That night, Dean lay supine in his bed covered to his waist with his blanket, revealing only a clean, black t-shirt. The small light on the bedside table was shining through the old, dull lampshade as he stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. The fingers of his right hand were splayed out, and he pressed his whole hand against the memory foam of the mattress then relaxed, allowing the foam to fill back into the empty space before doing it again. The motion was thoughtless, which was just as well because his actual thoughts were on the conversation he had had with Missouri.
The psychic had known -better than he did- why he had insisted to Sam that they go visit her. Missouri's comments to Dean had been near exact echos of Sam's earlier reluctance.
"Why do you want to see Missouri?" Sam's question sounded reasonable enough.
"Why not?" Dean countered. "She's the closest ally we have where we don't have to drive in this crap all day."
"Yeah, but it's not like we've made a habit of asking for her help over the years."
Dean could only shrug at that.
"Besides," Sam continued. "What makes you think she can help us anyway? What can she tell us that Cas can't? That the angels can't?"
The question about Cas made Dean shift. "I don't know, Sam. It's just... with Mom back, it made me think of the help Missouri gave us back in the day, and..." he trailed off. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly a good answer to Sam's first question of 'why?' As Dean groped for words to convince Sam, though, what he had already said seemed to be enough for his little brother.
"Okay."
Okay. It had been that easy. Say something about Mom, and Sam was willing to relent and accept. It was worth remembering; that trick might be handy in the future.
But Missouri knew it hadn't been about the rain. Oh, sure, she had given them the courtesy of hearing them out, but she had zoned in on exactly what had been dancing through Dean's skull even when he, himself, had been unable to do so. He still didn't want to admit it, and every time a cohesive thought on the subject tried to form in his head, he dashed it away. His hand pressed into the mattress again. Release. Press. Release.
He knew that if he was going to lie awake all night, he should be trying to focus on what he knew about Chuck and how he could lend a hand to find Him. But how does one find God? Their past searches had done nothing more than to prove to them God could not be found if He chose to remain hidden. "Chuck Shurley – Hide and Seek champion since the dawn of time," Dean muttered to himself. Press. Release.
Sooner or later, Dean, you're gonna have to address it. An image of liquid blue eyes flashed into his thoughts. No. Where's Chuck? Press. Release. The last anyone saw of Him, He was nothing more than a brilliant white light, intermingling with Amara's ashy, black smoke. Dean had watched as they ascended and assumed they were going to Heaven, but the angels claimed He wasn't there, that neither of them were.
It ain't going away. Dean's hand clenched into a fist, and he hammered it into the foam, using the momentum to throw himself upright. He kicked away the blanket and got to his feet. He needed to walk. To clear his head. His grey robe was hanging from a hook, high on the back of his bedroom door. Before leaving his room, he made sure to snatch it and shove his arms through the sleeves.
.oOo.
Day 2
Sam stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen. Some mornings, he felt great after a good night's sleep and wanted to get up early and go out for a run. Some mornings, like this one, he had to drag himself out of bed after not sleeping well at all and only wanted an entire pot of coffee to himself. His long legs took him to the coffee pot, and he was already pulling the filter out before he realized it was warm. He blinked and focused; there was enough hot coffee left for one more cup. Dean must be up. Sam gratefully poured himself the last cup and took a sip before setting to preparing another pot. Coffee before making coffee; it was a thing to appreciate. Once the next batch was happily gurgling through the maker, Sam picked up his mug again and made his way into the library in search of his brother.
Dean was sitting back in one of the soft chairs near a bookshelf. His feet were propped on a small table next to his coffee mug. The decanter set that usually lived on it was neatly set aside on one of the main library tables. Between his hands was an old, leather-bound book. Judging by how sunken down into the chair Dean was, Sam guessed he had been reading for quite a while. That, and the darkness around Dean's eyes made Sam wonder if his brother had slept at all. At his first glance, Sam hadn't truly paid attention to the title on the book cover, but another look brought it into focus. Holy Bible.
"The Bible, Dean? Really?"
Dean's light green gaze flicked up at Sam then back down to the open pages of the book. "Yep."
