Betty tut-tutted and pooh-poohed but nonetheless, rolled up her sleeves, shouldered her ever-present towel and helped Wendell get to work disrobing Dean. By working together and talking softly, they were able to get Dean out of his wet coat and his wet button-down denim shirt but wisely halted their attempt to pull his black-t-shirt over his head when he made a slight sound of protest.
"This coat sure is heavy." Betty mentioned, picking it up off the floor. She made no move to go through any its pockets but Wendell noticed the way Dean's green eyes darkened and his breath deepened. Hmmm….Dean had been reluctant to take it off and now he didn't want anyone touching it.
"Hang it up." Wendell ordered suddenly, somewhat sharply, and Betty, having decided to defer to Wendell's judgement on all things regarding their stranger, did so on a hook on the wall made to hang coats. "Leave it." Wendell said when Betty tried to straighten it out and brush it down with her hands.
Oh, but Dean did not like her attending his coat! He was coiled and tense and ready to spring.
"Higher."
Betty turned back. "Did you just say that?" she asked Wendell, harmlessly swinging her ever present towel off her shoulder and lazily aiming it in his direction.
You snap that towel one more time, I'll tie you to that coat hook with it.
"No, he did." Wendell wasn't going to quibble. He sure didn't want the man coming off that chair so he removed the coat from its hook and laid it out on a high shelf. When he stepped back, he realized that it was now out of reach of anyone but a tall adult. Betty would need a stepstool if she wanted to get it down. Well, huh! What the hell did its pockets contain anyway?
He held the denim shirt and looked at Dean who merely raised his eyes towards the shelf where his coat sat and Wendell wordlessly added the shirt to it.
"We will have to take them down in a bit so they can properly dry." Wendell told Dean, watching closely for any kind of reaction. "But for now, there they stay." he added when he detected the hitch in Dean's breath. "We'll wait until everyone has gone, how's that?"
"He looks like he swam here." Betty remarked. "Look how dirty he is! He looks like he had a good ole time rolling in the mud." she tut-tutted, tongue clicking. "It's all down his neck, his arms. Why, I just bet that black dirt is all over him. I'll tell you, he is not getting that mud all over my clean sheets!"
Lady, shut up. My head hurts, I'm cold, I can't feel my feet, I don't feel good, I don't know who you are or where you came from and you are sorely testing what little patience I've managed to keep control of.
"Try some coffee?" Betty offered when Wendell didn't respond and Dean continued to sit and stare and shiver.
"He's not ready to accept anything from us yet." Wendell mused. "Easy there son, pay those cackling hens back yonder no heed."
Betty made a face, lips puckered from the virtual sour lemon she insisted on sucking, but she didn't push. "What can I do?"
"Best to just let him be until the water, ehrm, boils." again, he contemplated asking why she was boiling it – again he chose to keep his ears attached to his head. 'Cause one of these days, she would succeed in detaching one.
"Get his boots off." she flapped her hand in the direction of Dean's feet where his heels rested on the side rungs of the chair. "Now!" she snapped her fingers impatiently when Wendell failed to jump and obey. "Wendell! It is you to whom I am speaking."
"Eh? Say what?"
"His feet are wet. No one is comfortable with cold, wet feet." she huffed. "His boots are full of water!"
Good grief, old woman, get a grip. I didn't swim here. Well, not all the way. Just to shore. Can't even really call that swimming. Water was only waist or so high...waded through it.
"He didn't swim here Bet." Wendell knelt cautiously, hands up for Dean to see. Dean's look remained unfocused and blank but he did blink. "No way he cudda. That water froze enough our fishing boats can't break it. Even if he'd been in the water when it was still water, it was too cold to survive in for a swim that long. Not in those heavy clothes. Not with those waves."
"Not if he fell off a boat." she pointed out. Wendell tilted his head in agreement. Good point. One for Betty.
"Off with his boots." Wendell agreed. "That okay with you Dean?"
No response.
Dean sat still and let Wendell untie, unlace, loosen and remove first one boot, then the other. No, they were not full of water. Wendell then removed both socks. They were wet. So wet, Betty deliberately squeezed one to make water drip onto the floor to prove her point – whatever point she was making – with a triumphant smirk. Wendell shook his head.
