Chapter 6

A Mother's Arms

Disclaimer: Unfortunately did not receive the show or characters for Christmas

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. As I return to the world of writing, your feedback means a lot to me!

She could hear John moving around the house, but Missouri didn't move from her chair at the kitchen table until she heard the front door closing behind him. There was no point trying to change his mind – she had never met a more stubborn man.

Missouri sighed and climbed to her feet. She should change the bed in the downstairs guest room and air out the spare bedroom upstairs. There probably wasn't time to go for groceries but, sooner than later, they would need food and medical supplies.

Walking into the guest room, Missouri gasped in surprise. The bed had been changed, and the everyday items from the nightstand had been moved to the dresser, replaced by a vial of pills and bundles of bandages and other supplies. As her eyes filled with tears, she cursed under her breath, "Dammit, John. I don't think I'll ever understand you."

Turning, she picked up the dirty sheets, which had been left in a neat pile by the door, and left the room. After cracking the window in the upstairs bedroom, Missouri returned to the kitchen to make a few sandwiches. She expected that Sam, at least, would be hungry. Even if he wasn't, it was a good way to keep her hands busy while she waited for the boys.

Missouri was hard-pressed to explain – even to herself – how she had formed such a deep attachment to the two boys in such a short time. The memory of two little boys was faint, and their interaction since then amounted to less than a week in over twenty years, and yet the need to protect them was so strong that she had turned away her friend of twenty-some years so she could help them. She shook her head, moving to the back door as she heard a car in the driveway. There really wasn't any other choice; she had angered John and she had a vague sense that she might be exposing herself to danger, but there was no way that she could turn her back on those motherless, lost boys.

Missouri walked into the garage as Sam climbed out of the car. As he walked toward her she opened her arms and he almost fell into her embrace. After a minute he found his voice, "I don't know how we can ever thank you for this."

"You don't have to thank me, Sam. After what we went through together, you boys are practically family. Now let's see about getting your brother out of the car." Missouri allowed Sam to lead the way along the passenger side of the car. Dean was lying back in the seat, sleeping or unconscious. As Sam opened the door she reached in to take Dean's hand, and was relieved to find that his sleep – while drug induced – was not harmful.

"Can you carry him, or do we need to wake him up?"

Sam eyed his brother; Dean was shorter but stockier. "I'll take him if it's not far." He figured the strain would be worth Dean's embarrassment when he found out his baby brother had carried him. Sam flinched away as Missouri swatted him in the head.

"Don't torment your brother," she admonished, before moving aside so he could get to Dean. "The guest room is right on the first floor."

Sam took his brother gently in his arms, lifting him out of the car. Dean mumbled to himself but didn't wake, letting his head drop onto Sam's shoulder. Sam felt surprise followed by a wave of protectiveness as he carried his brother into the house and settled him on the bed.

Sensing his feelings, Missouri helped him to remove Dean's clothes then left them alone. "I'll be in the kitchen, Sam."

Sam nodded and moved up the side of the bed to check the bandages. The one on Dean's neck was spotted with dried blood, but the others were pretty clean. Sam decided to let his brother rest a little longer before checking on his handy work. Pulling the covers up under Dean's chin, Sam wanted to just sit and hold his brother's hand, watching him sleep. Reminding himself that Missouri was waiting – and that Dean would hate to wake up to his hand being held – Sam turned away to find their host in the kitchen.

Motioning for Sam to sit down, Missouri placed a plate of sandwiches in front of him, accompanied by a tall glass of iced tea. Feeling the full weight of his exhaustion, Sam accepted the meal without comment and started on a sandwich. As he finished his first and started in on a second, Sam felt the tiredness and confusion lifting away. Panic and self-doubt rushed in to fill the void they left and, dropping the sandwich back on his plate, Sam leaped to his feet.

"Jesus, I forgot to check for fever! And our stuff's got to come in from the car. And it's practically the middle of the night. You should be in bed, Missouri. I'm so sorry." Sam knew that he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop. He turned to go back into Dean's room, but Missouri took his arm, stopping him.

"Sam, honey, you're doing just fine. Let your brother sleep while he can, and we'll get your bags in a little bit. Sit and eat, and don't worry about me, I don't need a lot of sleep." Missouri led him back to the table, this time sitting down next to him. "Sam, why don't you tell me about what happened?"

Sam was quiet for a minute, but Missouri could sense his mind casting back over the events, organizing his thoughts before he spoke. She was only slightly surprised when he decided to start with their trip to Roosevelt Asylum, and she sighed internally as she felt the extent of his guilt and self-doubt, but sat quietly listening as he told his story.

Mindful of the clock, which was rapidly approaching midnight, Sam tried to hit the high points of what had happened since they'd left Lawrence. In spite of his best efforts, by the time he'd talked through from the appointment with the younger Dr. Ellicott to the results of both trips to Netawaka, it was almost 2am.