"Huh. I guess what Missouri said really hit home for you." Sam watched as his comment caused Dean's eyes to stop moving across the page. He simply stared at one spot, lost in thought, not seeming to even see what he was looking at. Sam's brow gave an upward twitch as he let a short, soft exhale puff from his mouth. She really had made an impact on Dean. Just one mention of it, and now his brother was reading the Bible, of all things. Sam shrugged and sat down at the library table. Stranger things -much stranger things- had happened in their lives. What was one self-imposed reading assignment against some of the other happenings?
"Finding anything useful?" Sam asked. "Like where God might be right now?"
"'Then said Saul unto his servants,'" Dean read. "'"Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her, and enquire of her." And his servants said to him, "Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at Endor."'" Dean closed the book on one finger and ran his other hand down his face. He turned the motion into sitting up in his chair. He dropped his feet to the floor and reached forward for the mug.
"Did you pick that out because we talked to Missouri?" Sam asked as Dean grimaced into what was left in the mug.
"No, that's where I just happened to be reading. Did you make more coffee?" Dean set the Bible on the now empty small table and got to his feet.
"Yeah." Sam had already drained his cup, so he accompanied Dean into the kitchen. "Don't you think it means something that you 'just happened' to be reading about going to a psychic?"
"No, I don't," Dean replied. He finished pouring his own cup and lifted the pot slightly in an offer to pour for Sam. Sam held out his empty mug to accept. "Because if you had asked about Chuck ten seconds sooner or later, I would have read a different passage to you. Why do you have to find a meaning in it?"
"I don't know. I just think maybe it means we should go back to Missouri and talk to her again."
"Oh, now you want to go see her?" Dean scoffed. "You weren't so interested in it yesterday."
Dean was right; he hadn't wanted to. But that had been before they had found out Missouri was well-versed in Biblical lore. "Maybe we can pick her brain, get a take from a non-angelic point of view that Cas would be unable to give us. I mean, Cas is sure that whatever's going on with the rain is because of Chuck, but Missouri swears it's not Him. I just think it'd be smart to hear her out, maybe get a new opinion."
"You want to go, go," Dean replied. "I'm not stopping you."
"You're not coming?"
"Not this time; I can go later."
"Dean, if Cas is right, the flood level out there is only going to get higher. Forty days and forty nights is a long time for rain. This might be our last chance to go see Missouri if we can't get this figured out."
"So bring her back here. We have higher ground here than she does in Lawrence anyway. She'll be safer."
.oOo.
As Sam got himself ready to drive to Lawrence, Dean attempted to bury himself back into the mentally arduous task of reading the Bible. He could admit to himself that more than half of what he had already read hadn't stuck. It was boring stuff. He decided to start 1 Samuel 28 over again, but when he got to the seventh verse -the one he had read aloud to Sam- he paused. Maybe Sam was right; maybe it hadn't been coincidence that he happened to have been reading that particular line when Sam asked if he had anything on Chuck. How often did coincidences happen for them anyway? Pretty much never. Which meant Sam was right in going back to see Missouri. Which meant Dean should probably go with him.
He closed his eyes and rolled his neck, trying to alleviate some tension. He wasn't sure he was ready to face her again, knowing she could read him better than he was reading this book. Even when he wasn't actively thinking about- He plowed that train of thought right off the tracks. He didn't want to actively think about it, he didn't want to address it, and he certainly didn't want Missouri chastising him over those facts. So that brought him back to asking himself why he had wanted to seek her out to begin with. If he didn't even want to think about it, why the hell would he involve a psychic? With a sigh, Dean tossed the Bible back onto the little table and got to his feet. In his stride to the bedroom hallway, he bumped into Sam at the foot of the staircase.
"You change your mind?" Sam asked. He looked ready to leave.
"No, I'm just headed to the shower," Dean replied. "I'll see you later this afternoon."
"'Kay." Sam's footsteps rattled the metal staircase as he ascended. Dean slipped into the hall and, staying true to his word, made his way to the bathroom and a hot shower. Behind him, he heard the heavy door boom shut to announce his brother's exit.
