Land's End
By EB
(c)2007
5.
That's kinda when it all changes a little. Sure, Gib's so glad Dean saved his kid's life that he'd already mumbled something about slipping him a couple of percentage shares when they make landfall in a day or two, and yeah, Alex is so glad not to be dead that Dean's kinda wondering if he suddenly gotten another younger brother. One that clings like the first one stopped doing. Sorta like a tumor, only a pretty good-natured one.
But it's more than that. He's not a damn greenhorn anymore. He's got his shit to do, everyone else does, and they fit together pretty well.
He wakes up from a two-hour sleep, tired as he's ever been in his life and sick of the smell of seawater and fish, and thinks, Feels like I'm part of the crew now.
It ain't a bad feeling, and that sorta scares him. His real crew's split up – Sam off following his goddamn yellow brick road and Dad, God only knows where – and it almost feels like a betrayal that he LIKES these men, he likes busting his ass fishing for crab, staring the bottomless black Bering in the eye and spitting. Makes his blood flow faster, his heart thump wild and satisfied in his chest.
He sits in his bunk rubbing gritty eyes and thinking, what does it mean? He's spent maybe ten minutes thinking about what it would be like not to hunt, ten minutes total in the past few years, and those as a direct result of Sammy flying the coop. Otherwise it's just never been an issue. Hunting's what he does; it's the family business, it's his life's calling. And now here he is, smack-dab in the middle of the sea, tired as shit and happy as a clam.
Doesn't make sense, and so he shakes his head hard, flips Gary the bird when he sticks his head in to yell about time to get on deck, and grabs his long-johns.
He's got nothing to compare it to, but according to the other guys, it's a damn fine catch this time out.
"Season ends at six tomorrow morning," Gib announces over a huge, heart-attack-inducing breakfast. Dean isn't worried about the calories; he figures he's dropped an easy ten pounds already. "One more day. Gotta make it count."
The weather cooperates for once, isn't as terrible as it's been, and they pull one string of forty pots that are just crammed with big crab, keepers almost all. The Sally's got two tanks, and the first is full and the second getting there, and the crab keep coming.
It's while they're sorting one of those pots that Dave calls, "Hey, Lucky, pass me that plastic."
Dean looks around, sees Dave looking at him, and hands over the plastic, watches Dave measure his crab before saying, "Lucky?"
Dave doesn't look at him, just goes on shoving crab down the chute, and it's Larry who says, "Hey, if the name fits."
Catching Alex has turned him into the crew's lucky charm, and there are no more Pretty Boy jibes, nothing but a new nickname. He isn't just accepted, he's wanted, and it gives him more of the curious flickering feeling in his belly, that sense of unreality.
By nightfall it's back to thirty-knot winds and twenty-foot swells, and nobody's joking around; just want to get the job done, get this crab to the processor alive, and get paid. The clock's ticking, and even if they've had a good catch this year none of it'll matter unless it's all still squirming when they cash out.
Alex doesn't talk much, but he sticks by Dean's side. Maybe he's scared he'll get swept overboard again, doesn't want to take any chances. The way the sea's behaving Dean wouldn't call it impossible, and it's cold enough to ice things up some, too. While the rest of them keep on pulling pots he climbs up to start chipping ice off the wheelhouse, and soon he's got Alex there, too, silently whacking away at the growing sheath of white on the metal surfaces.
They pull a pot at five to six, with four left to go.
"Man, that sucks," Larry says, shaking his head. "Gotta let the rest of 'em go."
"Dude, at this rate we'd be carrying them in our hands," Dean says tiredly. "We're full."
More than full, they're stuffed to the max. It's about six hours' steaming to the processor ship, and Dean spends the time conked out in his bunk, a soggy dreamless sleep that leaves him feeling groggy and clumsy by the time they go to offload.
"So how long's it been since you hurled?" Gary asks him, grinning at the rail.
"Can't remember."
"Made a sailor out of you. Bet you didn't think it could be done."
Dean shrugs, and accepts one of Gary's cigarettes.
Takes a good eight hours for offloading, and it's another first for Dean: the waiting while they see what kind of shape the crab are in. Fortunately there's very little dead loss; Gib tells a sour story about two or three seasons ago, rougher seas than they've had this trip out, and dead loss that really ate into the profits. No money for dead crab.
"So what are your plans once we hit Dutch?" Gib exhales smoke through his nostrils, his eyes sharp on Dean's face.
Dean lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. "Shit, I dunno. Get paid, go find my dad. Get back to work."
The corner of Gib's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "This wasn't work?"
"Hell, yeah. Just – not my usual gig."
"What is your gig? That amulet you got on -- That isn't bullshit, is it?"
