A/N: You know how you get your hopes up for something and then it ends up disappointing you? That's how I felt last night, a bit. Hope you don't feel the same about this. One more chapter after this one...

Chapter Five

There was something in his veins, icy, snake-like. It made him feel strange. Dull. Dean couldn't keep his eyes focused, but there was nothing to see except sterile white and a dull glint of gray. There was something he had to remember, but he couldn't remember how to remember, which was stupid and there was something he had to remember.

He knew he wasn't going to be able to run fast enough. He never could. He shot one last look over his shoulder, right into a gaping maw.

And awoke in a sweat, the hot, moist breath of Hellhounds lingering virtually on the back of his neck.

Dean's heart raced. His mouth felt like a desert. The muscles in his arms and legs contracted in defensive reaction, but jerked short, nearly immobilized. He knew it had been a dream, but he also knew it had been real. Nothing made sense the way he knew it was supposed to. He was strapped down, sensed tightness on his wrists and ankles. Those were real, he thought. He heard muffled voices nearby, not close enough for him to hear what was being said. Dean couldn't breathe right, panic and dream fragments swimming around in his gut and lungs. He felt like he was under water.

He tried to remember where he was. Too many images flashed in his head, none of them sticking for more than a second. He and Sam were in a warehouse, then a different warehouse. Fire roared all around them. A library, Sam frowning at him and no fire, no computers. Wrong decade, wrong century. Wrong everything wrong. Demons emerged from around every corner. They had Sam. That image stuck. They had Sam and Sam was hurt, maybe dead by now.

"Sam," he said, involuntarily. His mouth clicked, tongue dry. "Sammy."

The voices came closer, grew clearer. He didn't recognize them, but then he wouldn't. Though he knew it would be futile, Dean strained against the ties holding him to the bed, squirmed and thrashed. There was only one thing he could think of – his brother. He had to get out of here and get to Sam. He didn't think anyone could save him from Hell, but he thought Sam could. Shit, shit. Think.

"Take it easy, fella," a man said. "We're going to do what we can to help you."

Help, help. A man in white, brown hair speckled with silver, kind eyes, no, no, not kind. No one here was kind. They couldn't be. Dean was trapped in demon headquarters, pinned down and separated from the one person he needed. He had to believe Sam was still alive. Sam was important to more than just him, but Dean didn't know how or why and he didn't have the time left to find any of that out. From somewhere near, a corner he imagined was dark, came a low, unearthly growl. Too soon, it was…

"Too soon," Dean cried. He had to get out of the restraints. "The deal was one year, you fucking demons."

"Okay," the man said. "I'd say this is pretty good indication the chloropromazine isn't doing the trick. I'd like to switch him over to thorazine, maybe haloperidol if he keeps escalating."

"The cops are chomping at the bit to get this guy behind bars, Steve," another voice said.

"That's not my number one priority, Joe," Steve said. "This man's experiencing a psychotic break. You saw the doctored ID – the date alone speaks to heavy belief in this delusion. You can see it; everyone in a five-room radius can hear it. Our job is to get him stable, not ship him off to an environment that'll only make him worse."

"There's no guarantee getting him back on treatment's going to do him any good. I think they said his brother was keeping him stable, and, well, without him there may be no point to any of this."

Dean didn't know what they were talking about. He stopped listening. It was all an illusion, a show to make him think this was something it wasn't. Thwapthwap. Were they torturing Sam like this right now too? He … Sam. A rush of adrenaline filled him, and he fought past the odd feeling of disuse and slight atrophy in his arms and legs. How long, he didn't know how long he'd been strapped down. Long time. Time was very important. If he could get out, there'd be time enough at last for… what? For Sam. What the demon had just said about Sam wasn't true. Dean wasn't "without him". No, no way.

He heard a tear of fabric, realized a moment later his left arm was free. He blinked, tried to clear his vision, waited until that face reappeared. It took half a second. Hands pulled at his arm to put it back in restraints. Dean fought, but it was like his brain wasn't capable of firing properly, his limbs refused to follow basic orders. There was a call for thorazine, more hands on his arm, and legs now too. He felt the drug, somehow, slip into his vein through an IV in his right hand. It was cold, numbing.

