Chapter Text
It was the biggest ship the world had ever seen, or so the papers said. Dean could believe them. The thick metal bulk of its sides and the streaming chimneys dominated the skyline, trivializing the buildings around the port. People crammed onto the white stairway that connected the sweeping upper deck to dry land, and there was a thrum of activity animating the whole harbour as beautiful red-lipped women in flourishing dresses and huge hats, young children running across the jetty and jumping with excitement and smartly-pressed men in gray and black slacks, fiddling with ties and handkerchiefs prepared to board. Dean nervously twiddled his own bow tie and craned his neck upwards to admire the swell of machinery as it pumped out cloud of steam across the clear sky. Crew and passengers jostled him, making way for large cars from which disembarked prominent people with huge cases and loud voices. Men in uniform rushed around, trying to aid people and ensure orderly embarkation. Some among the populace were queuing with quiet tuts while others made it their mission board as quickly as possible, pushing past people on the small stairway. The sun glared unashamed on scene and Dean squinted as he gazed upwards, but its warmth could not counter the wind whipping up from the sea, dulled only by the warmth of the hundreds of passengers boarding the ship, exacerbated by the crowd of thousands who had come to witness the historic occasion and wave the Titanic away to sea.
It was April 1912, the Titanic was supposed to be the ship of dreams and Dean was thoroughly uninterested in the whole affair. He was not a huge fan of boats nor of the turbulent sea they sailed upon, nor did he want to be involved in a huge public event that had inspired journalists from all over England to come and gawp. He just wanted to get home to Kansas and the wonderful integrity of America’s heart. This was all his father’s doing.
‘It’s your duty, son,’ he had said. ‘I’m trusting you to help me further the family business,’ he’d said. ‘Great opportunities for deals over in Britain,’ he’d said. Dean had told his father to send Sam, because he liked all that pretentious crap and bad food, but alas, Sam was whisked away to college by a scholarship, leaving Dean to sail across the damn Atlantic Ocean to argue with some men in monkey suits and ridiculous accents about a deal which needed to profit his family while maintaining an illusion of being mutually favourable. Sam, bless the kid, had been so excited to discover that Dean’s return journey coincided with the launch of this stupid boat.
“They’re calling it the ship of dreams, Dean!” He had exclaimed, reading aloud the newspaper clipping. “It’s unsinkable.”
The enthusiasm of Dean’s giant brother waving a paper hadn’t whet his appetite for sailing. The tag line was cheesy and unsinkable smelt like slimy British propaganda to him. Nevertheless, he had to get home from this rainy little island and so, despite not sharing Sam’s enthusiasm about how he would be able to say “You were on the RMS Titanic’s maiden voyage!” he had gone ahead and booked the ticket, which felt too heavy in his hand. Dean just wanted to get on the damn boat, hide in his cabin and hope he wasn’t seasick. He took a last look at the floor, the last solid ground he was going to feel for far too long, and stamped his foot, enjoying its steadiness beneath him. He set his mind, nodded to himself and took the first step onto the ramp, feeling the ground push him away as he left England and began his journey home.
~
The family business was boring, clinical and made a hell of a lot of money. John Winchester had built himself up from scratch, hurling himself into work and drowning the memory of his deceased wife in shares, bonds and, increasingly, alcohol. A gentle boom in economy, some good luck and well-placed connections had paved a golden path to success and the Winchesters found themselves in a state of comfortable abundance. In the age of unprecedented new money, John Winchester was the true epitome of the American Dream. Now Sam was squireling away at university, studying law and Dean was continuing the family business, John guiding him, often from a distance, to become like him; business smart, charming and successful.
Just what Dean had always wanted.
Not.
God, he would never admit it to anyone, but he craved something different. Business didn’t suit him at all. He would rather be out on the road, doing something meaningful, not making money out of Mr and Mrs Average couple. He wanted to experience life.
