When It Rains, Someone Will Probably Drown

Below deck was a lot nicer than above deck.

Mostly because of the view, or lack thereof.

It was cramped, the cabin creaking and groaning with the motion of the waves, but Connor could handle that better. Less chance of falling overboard if he was surrounded by barriers on all sides.

There was a diner-type blue vinyl booth with Formica table, where Sam and Dean were currently sat opposite each other, speaking in low tones, Sam's bangs flopping into his eyes as he scribbled theories in his clue-collecting spiral notebook that he carted around on every hunt. On the opposite wall was the small kitchenette, which really only consisted of a countertop, a sink, a microwave, and a mini-fridge nestled next to the cupboards below for food and dish storage. Up front were the tiny, tiny cubicles that housed the shower and toilet. A very narrow aisle cut between the booth and the kitchen area to lead to the full-size bed space in the back, separated by a sheer blue curtain that was presently pulled open as Connor perched at the edge of it, watching the other two and waiting with baited breath for Nolan to return with some kind of happy news on his headway with the engine.

Dean had tried to help, being the wiz when it came to all things automotive, but twenty minutes with Nolan and the man had dubbed Dean ignorant to all things nautical and fired him. His boat, his rules, but the old bastard was taking too long.

Connor wasn't sure how long they'd been down here after he went catatonic for a few minutes upon realizing the sharks had returned and they were actually stuck in the middle of the ocean with no way to call for help (the radio had crapped out as well, and their cell phones were a joke), but he could feel the niggle inside that informed him of sunrise. If he were brave enough to venture back up the ladder, he knew he'd see the sky tinged with reds and deep purples, bright orange off reflective blue that went on into forever as the sun peeked over the watery horizon.

At the moment, he was just trying to get himself under control. Panic didn't usually lend itself well to getting out of screwy, pulse-pounding, what-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-this situations.

So he was focusing, searching for bright sides.

Bright Side A happened to be looking him in the face right now, green eyes that lifted every five seconds to check that he wasn't going to get hysterical again. He might have been more embarrassed about being all screechy, but they were nice eyes, very distracting, so he didn't actually care all that much at the moment.

Connor afforded Dean a wobbly smile in answer to the silent question, and Dean smirked, drawing Connor's attention to those lips. Bright Side B: he could sit here under the guise of being terrified speechless, and daydream. No one would question it.

Bright Side C was kind of iffy, but he was doing his damnedest to hang onto it anyway. The island-creature thing was gone, hadn't made any return visits thus far. That didn't mean it wouldn't, though, which was the iffy part.

A thud echoed in the cabin, and Connor jumped a little, scowled at himself in the next second. The sharks had returned a while ago. Persistent bastards, but they were too small to turn the boat upside down; he had to keep reminding himself of that.

Sam and Dean finally stopped talking. Dean sat back and started drumming the tabletop with his fingers as his gaze went distant and contemplative. Sam stayed hunched over and kept scribbling.

Connor heaved a sigh, deciding that daydreams could wait until they were out of danger, and he should make another effort to be helpful instead. He stood slowly, the rocking motion and low ceiling making everything awkward as he hunched to keep from banging his head and grabbed onto the back of Sam's seat to steady himself.

“Whatcha got?” he inquired as he stood in the aisle, gripping the side of the table.

Sam's brows were furrowed deeply in concentration, and he didn't even seem to be paying much attention to what he was doodling as he ignored Connor's question for the moment. Connor recognized that face. It was Sam on a mission inside his own brain, and he probably wouldn't be out for a while, probably trying to recall some obscure fact or other.

“Not much,” Dean answered for him, scooting closer to the wall in silent invitation, and Connor smiled gratefully as he fell into the seat beside him.

Holy wow, small booth. Connor's side was practically melded with Dean's once he was settled, and God, Dean smelled really good.

Not the time, he berated himself, though this had officially been upgraded to replace Bright Side A.

Dean's features tightened briefly as he shifted a little, trying to get comfortable, his voice oddly strained when he continued, “We figured we got a soul-eater what with the ghost buffet. Seems like it's serving itself, sinking boats and drowning people, maybe keeping them bound here until it gets hungry or something. Never heard of a sea monster soul-eater, but ya know, world's full of crazy shit. It's pretty much pointless what ifs and maybes until we can do some research.”

