Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural."

The waiting was killing him. One glance at Dean told him his brother was not feeling the same anxiety. Dean looked impossibly calm, like discussing conversations with your dead mother held in the past were par the course of life.

Missouri had listened to him attentively as he'd told his story, probing him for details down to the color of the t-shirt his mother had been wearing. She'd asked him to recount each individual event and he had.

Next to him he'd felt Dean tense at certain spots-- the cookies, the Smurf t-shirt, the cursing, the toast... details he hadn't shared with his brother; hadn't because he'd known they'd make Dean tense, because he'd known they'd hurt somehow.

Missouri dug them all out, making him remember things he hadn't even realized he'd noticed. The color of the carpet the baby-- he-- had been sitting on, how many pans on stove when she was cooking, what was she cooking, what pattern on the plates, how many piles of laundry was she folding-- for over an hour she'd questioned him.

And now, she was staring down at the carpet and he almost wanted to use Dean's eternal handsomeness line except he didn't think he could pull any kind of levity out of the churning pit of anxiety in his stomach-- that and he doubted Missouri would find it amusing.

"Well?" Dean hissed suddenly and Sam started, apparently his brother wasn't as calm as he looked, "Do you know what to do or not?"

Dark eyes shot up to Dean's face and Sam wondered how Dean managed not to cringe, "Boy, do I go around asking you if you know how to dig a grave or not?!" she snapped at him.

Dean scowled and opened his mouth; Sam cut in quickly, "We're just worried," he said hastily, nudging Dean's leg with his own, "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before-- usually I have visions and there's a purpose to them..." he shrugged, "... something to do with them... but these dreams..." he trailed off, shooting a quick look at Dean, his brother was still watching Missouri who was now watching him, "... we can't figure them out."

Missouri sighed softly, "Well honey, that'd be because they aren't dreams." She told him softly.

Sam blinked, shaking his head, Dean's words about his visions always connecting with the demon filling his mind-- he didn't want this to be about the demon, he couldn't deal with that-- not if it was about Mom and the demon, not if he was going to see--

"No," he whispered, cutting off that line of thought.

"Why would he get visions like this?" Dean asked, his voice oddly somber.

"I didn't say they were visions." She responded, her gaze still on Sam, she leaned forward a little, "What you're experiencing is neither of those things."

Sam swallowed hard, "Then--?"

"It sounds to me like a form of astral projection." She answered before he finished the question.

Sam stared at her.

Like what?

He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head again, "No, no... I--"

"It can't be. He's not going anywhere," Dean snapped at her and Sam continued to shake his head.

"It most certainly can be," Missouri snapped back, then sighed, standing. She walked away from them a few steps and Sam looked at Dean, but his brother's gaze was on Missouri.

"How?" he asked, not deterred.

She was at a book shelf now, "His physical form doesn't have to go anywhere for him to project." She answered.

"… into the past?" Dean prodded.

She nodded, pulling out a thin volume from the row of books, "It's possible, that isn't really the odd part."

Sam's eyes widened and he couldn't seem to form any words-- well, holy shit then...

His mouth was suddenly so dry he could barely swallow let alone speak, that was okay though because Dean spoke for him.

"Then what is?" His brother asked.

"Sam's astral form shouldn't be visible to anyone."

Sam blinked, "But--"

"Exactly. Which is why I believe it's a form of astral projection. It might be blending with your precognitive abilities, maybe even tapping into other undeveloped ones and causing you to be more corporeal than usual." She walked back towards him, holding a book out to him. "This is a quick guide on astral projection. You'll see that the level of detail you're able to remember fits."

Sam took the book, but his eyes were still on her, "An out of body experience? That's it? That's all--"

She scowled at him and he did not have Dean's control, he flinched, "That's where we start." She told him firmly, "You said you touched things while there, felt them; she sees you when your there-- those are things that do not fit."

Dean stood, "Okay, so what do we do. How do we fix this?"

She looked up at his brother, the scowl gone-- replaced by an expression Sam couldn't quite decipher, "The answer's got to be with your mother."

Sam felt himself tense, his breath leave him a strangled gasp. It had been easy to hear all the rest, it all had to do with him, with what he could do-- but their mother, what she could do, if she could do... that was something he didn't want to think about; something he knew Dean wouldn't want to think about.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" his brother growled and Sam readied himself to stand too, because he couldn't let Missouri snap at Dean over this-- not over their Mom.

Except she didn't, "Only that we don't have a lot to go on and it seems like she does," Missouri answered him serenely, eyeing him calmly. "By Sam's own admission she seems to know who he is and she knows that his gifts go beyond visions. It would help if we could figure out what else she knows."

