Chapter 10: The Other Missouri
The rain had come on slowly and softly, pattering silently against the Silverado's windshield in a competition to be heard above the roar of the engine. The wipers swished back and forth on the lowest setting, clearing the view of an endless stretch of deserted highway.
Sam tried unsuccessfully to relieve the cramp in his right leg without taking his foot from the accelerator and flicked on the radio to take his mind off the discomfort. The volume was super low, but he could discern the opening notes of Zeppelin's Heartbreaker. Sam didn't particularly care for the song, but it was one of Dean's favorites. The older man couldn't appreciate the song at the moment, having fallen asleep the second they hit the highway, but Sam would leave it on anyway.
Sam cast a quick glance to his right, noticing that despite all of Dean's whining about the truck, he'd taken full advantage of the reclining bucket seat. The middle Winchester rested peacefully, head lolling to the side, breaths coming relatively easy. Sam half expected to see blood bubbling from between his brother's lips and he sighed with quiet relief when his fears remained ungrounded.
The cramp pulled tighter in his leg and he adjusted his grip on the wheel in order to massage the afflicted limb. A movement that did not go unnoticed.
"Sam, pull off and stop somewhere for the night if you need to," John spoke up softly from the backseat. With his tone lowered, the gravel could be detected in the eldest Winchester's voice. It made him seem older and more tired than he ever let on; less like a marine and more like the afflicted soul that he was.
Sam met his father's gaze in the rearview mirror. John was seated with his back up against the door, his injured leg propped up on the seat beside him. He had to crane his neck awkwardly to meet his son's reflection, emphasizing the fact that they all three needed to "pull off somewhere for the night".
"I'm fine," Sam lied, returning his eyes to the road. He couldn't help but be ashamed of the awkwardness that lingered between the two of them. He'd apologized, or at least he'd tried to, and that should have patched things up, right? He sighed. Things had always been rocky with John; a fact that couldn't be denied. But now things were different. They'd found the colt. They'd faced the thing that killed Mary and Jess, they'd fought, and they'd failed. It was like dumping all the Cracker Jacks out of the box only to find there wasn't a prize inside. In fact, it was like finding a hole in the bottom of the box and realizing maybe you'd imagined the whole damn thing. Sam didn't deal well with fallout. Unfortunately, neither did his father.
"Sam," John started again, shifting in his seat. "I hate to be the candy ass here, but son, we're beat. All of us. And yes, that means you," he added to Sam's unconscious frown. "We can't fend off another attack if we're dead on our feet."
"I know, I know," Sam replied wearily. But he stayed in the far left lane, maintaining his speed as he passed one, then two signs advertising motels.
"Well?" John griped, edging up straighter and laying a hand on the back of Sam's headrest.
Sam stiffened and swallowed hard. He'd been afraid that he wouldn't make it to their destination without protests and questions. If John knew about his plan, then he was sunk. "I am going to stop, Dad," he said carefully. "I just want to put as many miles between us and that hospital as possible."
John grumbled a negative response and Sam desperately wracked his tired brain for some sort of diversion. If he could distract his father long enough…
"I've got it," Sam stated, cutting off the older man mid-complaint.
"Got what?" John asked, letting his head slump back against the window.
Sam checked Dean's sleeping form to ensure their conversation wasn't disturbing his slumber. "I've got the colt," he lowered his voice with every word, hoping the news wouldn't elicit a violent reaction.
There was a heavy silence and Sam found himself holding his breath. "It doesn't matter, Sammy," John finally croaked. "It's useless now."
Sam wet his lips nervously. "It's only useless if you don't have any ammo." Holding the wheel at six o'clock with his bum arm, Sam flipped open the center CD/change consol between the front seats and withdrew a small plastic bag. He dangled it between long fingers over his shoulder for John's inspection and felt it being pulled from his grasp.
John held it gingerly in his big hand, as though it were the most precious of gemstones. It was a clear envelope, sealed with a red adhesive strip and marked "Evidence". Inside was a very used, very misshapen, yet unmistakable .45 caliber slug.
