Work Text:
Heat of the moment. He jolts awake.
It’s the sixty-seventh Tuesday. The smell of mildew clings to the motel carpet, and the yellow tinge of sunlight creeps through the stained curtains. Dean on the bed beside him, lacing up his boots. “Rise and shine, Sammy!”
He wakes up gasping, like he always does. Always with heart racing and sweat beading on his forehead. Always with the sense of having just awoken from a terrible dream, except that it wasn’t a dream. It was worse. The adrenaline rush makes his head throb dully, makes his vision prick with the threat of tears that he quickly blinks away. Dean bops his head to the beat, reaching into his duffel bag for his toothbrush. Sam watches with a mix of tedium, irritation, and profound, breathtaking relief.
Something about watching Dean die does that to him. Every. Fucking. Time.
The faucet squeaks, water running in the bathroom sink. Dean is still humming as he brushes, carefree. Sam can't even bring himself to resent it—not when it's Dean, not when it's always the same, and Sam—Sam knows exactly how it ends. He closes his eyes, holds his breath, and for a moment, just listens.
After all—the whole day will be downhill from here.
Sam has lived this morning sixty-seven times. Every day, he tries a new permutation. He’s ordered everything on the menu at the diner, insisted that they sit at every different booth. He’s tried skipping breakfast altogether—much to Dean’s lament. He’s torn apart the Mystery Spot in every way he can think of. But no matter what he changes, the result is always the same. He’s even tried buckling Dean in the car and driving them straight out of Broward County. They never make it to the interstate before Tuesday starts again.
Fuck Florida. He’s never coming back to this godforsaken state as long as he lives.
Again, they sit down for breakfast. The waitress—he’s learned that her name is Doris—comes by. Pig in a poke, black coffee for Dean. Nothing for Sam. Whether he can eat usually depends on how yesterday ended. Today, his stomach is still churning. Better to skip it.
Dean starts, “So you think you’re stuck in some kind of…”
“Time loop. Yes. Like Groundhog Day,” Sam says, clipped. He doesn't need to look to know how Dean’s eyes widen in surprise. This is one of his least favorite parts of the day. The explanations are always exhausting.
“And there’s no way to stop it.”
“Well, not with that attitude.” Dean is supremely, irritatingly jovial, coming off of six hours of good sleep and a hot shower that didn’t kill him—this time. “Bill Murray wasn’t this grumpy.”
He snaps before he can help it. “Yeah? Well, Bill Murray didn’t have to watch his brother die sixty-seven times in a row.”
Immediately, he regrets it. Dean blinks, smile slipping. His eyes soften in a way that makes Sam feel naked.
He knows, of course, that Dean understands the feeling. That he watched Sam die once, in Cold Oak, Colorado, almost a year ago. If he thinks about it, he can still feel the tingle in his back, almost directly in the middle of his spine, where Jake Talley’s knife had been. He’s thought about it a lot over the last sixty-seven days. The details are fuzzy, most of the memory blocked out. It was kind of like blinking, or waking up from a dreamless sleep. One moment, he was standing in the mud, calling out Dean's name. The next, he was on a bare mattress in a cold cabin, the stench of death in the room, and Dean's eyes ringed red with fear and relief.
He’s been imagining, recently, what it must have been like for Dean. Wondering if he felt the same wave of nausea when Sam slipped out of existence. Wondering if he felt the same jitter of adrenaline when he returned from the crossroads. Most importantly—he's been wondering what happened in that three days that he was gone, and Dean was alone. What it must have been like to wallow in it without the luxury of knowing that it'll all start over again.
Sam isn’t sure how other people feel about losing a sibling, but it probably isn't like this. Losing Jessica hurt—God, sometimes Sam thought he'd never recover. Losing Dean feels like the oxygen is being sucked out of the room. Every time. Even yesterday, on the sixty-sixth loop.
He hates to admit that—even to himself. It's not the way he's supposed to be. But it doesn’t surprise him, either. Sam knows himself. He knows that there are corners in his brain darker than most. Corners that growl at him, low and hungry. Corners that want.
For years, he's kept those corners at bay. But lately, they're getting harder to ignore. Something about watching Dean die sixty-six times has made him itch.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean says gently, placating. It eases the tension in Sam’s shoulders, but only a little. Like a band-aid on a bullet hole. He's always so careful with Sam. Sam isn't sure if that makes it better or worse when the other shoe drops. “Okay. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
Sam sighs. He wants to believe him; he does. But it gets harder to hold onto every time. Dean has said this almost every day for the last sixty-six mornings, after all.
“You really think the Mystery Spot is capable of all that?” Dean asks, his tone all business again. “I mean, it’s a tourist trap, for God’s sake. Even for us, it’s—”
“Crazy. Dingo-ate-my-baby crazy,” Sam interjects. Doris coming around the corner, and he instinctively sticks his hand out to catch the inevitable falling bottle of hot sauce.
“Okay, quit doing that.” Dean scowls. He’s worried. He always is. And Sam wants to feel bad about that, but he's too fucking tired. “I mean, it's gotta be somethin’ stronger. Maybe it’s one of your psychic premonitions.”