Minutes later, Dean was standing under steaming water thudding against his skin. He tried to clear his mind of everything except how great the water pressure was. It wasn't working. He kicked himself for a dumbass. He had declined going with Sam because he didn't want to talk to Missouri, but what did he do instead? Told Sam to bring the psychic back to their bunker. Why had he done that? He snatched up a fresh wash rag and a bar of soap, scorning the bath puff and liquid soap Sam preferred. He rubbed a good, foamy lather into the rag, his mind still working furiously. Of course he had told Sam to bring Missouri. Global flood, higher elevation. It made sense. They save people, and she'd be safer in the bunker than her house right now. It had nothing to do with her helping him sift through the mess in his head. The mess that swirled around him every single damn time that angel was nearby.
He stopped scrubbing the rag across his chest and simply held it there as he let the water pound against his back. It warred with the pounding he felt under his hand. It wasn't supposed to be like this; he never asked for this. He returned to cleaning his body with more vigor, speeding things along, as though by getting out of the shower, he could get away from these thoughts. Though he knew it wasn't the case, he went through the motions anyhow and fled the bathroom as soon as he was dry.
Exhausted and clean, Dean flopped himself onto his unmade bed with just a towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn't slept at all; maybe he should try now. He should probably put something more than a towel on; get under the blanket. When had he closed his eyes? He was vaguely aware that one leg was still out of the bed with his bare foot on the floor. He couldn't bring himself to put forth the energy to lift it up. As he drifted, one last waking thought forced its way to the forefront, a thought he was too tired to push away, and that was to wonder where his angel was.
.oOo.
"This next stage is pretty simple too. You just split that water from this water."
"Evenly?"
"That's up to you; it's yours. Do you want one to be bigger than the other?"
.oOo.
It should have taken only two and a half hours for Sam to drive from Lebanon to Lawrence, but heavy rain and standing water on some roads -plus the fact it had still been dark when he first left the bunker- had slowed his trip by more than an hour. Sunrise had been sometime around 7:30, which was before he left, but the dense clouds had kept back the light until he was well on his way down the road. In any case, it was close to lunch time when Sam knocked on Missouri's door.
Missouri opened her door and quickly ushered Sam in from the rain. "It's a mess out there," she noted as she gave a passing glance to the storm before closing the door. Sam dutifully removed his coat before being instructed and hung it on the same hook as he had the previous day. He adjusted the shoulders of his flannel shirt and pushed back his wet hair.
"Got another towel for me?" he asked with a good-natured smile. Missouri smiled back and nodded her head toward the kitchen.
"Let's go get you dried off, darlin'." She accepted Sam's arm gesture for her to lead the way. He followed, once again trailing water behind him. There were no towels on the table in the breakfast nook this time, nor did Sam smell coffee. Before he could make mention of it, Missouri spoke, "No, I wasn't expecting you this time."
"Maybe I wasn't as loud with my thoughts while alone as Dean and I were together," Sam offered as a half joke.
"Could be," Missouri allowed. She left the room down the hall where Dean had disappeared the previous day and came back shortly with a towel in hand. "Here ya go."
Sam accepted the towel and pressed it to the base of his neck, giving his long hair a scrub, "Thanks."
"You know, you could invest in an umbrella instead of using up my towels," Missouri said, prompting a smile from Sam. "Of course, neither would matter much once you extend your invitation."
"Oh, uh," Sam's vigorous hair drying slowed. "I just got here; I haven't really had a chance..."
"But you were going to take your sweet time with it. Try to work it into the conversation somehow, wait until the right moment to bring it up. I swear, Sam Winchester, you are too polite by half sometimes."
Sam smiled wryly, remembering just how polite he wasn't when he had gotten back from the Cage without his soul. Of course, because those thoughts were forefront, Missouri could tell exactly what he was thinking about. She gave him knowing smile, and he appreciated it when she didn't say anything about that time in his life. "So does that mean you'll come?"
"I ain't going anywhere without lunch," Missouri replied. She walked into the kitchen and started gathering sundries from her pantry. "I bought myself some veal the other day, and if you're gonna whisk me away with no guarantee that my house won't fill with water while I'm gone, I want to enjoy this meal."