"That's the one they pulled from your leg," Sam offered in response to his father's stunned silence. "I know Dean's the chief bullshitter, but I managed to convince the idiots down at the evidence lock-up that I was a detective they've never met before." He looked around at John who was still staring intently at the bullet in his palm. "I just figured since we make our own ammo all the time…maybe we could melt this down and reuse it."
Sam hadn't been searching for his father's approval, but it felt nice all the same. "Atta boy, Sammy," John praised, his voice a little husky. His fatherly pride diverted his attention from the sign that jutted through the mist at the road's edge. The one that read Welcome to Kansas…
-O-
Sam had been to Lawrence only once before in his life, not counting his first six months of existence, but had committed the route to memory all the same. John had clammed up when he realized where his youngest son was taking them and a furrow had dug itself into his brow and stayed there.
Dean had awakened the instant the tires rolled across the threshold of the town, some part of his unconscious mind alert to the return to the only place that had ever served as home. He had righted his seat and now stared through the window with glazed eyes; taking in everything but only seeing the images of fire and death and sorrow that he was doubt replaying over and over in his head.
"Why are we here, Sam?" Dean asked softly, the pang of memory evident in his voice.
Sam kept his eyes on the road and blinked furiously. "Because we have no where else to go," he replied finally.
Neither of the older men spoke, acknowledging the truth of the statement.
Sam avoided their old neighborhood and took the main streets through town, noticing the lack of activity. The rain was no doubt keeping everyone indoors. The swing set at the park was empty and Sam wondered if Mary had ever taken Dean there to play as a pre-schooler. He glanced at his brother but the older man showed no visible reaction.
He piloted the Silverado down the modest business strip; past the garage where John had once worked, past the restaurants and the grocery store. It was all foreign yet familiar at the same time. It was as if a part of him knew this was where he had been meant to grow up. It was where he should have gone to school, hung out with friends, learned to drive. Where he was not supposed to learn to shoot, or learn to speak Latin, or learn to snap a neck properly…The list went on and on. He would have been normal, he should have been normal.
But here he was, a freak instead. Here he was driving down these streets as an outsider. Sam wondered briefly how his relationship with Dean would have turned out had they been raised by both parents in their quiet, mid-west home. Would Dean have finished high school? Gone to college? Would he have looked after his baby brother with the same ferocity and loyalty? Would the two of them be as close as they were now? The notion of sharing anything less than the granite, fraternal bond that he and Dean had formed in those early years shook him to the core. And for the moment, it quelled his curiosity about the 'what ifs' of life.
-O-
Missouri Moseley's house was set just off one of the busier streets that fed from the city square. It was just as Sam had remembered; an impressive white two-story with black shutters and doors. The original siding boards looked a little warped and weathered in places, but sported a fresh coat of paint that matched that of the privacy fence circling the back yard. The lawn was green and neatly mown, little clusters of pansies and mums lining the sidewalk. A hand-painted wooden sign up by the street designated the home as that of Missouri Moseley: Practical Psychic, and a neon "open" sign blazed in the glass transom above the front door.
The driveway had been expanded with crushed gravel and rail road ties in order to accommodate customer parking, but it now stood empty. Sam parked up close to the sidewalk only to find that he was rooted to his seat. He stared through the windshield, breathing a bit heavily and listening to the engine rumble.
"We could always turn around," Dean offered as he joined his brother in staring up at the house. "Maybe her 'shining' hasn't detected us yet." There was more bite to his words than normal, more hostility.
Sam set his jaw stubbornly and wrapped his fingers a little tighter around the steering wheel. "We need help, Dean."
"Speak for yourself."
Sam shot his brother an incredulous look, not understanding the hardness that had settled over the older man's features. "Dean, what the hell's gotten into you? Missouri's our friend. She…she knows about…me and…other stuff," he struggled to find the explanation that should have been all too obvious to Dean.
Dean swallowed thickly and shook his head, letting his troubled eyes fall to the floorboards.
There was an awkward silence in which Sam tried to muddle through the possible root of his brother's reaction. Sure Missouri had a way of getting under Dean's skin with her ability to read his immediate thoughts and emotions, but Sam found that to be one of her endearing qualities. He'd thought that Dean felt the same way. Apparently he was wrong.