"He didn't swim here." Wendell insisted with a firm head shake of denial. He stiffly rose to his feet and gently patted Dean on his shoulder. "We'll soon have you dry and warm buddy, hang in there."
"See if he'll let you take that t-shirt off yet." Betty had an armful of towels and a blanket or two. "And those jeans."
Wendell made a move and instantly pulled back with a startled yelp. Damn! Being cold, wet and shivering had not slowed down Dean's reflexes one bit. Wendell checked to make sure he still retained two hands and ten fingers and that nothing was broken. Okay, so yeah, no. Removal of all clothing was not happening anytime soon.
Wendell rubbed his palms together, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his brow, replaced the hankie and still needed more time to consider the situation and calm his nerves. Now what could their mystery guest have against completely disrobing?
Hmmmm….nope nothing came to mind. Mmmmm…no, not shy. Hummmmm…Ummmm…..tattoo? Doubtful. So…come on here Dean, give me a sign. Any sign. Anytime now. I'm waiting. Still waiting. Tick-tock. The theme from Jeopardy. He rubbed his wrist and flexed his fingers...damn but Dean had one hell of a grip. Why, he just bet if he looked closely, he'd find some skin missing!
There! That slight flicker of eyelashes. Aimed at the coat upon there on that shelf.
Mmmm…there was something in that coat…..something….something…..some…thing…..
Wendell touched Dean's knee, nothing. He moved his hand up to Dean's thigh, nothing. Wendell patted down one calf, nothing, then the other, nothing. Oh Dean tensed and every muscle remained taut, but he didn't attempt to remove Wendell's skin or break his bones this time. Wendell picked up one cold, wet foot, nothing. Wendell again patted Dean's shoulder, slight flinch. Wendell slid his hand to the back on Dean's shoulder and Dean twisted ever-so-slightly away.
Wendell caught Betty's eye and made a movement with his hand. Five seconds later, Betty and Wendell were alone with Dean in the kitchen, the door to the other room closed and all was still and quiet.
"You carrying?" Wendell asked quietly. "Not judging." he held his hands up and stepped back. "Just asking you to remove it, unarm it and let me put it up there on the shelf with your coat."
Oh, this guy was so not a dumb hick! Fuck me, I don't feel good. The hell is wrong with me?
Dean didn't move.
"Wendy is the only child here." Wendell assured him. "She's a good girl and never left unsupervised."
For a good moment Dean still didn't move then he reached behind his back with his left hand, went under his t-shirt and withdrew a handgun from the waist of his jeans. Wendell shook his head. Now how had wee Wendy not felt that? He smacked his palm to his forehead. Duh! She probably had but she wouldn't have known what it was.
"That's it." Wendell continued to speak quietly and Dean ejected the clip and set the safety before handing both to Wendell who took them separately, then in full view, turned and placed them under his coat on the shelf. "And there they will stay. No one will know they're there. No one will disobey Betty's order to leave your stuff alone. Okay?"
"I'll need to wash and dry that coat." Betty was puttering about, pulling more towels and cloths and even a blanket from drawers and cupboards. She hadn't paid close attention to Wendell's most recent interaction with Dean. "Good Lord!" she gasped, towels falling from limp arms and hitting the floor. "Is that a gun!? He is a criminal!"
I am not! Well, not really. I mean, in a way maybe. But no.
No response.
"Nah." Wendell quaffed. "Most likely a law official of some sort." he finished patting the coat down over the revolver. "You say nothing about that, you hear?"
Uh….of some sort…yeah, okay, sure…..I can agree with that!
"He doesn't look like one I've ever seen." Betty retorted with a haughty sniff. "All big and rugged and unshaven…so, so unkempt."
You come across that inlet in this weather in an open toy boat and let's see how you look.
"He ain't hardened." Wendell tipped Dean's head up with two fingers under his chin. "Ain't no addict either. Too clean. He eats regular meals too."
"You call that….." Betty waved her hand about. "Clean?"
"Surface dirt washes off Bet." Wendell said. "He's clean, good teeth, good skin, in good shape. He has a home."
"Then what he is doing here?"
Uh dude, yeah, I'm right here! Don't talk like I'm not sitting right here! God I hate that. Talk to me. ME.