Dean didn't say anything, just stared at her, so Sam jumped in, "How?" he asked, and his voice sounded hoarse even to him.

She transferred her gaze to him, "First thing tomorrow we start doing some focus sessions to strengthen--"

"—tomorrow?!" he squeaked, standing quickly, feeling like someone was sucking the air out of the room.

Missouri nodded as she looked up at him, a slight frown on her face, she didn't like being interrupted he realized vaguely, "You'll need to be a bit more rested--" she began.

"--I can't go to sleep!" he cried, unable to stop himself from interrupting her.

"Yes, you can." She stated firmly.

He shook his head, "I don't want--"

"-- it doesn't happen every time you sleep, does it?"

"Well, no, but..."

"I'm going to need your focus, Sam, your energy. At the moment you have very little of both, you need to get some rest, some sleep," she stated simply.

A moment later, she turned and started walking away, "… one of you boys can take the guest room, the other gets the couch." She was in her hallway, opening a closet.

Sam watched her pulled sheets and pillows out, she walked back and settled them on the sofa, "I'm sure you boys can manage to make the bed yourselves," she continued, "… bathroom's down that way. I'm heading to bed, it's late. We'll start after breakfast tomorrow."

Sam watched incredulously as she left the living room. He wanted to call her back, but he couldn't-- because he had no idea what he'd say, no idea how to put into words what was going on inside his head.

"You take the bed."

Dean's words made him jump. He turned, staring at Dean with wide eyes, his brother stared back calmly.

"No way you gonna fit those giganto legs of yours on the couch," Dean was eyeing the couch now, frowning, "Hell, no way I'm gonna fit on this couch."

He sighed dramatically and thumped Sam on the back, "Lucky for you, you're guest of honor in this joint." He said with a bright smile.

Sam shook his head; "Dean--" his brother couldn't actually think Sam was going to sleep...

"-- I mean if you insist, I'll take the bed," Dean interrupted, the smile still in place.

"-- I can't actually go to…" he interrupted back.

The smile vanished so suddenly and so wholly that Sam cut himself off.

Dean's eyes had darkened and he was staring at Sam intently, "So what?" He asked him, in the tone that had made 10 year old Sammy shuffle his feet, "… you're just never going to sleep again?" He asked.

"'... 'cause yeah, Sammy, I can totally see the immediate benefits to that-- but you know, long-term, your plan kinda sucks." He continued, before Sam could answer.

Sam drew in a big, shaky breath, the memory of being held in place, of feeling that something push back, washing over him. He shook his head, "You don't understand, you weren't there," he whispered.

Dean's eyes flashed, but he said nothing, just stared at Sam.

"I know it's not a solution," Sam defended. "I'd just rather-- not... risk it tonight... I don't want to-- to do that again..."

Dean watched him.

"I'm not even that tired!"

Nothing, but that steady gaze from Dean.

"I slept in the car, remember!?"

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam scowled, "Well I did!" he insisted, knowing he sounded like a 6 year old and unable to stop it.

Dean's gaze held steady for another moment, then he shrugged, looking down then cutting his eyes upwards towards Sam, "Fine, but don't look at me when Missouri wants to know why you're exhausted tomorrow morning."

Missouri.

He hadn't considered her. A thought flashed through his mind, he paled, "Shit Dean-- did she say she was going to-- I mean-- am I training with her? Is that what she meant?"

"Yes, young Jedi, I think that's what she meant."

"This is serious, Dean!"

"I know that, Sam. I know."

The shift in his brother's tone and stance was barely perceptible-- more intent, sharper, wary somehow, and it drew Sam's focus to him instantly.

"Tell me what you're thinking." He stated, his tone nearly matching Dean's.

"I'm thinking you need to get some rest and that I do too. So if you don't want the bed, I'll take it."

"Dean--"

"For fucks sake Sam! We're in Missouri's house. You really want to argue about this now?"

"I'm not arguing, you are." Sam shot back.

"No. I'm not. I'm going to bed." Dean replied. They stared at each other another moment, before Dean turned and headed for the bedroom Missouri had motioned to.

Sam watched him go, mouth agape a little; that was it? That was all the input Dean was going to give him? He blinked as the door closed.

He stared at it for a long moment, thoughts swirling in a mess of half formed ideas and vague panicky notions. He swallowed and stared down at the couch. He'd have to curl into a fetal position to fit on it—the thought had a smile tugging on his mouth, a bubble of hysteria floating to the surface.

He slumped down onto it, resting his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his hands. God, he wished Dean would just talk to him. His brother had opinion about everything— Quick Check flavored coffee, natural redheads, dialects of Latin, mating habits of squirrels— Dean could go on and on about it all, about anything, his brother was perpetually irritated or amused or pissed off or ecstatic about something. Except apparently, this; this Dean had no opinion.