Dean gripped the railing tightly and leaned over. Lower decks were boarding and they looked so far away, as if the lower class entrance was barely on the same ship. Dean was overwhelming aware of the difference in he and his fellow passengers, as they were herded like cattle into the lower decks, while up here a sordid English gentleman would greet him, he would be escorted to a lavish room and waited on. It was the last thing he wanted. As he gazed below, he felt simultaneously guilty for his privilege and envious of the ordinary people. He bet they would have a lot more fun than him, their shoulders free from the weight of expectation and reputation.
The queue ahead of him shuffled forward a little and he nervously smoothed his hair. A red-haired woman in front of him caught his eye and smiled. He returned it awkwardly before pretending to examine the side of the ship. It looked sturdy enough. Big bolts, sweeping sheets of welded metal. Unsinkable.
The woman didn’t seem put out, and returned to the argument she was having with her mother, and stroked the head of a small blonde child that had its head buried in her skirts, though she occasionally glanced at Deanfrom under her hat.
“Wrong tree, ma’am,” he thought to himself. “Wrong tree.”
Of course, no one widely accepted his type, but Dean still couldn’t help thinking, as he looked over the rail, that perhaps he might just have more chance at being himself if he had been born into a different life. Sons of reputable people were not allowed to be gay. End of.
After a stuttered queue and a hoarse shout from the deck; “Last call for First Class Boarding!” Dean was finally handed his ticket to the inspector, who was just as uprightly British as he’d imagined, complete with brand-new uniform, a handlebar moustache and a received accent.
“Mr. Winchester?” He asked and Dean confirmed he was indeed the owner of the ticket. “First-Class to New York, one single cabin?” Dean nodded continually until the man looked at him, then he cast his eyes back down to the long register and searched for Dean’s name.
“Excellent,” the man said and handed back his ticket.
“It is my esteemed pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Edward Smith, the Captain of this fine ship.” Dean turned and faced a middle-aged bearded man, who looked like he had been plucked straight from 20,000 Leagues. Dean held out a hand and the man took it.
“Sir,” Dean said, nodding.
“Welcome aboard, son,” Captain Smith replied, pumping his hand before releasing. Dean wasn’t sure if he should say something, so commented; “She’s beautiful.” God, that sounded like something to say to a new mother. Thankfully Captain Smith remained unphased and replied “That she is my boy, that she is. She’ll get us there is great time, you’ll see.” Dean nodded again and the shipmate spoke “My colleague over there will escort you to your room, where your bag will be waiting. He will inform you of the system aboard this ship. Thank you for sailing with White Star Line and enjoy your crossing.” Dean grunted a thank-you, but the man had turned towards the next passenger. He glanced again at Captain Smith, but he had likewise dismissed him and was looking across the port. Dean didn’t follow his gaze as he tucked his ticket into his pocket, and instead looked to the aforementioned colleague and smiled politely. The small, enthusiastic man was charmingly American and introduced himself as Chuck.
“If you’ll come with me please, Sir,” he requested. Dean nodded and followed him across the deck and into the ship, where Chuck guided him seamlessly down stairs and through corridors. He focussed on eye on the back of the man’s head while trying to construct a mental map of the ship. Dean barely heard Chuck’s commentary, just catching glimpses; “Dinner starts at 5.30 …in case of emergency, not that that will happen, just follow the crew’s instructions!...be careful on deck, especially when cold, as it can get slippery…” Dean stopped grunting after a while, resigning to nod encouragingly whenever Chuck turned to look at him.
Chuck led him down a long corridor and Dean had never seen anything so excessively luxuriant. The walls were a beautiful cream, still clean from where no one had ever touched them and the carpet was an extravagant crimson that made Dean’s strides feel like that of a king’s. Mirrors and tasteful portraits were intermittent along the walls, all framed in rich gold and large gilded numbers blinked at passers-by from the doors. Dean’s eyes flitted across it all, taking it in. He wished he’d brought his box camera to take pictures to show Sam. He would never believe all this.
“Here we are!” Chuck announced finally and rounded on Dean, “Cabin B44, which is all yours! If you should find anything unsatisfactory during your journey, find a crew member immediately and they will help you as best they can!”
