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There are exactly three things Dean knows for sure––that the only skill he’s got is in his hands, rubbed into the knuckle along with years of salt and bottom paint and the distinctive odor of warm diesel; that everything he learned about boats, he learned from his father, for better or worse; and that Sam is meant for more than life on an island with an engine-addled brother and a harborful of superstitious-ass lobstermen.
“No way, Sammy, you’re out of your damn mind,” Dean says, switching off his sander and shoving himself back from Bobby's pretty little sloop––carefully, because although the Karen Singer’s about as steady as any girl could be propped up on six jack stands, she’s just not herself on land––and slapping Sam’s hand away from the Ruby Red’s new, breathtakingly expensive block and tackle. “Keep your fingers out of that. They could get bit off.”
“There’s not even any line in it, it's perfectly safe,” Sam protests, but he retracts his fingers once Dean slaps him again. "Look, man, I'm not asking you for your blessing or anything. I already decided what I'm doing. I just wanted to let you know."
"Jesus Christ, what? That you're signing your fucking life away?"
"Dean," Sam huffs, exasperated, "I'm working for him for one fucking summer. One summer! I'm going back to school in the fall! I thought you'd be happy that I was going to be around for once!"
"Not if Lucifer's going to be riding your ass around the bay," Dean snaps. "You know what happened to his last sternman?"
"No," Sam says, brow furrowed.
"Right, because nobody does!" Dean shouts. "He disappeared! He's probably rotting in the drink with a fucking weight tied to his ankle!"
"Oh, come on––hey, you're gonna brain someone with that," Sam huffs, grabbing the sander out Dean's hands and nearly shaving off his fingers in the process. "You're paranoid."
"It ain't paranoia if there's a reason to be freaked," Dean points out, and snatches the sander back before Sam can hurt himself, because although Sam is eight foot seven and twenty-three years old and even has a college degree, Dean is always going to be his big brother. "You're not here all the time, Sam. You don't see him and his weirdo friends and all the shit they get up to when they're not fishing."
"But I'm only going to be with him when they are fishing," Sam says patiently, with that superior tone of voice he learned at school or something, the one that used to drive their dad crazy and now drives Dean crazy, like Sam knows more than Dean ever will––which is true, generally, but not about Lucifer motherfucking Pieklo.
"Look, I've worked with him," Dean says desperately. "I know what it's like, dude. This is not something you want to get involved in."
"It's only four months, Dean, just until his brother comes downeast and takes over. I'll be fine," Sam promises, crossing his fingers over his heart. "i'll be absolutely fine."