Still not the time to mention Murtha to Betty. "Have to wait until he can tell us to know." he reached for Dean's t-shirt and this time, Dean let him bunch it in his fist. "Okay then, let's get you out of these wet clothes and cleaned up a bit before the hens come back. Arms up, that's it." Wendell chuckled. "They're harmless but they sure do like to cluck and chatter! Most likely, they're scared of you, so no sense giving them an eyeful to go all a-flutter over. Bet, that water ready?"
A wonderfully warm blanket – so warm, it had to have been heated – was draped around his shoulders and he was too miserable to shrug away from the comfort it offered.
Aahh...soo-o...goo-oo-oo-d.
"There you go." boy, that soft, gentle, even, elderly masculine voice was soothing. "Bet that feels good, huh? Doesn't it? Get you warmed up a bit before we set about scrubbing you clean."
Aah, huh? Scrub who clean? ME? I'm not dirty, just wet. Oh, and cold. Well, maybe tired. And I really don't feel so good. Ugh.
Dean sat, every instinct on alert but no part of him detected anyone around him meant him harm so he took the mug when it was pressed into his hands, and when they were done toweling his hair dry and patting his cheeks and neck, he sipped the hot liquid – not coffee, something salty, maybe chicken – and swallowed with a moan of contentment.
Activity swirled all around him but he paid it no attention. A warm towel was bundled around his neck covering his ears and tucked under his chin and oh, but that felt good. Oh yeah, he was going to sit right here and enjoy all this attention and care.
The blanket around his shoulders had cooled and it was removed and replaced with another. He couldn't help but again moan in contentment. Yup, okay, he was going to stay here all night and let them bundle him in warm towels and blankets and take care of him. Oooh no, his mug was empty…..he stared at it with a woebegone expression and just like that, he was offered a second mug. He took it but couldn't finish it. It was removed from his limp hands but when he whimpered in protest, it was returned and he wrapped his fingers around it - and why something so simple as having something hot to hold onto was comforting and made his eyes tear, he didn't know or care - as hot water was added to the pan of water his feet were soaking in.
What the hell? When the fuck had that happened? And why the hell does such a useless home remedy feel so damn good? Oh yes, I like it.
"Okay, let's take a look at that hand."
"His hand?" Betty pffft'd. "Ain't doin' much good warmin' him up, you leave him in those wet pants."
Hey, who cuffed my jeans? And when? How the hell did you get them up to my knees? Damn boot cut. It looks damn funny. I look stupid.
"The hand with the dirty rag tied around it." Wendell inspected the untie-able knot and asked for scissors. Before Betty could supply them, a folded knife was in Wendell's palm.
"Looks like it was tied with his teeth." Betty sniffed, holding out the scissors. "Where did you get that knife?"
"Mmmm." Wendell avoided answering directly. It was a very sharp knife and easily cut through the layers of wrapped rag. He tested the tip with his finger, easily drew blood, then folded the blade in and returned it to Dean. "He probably did Bet. Can't tie a knot with one hand."
Wendell hadn't seen Dean pull the knife from the back pocket of his jeans but sure enough, that's where he returned it. And if Wendell hadn't been watching him with eagle eyes, he wouldn't have noticed the deft sleight of hand returning it either.
"Bad?" Betty set up a TV tray then set a bowl of hot water on it. She added a pile of soft, square cloths and the first aid box. "What is all that black? That's not mud. Is that tar? Where would he get in tar this time of year? That can't be tar."
"Don't know what it is." Wendell muttered, Dean's hand not clutching the mug between his. "Ain't coming off, whatever it is."
And it didn't. Dean sat still and let Wendell wash, scrub, wipe, and dunk both hands. Dirt, blood, mud and scabs all washed off, but the black gunk remained. Wendell got up, leaving Betty vigorously scrubbing under Dean's nails with a small brush and wandered off, returning with a bar of brown laundry soap.
"Good heavens Wendell, that soap strips oil off denim." Betty scolded. "Put it away."
"And as yung'in's, our ma's washed us head to toe with it after playing in the woods to wash away any possible poison ivy." Wendell retorted. "Didn't hurt us none and ain't gonna hurt him." he eyed the well-worn bar of soap he held. "Heck, this here bar must be as old as you!"
