She stood in the doorway looking up at him with a cocky tilt to her head and her hands on her hips. Somehow he'd thought she'd be older, and possibly taller. She was about his age and not very imposing at all.

Until she opened her mouth.

"What took you so long?" she demanded. "I've been waitin' for you."

John blinked. "You...what?"

"Don't stand there gawpin' like a fish outta water, John Winchester, get in here before those babies catch cold!"

"But how did you..."

Missouri Moseley pointed to the faded sign in her front window. "Can't you read?"

He could read, and that was the reason he'd stopped. For days he'd been driving back and forth past this small brown house on his way from the apartment to the grocery store and had never given it a second glance. Today, however, the sign had caught his eye:

Missouri Moseley

Psychic Counselor

A psychic. ouldn't a psychic know about – things - dark things, things that weren't supposed to exist? He certainly needed counseling. He was slowly going mad with fear, frustration and grief. Every step he took out of the apartment with the boys was an ordeal. John was a brave man, but faced with the unknown entity he still felt lurking around every corner, in every shadow, his bravado crumbled into dust. He needed answers. He needed to understand what it was, and how he could combat it.

If Ms. Moseley couldn't help him find the answers to those questions, maybe she could at least relay a message...

Tell her I miss her. Tell her I need her.

Tell her I love her.

John hesitated on the threshold, clutching Sammy close to his chest, holding Dean's hand tightly. The fear crept up in him, preventing him from taking that first step forward into uncharted territory. How could he know he could trust her? She knew his name. What if she was part of what had destroyed their lives?

Missouri looked back over her shoulder. The cockiness left her features. "I'm not," she said softly. "And I can help you, with just a little trust." When he did not respond she turned back around completely and plucked her coat from a rack by the door. "Maybe here is not the place for me to earn that trust. Why don't you show me what frightens you?"

Nodding, John agreed. "The house..."

They hadn't been back to the house since that night. Margaret had left him half a dozen messages regarding the property, asking what his plans were for it. It was the one thing the two of them actually agreed upon; it would have to be sold. John would never live in that house again. Legally it was now his, although the deed had originally been in Mary's name only. He could sell it and have a nice down payment on a new house, or set the money away for the boys' future.

For now, however, the house sat vacant and abandoned, the upper floor half gone, destroyed by the fire. Only broken, fire-scarred two-by-fours stood where the nursery and the master bedroom had been. There was a dusting of snow upon the blackened remains of furniture, toys and clothing still lying on the ground in the front yard. Incongruous to the dark, charred hulk of the Winchester house, all the other homes up and down the street were bright with twinkling lights, tinsel, and sprays of evergreen. Christmas was just around the corner.

John hadn't even bothered to ask Dean what he wanted for Christmas.

He pulled up in front of the house and parked the car before craning his head around to look at the boy. Dean sat in the back seat as far away from Missouri as he could get, plastered to the window, looking away from the house toward the one across the street. There wooden reindeer pranced across the lawn, a plastic Santa waved from his sleigh, music played from a couple of speakers set up near the front door. John could see the lights reflected in the Chevy's window. The glass fogged and cleared in time to Dean's breathing. John saw his son sigh.

Missouri stared silently up at the house. A blast of cold December air blew into the car's warm interior as she got out it. Dean turned his head to watch her but made no move to follow. John coaxed him out while Sammy fussed about having to be wakened from a nap. John gathered him up and took Dean by the hand. They stood at the end of the walkway, three silent monuments to tragedy. Missouri was halfway to the porch before she realized John was not following. She turned, questioning.

"It's all right, Dean," John said quietly. The reassurance was more for his own peace of mind than the boy's. He tightened his grip around the mittened hand resting in his palm. With his chin he flipped the hood down on Sam's little coat, protecting the baby's damp, red cheeks from the cold wind, and started up the walkway.

A foot away from Missouri, Dean put on the brakes.