“No.” His visions have been conspicuously absent for almost a year—and anyway, this doesn’t feel anything like his psychic premonitions did. The visions had come in flashes, blurry around the edges, like he was watching them through a kaleidoscope. They always left him whiplashed and dizzy, his head throbbing. He feels clear. “Too vivid. And those only lasted a few minutes, anyway, not days.” Months. Years. How long could this last?
Theoretically, forever.
“Maybe a djinn? Like the one we ran into last year?”
It’s a bit of a stretch to say that they ran into a djinn, as if Sam hadn’t swooped in to save Dean’s sorry ass. Sam would point it out, but he's not in the mood. “But djinn put you into good dreams, so that you don’t question reality. This is not a good dream.”
Dean shrugs, licking bacon grease off his fingers. Sam presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, shifting in his seat as he tries not to watch too closely. His dry throat clicks when he swallows.
“Welp. Then I’m out of ideas,” he says. Yeah, that’s about where Sam’s at, too. “So I guess we should go down to the Mystery Spot and see what’s going on.”
Sam agrees. But only because he already stole Mr. Pickett’s keys.
Dean shuffles out of the booth, tossing cash on the table for Doris. Sam stands, too, feeling the tense pop in his knees as he does. Before he can turn, he hears the front door swing open. “Freeze! This is a robbery! Everybody on the ground!”
He tries to tell Dean not to be a hero, but his brother never listens.
•••
Heat of the moment.
On day sixty-eight, he tries research again—though the Google results never change.
The lore on time loops is sparse, at best. The oldest stories stem from Eastern mythology—reincarnation beliefs, Buddhist texts, Japanese literature.
Two questions hang heavy in his mind. First, how the hell does he get out of here?
And second—is any of this even real? Dean dies every day, but is this really Dean? Or just an apparition of him, made up in Sam's mind? Is Dean in a time loop of his own? Or is there a real version of Dean is out there, trying to find him? Could this be what happened to the missing journalist they were supposed to be investigating? It all feels so distant, so arbitrary now.
In the West, though, time loops are more science fiction than myth: chaos theory, the butterfly effect, nonlinear systems, magnetic fields. The science of it is comforting. Myths are complex, convoluted things, full of gaps and missing pieces. But where there’s science fiction, there’s science. And science means there's a kernel of truth. A tangible starting point. Something Sam can work with.
Here's what he knows for sure: Dexter Hasselback. The poor bastard who vanished a week before they arrived in Broward. The longer he sits here, spinning his wheels, the more it bugs him that he hasn’t made any progress on the actual case. Despite combing through the town from every angle, there’s nothing. Not a lead. Nothing.
And he feels guilty about that—really, he does. After all, Dexter's been missing for over sixty-eight days now, and it shouldn't be taking Sam so long to solve that case. But Sam can't do anything unless he solves his own case first. And he can't do much solving when he's too busy trying to keep Dean alive.
The first page when he searches "time loop" is full of Wiki pages, history articles—the trailer for Groundhog Day. He's read all this already. Sam sighs and scrolls down, passing the same useless information he’s already read. It's all the same: common theories, legends, pop culture. He feels like he's trapped in the same loop as Dean—reading the same words over and over, hoping for a different result.
Sam scrolls down, moving page two, three, and four. Here, it gets weirder. There are a million forum posts from survivalists, conspiracy theorists, doomsdayers... all raving and half-coherent. These are the types of things he'd usually draw the line at—crazy, even for them. At this point, though? He's ready to listen to anybody who thinks they know what's going on. Sam can deal with crazy. Even dingo-ate-my-baby crazy.
He clicks a link. A drawing catches his attention—an old-timey Schooner capsizing in a storm, waves crashing over the mast. It looks like something out of an old sea captain’s journal. The forum is a conversation between two users. The title of the post asks: Did government microwaves create the Bermuda Triangle?
Sam rolls his eyes.
xilluminaughtyyy: I'm just sayin'. Planes started disappearing at the same time as the Manhattan project. Coincidence?
cipher_steve: actually, the Bermuda Triangle has been regarded for centuries as a place where time can warp, opening magnetic portals that allow travelers within to slip through time. Those traveling through the Bermuda Triangle may notice time move faster, or slower, or stop entirely.
Broward County is on the very edge of the Bermuda Triangle. It’s not a promising lead, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe Cipher Steve is onto something.
cipher_steve: People who disappear into the Bermuda Triangle are most likely sucked into the strands of time, never to be seen again.
xilluminaughtyyy: or... could also be aliens.
Sam slams his laptop shut as Dean wanders back from the bathroom, shirtless and freshly showered. His jeans are slung low, denim clinging to damp skin, and it shouldn’t be obscene, but it is. Maybe Sam is just turned on by Dean’s perfect, unmarred skin, clear from any bullet holes, knife wounds, or road rash. He tousles his hair with his towel, and tosses it at Sam. It hits him in the center of the chest with a wet thud.
"You gonna get a move on, or what? I'm starving," Dean gripes, toeing into his boots.
Sam sucks a short breath in through his nose. Focus. “I’ll get breakfast,” he promises, trying to sound casual. It doesn’t help when Dean grins at him, that dirty grin that makes Sam's stomach flutter like a friggin' teenage girl.