Sam took a seat at the small table and watched as she prepared a dough. After a few minutes of not seeing any meat, he said, "I thought you said you were making veal."
"I am," Missouri replied. "This is just a quickbread to go with it."
"Quickbread?"
"No yeast; no need to wait for it to rise. Don't worry, darlin'. We'll be out of here sooner than you think." She continued to work, and after the next stretch of quiet, she let her voice take on a serious note. "You didn't have too good of a rest last night, Sam. Why not?"
Sam blinked at the change of subject. He carefully folded the towel and set it on the table, and in his silence realized he didn't really want to talk about it. But Missouri had asked, so he felt it was right to at least say something. "It's Mom. I just worry about her, that's all. I called her on the way here, though. She's found a place to safely hunker down. Said she'll stay put until we get this figured out."
Missouri stayed quiet as she formed the dough into a ball. Sam knew the tactic; she was waiting for him to get uncomfortable and keep talking. Riding thousands of miles with Dean, though, had given Sam years of practice with silences. He rarely let them unnerve him anymore. After a while, the psychic nodded her head.
"Well, okay then," she said softly. She plopped the dough into a pan and finished it off with knifing and X into the top and brushing some mixture of liquid over the whole thing. She slid the pan into the preheated oven and turned to Sam with an air of satisfaction. "It takes about an hour for Irish soda bread to bake. You're gonna be sharing it with me, aren't you?"
"Oh, um, no thank you."
Missouri crossed her arms with an irritated sigh. "Haven't we been through this?"
"Through what?"
"You think you're being polite, but you just need to say 'yes please.' If Dean were here, he'd accept the food, and he'd insist you eat too. You'd listen to him, wouldn't you?" She paused after her question and cocked her head. "Speaking of Dean, why didn't he come with you?"
"He was reading."
"Reading."
"The Bible."
"Was he now?" Missouri looked amused.
"Yeah, I think he was up all night. He was reading when I got up."
"Any part in particular?"
"Uh, well, when I asked, he read out a line about seeking out a medium." Sam rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. "It kinda made me think we needed to come back to see you."
"First Samuel, twenty-eight," Missouri mumbled.
"What?"
"I'm willing to bet that's the book and chapter he was on," Missouri explained. Then quietly -almost to herself- she continued, "And funny if so, given the last few verses of that chapter."
"Oh," Sam replied, not knowing what she meant. He wondered if Missouri thought it was dumb of him to have used a Bible verse as a reason to come get her. When Missouri smiled, he wished he could take the thought back and hide it. She smiled wider. "I'm going to step upstairs and gather some things to take with me when we leave. You're welcome to make yourself comfortable while the bread is baking. There's a book shelf in the living room." With that, Missouri excused herself from the room, toward the staircase in the hallway. Sam listened as her feet padded up the wooden steps.
He wandered into the living room and planted himself in front of the book shelf Missouri had mentioned. As his eyes skimmed titles, one in particular stood out. Bound in worn, dark blue leather was a book that had seen many years of handling, based on the series of lines creased through the faded, golden lettering on the spine which proclaimed it to be the Holy Bible. Sam slipped it from its spot and let it fall open in his hands. He flipped to 1 Samuel and found the twenty-eighth chapter. It was short, only twenty-five verses. His eyes landed on the end of the chapter, on what Missouri had said would be funny, and read it out loud.
"Now therefore, I pray thee, hearken thou also unto the voice of thine handmaid, and let me set a morsel of bread before thee; and eat, that thou mayest have strength, when thou goest on thy way. But he refused, and said, I will not eat. But his servants, together with the woman, compelled him; and he hearkened unto their voice. So he arose from the earth, and sat upon the bed. And the woman had a fat calf in the house; and she hasted, and killed it, and took flour, and kneaded it, and did bake unleavened bread thereof: And she brought it before Saul, and before his servants; and they did eat. Then they rose up, and went away that night." Sam let out a sharp exhale as he closed the book. "Veal and quickbread," he mumbled and put the Bible back on the shelf.
.oOo.