He'd remember this. He'd remember not to give himself away next time. There'd be a next time. Sam needed him. He needed Sam. The voices above shouted, but now sounded distorted and slow. That was supposed to be something that only happened in the mov…

He wished he had had time to find his stuff. It wasn't anything important, but it was his stuff. His boots, though, they were important. He couldn't run fast enough barefoot. Dean slid into a stairwell, caught his breath for a moment. He had to admit, they had really rigged an amazing set up. Usually demons trawled old, dark places out of the way. The number of demons walking around here, right out in the open, was staggering. They were posing as doctors, nurses, and patients. As far as he could tell, he and Sam were the only ones not demonic. He was screwed, but he knew this was the only way. He had to find where they were keeping Sam. Then everything would be all right. He knew if he could reach Sam, Sam would be okay.

He had to go slow, not make any mistakes that could get him caught. There was time. All he had was time. He wasn't sure Sam did, and that thought made him want to move. No, no. Stay calm. He could do this. His mind went a million miles a second, rolled and rolled. He was used to it, almost.

Sam. Dean pictured Sam as he'd last seen him, and that did the trick. It was the only thing that did anymore. He needed to find something to cover his feet, maybe a robe so he could blend in a bit better as a regular patient. Regular, ha. He wasn't sure if this, any of it, was real so it didn't matter except that it might. He wasn't sure the demons were real, either. If nothing was real, then how was he supposed to know what to do?

Darkness surrounded him, and a strong odor of bleach. Dean flung out a hand, fingers came in contact with something stringy and wet. He jerked away from the unpleasant sensation. After a few moments, he realized he was in a janitorial closet. He had no recollection of how he'd gotten there, or why. He did recall needles and ice in his veins and demons. Always, demons. He tried to quell the panic and think, think, but he couldn't seem to manage. He knew he was alone and shouldn't be. He had to find Sam.

Dean clambered to his feet, unsteadily wavered for a moment and leaned on the door to regain his equilibrium. He could figure out what had happened later, right now only Sam mattered. He opened the door to a bright, empty corridor. That wasn't right. There'd been demons everywhere, he was certain of that. He didn't care. He'd take advantage of the freedom while he could, search room by room if he had to.

"Third floor's clear," a tinny, faint voice announced that he was not alone. "Security detail is in place on room 325."

They might have meant Sam was in that room; it was too obvious of a trap. Dean knew he wasn't processing right, but he was not that big of a fool. Sam wasn't on this floor, if this floor was real or fake. He ducked back into the closet when footsteps approached, the bodies that belonged to the voices. With the door cracked, he saw two demons wearing cops as they strutted through the empty hallway. Lockdown. He reached for his holy water, but it wasn't there. He was in hospital scrubs. No flask, no matches, no blade. No way to burn these things out or send them back to hell quick and easy. Couldn't burn the place to the ground until he had Sam. He had to keep his mind on Sam.

He gave it a full thirty second count after the demon cops' footsteps faded to nothing. It was clear now, everything made sense. He'd burn this place to the ground. His fingers itched with the urge, the need. Fight fire with fire, but Sam first. Sam.

Dean sat in a hard plastic chair, ducked low both because he could not seem to sit straight and because they were looking for him. He had a feeling he'd been lucky to find Sam alone. Sam was … not right. He'd almost walked right past his brother's body, that's what it was, a shell. Not completely Sam. Not good. This wasn't good. He clutched Sam's forearm like if he let go, Sam would slip away. He should have been with his brother all along, didn't remember clearly why he hadn't been. He never would have let Sam get like this, all white and gaunt with a tube down his throat. He couldn't get Sam out of there when he was so sick.

He felt calm next to Sam, but panicked all the same. Dean didn't know how to deal with this. If he left Sam, then he'd revert to that state of mind where nothing made sense even while it made perfect sense. He had no choice. He had an idea that was probably stupid, but he had to try. He riffled through the small bedside stand in search of Sam's belongings, if there were any. The only thing he felt with certainty was that Sam was the key for him to keep functioning halfway normal. He didn't know how or why and didn't care. He had to make it work. He found nothing of Sam's. Of course. They wouldn't keep personal stuff unguarded, so it might be at the nurse's station.