Connor cleared his throat and cocked a brow. “Since when do we research?”

Dean plastered on his cocky grin, the one that clearly said he shouldn't even have to spell out something as obvious as his extremely invaluable role in absolutely everything. “You and Sammy do the reading, I clean the weapons and pester you to hurry up. We all play our parts.”

Sam and Connor both scoffed, and Connor turned his attention to the youngest Winchester so he wouldn't give in to the temptation of leaning toward Dean's too-close face and— “What's the internal expedition about?” he blurted.

Sam's eyes flitted up from his paper, his brows knitting together further. “What?”

“You've got that 'it's on the tip of my brain' face.”

Sam twisted up his mouth in an uncertain scowl, like he was trying to figure out if there was actually a face for that, and if he possessed such a thing. He shook his head slightly and smirked. “There's just... something familiar about the island creature thing.”

Connor nodded. “Big bad posing as a mass of safe land. Not exactly original.”

“Yeah, but...” Sam sighed heavily. “There's a specific story, or a legend, or something. It's bothering me.”

“Usually it's a whale,” Connor mused aloud, chewing on his lower lip and doing his damnedest to block out Dean's scent. Jesus, what was in that aftershave? Pure pheromones targeted specifically for vampire spawn? “Or a giant turtle. Did it look like one of those?” He hadn't really been paying much attention beyond: Fuck, its gonna tip the boat!

Sam shook his head in irritation, then his face lit up, and he snapped his fingers, pointing at Connor victoriously. Eureka! Connor thought in amusement. “Devil whale! There was a, uh, crap I can't remember the story. But, ya know, back in the days of exploration.”

“Yeah, but most of that stuff wasn't true. It was just a bunch of tall tales about uncharted territory, things no one understood yet.”

Sam nodded. “I know, but think about it. This thing could be easily mistaken for an island, and I guess it looked whale-like, except for the skin condition. Maybe it wasn't quite so made-up.”

“Okay, so it fits the profile,” Dean interjected, shifting again in a way that had their whole sides rubbing together, and crap, Connor really wished he'd stop doing that because there was going to be an embarrassing issue with standing if he kept it up. He could feel the heat radiating from him, and that was bad enough on its own. “Anything else you can remember about this story?”

Sam, completely unaware of the torturous predicament Connor was in, nodded again as he took to doodling absently in his notebook once more. “Um, just that if sailors land on it and start a fire, it'll wake up and attack their ship.”

“Yeah well, it came after us and we were nowhere near landing on it,” Dean pointed out, eyes flicking over to Connor furtively, and Connor furrowed his brows. What? He wasn't the one smelling good, wiggling around and wearing that fucking faded green shirt that brought out his eyes.

“Also, there was the ghost buffet,” Sam put in, concentrating on his awkward sketch of a giant octopus. Connor glanced at it and frowned.

Dean shrugged. “Your devil whale a soul-eater, Sammy?”

Sam shook his head. “Not that I can remember.”

“That doesn't mean anything. The lore usually only turns out to be half right anyway. Old-ass legends from writers with overactive imaginations are even less accurate.”

“Fire,” Connor spoke up, voice choked and garnering two strange looks. He cleared his throat and tore Sam's notebook away, ripping the drawing out and crumpling it up before tossing it over his shoulder to wordlessly communicate his lack of amusement. Sam smirked, but didn't protest as the notebook was returned to him, warning adequately issued. “The story says it wakes up when they start a fire. Maybe because it doesn't like fire,” Connor finished as if nothing had just gone on.

Sam didn't look sold on that idea. “Most things don't,” he commented as he started drawing again. He sucked at drawing, so Connor didn't know why he bothered. Boredom, probably, and it was fine as long as he didn't cross the line again. At least he seemed less freaked out by Connor's freaking out, though, if he was willing to tease him about it, so he supposed that was good.

“Kind of a reach,” Dean agreed with Sam.

Damn, it was getting hot in here. Connor scooted as far toward the edge of the booth as he could, trying to put even the barest inch between them without falling out. “Wouldn't hurt to test it, though,” he pressed even as he ignored Dean's briefly confused look, deciding there wasn't also a dash of slightly hurt in there before Dean's mask slammed back up and he refocused on Sam. Had to be Connor's imagination.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Sam challenged.

