Dean couldn't hide his shock. Did she just say those Croats were supposed to be immune? "What do you mean 'immune'? No one is immune to the virus."
Max turned the hoodie over again and continued digging into the pack. She knew it would only be a minute or two until she stopped bleeding, but that didn't mean she didn't have to clean her wound and get stitched up. It would take longer to heal if she didn't use the antiseptic and close the wound.
He thought he was handling this pretty well, considering how skeptical he'd been when he first saw some of their wounds – in various stages of healing – and considering the (now) countless numbers of Croats he'd either seen die or killed himself. He found himself thinking that maybe he shouldn't be surprised by this, because viruses mutate, and some have cures and some don't.
Max found a small pad of gauze and bottle of hydrogen peroxide and pulled them onto her lap. "Look, you can argue with me about our immunities, or you can wrap your mind around it, pull over, and administer some field med!" She seemed to be getting paler the more she tried to assert herself.
It was quiet for a moment as Dean fought internally to ignore his instincts on this one. Since the virus had hit, he hadn't run into anyone who was immune, and anyone he knew had been bitten or infected had been on the other side of his merciful weapon, begging him not to let them turn into one of those things.
If, for some reason, Max didn't turn – never mind that it would be impossible – then she would need her wound cleaned and stitched. If she did turn, though, at least he could take care of her before she got back to her own people.
"You're thinking I'll turn and you'll have to kill me," she said, breaking the silence.
Dean kept his stare forward and grinded his teeth. Was she a freaking' mind reader, too?
Max watched him, thinking she'd have to stitch her wound shut herself. Her blood had coagulated and she set the hoodie in her lap, trying to be respectful of the Impala's pristine interior, and prepared to unscrew the cap on the cleanser. Finally, she looked away from Dean and down to the bottle, which itself was covered in her bloody fingerprints.
Before she could get a grip on the stained lid, Dean swerved the car to the side of the road and parked under a huge tree. "Get out," he said, opening his own door. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
"What?"
Dean met her on the passenger's side and opened her door.
She guessed she was going to have to do this herself, and that she'd have one hell of a time getting back to her comrades if she couldn't get food or water and had to try to travel long distances with the injury and the blood loss which came from it. Was there no decency left in the world? Or in the people left in the world?
Max gathered her hoodie, the gauze, the hydrogen peroxide, and the backpack clumsily and began to climb out.
"This car's seen enough blood," he said. "Better to sew you back together out here." Dean took the backpack and peroxide from her and led her to the trunk. He opened it and motioned for her to sit.
Once seated, she seemed to relax – or maybe her blood loss made her weaker, Dean couldn't tell – and as he prepared to help, first, grabbing a spare tee from one of the side pockets, he saw some surprise and gratitude in her posture.
"Thanks," she mumbled.
Dean unscrewed the cap from the bottle and took a step closer to Max. He considered telling her it would sting, but she'd already know that, what with being a military brat, or whatever other kind of life would lead to her having fought what seemed like most of it, or whatever that meant.
Max pulled the neck of her tank top further from her collarbone, exposing her wound fully.
Dean wasn't soured from what he saw, but he did find it surprising that she'd clearly been both bitten and stabbed. And if she'd been stabbed, it meant that not only were the Croats they encountered capable of thought, but they were also capable of using weapons.
Dean took a calculated breath and held the white tee against her skin, below the gash. She tried to look down at the wound, but couldn't quite see it. Dean met her low gaze and kept her stare as he poured the peroxide over the raw flesh.
A flurry of bubbles stung throughout the sliced and ripped skin, and Max growled from the pain, sucking air through clenched teeth.
Dean took in a huge breath and blew on the wound. As the hydrogen peroxide cleaned the carelessly cut depths, it dribbled down and absorbed into the tee, turning it pink and red.
"Looks pretty deep," he offered.
Max spoke in a low whisper. "Yeah, well I'm not exactly on their Christmas lists anymore."
Dean checked the backpack for the items to sew her up.
"So you knew those people?" he asked, finding the needle first.
Max was barely present as she thought back to when she had seen them last – the three Croats they had encountered were from Alec's old unit. Ty, Vick, and Angeli were all X5, and she had sparred with them after her recapture and consequent heart transplant. She regretted not staying behind with them – maybe with more transgenics, they'd have had a shot at survival, or at least at not getting infected.
"Were they out of dissolvables?" Dean asked, holding up the cotton twine for stitching with a quasi-puzzled look about him.
Max settled her gaze back to him. She would have to tell him something about Manticore soon. The more time they spent together, the more questions he'd have. "Uh, no. I'll probably heal before the others have a chance to dissolve."
Dean's brows lifted at this news. That would mean she would heal before, what, seven days had passed? He was no stranger to the tough guy attitude, but even he was human and sometimes had to submit to that fact when healing from battles. He figured he would have a list of questions for her pretty soon if she kept up with these vague answers.
"Best to skip the middle man," Max said.
The middle man being the stitches dissolving themselves? That would mean adding a middle man, Dean reasoned. He threaded the needle and stepped nearer to her. He rested his left hand's knuckles below the sliced skin.
Max took in a small, sharp breath. She seemed to Dean as though she were about to cry.
"That hurt?" he asked.
It didn't hurt – at least not the wound. It was his touch. His hands were so warm on her skin, and the ridges of his hands just barely touching her skin made her sad.
Alec had touched her once.
It had been during a moment of utter weakness and despair, and it had been raining out in the middle of the desert, and all of their fellow soldiers had stood in a circle around them as Alec laid on the ground with his head in Max's lap, waiting. Max had been crying, the second time he had seen her cry, and he had reached up to her face to smear the tear across her cheek.
And his hand had been so warm. Just like Dean's.
"No," she managed to mumble as she shut her eyes and wished Dean wasn't here – just for a few minutes of silence. Actually being alone was rare these days. She wondered if being lonely was worse.
Dean recognized the look of loss and quietly stitched her wound shut. Maybe she could use some quiet. One thing was for sure: some wounds never healed.