Chapter Two

"Sam … Sam. Come on, man."

Everything shook then, his whole body. With the jarring muscles came acute awareness that everything hurt. Every bone felt bruised, every muscle pulped. It was never good to wake up to pain like that, and as Sam lay as still as possible taking a confused, shaky inventory of all the aches, he also tried to remember how he'd ended up feeling like he should be in traction. Dean would tell him.

"'M up," he said, an automatic response. Dean sounded worried and winded and probably felt as bad as he did, as whatever had happened must have happened to them both. "I'm fine."

He wasn't fine. Saying so was also automatic. He opened his eyes and found his brother's face above his, fuzzy. Out of focus. He blinked and saw a little more clearly. Behind Dean, there was a beam of sunlight filled with dust motes. Big room. He couldn't remember how he … no, apparently they, judging by the bloody gash on Dean's forehead Sam could see despite his vision swimming ever so slightly, had ended up there, and both injured. He was sure it would come to him eventually. Wherever they were, it didn't smell clean. The smell of chemicals in the air was a note second only to dust, and there was something even beyond that. The images solidified enough for him to recognize at last. They were in a warehouse. That was vaguely familiar.

"I thought you weren't ever going to wake up," Dean said. "You don't look fine. I can tell you don't feel fine. Sammy, I don't think anything's fine here."

Sam squinted. Now Dean sounded weird; he couldn't pinpoint exactly how beyond the repeated use of the word fine, which was annoying. It was like Dean was younger, somehow. He shook his head. That was stupid. He could see Dean and Dean looked like the same old Dean. He imagined if he'd woken first, found Dean and couldn't make him open his eyes. He furrowed his eyebrows, hated that he couldn't remember what had happened. Sam thought he must have banged his head, that was why he'd been out. He sat slowly, ignored the aches and pains as best he could, felt the back of his head for a lump. There wasn't one. A good sign, though it didn't mean much. He wished he could shake the cobwebs out, but knew he couldn't force it.

Dean scratched at his forehead, then looked at his fingers closely and rubbed them against his jean leg before he lifted them to scratch again.

"I'm okay," Sam said, specifically avoided the word fine. "How are you doing?"

He thought Dean must be the one concussed. Sam noticed what his brother was scratching at was a laceration that didn't look too bad, didn't need stitching, but there was a sizeable bruise already popping to the surface. He studied Dean, forgot his own discomfort for the moment. Dean's eyes were bright, but he appeared agitated. Nervous. He supposed he'd feel the same way if he could get it together. Concussion or no, he was going to have to keep an eye on Dean.

"I'm not fine, either," Dean snapped. "Don't you know what's going on?"

Frankly, no, Sam didn't know, but he was reassured that his brother seemed to. He grabbed for Dean's arm, to stabilize himself as he pulled himself upright, as well as to hopefully calm Dean down. It worked on both counts. In a second, he was on his unsteady feet and Dean stood next to him, only fidgeting a little. His first good look around the warehouse left him more confused than ever. It seemed right, but at the same time he thought it was wrong and a moment after that he had no idea what he was thinking. Until he blinked and everything seemed to flood into his head. Him and Dean running from invisible threats, reality being warped right in front of them, the magic he'd been stupid enough to underestimate, falling as if into an abyss.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Sam said, though he wasn't a hundred percent yet. He didn't think they'd actually fallen anywhere but down in their tracks. "I think."

The warehouse looked different. It was daylight, for starters, and he was sure they'd been running through fake alleyways at night. Of course, since that hadn't been real and there'd been that weird cloak of darkness surrounding the warehouse (which he presumed had been real, since they were still in it), so he couldn't be sure of what was true yet. The booze and urine odor was gone. Even if this was all a mirage, he was glad for that. He'd learned to take the small victories for what they were. He didn't think his stomach could have taken another minute. As the fuzziness faded from his brain, a prickle of paranoia replaced it, the reminder that anything could happen at any time.

"Well, the demon's long gone by now. We should get out before all hell breaks loose," Dean said. "Regroup and come up with a new game plan."

That worked for Sam. He nodded and took a step toward the door, instead ended up facing a wall that was lined with stacked barrels, some of them distended and rusty, and he realized that was where the chemical smell came from. He heard a faint crackling noise, and figured out what else he'd smelled since waking. Smoke. He looked up, half expecting to see flames. He wasn't sure if it was part of the weird mind games the witch was playing or not, but didn't want to stick around to find out either way. He spotted an exit sign.