He ducked with a chuckle but the snapping towel whapped him upside the ear. Before Wendell could react, the towel was grabbed, held and tugged free from Betty's iron grip with one yank. It was a gentle, yet firm yank and while Betty didn't lose her balance, she did take a step or two forward.
"Here now, there'll be none of that." Wendell chided, gently wrangling the towel free from Dean's hold. "Just a towel, won't harm no one. Now give me your other hand and hold still. Won't hurt but I'm gonna hafta scrub-a-rub-a-dub-dub."
Dean blinked but released the towel and sat and let Wendell rub and scrub and wash his hands until the black goo began to wash off. Unfortunately, all the abrasive scrubbing left his hands burning and stinging and oh yeah, here came the pain. His right hand was on fire! Ow. He squirmed, leg muscles visibly tightening in his struggle to remain seated.
"Doing good." Wendell cooed. "Almost done."
Jaw clenched, teeth set, Dean managed to keep his groans of discomfort to a mere grunt or two. The effort left him with an aching head, blurred vision, swollen tongue and sore teeth, but yup, he kept his misery to himself. Finally, finally, Wendell set the bar of torture aside and asked for one more bowl of clean water. He rinsed both hands, patted them dry with a towel, announced there was no need of stitches, then rubbed on and in and all around a soothing ointment that dulled the sharp stinging and eased the bite.
"There now." Wendell wrapped a clean bandage around the white pad of gauze that protected the deep laceration across Dean's palm and tied it off with a double knot. "You got nowhere to go, ain't getting off the isle tonight, might as well let the ladies have your clothes to get 'em clean. I can put your uh, items, up out of harms way."
"And where do you suggest we put him?" Betty demanded. "I wanted you to talk to him and get him on his way. Not coddle him and put him to bed. Just why did you do that anyway? I understand isle hospitality and all, but you went above and beyond, don't you think?"
Wendell rose to his feet and began collecting the various items he'd taken from the first aid kit. Here Betty was all worried about her clean sheets and Dean's dirty coat and yet, she wanted Dean sent on his way? Women. "He, uh, said he'd come here to see…" he paused. "Murtha."
Betty's eyebrows met then widened then went and popped right off her head. Wendell bit the inside of his check and sucked in his lower lip to keep from chuckling out loud. It was hard to throw Betty off her rocker, but lordy-lo, he'd just gone and done it. He turned his back, licked this finger and chalked up 1 point.
"Murtha Magna!" Betty gasped and shuddered, crossed herself, said a prayer and reached into her pocket for her rosary and her cross. "That isle she-witch? I should have known!" she stomped her foot. "Not in my establishment! Not in my establishment! I will not have her here!"
"Okay." Wendell agreed. "I'll take him to her cottage."
Betty frowned. Then scowled. She chewed on her lip. She warred with herself. Here, she ruled the roost. If she willingly gave Dean up, well then, she'd never know who he was or why he was on their isle or what he wanted with Murtha – but if she kept him here…..
"You most certainly will not." she announced. "I just got him warm and clean."
Uh, who just got him warm and clean, Wayne thought? Wisely, he did not say that out loud. Oh no. Sometimes, a man did indeed know when to keep his mouth shut.
"….not dressed." Betty was still verbally blistering his ears. "I haven't cleaned his clothes…."
Oh, he's not going to let you anywhere near them.
"….can't go outside in this weather in just his jeans. He has no dry shoes and…."
"Fine, fine." Wendell raised his hands in defeat. "Andy's apartment will do, I guess." no need to engage in yet another round of heckling with Betty. Nope. Murtha would soon be at their door and Wendell would just lluuvv to see Betty keep the isle's oddest inhabitant out of her establishment. And besides, Murtha's cottage probably lacked electricity anyway. All of the buildings on the isle that didn't have a generator did. All the houses on the isle had a fireplace, so Murtha would have heat. But no, Dean deserved comfort. He was also going to need a bath, remove all that black goo from his neck, but that would wait.
Though, if Murtha insisted on removing Dean to her cottage, well, Wendell wasn't going to argue with her.
"Dean…..come with me." Wendell said. "Yes, yes….we'll bring your clothes with us. See, got them right here. Okay then, that's it. This way."
