It had just finished raining when they arrived at Missouri's small frame house in Lawrence, Kansas, just after six in the evening. The porch light was on and there was light streaming from the front window. Dean peered out at the house. He could just make out the hand lettered sign sitting in front of the curtains.
Missouri Mosely. Psychic Readings. Tarot. 555-9158
It seemed very understated for a woman with such a big personality.
He pushed open the car door and got out. Behind him Sam slammed his own door. They looked at each other over the Impala's roof. Dean rapped his knuckles gently on the hard top.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"You're that worried?" Sam grinned, inappropriately in Dean's opinion.
"Sam, either you or Dad are going to come out of this dead." He held up a hand to stop Sam from stating the obvious. "I don't want to be caught in the middle and I damn sure don't want to have to choose between the two of you."
"You'd choose Dad."
"Damn straight," Dean said quickly. It was the honest truth. Sam would know, though, how much it hurt.
"God, you're such a pessimist." Rounding the front of the car, Sam grabbed hold of Dean's sleeve, tugging him away from the curb. "Come on."
"It's like putting a tuna in a tank with a shark, Sam. You two aren't going to live in peace, love and harmony. Sooner or later the shark's gonna eat the tuna."
"Can I be the shark?" Sam asked brightly.
"Fuck you," Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and went up Missouri's front steps two at a time.
"What? Lighten up, Dean."
Abruptly, Dean turned around. "Lighten up?" he hissed. "My undead brother is about to come face to face with Johnny the Vampire Slayer, not to mention the whole 'let's ambush the fiery demon that killed your mother' scenario, and you're telling me to lighten up?"
Sam shrugged, and Dean realized he'd just been goaded into throwing him a Scooby Snack of angst.
"Damnit, Sam! Cut it out!"
With a chuckle, Sam pushed past him to the front door and gave it a couple of raps. "Stop worrying. I can take care of myself."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean grumbled.
They waited for Missouri to open the door. It shouldn't have taken her long, but the door remained firmly shut. The brothers exchanged glances before Dean went up to the door himself and gave it a pound with his fist.
"She'll be mad at you for that," Sam said, and pitched his voice a little higher into Missouri's light breathy drawl. "Who's bangin' on my door like that? Don'tchu have any manners, boy?"
"She'll be madder at you for making fun of her." Dean knocked again, and tried the doorbell. Through the heavy wooden door they heard a muffled chime.
Sam went to the edge of the porch, craning his head around to look back at the detached garage. "Her car's here." He returned to where his brother stood eyeing the doorknob. "Something's wrong, Dean."
"Is that an official psychic reading, or are you just guessing?"
"A little of both. I'm picking up something, but it's really vague. I can't pin it down." He chewed his lip. "But do you need me to tell you?"
"No," Dean said, and turned the doorknob. The front door was unlocked and swung open easily. "I'm not feeling good about this either." He pulled a handgun from his pocket and flipped off the safety. "Come on."
The house was eerily still, and once the door shut, drowning out any sounds from outside, the silence was deafening.
"Missouri?" Sam called. "Hey, it's us!"
Dean elbowed him.
"What?"
"Just let the bad guys know we're here why don't you?"
Sam snorted. "They probably already know, given the muffler kit you have on that piece of crap car."
"Hey! That piece of crap car has hauled your ass all over this country for over six months without a miss. That's quality, man, quality."
"Yeah, whatever."
Sam moved off toward the living room where the lights were shining brightly. Dean peeled off from him to investigate the kitchen. The floorboards of the old house creaked under his feet. He paused to listen but the only other sounds came from the living room; more creaking as Sam moved around. Dean stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light.
It was spotlessly clean and void of any human or other presence. The only sign that anyone had been there recently was a half-filled pot of coffee that sat in the coffee maker. Dean made his way over to the counter. The coffee smell hit him strongly, made his mouth water. He could have used a cup of coffee, maybe a cup of coffee spiked with a little brandy like his father drank it.
A frown creased his brow. The scent was strong, and fresh. Cold coffee didn't smell the same way. Dean reached out a hand to the pot and his suspicions were confirmed; the coffee was still warm. Whoever had made it wasn't long gone.
Turning to scan the room again, he looked to the table. Aside from a bowl of fresh flowers, there sat not one but two mugs, a dead giveaway that Missouri had made the coffee to share with company. He approached cautiously. The first mug had about an inch of coffee remaining inside. Dean touched the side of the mug and found it, like the coffee pot, still warm. The second mug was empty. Playing a hunch, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.
Brandy.
"Dad."
A cold chill ran down his spine. It was an ambush all right, but Dean suspected it wasn't a demon John Winchester was after. He whirled and took off at a run toward the living room.
"Sam! Get out!"
Something suddenly impeded his path - a closet door, flung open from the inside. He saw stars as his face kissed the door. The sudden cessation of movement forced him to stumble backward and when he fell, the back of his head bounced off the hardwood flooring with enough force to make him black out for a second. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't hang on to the gun. It skittered across the floor just out of reach.
None of it stopped him from seeing his father emerge from the closet holding a crossbow, nor hearing Missouri come up behind him to pick up the gun and cock it. He only had a split second of time for it all to register before Sam came barreling around the corner.
