The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors (halfshellvenus) wrote,
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors

Supernatural Slash Fiction: Of Galleons And Ghosties (AU Sam/Dean PirateFic, Crack)

Title: Of Galleons And Ghosties
Author: HalfshellVenus
Characters: Sam/Dean (Pirate AU, Slash, Crack)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The cracked-out adventures of the wily and wanton Winchesters on the high seas.
Author’s Notes: This be the cracky pirateFic, with the romantic one here. Both were written for summercon, at impertinence’s bidding…

Serendipitous visuals by leyna55 to get you in the mood can be found here.


‘Tis another fine day on the shimmering seas…

“Out of me treasure chest, ghostie! Ye know I like it not when thy leavings taint me gold!” Daring Dean waves his sword menacingly at the gray spirit. “Avast, ye puling phantom!”

“What be that on yon sword?” Sly Samuel sits unflustered at the table drinking his grog.

“’Tis a sausage,” Daring Dean admits. “The spirits like not the touch of saltish things.” He thrusts through the stubborn shade, shouting “Avast!” again as it vanishes at last.

“Well played,” says Sly Samuel. “Can the sausage still be eaten?”

“Nay, ’twill be for the pleasure of the bosun’s little dog.” Daring Dean plucks the item off the sword. “He’ll care not what creatures this meat has touched.”

Samuel cuts an apple into pieces, bringing a slice up toward the Captain’s plump, luscious mouth.

“Mmm, me lad, be there purpose in this pampering?”

“Aye,” Samuel says softly. “I plan to roll about and rut with ye this morn, afore the deck-swabbing and buccaneering begin.”

“Arrrr,” Daring Dean croons. “’Tis a good team we make, with thy planning and my plundering.”

“We be the wily and wanton Winchesters,” Samuel agrees. “With unrivaled swordplay in bedchambers or in battle.”

“Come close, me lad,” says the Captain. “’Tis time to unsheath our weapons…”

‘Tis noon by the time the lazy pleasures of the flesh have passed. Above-decks the sails blow swift and full toward a distant ship out in the unguarded open seas.

“Thar be gold ahead!” Daring Dean exclaims. “Hoist the cannons and bind the mizzen to the yardarm!”

The Devil’s Chase closes in on the target, its crew gathered and poised for attack. A curious cloudiness forms in the sky, flowing out from the galleon that waits in the water.

“’Tis strangely quiet…” notes Samuel.

“Aye—a bit disturbing, when ye think of it,” the Captain agrees.

Cold winds rise and roar as the ship approaches the galleon, sweeping wetly over the deck with an unearthly howl.

“Perhaps ‘tis not the day for robbing and ravaging,” Samuel notes offhandedly. “The crew might enjoy the chance to practice for the next moon’s musical while the days are of decent length.”

The Captain ponders this suggestion. If it seems cowardly, then ‘tis not a possibility. But if said properly…

“Captain! We be headed for the bow!” a crewman shouts out.

“Hard about!” The Captain springs into action as the ship yaws to starboard. “Quiet the sails, and await me orders!”

“How came we to be so close?” Samuel puzzles.

“’Tis some trick ‘o scalliwaggin’ spirits, I say!” Daring Dean mutters loudly. “Fetch me my parrot, that I might ponder in style.”

“Ah, regarding that,” Samuel stalls, “the parrot was eaten by the quartermaster’s cat last Whitsuntide.”

“Blast! Will the betrayal ne’er end!” The Captain tears off his hat and paces mightily. “So be it,” he says at last. “Torch yon ship and set sail for the island seas!”

“And the treasure?” Samuel ventures.

“’Twas a trick to be sure. Naught awaits on that treacherous scow but death for any man that ventures aboard.”

“Aye then—burn and bolt it be!” Samuel agrees.

The Devil’s Chase sails away, leaving smoke and smoldering wreckage behind. The Captain is in unusually good spirits then for the rest of the afternoon.


‘Tis yet another day on the eternal sea… Samuel emerges from below-decks with a stiff-legged gait and a rosy-cheeked smile, and the quartermaster nudges the ship’s cook knowingly. The Captain rises late that morning, strolling about the ship in a shirtless state that causes Samuel to blush every time their eyes meet.

The sun is over the yardarm when one of the men seeks out Samuel for earnest conversation.

“Ready the vat!” Samuel shouts out moments later, and the crew scurries to do his bidding.

“This be different,” the Captain says, leaning close enough to make Samuel shiver. “What have ye in mind, me lad?”

“’Tis a wondrous thing the fishing crew hath found. A kraken youngling trapped in the net that I aim to keep.”