"This way," Sam said as he started for it on shaky legs. He willed the weakness away. He didn't like the idea of being anywhere near a fire if there were chemicals involved. Well, or regular old fire, either. It was too much like imagining Dean in the Pit, too much of a reminder of Jess, of Mom. "Come on."

"Right behind you."

Sam heard the approach of sirens, and a lot of them. An engine bearing the number 36 nearly ran Dean over as they stumbled out of the building. Dean didn't seem to notice as Sam pulled him back and nearly suffered a heart attack. The engine wasn't moving fast, but something that size didn't have to move fast to flatten a person. From the corner of his eye, he saw smoke streaming from the top floor of the big building. Turning his attention upward made him aware the warehouse must have housed offices or something at one point. He didn't remember that from before, but before might not have happened. The building appeared disused. He returned his gaze to street level. He noticed at least one of the fire crew spot them and cursed under his breath.

"Damn thing was trying to burn us alive. Now I really want to gank that son of a bitch," Dean said. Then after a pause, "I always wanted to be a firefighter. 'Member that, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Sure." He was pretty sure Dean had wanted to be a firefighter only until he was four, which Sam wouldn't remember. Now wasn't the time for trips down memory lane, his or Dean's. Sam tugged at Dean's arm. They had to get away from here. He knew how it must look, them running out of a burning warehouse. He had no desire to be held for questioning. "Let's go."

"It wouldn't kill us to watch for a few minutes."

Actually, it might. Sam wasn't sure yet if this was happening, so either they'd be walking right back into the witch's territory or they'd be hauled in to a police station for questioning. He didn't like either option, and pretended that walking away might also put them back in the witch's territory. A dull ache was forming at the base of his skull, another above his right eye. It reminded him of the pain that came with the visions, and he had a crazy thought that maybe they'd come back after all this time. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and when he opened them again noted a firefighter with a white stripe on his helmet walking toward them.

"No, Dean, you said it yourself. We need to regroup," Sam said, frustrated by Dean's about face. "Come on. We have to go."

If he could only remember where they parked. That, like so much, seemed a bit scrambled. Sam picked a direction and went with it. They'd get away from suspicious eyes first, then find the car. He trotted as fast as he could, a prickling sensation of being watched at the back of his neck, right where the headache was throbbing. He couldn't imagine any of the fighters could leave their post to chase them down. At about two blocks away, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm they were being left alone. That was when he realized he was the only one running. Dean was nowhere to be seen. Normally, he was way more in tune with his brother – Dean wasn't the only protective one; they watched each other's backs. He shook his head, regretted it when all it earned him was stabbing pain.

"Damn it."

He ran a hand through his hair and started back. At least he knew where Dean had gone, though why was perplexing. Dean knew better than to draw the attention of the authorities. Sam was starting to wonder just how hard Dean had knocked his head. The importance of getting them both somewhere they could take stock was pressing on Sam just as surely as whatever was pressing on a nerve at the base of his head, because there was no way Dean would do something this stupid without being compromised in some way. It just wasn't possible.

He approached the scene of the fire with caution, stuck close to building walls. If Dean was already compromised, it wouldn't do any good to get caught himself. Sam was surprised at how he could feel the heat of the fire from half a block down the alleyway, and when he poked his head round the corner, his face warmed. There were more engines already, men ran back and forth and news vans were approaching. Old-looking news vans, he noticed with a frown, and then he noticed the engines themselves looked shiny and new, but old at the same time. He frowned.

Sam didn't have time to think too much about it, as he caught sight of his brother next to a firefighter. This one had a white stripe on his helmet like the other guy had, but was obviously not the same guy – this one had a few inches on Dean. The guy was staring with a look of horror on his face, and Sam could only guess what that meant. He assumed it had to do with the fire, as he watched the man take off, shouting into a clunky radio about evacuation and volatile contaminants. He wasn't who Sam needed to keep track of, though, and so he turned his attention to Dean, who stood there looking awed and proud. Everyone was too busy to pay them any mind, which was a blessing he wasn't about to take for granted. He darted forward, to his brother's side.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam said.

"I thought they oughta know about the possible toxic chemicals stored in there sooner rather than later."