“Sammy, I get all tingly when—”
“Just stay here, okay? Don’t move.”
Dean scrunches his nose at that, but Sam gives him a pointed look and he shrugs it off. He kicks the boots back off his feet. “Okay. My god, you're a freak.”
He hits the library on the way to the diner. It's quiet inside, nearly abandoned. Like most things on the Florida coast, it clearly hasn't been renovated in ages. The lights are dim and yellow, casting a sickly glow over everything, from the cracked tile floor to the weathered maple shelves. The smell of mothballs hits him as soon as he steps inside. His boots echo softly against the tile, the air-conditioned chill a brief respite from the humid Florida air.
He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for here. But the library itself—any library, really—has always been a comfort to him. Rows of books, stacked neatly, promising answers. No shifting time, no confusing loops. Just solid, reliable facts. Or at least, they’re supposed to be.
He may not have a clue what’s going on, but this? He’s been doing this part since he was twelve years old.
He ends up in a dim corner of the room, the light from a small lamp flickering in and out, the only other sound the steady click of his fingers on the microfilm reader. The obituaries are always the best place to start. He pulls up the newspaper from the day Dexter Hasselback allegedly arrived in Broward and begins working backward. This is how he works—methodical, slow, step by step. He goes through the records, finding nothing unusual, just the usual flurry of small-town deaths—heart attacks, cancer, strokes. A few alligator attacks, one person mauled by a bear at a local wildlife preserve. The usual Florida fare. Nobody disappearing under strange circumstances except Dexter. And, well, maybe Sam too. Nobody else slipping into the Bermuda Triangle, as far as he can tell.
When the obits fail, he changes his angle. He combs through naval records, local maritime histories. He checks his watch: nine-thirty. Dean is going to get antsy soon, if Sam doesn't get moving.
Finally, he sees something—an article about an old pocket watch, recovered from a pirate’s treasure. 'This watch was recovered from the stolen treasure of pirate Edward Lowe. Rumored to have once belonged to Davy Jones himself, this watch was highly coveted, as it believed to be able to stop time. It may be one of the earliest iterations of the common myth of the Bermuda Triangle.'
Bingo.
Sam’s pulse quickens as he reads. This is what he’s been looking for. The Bermuda Triangle, time moving in circles, the missing journalist, Dean— is this the thread tying everything together? He commits the details to memory. He can’t take the article with him—it won’t last the day—but he’s got what he needs.
He stands up too hastily, mumbling under his breath. What time is it now? Is Dean still in the room? He needs eyes on his brother again—at any second, everything could disappear, he could blink and wake up in the room again, heat of the moment—
He's digging his phone out of his pocket when his shoulder collides with someone. An old woman, small and frail and just out of Sam's line of sight. She yelps and stumbles back, tripping over the cracked floor tiles, books scatter across the floor.
"Oh my God!" Sam gasps, rushing to bend down to her, to help her to her feet. "I'm so sorry, are you—"
You know what they say. Step on a crack, break your brother's back.
•••
Heat of the moment.
Sam shifts in the diner booth, waiting for Doris to disappear around the corner before he speaks. “I think we’re trapped in the Bermuda Triangle.”
Dean blinks. He lifts his coffee mug to his mouth, but Sam can still see the quirk at the corner of his mouth that he’s trying to hide. “Come again?”
“I’m serious,” Sam says, jaw clenched tight. Dean clears his throat, and the smirk drops. He gets Dean thinks it's ridiculous. Hell, it is ridiculous. But for Sam, it's the least insane theory he's got, and the only thing he can work with. "I think we're trapped in a time loop. In the Bermuda Triangle. Or, I am, at least. I don't know about you."
Dean purses his lips, setting his mug down slowly, carefully, like a sudden movement will startle Sam away. "Okay. Pretend that's not the craziest thing you've ever said."
"It's not that crazy." Sam straightens up, pushing his pancakes away. "There's lore on it dating back at least two centuries. In the late 1800s, a ship was found floating in the middle of the ocean, totally abandoned. In 1918, the USS Cyclops disappeared without a trace. In 1948, a commercial flight vanished between Puerto Rico and Miami. In 1970, a pilot flying through the Triangle reported electronic fog over the Bahamas—"
"Alright, Poindexter, I get it." Dean raises his hand. He's chuckling, but Sam can see the spark of interest in his eyes. "So Broward County is inside the Triangle?"
"Just north of it." Sam's fingers tap against the table, as if he can drum conviction straight into Dean's head. "But close enough. The exact boundaries aren't set in stone."
Dean leans back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he thinks. "I don't know, Sam. Five-hundred-thousand miles is a huge radius. Don't you think other hunters would know about a black hole the size of Texas just floating out there in the middle of the ocean?"
They would... if they ever made it out. Sam shoves the thought aside, ignoring the sudden weight in his chest. "All I'm saying is—the Bermuda Triangle is known for sucking up travelers, right? Dexter Hasselback was just passing through town when he vanished. He's a traveler. We're travelers." He gestures between them. "Maybe the Mystery Spot isn't the problem. Maybe it's all of Broward County."
