One of the immutable laws of the universe is that hospital food sucks, but Dean was so hungry that he didn't care. He hadn't been eating a lot lately for a regular person. For him, he'd practically been on starvation rations. He'd only had one real meal a day since he'd been topside, and today he hadn't even supplemented with snack cakes and bar pretzels.

It wasn't the worst he'd ever had. It wasn't as good as nuked Gas Mart burritos, but better than prison food. Something about just knowing that when 24 hours before he'd been wracking his brain, trying to pry loose the phone number of the man who was practically a second father to him made everything a little bit better.

The freaky, total recall, everything fresh and new thing was kind of unnerving, mostly because he didn't know what was causing it, but he'd take it over constantly having to remind himself of his own name. Maybe it was just a normal side effect of hitting the rewind button on death. He didn't remember Sam having had any memory problems, and right now, if he had, there was no way Dean wouldn't recall it, but then, Sam had only been dead for two days.

He hadn't remembered being dead, so for all Dean knew, he had told his reaper to shove it and had never really left. Dean, on the other hand, had been dragged straight down to Hell's half acre, no reaper needed. Maybe you had to move on before you could remember dying. That made some sense. He'd encountered more than one ghost that had had no idea. Death echos mostly, but more developed ones too, like Molly. It was hard to say. He hadn't made habit of sitting around with them chatting about it. That was Samy's gig.

Hell, he realized, based on his own out of body vacation after Yellow Eyes, it was a safe bet that there were few confused spooks prowling the halls of this place right now.

The lights flickered, crackling softly.

Dean bolted up, tensely scanning the room. His hand groped around his tray in search of the half empty salt packet.

Nothing happened.

Nothing continued to happen.

He relaxed a little, not all the way. Lights flickered sometimes, didn't always mean spirits, and now that he thought about it, he wasn't even sure that they had. He remembered it, but he also remembered it not happening.

Damnit, no! He thought he'd gotten a handle on this thing, thought it was running its course, but apparently it was just mutating. One thing was sure. It was time to admit that he was in no shape to handle this alone. He had zero chance of figuring this out if he couldn't even trust his own mind to stay anchored in reality, hell he couldn't even trust his own senses. That's it, as soon as he could find a new ride he was shagging ass to Sioux Falls. If he couldn't get Bobby on the phone the surly old guy would damn well answer when Dean pounded on his door.

That should have been his first move, which seemed so obvious now. Sure, he hadn't remembered Bobby at first, and then it had just been a name that had popped up frequently in the delusion fueled ramblings he had spilled out on a motel telephone pad. At that point, it had just been a label, a meaningless stand in for an unknown factor that could just as easily been replaced with "somebody" or "that guy".

It hadn't been until in the bar, focused on what was going to be a truly impressive, game winning, two rail bank shot that a gruff voice had scolded him, "Ya idjit, the game's on the line with money on the table. Just sink the shot. Don't get fancy." that it had started to mean anything beyond that.

This morning, however, reasonable attempts to reach out and touch someone having gone bust, he should have found the first available car to borrow and pointed it towards South Dakota first thing. Instead, he'd been planning to go shopping. Yup, he definitely needed help. Hell, he needed a freakin' baby sitter.

A gentle knock announced the arrival of the doctor he'd been told to expect. He was a tall, lean man with greying hair and Clark Kent glasses. "So," he glanced at Dean's chart, "Rocky, how are you feeling tonight?"

"Oh, just peachy, doc." Dean answered. "So if you could just let me sign whatever it is I need to sign, and give me my clothes back, I'll get out of your hair and you can give this bed to someone that's sick."

The doctor chuckled, "Well, I hope you won't mind if I double check your diagnosis first. It's kind of what they pay me for, so I feel like I should at least make the effort."

Dean weighed demanding release versus just letting the game play out by the civilian rules and opted for the latter. He'd decided he liked the doctor, and he did have a few questions of his own. "Yeah, OK, knock yourself out. So stick out my tongue? Turn my head an cough?"

The doctor smiled, flipping through the chart, "Rocky, I'm Dr Cornic. You were brought in this afternoon catatonic, with highly elevated respiratory and pulmonary rates, and suffering what might have been a mild seizure. Looks like your blood work and tox screen came back clean, so any idea what might have caused that?"

Yeah, I somehow came back from the dead, sans memories, and then my whole life got together to beat the crap out of me because I couldn't find my car.

"I...um, I didn't really sleep last night." Dean supplied, "and I'd been drinking on an empty stomach."

"Anything unusual happen yesterday or last night, aside from not sleeping?" he made a note on the chart.

Anything unusual? Only everything.

"Nope." Dean lied, pretending to have thought about it for a second first.

Cornic nodded, "Do you have a history of sleep problems, Rocky?"

Only nightmares, and finding the time.

"I've never been a real big sleeper. Missing a night here and there is pretty much standard."

Cornic marked the chart again, "How much did you drink?"

"Four, five beers over as many hours."

"Are you usually a heavy drinker?"

"Not considering. Look, I'd really like to just get out of here. It was what it was. I'm fine now."

Cornic frowned, "Your pulse rate and Blood Pressure are still a little high, not dangerously so, but considering what happened, I'm not comfortable releasing you at this point."

Dean bristled, "You can't hold me here against my will."

"No, we can't, and we wouldn't try, but I also don't want to just let you walk out of here under the circumstances if I can help it." With a sigh, he returned the chart to its place. "Is there someone we can call for you?" he asked.

I wish, Dean thought bitterly as he shook his head.

"I'm assuming your name isn't really Rocky Horror. Am I right?"

Dean chuckled softly. They must had gotten that from the Moolight's records. He'd been a little silly drunk when he'd registered. "My dad had a weird last name. My mom had a weird sense of humor." he shrugged off the question.

Cornic looked unconvinced but didn't challenge it.

"Um, look, doc, I'm assuming they found me passed out when they came to kick me out for missing check out and called an ambulance, right? There was some stuff in my room..."

"I wouldn't know about that. Anything that came in with you will be stored with your clothes, in there." he indicated a cupboard against the wall. "Rocky," he began carefully, "it's late, and my guess is you don't have a permanent place, at least not locally. Let me transfer you to recovery and stay one night for observation. If you have another attack, you'll be where you can get help right away instead of alone somewhere. A bed's a bed, right?"

Dean considered this and it made sense. "Any chance of a sponge bath in that deal?" he asked remembering the pretty nurse from earlier.

Cornic laughed, "You have to do your own negotiations on that one. I'll arrange to have you moved." He stopped at the door, "Are you sure there's no one we can call?"

Dean briefly considered giving them Bobby's number on the off chance that they might have some better luck than he had but decided against it. There'd be no point. "Thanks but no, doc. Looks like for now, it's just me."