“A kraken baby?” the Captain exclaims. “’Tis unseemly to take a baby from its parent, though its parent be otherwordly and freakish.”

Samuel smiles at the Captain in reassurance. “Unseemly, perhaps. But ‘tis bargaining against the future should we meet up with a grown kraken sometime later.”

“Genius,” the Captain admits. “And devious as well. Ah Samuel, it sets me loins a’burning when ye fathom such darkling deeds.”

“A moment then, while the creature is transported. Then we may rush to our quarters and rut again before the noon meal.”

Daring Dean has already gone below when the kraken is placed in the vat. In scant minutes young Samuel joins him, and the crew is at their leisure until fourteen bells that day.


‘Tis midnight now on an entirely different day, and the second-best deck-swabber bides his time in the stocks for the crime of plugging rats with his pistol down in the hold. “Shootin’ into the wood below-decks!” the quartermaster had yelled. “Be ye drunk or just simple, ye scurvy knave?”

The deck-swabber has brains enough to fear being sold into servitude at the next port. That sorry image fills his head as one of the kitchen cats lays a dead rat at his feet, either in cruelty or remorse.

“And where were ye before, aye? When all o' them buggers was gettin’ at the bags o' grain?”

The cat trots off back down to the hold, leaving its present behind. The crewman will be two more days in the stocks still, with the stench of dead rat to keep him company. The bloody little corpse taunts the man, and he hopes that someone will be kind enough to remove it.

Below-decks, things are lively in the Captain’s quarters.

“Thar be wenches at the next dock,” the Captain offers.

“And I care not for such wenches, now or any other time.”

“Perfumed skin, lad, think on it. Comely bosoms spilling softly out o’ lace-edged gowns.”

“Months at sea, with the galley slave or thine hand alone for company,” Samuel counters. “Perhaps longer, if thou’st continue to belabor the point!”

“Arrrr!” Daring Dean growls in frustration. For a man ruled by such unnatural urges—shared, ‘tis true, but yet unnatural—his Samuel is remarkably prudish.

Goblets of rum and stony silences later, Daring Dean looks over hopefully at his tempestuous brother.

Samuel stares back, his face unyielding. “It seems the urge for stargazing has come upon me—that unpleasant restlessness that brings forth hours spent on the deck at night.”

Daring Dean frowns, for this be not promising.

Samuel gazes into his goblet and continues speaking carelessly. “’Tis possible that a good laying-on of hands might cure such pressing feelings. Muscles soothed with tender care may yet quiet a troubled mind…”

And so it is written, the future of the next several days. Daring Dean will spoil Samuel with coddling and affection, and perhaps be forgiven before the next unfortunate ship they cross…


‘Tis a balmy day, where the tides blow soft and the wind is true.

The Devil’s Chase is moored off an island, her crew combing through the jungle in search of riches in a secret lair.

“Captain!” shouts one of the deckhands. “’Tis a treasure cave!”

Under hanging vines and cool, damp mosses an opening in the rock face beckons. Daring Dean goes inside, sword drawn and Samuel at his side.

“Arrr, and a mysterious place it be,” Samuel notes. Jewels and coins gleam from every surface in the cave, spilling over boulders and a rough-hewn sort of table against the far wall.

“Is’t a lair?” asks Daring Dean. There be no signs of the living, but the table strikes him as odd.

“Rrrrargh!” comes a voice from the shadows. A hideous, oozing man-creature stumbles toward the pirate band, arms raised in threat and rotted slime of a mouth open in fury.

“Monstrous!” “Hell-being!” the crewmen shout, in their haste to back out of the cave.

“Dean?” Samuel says, standing his ground.

“Methinks the creature be not so dangerous without its arms,” the Captain shouts, leaping forward and slicing the limbs off with quick, strong movements.

“Rrrarh?” The creature contemplates its uneven stumps.

“And when ‘tis headless, it be hardly a threat a’tall!” Daring Dean swings his weapon broadsword fashion, and the creature’s head lands on the ground with a revoltingly wet sound.

A foul odor fills the stillness of the cave.

“And now?” Samuel asks.

Dean gestures with his sword toward the jewels and gold trapped under the creature’s various remains. “That part be disgustin’,” he says. “But the rest of the treasure be ours! Avast, me hearties! Thar be spoils a’needin’ transport!”

The crew clusters hesitantly at the cave’s mouth.

“On the double!” shouts Daring Dean, point his sword and glaring at the men’s cowardice.

The cave is emptied within the hour, and the Winchester lads celebrate by torching the ghastly interior and skipping off to the longboats.

“What will ye do with the riches?” Samuel asks along the way.

“Methinks a new parrot be in order,” Dean replies.