Dean doesn't answer for a moment. His eyes flick over Sam's face with that familiar calculating look, tongue running over his teeth. Sam bites down on the inside of his cheek, ignoring the heat in his belly that's climbing up to his cheeks. "Okay," Dean says at last. "So if we're stuck in the Bermuda Triangle, we probably need to know what causes it, right?"
Sam sags a little, relieved. “Well, that's the thing. There's this watch. Allegedly, it had the ability to stop time. It's at the maritime museum with some other pirate treasure."
Dean's lips quirk, head bobbing back and forth like he's weighing this new info. "It's a place to start," he agrees. "So you thinking cursed object?"
"Maybe." Sam nods. There's a light growing in Dean's eyes that sparks hope in his chest, for once. "The watch is at the Naval Maritime museum. I figured we could check it out."
Dean sets his coffee mug down delicately. Again, he licks bacon grease off his fingers. Again, Sam tries his best not to notice. "Alright. I still think you're cuckoo-bananas about this Bermuda Triangle thing. But a pirate curse sounds awesome. I can work with that."
Sam grins. "Thought you might say that."
He feels a little better as they pay the bill. Dean may not be fully on board, but at least he's going along with it. At least he isn't looking at Sam like he's fully convinced that his gourd is cracked. His shoulders slump a little, sore muscles relaxing. It's comforting to have a lead. It's been at least a dozen Tuesdays since he's known which direction to move in. There's a glimmer of hope in the distance.
As they step out onto the sidewalk, Sam nearly smiles. The air smells a little sweeter, the sunshine feels more pleasant on his face.
Dean sneezes. Then his eyes roll back as the aneurysm sets in.
•••
Heat of the moment.
It takes two tries before he gets Dean to the Naval Maritime museum without incident. He has to learn to slow his eager pace. They move too fast, and Dean trips over his shoelaces and falls off a bridge.
The museum, when they finally make it inside, is a lot like the library—old and weathered, steeped in the humidity of saltwater and time. Cutlasses and swordfish hang on the walls, coated in a layer of dust. As they step in, Sam has to wonder if the smell is part of the exhibit—stale fish and rotting wood. It clings to the roof of his mouth, churns his stomach like he's seasick. Authentic.
The tour guide is a tall, thin woman with thick dark hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes glint as they land on Dean, which Dean notices, of course. Sam senses the way he loosens up, shoulders rolling back, puffed up like a goddamn peacock. It’s equal parts annoying and unsettling. The last thing Sam needs right now is for Dean to start chasing tail. God knows what kind of trouble that could lead to.
The cover story is simple enough: historical writers researching pirate captains. Vague and to the point. But Rita—her name is Rita—seems to have no interest in keeping it simple. All Sam needs is for someone to point him toward the watch, so he can salt and burn the thing—but Rita cozies right up to Dean, leading the way in slow, deliberate steps, hips swaying sensually all the way. Dean gives Sam a sideways glance, smirking like a kid on Christmas. Sam can't help an eye roll.
Rita leads them to a small display case, the glass clouded with sea salt and smudged fingerprints. Inside lies a tarnished, rusted pocket watch. It's the same one Sam saw in the library article, but the face is barely recognizable now—worn down by centuries of saltwater and harsh ocean air. Still, Sam can tell it was beautiful, once. Delicately etched ropes and anchors curve around the outside face, now nearly erased by time.
"This," Rita begins, her voice low and deliberate, "is the watch once owned by Edward Lowe, one of the last great captains of the pirate age." She moves closer, her shoes clicking sharply against the wood. Sam feels her presence like a shadow at his back, hovering close, too close, to his brother. "Lowe was notorious for his brutality—he’d torture his captives for hours before he let them die. It earned him a fearsome reputation."
Dean tilts his head, eyes narrowing in mock-contemplation. “Sounds like a charmer.”
Rita grins at the sarcasm, red lipstick over perfect white teeth. "Well, it wasn’t always like that," she replies, her voice softening, conspiratorial. "Lowe started out as a petty criminal—a pickpocket, a thief. But for a while, he turned his life around. He fell in love."
Sam glances at Dean, who looks genuinely interested now. Dean’s always a sucker for a tragic love story, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
Rita, meanwhile, lets the words hang, giving Dean just enough time to linger on her every syllable. Her gaze is only on him. “Her name was Eliza. She was from a respectable family—someone Lowe would never have a chance with if he hadn’t changed. They were married, and for a brief time, Lowe gave up his life of crime. He worked at the docks, rigging ships, and they lived a quiet, stable life.”
Dean arches an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What happened?”
Rita’s gaze lingers on Dean a moment too long before she answers. "She died. Childbirth. Lowe was devastated. And after that... he couldn’t find his way back." She hesitates, glancing down at the floor, adding a pause that Sam knows must be rehearsed. "He lost his job soon after. The life he’d built around Eliza crumbled. He was broken. Desperate."
Sam shifts uneasily, his fingers brushing the collar of his stiff, starched shirt. Heat prickles unreasonably in his cheeks. Watching someone you love die and ending up devastated, broken, desperate—yeah, he knows how that feels.
