Title: Building Steam
Author: Aithilin
Rating: G - PG?
Genre: Steampunk AU, pre-slash
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: None
Warnings: non-graphic violence, utter AU
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Dean, captain of the Airship Impala, captures Castiel of the Angels.

A Note on Terms: Some acronyms are of my own creation (despite not being that creative). "ATC" is Air Trader Company and mirrored by "STC," or Sea Trader Company. Political elaborations can be explained later if necessary.

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They weren't in the habit of taking prisoners. If the ship they had tethered and raided was a slave ship, then they keel-hauled the crew and let the slaves take over-- sometimes even offered a friendly tow into the nearest port (for a portion of supplies and a bit of loot) if they had blown the sides out. They stayed away from the luxury liners, but hit the trade routes and raided a non-friendly port or two once in a while (ports were desperate measure, and not the best idea unless they were far, far from friendly skies).

Mostly, the crew of The Impala had it pretty good. Even if there was a high turn-over rate.

This time, though, the Winchester brothers were pretty sure that they had screwed up. Or a contact in port did. But no matter who said what, they were the ones setting fire to a three mast Air Trader Company ship. Someone had said that the target was a slavers' ship, and someone had decided not to do the research for once.

"Look, I said I was sorry, alright?"

Sam Winchester's voice was muffled by the noise of the deck, and the mask that was strapped to his head. He was gripping the safety line as he followed the captain back below deck. It was easier to talk when the winds, sails, propellers, and fires were muffled by the actual body of the ship. The mask was just a safety issue-- it made it harder to communicate out on the narrow decks, but they made it possible to breathe in the winds and smoke. Even so, every crew member of the Impala practically ripped off the uncomfortable brass and copper shell of the mask the second they safely could.

Dean always said that Sam looked ridiculous standing out on deck trying to look tough. Looked even worse when the leather straps left red marks across his face because he strapped the mask on too tight. But he wasn't in the mood to tease the idiot just yet.

"Sorry? Oh, you're sorry?" Dean took a second to rub feeling back into his cheeks-- winds were freaking cold today. "First time in ages you don't research a target, and it turns out to be something that fucks us over? Good to know that you're freakin' sorry, Sammy."

"Bobby told us it was a slave ship, we never double-check whatever Bobby tells us."

"Yeah, we're gonna change that habit." Hanging his mask back in place ('always know where the mask, gun, and knife are' is what their father told them) with practiced care, Dean stomped to the nearest porthole to make sure the bodies of the Angel Garrison they had mostly slaughtered were being properly wrapped in the ATC ship's mainsail and dumped. The practice left the ship open for looting, at least, and the ATC didn't travel for cheap. "Make sure you get the papers from that ship. I want to know if they planned a trap like this."

"You're sending me back out?" Incredulous, Sam squeezed himself in front of his brother before they got to the hall that bottlenecked. "You barely even want me in the fights."

"Yeah, well this is research, Sammy. Get to it." Dean hated thinking of himself as short, but it was useful in situations like this where he had to duck under his brother's arm and give him an encouraging shove back towards the main deck. He ignored the grumble and kept to his path.

He loved the design of the Impala. It was impossible to take the crew by surprise on their own turf. The initial narrow hall from the only deck wide enough for boarding was easily defended, even if it was a point of pride to Dean that necessary defence had never needed to be tested. Galley and mess hall came first-- being the biggest rooms on the ship; then the sleeping quarters. There were only two private quarters on the vessel, one for Dean and one for Sam, and the rest of the crew either stuck it out where they could or laid claim to a bunk.

Despite the "ship" part of the term "airship," the monstrosities following trade winds in the sky had no real seafaring counterpart. Early ones were modelled after the rising trend of zeppelins, with decks that were closer to the old xebecs, but most of the deck was covered to deal safely with the altitudes it could reach. The Impala was an older model, but not that old-- a three layered body, long and flat, propellers mounted to each side and engines stoked by coal. An airbag was secured with far too much tarred rigging for just one bosun to manage-- Dean employed two, but larger ships usually staffed five or six. While each deck layer was filled with something, he was looking for the lowest one, usually set aside for the brig and cargo .

But it was the brig he was after.

When it was holding mutineers and hostages, Dean couldn't bring himself to care that it was the most vulnerable part of the ship during an attack. The Impala's older frame was perfect in every other respect. The separate cells were worth the extra cost to customize the ship, too.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs to make sure that the three sets of wings, uniforms, and masks had been put where he ordered. Fucking Angels had too much gear. It probably took the crew a good ten minutes to find those damned signature knives the bastards kept hidden. Sure he liked the design of them, but the dicks who used them had a nasty habit of getting killing blows in. And, he was going to run out of crew if they kept running into Angels.

He waved the expendable crew members off and surveyed the chained prisoners-- each one in identical white shirts, heavy black pants, and heavy boots. When in those masks and mechanical wings, not even Dean could tell male soldiers from the female ones. He wasn't even sure the commanding officers could.

"Didn't know the TC recruited girls." Well, it was common knowledge, but the red-head was already glaring at him. He might as well do some baiting while he was here. "Thought they had thing against women and violence."

"Thought pirates did too."

The response didn't come from the woman, which he hadn't really expected anyway. The red-head's glare turned to the cell across from hers and she hissed something. Dean followed the voice and the glare, amused to see a guy with the damned brightest blue eyes he has ever seen.

"Thought Angels weren't supposed to talk." The Winchester couldn't help but grin as those blue eyes narrowed. "You must be new, then."

When there was no response, Dean figured that they were back to the standard procedure. He could do standard.

"Welcome aboard the Impala, I'm your captain. " Dean smirked, not used to having three of the badass soldiers of the ATC in his little cells. It was empowering for a rebel to have the symbols of authority at his mercy. "If you need anything at all, don't ask unless you plan on giving up information first."

"You think you can hold us, boy?" The question came in baritone from the hulking man in the furthest cell. He looked like the sort to enjoy bashing someone's head it before tossing them overboard.

"Got a couple of iron locks saying that I can." Stepping aside to examine the confiscated Angel gear, he mentally appraised just how much a set of these wings could be worth. "And a whole lot of common sense telling me that it's safer in those cells then out and about with my crew. Why, I'm the nice one on ship, here."

Three glares levelled at him and he figured that he'd had enough. There was still clean-up to do, survivors to kill. Captain's quarters to raid. The fun part of his job.

He checked the uniform jackets stripped from the prisoners, knowing that anyone with an ounce of sense only put identifying patches on the inner lining-- and he was right. Thin strips of lettering were sewn into the lining, acting as markers in place of the old dog tags. Anything else could weaken, strip, or catch on something in the air-- and then even mechanical wings couldn't help.

"You three sit tight, Anna, Uriel, Castiel." Two out of three had weird names. Maybe it was a company thing. "We'll see about feeding you if we find something tolerable in your galley."

The Angels wouldn't be seeing food tonight. Or warmth, since he'd left two portholes open down there. Hopefully it would soften them up enough to get information. If it didn't, well, no one's walked the plank in a while. And three miles up, that made for some interesting splashes when they were over water.