“Thanks…Chuck,” Dean said. However, the man didn’t leave and hovered outside the door as Dean grasped the handle. Dean sighed as he fumbled in his pocket. Dean was sure he could have found the room on his own, though it wasn’t Chuck’s fault that Dean hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. Dean pulled out several coins and pressed them into Chuck’s palm. He beamed a thank-you and scurried away, dodging other passengers and crew coming down the corridor and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d handed him British or American currency.
The white door swung open silently, introducing Dean to his room. It was just as beautiful as outside. Large too, with a grand bed that looked like it was stolen from monarchical Europe, his own private bathroom with golden taps and a long couch with plump cushions. Dean flopped onto it, admiring the room. The ensemble was a deep red, interlaced with gold and clearly designed by someone with a perchance for excess. He gazed around a while longer and reached a conclusion. It was fucking ridiculous. There was a goddamn chandelier on the ceiling. It was more like a palace than a boat. He resisted the urge to smash the expensive looking but horrendously ugly vase and leaned over to undo his suitcase and pull out a book as he awaited the tug of the engines and the start of the journey.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Good morning, crewmen! My name is Balthazar and I will be your supervisor for this journey. Now you have all been trained in your duties, I am merely here to welcome and brief you. So welcome!
“The duty of every White Star Line crew member is to the passenger. Their comfort and satisfaction is the most important thing on this crossing. Remember, some of these people are influential and important citizens. Very rich too, some of them, and so they demand the best service. This also means they give the biggest tips, so it is also in your interest to keep them happy.” He winked. “And remember that you are here to serve them, not become their friends. A professional air is expected at all times.
“Any spillages or breakages will be taken directly from your pay, so be careful. Keep idle communication to a minimum while working and we expect you to appear for your duties at the allotted time, prompt and in your provided uniforms, which must be clean and neat. We will give you each a timetable to appoint where you shall be and when.
Now, we suggest you all familiarise yourself with the menu, the layout of the dining rooms and the rest of the ship. You all know where your quarters are. The time is 11.45pm and scheduled departure is in 15 minutes. You are all on duty. Go.”
The blond British man finished his speech, remaining poised for a moment as if expecting applause, but all he received with was some mumbling from his new catering staff as they dispersed. Castiel had been on this boat for hours already and was itching to start doing something, even if it was just waiting tables. He turned to the man leaning against the wall next to him.
“Ready then?” He asked, an attempt building camaraderie. The shorter man turned towards him, eyebrow raised.
“For what? Waiting tables? Do I need to prepare myself?” He said, pushing himself from the wall and up to his full stature, which was about three inches shorter than Castiel’s.
“This should be fun, no? Sailing across the wide open sea…” Castiel reached his arms out for emphasis, “On the largest luxury liner ever,” Castiel said earnestly.
The man looked incredulous. “You’re nuts,” he said. “I’m just here for the leftovers.” He held a brown paper bag towards Castiel. “Lemon drop?” Castiel raised an eyebrow and shook his head.
“No, thank you,” he said. The man shrugged and leaned back on a table, as if he was planning on taking permanent residence in the meeting room.
“Well, I’m gonna go earn my keep,” Castiel announced and he walked away.
“I’m gonna stand here and eat these lemon drops, then!” The man called after him. “It’s Gabriel by the way.”
There was a beat and Castiel heard another voice behind him, which he recognised from the lecture just moments earlier; “No you are not, young man. You are going to go with him, take a leaf out of his book and do the job that we are paying you for. Unless you want to be fired before we even leave the port. It would be more convenient for you to get off now than in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.” His voice had a friendly overtone, poorly masking the irritation beneath. Castiel grinned.
“No sir, sorry sir,” Gabriel stuttered.
“Good. Now give me a lemon drop and run along,” Castiel heard the rustling of the bag and he waited in the doorway for Gabriel to catch up.
“Patronizing bastard,” Gabriel muttered as he joined Castiel and they headed down the corridor towards the stairs.
“It’s Castiel, by the way,” was all he replied as they walked together. Gabriel grunted an acknowledgment and crunched another sweet into his mouth.