"There were rumors, at the time, near the docks where he'd worked. They said there was a watch, one that belonged to Davy Jones himself. It could control time—stop it, reverse it, speed it up. Lowe saw it as a way to fix everything. He thought it might bring Eliza back.” She meets Sam’s gaze for a fleeting moment. “He had nothing left to lose, so he went back to piracy. Climbed the ranks. Became captain. He risked everything for a chance at that watch.”
“And?" Sam asks, his pulse quickening now, despite himself. "Obviously, he found it. So then what?”
Rita blinks several times, like she forgot he was there. Then she smiles, a little too polite, the corners of her mouth turning down . “Well, obviously, it didn’t bring her back. Time couldn’t be reversed. Not even by a cursed artifact. When the watch failed, Lowe... couldn’t handle it. He took his own life in his captain's quarters."
The words hang in the air, a thick, heavy silence pressing down on them all. Sam’s chest tightens. The thought of someone so desperate that they'd turn to anything—anything—to undo the past... it’s unsettling, familiar in a way that makes him want to pull away.
Beside him, Dean shifts too, like he's thinking the same unsettling thing.
"That's a hell of a way to go," he mutters finally, under his breath.
"Tragic, isn't it?" she agrees. "All that hard work, turning his whole life around, just to have it go to pieces right before his eyes—and then dying alone, with no one left to mourn him."
She side-steps a little closer to Dean, leaning into him like she's aggrieved by her own tale, like she wants him to comfort her. It's a morbid way to flirt, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. Of course not. Sam can smell vanilla in her hair—a sweet, cloying scent that feels out of place in the musty air of the museum.
"Any chance you have anything else of Lowe's we could look at?" he asks, clearing his throat.
Rita frowns at him, unimpressed. "No, this is everything the museum has. We have some reading material in the back." When Sam just blinks at her, she adds, "...I could go get them for you."
He smiles tightly. "That'd be great."
When she steps out of view, Sam reaches into his pocket for his lock-pick.
"Dude, what's with the cockblock?" Dean hisses as Sam shoves the pick into the display case. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sam doesn't even look at him. "What do you think?"
"Sammy, that's not it. Didn't you hear her? She said it didn't work. It can't actually control time."
Sam ignores him. There's a question pulsing in the back of his head—What if Lowe was wrong? What if he just didn't know how to use it? Sure, maybe the watch can't turn time back, but what if it can still freeze it? Stop it from moving forward? If it can do that, then maybe it's still useful, after all. Maybe it can't bring the dead back, but it can prevent death altogether.
Maybe those internet forums are right, and the watch created the whole Bermuda Triangle. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter.
Maybe he can stop Dean's deal from ever coming.
The thought festers quickly in chest, stubborn and desperate. Before all this, he’d been toying with the idea of Doc Benton. He found the page in Dad’s journal just a few days before they came to Broward County. Benton had been cheating death for centuries, keeping himself alive with spare parts. Grisly? Absolutely. But it worked. He’d been turning it over in his mind, weighing the morality against the cataclysm of losing Dean. And when the alternative was Dean's life, the morality lost its luster.
If he could sell it as a zombie hunt, Dean would be in. Easy. No questions asked.
But this, the watch—it feels like a gift. A twisted, unexpected solution dropped right into his lap. He can't find Bela. He can't take on Hell itself. But stopping time? That might be within reach. Maybe that's the best he can hope for. After all, Dean's deal can’t come due if Wednesday never arrives.
Maybe Groundhog Day isn’t the worst fate. Sure, every day is the same—the same diner, the same terrible coffee, the same endless cycle. But at least he’s got time. At least he’s got Dean.
Up until the part where he doesn't.
"Sam," Dean says again, sharper now. "If you wanna salt and burn it, we'll come back tonight. You know, when it's not broad fucking daylight—"
The lock clicks with a soft pop.Sam snatches the watch—
...And as soon as he does, an alarm blares. Should have probably seen that one coming.
Rita is around the corner in a second. "What are you doing?" she demands, her eyes flash from the open display case to the watch clutched in Sam's hand. Her expression hardens. "Put that back!"
Sam freezes, his mind racing. The alarm's fills the room, sharp and relentless, and Dean shoots him a look that’s equal parts I told you so and we’re so screwed. But Sam doesn’t move. He can’t. The watch feels like it’s burning a hole in his palm, its weight both a burden and a lifeline.
“Sam,” Dean says through gritted teeth, his voice low but urgent. “Put it back. Now.”
"I'm calling the police!" Rita shouts, fumbling for her phone. Her fingers tremble as she starts to dial.
Dean’s hands shoot up in a gesture of surrender, as if Rita is pointing a gun at his chest. Sam is mildly surprised that she isn't—that's just the type of luck he's had, recently. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s not do anything hasty here. This is just a misunderstanding.” He offers an apologetic smile, and then turns to glare daggers at Sam. "In fact, Sammy's gonna put that right back, and we're gonna leave. Right, Sammy?"
But Sam still doesn't move.
His fingers tighten around the watch, cold metal digging into his palm. He can't bring himself to let it go. Not now. Not when this might be the only way to save Dean.
Today is Tuesday number seventy-eight. It took him this long to even get a chance like this. He might not get another one.
"Sam," Dean hisses again, voice low and dangerous. "Put. It. Back."