Missouri had provided encouragement without interruption, and now she felt like she had a good grasp of the events. She tried to put her anger and disappointment with the boys' father aside – John had obviously hidden the scope of his continued involvement with his sons from her, and she found herself once again questioning his actions. This was not the time for that, she reminded herself, giving her full attention back to Sam.

Making her voice firm, Missouri forced Sam to meet her eyes. "So what you're saying is that you think all of it is your fault and your brother has good reason to hate you."

Sam broke eye contact, nodding his head. "Missouri, I bad-mouthed him to that shrink, then I shot him with rock salt and tried to blow his head off." Sam shuddered. "If the gun had been loaded…" He shook his head, unable to finish. "Then I let him drag us off after Dad again before he had time to heal, and I was too slow to keep him from getting hurt. Again."

Missouri waited a moment to make sure he was done, then began ticking off points on her fingers, overturning his arguments. "Sam, first of all, it's not surprising that you would have feelings of anger toward your brother. With your father missing, he's the only target you have representing a life that you hate. But Sam, it's the life you hate, not your brother. The doctor's ghost used your feelings of resentment to control you. That's not your fault – it could have happened to anyone, and you weren't the first. You didn't shoot your brother, he did."

Sam shook his head in denial. "I should have fought harder. Dean won't talk about it, but I'm sure he had to fight the doctor before he burned the bones. They never go quietly. Somehow Dean beat him. Alone."

Missouri suspected that he was right, but chose her words carefully, encouraging him. "Maybe you wore the doctor out, weakened him, with your fighting. Maybe you made it easier for Dean to fight." Missouri was confident that her second statement was true, just not in the way that Sam would interpret it. She felt certain that knowing that his little brother was there – defenseless – would make it easier for Dean to fight.

"Okay," Sam nodded in acceptance, "but I still almost got him killed in Netawaka, twice."

Missouri restrained herself from sighing. She wondered how Sam would react if she told him he was just like his father. Were all the Winchester men destined to be stubborn and guilt-ridden? Knowing her thoughts would not be well received, Missouri instead laid her hand on Sam's arm reassuringly.

"Sam, do you really think that a seven year-old boy could be blamed for what happened? And do you really think that you could talk your stubborn, twenty-six year-old brother out of following a lead on your father?"

"No, I guess not," Sam admitted despondently. "I just…I don't know. We've been following Dad's trail for months and it's not getting us anywhere. I think we both knew Dean wasn't ready, but we didn't see any other choice."

"You can't blame yourself for that," Missouri told him gently. She stood up, pulling him to his feet as well. "Let's get your things from the car and I'll show you your room, then you can check on your brother."

Sam allowed Missouri to lead him to the garage. The telling of the story had left him tired and drained but he also felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Missouri had listened, and had not condemned his actions. Maybe he truly wasn't to blame.

Missouri's step was heavy, her body weighted down with anger and sadness. She did not blame Sam for the events he had described, and she could feel his relief as he walked behind her. No, she reserved the blame for one man – John Winchester. Struggling to control her expression and body language so that Sam would not realize how upset she was, Missouri once again pushed away thoughts of the man who had become a good friend over the years, who apparently was nowhere near the man she had thought he was.

Sam threw his own bag over one shoulder and his brother's over the other. He was about to forgo their usual arsenal for the night but, realizing how Dean would react to this, he reached for a shotgun, glancing at Missouri for approval.

Rolling her eyes with a small smile, Missouri gave her consent. "If that's what it takes to make you boys feel at home."

Shooting her a grateful smile, Sam selected a couple of shotguns and a knife, then followed her back into the house. As he stepped inside, Missouri pointed in the direction of the guest room.

"Your brother is waking up."

Sam set one of the shotguns aside and dropped his bag to the floor before hurrying through the house.

"I'll wait here for you," Missouri called after him as she began puttering around the kitchen.

He practically ran down the hall to Dean's room and burst through the doorway, but something stopped him from running to the bed. He knew how Dean felt about emotions; the least he could do was control his. He set down the bag at the foot of the bed and brought the shotgun up to prop it against the nightstand. Meeting his brother's eyes, he gave Dean a small grin, showing him the knife before slipping it under the pillow.

Dean returned the smile. "Thanks," he said hoarsely, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. Sam reached quickly to help ease him up, placing an extra pillow behind him.

Pushing his fear aside, Sam tried to view his brother with detachment. Except for the circles under his eyes, Dean's skin was pale; almost matching the bandages on his chest and arm. Sam didn't bother to ask how he felt – they'd been down that road too many times, and he knew the response would be useless. Instead, he took Dean's clenched jaw, shallow breathing, and his tight grasp on the bedding as his answer. He started to reach for his brother's hand but caught himself, pretending to smooth the blankets instead.

"Do you think you could eat something?"

Dean made a face, shaking his head. "Not really hungry right now."

