1799/Rivers Overflowing

Rivers Overflowing
Date of Scene:	12 July 2017
Location:	Buffalo, New York
Synopsis:	A swim in the Niagara, a near-death experience, a headache, and a shirtless drive down the highway. Yup, the Winchester brothers are at it again.
Cast of Characters:	Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

---

Sam Winchester has posed:
July 12, 2017

Buffalo, New York

This hunt had been a bit challenging. Sent to Niagara Falls to investigate a series of drownings on SHIELD's dime, they had soon learned that they were dealing with a Rusalka. Days of research and asking around had revealed that Marianne Fitzhenna was drowned, murdered by her own husband, and the rest, as they say, was history...dealing with a Rusalka, like dealing with a Woman in White or any other kind of pissed off spirit, basically goes the same way every time. The real challenge, in fact, was simply to find the body itself, as the police had been unable to do so. Mr. Fitzhenna had dumped it in the river, and it had been carried over the falls and far, far away.

The cops hadn't had hedge magic though; and they'd been able to track down her wedding ring in the pawn shop where Dan Fitzhenna had callously hawked it for cash. This was enough to allow for a basic tracking spell.

Now, Sammy stands with his boots in the rushing waves of the rapidly-moving Niagara river, the ring on a leather cord, pointing straight down. "I think the body's gotten stuck in an underwater cave, right about there," he says, pointing, his face twisting in a bit of a grimace. They're going to have to retrieve (and dry out) the damned thing before they can end this case with a basic salt and burn.

Putting the cord around his neck, the wedding ring looking odd as it strains against his plaid shirt, he turns to Dean and puts his fist on the palm of his open hand. Rock, paper, scissors...the time-honored method for determining which brother will get to do the most unpleasant of tasks.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The squishy feeling of riverbeds under boots makes for uneven walking along a less than ideal terrain. And the sensation has been one met with vague irritation from the older Winchester. Dean stares where Sam points; his expression flattens (if at all possible)--he's pretty sure he's about to lose Rock, Paper, Scissors. His cheeks puff out with exasperation as his palm matches his brothers.

Green eyes follow the motion as his signature scissors rest on his palm. His lips curve slightly at the edges, a grimace of utter self-deprecation rather than an actual smile. His head cants to the side as he silently gauges the water, giving it ample consideration. And then, after a minute's time, his green eyes return to his brothers, "Best three out of five?"

But after Dean poses the question, he dives beneath the water's surface. The shock of the cold tenses each of his muscles as he goes further below to find what they seek.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam sits there with the rock on his palm, giving Dean the look for a moment. Sometimes, he really suspects his brother is /throwing/ these competitions. But is he going to complain? Nope. Because he really doesn't want to dive into the freezing water.

"Wai-- " he begins, about to suggest that they grab a rope from the trunk of the Impala. But...there Dean goes. Sam puffs out his cheeks in irritation, making The Face at the surface of the water even as anxiety begins to ramp up.

These aren't exactly rapids, but the current is moving fast, tugging at Dean's body, at his clothes. The underground cave isn't easy to see through the rush of the water, but eventually he can make out a hand. The freezing water has done a good job of preserving the flesh. It's been a bit fish eaten, a bit worried away by current, but it still waves to Dean in pale, morbid fashion, as if some part of Mrs. Fitzhenna would desperately /love/ to be put to rest. The other part, the part that might well show up and try to drown them, is at least not likely to show up in the pale cold of the afternoon.

Still, Sammy wades out a bit as well, slogging until the cold water hits his knees, withdrawing an iron crowbar and standing at the ready.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's arms force him down, and he slowly releases the remaining breath from his lungs, helping him sink lower while equalizing the pressure in his ears and sinuses. And it's only when he reaches the mouth of the cave that he pauses. His eyes scan the preserved corpse and stoicism gives way to a pang of something unexpected. He shakes his head, regaining his wits as he does so.

His hand reaches Mrs. Fitzhenna's, and his eyes widen at her well-preserved state. Remembering that he's holding his breath, he finally reaches over to tug at her hand, grasping at the body solidly as he does so to draw her to the surface.