He pulled back, shaking his head back and forth. His face was deathly white beneath his wool hat and his eyes were huge. John could feel him tugging at his hand with all his strength.

"Let's go. I want to go..."

Before John could say a word, Missouri was there, kneeling in front of them. She bowed her head and removed something from around her neck. It caught in the knit collar of her coat but she tugged it free and held it out to the struggling child.

"Here," she said. "This will help."

Dean stopped trying to flee. He looked at her gentle, earnest face, and then down at the gold pendant dangling from her hand. He regarded it warily before reaching out to take it from her. The charm lay in his palm, bright against the dark blue yarn of his mitten. Missouri smiled at him as he raised his eyes to hers again.

"What is it?"

"Protection, from scary things. Put it on," she urged. "You'll feel better."

John let go of his son's hand and watched the boy put the pendant around his neck. Dean stood there looking at the charm, turning it over and over in his palm.

"Now," Missouri slowly stood up again. "Whatever was in this house isn't there anymore. You will be safe." She held out her hand, waiting patiently for him to take it. "I promise."

To John's surprise, Dean did take Missouri's hand, reaching out to wrap his fingers around hers in a tight grip. The two of them walked up onto the porch, their footsteps echoing hollowly across the wooden planks. John followed uneasily. The baby had stopped crying, and was eerily quiet - so quiet John stole a peek at him to make sure he was okay. Sammy stared back at him solemnly, as if he knew where they were. Not for the first time John found himself wondering how much the infant had been affected by everything that had happened. How much would a six-month-old remember?

"You you have the key?"

Wordlessly John dug into his pocket and produced it.

They entered the house. Missouri led them inside, clutching tightly to Dean's hand. Dean looked very pale, and very frightened, but he remained at her side. He held her talisman with his free hand, closed tightly in his first.

At the foot of the stairs Missouri stopped, gazing up into what was now gone. Only open sky could be seen above her at the top of the staircase. Snow fell softly down upon the steps, covering the shattered glass of a picture frame that had fallen from the wall and frosting the carpet in white. Snowflakes melted upon Missouri's dark cheeks and ran down from them like tears. After a moment she shuddered. She turned to look at John from over her shoulder. Her expression was grave.

"What was this? Do you know?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." John's voice was low, gruff with the strain of suppressing his grief. Even in its current state, the house felt like Mary. A breeze stirred the air. He thought he could smell her scent lurking beneath the stink of scorched woodl. Like Dean, he wanted to leave.

"I don't know," Missouri breathed. Her eyes narrowed as she creased her brow. "But I know this, it's bad, John. It's very bad. Only the barest hint of it remains, and it is foul. It is evil, truly evil."

"Where did it come from? Where did it go?" he demanded.

"I don't know." Abruptly she turned away from the stairs, pulling Dean along with her. She looked upset, and ill, as if what she felt affected her physically too. "I've had enough. Let's go. Now."

She brushed past John quickly, hurrying out the front door. John followed her out onto the porch where she turned Dean back over into his care as she almost frantically locked the door behind them. Her quick pace did not stop until they reached the car. She leaned against it, breathing heavily. It took a moment for her to catch her breath.

Dean started to give her pendant back. Missouri stopped him. "No, baby. You keep that, okay?"

For the first time since the night his mother died, Dean smiled. It was sad, and bittersweet, but genuine. "Okay." he said softly. "Thank you."

Missouri shooed him into the car and shut the door. She turned to John with a stern, yet sympathetic look on her face.

"You came to me for answers. I don't have the answers, and I'm sorry for that. What I can give you is advice, and the names of those who might be able to help you. There's another world out there, John Winchester, a world where evil lives and powers you and I can only imagine really do exist. I can give you the key to unlock that door, but only if you want it."

John regarded her solemnly. His voice was low and very rough. "Ms. Moseley," he said. "That door got busted wide open the night Mary died. What I need isn't a key. I need vengeance."

