The sun beats down on the back of Dean's neck, making him sweaty and sticky and miserable. He surveys the damage to his baby's hull, the gaping hole and its accompanying scratches in the black paint caused by the collision. The Impala looks crippled and defeated. Those goddamn rocks. Dean runs his hand gingerly over the damage, wincing as wood splinters off and lodges itself in his finger.
"Shit," Dean hisses through his teeth, plucking it out savagely. He never should have tried to crew the ship himself. "It's okay, baby," he croons, patting her hull, blisteringly hot now from the absorbed heat of the sun, slightly more gingerly this time, "I'll fix you up."
But to do it, he'll need help.

Castiel's head snaps up sharply, hand darting to the hilt of his sword instinctually, when he hears the voice. It's deep and rough, and it tugs at Castiel's emotions in a way that is unfamiliar to him. Something inside him stirs, and Castiel shakes his head vigorously, refocusing on the voice. Its words are indistinct, like the speaker is talking to himself.
Castiel moves carefully, peering down from the tree he is perched in. He can make out a tall, sandy-haired figure trudging through the sand, stopping every few feet to slough off the fine, white particles that attach themselves to his boots. His clothes, so far as Castiel can tell from this distance, are ragged, worn thin from use. He's garbed in a shabby tunic and black overshirt, covered in a modest leather doublet. A leather pouch, slung diagonally, is belted across his chest. Castiel can see a sword hanging off his hip. Based on his thoroughly non-regulation attire, this man is in no way associated with the Isla de Vila. That leaves only two options: innocent sailor, or dirty pirate.
Castiel sits motionless for a long time, waiting for the stranger to approach. He doesn't move, hardly dares to breathe. Anything unknown is a potential threat to him, and an armed stranger is certainly more threatening than most.
Castiel has made a quiet, safe existence for himself on this miserable deserted island, which is, if not comfortable, then manageable. Ever since being "discharged" from service, Castiel was so depressed that he could barely force himself to move. He survived by eating the fruit borne by the surrounding trees, but he knew it couldn't sustain him for long. After a few days, Castiel had regulated his emotional baggage enough to function, and he set out to explore the island.
It was small, only a few miles across, and it must have been an old pirate base, because Castiel found an underground store room stocked with canned goods and dried meat. A little more searching produced a copious supply of rum, which Castiel had never cared for, and, thankfully, bottles upon bottles of fresh water. He had taken to sleeping in a grassy clearing near to the store room, in roughly the center of the island. There he passed his days listlessly, alone with his thoughts and the bright blue sky.
Castiel snaps back to the present. His muscles are screaming from being immobile for so long, and it takes only a glance downwards to realize that the unknown man has passed him. He is a few feet away now, surveying a tree; for what reason, Castiel knows not.
Cas drops, catlike, from the tree, making nothing but a slight shhh as his feet are enveloped by the sand, but somehow the figure hears, whipping around, hand flying to his sword and drawing. Castiel barely unsheathes his own sword in time to parry the strike, which comes with surprising force.
Cas retaliates, now certain of this man's identity. No honorable sailor would attack a man without provocation. Their swords clash again and again, the flash of their steel glinting in the noonday sun. He's good, but Castiel is better. Years of neurotic, obsessive training have ensured that.
The man falters, his next blow missing its intended mark, and Castiel parries viciously, knocking the weapon from his hands and into the sand. He presses the point of his sword to the man's neck, snarling, "Give up, pirate."

Dean winces as the blade digs into the soft skin of his throat. Who is this man, in his military coat and regulation uniform, to sneak up behind him and attack him? Dean won't stand for that sort of thing.
"Be careful with that thing," he snaps irritably, "Swords can hurt, y'know."
"I believe that is entirely the point of swords," the man facing him says, voice wry.
"Who are you, anyway?" Dean is just running his mouth now, stalling. He can tell from one look who this guy is; he's a soldier of the Isla de Vila, or was, from the raggedy look of his clothing. He hasn't been with the company for a while. Dean's hand inches to his right hip, to where his gun is holstered.
"I am Castiel Novak," he says, with a slight, sarcastic tilt of his head, "at your service." The guy's manner is funny; he speaks in an overly proper way, but it is mixed with an almost black ironic tone that Dean can't quite tell what to make of him.
Dean smiles crookedly as he whips his gun out of its holster and levels it with Castiel's face. "Captain Dean Winchester," he smirks, "at yours."
Castiel backs up fast when he sees the gun, and Dean uses the advantage to grab his discarded sword. He keeps the gun pointed at the dark-haired man's face, giving him a good once-over. The man is—though Dean hates to admit it—almost unfairly comely, with wind-tousled black hair, tanned skin, and deep blue eyes that remind him of the way the sky looks after a storm passes. Currently, those eyes are filled with stunned rage.
"You dare—," Castiel starts angrily, but Dean interrupts him.
"Bring a gun to a sword fight? Yeah, I dare," Dean says, shrugging ruefully. "What do you expect from a dirty pirate?" He winks.
The man's adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Kill me, then," he spits.
Dean puts on a face of scandalized shock, gasping, "Now, why would I do that, my dear man?" His sarcasm is so thick it feels like he could cut it with his sword. "Kill you? Why I never. No, I need your help."
The man's lips are a tight, flat line. He appears to be struggling with himself. Suddenly, his shoulders slouch. "Fine," he breathes, and Dean holds out his hand for Cas' sword.