Rita’s finger hovers over the call button, her eyes narrowing at Sam. “Put the watch back,” she repeats, her voice wavering. “Or I swear, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Sam interrupts, his voice sharp. He takes a step forward, his grip on the watch tightening. “Call the cops? Fine. Go ahead.”
Sam clenches his jaw, steeling himself. His free hand reaches to his waistband, to the pistol tucked there. It's a bluff—he's not really going to hurt her, he just needs her to get out of the doorway. Dean clocks the motion and lunges forward, blocking Sam's shot and trying to wrestle the watch from his grasp. The quick movements startle Rita, who yelps and takes three steps back, stumbling in her heels. The sudden movement startles Rita, who yelps and stumbles back in her heels. She bumps against the wall, rattling the shelves. A swordfish mounted on the wall shakes loose.
It falls.
The blade slices clean through Dean's stomach, pins him right to the floor. The watch slips from Sam's grasp and clatters to the ground. Rita screams.
“Dean!” Sam shouts, dropping to his knees beside his brother. His hands hover uselessly over the wound, unsure where to even begin. The swordfish’s serrated edge has torn through Dean’s abdomen, leaving a jagged hole that exposes glistening viscera. Sam can see the shredded remains of Dean’s intestines, the slick, pink coils spilling out onto the floor. His hands flutter useless, pressing anywhere to try to stem the flow of blood, but it's no use. The blood is everywhere, hot and sticky, soaking him up to his wrists. His nose is filled with the sickly smell of copper, the tang of it making bile rise in his throat. Dean’s body convulses, a strangled cry escaping his lips.
Rita is frozen against the wall, her hands pressed to her mouth, her scream dying in her throat. “I—I didn’t mean to—” she stammers, her voice trembling. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean to—”
•••
Heat of the moment.
Dean barely has time to bellow his rise and shine before Sam is jumping to his feet, saliva pooling in his mouth. He shoves past Dean, who is left stunned, blinking after him.
“Sam?”
He makes it to the bathroom and drops to his knees, the dusty linoleum unforgiving. He vomits violently, bile mixed with unbidden tears that drip from his cheeks. He heaves and heaves, past the point where there’s nothing left. The smell of viscera and the sight of mangled intestines still flash behind his eyes.
He's here. It's Tuesday again. Sam gasps and sputters, fighting against the involuntary clenching of his stomach, the dull ache in his sides. He can still feel the phantom of glass shards in his fingertips, the tacky remnants of blood between his fingers. But when he looks at his hands, curled around the bowl, they're clean. Not even a maroon tinge under his fingernails.
Yeah, no. He was wrong. This isn't the way to keep Dean alive.
He's gonna burn that fucking watch.
A warm hand lands in the very center of his back, just above the scar left from last year, from Jake Talley’s knife in Cold Oak. It rubs big, soothing circles between his shoulder blades, and eventually Sam’s heaving eases into involuntary shudders. Fingers curl around the toilet bowl, searching for a lifeline.
“Okay, okay, easy,” Dean is saying when he tunes back in. With his free hand, Dean reaches past him, flushing the toilet. Then he presses his palm against Sam’s forehead, feeling for fever.
This is autopilot for Dean, Sam realizes bitterly. Old habits die hard—but apparently, Dean dies inordinately easily. His palm is big and warm, distinctly alive, brushing the damp bangs off of Sam's forehead. He tries and fails to stifle a shiver. If Dean notices, he chalks it up to sickness.
“You don’t feel hot. Damn. Roadhouse burger get’cha that bad?”
The roadhouse burger Sam ate on Monday night feels like a lifetime ago. He slumps forward, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, and he doesn’t care how disgusting it is. Dean’s knuckles brush over the sweat-laden hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. A soft sound catches in Sam's throat, mangled and hurt.
“That’s what you get for eatin’ all them vegetables," Dean teases, snide but fond. "Can’t handle a little bit’a grease, huh, Sammy?”
On any other day, Sam would have a smart-ass response ready. Sorry for having a healthy microbiome. But he's not up for it now. All he can manage is a halfhearted grumble. Dean keeps talking. Of course he fucking does.
“Remember when we were kids and I dared you to drink that rotten milk at Bobby’s?” Sam’s stomach lurches, moaning into the toilet bowl. Dean chuckles, like it’s exactly what he was hoping for. His voice is low and gentle, though, full of honey. “Good times. You know what Dad always said: it’d take a bucket-full ‘a dirt before it could kill ya.”
Sam clenches his shuddering jaw. He holds still, as best he can despite the shuddering, weathering the storm despite his trembling. Between the acid in his belly, and Dean’s voice in his ear, there’s not much else he can do. The hand on his back glides down and back upward, slowly, in what Sam thinks feels suspiciously like a caress, as if Dean is counting the knobs in his spine. It ends with a squeeze to his shoulder and a little pat as he lets go. Sam takes it as his cue to lean back, to sit on his tailbone on the bathroom floor. He hears the faucet turn on, his brother filling a glass of water.
“What’dya say we get some breakfast before we hit up the Mystery Spot? Some toast’ll settle your stomach.”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and nods. The full glass appears in his line of vision, and Sam takes it gratefully, swishing tepid water around in his mouth before spitting it into the toilet. "'Kay."