“With fire,” Connor drawled as if speaking to a backwards child.

Sam twisted his mouth in a scowl, unamused by that obvious answer. “How are you gonna set something on fire in the middle of the ocean?” he clarified.

“Blow it up,” Dean and Connor said simultaneously, their matching tones indicating this was also very obvious, and when did Sam get so stupid?

Sam alternated his glare between them. “You guys are kinda scary sometimes.”

Connor shrugged. “He's a pyro. I'm just vindictive.”

“Besides, explosions kill lots of things,” Dean added. “There's a good chance it'll have trouble trying to drown us in pieces.”

Sam nodded, but this was one of those 'I've thought of something you haven't, you incompetent fools' nods rather than one of agreement. “Nice plan, except the part where we don't have the supplies to explode something that big.”

Dean didn't miss a beat. “Whales generally have blowholes, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, we'll clog it up with explosives. That should do some damage.”

Connor shot that idea down straight away. He didn't know helping with the plan was going to lead to craziness. “That's stupid. You'd have to climb on top of the sea monster, Dean. Bad, bad, idea.” He shook his head vehemently and cut his hand through the air to emphasize how very not down he was with that plan.

“There's also the part where you'll have to climb on top of the sea monster while its chowing down since every variety of soul-eater we've ever heard of are only vulnerable when they're feeding,” Sam added helpfully, and Connor nodded, pointing to the youngest Winchester to second that point.

Dean leaned back with his patented cocky-annoyed look that clearly indicated his logic was impeccable, and yeah okay, maybe a little dangerous, but that was what made it fun. “I'm not seeing a heck of a lot of other options here, guys.”

Connor thought he should try to steer this kamikaze ship back into calmer waters since it was his big mouth that sent it off course in the first place, and he raised his brows in an exaggerated expression of a 'lightbulb moment'. “Hey, how about we all stay on the nice boat and wait for the captain to fix it? Land is where all the best ideas are hidden, so we'll just go find them when we get back.”

Dean cocked a brow, something unreadable in his eyes. “The fire was your idea.”

Crap. He knew that was gonna bite him in the ass. “Well, I take it back. Let's just light some torches and maybe it'll stay far, far away. We'll keep some flaming arrows on standby just in case.” Connor looked back and forth hopefully, silently pleading with one or both of them to convert to a nice, safe, and sane way of thinking.

*~*~*

Their sanity had abandoned ship, and Connor had been helpless to rescue it because he didn't know how to swim.

Sam had gone over to the dark side and backed up Dean's idea after much arguing and a lack of other options, though he still looked unhappy with the final decision as he bustled around, checked and rechecked Dean's lifejacket to make sure it was secure while Dean knelt on the deck and fashioned together a few pipe bombs, liberating a pack of flare guns from the duffel as well.

Connor liked Dean with his lungs working properly and his life intact. He didn't want to watch him die horribly, and he was seriously contemplating tying him up below deck until they were either rescued or Nolan got the boat up and running. Crazily enough, no thoughts of bondage fun entered into the image of that life-saving maneuver. He was that worried.

Connor sat on the bench seat sullenly, trying to think of another way to talk Dean out of this madness as the clang and clatter of Nolan working in the engine compartment vibrated across the water. He silently willed the old man to hurry up, to find the boat's miracle cure and get them the hell out of here before the creature showed up again.

With that thought, his eyes pulled away from Dean preparing for his suicide mission to the sea, scanning for signs of incoming. The breeze whipped against his face and tossed his hair around, the boat rocking mildly on the calm, glassy blue surface, the sun high in the sky and beating down to bathe them in heat and cast a glare over the water. Nothing around for miles, and even the sharks seemed to have chilled out, not bumping the boat anymore and gliding lazily in circles. Connor huffed. Still waters still sucked.

He turned his attention back to the brothers, Sam now sitting cross-legged in front of Dean with a solemn expression, hair whipping around wildly as he did his damnedest to tame it, Dean muttering reassurances and solutions for just-in-case scenarios as he worked.

When, “It's gonna be fine, Sammy, but you remember what to do if it isn't,” drifted along the wind to Connor's ears, Connor was hit with a wall of red from left field, his fear and worry translating to pissed-right-the-hell-off.