The weight of swimming with another adds a strange weariness to his muscles that he hadn't expected; something he'll consider at length later when left to his own devices.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The moment Sam sees Dean break the surface with that body he stows the crowbar and, rock-paper-scissors or no, moves into the water to help him. He'd expected something lighter, himself. This look of profound empathy crosses his face...he hadn't expected to see the dead woman's staring, sad, pale face, or the hang of her long, lank brown hair. That makes burning it all feel a little...wrong, somehow, but maybe it will serve as a sort of funeral for her.

He also dumps a satchet of salt all over both of them, covering them in it. The water will wash it away quickly, but perhaps it will serve as enough protection to keep them from suddenly getting grabbed and drowned. Even during the day, he's cautious. He does sort of grimace again as he glances at the road. It would be a real bad time for someone to come driving by, that's for sure, though if they do, the SHIELD consultant badges might be helpful.

"We'll have to bring her into the woods," he observes grimly. "It's going to take awhile to dry her out."

Dean Winchester has posed:
If the water felt cold diving in, coming back out feels like vague torture. A shiver comes over Dean's body as he helps hoist the woman to the riverbank. "Yeah," his eyes remain fixed on Mrs. Fitzhenna's nearly ethereal face, "out of the water and into the woods." His tongue rolls over his lips, causing them to tingle from the sudden warmth.

He inhales a long breath and looks towards the road. "This could be days," his lips turn downwards at that. "Suppose that's not a job for two." His lips twist to the side. He treads to the water's edge and looks back towards the woods. With a vague sigh, he tugs his now-sopping shirt over his head and casts it aside. No reason to wear what amounts to an ice pack now.

But as he does so, he feels something. A short pause has him twisting back towards the water before his feet are drawn from under him and he's drawn back into Mrs. Fitzhenna's icy grave.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam blinks as Dean goes charging back towards the grave. "What are you doing?" he asks, confused. He pauses and moves to block the body, so that it might, from the road, look just like someone laying around on the bank for whatever reason. He hisses a little at the changing temperatures himself, but doesn't strip off any of his own clothes, just sort of hanging out there like a big wet moose while he watches his brother do...something.

Still, it's only confusion, he trusts that /something/ important or interesting has drawn him off. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the problem of 'days,' as days could mean altogether more drownings.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The distinct pull of the water, drawing Dean back into its icy depths doesn't grant him an iota of grace, yet it's weirdly gentle at the same time--not some evil nymph, but something innocent, telling, with a call that speaks to his softer sensibilities. The light, the shine, it calls like a beacon just beyond his gaze. And like one of the mice following the piper's song, its silent calls beckons and shapes and pulls.

He swims back to the cave, letting its cal drag him there. Strangely peaceful.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Oh. Shit.

"/Dean!/"

The rusalka is calling him. It must be. Sam doesn't hesitate. He takes a deep breath, and then he dives after his brother, fighting the icy currents to try to grab at his brother. He yanks out the crowbar, wanting the iron, though he's not sure if he'll even see the problem. Panic sweeps over his mind, forced back only by experience. Here, his height and size are an asset at least, granting him some speed in the water as he seeks to wrap one broad arm around his brother's chest and tug him back to the surface, with the same hand that has the crowbar, in the hopes of using it, almost, like a ward, though he has no idea if that will help. Rusalka's aren't something they've encountered before. The thing wasn't even in Dad's journal.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The call lingers over Dean's mind. He doesn't hear his name above it; rather, the intense warmth of whatever the rusalka offers grants a deep longing to remain here in the river--lingering the cold eternal. And, strangely, despite being water, a representation of where he'd been stuck not so long ago, he finds comfort in this space. The feeling of an arm around his chest (or the iron) actually snaps Dean from his strange reverie. The motion earns a quick jerk of his body before it starts to go limp beneath Sam's touch.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam Winchester is suddenly both deeply furious and deeply afraid.

These two things cause him to reach deep within himself. To something. Something in his mind that blossoms like a dark flower, causing a wild stab of pain that leaves both his nostrils flowing with blood, streaming down his face as he roars soundlessly under the icy water.