"Be ready in five," Dean says. He gives Sam's hair one final ruffle, loosening some of the strands stuck to his scalp.
It doesn't take long this time. Dean doesn't even make it out of the bathroom before he slips on the tile, smacking his head on the sink.
Sam rests his head on the toilet seat and groans.
•••
Heat of the moment.
"Dude, what's with the co—"
This time, he doesn't bother with the lock pick. He smashes the display case, glass shards scattering across the floor. The shrill alarm screeches, the pitch ringing in his skull. Dean jumps a mile, hands over his ears. Sam doesn't flinch.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dean hisses.
Sam shoves a hand into Dean's jacket pocket, ignoring his brother's yelp as he fishes out the silver zippo. The watch clatters as it hits the ground, the cracked glass face shattering on the linoleum. He pours the salt.
"Sam," Dean snaps. "If you wanted to salt and burn the damn thing, we coulda come back tonight. You know, when it's not—"
"Broad fucking daylight. Don't care," Sam mutters from between his teeth. "Can't wait till nighttime, Dean. Can't take that chance."
Dean watches in stunned silence for a moment while Sam flicks the lighter over and over with his thumb. His pace is too frenetic, his fingers trembling with too much adrenaline to light the spark. He curses under his breath, sweat beading at his temples.
There's a feminine scream around the corner as the fire finally catches. Rita is standing in the threshold, watching Sam with wide, terrified eyes. He doesn't care. He's long since given up caring what anyone in Broward County thinks of him—and he especially doesn't care for the opinion of shapely, vanilla-scented women who can't stop themselves from eye-fucking his brother.
Dean steps forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture, his voice calm but firm. "Ma'am, it's not what it looks like—"
Sam stares at it, fingers twitching at his sides. He doesn't know what he expects to happen—as if the curse breaking will create some Indiana-Jones style reaction from the universe. As if Edward Lowe or Davy Jones himself is going to rise from the goddamned ashes. His breath is ragged in his chest, smoke filling his lungs. The air smells of burning salt and charred metal, sharp and pungent. The fire spreads across the wood floor, grows slowly at first, and then quick, too quick. The overhead sprinklers kick in, but there's too much old, flammable shit in here.
He stares until the watch disappears in the flames, until there's nothing but ash left, indistinguishable from the rest of the kindling.
"Sam," Dean says sharply, his tone cutting through the noise. "We gotta go. Now."
Finally, dazed, he turns to look at his brother. Dean's eyes are wild, fingers curled around Sam's elbow. He tugs once, hard, and Sam stumbles a little on his feet. He lands against Dean's shoulder, and Dean claps an arm around him, maneuvers him toward the door.
Things are burning all around them now, irreplaceable artifacts smoldering to ash. It's worth it, he thinks, feeling some crucial piece of himself unhinge. It's worth it. He'd burn the world down just to keep Dean.
Rita is gone, saved her own life, and that's for the best. Dean half-drags, half-carries Sam toward the door. Smoke stings in his eyes, blurs everything together in shades of orange and gray and black. The only light left is the flames and the scorching emergency exit sign. His chest burns, his temples pounding. It's the third fire that his brother has saved him from, he realizes.
He's not even sure what gets Dean this time, smoke inhalation or the building crumbling down.
•••
Heat of the moment.
“I mean, it’s gotta be somethin’ stronger. Maybe it’s one of your psychic premonitions.”
Sam sighs down at his short stack, drawing shapes in a puddle of syrup with his fork. He can't remember the last time these pancakes looked appealing. “No.”
“Maybe a djinn? Like the one we ran into last year?”
“No.”
Dean's eyes roll up to the ceiling. As if he's the one who's exhausted. “Okay, give me something to work with here. Why not?”
“Djinn put you into good dreams, so you don’t question reality,” Sam recites bitterly. "This is not a good dream."
“Well, maybe this djinn just sucks at being a djinn.”
Sam's fork stops mid-swirl. “What do you mean?”
“I'm just thinking out loud here. When I was stuck in that djinn dream, I had to stab myself to break out of it. It's like those nightmares where you're falling and you only wake up once you hit the ground. Maybe it’s like that.”
...It's not the worst idea Dean's ever had. “So you’re saying I should stab myself?”
Dean's chin tucks close to his chest, swallowing. “No," he deadpans, tone sharp enough to cut through steel. Not funny. Sam isn't laughing. "But I am saying that you should do something dramatic enough to shock yourself out of the loop.” He sips his coffee, eyes narrowing over the rim of the mug. "Should be no problem for you, Drama Queen."
Sam frowns. It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind before—on particularly gruesome Tuesdays, when the weight of it all feels unbearable. So far, the changes he’s managed to make have been small, insignificant. Maybe he doesn’t need a butterfly effect. Maybe he needs something more straightforward. More visceral. Even if it didn't end the cycle, at least it would make everything stop.
Jesus, it really is like Groundhog Day.
For the first time in days, he thinks again about Dexter Hasselback. There's probably no hope for rescuing him, he realizes, stomach somehow sinking lower.