Samuel suspects his own purchase of scented oils will bring the two of them far more pleasure…


‘Tis a puling day, fit for mending nets below-decks and burying oneself in books, rum, or the more appealing shipmates.

Samuel and the Captain are trying out some rather intimate items bought from Chinese traders when a shout down through the hatch finds its way to their ears.

“A curse on such ill-fated timing!” the Captain growls. He fastens his breeches with impatient hands and marches off toward the source of the commotion.

A ferocious rain dims the daylight on deck, and moments pass before the Captain notices rocks and wreckage in the distance and a thin sound filtering through the wetness of the air.

“Hard about!” he roars, but the ship continues on its course toward disaster. “Arrrrr,” he grumbles, hastening to the helm.

The crewman there is in a daze, and the Captain pushes him out of the way and grabs the wheel. “Cover me ears, ye traitorous fool!” the Captain shouts as he swerves the ship to starboard.

Long moments pass before the ship has moved and the sounds have dimmed. The crewman looks apologetic, and the Captain boxes his ears and sends him down to the hold.

Samuel arrives a heartbeat later. “Where be the excitement?” he asks. “’Tis but a storm.”

“We be free o’ it now,” the Captain answers. “’Twas those sea-maidens that sing sailors to their doom.”

Samuel becomes thoughtful. “Perhaps the cannons would do then.”

“Ye be thinking to destroy defenseless maidens?”

“These be not innocent girls lost at sea. These be creatures o’ cunning that seek to destroy men and vessels alike.”

“Aye,” Daring Dean nods, for ‘tis true. “Then bring me bits o’ paper to stop up our ears, and two o’ the crewman as well.” Samuel turns, and Dean notices something in his gait.

“Me lad?” the Captain asks, “What didst thou with that string o’ beads from before?”

“They be where ye left them, waitin’ for thy sweet return,” Samuel says, causing his brother sudden distraction.

“Then let us hurry, that we may finish our tryst from before!”

A scant half-hour and two powerful cannon blasts later, the rocks are silent and the deadly deed is done.

The shriek after the first blast was a mite unnerving, but it is forgotten now. The Winchesters have resumed their fine leisure, with rum to lessen the sting and heated passion to warm the afternoon.


‘Tis a port in the South Seas where Daring Dean notes that Samuel is missing.

The stop for supplies and trade has kept them longer than he wishes, for this be near the Queen’s colonies and her fleets be over-ready to dispense justice.

Dean stops in one tavern after another, scarcely able to look about the room before he is crowded with overfriendly patrons. At the Singing Frog, he spies Samuel conversing with a pirate-like fellow. Easing closer, the conversation finds his ears with alarming ease.

“I’ve always enjoyed a tall fellow, meself. 'Tis such a full and satisfying sensation… If one goes that route then it might as well be worth it, if ye take me meaning.” The speaker’s hair is adorned with occasional feather-tipped braids, his eyes ringed with something black and alluring. Daring Dean hates him instantly, and can’t help noticing that Samuel hangs on every filthy word.

“Samuel,” Dean says loudly, “’Tis time we be leavin’ afore a mutiny strands us here.”

Samuel frowns, and the stranger takes in Dean admiringly. “Ah, more’s the pity,” he says with a gold-tinted smile. “We might have enjoyed a fine acquaintance, the three of us here.”

Dean smiles icily, and half-drags Samuel out the door. In the street, he smacks Samuel lightly though his temper fairly longs for a harder blow. “What be ye thinkin’, lad? With the likes o’ him, and after the fussin’ about wenches those months ago?”

Samuel glares at him, slightly drunk and more than a little put out. “I be thinkin’ that ‘twould be nice not to be on the “maiden” end of business time and time again.”

The Captain stops for a moment, shaken by the threat beneath those words. “Ye never asked,” he finally says.

“And ye never offered, did ye?” his brother retorts.

Later, in the lantern’s glow inside their quarters, Dean finds that even pirate captains have their moments of fear. But with a stout heart and the right companion, all things can be conquered—and even welcomed, as he is most surprised to find.


‘Tis a fair and ordinary day, the men rigging the sails above-decks and tarring the hold below.

The Captain and Samuel are passing a grape without the use of their hands when a cry from the crow’s nest interrupts their pastime once again.

“And this not be good, I will strip and lash that lad,” the Captain mutters. He slaps on his tricorn hat.

“The crew always finds that a bit too exciting,” Samuel notes.

“’Tis always exciting so long as it happens to someone else,” Daring Dean says darkly. “Might as well join me, dear lad, for if ‘tis nothing then ‘twill be over twice as quick.”

The Captain’s ‘nothing’ is shaped like a caravel, with streaming sails and a pleasingly puny-looking crew.