Sam is astrally projecting to 1983 to visit their mother—and Dean has no opinion.

Or worse, Sam thought, his opinion was so horrendous he didn't want to share it with him. Worse—Dean thought his little brother had finally crossed the line from freaky to downright fuckin scary-ass shit.

But even so, Sam couldn't find appreciation for the silence. It was surprising to him, how much he'd come to rely on Dean's opinions, to temper his own by Dean's.

"If I only had a violin..."

Dean's voice had his head shooting up from his hands. Dean was standing just inside the living room, arms crossed, smirk on his face, eyes seriously studying his younger brother.

"I think I just overdosed on angst watching you," Dean continued.

Sam scowled, "I thought you were going to bed," he mimicked, "… must be nice to be able to sleep."

Dean rolled his eyes, dropping his arms and starting towards Sam, "Forgot the sheets," he stated, motioning towards the stack and then dropping down to sit next to Sam.

Sam said nothing, lowering his gaze again.

Dean leaned into his shoulder, "You think Missouri has cable?" he asked.

Sam looked over at him, Dean waggled his eyes brows.

A smile started on Sam's face. Dean reached for the remote on the end table while toeing off his boots.

"Check it out, Geek-boy," he ordered, handing the remote to Sam a moment later. He propped his sock-clad feet on the coffee table, a smirk prominent on his face.

Sam knew Dean was remembering their first visit here; his feet on the coffee table were a total coup for Dean.

He stared at his brother; Dean was settling back against the sofa.

"You have to press the button that says power," Dean advised, looking at the empty television screen.

Sam took a deep breath, "Tell me what you're thinking."

The amusement faded from Dean's face and Sam almost felt bad—but he needed this so badly, he needed to know.

The seconds ticked by and he clutched the remote more tightly. When the silence was suffocating them both he'd turn the TV on, but until then, he'd wait.

His finger was on the button when Dean finally spoke, gaze still on the blank screen, his voice quiet.

"I think… maybe Mom… had a reason to be sorry."

It was the first reference either of them had ever made to what their Mother's spirit had said to Sam in Lawrence.

"I think… with this case-- our ­case… we missed an angle."

They'd never researched their Mom; she'd been the victim, the innocent.

"I think… this—I think, we're in way over heads… maybe we always--"

Dean stopped himself then, but Sam knew. Maybe they'd always been in way over their heads.

The living room was silent for another moment, then he nodded, "Okay—yeah, okay…" he knew he sounded inane, but there was something uncoiling slowly inside him, and he couldn't think straight for a moment, "... thanks… for—telling me—I just wanted to--"

"—to know if I'm as freaked out as you are?" Dean interrupted.

Sam would have said terrified, but freaked out was okay too. He nodded.

Dean turned then, looking at Sam, offering him a self-deprecating smile, "Yeah, Sam, I am." He whispered, like it was some appalling secret.

And just like that, Sam felt better. The knot in his stomach eased. It was okay to be totally and utterly terrified, because Dean was too. It might be childish, but he didn't care. He wasn't alone in this and there was comfort in that.

He smiled then, nodding, "Okay, cool." He muttered and turned the TV on. He lowered the sound quickly and started flipping through the channels.

He could feel Dean's gaze on the side of his head, but didn't acknowledge it. He had his own ways of showing his big brother it was okay to be freaked out. He found the cartoon network—because really? Was there anything better?

Then he took off his sneakers and slumped further down into the couch, settling back against it, his arm brushing Dean's. He propped his feet next to Dean's on the coffee table.

"Pass me a blanket," he requested a moment later, eyes glued to the screen. There was no motion next to him. He waited a little longer, then sighed and looked over.

"My blanket?"

Dean blinked, "Seriously?"

He frowned, "Uh, yeah…"

"Sam…"

"It's chilly in here."

"Are you five?"

Sam said nothing, just stared.

Dean sighed, a moment later he tossed a blanket onto Sam's lap. Sam smiled and started spreading it out across them.

A cushion smacked him in the face suddenly, Hey!" He sputtered.

Innocent, hazel eyes blinked back at him, "I thought you might want a pillow."

Sam scowled, "Jerk."

Dean grinned at him, settling back too, eyes going to the screen, "Baby."

Sam elbowed him in the ribs, Dean tugged the blanket. Sam kicked his foot, Dean kicked back. The night stretched before them, but suddenly neither one minded.

Author's Note: Hmmm, yes, I know. Not a lot of answers, but Missouri's a cryptic gal. Mary makes a reappearance next week. We return to the actual point of the story, LOL, and I leave angsting alone for a bit (maybe). ;-)

Thanks for reading!