Between Here and There
The damage was worse by daylight.
Under the golden light of day, the bruises and the cuts stood out ugly and loud beside our pit-stop riverscape view. The scent of mayhem and death rolled off the spoils and mars, threatened to taint the sweet smell of wet grass and rich earth. To expose the native life to their poisons.
Dean had a shiner under his left eye, and a long blue stain that traced the right side of his jaw. Flecks of dried blood clung to the stubble on his chin, a thin cut ran from his cheekbone almost all the way down to his lips. Sam sustained a gash just inside his hairline between his forehead and his eyes, and a heavy welt around it. His right cheekbone was swollen in a semicircle that arched up to curve around his eye, and a spattering of what appeared like road rash that colored in half of that side of his face. The way he moved his head told of a stiff neck, the way he stripped himself down to his boxer shorts screamed exhaustion.
Mystery collected the fewest wounds in the malee, but did not escape unscathed. A hole in her jeans displayed a gnarly red scrape on her knee, the heels of her hands were red and raw. Mostly, though, all she ended up with was a broken right arm.
The misshapen arm had been discovered by Sam during the race out of town, but Mystery brushed it off as unimportant. "One of you can set it when we stop," she had dismissed as she took random backroads at random turns. "One of you does know how to set a bone, right?"
Dean was the one to do it.
"I make no promises," he told her from his place beneath an ancient willow. He extended her arm out, pronouncing the jaring curve in her forearm. The black and purple band around the break screamed out under the green leaves of the tree by the river, but Mystery did not. Not at his touch, and not at the crack as the arm straightened. "You're still gonna want to see a doctor."
"Yeah, probably," she agreed with a dismissive shrug. She dropped her arm and undid the button of her jeans, grinning up at Dean. "Ready for a pioneer bath?"
In spite of everything, Dean couldn't resist falling into old habit, and, blue hair aside, Mystery was an attractive woman.
"Hell yeah," he replied with a sly smile and a quick wiggle of his brow.
I rolled my eyes from my perch on a high rock on the opposite end of the river. I looked like a walking massacre; the male equivalent of Carrie on prom night. I felt it, too. Raw and worn down, drenched in blood. Humiliated and provoked to that unnervingly calm and wholly miserable edge of chaos.
I lit a cigarette, tried like hell not to stare at my blood crusted hands. I cast my eyes away, drawing as much focus as I could on our surroundings; the lonely dirt road that cut through rolling green hills, the misty backdrop of timeworn mountains, the whist river that murmured over rocks as it ran to a nearby forest. It was quiet. Not peaceful, but silent.
Mother Nature hates a demon.
I closed my eyes and thought Max?
There was no reply.
Max? Was that you last night?
Nothing.
I could use a… company right now, man.
Another response of deserved nothingness.
I missed Castiel. There was nothing the celestial misfit could have said to make me feel better, but at least I wouldn't have felt so numb. So alone.
A feminine scream brought my attention back to the river below in time to watch Dean toss Mystery into a deeper section of water. She landed in a cannonball of a splash that piqued Freya's interests. She took to all fours and cocked her head in longing at the waterplay.
"Go on," I grumbled, tossing my head toward the water. She bolted down, half running and half slipping over rocks, and plunged herself in with my boys and our damsel.
"You commin' or what?" Dean called up.
"Or what," I said around my cigarette and he rolled his eyes. Mystery popped up beside him and tackled him into the water. He came back up with her wrapped in his arms, her flailing half-hearted and squealing. They almost passed for happy in that moment. Not as a unit, but as individuals who rarely saw proverbial light.
God it was irritating.
Sam looked on with dull interest as he lathered in liquid soap. He blinked, and a wave of confusion swept over his face. His eyes closed, his head shook, then he looked around again. A deep breath gathered in his chest and he continued scrubbing with tender care.
"Come on, dad," Dean called again, stealing my attention again. "You look like a Walker. Minus the creepy eyes and the rotting…" He paused and gestured a circle around his face."Thing."
I ignored the comparison that was lost on me and flicked ash into the river.
"Looks cold."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The water did look cold, as everything topside was. But a cold bath wasn't what kept me dry and crusted in rusting crimson.
My gaze wandered, caught Sam's knowing eyes. He quickly looked away, rubbed the nape of his neck.
"I'll clean up at camp," I said absently, bowing my head to keep my eyes away from it all. Toddler logic; if I couldn't see them, they couldn't see me.
"You should at least change," Dean mentioned, holding defensive hands up in an onslaught of splashing perpetuated by Mystery, who continued to neglect the condition of her arm.
I could have argued longer. I was Dad, after all, and I was my own damn being. But that's when suspicions rise. That's when scenes are made, angst felt. There would be a show one way or the other. It was on me to decide how it was going to go down.
I stood, flicked my cigarette into the river as a fuck you to Mother Nature and as a note of contempt for Dean's relentlessness. Sam watched from the corner of his eye, feigning distraction with rinsing himself as I jumped down from my perch. Hasty and harsh, I pulled my jacket off and threw it hard at the ground, my zippo clinking muted in my pocket as it landed. I stripped my shirt off and let it fall into to river, let it slip away with the current. I stood silent for a moment, letting Dean get a good view of the angry lesions and pink scars that trashed my arms and my chest.