The water blasts away from them in a rush, pushed away by something inside of him, something that briefly darkens hazel eyes. They're left in the mud and the muck, and he snarls as he pulls his limp brother to the muddy banks, far away from the water. He's panting, reeling in pain, but he ignores it.

Despite the blood, the mud, the pain, and the cold, he knows first thing is first.

Frantic. "Dean!" His mind is racing. Check for response. If no response, start CPR.

He casts one murderous look at the water. He'd felt compassion for the victim seconds ago. Now he feels little more than fear, and murderous rage for the monster who just tried to kill his brother.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Sam's voice cuts into the quiet of the water's edge, but Dean doesn't respond--he doesn't even flinch at his name. It isn't until several chest compression have been completed that Dean begins coughing. Hard. He coughs and leans over, spitting water on the ground as he shivers almost uncontrollably. His eyes blink hard, attempting to find his bearings while gasping hard for breath.

His hand clutches his chest as he sits up, still wheezing to find some semblance of air. The strange peace of the water is long gone while his eyes see spot and he reaches for Sam's shoulder. "Stay," he gasps, "out," he gasps again, "of," he can't even finish the sentence, but hopes that the meaning is, at least, implicit.

Sam Winchester has posed:
By now the waters have of course gone back to normal; the brief burst of telekinesis having simply bought them a second. Sam had been frantic while compressing Dean's chest and giving mouth to mouth, and now relief casts over his face. One hand supports Dean as he speaks. "Yeah, no kidding," he says, figuring he means 'stay out of the water.' Or maybe he's talking to the rusalka (stay out of my head?)

It doesn't matter. His eyes narrow, and then he looks back down to Dean. "It's not going to take us days. I figured out what to do. Let me get you to the car, Dean. I'll drive. We're going to take this thing out /within the hour/."

He sniffs back some of the blood, then tries to help Dean to his feet, glancing back in the direction of the Impala. Normally he is fine to let Dean drive, but the man just nearly drowned so...not so much right now. Granted, given the massive migraine that's burst to life behind his eyes, and the inexplicable hunger that's gnawing at him, it's probably even odds on who really ought to be behind the wheel. But he pretends he's fine, looking grim faced and stubborn as he demands the keys.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dizzy from nearly drowning, Dean shakes his head slightly--a difficult to discern gesture considering he may just be shaking off the dizziness. He coughs again. "Wait." Cough. Cough. "How." Cough Cough. "Where--" Cough Cough. He shakes his head again. "Just walk it off," he mumbles to himself as Sam helps him up because clearly a good walk cures what ails him.

His hand fumbles into his pocket, extracting the keys all too easily, probably indicative of his state. They jingle as Dean attempts to hand them to Sam only to hesitate at the last minute. "I can drive," he finally murmurs. "I'm." He inhales deeply. "Fine. Fine." He rubs his face with the back of his hand.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam lets out an exasperated sound, but...well. "Okay, but you sit in the car and rest a minute, Dean," he says, stern as a Mother Hen. Dean may have raised him, but they certainly do trade off the duty of looking out for one another and managing one another's foibles, and right now that means Sam is demanding that Dean take a moment.

Still, he will explain. "Incinerators burn at 1,560 degrees Fahrenheit. We just gotta find the nearest graveyard with a cremation station. Salt her, shove her in. We might have to bribe someone to let us at it, or break in, but so what? Even a wet body will burn at those temperatures. And. Well. We gotta make it there with a murder victim in our trunk so. Don't speed."

He grabs a huge tarp out of the trunk, as well as the aformentioned and unused rope, and goes to wrap and tie Marianne's body up in it. It's not that this is really going to hide that it's a corpse, per se, but...it's a lot less blatant than just traveling with naked corpse, and marginally more sanitary. He wipes his nose and the bottom half of his face with his sleeve and moves with brisk efficiency, as if his swiftness alone can discourage Dean from exerting himself.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Walk it off," Dean murmurs again to himself. His breath rakes against his throat and his lungs burn, but he's, by most evaluations, going to be fine. His eyebrows draw together and he scowls at Sam's mother hen actions, but doesn't really object beyond the flat expression.