"No. NO!" Dean woke with a start, lifting up and groping out into the empty space before him, reaching, trying to hold on to... to... His hand closed on air. To what? He couldn't remember; the dream melted away. He let himself flop back onto the bed and dropped his hand to his chest. He suddenly realized how cold he was. A downward glance reminded him that he was wrapped in nothing more than a towel from his earlier shower, and that still slightly damp where it was pressed between his body and the mattress. The bare foot on the floor was damn near frozen. Dean got himself up and dressing. Clean t-shirt and boxers, relaxed cut jeans and a blue and brown flannel. Habit made him roll one sleeve to his elbow before he thought better of it and kept both sleeves down for warmth. He also briefly considered two pairs of socks but settled on one. Moving around would warm him up.
As he dressed, he strained to remember his dream. What had been so important? It had been something... something he couldn't imagine his life without. He shrugged it away; dreams were wacky things anyway. Once he had even dreamed he had been mining geodes with Sam and found one that looked like lady bits, clit and all. The memory made him grin to himself.
His stomach rumbled loudly. Never one to argue with the boss, Dean headed toward the kitchen, making sure to grab his cell phone from its charger as he passed it. He did a quick check for missed calls or texts. None. Then he focused on the time. Almost three thirty. Damn, had he really slept that long? If Sam wasn't back yet, he would be soon.
"Sammy?" Dean called out when he reached the kitchen. "You back?" When he got no answer from further rooms, he shrugged and opened the refrigerator. "More for me."
In terms of grab-and-go, there was little more than leftover Chinese of a questionable age inside the fridge. Given the fact he couldn't remember just how old it was, he decided to pass and opened the freezer instead. Microwave burritos. Yes. He grabbed two. At least he knew exactly what these would do to him; the same couldn't be said for the Chinese.
He put both burritos on a plate and popped them in the microwave. To amuse himself while watching the timer, he began humming Europe's "Final Countdown," but when he got to the chorus, he was no longer content with humming. "The bur-rito count-dowwwn! Duh-nuh-nuh-nuuhh! Duh-nuh-nunt-nunt-nuh!" The timer beeped, but Dean was on a roll. To avoid burning the inside of his face, he would have to let them cool anyway. He continued singing -the actual words now- and put the plate on the counter. The performance evolved to include air guitar and some sweet dance moves; at least they were to his mind. His fingers and tongue flew through the guitar solo, head bobbing to the beat, and with a flourish, he spun around.
There stood Sam and Missouri.
Dean's singing faltered, and his hands slowly lowered from his air guitar. Missouri had the good grace to at least attempt to hide her amusement, the corners of her mouth trying to curl up into a smile while she fought them back down into a straight face. Sam, on the other hand, smirked openly. "Don't let us stop you, John Norum."
Disgruntled from being interrupted, Dean snatched up his plate of burritos without replying. Sam eyed them, and then for some reason turned to Missouri to say with sincerity, "Thank you very much for lunch."
"You're quite welcome, darlin'."
.oOo.
The three of them retired to the library, Dean with his plate of burritos and looking slightly surly for the interruption of his dance number. Missouri sat first, choosing to put herself at the head of one table. The brothers followed suit, sitting across from each other at the same table. Dean immediately tucked into his first burrito.
"So what do we know?" Missouri started off the conversation.
"Mm," Dean replied with a mouthful of food. He stuffed the bite into his cheek. She saw that he would be giving her no preferential treatment when it came to his eating habits. "We got exactly jack with a side of squat."
Sam cast a distasteful look across the table at his brother, and Missouri felt a burst of embarrassment accompany it. Polite boy. "We do know that some entity – presumably powerful – has started a global rainfall."
"But not what, or even who," Missouri prompted.
"Well, no."
"Jack and squat," Dean repeated. Sam ignored him.
"But the angels think it's God."
"And I think it's not," Missouri's rebuttal was spoken more harshly than she intended. "He wouldn't do this. He promised."
"And you believe that," the scorn in Dean's voice matched what he was feeling.
"With all my heart. Honey, you have been given more reasons than most to be skeptical, I know. But in this, your skepticism cannot and will not shake my faith."
"Then what about what Cas said?" Sam asked. "The angels-"
"The angels can take what they said and shove it-" fllutter flap "-right up their winged rear ends." Missouri paused to feel the colors in the head of the angel behind her. "Hello again, Castiel."