Connor rocketed up and stomped over to them, ripping the current project out of Dean's hands, his arm extended backward as he prepared to toss it all into the ocean never to be seen again.

Dean reacted instantly, shot upward and tackled him, grabbing onto the arm and yanking before Connor could follow through, and they both went tumbling to the deck in a roll of flailing limbs and curses.

“What the fuck, Connor?”

“Let go! I'm saving your life, you dumbshit!”

“Give it back!”

“You give it!”

“Son of a bitch!”

“That's what you get!”

“I will hurt you!”

“You'll try! Let it go, Dean, or I'll throw you along with it!”

“I mean it, Connor!”

“I mean it more!”

Sam, who'd been shocked frozen for a minute, finally recovered and ran over to the wrestling pair, tugging at Dean's bicep as he straddled Connor and played tug-of-war with the tangle of pipes and wires while Connor batted at Dean's face and chest with his free hand.

“Stop it!” Sam shouted, having little luck with prying his brother loose. “Quit acting like jerks!”

Connor and Dean ignored him, both red-faced and furious as they continued flinging curses and flipping each other over, neither willing to release their grip on the half-constructed bomb. When pulling and kicking at them didn't work, Sam opted for the surprise maneuver of going for the coveted object itself, and he yanked it free easily with the unexpected sideways pull, hugging it close to himself and backing away cautiously as both murderous gazes turned toward him.

“Sam,” Dean growled low as he shoved away from Connor and stood, holding his hand out expectantly. “Gimme the bomb,” he ordered.

Sam's wide eyes went from Dean to Connor, who was right behind the former shaking his head and waving his arms through the air with a fierce look of: Do it and pay in blood and pain. Dean glanced over his shoulder and caught the display, Connor going for nonchalance too late.

He whirled on him, green eyes stormy. “What the fuck is your problem?” he demanded, poking him hard in the chest. “I get you're fuckin' scared shitless of the water, but you're not the one goin' in, so quit being a pansy-ass and cut it out!”

Connor's blue gaze flared, and he snatched Dean's wrist to halt the poking, using his other hand to shove him back. “You're gonna die, you stupid fuck! This idea is special bus retarded! It might not even be a devil whale and you could die for nothing!” Connor panted heavily, his cheeks burning with his rage. “I don't want you to die for nothing! I don't want you to die for something! This not dying that you're doing right now? Keep doing that!”

Dean scowled and leveled him with a flat stare for long minutes while Connor tried to get his breathing under control. God, why couldn't Dean see how fucking gibbering-in-the-loony-bin-and-denied-sharp-objects insane this was?

Dean turned away from him, face thunderous. “Sam,” he commanded again, open palm extended.

Sam stepped forward uncertainly and returned the bomb to his brother, shooting Connor an apologetic grimace with hazel eyes that begged for him not to explode again. Sam hated seeing any of his family fight, which was odd, given that he instigated a lot of fighting himself.

“Fine,” Connor said with more calm than he felt. “Fucking disappear into the belly of the beast where no one will ever find your stupid-ass, fried and water-logged corpse, and don't expect any flowers at your memorial from me, buddy, because I'm gonna carve 'stupid, selfish, suicidal asshole' on your empty coffin, then I'm gonna kick it over and not care.” Before Dean could retort, Connor stalked off and dropped below deck.

*~*~*

“What's all the hollerin' about?” Nolan's irritated voice sounded from the rear of the boat, and Sam and Dean looked over to see his grease-smudged head poking out, weather-beaten face screwed up in a crotchety old man scowl, sun glinting off his sweaty forehead. His gray eyes were slightly manic, like maybe he was reaching the end of his sanity with the engine, or perhaps he was worried the noise had been about returning hoobajoo.

“It's, uh, nothing, sir,” Sam answered before Dean could spew a blue streak, his brother's patience pretty much nil after that little blow-out. “Just a little disagreement.”

Nolan regarded the brothers dubiously as they sat opposite each other in the middle of the deck, then grunted and grumbled to himself as he submerged back into the hole.

Sam sighed and eyed Dean's stony countenance as his brother glared darkly at the bomb he was working on. There was a pile of them off to the right, and Sam didn't dare question why Dean didn't just let Connor toss this one and get it out of his system. Dean was so far from being in the mood for any challenges, and contrary to popular belief, Sam did know when not to push even when he disagreed. He didn't always exercise restraint, but he knew the signs well enough, and this was one of those rare moments of biting his tongue bloody.

