sit upon the throne - SN ficlet - PG
Title: sit upon the throne
Fandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: spoilers for 4.16; AU
Pairings: none stated
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 660
Point of view: third
“You know the end is coming?” Missouri asks through the phone, stirring her cocoa with a small spoon.
“’course I do, sister,” Pamela answers, watering her hyacinth. “We all know what to do.”
o0o
“You should have told me,” Bobby hisses into the phone. “Damnit, Missouri. Why the fuck didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Calm down,” she says. “It doesn’t matter now. Everything has a purpose-just cling to that.”
o0o
So many of them die, and Missouri crochets every one, weaving the story for those yet to come. So many of them die and she mourns the losses, but she has seen the future. She knows how this all will end, and those who have gone on-
She smoothes out the cloth and knows the pain to be worth it.
o0o
The visitors, nurses, and doctors look away as she walks past. Even Sam doesn’t see her as he takes a break to fetch his brother a cup of coffee. She watches him go, back so weary, nearly crushed beneath the weight of his secrets and lies and the demon blood pooling in his gut.
Stay strong, Sam, she thinks to him. It’s not at all what you expect.
o0o
The angel lurks in shadow, staring at her with hard, unforgiving eyes. His kind have never liked hers. Missouri assesses him, canting her head to look into his tomorrow.
Don’t be so judgmental, brother, she says in the language of spirit, words older than the primordial soup the Creator fashioned Earth out of, taking a small bit of delight in his flinch. We’re not so different anymore. Welcome to life.
o0o
Do not touch him, the angel commands, thunder and earthquakes in his tone. Her head rings with the sound. This is his true voice, his true form. She can see his vessel resting in a motel room not ten miles from the hospital.
Things are happening, she murmurs, tracing Dean’s bruised and bloodied cheek with a finger. You cannot stop it, and you cannot slow it, Castiel. She glances up at him, at the power coiled and waiting to strike, to smite her down into dust. You must choose-this broken, breaking man, or your Creator.
o0o
No one sees her leave, will have any memory of her passing. Sam, for all his potential and power, is still just a boy. And Castiel can remember the first War, but is still so young.
Death waits for her at the entrance, his pale horse snorting behind him. Well? Death asks and she smiles.
o0o
The plan is in motion-not set in stone, for nothing is, but close enough that even an act of God could not change it now.
Humans are fragile, and demons and angels, and even streets of gold can fragment in the clouds.
o0o
Dean is sleeping when she goes to see him again. Sam is showering in their motel room and Castiel is wrestling with himself, with what he knows, suspects, and feels. They are all children with too heavy a load, but that is necessary. Distasteful, children fighting an adult’s war, but required.
She touches him again, soothing away the memories of Alistair with the feel of Mary’s hands. You will forgive me, she whispers to his soul, to the gaping wound still bleeding out. You will understand, and you will be thankful. She kisses his brow, leaving a mark there that only her kind can see.
o0o
Famine, Pestilence, and War wait at her house when she goes back to Lawrence. She sends them back to sleep because Death alone is needed. Not yet, she tells them.
But Death rides, taking angels and demons, and skirting around those who bear her mark.
o0o
“Missouri!” Bobby hollers through the phone. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Peace, brother,” she says, scratching Zoroaster’s ears. “I have it all in hand.”
o0o
When the Creator looks to his chessboard again, Missouri says, Checkmate.