The same doctor came back the next day, and today he looked normal again. And he still sounded different from the other doctors—more clipped, more frustrated, more prone to snapping and not seeming to care that Sam spent most of his time trying to become one with the padded wall.

Today, Sam was remembering when Dean taught him to drive. He'd been worse than a backseat driver, often grabbing the wheel right out of Sam's hand, convinced that he could drive better even from the passenger's seat. The memory of Dean's annoyance with him that day was somehow even more delightful than the others, and Sam felt more determined than ever to escape into it.

"Sam," the doctor greeted him. "How's it going today?" His voice was light, and somehow…mocking…but Sam couldn't find it in him to feel affronted. Instead, he focused on the image of Dean sitting next to him, shouting damn it, you're going to hit that mailbox, go left, left, left!

"That good, huh?"

Sam turned a little more toward the wall and didn't answer.

"Well. Aren't you the chatty one today?" the doctor said. "I swear, if you weren't a complete nut job, I might be offended. I'm not promising anything—offended would be quite a stretch—but you never know."

Something about the taunts was so familiar, even more so than some of the visions—so familiar that Sam actually, willingly, though it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, abandoned his memory to try and figure it out.

"Sam, what is with you? Why won't you just listen? I'm not even asking you to make a grand speech—just to say something! What is so hard about that? I know you're not an idiot, Sam. I've seen that. Just pay attention."

He almost had it figured out. A name had almost entered his fuzzy mind when yet another vision hit, and he didn't even bother being annoyed with it this time—just started right in on praying for it to end quickly.

It was the scariest thing in the world. It was horrible, and terrifying, and against all laws of God and man. It was brightly colored, and painted, and covered in polka dots, and grinning.

The clown leered, waved a hand, and disappeared. It was deadly, and evil, and scary, and just not there anymore.

It hadn't done anything, but it was somehow the worst thing he could ever remember seeing in his life. He couldn't escape—it was going to kill him—no one could save him—he was alone…

"Sam. Sam."

There was a hand on his shoulder, and that was enough to shock Sam out of his vision. No one touched him anymore, unless it was to prick him with needles, strap him into a straightjacket, or shove pills down his throat. And yet, here his doctor was, doing it purely to help him shake off a vision.

Not that he could know it was a vision, of course.

"Sam, it's okay. I don't wanna have to stab you with another needle, so just calm down. Oh, for the love of…Sam!"

A sharp slap rocked his head back, and Sam came abruptly to—and found himself throwing a slow, awkward punch that nevertheless caught the doctor on the chin. The man fell back against the wall, and for a moment there was silence, while Sam stared at his own hand in true and abject shock and the doctor stared at him, his face blank and devoid of all expression.

Then, slowly, he smiled. "See? I knew you had it in you."

And then he stood and walked out, and the only thing Sam was sure of now was that whoever this man was, he was not a doctor.

XXX

Sam spent the rest of that day thinking, for the first time in months. Not just remembering, or wondering, or looking, but thinking. It didn't hurt like he'd expected. It didn't hurt to use his brain, to pick situations apart, to play the geek again.

Of course, he often strayed into his memories, and when he did that, sometimes it would take hours for him to emerge again. And more than once, he had a vision—there was one of a woman with shoulder-length brownish hair with her stomach being sliced by a grotesque, scarred man. One of another woman with longer, black hair and wide eyes, holding a gun out to him with tears in his eyes, and then one of a strange-looking man with a gray face covered in strange blue designs. They all felt strangely familiar again, and Sam felt more irritated by them than ever.

Finally, as he was lying in his bed, skirting the edge of sleep, the voice in his head spoke to him for the first time all day, and told him the answer.

"A demon. It's a demon in human disguise. A possession."

He and Dean used to do things when they found a possession…they used to do something to make the demons go away. He could almost remember—maybe if he wasn't so tired.

Maybe tomorrow…

XXX

He wanted to leave his room again.

No, actually, he didn't just want to leave his room. He wanted to leave the hospital.

Really, he did. He wanted to go outside, and feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He wanted to leave.

Sam was actually very surprised by the realization that came with morning light, and the voice in his head immediately proclaimed itself dead set against it.

"We can't leave. It's safe here. We're safe here. We don't have to think as long as we're here," it argued.

"We have to. We can't stay here forever."

"Why not?"

"Because Dean would be mad if he knew!"

"But he won't know, because he's not here."

"Shut up! I'm going to try! Just leave me alone!"

It was the most vehement, the most angry, thing he could remember saying in a very long time, and the voice retreated into silence.

Sam didn't quite know how he was going to get out, or when, but he knew he wanted to.

It was a good enough start, at least.

XXX

Dean was trying to kill him.

It was…not to be thought of, and yet here Sam was, forced to think it.

He was forced to think it because Dean was standing over him, grinning, and holding a knife.

He was forced to think of it because Dean was punching him, beating him, hurting him.

He was forced to think it because Dean was placing iron hands around his throat and choking him.

He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. Dean was dead, Dean was in hell, Dean would never, ever try to hurt him—none of it could possibly happen, but it was.

Dean was trying to kill him, and Sam was forced to watch it happening.

XXX

The next day, when the same not-doctor came in, Sam didn't even bother to notice. He simply leaned tiredly against the wall and enjoyed the gray haze covering his mind, keeping him from thinking or remembering the sight of Dean strangling him.

No more thoughts of leaving had crossed his mind since he'd had the vision late the night before. In fact, no thoughts had crossed his mind at all—not thoughts, nor memories, nor reactions. Nothing. He was just a blank slate, a burned-out house, all his stuff gone from inside. Empty.

It was kind of nice, actually, and he couldn't remember why he'd been so determined to think the day before.

"Hey, Sam," the doctor said, starting off in his usual way. "I hear you actually ate all your dinner last night. Not exactly winning a McKnight, but it's a step up."

Sam didn't even glance at him. He couldn't turn any more toward the wall, either, so he just didn't move at all.

"Sam?" the doctor said. "Hey, pay attention. I'm trying to make conversation here. Sam." Sam didn't answer. "Sam, if you don't talk to me I'm gonna have to hit you again."

At Sam's continued silence, the doctor sighed and leaned forward to smack him across the top of the head again. Sam felt the impact followed by the sting, but it was a distant pain and didn't matter.

"Sam, come on. You did so well yesterday, and now you're all Cuckoo's Nest on me again. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam still didn't answer, but he'd been listening—listening closely, actually, because the sound of the doctor's voice helped keep him from accidentally thinking. He was still listening when the doctor crouched next to him and whispered close to his ear, like a secret.

"Fine. I'll go. We'll just see how you do without that little fallen angel on your shoulder."

The comfortable haze disappeared quickly, as if someone had doused him in icy water, and Sam jerked a little and turned swiftly to look at the doctor.

And then he saw it again—the black eyes, the crimson blood, the burned flesh...

"You are one ugly broad…"

"Ruby," Sam said, his voice hoarser than ever in his shock. "You're Ruby."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, then calmly said, "I'll see you later, Sam."

And then he got up and left.