Dean stood up but didn't walk with Wendell. He only stepped out of the pan of hot water and followed when Wendell walked away with his jacket, shirts and gun.
"That's it. We have a nice quiet room for you. Warm bed, soft blankets. You can unload your pockets, get out of those jeans and we'll let Betty here take them off to launder."
***000***
Dean woke – came to – regained consciousness – whatever, slowly and reluctantly. He didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to hear or smell or see but he rarely ever got his way and this moment was no different. Even though he refused to open his eyes, he was indeed awake. He could hear and smell and every tingly sense and nerve and trait that made him human never failed to let him down.
"You're ok."
Well, okay then! I'm not alone! What the fuck's up with that? Oh yeah hey one tingly sense? Yeah, you're fucked. You let me down.
"You're fine, stay calm." his hand was held between sticky little palms and patted reassuringly. "You're going to be ok."
Something. Just. Wasn't. Right.
He remained still and quiet, waiting, judging, sensing – then finally relaxing when that previously failed sense did not send him any alerts of impending harm and doom. With strength and sheer will, he forced his eyes open, mentally prepared for either fight or flight and….stared into a freckled face fringed with bangs, two high pigtails and missing front teeth.
"Hi." Wendy chirped brightly. "You're awake! Yay! UNCLE WENDELL! HE OPENED HIS EYES!" she shrieked, beaming at him.
Dean winced. His clouded brain told him she meant well and shrieking, shrill, high voices were common in kids her age, but damn, it still split his skull in four!
"Oh say, here now Wendy, don't be bothering the man." Wendell shushed her and freed Dean's hand. "Who let you in here? Dean, are you awake? Can you tell me how you're feeling?"
Dean thought about it, then moved his tongue, found its progress blocked by a wall of unmovable teeth and grunted.
"No? Okay then, now, just relax, you're fine. Take a moment."
Oh, I'm going to need more than a moment!
He tried to raise a hand – either hand, any hand but they simply would not obey.
"Now, now, don't fret. Your hands are free, not tied down. You're just exhausted is all."
Is all? Is all? He was god knows where, with god knows who, after god knows what happened and all he was, was exhausted? Oh, he thought not!
Hey, I'm not 'exhausted'! Maybe a bit tired, but no, not exhausted! *snort*
"Take a moment." the blanket – yes, blanket – was tucked tighter around his chest and then again, his hand was picked up and patted reassuringly. "We'll talk later." his forehead was felt – why, he didn't know, he was not running a fever, then his cheek. "Sssh…."
"Where am I?" he finally made his tongue, if nothing else, obey. He cleared his throat but his voice didn't respond. Neither did his eyes. His eyelashes flickered then re-glued together.
Why is there a kid in my room?
"This here is Andy's room." the pillow under his head was fluffed and adjusted. "Fresh sheets and all, no need to fret."
Yeah, and that explains what?!
"How did I get here?" Dean managed after a moment or two of wrangling with his tongue.
"You walked. I helped you, of course."
"I….no…." he frowned. "I did?"
Why would I need your help and who the fuck are you anyway?
"You were in shock, still are I think."
"I was? I am?" wait, that voice was familiar. Kinda. Wait, was there two voices? Oh yes there was! No wonder he was confused. "From….what?" two voices, but not a kids. Now, what the… huh? "Who says?"
"It hasn't been long at all." scolded someone. "He barely had any time to sleep." some fluff and flutter went on around him, moving the air. "Just listen to him, slurring his words, barely a whisper."
"Who…..?" he became distracted and lost whatever thought he'd been trying to voice out loud. "Ban...dages?"
"I did. Yes. You helped. So did Betty."
What the….? Dude, complete sentences. Speak them.
"Am I…..?" he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and his throat once again thick. "How bad is….is it?"
What am I saying? How bad is what?
"Nothing serious." he was assured. "Nothing broken, just some scrapes and abrasions, few bruises. Couple days of rest, some good food, you'll be fine and we'll send you on your merry ole way."
Good, good, that's good. Okay, well, thanks. Wait, couple of days?
He yawned. Then frowned. Wait, he still didn't know anything. Who were these people? Where was he? What had happened? Why were these sheets so soft and comfy? They were like fleece. Did they make fleece sheets? Where could he get some?
"Sleep."