"I'll be back for you, Sammy. You … you better hang on," Dean said quietly. "You're the only thing that's gonna get me through these next couple of months."

Or minutes or days.

He forgot to clear the hallway, a critical mistake. The second he stepped out of Sam's room, he was besieged by angry shouts from three sides. Guns pointed at him, barrels like dark, black eyes, and he couldn't fight, couldn't run. Dean tried to do both and got overwhelmed quickly. Demons everywhere. He'd been there before. It was the same. It was different. It couldn't be both, yet it was. He felt the thing, the weird sensation of mental spinning, coming this time, now like he somehow knew he always had. Would he remember this? He didn't know if it was really happening, but it was really happening and he hadn't a chance in hell, Hell, demons instead of hounds. That wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Something clubbed him on the side of the head. He heard someone shout NO, saw stars, then his arms were yanked behind him roughly. More stars, brighter. A mechanical whine, flashes, cameras. A cry for answers, a protest of police mistreatment. Dean struggled. It was no use. The demons tossed him in the back of an old police squad, clunked his head against the edge of the car. His vision went gray. He couldn't catch a breath or a break. Sam. They were separating them even more. A sick pit formed in his belly. He was never going to see Sam again. Think, think, thinking only made it worse.

"Well, don't you look like seven kinds of shit?"

A face stared down at him. It belonged to a large man, jowls, mostly bald with a thin moustache and wearing a tan polyester suit that seemed to have absorbed at least a year's worth of rancid sweat. He sounded like he'd just run a marathon walking to Dean's cell. He breathed so heavily, Dean could feel the hot air gusting against his face though the man was standing and he himself was flat on his back. Hot breath, like the hounds that chased him every time he shut his eyes, eyes, the man's eyes blinked. Normal one second, black as pitch the second. Dean should be used to it, but they had him in a small cage, and he couldn't breathe or think, think. The whole city of LA was made up of demons. Impossible. He recoiled, but his whole body felt weak and off. His head hurt and he heard a vague and unreal thwappy sound.

"What…?"

"The things I do for you couple of idiots," the man said. "I'm your 'lawyer', I've come to post your bail."

"You're another demon," Dean said.

"Of course I am, Short Bus. That big reveal happened a few months ago. Try to keep up."

"What?"

Dean sat slowly, dizziness made him queasy. Something was there at the tip of his memory, but it wouldn't stick. He pressed the butt of his right hand against his temple, winced at the pain and realization he had a bump there. He felt off, fuzziness in his head. His eyes burned. He felt it when his face ticked, lip curling and uncurling without him intending for it. His whole body ached, and it, it, fire and demons and Sam, Sammy.

"What did you say?"

"Please. Are you going to say you don't recognize me?" It spread its arms wide and did a slow circle. "We work with what we have available. The girl you know hasn't come close to being born yet, and since I learned all I know about time spells from the guy who sent you here, it was the best I could do."

When Dean didn't say anything, the demon tilted its head slightly, narrowed its eyes and studied him for a moment. It muttered under its breath, then reached for his face. He tried to evade the touch, but there was nowhere to go. The sweaty palm slapped against his forehead, clamped on tight and there was humming in his ears. The sound rose in pitch until it made him want to scream, so he did, until his throat hurt. He almost passed out when the grip was released at long last. His ears continued to buzz.

"I got to give that witch some credit for this one. He really screwed you up. Too bad I couldn't have left you like that," the demon said. "All you ever do is make my life miserable."

Dean felt like he was coming out of a fog, that everything behind him was swallowed up by it, disappeared into nonexistence. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there, but he thought if he tried hard enough he'd figure it out. He blinked at the demon standing in front of him, arms folded across its chest, one eyebrow raised. The mannerisms were familiar, and so was the attitude.

"Ruby?"

"In the flesh, moron," Ruby said. "I'm here to rescue your sorry asses. We don't have a lot of time here. Your stink was all over the witch and now I know why, but Sam's wasn't. We have to find him the old fashioned way and we're on a timetable. Where's your brother, Dean?"