Sam didn't like this idea anymore than Connor, and he had half a mind to go down there and smack him for putting in Dean's head in the first place. But that wouldn't lend itself well toward gaining Connor's help should he need it. Rather than argue with his brother in self-sacrificing-blaze-of-explosive-glory mode, Sam was forming plans to incapacitate Dean in some way before he could actually execute this crazy scheme.

Dean alternated his death glare from the object in his hands to the hatch that led below deck, and after a long silence, he mumbled, “Fucking drama queen.”

“Dean,” Sam ventured softly, feeling a little strange in this role of peacemaker that was usually reserved for Dean. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”

Dean whipped his dark glower up to his brother. “M'not gonna go talk to him, Sam. He's being unreasonable. He's like a jilted ex-girlfriend that does crazy shit like key classic cars worth more than his life.”

Sam stifled the inappropriate chuckle at that imagery, thinking how comparing Connor to a lover, ex or not, was a little too close to the truth. They thought he was stupid where this was concerned, but Sam could clearly see the not-thing they had going on between them. It was utterly moronic how in denial they both were, and he'd seriously considered locking them in a room together on more than one occasion.

Sam cleared his throat. “He's just freakin' out a little,” he tried to defend his friend. “Think about how you'd feel if we were 10,000 feet up with no way to land and Connor said he was gonna jump on the back of the giant winged monster circling us and rip out its feathers.”

Something flashed in Dean's eyes, and the tightness in his face eased a little, giving way to a reluctant smirk. “He'd totally do that,” he admitted. He shook his head and went back to frowning. “Fuck, dude, he's just weirding me out. Someone gave him a lobotomy when we weren't lookin' and replaced his fearless personality with a hysterical chick.”

Sam nodded, still a bit thrown by this pod-person Connor, but not thinking any less of him for it. It was just disconcerting to see someone he'd witnessed take on countless, insane odds and win have a fatal flaw. He supposed all the good superheroes had them, though, now that he thought about it. “What do you think Dad would do if he was here?” Sam asked idly, tracing patterns over the deck with his fingertip.

Dean shrugged, not looking up from his busy hands. “Throw him in the water and make him swim back to the boat over and over again 'til he stopped screamin',” he answered matter-of-factly, and Sam frowned.

Yeah, his dad would probably do that, but he didn't understand how Dean could just say it like it was no big deal. “You think we should try that?” Sam asked, a note of challenge in his tone.

Dean looked up sharply. “Fuck no,” he protested vehemently. “Try it, and I'll kick your ass, Sammy.”

“Would you kick Dad's ass?”

“I'd try,” Dean said without hesitation, and that was all Sam needed to know. Few things would prompt Dean to stand up to John Winchester: posing a threat to Sam, and now, apparently, posing a threat to Connor, too.

Sam knew Dean wasn't going to head downstairs without a damn good excuse, loather of chick-flick moments that he was, so he gave him one. “Gettin' kinda hungry,” he mumbled, rubbing at his growling stomach, knowing any hint of little-brother-neglect would be rectified post haste.

As expected, Dean stuffed his supplies into the duffel, stood, stashed it in the wheelhouse, and ushered a smirking Sam below deck to raid the cupboards.

When they reached the cabin, Connor was sprawled across the bed with his denim-clad legs dangling over the side, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other hand tucked beneath the hem of his black t-shirt and moving in small circles over his exposed stomach, like he was trying to massage away hunger or nausea. Dean's gaze heated up with something Sam didn't want to think about in too much detail, and he tensed for a moment before he recovered and flicked an uncertain glance to his little brother. They removed their lifejackets and dropped them in the small space behind the ladder, then Dean nudged his brother forward. Sam lowered himself into the booth so he could eye Connor while Dean shuffled around the narrow aisle trying to check out the food situation.

Connor didn't move from his position or acknowledge their presence in any way, his lips moving soundlessly as he apparently mumbled something to himself. Sam had been trying to teach himself to read lips as a side hobby, one of those just-because things that may or may not come in handy, but he couldn't tell what Connor was mouthing.

Giving into his curiosity and hoping to break the tension a little, Sam piped up, “What are you doing over there?”