“Ship of fucking dreams my ass. More like ship of underpaid manual labour,” he said and Castiel just shook his head
He’d met types like Gabriel before; lazy, unwilling to work, but kind at heart. Having lost both parents at a young age, Castiel and his brothers had been left to fend for themselves and so he had developed a strong work ethic. He’d worked his whole life around his coastal home town, odd jobs in restaurants, shops, garages and, increasingly, down by the docks. Sometimes he’d used to leave work and sit right on the edge of the bay, feet almost dangling in the sea and watch the boats sail in and out. He’d listen to the shouts of men with ropes and sails and great hauls of fish and watch the wooden masts or metal hulls breeze into the harbour. If he craned his neck enough from his tiny attic window, at night he could see the lighthouse, the tallest building for miles, blinking its persistent warning out onto the sea, yellow light sometimes mingling with the white of the moon enough to illuminate the whole port.
It was beautiful and he had wanted in on it. And now, finally, he did. And he was not about to let Gabriel ruin his dream. He was on the most impressive ship the world had ever seen and he was going to enjoy it.
~
“Holy Mother of God,” Gabriel snatched the words from Castiel’s mouth. “That must the biggest damn staircase in the world.” He was probably right. The huge swirl of the stairs panned across the room, dark brown wood ornate with metal patterns. A huge clock ticked at its head and a chubby angel stood on the middle banister, holding a lamp, ready to brighten the entire ensemble, once the sun had been relieved from its duty of streaming natural light through the great glass dome which covered the scene.
“It’s called the Grand Staircase for a reason,” he replied, trying to disguise the fact he too was in awe.
“There’s a dome,” Gabriel continued. “That’s a dome. Like on a cathedral or something.”
“Yes. Yes it is,” Castiel replied. No point in arguing with the obvious.
“I want to slide down those banisters something bad,” Gabriel said, mouth hanging open.
“Pull yourself together, we’ve got work to do,” Castiel said, trying to tug the other man’s wrist, who remained still for a moment longer before shaking himself and turning to Castiel.
“If they can afford to build that, they oughta pay us more. That’s all I’m sayin’,” he muttered as Castiel followed the sound of voices towards the large First-Class dining room.
They drew up to the steward who was showing people to their seats and Castiel could see others waiters inside already, weaving around elegantly set tables. Thin wineglasses sat atop starch white table clothes, with rows of knives and forks arranged in a delicate order. Huge bunches of flowers adorned every table and the high, ornate backs of the chairs formed small corridors under chandeliers across the white and red swirled carpet. Castiel felt like an architect was repeatedly slapping him in the face with money.
“Nice of you boys to turn up,” the steward scolded when he returned from seating passengers, fake smile transformed into a pinched frown. The pair stood there, unsure of how to reply.
“Well, what are you waiting for, the Queen to come and welcome you? Get serving these customers!” He said in hushed anger, shooing with his hands. The pair scurried away.
“God, everyone here’s uptight,” Gabriel grumbled. Castiel was inclined to agree but said nothing. He composed himself and the pair split up and he approached his first table.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! What can I get you to welcome you on board today?” He said enthusiastically, smiling and drawing out his new notebook. He dutifully jotted down the complicated order and bowed his leave before turning to the kitchen. It was already bustling with staff calling out orders across steaming pots and chopping knives, near-chaos compared to dining area where the only sound was a cheery piano piece that Castiel vaguely recognised. He tore the paper from his pad and slapped it in front of a man in a huge white hat, who barely acknowledged him before swiping it up and barking at various people. He saw Gabriel marching out the door with a huge bowl of soup and sidled over to him.
“Don’t drop it!” He whispered in his ear. Gabriel started and coughed eyes wide and they turned to look at Castiel, before they returned back towards the bowl, which had teetered but managed to maintain its contents.
“Bastard,” he hissed at Castiel, but once he had composed himself and opened the door, Castiel could see he was grinning.
The food took surprisingly little time to prepare and soon Castiel was sweeping out the door, dishes raised high in both hands. He may be little more than a slave with a pay check, but he felt like a champion. He was on the largest and more elegant cruise liner in the world, wearing the smartest clothes he’d ever owned and he was getting paid.
This is going to be amazing, he thought as he laid the first plate down among the cutlery and flowers.