Dean shrugged, the way he did whenever he did something most people would call heroic but he'd call no big deal. Sam doubted Dean even knew how self-effacing he was about the truly important stuff, or how Sam saw him for how he really was; it was no coincidence he'd spent the better part of his first twelve years on Earth idolizing his big brother. The explanation for Dean traipsing back into the literal hot zone went a long way to appease Sam, but instinct still had him itching to go.

"Good thinking." Sam wanted to say more, like how Dean had probably saved lives and just by doing something that hadn't occurred to him at all. He could never come up with a way to say those things without it turning into a schmaltzfest and Dean hated that crap. It wouldn't matter, and made him acutely re-aware of their differences, changes he felt were growing ever since he … came back. He clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Can we go now?"

"Yeah, we should do that," Dean said. "What're we standing around here for anyway?"

Sam now knew why his head ached. Dean had turned into a human pendulum as far as he could tell. That coupled with having zero recovery time, of course, which brought him back to the need to get somewhere secure. This time he let Dean lead. He didn't need to have another unplanned detour and it was just easier. Maybe his brother knew where the car was, since he was the one who shared a special, semi-unhealthy bond with it.

They hadn't made it a block when a large blast sounded, the barrels stored in the warehouse apparently igniting or becoming overheated. From a distance, Sam's instinct was still to stop, turn and flinch. He hoped like hell no one had been hurt, and was glad he and Dean had woken up when they did. Assuming this was happening, that was. He was starting to believe it was, that the witch had somehow dumped them in a warehouse guaranteed to explode and ditched them. Made a certain amount of sense.

"Jesus," Dean said, "we could have been in there."

"I think we're going to need help with this one," Sam said.

"Let's just get back to the hotel, then we can call Bobby. Jefferson, maybe. He's closer."

Sam nodded. Given the situation, that was as good a plan as any. Unfortunately, it took him all of five more minutes to realize something was wrong. Something else was wrong.

"Sammy, I have no idea where the car is." Dean halted and turned around in a circle, as if that would do any good. "I don't even know where the hell we are. Do you remember getting here? Before, I remember dogs. And fire."

"Well, the fire just happened."

"No, before. It happened before. With the fire demon."

There hadn't been a fire demon. Sam was almost sure of that.

"Dean, we're dealing with black magic," Sam said, "not a demon."

Dean blinked at him a few times, then nodded. Sam wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but the persistent headache made him not want to think too much about it. If he was plagued with pain, Dean might have gotten a little jumbled when the witch … the witch clamped its hand on his brother's forehead. Sam's uneasiness grew, his heart started to pound, which only made his head pulse right in time with every beat. God, he just wanted an aspirin at this point.

"Right. Of course," Dean said. He squinted down the street. "Wait, there she is."

Relief flooded through Sam as they headed for the black Impala parked somewhat askew down the street. That feeling was short lived. The closer they got, the more he suspected it wasn't their car after all. And Dean's steps slowed, too, giving him some confirmation. This car had a black interior. Wrong license plates, a solid blue with yellow letters. His eyebrows rose when he saw the tabs.

"Uh, Dean?"

Sam glanced at the other cars parked along the street and remembered that vague feeling of wrongness from earlier, back with the fire engines looking new but old. Every car parked along the street was a model he'd typically only seen at car shows Dean dragged him to sometimes. All of them had tabs set to expire sometime … in 1975 or 1976. Now his headache had a side of stomach upset, the dots connecting just fine.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Sam said.

"We weren't in Kansas," Dean said with utter sincerity.

Which did nothing at all to make Sam feel better.

Dean had started to believe Sam wasn't all right, though he seemed to be moving fine and was his regular grouchy self. By the looks Sam kept shooting him, he had the same thoughts about him. One of them should be worried. Him. Sam. No. Him. Sam had been out of it for a long while back there. So, he should be worried and Sam shouldn't. That made a whole lot of sense to him.

Except everything around Dean was like one of those old window shades, cracked along the edges. Sometimes a tug would only make it jerk up a little, and sometimes a tug had the thing roll up to the top and spin with a thwapthwapthwapthwap. It was mostly thwapthwapthwap at the moment, and he knew it but couldn't stop it. He couldn't keep anything straight. Maybe his brain was more like eggs, scrambled up instead of whole. The ground was solid, the ground was quaking. Sam made sense, Sam spouted gibberish. There was fire, there was fire. That part stuck. He thought the stench of smoke had burned into his nose. He could still smell it, therefore it had happened.

