The pie-retrieval detour only sets them back half an hour. A few minutes before three they pull up opposite Missouri's house, a modest white craftsman with a wide front porch, and they climb from the car, stretching. It's on a quiet street that backs onto woodland, and the silver maple leaves rustle in the breeze as Dean makes his way toward the house.
Sam hesitates by the open passenger door, a wrinkle in his brow, and Dean stops to look back at him.
"What is it?"
He shuffles, half opening his mouth and clamping it shut again.
"Spit it out, Sam."
"Look, just... don't get your hopes up, okay? It's a long shot that she'll even be able to tell what's wrong with me, so—"
"How about we save the defeatist crap for after we've eaten pie?"
With a defeated nod, Sam shuts the door and crosses the street, glancing at Dean as he passes.
"I thought the pie was for Missouri."
"I thought the pie was for Missouri," Dean parrots back, pulling a face, and Sam rolls his eyes, laughing as they head up the path.
They're halfway up the porch steps when Missouri pulls open the door, and they both stop in their tracks. She's just as unimpressed as they'd expected her to be, and how a five-foot-six woman in a cardigan can manage to look so damn imposing is a mystery Dean doesn't think he'll ever solve.
"Long time no see," he says with a grin, and she narrows her eyes at him before her gaze flickers down to the box in his hand.
"If you know what's good for you," she says, voice clipped as she steps aside to let them in, "that'll be pecan."
"Like we'd forget."
"Hmmph."
As soon as Dean's through the door, Missouri's gaze settles on Sam and all the ire in her eyes is replaced with concern.
"Oh, my," she murmurs, pulling the door closed after him, "what have you gotten yourself into?"
"We were kind of hoping you could help with that."
She reaches out to his face as if checking his temperature and shakes her head.
"You're tangled up with somethin' real nasty," she says quietly, stepping away and leading the way to the kitchen, "come on, come sit down. We'll see if we can sort it out."
Missouri's house is warm, in every sense of the word. Neat but well lived-in, and she has the heater on, despite the mild, late April weather. Both Sam and Dean are peeling off their jackets before they've finished walking down the hall.
What is it with old people and not using the air-con, Dean thinks, and Missouri turns to level him with a stern glare. He gulps.
"Sorry," he says.
Once they're all seated in her tiny kitchen, they fill her in over slices of pie and home made sweet tea. With her picking half the story out of their heads before they've finished telling it, seven years worth of catch up barely takes an hour, and as she refills their glasses from the pitcher, she lets out an apologetic sigh.
"Boys, I'm sorry, but if an angel can't help you, what makes you think I can?"
"Wishful thinking?" Dean says, ignoring the told you so on Sam's face and the sinking feeling in his gut.
She shakes her head again, frowning.
"I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam nods, staring down at the crumbs on his empty plate, and Dean tries not to worry too much. It's futile. After a few moments of silence, Missouri drums her fingers across the table and speaks.
"I don't know how much good it'd do, but I know a few powerful cleansing rituals..."
"Can't hurt, right?" Dean says.
Leaning across the table, Missouri pats Sam's wrist.
"Come on," she says, standing, "we'll need some things from the garden."
Missouri's garden is a tangled mess of color and everything her house isn't. Twisted vines and overgrown shrubs crowd out over the edges of every flower bed, spilling onto the cracked brick path that spirals to the center, and she carries a basket at her elbow, pointing toward various plants.
"Give me a few of the Spanish bugloss flowers," she tells Dean, gesturing toward a fuzzy-leaved plant with bright blue flowers, "four or five should do."
Dean pulls them free and drops them into her basket as she scans the garden with narrowed eyes, tapping absently at her lower lip with her index finger until she sees what she needs.
"A handful of leaves from the lemon beebrush," she points, waiting for Dean to stoop to pick them before turning to his brother, "and Sam, we'll need the tap root from the ferula—the tall one there with the yellow flowers. Just pull the whole thing up. Mind you don't break it, we'll need the whole thing."
By the time they have everything the basket is overflowing, and they make their way back inside. Missouri has Dean drag the coffee table out of her living room and clear up some space while she goes about grinding the ferula root with a mortar and pestle. Sam is sent into her well organised pantry with a list of dried herbs to collect.
Even after they've prepared everything, the rituals take a few hours to complete. Despite the seriousness of the situation, both Sam and Dean find it difficult to get through them without laughing. The third ritual in particular involves Sam standing on one leg at the center of a salt circle, humming—one long, sustained note that Missouri tells him he needs to hold until she's finished with the smudge stick. They have to start over three times, and even then, it's only the fear of Missouri slapping them upside the head that keeps them from losing it.
It's well after eight in the evening when they're finally done, and Sam's face is brighter, his cheeks a little more pink. Dean decides to believe it's because of the rituals and not the excessive heating in Missouri's house.
They thank her, ready to start the long drive back to Lebanon, and she tells them not to be ridiculous.
"I won't have you two driving all hours of the night."
"It's really fine—"
"My guest room isn't just for show," she says firmly, "now make yourselves useful and get the spare blankets from the hall cupboard. I'd say I hope you both like meatloaf, but I know you do, and we'd be having it regardless."
"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, and Sam snickers until she shoots him a look.
"Being sick don't give you a free pass to be a wiseass, Sam Winchester."
"Yes, ma'am," Sam replies, and Dean presses his lips together, suppressing his laugh as he makes his way to the hall closet.
