fannishliss

Title: Women of Supernatural: Missouri Mosely
Author:

fannishliss
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: no pairing. This story features Missouri and John Winchester. Also, the Impala.
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: These ficlets are being posted as part of the 42 Days of Metallicar, hosted by

alias_chick .
No money is being made off these stories, which feature the women of Supernatural, and also, somehow, the Impala :) comments are adored, as are suggestions for cross-posting.
Spoilers: This story references the first issue of Supernatural: Origins, the comic book written by Peter Johnson, and quotes one line of dialogue verbatim.
850 words.

Summary: Missouri had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. That's how she first met John Winchester.

Missouri Mosely had a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. Surely there was no other reason for her to be in a pool hall on the wrong side of Lawrence, on her own, with a cue in her hands, just as the unfortunate Mr. John Winchester tried (and failed) to hustle his first round of pool.

He was lying there on the floor, emotions screaming through his mind -- despair and grief (rage and terror dulled a little by drink), and MARY! and DEAN! and SAMMY! louder than anything. Missouri saw Mary, blonde beauty with a wicked loving smile, engulfed in flames on the ceiling; and Dean, big solemn green eyes, blond hair going dark, ready to leap into his Daddy's arms, or anywhere his Daddy told him to leap; and Sammy, so little, yet growing so fast, something dark already taking root inside him that John hadn't even guessed at.

Missouri had the gift, as some called it, of seeing right inside people's thoughts. Or rather, she saw the tableaus of the visual thinkers, felt the dances and positionings of the spatial-kinesthetics, and heard the constant murmuring intonations of the auditory.

So she felt John's lunge at the ceiling, the heat of the fire scorching him as it consumed the one woman who had filled his arms so perfectly. She felt the boys small against his chest, the silk of the older one's hair soft and tender under John's chin as he rocked and tried to school his tears, his hitching breath, his throbbing heart. She felt the huge clumsiness of his mechanic hands as he trained himself to fold a diaper, heat a bottle, coax a tiny spoonful of mashed potatoes into the mouth of his angry baby. Missouri felt the breath tightening in her own body at the rage and the grief that surged relentlessly inside the man. She could barely breathe around him. She needed time to think.

"Okay, okay," she soothed the denying, beaten Winchester. "You should really come and see me. But hey, have it your way. You go and give Dean and Sammy an extra hug for me tonight, won't you?"

A week later, John pulled up at her house. Missouri was a bona fide psychic (as well as a licensed counsellor), but she was no Hunter. She knew she had to hook John Winchester into the loose network of nutjobs, crazies, and vengeful killers that stood between America and the supernatural bloodbath always simmering beneath the surface, like the Yellowstone super volcano, imminent explosion deferred by (relatively) tinier ventings here and there.

She spoke with John about what she saw, heard his side of the story; rode with him frantic to Mary's friend's house where the boys were staying, and picked the vile tooth out of the gory remains there as John gathered Dean to himself, hoping that he hadn't failed his family, again.

"I'll take care of all this-- just take your boys and go. Remember my number, John -- I'll be here if you need me."

Though John would rather be anywhere else, like a spider in her web, Missouri had to stay in Lawrence, where vibrations from all over the country ran along the lines and met there at the geographical (and metaphysical) heartland of the country.

She patted the roof of the car after John had his boys strapped in, and smiled into Dean's troubled young eyes while baby Sammy slumbered on.

In a flash she saw forward, as she rarely did. She heard the prayers of Mary for her boys, that the car would hold them safe as they grew, and she knew the pretty blonde had been more than she seemed, for those prayers were strong and real and present around the car right then -- not like the faint and fading hopes of any parent for a child.

She saw how the car would carry them forward, how it would come to be a home, but more -- a trusted steed, a weapon, indeed an armory, proof against all the threatening things of the night. She heard the scream of its tires as it bore them away from evil, and the stalwart hum of the engine as it carried them toward many a battle to come.

She saw how John and Dean and Sammy would bleed on those seats, and would heal. And she saw as Dean grew, became beautiful, made love in the back seat, his heart pure though his lusts were carnal, for the first time, and many times-- and merciful heavens, an Angel?

Blinking herself back into the present darkness, Missouri patted the roof of the car again, and in her heart she added her prayers for the boys to those of the mother, whose blessing was so strong.

She stood looking after the tail lights as they dwindled away into darkness. She would see them again -- in her visions, of course -- but some day, with her own eyes.

She heaved a sigh and went to find a phone. Another fine mess to explain.