Sam, Sam. Dean tried to clear his head. It was more difficult than he thought possible. Too many things flashed in his mind's eye, and none of them seemed quite right.

"You're taking too long. Let's move this show on the road," Ruby said. It was surreal how she sounded the same as a middle-aged overweight man. "It'll probably take a while for you to be back to normal, and you've always been on the dumb side anyway."

"Fuck you, demon bitch."

"Yet I can always count on you for witty repartee." Ruby turned and stalked out, tossing over her broad, amply padded shoulder, "Come on."

He noticed belatedly the door to his cell had been left open. He felt a bit out of his element and beyond confused, but Dean didn't think he had much choice. He followed Ruby, grimaced in anger and disgust. There were uniformed bodies on the floor, some bloody. No demons were there but the one he had to count on as a temporary ally. His head wasn't spinning. Everything that had been in the fog became clearer and clearer with each step. He didn't like the pictures he saw, the ones in front of him and the disconnected pieces of memory. He frowned at the number of people down for the count.

"Relax, Dudley Do Right, I didn't kill any of them." Ruby turned her mostly bald, slightly sweaty very male head to look at him. "You don't mess with that kind of thing. The goal is to get you out without doing any more damage than you already did."

Damage. Dean remembered fire all around and the walls caving in on him. Sam had been there too. He remembered Sam, unconscious, being taken by two demons. He thought maybe they hadn't been demons. He didn't know what memories to trust. Everything was still fragmented, as if he had gaping holes in his brain. He probably did. He didn't understand any of this. He wished Sam were … Sam was hurt. Sam in a hospital bed, the clearest image yet.

"I think Sam's in a hospital," Dean said.

"Hospital? What happened, is he okay?"

The slow beep of a heart monitor, a faint whoosh of the vent breathing for Sam. Dean found the nearest wall and leaned on it for support.

"No. I don't think he is."

"That complicates things. LA's not a small town. Any idea which hospital?"

"I don't know. I didn't know it was real. I thought … I don't know what I thought."

"Super. Looks like we've got a lot of legwork to do and not a lot of time to do it."

Dean stepped over a guy who let out a low moan and started moving. If he had been locked up, that meant they couldn't waltz around for long without a big mess. It also meant he couldn't just walk into whatever hospital Sam was in and carry him out over his shoulder. Not in a prison jumpsuit, not feeling so shaky, not at all.

Rampart General Hospital might as well have been a fortress, which only confirmed to him that this was where Sam was. There was police presence at every entrance, and a few cars circled the parking lots slowly.

"This is fantastic," Ruby said. "I really picked the wrong body for stealth."

Dean tried not to think of the poor guy Ruby was possessing, or of the long-term side effects of demonic possession in general. Maybe he was biased, but he'd bet being a meat suit for Ruby was somehow worse than for a standard, run of the mill demon. The olive green polyester suit with deep orange satin shirt she'd procured for him to wear was a small example of her sadism. His skin itched.

Actually, everything about him itched at being this close to his brother and so far removed at the same time. He wasn't even sure if he meant that literally or figuratively, knowing that the closer they got to May, the further Sam was retreating into searches to save Dean and more and more dependence on Ruby. Dean saw it happening, which was as big a reason for his distrust of her as her demonic nature. Those reasons were intertwined. He knew Ruby's promises were empty. She was a demon. Sam knew it too, but the difference was that Sam was approaching the desperate stage, the one Dean knew too well.

He was banking on Sam being stronger than him. Sam was stronger than him, strong enough that he was going to pull through this so he could pull through Dean going to Hell for him.

"Dean, hey." Ruby jostled his shoulder. "I asked you a question. Do you remember where Sam's room is?"

"Nuh…" Dean saw a door, his own shaky hand reaching for it. A big sign proclaiming it Level 6. "Sixth, I think. I'm pretty sure. Don't expect a room number."

"Okay, well, we're not going to bust in with over half of LA's police force staking the place out." Ruby rubbed a hand over her face, scowling when her fat fingers came in contact with the moustache. "Maybe if I can't be covert I should use what Bernard here seems perfect for. I'm going to go fake a heart attack or something to distract them long enough for you to slip in. Once you're in, head right for six. We'll find each other up there."