It isn't until he's pulling back the hideous floral print quilt on Missouri's sofa a few hours later that he remembers that he never checked his messages, and he pads quietly back to the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from where it's hanging on the back of a chair. Down the hall he can hear Sam snoring in the spare room, though he only went to bed a few minutes ago, and counts it as a good sign that he's sleeping so easily.
He waits until he's back in the living room, warm beneath the blankets, before unlocking his cell. The blue-tinted screen lights up the room.
15 NEW MESSAGES. 19 MISSED CALLS.
"Holy crap," he mutters, tapping on the message icon.
Three texts are from Charlie. Twelve are from Castiel. He opens the ones from Charlie first.
FROM: Charlie
RECEIVED: 1:36pm
Just so you know, Chuck may be
dead by the time you get back.
There's no monsters or anything,
I'm just seriously considering
strangling him to death.
FROM: Charlie
RECIEVED: 7:22pm
Dude I just got a call from Castiel,
he thinks you're hurt or something?
He sounded really freaked.
Answer your phone.
FROM: Charlie
RECIEVED: 8:47pm
Seriously are you okay?
Sam isn't picking up either.
Call me.
He quickly shoots off a reply, telling her they're both fine, and opens up the messages from Castiel. After regaining his higher brain function, lost completely on reading the second message, he finds that Charlie's description of Castiel sounding freaked wasn't an exaggeration.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 2:05pm
We should have done that years ago.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 2:05pm
I can still taste your lips on mine.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 2:37pm
That was inappropriate.
I apologize.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 2:59pm
Forget I said it.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 3:44pm
Dean?
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 4:20pm
If I made you uncomfortable
please just tell me.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 6:50pm
Dean? Why aren't you
answering?
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 7:37pm
Sam isn't answering his
phone either, are you okay?
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 9:36pm
Please just tell me you're
okay.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 10:01pm
Dean where are you?
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 10:43pm
Are you hurt?
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 11:19pm
I can't find you.
Please answer.
He's off the sofa and slipping out the front door before he's finished reading them. The phone barely rings once before Castiel answers.
"Dean? Where are you? I'll be there in—"
"Cas, Cas, calm down. Everything's fine."
"You weren't answering."
"My cell was in my jacket and I didn't see it until now. Been helping Missouri with some rituals to help Sam."
"So you're not hurt?"
"No, I'm fine. We're both fine."
"I thought..." Castiel lets out a breath, "this has been very stressful."
"I can see that," he says with a smile, sinking down onto the porch swing, "but I'm okay. Really. Sorry I had you so worried, man."
"So you don't regret what happened?"
Dean's eyes widen, shocked that Castiel even has to ask.
"Are you kidding me?"
"It's a serious question."
"Cas. If you didn't have to leave when you did, I'd still be kissing you."
He's surprised at his own honesty. Feels his cheeks growing warm.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
For a moment Castiel doesn't speak, and only the sound of his breath echoes down the line. It's soothing in a way Dean can't quite work out, and he closes his eyes, leaning back as he pushes his feet against the ground, the swing swaying slow.
"Dean?"
"Mm?"
"This has possibly made things harder."
Not dirty talk, Dean tells himself, and huffs out a laugh.
"How?"
"Being away. I want... I just want."
Or maybe it was. His mouth ticks up at one side, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and he remembers the feeling of Castiel doing that. It feels like weeks ago.
"Yeah, me too," he says, deciding it would almost definitely be worth the potential confusion if he were to try a little light dirty talk of his own, "Hey, Cas, what are—"
The screen door behind him flies open, and Dean pracically jumps out of his skin when Missouri, wrapped in a fuzzy yellow robe, storms outside.
"I don't know what kind of house you think this is, Dean, but as happy as I am that you've found someone I will not abide you having phone sex on my front porch."
Dean's mouth falls open, mortified.
"I wasn't—"
"You were thinking about it."
"Missouri," Dean hisses, eyes wide as he tries to cover his cell phone's mouthpiece, "shut up."
"Dean?"
Holding up one hand to stop Missouri from saying anything else, Dean gulps and uncovers the phone. He clears his throat.
"I uh... Missouri needs me to help her with something. I'll call you in the morning, Cas."
"Okay. Good night, Dean."
"Night."
Dean ends the call and glares at Missouri.
"Seriously, what the hell?" he asks, and she just arches her brow.
"Don't even try to tell me you weren't about to ask that boy what he was wearing—the answer to which by the way, I know you already know."
"I wasn't going to—"
"It's late," she says, cutting him off and holding open the door, "and if you want waffles in the morning you'd best let me get some shut eye. Go on, scoot."
Glowering, Dean makes his way back inside, trying not to think the things he's thinking. He fails, and receives a light slap to the back of the head for his trouble. He sighs.
"Night, Missouri."
"Just try to keep the loud thinking g-rated."
She disappears down the hall, socks shushing over the carpet, and Dean falls back on the sofa and slips under the covers. His cell buzzes as he lays down, and again a moment later, and he replies with a lopsided grin, heart pounding hard. The reply comes through almost instantly.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 11:48pm
I'd rather wait until we
are together anyway.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 11:48pm
If that's something
you'd be interested in.
FROM: Dean
SENT: 11:48pm
If Chuck doesn't find
something soon I'm going
to lose my damn mind.
FROM: Cas
RECIEVED: 11:49pm
I take it that's a yes.
Pleasant dreams, Dean.
The decidedly not g-rated thoughts come unbidden after that, and at the sound of Missouri pointedly clearing her throat down the hall, Dean presses his face into the pillow and laughs.