She didn't reply right away, taking a moment to look in through the car window at Dean. He sat looking back at her, his expression one of fear and worry. Missouri's jaw clenched.

"The first thing you have to do is get these babies out of here. This boy," she nodded toward Dean. "His fear is eating him alive. He saw more than you know, more than he knows how to tell. He looked into the face of pure evil and it has left some nasty, nasty scars." She continued as she pushed back Sammy's hood and touched his head gently. The baby watched, slightly cross-eyed, as she made a gesture of protection over his forehead. "And this one..."

John watched as her eyes grew slightly vacant. There was a long pause before they focused again.

All she said was: "Get out of this town as soon as you possibly can."


"Close your eyes," Mary said. "We're almost there."

Obediently, John closed his eyes. "Almost where?"

"You'll see."

"Not with my eyes shut I won't."

"Smart ass."

John chuckled. He heard the turn signal click, and felt the car turn. The big block engine he'd so carefully restored changed its tune as Mary let up on the gas. She muttered to herself. He heard the rustle of paper and her breathy, "Ah, there it is."

The car turned again, but this time more subtly. She'd pulled to a stop. A moment later she turned off the ignition. John heard the creak of leather as she leaned across the seat and grasped his face in her hands, turning his head toward his right shoulder before letting him go.

"Okay," she said. "Open your eyes."

He opened his eyes.

In front of him was a house, a white house with a porch and a big, gnarled tree in the front yard. It wasn't by any means a mansion, and it could use a little work here and there, but it was a nice house. Margaret Copeland would have said it was a "starter home."

Margaret Copeland probably did say it, as there was a "sold" sign in the yard bearing the name of her real estate agency on it.

John clenched his jaw.

Mary sighed. "I know what you're going to say."

She probably did. The Copelands' money was a sore point between them. Anything their Maribeth asked of them, they would give her. John was not in a position to do the same, and it hurt his pride. When she'd discovered it hurt his pride, Margaret threw salt in the wound by continually offering the young couple what John thought of as charity and Mary called generosity.

He had worked hard, saving every bit of money he could, in order to go in on the shop with Vince. The business was doing well, and John had more than enough money to support himself and a new wife in relative comfort. Sure things might be tough sometimes, but they'd get by okay. Mary didn't seem to mind as long as she had him. She also didn't mind taking her mother's gifts. John minded. He minded a lot.

"It's bad enough she's taken over the wedding..."

"Vegas is still an option," Mary said succinctly.

"But now she's bought us a house?"

"John..."

"No."

She gave him a "look."

Most of the time he caved when she looked at him like that, but at the moment he was too pissed off. He was sick of Margaret Copeland's interference - sick to death. "I won't live in that house. Her house."

"It's my house. So you're going to let me move in there alone, huh? Where are you going live? Here?" She gestured to the back seat of the car before flouncing around in the driver's seat to stare angrily out the windshield with her arms folded across her chest. "You're a stubborn bastard John Winchester."

"And you're a spoiled rich brat!" he snapped back.

He regretted it immediately, regretted it even more when she shot him a glare and shoved open the car door. She snatched up her purse before she got out, slammed the door shut with a bang, and started off down the sidewalk. He waited a moment before determing she was not going to come back.

John groaned, and went after her, catching up halfway down the block. "Mary..."

"Get away from me."

"Oh, come on, don't be like this..."

She turned, her hair swirling around her shoulders. "Like what? A spoiled brat? You knew," she shouted. "You knew how she is. We've been together for three years, John. Three years, and just now, in the last three months, you're going to start acting like a shit because my mother wants to help provide for us? What the hell?"

"She wants to control us, Mary!"

"She does not!" Her eyes darted across the road, where a man had paused to look toward the source of the shouting. Lowering her voice, Mary ground her teeth and continued. "If you want out, just say so. I'm sure my mother would gladly sacrifice the money she's already spent just to get rid of your sorry ass."

