Chapter 11: Tidings of War

Missouri's upstairs guest bathroom smelled of lavender and vanilla; the two scents mingling together in an intoxicating enhancement of the room's coziness. The walls were a deep butter cream and stenciled with a grape leaf motif around the door and over the mirror. There were little scented candles nestled in pools of glassy, decorative stones and three kinds of soap. All of the faucets, knobs, light fixtures and towel bars were done in a brushed nickel finish, contrasting smartly with the wall color.

All in all, it was most likely the nicest bathroom that Sam had ever showered in. He had offered to let Dean or John go first, but both had refused on account of their injuries. Sam supposed that the water might sting too badly for them, but felt guilty all the same as he stripped and adjusted the water temperature.

But that guilt soon melted away as he eased his aching body under the gentle rain of the shower. He stood still, letting the deliciously hot water spray him full in the face and course down his neck and muscled chest. As the minutes ticked by, the soreness began to seep from his muscles and was washed down the drain along with a rather disturbing build-up of dirt. The steam billowed around him, no doubt fogging the mirror on the other side of the curtain

He could have stayed like that forever, letting the running water keep reality at bay. But he knew things were weighing heavily in his father's mind, things that needed discussing and mulling over. Not to mention Missouri just might skin him alive if he was late for dinner. He brushed his sopping hair from his eyes and selected a bar of exfoliating oatmeal soap from the neat stack at the tub's corner.

-O-

Dean shuddered as he wiped the damp washcloth mere centimeters from one of the long, stapled gashes across his middle. The surrounding flesh was tender enough to elicit goose bumps at the mere notion of being touched.

He stood in the center of the bedroom he was to share with Sam, his father unquestionably getting a room to himself, and tried to make the most of a make-shift towel bath. It was proving rather tricky and useless, so he gave up and dropped the washcloth to the floor in disgust, only to decide that Missouri would most definitely not approve. Sighing, he retrieved the cloth and wrapped it in his dirty t-shirt on the bed with a promise to take it to the laundry room later.

He scuffed his bare feet across the carpet, loving the way the fibers squished between his toes, and contemplated the dark splotch left by the wet cloth. He could clearly envision Missouri swatting the back of his head and using words like "lazy," "careless," or "mindless of expensive things," the nice thing being her creamy carpet.

Dean had always figured that Missouri liked him, he just wasn't sure she'd ever shown it in a very obvious way. She would forever see him as the misguided boy sneaking a hand in the cookie jar instead of the demon slaying man that he was. Especially after what she had just learned…after she had sensed the fracturing of their spirits.

A part of him wished Sam hadn't brought them to Missouri, but that part of him also acknowledged the absurdity of the wish. Sam was trying to take care of them, to keep them safe, and so far Dean had to admit that the kid was doing a pretty damn good job. His wounded pride aside, it felt wonderful to be in a real home, with plush beds, clean bathrooms, and the most delectable smells wafting up from the kitchen.

He looked around the room appreciatively, thankful that there were two twin beds instead of a single queen. The spreads were a baby blue and matched the bead fringed swags above the room's only window. There were two dark, claw-footed nightstands, one for each bed, and they were adorned with vases full of Queen Anne's Lace and sprigs of fern. Several impressionist paintings adorned the walls along with a eucalyptus wreath that Dean guessed to be source of the pleasant aroma.

Dean thought he heard the water cut off from the bathroom next door and shook himself from his brief trance. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to walk in on him shirtless and get that sad puppy look about his wounded torso. He slipped into a baggy, weathered Henley shirt and traded his boxer briefs for straight up boxers; plain dark blue in the hope that Missouri wouldn't notice they were underwear. He decided to go barefoot, his arches weary of boots and socks.

No sooner had he checked his bedraggled appearance in the mirror, he seriously needed to shave, than there came a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, glaring at his reflection and smoothing a hand across his bristled cheek. He looked up when Sam entered, toweling his still-wet hair.

The younger man was sockless too, but looked slightly more appropriate in Nike jogging pants and a white muscle shirt. The shirt was covered in wet patches that clung to the skin, indicating a poor job of drying off, and Dean noticed how droopy Sam's eyes looked. He had been the only one not to catch some sleep in the truck and was now nearly dead on his feet.

"Dinner?" Sam asked, draping the towel across his shoulders.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his flat hair, raising a few feeble spikes and scowled at himself one last time. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'm starved."

-O-

"Boy, you'd better get outta my pantry before I ladle your behind something awful!" Missouri turned away from the stove, dark brows arched and her big stainless steel ladle raised in warning.

John grumbled, embarrassed at being referred to as a boy, but stopped rummaging through her overstocked pantry all the same. He shuffled over to the long, rectangular kitchen table and eased down into one of the six ladder-backed chairs, scowling darkly. "It's not my fault the strongest thing you've got around here is pineapple juice," he groused. "A man needs a drink at a time like this." He was sure to emphasize his title.

Missouri returned the ladle to the steaming pot on top of the stove and gave its contents a quick stir. "And what kinda time is this?" she asked, opening the oven an inch or so to check on her biscuits.

