Dean surmises pretty damn quickly that there’s nothing he can do out here, right now. He needs resources, backup, research. Well, he went out to determine if something weird is going on out here or if people are just really unlucky with their boats, and he did. This is fucked up and he’s done.
“Okay,” he says, turning to Daryl. “I think maybe we should head back.”
“Yeah,” Daryl agrees in a mumble. “Yeah, this is—”
But Daryl is interrupted before he can explain whatever he thinks this is, cut off by a loud creaking. Dean’s head whips around and he sees the surface ripple, but to his right Daryl looks down at the deck.
“Oh shit,” he says and then the world erupts around them in an explosion of trawler bits and water, darkness swallowing them.