The idea though, that causes his features to soften some; evidently, it means he agrees with the plan. "Good. Yeah," his throat clears. "There was a funeral home in the town up the way," evidently he took stock of it. Probably not a surprise. "We need to get there quickly," he objects about not speeding. "But I won't speed... much."

Despite any necessity in taking a moment, Dean traipses after Sam to help deal with the body. He follows his brother to the corpse--albeit many paces behind thanks to his state.

But Dean is almost done by the time he reaches the body. His eyebrows draw together and he casts his brother a skeptical glance before shaking his head and returning to the car. "Fine," he murmurs.

He slides into the driver's seat after the plan has been discussed and Dean attends to the corpse in the trunk. The keys are turned in the ignition.

Sam Winchester has posed:
It is a day for exasperation it seems, because Sam casts yet another one of those expressions his brother's way when he tries to come back to help. He puffs out his cheeks but decides not to make an issue of it. Dean is muttering their Dad's favorite catchphrase again, and he just doesn't have the energy to argue about it very much. Once the corpse is settled, he slides into his customary shotgun side of the car and leans to rest his head for a moment.

Presently, though, he chuffs a slight laugh. "We don't have to bribe or break in unless nobody's there," he says. "Or even pretend to be authorities. We've got our actual badges." And if a consultant is not an actual /Agent/, it's still authority that actual Agents will back up. "Still getting used to that."

Then he sits up and goes digging in the dash till he finds the Advil, twisting open the cap and grabbing a small handful to dry swallow.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Yeah," Dean agrees with the assessment. His palm trails across his chin. "Shame," he notes with a stitch of a smile. "The ladies always go for the bad boys," his tongue clucks and he puts the car into drive, causing the Impala to lurch forward and his eyes to widen--he's normally so much kinder to his car. "Being legit has a few advantages." His eyes flit towards Sam, "Very few."

His fingers tap against the steering wheel as he guides it onto the highway. "Drink some water," he states blandly following his brothers Advil consumption. "You'll get an ulcer that way." His lips press together tightly before quirking upwards on one side. And then, as if a secondary thought, he asks, "You okay?"

Sam Winchester has posed:
It's a good idea, drinking some water, and Sam twists in his seat to get at the ice chest in the back, digging around until he finds a bottled water. He uncaps it, smiling slightly as Dean acknowledges some of the 'very few' advantages of legitimacy. But that's not an argument he wants to start, so he doesn't press it any further than that. He gulps down the water quickly, and says, "I'm fine."

That's his version of 'walk it off', and he says it with apparently no consciousness of either the irony or even the hypocrisy of what he just did.

He does, however, do a slow double take. Hazel eyes widen. Here they are, having this whole discussion about legitimacy. And here's Dean, just...racing the Impala down the highway with no shirt on. He pauses and says, "Uh. Dean? Maybe we ahh-- better hit a rest area and suit up before we go in. Unless you want to give the morgue people a heck of a story."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's chin drops a that and he frowns slightly. "I loved that shirt," he hisses through his teeth. His eyes squint and he continues to barrel down the highway. "It was a great shirt. It was the best shirt. Nymphs who make me lose my shirt burn." He swallows hard and hums at the problem at hand though--he's driving shirtless with a body in the trunk down a highway at full speed. "This is what rednecks feel like."

"Take the wheel," he states before looking over this shoulder to see if he happened to bring a spare, but even after the order he maintains one hand on the steering wheel. "Do you remember packing an extra?" he quirks an eyebrow

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam's eyebrows climb higher and higher as Dean starts to grumble about how this was his /very favorite shirt out of all of his shirts./ "Maybe don't wear your favorite shirts while Hunting?"

But he nods. He always packs spares. He goes a bit wideeyed as Dean demands he takes the wheel from the passenger side. "You know what would have been easy," he grumbles, his sass showing as he manages to keep it steady in spite of himself, even as he gives real thought to the fact that he has no control over /brakes/ or /acceleration/...