With Cas' help, the Impala's repair moves along at a brisk clip. They forage for supplies in the bunker as well as felling trees to replace the splintered wood of her hull. It's not perfect, but Dean is satisfied.
It takes a week until she's seaworthy. In that time, Dean has come to trust Castiel enough to sleep in his presence. Whatever else Castiel may be, he is an honorable man, and would not slit a sleeping man's throat, as much as he may want to.
Dean even finds himself liking this odd little man, with his black humor and proper diction. Castiel loosens up a little once in awhile. One evening, as they sit near the fire, eating semi-heated beans and dried jerky, Castiel tells Dean about his time in the Isla de Vila.
"My father was a soldier before me," Castiel says in hushed tones, his face cast in flickering orange light, "He died in action. That is why I wanted to join, I suppose, to honor his memory. I never really knew him. He was always away, and then he was dead."
Dean stirs his beans, unsure of what to say. He feels as though he should comfort Castiel, but the words don't seem to come. Cas isn't finished, though.
"I served for seven years. I was a good soldier, one of the best swordsmen in the company. But I, uh," Castiel shakes his head ruefully, "I was a little bit of a rebel. That's what got me in the end, I expect. There was a man who we captured, they thought he was a pirate. Tall, he was, hair down to his shoulders. He certainly looked like one. But I wasn't sure. I talked to him, in the holding cell, and he told me about his life. He was a simple fisherman from Port Lawrence. He had a brother who was a pirate, but he himself wasn't one. For some reason, I believed him. He had an honest face. So I helped him escape. When my commanding officer found out, I was dishonorably discharged. They left me here to rot," Cas finishes, a bitter bite to his tone.
Dean's curiosity is stirred by the familiar name of Port Lawrence, his hometown. Tentatively, he asks, "And the man, the guy you set free, what was his name?"
Castiel looks up at him curiously as he answers, "Sam. He told me his name was Sam."
Dean's chest swells in relief. "Cas," he exclaims, clapping him on the back, "that's my baby brother! You saved my brother. Jesus, I could kiss you."
Castiel looks startled by this offer, and his lips part in confusion. Dean has to tear his gaze away from his companion's face. It is then that he begins to think, just maybe, that he and Cas can be friends.

They make sail for Port Sioux a week and three days after Dean landed on the island. In return for his assistance, Dean has agreed to give Cas safe passage back to civilization. "But don't come crying to me if you find that you don't enjoy the company of common folk," Dean warns, "Not all of them are as devilishly charming as me."
It's much easier to crew the ship with two men instead of one, and they sail for four days with no incident. On the fourth night, as they approach Port Sioux, Cas retires to his chambers early, and Dean sits out on the bough, overlooking the calm sea. It placid and untroubled, which is in stark contrast to Dean's own thoughts, which are turbulent and troubled, teeming with worry and confusion.
All alone with his baby, Dean thinks about Cas. Dean thinks about the stiff way he speaks, about his silly tan coat that he insists on wearing, even when he sleeps, about the way his eyes crinkle in the sun, and when he laughs how his teeth flash brightly against his tan skin.
And suddenly, Dean realizes: he doesn't want Cas to leave.

The ship creaks as she comes into port. The sun is bright and the weather is fair and hot, a fine day for sailing. Castiel is standing, hands on the rail, overlooking the city, when he feels a presence behind him. Dean.
He turns to find the captain standing close behind him. Dean has already jumped down and moored the Impala and lowered the gangplank. It's time for Cas to go. He doesn't own anything apart from the clothes on his back, and so there is nothing for him to pack. All that's left is to say farewell.
"Dean, I—," Cas begins, but cuts himself off when he sees what Dean is holding.
"Thought you should have it," Dean says, proffering Cas' own sword, the one that Dean took from him when they first met, only two weeks ago. Cas is nearly speechless as he accepts it and slips it into its scabbard, still hanging at his hip. "I figure there's little chance of you stabbing me in the back with it now," Dean says sheepishly, shaking his head in a rueful manner. He looks up, placing his hand firmly on Cas' shoulder, "Watch yourself, okay? I'm not gonna be there to protect you."
Castiel returns the gesture, his hand resting on Dean's shoulder. "Protect me? Why would I need you to do that?" He smiles.
Dean's answering smile is brilliant, and it pulls at Castiel's heart. For a moment, he forgets himself, so overcome is he with the terrible thought of never seeing that smile again. Cas moves forward, grabbing Dean's face and crushing their lips together roughly. He is surprised by the enthusiasm of Dean's response, as long fingers card through his hair and a strong arm wraps around him and pulls him close. Dean melts into him, his lips warm and gentle, but urgent.
When Castiel finally breaks away he is breathless, and he does not pull out of Dean's embrace. They are so close their noses are touching, and Cas has to pull back a little so that he can focus on Dean's face.
"You know," he says, "I suddenly don't fancy Port Sioux much. What do you say we keep on sailing?"
"You'd join a pirate? That's not a very respectable thing to do," Dean jokes, eyes sparkling with mirth as he leans in for another quick kiss.
"Perhaps I am not as respectable as you think," Cas jokes. Dean breaks away at last, moving to stand behind the ship's wheel.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Wherever the wind takes us," Castiel says, turning to look out at the sea. The wind runs tousles his hair and the bright sun warms his face. He takes a deep breath, content. "Lead on, Captain Winchester."
The Impala's sleek, black hull bulls out of port easily, and cuts a wide ribbon in the blue-green water and she cruises away. The gulls cry under the hot sun, and the blue sky is still cloudless and fair. It is a fine day for sailing.