"Dean? What..."
John cut him off by grabbing his wrist and jerking him further into the hallway. Sam had no time to resist as he was slammed up against the wall. Without a moment's hesitation John leveled the crossbow at his chest and fired it.
There was a horrible sound as the silver tipped bolt punched through flesh and bone and on into the wall. (Dean would recall later having thought it amazing John had actually hit a stud behind the thick plaster.) Sam's breath left his lungs with the grunt of surprise and pain, surprise and pain that was written all over his face. His lips moved without sound.
"Dad?"
John ignored him. He pulled another bolt from a quiver that hung at his belt and reloaded his weapon. Dean attempted to rise. He fell back again immediately, crying out in pain, as Missouri stepped on his hand and pointed the gun at his forehead. Her cheeks were damp with tears, but her expression was hard and cold.
"Don't you move."
Dean froze. His eyes darted back to his father who had leveled the crossbow at Sam's abdomen. He winced as the second bolt shot through Sam's gut like a hot knife through butter, pinning him even more securely against the wall. Neither wound, Dean noted, produced any blood, but from the look on Sam's face they hurt like hell.
"Ash wood," John said quietly. He tossed the crossbow to the floor and slid down the wall directly opposite where he'd pinned Sam up like a butterfly on display. "It won't kill him, just slow him down."
Dean thought that was an understatement. Sam had been brought to standstill.
He rolled his eyes back to Missouri. "Will you let me up now?"
Missouri eased the hammer back down on the gun and lowered it. She stepped back from Dean's hand and let him sit up, but she did not return the weapon to him. He touched the goose egg on the back of his head gingerly and groaned as he wiped blood from his nose. John met his eye briefly before looking away. It was a moment before Dean could say anything.
"How did you know?" he asked finally.
"Oddly enough, Manford called me."
"Son of a bitch!"
"Don't you cuss in my house?" Missouri grated. "Watch your mouth."
Dean shot her a glare before returning his attention to his father. John sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging limp between them and his head bowed.
"Do you know how hard it was to hear that I'd lost a son from the likes of Manford Dubois? And then for him to tell me you had him resurrected as one of Manny's misguided projects? What were you thinking, Dean?" His voice cracked and he stopped, putting his face in his hands. "God!"
"I'm sorry." There was an ache in his chest. It felt like he'd had an arrow shot through him too. "I wasn't thinking. I just..."
"Don't," John said softly. He wiped at the tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't want to hear it."
Biting back a retort, Dean turned to Missouri. At first she refused to meet his gaze, but then slowly looked at him. She read him and he knew she saw what he'd been through: Sam bleeding to death in his arms, the agonizing drive to Pennsylvania to plead for Manford's help, and the frightening encounter with the woman Connie that made him realize the horrible mistake he'd made. She also felt the weariness that had dogged him ever since; weariness borne not just of sleeplessness, but from the stress of having Sam feed off him for weeks and his monumental efforts to keep him from hurting anyone else. He left her with his grief, his guilt, and the fear of reprisal from their father.
There were tears in both their eyes when it was over.
"Give him time, Dean," she said softly, sympathetically. "He'll understand."
Dean simply nodded, before a choking breath caught his attention.
"Jesus, Dad," Sam gasped, struggling to draw the breath that allowed him to speak. "If you're gonna cut off my head, can you hurry it up?"
John raised his head to look at him. "No, Sam," he said slowly. "I'm not going to kill you."
It was Dean who replied, shocked. "You're not?"
"No." Rising, John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a piece of paper. "But I am going to make sure you can't retaliate once I let you go."
"Dad, I wouldn't..."
"Yes you would," John snapped. His voice was rough with grief. "A predator doesn't always have the ability to control its instincts, and that's what you've become, Sam, a predator."
Sam's expression shifted to reflect pain of a different kind. He turned his head away, but John caught him by the chin and forced it back. They stared at each other, eyes locked. John recited the words written upon the paper, but did so from memory. He would not release Sam from his gaze. His voice was low, his Latin flawless, and even Dean could feel the tension in the air as the spell began to build upon itself with each word John uttered. His father's voice voice rose to a shout upon the final trigger phrase. The tension shattered and Sam cried out in pain as the paper John held between thumb and forefinger burst into flames. They died out almost immediately, leaving behind only a smear of dark ash.
As would a priest on Ash Wednesday, John put his thumb to Sam's forehead and made a mark there. It was not the sign of the cross, however, but a pentagram. As he stepped back it flared brightly before fading away as if it were sinking beneath Sam's skin.
John jerked both bolts free. Sam slid to the floor with a moan, clutching his chest with one hand as he raised his head to look up at his father. "What did you do?"
"Binding spell. You don't do anything without my permission."
Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam's look was less benign. He was infuriated. It had been difficult to get him to obey his father when he'd been alive, unlike Dean who generally did whatever John wanted without a second thought. Now, Sam was similarly bound, the difference being it was not by choice. It was probably the worst punishment John could have laid down on him and Dean couldn't help feeling a little bit smug.
"Great," Sam growled. Slowly he regained his feet but remained doubled up over his wounds. "Shit, this fucking hurts."
Missouri smacking him in the back of the head for cussing probably hurt, too.