"It would have been really easy if I had been /driving/. It's almost like someone suggested that."

Which begs the question of why he's indulging in this lunacy rather than just insisting Dean pull over, but...he does it. "It's in the bag in the back, right on top," he adds, grumpily. "Are you prepared to stomp the brake if I tell you to brake?" At least the road is relatively open. There really are advantages to those lonely state highways over say, the Interstate, where they'd already be street pizza for pulling this nonsense.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"My favourite shirts give confidence and help story setting," Dean insists while rifling through the back and each of the items in search of a shirt--any shirt, at this point. "The right shirt makes the right backstory," because clearly the clothes write the backstory, not vice-versa. "We'll go back for it later." Pause. "When the water isn't a giant pool of death."

The mention of the brakes has him saying, "Yeah, yeah. Look, it shouldn't take long assuming," he tugs at one of the bags in the back, "there really is a shirt somewhere in here." The bit about Sam driving has Dean scoffing, "You can't drive. Like even when you do," his expression sours slightly. "Just remember that time when we were in Missouri and you drove? Evidence." Finally he finds the bag in question--despite it being on top, and he extracts a shirt. "I'll put it on when we get there," he mumbles as he turns back to the wheel to take over again.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam scowls at Dean. "Dean, I was /sixteen/ and had just gotten my license that time in Missouri, and it is /not/ my fault that the werewolf /leapt on the hood/ and tried to punch me through the glass, like seriously. You know, most kids, for their driving tests, the worst thing they've gotta worry about is /parallel parking/. I had to worry about keeping my heart in my chest and out of that werewolf's mouth!"

He is relieved when Dean finally takes the wheel back though, because trying to 'drive' like this, while not as bad as a werewolf, is pretty bad. "I can't believe you won't ever let me live that down, seriously. Hitting that tree threw the werewolf! It probably saved our life!"

This does /not/ stop him from being exceptionally defensive about the whole thing, the Big Incident that got him mostly banned from driving until he finally got his own car. But...no need to bring the Charger when they were actually getting a nice chance to hunt together for once.

Yes. He /is/ sulking as he crosses his arms and slumps down in his seat. Some things revert Sam back to boyhood. Mention of The Missouri Incident is one of those things.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Sam's scowls and rant about the werewolf actually earns a smile. Dean drives a little faster at that and he clears his throat in a strained effort to hide a chuckle. A dimple craters his cheek, prompting him to clear his throat again. Stoicism reigns supreme, especially when his brother regresses to his teen self.

His throat clears again, but this time, he can feels his shoulders bob with the laughter that so desperately wants to get out. It starts lowly with just an iota of warning before rumbling louder from Dean's stomach.

His head turns to face his brother and the laughter erupts, unbidden while Dean desperately attempts to restrain it.

Sam Winchester has posed:
It is the first time he has heard a real, honest laugh out of his brother since they were reunited. This brings the start of a pleased smile to Sam's own lips, the hint of one of those bashful grins that he so often gives. He struggles with it for a moment, trying to decide if he's going to sulk some more, to play it up, even, just to make his brother laugh some more. Because that? That laugh? Is worth any number of embarrassing stories.

He offers an exaggerated pout, but...

Finds he can't really keep it up. Long lashes lower as he grins down at the floor, then starts laughing right along with Dean.

"Jerk," he says, in a tone that is basically the verbal equivalent of a hug, with none of the mushiness that such a thing would require.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's lips hitch up higher on one side as his laughter begins to come under control. "Baby," he murmurs in return with clear approval and fondness in his tone--even if it hinges on sarcasm. The smile remains as his head shakes, "A swim in the Niagara, a near-death experience," his gaze turns towards Sam, clearly making reference to his brother, "a headache," he rubs his nose, and then drops his chin to quickly inspect his chest, "and a shirtless drive down the highway." A slow nod follows his list before he affirms, "Yup, the Winchester brothers are at it again."

He manages a larger smirk. "With some luck it'll be more frequent. Minus the shirt loss and near-death parts."