“Bright sides,” Connor answered simply, and Dean glanced up in confusion from where he was crouched in front of the open mini-fridge, but still seemed determined not to speak to him for fear of tripping his crazy wire.

“What bright sides?” Sam pressed as he slid further into the booth to make room in the aisle for his brother to maneuver.

Connor released a put-upon sigh and sat up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, hands dangling between his legs as he stared at the floor. “Well, I can say with 99% certainty that these waters are free of genetically-engineered killing machines, so that's a relief.”

Sam pinched his brows together, asking, “What?” at the same time Dean shot him a look of: What the fuck?

Connor glanced up, seeming to realize something. “Oh, did that movie not come out here yet?” He shrugged and found the cabin wall very interesting. “I think it's gonna come out soon, but you can give it a miss. It's about the evil ocean,” he informed them sagely.

Sam snickered, relieved that Connor seemed to be attempting to inject light-heartedness into things as he was apt to do when shit got too tense.

Dean looked confused as he pulled out a loaf of bread and started constructing a few sandwiches on the tiny counterspace. “Where's the other 1%?” he reluctantly entered the conversation.

Connor ventured to meet his gaze and smirked. “In the land of uncertainty.”

The seconds drew out as they stared at each other, green and blue engaged in a silent conversation, then Dean huffed a chuckle and returned his attention to his sandwich-making, and that was the end of that.

Rift officially smoothed over, Sam smiled to himself. Those two were so ridiculous. If he wasn't actually kind of starving, he'd run up the ladder and seal them in until they literally kissed and made up.

He leaned back in his seat with a mischievous light dancing in his eyes. Maybe after lunch.

*~*~*

Dean jerked awake, eyes snapping open with the tangible sense of foreboding sitting heavily on his chest. His gaze darted around the small space to get his bearings, to try and pinpoint the threat that woke him. Soft surface, blue fabric, cheap laminate wood paneling, too hot, and he found he was being held hostage in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes. Sam's gangly legs draped atop his at an angle, his head crammed into a corner uncomfortably while Connor's mop of tawny blond was resting on Dean's stomach, Connor on his back with his arms and legs sprawling out every which way.

Dean ignored the pang of excitement-nerves-guilt-lust at the sight of Connor's sweat-sheened lax features and their proximity to certain parts, and gently tried to dig himself out. How the hell did he end up at the bottom of the pile?

The collective body heat had Dean soaked in sweat, and as he tried scooting out from underneath the mess of bodies, Connor groaned and rolled his face closer to bad places, Sam grunted and kicked, and then someone's hand smacked him in the face.

“Ow! Son of a—“

Giving up stealth, Dean elbowed the sixteen-year-old culprit in retaliation, and Sam shot up wide-eyed, fists flailing.

“Whoa! Hey, cut it out, damn it!” Dean griped as he tried to catch his brother's projectile limbs, barely dodging what would have been a painful blow to his temple. He caught Sam's wrists and shook him until he came fully alert. “Up and at 'em, Sleepin' Bitch.”

Sam blinked owlishly before screwing up his face and yanking his hands free, digging his knuckles into his eyes as he yawned wide. “Jerk,” he mumbled on auto-pilot.

“Upgrade that to asshat,” Connor said in a grouchy, sleep-rough voice as he twisted himself free of the sheets behind Dean, arms stretching skyward as he worked out his kinks.

Dean shook his head at himself, resolutely not thinking about other kinks that needed working as he completed his escape from the little bedroom nook.

Standing up proved to be challenging, and it was then that he realized how much rocking was going on, which was probably what pulled him out of the land of nod. The cabin lurched this way and that, and Dean stumbled forward and steadied himself with his hands on the back of the nearest booth. Shit, choppy seas. Not good. He glanced back over his shoulder at Connor, who was still looking a little out of it with his sloppy bed hair as he scooted to the edge of the bed and wiped a hand over his tired face.

They'd all been exhausted after being up all night, and after gnawing bellies were satisfied, they'd succumbed to the gentle rocking motion like babies. Sam proposed naptime, Dean and Connor had groggily agreed, and with only the one bed, there followed the cramped slumber party.