"How 'bout some toast or something? I don't want to give you more pills on an empty stomach."

Dean sighed, but nodded slightly in agreement. "Okay, Sammy."

Sam nodded back. "Good." Hiding his concern that the pills would be accepted without argument, he patted his brother's leg through the covers. "I'll be right back."

When he walked into the kitchen, Missouri was bent over the counter, putting finishing touches onto a plate. Sam felt another pang of guilt that she was up in the middle of the night, her house invaded by relative strangers toting guns, and here she was making food that his brother wouldn't eat.

"Missouri," he began hesitantly, "I don't think Dean can handle a sandwich right now. He said he might try some…" he trailed off as she turned and handed him the plate.

"Toast," Missouri finished for him as he accepted the plate holding two slices with a light coating of raspberry jam, "and here's a ginger ale." When he took the glass she started out of the room. "When you finish I'll meet you upstairs and show you your room. Just holler if you need anything else."

Sam started after her, a question on his lips, but decided that Dean was the priority. As he walked back to the side of the bed, Dean reached out with his good arm to snag a slice of toast. He chewed hesitantly at first, then a little more enthusiastically. Between bites he looked at Sam questioningly.

"Where are we, Sammy?"

"We're at Missouri's," Sam answered, handing him the second piece of toast. For a moment he thought he saw fear in Dean's eyes, but then it was gone and his brother was rolling his eyes. "Hey, it was nearby, and it was all I could think of," Sam snapped defensively. "I'm sure you would've had some brilliant plan, but this was the best I could do." He didn't look at his brother, but he could feel Dean's eyes on him as he picked up the pills from the nightstand.

Dean's voice was gentle when he finally spoke. "You're doing great, Sam. You got me fixed up, got us to a safe place, and now you're all Florence Nightingale," he smirked. "Look at all those supplies. Talk about prepared."

"Missouri had these ready when we got here," Sam told him, but the defensiveness was gone from his voice. "And I'm not a nurse, jerk." He was focused on the medicine and didn't see Dean's eyes lingering on the pill vial in confusion. "Here, take your pills and then I'll check your bandages."

Dean accepted the pills, smirking at him again, and didn't comment as Sam checked and re-dressed his wounds. He was starting to nod off as Sam removed the extra pillow and helped him to lie back down.

"Do you want me to stay?" Sam asked, once again straightening the blankets.

"Nah. Go ahead and sleep," Dean answered, eyes already shut.

Sam reached out, hesitated, then allowed himself to smooth his brother's hair. He turned to leave, smiling as Dean mumbled something about chick flicks.

True to her word, Missouri came to meet him in the hallway as he reached the top of the stairs. She was enveloped in a huge, fuzzy, blue bathrobe, and Sam saw immediately how tired she looked.

"Missouri, I'm really sorry to keep you up all night," he began to apologize again.

"Boy, stop apologizing and don't treat me like an old lady. Your room is right over here." She led him into a large but sparsely furnished room, with bed, nightstand and dresser taking up only about a third of the available space. "It's a little bare, but it should do. The bathroom is at the end of the hall," Missouri told him. "Now, how's your brother?"

Sam looked at her for a minute before answering, and the despair in his eyes and his mind almost took her breath away.

"What's the use," he asked, "of having this power if it doesn't protect us? Who cares how many people I can help if I can't keep my own brother safe?

"Oh, Sam, I don't know," Missouri told him, echoing his frustration. "It may be, when it gets stronger, that you'll be able to control it better."

"Or maybe not," Sam shot back. "And how long will that take, anyway?"

Missouri could tell that his words came from his frustration. Sam clearly knew that she wouldn't have many more answers than he did, but he was exhausted and frightened and didn't know where to turn. She reached out and pulled him into her embrace.

"Sam, I wish I had all the answers to give you, but I don't. You just have to do what you can with your powers, and you boys keep looking out for each other."

He rested his head on her shoulder for a minute and Missouri felt his thoughts wash over her. She felt a wave of sadness as she realized that Sam had no memories of being held by his mother.

"I wish I could tell you if this is what that feels like," Missouri told him sadly. "I can't be your mother, Sam, but I can be your friend. And I want you to know that I'm very proud of you and your brother." She pulled away, patting his cheek. "Now get some rest." She slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her, knowing that Sam wouldn't see her as she leaned against the wall outside to take a deep breath and wipe the tears from her eyes.

Sam pulled a pair of sweats from his bag, which Missouri had apparently wrestled up the stairs for him. He changed quickly and lay back on the bed, but sleep eluded him. The memory of Missouri's embrace lingered, reminding him of another – much smaller – set of arms from years ago; small but strong arms that held him when he was scared and picked him up when he fell.

Pushing himself up from the bed, Sam quietly slipped down the stairs and into the guest room. Pulling a chair to the side of the bed, he settled in – shotgun across his lap – to watch over his brother as he slept.

TBC