"Those aren't all from last night," he observed, his voice flat.
"No, they're not," I agreed as I kicked my boots off. I stripped down to my boxers and walked without fault across the stony bank. I waded into the water, tried not to shiver as its frigid fingers curled around me. I let go, let the icy claws pull me down to the riverbed. As the drink washed over my scalp, my mind turned to the Polar Bear swims from childhood; townspeople would gather once a winter on a frozen lake, chop it open and jump in. It was a fond memory that warmed me for a moment. Made me feel a little better. And then I opened my eyes and saw the remnants of the night that washed away from me in marbled red ribbons.
I emerged, wiped water and blood from my face. Dean was staring at me, hard and heartbroken.
"We gonna talk about this?" he demanded.
I shook my head.
"Nope."
"How long?" Dean asked, his voice gravel and hail. I gave him a deadpan look and leaned back into the water, faking relaxation.
Sam hesitated where he stood, looking like a lost puppy in a monsoon. His gaze wandered between me and Dean for a moment before his lips pursed and his eyes closed in a grimace. He caught my stares when his eyes opened, and he shook his head, in so many ways telling me he was fine, don't bother asking, thanks. His back turned to me, and he lumbered to the riverbank.
"Don't worry about it," I finally said. "Pass me the soap."
"How long?!" Dean barked, shaking now. His brows folded in a mask of anger to quiet the hurt.
The unusual quiet reemerged in the rising tempers. Freya paused in her efforts to catch the river in her mouth. Mystery lapsed in momentary thought with the soap bottle in hand, throwing cautious looks between Dean and me. She decided to toss it low before she gilded back through the water with a haunting and practiced silence, then joined Sam on land.
"Answer me, goddamnit!" Dean shouted, disturbing the river's surface with a forceful fist that looked less than satisfying.
"Since we set up camp," I confessed in a grumble of words. I quickly lathered my hair, my face. Soaped past the open wounds on my shoulder and chest, the track marks in my arms.
"So practically this whole time," Dean fumed. "Crowley's been slicing you up and stuffing your veins with…?"
"Holy water," I answered before I submerged for a minute to rinse the suds off. When I popped back up, Dean was staring at me with a sickened look on his face.
"This whole time," he reiterated. "And you kept this from me? From us?" He gestured back to Sam before he turned to search for backup, but where he expected a matched expression of anger, he found downcast eyes. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." Dean rolled his eyes. "This family and its fucking secrets." He looked to me, wounded. "Why?"
My gaze wandered for a moment, taking note of Mystery's hand on Sam's shoulder, Sam's head in his hands. Him nodding slow in agreement.
"Because you blame yourself enough," I told him with absence, my attention evenly divided.
"Because it's my fault!" he blurted.
"I'm not in the mood for this," I growled with a warning calm as I strolled to shore.
"Yeah," Dean scoffed in sarcasm. "Because nothing tops off a demon raid like finding out your father has been secretly tortured by the king of fucking Hell for a month." He paused, his expression turning to bitter understanding. "Cas fucking knew, too, didn't he?"
I pulled my dirty, blood stained jeans on, my dirty socks, saying nothing. Watching as Sam ambled off across uneven ground towards the van. Mystery, fully dressed except for footwear, came to the edge of the river.
"It pains me to ruin a heartwarming family moment," she called with a gentle voice. "But Sam's not feeling so hot."
"Tell him to take an aspirin and lay down," Dean gnarled, hot and short.
"Let me rephrase that," Mystery sighed, impatient. "Sam's showing signs of a traumatic brain injury and we should probably get him to a hospital before he loses…"
Her words trailed off as she followed Dean's horrified gaze to Sam. Sam was doubled over, vomiting in the weeds. He lost balance, fell to one knee, threw up again. His body swayed for a second, found favor with his left side, and he collapsed with a padded thud.
"Consciousness," Mystery finished in a mutter as her face grew urgent. She grabbed her boots from under the tree and ran. Dean charged through the river in bursts and sprays of water that slapped me as I trailed close behind. Freya followed, passed me and surged beyond the bank towards Sam.
I emerged from the river dripping and freezing, but none of it touched my mind. It was a long ways gone in a flood of disturbing worries and what-ifs. Freya's sudden and incessant yapping did nothing to quiet the dark thoughts as Mystery's figure slid over the grass like a home run hitter to Sam where she put her hands on her face.
"Sam?" she chanted. Slapped him across his unscraped cheek, soft but hurried. "Sam!"
"Sammy!" Dean joined in, his tone a combination of command and desperation. He hadn't bothered to dress, had barely even paused to gather his clothes. Dirt clung to his wet knees as he sank beside his brother and shoved at a shoulder. "Sam!"
I crouched down at Sam's head, but Dean was still angry. Not still. Livid. He shoved me back in a fit of polluted emotions, his eyes howled with betrayal and fear. And god that was so much worse than drowning in holy water and blood.
Mystery stood and gave Dean and me a grave look.
"We need to get him to a hospital," she stated with haste. "Now."