Connor came alert by degrees, then there was that final leap that had his eyes blowing wide before he visibly tried to calm himself and not start shrieking again, knuckles going white as he clutched at the mattress in response to the jostling room and turned a little green. Dean felt like shit for what he said, and Connor's issues were the whole reason he was so determined to blow the monster of the week sky-high in the first place. Boat wasn't cooperating by chugging back to life, so Dean focused on the one threat he might be able to do something about with a disturbing ferocity.

A glance at his watch told him they'd been out for at least six hours, which meant it'd be coming up on sunset now. Dean figured this creature was following the unwritten freaks-come-out-at-night rule and headed for the ladder to scoop up his lifejacket.

“Sam, food inventory,” he ordered as he fiddled with the straps and buckles, survival mode kicking in now that he was a little more clear-headed. God only knew how long they'd be stuck out here before help arrived, if help arrived, and rationing was going to be crucial from this point on. “Connor, tear up every nook and cranny down here and see what other supplies you can find that might come in handy. I'll go ask Nolan what we've got besides the flares as far as SOS signals and shit.”

Dean huffed at his stinky shirt. They had plenty of weapons, but hadn't brought any spare clothes since it was supposed to be a simple recon. That'd teach him not to be prepared. He turned and clambered topside without waiting to see if they followed through.

“Fuck,” Dean cursed as he emerged onto the slick deck, hands slipping around to find purchase and lever himself out. He tripped and stumbled around, large swells tossing the boat around, waves slamming into the side and sending up foamy spray that crashed over him. Well, shirt's washed, he thought wryly, staggering for the rails along the side as he shook his head like a dog, drops of water flying off his head and face. Goddamn, he was freezing his ass off now.

The sky was an ominous gray, not a sliver of the setting sun penetrating the rolling clouds. The wind buffeted against him, thunder and lightning cracked across the sky, but it had yet to start raining. The ocean seemed to handling the drenching department just fine on its own anyway.

Dean reached the railing and threw a glance toward the wheelhouse, glad that the other two seemed to be staying put. He made his way toward the back of swaying boat until he hit the hatch of the engine compartment, then dropped to his knees to tug it back, head hanging upside down through the hole as he looked around for the captain. Off to the side of the engine sat a pile of crates storing something or other. Nolan had apparently cleared a space there to take shelter in, the old man curled up in his makeshift bedroll of spare blankets.

“Hey!” Dean yelled so as to be heard over the gathering storm that was filtering in through the opening and echoing around the walls. Nolan jerked up and looked at him bleary-eyed. “Think we oughta start talkin' about smoke signals or somethin', dude!”

Nolan's eyes crinkled as he yawned, shaking his head and waving Dean off. “Missus'll be sendin' help soon as she sees I ain't back yet!” he bellowed over the noise, then flopped back down.

“That's all well and good!” Dean argued. “But what if we had a backup plan or two? That'd make me feel a lot better!” When Nolan's only response was to wave his hand around again, Dean worked his jaw and tried, “At least tell me where you keep the life raft and all that shit!”

“Compartment under the nav console!”

Dean grumbled under his breath as he pulled back and let the hatch fall shut again. “Crotchety old bastard,” he muttered to himself as he straightened and latched onto the railing, then was promptly assaulted in the face with another spray of saltwater. He swiped and spluttered, spitting out the tang in his mouth. Just as soon as he realized it had begun to rain, Connor appeared next to him, white as a sheet and drenched, trying not to look terrified, both hands gripping the rail for dear life.

“Oh, good. 'Cause that's what we need: more water,” Connor quipped uneasily, looking up into the downpour and blinking rapidly. The dark material of his shirt was plastered to his skin, leaving none of those contours to the imagination. Not that Dean hadn't seen them before, but still, there was something about slippery wetness and—

“I thought I told you to stay downstairs!” Dean scolded as he maneuvered around his friend and inched along the rail back toward the wheelhouse, Connor slipping along behind him.

“Actually, you didn't say I had to stay there, and anyway, I'm not dumb!” Connor shouted over the wind. “You're on sea monster lookout, and I decided I wasn't gonna let you try to surf the devil in the middle of a hurricane!”

“That's what you decided, is it?”

“Sam helped!”