Dean looks away, watching the men in the hold loading another 10,000 pounds of crab. "Not exactly, no."
"So what is your usual line of work?"
"Hunting things. Saving people."
"Like my boy out there?"
Dean gives another limp shrug. "I guess. Yeah."
There's a long silence, and then Gib says, "Larry told me about what you did for him and his woman. That thing in their house."
It's a surprise, but not as much of one now that he's seen how the crew works, how close it makes you. "Then you know what it is I do."
"Hell of a life."
"And this isn't?" Dean laughs, and glances at him. "Jesus Christ, you guys are insane."
There's a big grin on Gib's face, and it takes Dean a second to realize it's the first he's ever seen the skipper make. "Without question," Gib says immediately. "And you fit right in. You gonna stick around a while? I'll ship back out in a week or so. We'll do a cod run first, not as big money but not half bad. Then it's opie season. Snow crab."
It puts an unfathomable lump in Dean's throat, and he goes blank, can't think of a word to say.
"You work your ass off," Gib continues in that even, matter-of-fact voice. "You pull your weight and more, and I'm prepared to offer you a full deckhand spot. No questions asked. That's five percentage points. Damn good money."
"Sounds good," Dean says thickly. "I got responsibilities, man. I got work to do." He swallows and says, "Not that I don't appreciate it."
"No, I get what you're saying. Well, then. Our loss."
"Thanks," Dean whispers.
Gib rummages in his jacket pocket, pulls out his wallet. "Here's my card." He hands it over. "If you're available next season, you let me know. I'll hold a space for you, long as I can."
"Might take you up on that," Dean says, although he doubts it. Where the hell will they be this time next year? Maine? Texas, Florida? Who the hell knows? Shit, they could be dead this time next year.
"You do that," Gib says, nods firmly. When he walks away, Dean lets go of a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
They blow into Dutch Harbor 750,000 pounds lighter and a shitload richer. Dean hasn't gotten paid yet; that happens when they drop anchor. But the sight of the port fills him with a weird sense of mixed relief and disappointment. Hard as it's been, it's been invigorating, too – the scariest, stupidest, weirdest work he's ever done, and part of him's not glad it's done.
His check, when he gets it, is a lot bigger than he'd thought it would be.
"Meant what I said," Gib tells him, with no smile this time. "You're good people. You come on back next year. See if we can't triple that for you."
"Sounds good." Dean nods awkwardly. "Thanks, sir."
When he first steps off onto the pier, he reels like he's coming off a three-day bender. And barely has time to catch himself, before he sees a familiar face.
"God DAMN it, Dean," Dad says harshly, and maybe it's how tired Dean is, or the being on land thing, but when his father belts him one he goes down like his jaw is made from the finest blown glass.
He blinks, staring up at the blue sky, and distantly hears someone saying, "What the FUCK," and then the wooden pier is rattling beneath him, guys pelting by, Larry helping him sit up in time to see the rest of the crew surrounding his father. They don't exactly look like a welcoming party, either. There's a bruise on Dad's cheekbone that wasn't there a few seconds ago, and Dave and Larry are holding onto him like they're gonna finish the job in another second or two.
Larry glances over. His face is as hard as Dean's ever seen. "You all right there, Dean?"
Dean shoves at him, scrambles to his feet. Still weaving – this time he's pretty sure it's not just the sea-legs getting in his way – he catches up, shoves his way through the clot of men and yells, "He's my goddamn DAD."
The guys regard him in ominous silence. Dad's fingering his jaw – somebody got in at least one blow, and from the scary look on Alex's face – so like Sam when you got on his bad side, it sends a quiver through Dean's spine – it was him.
"Look, I tried to let you know," Dean says hoarsely. "But my phone's about 200 feet down, and we were fucking busy, okay?"
"Don't FUCK with him, all right?" Alex snarls at Dad, like he didn't even see Dean standing there. He's practically frothing at the mouth. "He's a goddamn HERO."
Dad doesn't say a word. Stands there, eyes flickering between Dean and this crew of scruffy, mean-looking guys, and Dean can practically hear him calculating the odds. Not good, Dad, all right? Not any freaking good, so just stand the fuck down.
"It's all right," Dean says clearly. He faces Alex's hot stare, nods slowly. "It's all right, dude. Just a misunderstanding. Chill."
"What the hell is this?" Dad asks him. The rest of them have been banished from the equation: now it's just Dean and John Winchester, Dad looking like he'd really like to keep on hammering instead of talking. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you? Christ, Dean, you vanish off the planet and you don't tell me where you ARE? I trained you better than that!"