“Stumpy Joe, do ye ken the colors o’ that flag?” The Captain’s view through the spyglass shows silver and white with a background too small to be seen.

Joe shakes his head and sets his earring to swinging. “I know it not, Captain Dean, whether ‘tis a voyaging vessel or the mark of fellow buccaneers.”

‘Tis tricksy stepping on the toes of others in the Black Trade. But it has been months since the last haul, and Daring Dean feels that tingling down his back that new plunder always brings.

“Move up slowly and prepare to board! Load the cannons and await me orders afore bringing them into sight!”

Daring Dean is not one to run up the flag before an attack. ‘Tis a stupid notion, he thinks, a bit of worthless bragging that spoils the element of surprise.

“Cannons first, and then on to boarding?” Samuel steals up behind him in his usual, quiet way.

“Ye be a bloodthirsty lad, and I know not where ye get it.”

“We be pirates, Dean, not politicians. Plunder and push on—‘tis the motto of our trade!”

“I’ll keep to the side of stealing and stealth, and nobody getting hurt if they don’t stand in me way.”

“Ropes then, for sneakin’ onto the deck.”

“Thar be no sneakin’ when ye pull alongside a ship, lad, not unless the crew in charge be criminally stupid or dead.”

“Sneakin’, sackin’, it be aye the same t’ me.” Samuel mutters.

The Devil’s Chase moves in close, with no sign of alarm or interest from the other ship.

“To the deck!” the Captain shouts. His men stream soundlessly across the makeshift planking to the caravel, beginning the battle they know best.

‘Tis eerily quiet on the other ship, with little noise but the footsteps of the pirates. Some of the crew return from the hold, empty-handed and looking bewildered.

“Thar be no-one on board,” calls One-Eared Pete. “And naught for stealing ‘cept the hammocks in the hold.”

“Damn it all! I be right sick o’ haunted things,” Dean rages. “Can we not for once find a sweet galleon with gold and rum and riches for the taking? Arrrr, but it vexes me to the bone!”

“That it does,” Samuel agrees. “A pox on ghost ships and their blasted phantom crews!”

“Well, there be nothing for it,” Dean concedes. “We’ll call the men back and set sail for the East again.”

“And just leave the ship as we found it?” Samuel asks.

“Ye have something in mind—out with it, lad.”

“I’ve a thought toward burning it—as a precaution, nothing more.”

“Oh, aye. A precaution. With flames towering up to the sky and wreckage sinkin’ into the sea!” Daring Dean smiles to himself. “Ye’ve quite the love of burnin’, lad.”

“No more than ye do yerself,” says Samuel. Their grins are cocky now and their spirits high, and the day may redeem itself yet.

“Bosun!” Captain Dean shouts. “We’ll be setting yon ship afire and leaving these cursed waters. Rally the men and get it done, afore yon ghosties start makin’ trouble.”

The work is done quickly, and Samuel crosses over the planks to set torch to the deck himself.

The fire catches hold of trail of oil in a rush, crackling and roaring across the wood of the deserted caravel. Samuel returns to the Devil’s Chase, and the Winchesters watch the sky become orange around the doomed, destroyed vessel.

“’Tis nothin’ like a fire for a romantic mood.” The Captain leans close to Samuel, his arm slipping about his brother’s waist.

“Aye, it be a lovely sight at that. It fair puts me in mind to cozy up in bed for the whole afternoon.”

Dean smiles then with sudden, sharp interest. “Where be thine oils from the perfume trader thou didst purchase at Midsummer, then?”

“They be waitin’ only for ye to remember.”

“Oh, that I have lad, that I have.” The Captain nuzzles Samuel’s neck, his lips finding the spot below his ear.

Samuel sways on his feet, and soon the Captain is through being coy. “Smitty!” he shouts across the deck, “The helm be thine ‘til tomorrow!”

The he draws Samuel by the hand along the railing and toward the stairs, that they might continue their sweet celebration down below.

------ fin ------

Awk! Please leave a cracker for Polly afore ye go~~~~



Baby Kraken drawing by deliciouspear

Tags: crack, my_fic, pirates, sn_slash, summercon, wincest

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  • And then, a month and a half later...

    I don't know why I'm having such a hard time getting back into the swing of reading and posting. I guess the doseage for my anti-depressants just…

  • Rises up from the Tar Pits...

    I guess I hadn't realized quite how burned-out I was from the combination of my stressful work project and the last phases of Survivor Idol, not to…

  • It's in the bag!

    Or in the arm, to be precise, and who knew that second COVID dose from Pfizer would be so punishing? :O I got my second shot midday yesterday, and…