Dean smirked and shook his head, grabbing onto the side of the opening that housed the helm and pulling himself in to the slightly improved shelter of the three-walled cabin. It was fine because he wasn't actually planning to go surfing in this weather anyway. He wasn't quite crazy enough for that. He dropped to his knees once more and crawled around the bolted chair to access the storage compartments. Connor dropped next to him and took his cues from Dean, both of them yanking open cabinets and digging around to see what was worth liberating.

Dean surreptitiously observed his friend with a few sideways glances, noting that while Connor was a bit shaky, he was doing way less hyperventilating than expected, concentrating intently on the task at hand. Dean couldn't say he'd be functioning any better on a plane, and the courage Connor was steadily mustering kind of made the hunter want to reward him with—

He shook himself out of bad thoughts yet again. It was just the whole water thing, was all. Wet'n wild-induced lust because of dripping lashes over that shade of blue that was just never any good at all. Everything would be back to normal on dry land. Dean could return to his regularly scheduled suppression and denial. Yep, just as soon as that land thing happened, he would be safe, never to set eyes upon the sea again because he was starting to realize that Connor was right: the ocean was completely, undeniably evil.

“John'll find us, won't he?” Connor broke the tense silence as he sorted through a pile of odds and ends. Or well, it was tense for Dean, at least.

Dean furrowed his brows and realized he wasn't making much headway here as he fiddled absently with some fishing gear. He set it aside and delved back into the cabinets. “What?”

Connor looked up, a flash of uncertainty that begged for the smallest reassurance. “Your dad. If we're still stuck here, if we don't show up, he'll, like, bully the coast guard and stuff, right?”

Dean froze for a split-second, the realization that none of them had bothered to inform John of their extra hunt slamming into him like a mack truck. Son of a bitch! Dad would have no idea where to start looking if they didn't show up at the rendezvous.

Dean refrained from hyperventilating, recovered enough to attempt a facade of confidence. Connor was still looking at him expectantly—hopefully. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

“He, uh... I mean, we... Shit.” Dean bowed his head and sighed, unable to witness the terror that would undoubtedly reclaim Connor's face. “Nolan said his wife'll send help,” he offered lamely, knowing it was no good.

Connor didn't know Nolan's wife. He knew John. He knew John's don't-fuck-with-me attitude and fiercely determined ways. He knew John would get the job done once he figured out what the job was, and Nolan's wife might as well be another drop of rainwater in the flood.

“Oh, hey, a compass,” Connor announced, trying to brush the whole thing off like it was no big deal, but the squeak in his voice gave him away. Dean chanced looking at him and saw that his hands were trembling just that little bit more as he set the compass aside in a little pile next to him.

Damn it. “It's gonna be fine,” Dean ground out, like he was willing the sky, the sea, and the world in general to cooperate and keep that promise for him, or else.

Connor nodded jerkily, wet hair flopping into his face as he refused to meet Dean's eyes and continued rifling. The hunter huffed and set back to work, eyes catching bright orange peeking out from behind a cardboard box at the very back of the compartment he was searching. “Jackpot,” he muttered, leaning forward to reach in and grab onto it.

Dean pulled, but the damn thing was stuck on something. He pulled again, issuing a grunt of irritation when it still refused to budge. “Goddammit, come outta there,” he grumbled, jerking and yanking as his face steadily darkened.

Two things happened next that set off one of those horribly cheesy chain reactions Dean had only ever seen on crappy television.

Sam, apparently having finished his assignment, shoved the hatch up to climb out, the edge of it catching Dean's thigh, while Connor, seeing Dean's distress, leaned over to help. Dean flinched and turned his head to let out a curse in his brother's general direction, which happened at the exact time Connor leaned, causing a painful meeting of the minds as their skulls cracked together. Dean shot to his feet so as to escape anymore assaults, rubbing at the sore spot, and Connor jerked back to rub at his own head, one hand still loosely on the life raft. Apparently, Connor had chosen the wrong section of raft to latch onto, because the next thing they knew, the damn thing tugged free and bloated up at warp speed, knocking Dean off balance and pinning Connor and Sam to opposite walls.

Trapped by the bright orange tubing, they could only watch in horror as Dean stumbled backwards out of the wheelhouse, slipped on the water-sloshed deck, tried catching himself on the wet rail, lost his grip, and then went tumbling into the raging sea.

The raging, shark-infested sea.

“Holy shit!” Connor and Sam exclaimed at the same time.