It's like the cumulative exhaustion of the past week all crashes in on him at once. Jesus. He's got twelve grand burning a hole in his pocket – more than enough to see them through till summer, if they're stingy – he's done a job he really didn't think he COULD do at first, he's done well for himself, and this is his father's reaction. His mouth tastes bitter, like copper. "Well, fuck, Dad, I tried," he says, listing his way across the pier, hoping the rest of the crew isn't dogging him still. He's too tired to be embarrassed, but it's a near thing. "Who went silent first? Huh?"
Dad isn't at his side, and a moment later Dean stops, looks back. Dad's standing there, arms limp at his sides. There's a lot of gray in his beard, in his hair. He looks old, and weirdly confused. "Fishing?" he says after a long moment. "In ALASKA?"
Dean snorts, and feels a laugh bubbling up from deep inside. "Some crazy shit, right?" He laughs out loud, shakes his head. "Come on. I'll buy you a beer. Because I need one bad. You got NO idea."
The Elbow Room's packed, but Dean scores them a table near the back, and a pitcher. The beer tastes like pure ambrosia, and he slams one and pours another before he looks at Dad again.
"Twelve thousand," Dean says evenly. "That's why."
Dad gazes at him. "Twelve thousand. Dollars?"
"Shit, yeah. You think I'd do this crazy-ass job if it wasn't frigging lucrative?"
Dad still hasn't tasted his beer yet. "You earned twelve thousand dollars?" he echoes.
Dean gives a vigorous nod. "Bankroll us for a good stretch, no goddamn scams for a while. Shit, I'm sorry I didn't get hold of you beforehand. I tried, dude, I did."
"I thought –" Dad breaks off, rubs his hand over his face. "Well, you don't wanna know what I thought."
"Dad," Dean says gently. "Have a beer. It's on me."
They've mostly polished off the pitcher by the time Alex shows up. He's carrying a bottle, and it's the good stuff, Johnny. He yanks over a chair, and in another five minutes the rest of the guys are huddled around Dean's tiny table. They give Dad some space, but Dean's crammed up against his crewmates, they all stink like hell, and he's buzzed enough that it feels damn good.
"To the Long Tall Sally's lucky charm," Gary pronounces, holds up a shot of whiskey. It's the first of about fifteen toasts, most of them to fat healthy crab and Dean's lucky-charm status. Dad drinks, but he keeps silent, watching, while Dean gets completely hammered.
When half the bottle is gone, the hugs start. "Damn fine sailor," Gary pronounces, clasping his shoulders and staring into his eyes. "Damn fine. After the barfing stopped."
Unsurprisingly it's Alex who hugs him hardest and longest, and Dean wants to say, Dude, not so much with the touchy-feely thing, but Alex pounds him on the back so hard he nearly spews his whiskey, so it's manly enough.
They're bellowing about the drunken sailor and what you do with him – a song to which Dean knows about three words, although that doesn't stop him – when Dad finally cracks a smile. "Come on, champ," he says against Dean's ear, hand warm and solid on Dean's shoulder. "You look like you could use about a week of sleep."
"Say that again," Dean slurs. The floor's even harder to negotiate now, but Dad's got his back. "S'good feelin'," Dean says, clinging hard to his father's arm. "Out there, and right here."
"What's a good feeling?" Dad steers him between the tables, manages to get them both past a fight about to break out.
"Got m' back. You and them bo'."
Dad squints at him and says, "You got skinnier, but I still don't feel like carrying you."
"I c'n make it." Outside the air is crisp and achingly cold, and Dean blinks. "Where we goin'?"
"Motel. You sleep it off. We got a plane to catch tomorrow."
"A PLANE?" Dean shakes his head, and the street in front of him wavers. "Nuh-uh. Got a BOAT."
"I got you some Dramamine. You'll be fine. Come on, hot shot. Time to crash."
He doesn't remember much of the walk. Unfortunately he remembers the plane ride the next day. But for the moment at least, he can deal. After the Bering Sea, it just doesn't seem quite as scary as usual.
Dad's truck is parked at the airport, and they climb in before Dad says, "So. Where'd you leave the car?"
"In town. Covered parking."
"Good boy." Dad pauses with his hand on the ignition. His look is hard to read.
Dean frowns at him. "What?"
Dad clears his throat. "While I was waiting. For you. I, ah." He stares ahead, out the rain-swept windshield. "Heard a few things, about crab fishing. Tough job."
"You got NO idea."
Dad looks at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You did a good job there, son. Not bad at all."
Face hot, Dean turns to look out the window. "Now see? You made me blush."
"Asshole."
"Like to see YOU try crab fishing. Fucking hard work."
"I can see we'll need a chat about your language when speaking to your father."
"Hell yeah. Now get me back to my damn car."
Dad grins, and puts the truck in gear.
END