"Fine," Dean said. It wasn't like he could come up with a better plan. He still hadn't put all the pieces together. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Please," Ruby said. "I'm more awesome than you can possibly know."

Then she left him, headed for the emergency entrance. As she drew closer, she … Bernard's body began to list and stagger. The cops standing duty rushed for the seemingly ill man, and several hospital personnel darted out at the shouts. Dean had to hand it to Ruby, she put everything into the performance and it worked beautifully. He tried not to think about how she was going to end the scam and make it to the sixth floor, not sure he believed her about not killing people. He also didn't want to think about how she intended on getting them back to their own time. Damned skanky witch probably had a dead rabbit on her somewhere.

It was easy getting in. Beefed up security here was nothing compared to what he and Sam had to deal with every day; they weren't the only ones without access to proper technological advances. The chaos Ruby created was enough to get him through the emergency lobby to a stairwell within minutes and with hardly a glance from anyone. The place looked familiar, but not in a tangible way, the same way he knew he was in 1975 yet had no practical frame of reference beyond the bad clothes and abundance of amazing classic cars he hadn't had time to admire properly. For days, he'd been over the hills and far away and had had no real idea. A very, very small part of him regretted that.

Dean made it to the sixth floor, found himself unaccountably winded, shaky. The words thorazine and haloperidol floated through his head in a voice he didn't know, but must know or it wouldn't be a memory. He'd remember those words, thought they must have something to do with how shitty he felt. Sam would know what they meant, though Dean already suspected and added side effects of drugs to his list of things he didn't want to contemplate at the moment. He cracked the door, saw business was being conducted as normal despite the lockdown at the hospital entrances … except two boys in blue standing outside one room in particular. Sam's, had to be. He had to get them away, and had no idea how.

Before he could devise what would no doubt be a masterful plan, a nurse built like a battering ram and wearing an ill-fitting uniform strode to the room. Dean watched her make small talk with the cops for a moment, lift her left hand behind the back of one and gesture toward the room. She went in then. Dean was confused, until not more than two seconds later the cops turned abruptly and entered the room. The hand gestures made sense then.

Ruby had jumped bodies.

Dean left the stairwell and walked quickly to Sam's room. No one paid him any mind, though it felt like he was being obviously nervous and twitchy. It was ridiculously easy to walk right into Sam's room, where he stopped short when he saw his brother lying there. His warped memories had been bad, but reality was like a punch to the gut.

"Sam," he whispered. Dean couldn't remember what had happened, let alone what was wrong with his brother. "Jeez."

"All the king's horses and all the king's men, that's me," Ruby said as she started disconnecting wires. "Let's get Humpty home and put back together again."

"Are you sure we should move him? We don't even know what's wrong with him."

"What do you propose as an alternative, dipshit? We go and we go now. I grabbed his chart, and I managed to find yours and your arrest records too. It'll be like you were never here." Ruby pursed lips that were painted an unflattering pinkish orange, which coincidentally matched her new temporary body's hair color. "You're welcome. Now come over here."

She'd muttered something earlier about time moving differently here, and that her body in 2008 had a limited window for her to hop back into it. To be honest, he hadn't been paying much attention then, and he sure as hell wasn't now. Even if he cared to devote attention to her, the roaring in his ears made it impossible to concentrate on anything but the wasted appearance of his brother. Sam wasn't going to make it. Dean had a sick feeling in his stomach.

"Now, Dean. The bus is leaving in a ten count." Ruby yanked the IV from Sam's left arm, disregarded the blood. "I will leave your ass here. Take my hand. It could be a bumpy ride for you and Sam's going to need your help when we get no place like home."

Sam, he heard. He moved to the side of Sam's bed. Dean reached for Ruby's hand, and Sam's. Then it was like he stood in one place, but the room swirled around him. Faster and faster until he began to feel like he could throw up. In his head, he imagined Gene Wilder with his stupid top hat and crazy hair, singing, "There's no earthly way of knowing, which direction we are going…"

And then all of a sudden everything stopped. There were dark, red walls, the smell of old books and whisky. The floor rushed up to say hello.