"Aren't you seeing this? Look at the plates, Dean."

Thwapthwapthwap.

He automatically did as ordered and it finally became clear. Sam hadn't meant the Kansas thing literally, and they were in more trouble than either of them had realized. Dean frowned. He had no idea how a fire demon could make them go backwards in time. This was LA. It made more sense to him that they'd somehow stumbled onto a movie set or location shoot. He scanned left and right, seeking a crew and pondering the idea of becoming a PA again just for the food. He was hungry. He had a craving for eggs and didn't know why.

"Oh," he said. "Huh."

"All you have to say is huh." Sam paced a few steps, a tight little line, and his body language screamed tension. "We got magicked back to fucking 1975, and you can't muster up anything but a huh. Dean, I think there's something wrong with you."

It wasn't real. Dean didn't know why Sammy was so upset about it. Hell, as far as he was concerned, while they were on set or whatever it meant he was surrounded by classic cars and there wasn't anything to complain about there. It looked like the budget for the flick was large; this place didn't even look like LA today. It wasn't as smoggy. The cars looked lived in, used daily. Dean didn't think that was right. He didn't remember hooking up with Tara Benchley, but he remembered wanting to, so he must have and this must be her movie. Thwapthwap. There was a logical explanation for everything. He wished he remembered the sex, though since he didn't, he'd just have to have more. Logic was amazing.

"I don't think there's any reason to get worked up over this." Someone had to keep his head on straight. Sam could get hysterical, but Dean wasn't going to. "Just relax for once in your life. It's not like it's the first time we've been in this situation."

It was almost funny, the way Sam's eyes bugged out. Except that thwapthwap again, and Dean started getting worked up himself. Sympathy hysterics. He always did get upset when Sam did, not that he showed it on the outside the way Sam always got all waterworky. He frowned. The firemen had hoses and water and foam. The whole movie thing didn't explain the fire. The fire was real. The men fighting it were real. He'd swear the guy he talked to about barrels of something had been legitimately concerned, not acting. Dean had woken up and there was fire and there was a demon and there was Sam. Those things were right. And now he didn't know if anything else was.

"Yeah, Dean, it is," Sam said. "I know for damn sure I've never been in 1975 before. It's temporally impossible, I think. We shouldn't be here now."

Sam kept on muttering about time and space and warlocks, but Dean only halfway paid attention to the words. It was just that his brother had started to remind him of someone from the movies. Good ol' Doc Brown. If Sam's hair were white, he might look a little like Doc Brown. Dean smiled, then started to chuckle softly. Maybe if he asked real nice, Sam would say flux capacitor. Strong hands clasped his shoulders and spun him until he was looking at Sam's perplexed face. He tried to stop laughing, he honestly did. It wasn't funny. He knew it. Sam gave him a hundred non-verbal cues about how not funny it was. He wanted to stop, for his brother. Everything was for Sam.

"Dean," Sam said. "I need you to focus. Stay with me."

Focus, yes. He could do that. All he had to do was stick to the things he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt were true. Sam. Fire. Demons. Sam, the most out of the three. Dean discovered that he really was clear if he kept himself tuned in to his brother. Maybe that was messed up, maybe it wasn't. Maybe he didn't care. The shade in his brain stayed put, no thwapping, and he began to process.

"You think we're really here, that it's no illusion," Dean said.

Sam didn't answer, continued to look at him for a long moment. Dean knew what that was. Dad had done it too, and seeing Sam weigh and measure him the exact same way was uncanny. Sam was so like Dad, but there was a certain clinical quality to his brother these days, that kind of imprecise precision that set him on edge despite trusting no one like he trusted Sam. Finally, Sam relaxed and nodded.

"I think the last time we even had a doubt, we could see that curtain thing. No curtain in sight," he said.

"No film crew either." Dean took another look around, just in case. "Or whatever."

"I hadn't thought of that, actually. There has to be a way to find out for sure." Sam glanced around, then hit Dean on the arm with the back of his hand. "There. Newspaper dispenser."

They scurried over to the machine like frightened rabbits, and were met with confirmation neither of them really needed. The date on the display paper read March 20, 1975. In the distance, the sounds of the fire being fought, the shouts of tinny voices through megaphones, made a strange soundtrack. The fire was real, Dean remembered. The newspaper was real. This was all real. Holy balls.