"My sorry ass?" John growled. "My sorry ass." She rolled her eyes away from him. "Right. Fine. I just take my sorry ass out of your life right now and you can call the whole damn thing off!"

He turned away, moving quickly back down the sidewalk to the car. Hurt and angry, very angry, he fumbled for the key and started the engine with enough force he was surprised he didn't snap the key off in the ignition. The car roared beneath the heavy press of his foot on the gas, seeming to strain against the gears holding it in park. Grabbing the shift, he jerked it into drive and gunned the engine, his intent to take off in a screech of rubber on blacktop.

The Chevy had other ideas. She gave one bucking lurch before her motor coughed, sputtered, and died.

John cursed, and slammed it back into park. He twisted the key angrily. The engine cranked, and cranked, and cranked, but refused to turn over.

"God damn piece of shit!" He slammed both hands on the steering wheel. The horn bleated in protest.

Throwing himself back against the seat, John pressed the heels to of his hands to his eyes and growled in frustration. He was breathing heavily. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It hurt. He wanted to get out and run back down the street, apologize, and hold her tightly to his chest. His pride, his damn pride got in the way.

He sat there for a long while before he heard the passenger's side door squeak open. The car rocked slightly. He caught the faint scent of her perfume. The door slammed shut again. John said nothing. He didn't know what to say. Next to him Mary sighed, and it was she who broke the silence.

"You've just flooded it."

John opened his eyes. He watched as she reached down to the ignition, and turned the key. The engine started promptly. It ran steadily for a moment until he shut it off. He kept his eyes lowered.

"If you would have let me explain before you went off the deep end..." The words were phrased as a question.

He inhaled a trembling breath and looked up at her, nodding. Her cheeks were dry, but her lashes were damp, the tears unshed. This was part of why he loved her so much. She had a strength deep at the core of her being most people could only dream of having. It came from her mother, but in Margaret it had created a bitch. John thought of Mary as a soldier, not a grunt like he'd been, but an officer. She earned respect instead of demanding it. She led by example, not force, and was a brilliant strategist.

She played a mean game of chess.

"I bought this house myself," she said. "Mother had nothing to do with it. I never finished my education. I was supposed to go on to medical school like my father, but instead I got involved with Scott. I gave up my career for him."

"A mistake," John murmured.

Mary reached out and took his hand in hers. "But a mistake that led me to you. I don't believe in coincidences, John. There are things working out there that we don't understand. I believe with all my heart we were meant to be. Let's not let some silly disagreement get in the way, please? I'm sorry. You know how short tempered I can be sometimes." She smiled wanly. "And you're not sorry."

He nodded. "Well, not like that anyway. Dammit, Mary! Your mother – God – she just..."

"Mom gave me a deal, that's all. She was having trouble selling this place. It needs a little fixing up, the owner didn't want to invest any more money in it. I bought it with what was left of my college money." Now the tears began falling, counterpoint to her smile. "It's mine, John. Marry me and it will be ours."

John ducked his head, sufficiently shamed. Eventually, however, a slow grin crept across his face. His expression was wry. "Is that a formal proposal Maribeth Copeland?" he asked, as he reached over and pulled her across the seat into his embrace. She let him kiss her, and he gently rubbed the tears away from her cheeks with his thumb.

"Yes," she replied.

She rested her head against his shoulder. They sat there together, not speaking, just holding each other. John rested his chin on the top of her head as she snuggled against his chest. He gazed out at the house. He could easily get it in ship shape. It was a nice house, he had to admit.

"By the way," Mary whispered, as John quietly contemplated a picket fence. "Mom wasn't real happy when I told her she'd either have to move up the wedding date, or have the dress altered."

John frowned. "What? What are you talking about?"

Mary sat up and gave him a sly look. "She chose to move the date up and has sworn to tell all her society friends that the baby was born three months premature."

He stared at her. She favored him with the wicked grin he was so fond of.

"I'm pregnant."