"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I'm not spending the night in this truck," John's gruff declaration broke the silence and Dean forced his door open roughly in response.
Sam killed the engine and hastily climbed from his side of the truck to help his father maneuver down from the cab. John managed to keep the pain from his face as he eased himself out, but he leaned heavily on his son.
"Thanks, Sammy," he said quietly before Dean could make his way around the truck to where they were standing. "You did good…bringing us here."
Sam smiled crookedly, trying not to let the relief show too plainly. He was too tired to fight, and was almost giddy with the thought that he wouldn't have to.
Dean shuffled around the tailgate, one hand resting on the bumper for support. Sam thought his brother looked a bit paler than he had mere moments ago and was attributing the effect to the washed out sky when he noticed the direction of Dean's gaze. He was still in the process of turning around when her voice reached his ears.
"Well, well. It's raining men and I end up with the Winchesters." Missouri called. The plump black woman stood in the open doorway to her house, arms folded and one toe tapping at the brick stoop.
"Aren't you the lucky one?" John returned saucily to his old friend, sounding startlingly like his eldest son.
"Oh, that mouth of yours," she scolded, but her frown quickly dissolved into an expression of fretful concern. She came bustling down the sidewalk to meet them like a hen inspecting her wayward chicks. Missouri was one of the few who knew the whole, woeful saga of the Winchesters, and one of the few true friends that John could always count on when he needed a warm bed and a hot meal. Her house was a haven amongst a place steeped in horrific memories, something John had always found ironic.
"I talked to Bobby just the other day," she huffed from the exertion and Sam started forward to lend a supportive arm. "He said that you were missing," she pointed at John ", and the boys were after you and you all were in danger. My, I've been so worried, but you're all here…"
Sam reached Missouri's side and she reached out to take his offered elbow. Dean moaned softly.
"…And you're all," she looked up to Sam's face, her own suddenly becoming flushed and pained. "…Safe," she trailed off and raised a smooth, cool hand to touch the pebbly scabs that dotted Sam's face. "Oh, baby…" she let her hand fall to his shoulder and patted it softly.
Sam watched in bewilderment as her gaze flitted to his father and brother, and finally settled on John. She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly before speaking. "John, I'm so sorry, honey." She shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way…I never thought…" she stopped, obviously choked up and unable to continue.
Sam looked back and forth between his father and friend, still not quite understanding. He heard a cough and shifted his gaze to Dean. The older man had a cupped fist pressed to his mouth as if he might be sick at any moment and his brow was crumpled deeply.
It didn't make any sense to him; why was Dean acting so strange? What was Missouri sorry about?
Then it hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach and he gasped with the realization. Missouri was a psychic; she could read thoughts, worries, emotions, presences…and she now knew what the three of them had endured in the last several days. It suddenly occurred to Sam that the other two men in his family were mortified by the events that had transpired in that cabin. To know that they had encountered their life-long quarry and had let it slip away was terrible in itself, but to have Missouri know…was unbearable.
He felt like a fool, how could he not have realized that this would be their reaction?
No sooner had the thought formed in his head than Missouri was wheeling around on him, deep brown eyes fixing him with a paralyzing stare. "Don't you even think that, Sam Winchester!" she scolded, covering her sympathy with authority. "Of course you were right to come here. And as for you two," she turned and waggled a finger at the remaining Winchesters. "I don't want to lay my eyes on either of you until you've washed off that hospital smell and put on some clean clothes. I don't want to be nauseated at my own dinner table." She stepped forward in between Dean and John, taking a firm grip on each of their forearms. "Get on up to the house before we all catch our death in this rain!" she ordered good-naturedly, pulling them along with her.
Dean's protest died on his lips. He still looked disturbed, but some of the color had returned to his complexion at the mention of dinner. John just shook his head and smiled grimly, fully aware that there was no talking Missouri out of anything.
Sam tilted back his head and let the cold droplets splash his face, not caring that they stung his tender wounds. I just felt so good to be safe for the moment, to be accepted by someone besides family with no questions asked. After the completely hellish week he'd endured, he had to say that he much preferred this Missouri over the one they'd just left.
TBC