"Shit, we are fucking screwed," he said.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Sam said. "Dean, this is my fault. We were in way over our heads because I misjudged the guy's control of magic, and now we're stuck in the dark ages."

"It wasn't your fault, Sam. I was right there with you."

Sam snorted and didn't look reassured. That had to stop. There was no room for Sam Winchester's bleeding guilty heart here.

"I mean it," Dean said. "Let's just get ourselves out of this. It doesn't matter whose fault it is. Anyway, you didn't transport us back in time."

"Hunters, go where you won't bother me."

The fire demon's voice rang so loud in his memory, Dean startled a bit and looked to see if the thing was standing right behind him. There was no one there but him and Sam, and a few down and outers who were heading toward the fire to gawk or check on buddies. Most of the buildings looked shoddy, old and were probably vacant. That was useful, actually, because he had a feeling he and Sam were going to be squatting until they could get the hell back to the future.

"You're right."

"Of course I am." But Dean didn't know fire demons could time travel. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe the fire demon was here when they got here. That made sense. Thwapthwap went the shade in his head. "I'm the oldest, I'm always right."

He grinned as Sam rolled his eyes. Something inside him eased. They might be royally screwed at the moment, but they were together. Right now in his life, that mattered most. He only had a couple of months left. Dean lost the grin, the echo of Hellhounds baying sounding in his head at the reminder of his short time left on the planet. He wondered if the hounds would come for him if they were stuck here indefinitely. He shuddered. He might die before he was born.

"Dean?" Sam asked, shaking his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"I said, we should find somewhere to hole up, figure things out. I don't think we should try our luck with credit cards."

"Yeah, I thought of that." Which wasn't strictly true. He hadn't thought of the money situation, just that they couldn't mess with the space time dilation or whatever by making contact with a lot of people. "Luckily, it looks like we're in the area for five star accommodations."

"Yes, lucky. That's what we are. We'll probably get lice."

If they stayed in the vicinity, then Dean thought they would have an easier time finding and fighting the demon. They'd be at an advantage by staying on the thing's turf and blending in to the homeless population. He knew how much Sam hated to be away from his razor and loofah (oh, hell, so he was the loofah user), but if their lives had taught them anything, it was that making do was essential. He wished he remembered a time before their Dad became so … resourceful.

He wondered what Dad was like in 1975. Still in Nam? He couldn't remember. It wasn't something their father ever liked to talk about. Nothing existed prior to the fire. Fire. Demon. Thwap. If demons weren't that visible and common until the Gate opened in the next century, then maybe they weren't dealing with one now. He had a mental image of mutilated rabbits and blood. Bones. Witchery. It was from a movie, were they on a movie set? No, no, what. Sam was still talking, he had to concentrate on that.

"…dinner. We're thirty-three years behind schedule, one night to wrap our heads around this won't matter much," Sam said. "How much cash you got?"

Dean took a step closer to his brother. Stay close, he had to stay with Sam. Watch out for Sammy. He felt better almost immediately with his sleeve brushing against Sam's, thoughts gelled more. Money, money. They couldn't use it. He watched Sam figure that out when he took a twenty out of his pocket and look with dismay at the giant Andrew Jackson head on it. It might as well be Monopoly money. They'd have to come up with another way. Make do with what they had, which was nothing. Not even the car's glove compartment to raid for Snickers and beef jerky.

"Oh." Sam looked at him stupidly. "No cash either."

Once, when he was nine, Dean had stolen a pack of hot dogs and a box of macaroni and cheese – the good stuff, not the store brand – from a grocery store in whatever town they were in. He'd felt ashamed, but he'd also felt hungry and sometimes it was better to come up with a solution himself than ask Dad when Dad had a certain expression on his face. He had to think stealing a sandwich in 1975 was going to be easy enough, or they could dine and dash. He wasn't going to feel shame for doing what he had to do.

"We'll work it out. We're Winchesters," Dean said, as if those six words solved everything.

"It's what we do?" Sam finished the insinuation with a laugh. "You're like an after school special these days."

Dean let that insult slide, though he took the banter for what it was. Comfort. Stability. Familiarity in unfamiliar territory. They'd hash out the details in due time so they could get back to their time. He didn't know where they were going, but as they walked pace for pace, Dean glanced back at the thick black smoke filling the sky several blocks away. The beginnings of an idea formed. Maybe they were going to have to fight fire with fire.

Thwapthwapthwap.