When Castiel appeared behind Missouri, she felt the quickening of the brothers' thoughts. They were both concerned over how he would react to her disrespectful comment. Dean held some edge of amusement too; apparently he had been caught in a similar situation before, and he was looking forward to seeing how Missouri would continue. There was also a tightness inside him, the careful guarding of thoughts that did not show on his face but screamed through his head and into hers. Bless it. Castiel, to his credit, chose to respond only to her greeting and ignored what else she had said.
He stepped around from behind her and stood next to where Sam sat, "Hello." His eyes swept the two men at the table, acknowledging them along with Missouri.
"Are you here to tell us your angels still think God is responsible for this rain?" Missouri challenged.
"Actually, no," Castiel replied. "There has been much discussion on the matter, and the majority of the angels have come to the same conclusion as you. There is some dissension, though. Some still insist that since God was willing to forsake us before, they have no reason to believe He would hold to His promises. The counter-argument is that God never promised He would not leave us, but He did promise never to flood the world again."
Missouri nodded with satisfaction.
"Then if it's not God, who is it?" Dean demanded.
"We're working on that."
"Working on it?" Dean let the frustration he felt lace his words. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means we're working on it, Dean." Frustration was flung back. A sickly greenish-yellow oozed from Castiel. Missouri was suddenly blasted with the awareness that the colors of the angel's emotions coincided with candle magic. Interesting. "It was hard enough to get a majority vote from the angels to not blame this on God. I am going to require patience from you."
"Patience? I don't have the luxury of patience right now." Dean slid his chair back and stood, leaning forward across the table menacingly. One hand was planted firmly on the surface, the other was balled in a fist with one finger poking the tabletop. His volume increased with the anger that stabbed from him. "My world is filling up like a bath tub without a drain. I don't need patience! I need answers!" He pointed the finger at Castiel. "And you and your damn angels are sitting up there in Heaven having a freaking debate!" The last word was punctuated with his hand slapping the table.
"What makes you think we're not doing all we can?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you show up here only to tell us that you and the rest of the Ents have taken a full twenty-four hours to decide that we're not orcs."
Sam, who had been trying to get a word in edge-wise, suddenly stopped his attempts as surprise trilled through his thoughts. He hadn't expected that reference from Dean. It also gave Castiel pause. Green faded from the yellow; he was puzzling through what Dean had said, but some of the greenish part still held on. Confusion could not wash away the anger. The lull was enough for Missouri to softly clear her throat in an attempt to pull all attention to herself. Sam was the only one who actually turned his head.
"Sam, I'll have some coffee, if you don't mind."
"Oh, right." Sam stood quickly, anxiety waving through him over his inability to have smoothed over the fight between his brother and his friend. "I should have already offered-"
"Don't worry about that, darlin'. But I could use some now."
"Yeah. Of course." He left the room. Missouri turned a steely gaze first to Dean who was still propped on the table and then to Castiel. Neither of them looked at her. They were locked in a contest of wills. As he stared down Dean, a tendril of red wormed its way into the greenish-yellow in Castiel's mind and expanded, pushing the nastier color out of the way. The greenish-yellow fought back to close around it, but the red was winning. The yellow was receding as his focus on Dean's last comment ebbed, unimportant. His mind truly was fascinating to examine. Dean, on the other hand, had tamped down everything and was wrapping himself in the blistering anger and frustration he felt at Castiel's words. It felt safe to him, this emotion he knew well, so he hid in it.
"Just what do two think this is going to accomplish?" Missouri began. She waited for a moment to let them know the question wasn't exactly rhetorical. When they both eased down and looked at her, she continued. Her voice was firm. Dean was right; they were running out of time. "We have a real crisis on our hands, and you two are bickering like you don't have nothin' better to do with yourselves. It might occur to you that you wouldn't be fighting so much if you would just acknowledge this unspoken connection y'all got stretched out between you. It's causing tension, and I am just sick of it. I don't know whether to slap you or lock you together in a closet until you get this sorted out. But I tell you what, I don't want to have another conversation with you until y'all stop ignoring it and talk about it."