John traced a long crack in the table's surface with his thumb and paused to breathe in the heavenly scents of whatever she was cooking. "A time of war," he said finally, shifting his brown eyes upwards to stare at a spot on the wall above her head.

He could see her pause; see the sudden tension shoot across her shoulders. "Don't be silly, John Winchester. The only war going on is the one I'm waging with the weeds in my vegetable garden." She laughed stiffly, playing her uneasiness off pretty well.

But John frowned, he knew better. He knew that Missouri knew exactly what war he was talking about, especially if she'd spoken with his old friend Bobby. He was opening his mouth to tell her so when a creaking from the staircase down the hall diverted his attention. He looked up to the doorway to see his sons come trudging in, both of which were running neck and neck in a competition to see who could look the shittiest.

Dean immediately took the seat to John's left and propped his elbows up on the table. "Smells good," he said tiredly, but his eyes sparkled with his usual zest for food.

Sam walked around the table towards Missouri. "Can I help you, Missouri?" he asked, ever the gentleman, and Dean hastily began scraping his chair back not wanting to look like a jerk.

"Heavens no!" Missouri said, patting Sam on the arm. "You just sit right down, suga' and I'll fix you up a plate," she assured and waved him towards the table.

Sam shrugged with a "well, at least I tried" look and plopped into the chair across from Dean. Relieved to be off the hook, the older man had already slumped back to the table.

"Dad, you alright?" Sam asked cautiously, flitting his eyes to his father.

Although he'd refused a shower, John had at least changed out of the ridiculous hospital scrubs. He shrugged his flannel clad shoulders and frowned. "I'd bee a helluva lot better if our hostess would quit giving me the run around and answer a few questions."

Sam made an effort to arch his tired brows and looked to Missouri quizzically. "What do you mean, questions?" he asked, watching as the psychic spooned up three bowls of what looked to be vegetable stew.

"Why don't you tell them, Missouri?" John asked pointedly as she set one of the steaming bowls before him.

"Hush!" she hissed, taking care to catch the back of the eldest Winchester's head with her elbow as she moved on to Dean. "I won't have that kinda talk at the table. It'll give you indigestion and lord knows I ain't bringing you the Maalox in the middle of the night 'cause you're too mule-headed to shut your mouth now." She dismissed him with a loud "harrumph" and reached to place Dean's bowl on the table.

But the eldest son's curiosity had been piqued by the conversation and he pushed himself upright to take the bowl from her. "Thanks," he said, stomach protesting loudly as he set the food down and followed her with his eyes as she returned to the stove.

"Don't you even ask me, Dean Winchester," she declared before he had even begun to form his question. "You're daddy's just talking nonsense again."

Dean made a sour face, troubled at having his thoughts invaded, and turned to his father. "What the hell's going on, Dad?"

"Language!" Missouri snapped as she served Sam and bustled back to the oven to remove the biscuits.

"Sorry," Dean muttered just as John sighed deeply, gathering his thoughts.

But Sam spoke up quietly, beating his father to the punch. "They're talking about it, about the thing that killed Mom and Jess," he nearly whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between the two "adults". "They're talking about the war Bobby said was coming."

John nodded in confirmation. Missouri spun, inadvertently tipping the cookie sheet and allowing two of the biscuits to slide off onto the floor. She covered her shock quickly with a scowl, hurrying to scoop up the wasted food.

"Lucky guess is all," Sam shrugged and stared intently at his stew, dragging the tip of his spoon through the brown liquid. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright, Son," John assured, fixing Missouri with a pointed stare. "We need to talk about this. We need…" he paused and both of his sons turned to him, making the necessary words all the more difficult to say. He looked to Dean; at the dark circles under his eyes and the way he hunched over his dinner, nursing the food with uncharacteristic slowness. Sam didn't look much better; his face dark with scabs and his hair, drying of its own accord, frizzing up in all directions. His boys had sacrificed everything for him; he owed this to them.

"…Help," he finished tiredly. Sam and Dean were dumbstruck, not able to recall a time when their father had come right out and used the word help.

Missouri stood at the head of the table, lips pursed and hands resting on the back of a chair. She looked to each of the three men in turn and sighed disparagingly through her nostrils. "Alright," she said at last, stepping away from the table.

"Wait, where are you going," Dean was unable to keep from blurting out as she disappeared into the pantry.

She emerged moments later, holding four glass tumblers and a bottle of Jack Daniels. "I use it in my barbecue sauce," she explained, setting the whiskey on the table and taking a seat. None of them questioned her further.

TBC

AN: Hi! Wow, thank you to everyone who had taken the time to read and review my story, you're all so kind to a pathetically addicted fan like me. I was very worried about giving an accurate portrayal of Missouri, but y'all have been sweet to assure me that I did okay.

I ended this chap here because I wanted a whole chap dedicated to their conversation with Missouri; not too exciting I know, but very necessary all the same.

Thanks again, and have a great day!

Uzi