"Hey," Dean says, softly. His fingers twitch on the table, curl before spreading out flat against the vinyl. A split second, Sam thinks they're reaching toward him, that he's about to reach out and touch him. But they splay out against the table, right there in the center. "We'll figure something out," he says.
Sam wants to believe him, but he can't find the energy. And as Dean chokes right there on his fucking bacon, he puts his head on the table, and waits for the switch to come.
•••
Heat of the moment.
Sam gets a little hysterical when he realizes that almost three months have gone by, and Dean’s deal is almost up. He says almost, because he’s lost track of exactly what day it’s supposed to be.
This morning, he shoots out of bed before Dean can get rise and shine out of his mouth. He deadbolts the door, lining the threshold and the windows with salt. Then he lines the rest of the room, just to be safe. Dean snaps to attention, smacking the radio so that Asia screeches to a halt. “What is it? What’s going on?” he demands, scanning the room for threats.
“Hellhounds,” Sam manages.
Dean blinks several times, stock-still in the middle of the room. He’s fully dressed—boots on, one still untied—hand going slack on the pistol in his waistband. Sam stands barefoot in his pajamas, chest heaving while he draws sigils on the cheap wallpaper with a Sharpie.
“Sam,” Dean says once, carefully. Then, “Sammy, hey. Take it easy. We got time to—”
“No!” It rumbles right out of his chest, and Dean flinches at the sudden volume. “No, we don't. I’m not —can’t—keep wasting time—…”
“So, what? You wanna hole up here until May?” Sam only coughs dryly in response. There’s no use in explaining to Dean that he’s pretty sure it is May, despite the calendar on the wall declaring it February.
Even as he fortifies the room, he can’t shake the feeling that this isn't the Dean that he needs to be saving. That all of this is futile (as everything has been for months), because this Dean probably isn’t even real, and there’s another Dean out there that Sam can’t reach. A Dean who's alone right now, somewhere, watching seconds tick by. Wondering where Sam is and why he didn’t save him.
“Sam,” Dean tries again. It yanks Sam out of his head, forces his focus back to his brother, who is watching him like a woodsman eyeing a rabbit in a trap. His brow is quirked unevenly, a thin frown pulling at his mouth. “Look. I know you’re worried about time. We’re still looking for a way outta this that doesn’t involve me welching on the deal.” Sam sighs. “But we’ve been doin’ nothing but chasing our tails here, man. We could use a win. And this case,” he gestures broadly to Broward County. “This is small fry.”
And right then, something breaks.
Sam can’t contain the laugh that comes from that. Can’t stop himself from laughing right in Dean’s earnest face. The sound is cold and hollow, scraping like razor blades—it hurts coming out of his ribs. Still, he can’t find the strength to stop it. The pain is the most authentic thing he’s felt in months.
“Not to mention it was your idea,” Dean continues, his face contorting into an even deeper frown, now concerned and slightly offended. “Dude, I’m trying to share my feelings here.” He waits for a moment, expecting Sam to settle down, to become reasonable. He doesn’t. He laughs even harder, tears welling in his eyes, his sides beginning to ache. “What’s so funny?”
There’s no good answer. Sam shakes his head. He drops the salt canister. It lands with an unceremonious thunk on the floor, salt bursting out upon impact, lost forever in the matted motel carpet. Seven more years of bad luck. He laughs at that, too.
It’s so fucking funny that Dean thinks of this as small fry. That he’s got no idea how goddamned lost Sam is. Because that’s the bitch of it, right? That this was supposed to be a milk run, and now he’s topsy-turvy. Talk about chasing your tail. Try a hundred Tuesdays in a row.
And it’s funny, truly, that Sam can be so fucking helpless on his own. How the hell is he ever supposed to do this without Dean?
He slides down the wall, knees buckling from the force of his laughter. He lands on his tailbone with a thud, destroying the salt line he had just got done laying. Still, he can’t get a breath in. He’s not laughing at Dean, really. Or at the irony, for that matter. Mostly he’s laughing at himself, at his own uselessness, at how absolutely fucking nowhere he’s gone in all this time.
Maybe Dean was wrong about his deal. Maybe he got the details mixed up. Maybe Sam's the one who's dead and Hell is an endless loop of his worst nightmare. He feels dangerously close to falling right off the deep end, and at this point, maybe he’s okay with that.
“Okay, you’re creeping me out now. That’s enough. Hey.” Dean leans down, and Sam feels him hover, can smell his rank morning breath in his face. He smells like sleep and sweat, cheap beer and days old cologne. Dean is beautiful. There's an ephemeral glow around him. There's a target on his back. A hand lands on the inner curve of his shoulder. It’s warm, and it’s grounding. “Come on, don’t make me slap you.”
“Sorry,” Sam wheezes. He can barely see Dean through the tears clouding his eyes.
“S’okay. But either you gotta tell me what’s going on, or I seriously need to send Lorne Michaels my audition tape.”
“I’m not laughing at you.” Finally, the fit seems to release him. Sam’s muscles relax slowly, sore and heavy with the release of tension. He flexes his jaw. Sniffles. Wipes his running nose on the back of his arm.
Dean is going to die. Today, and tomorrow, and the next day. And if he is somehow trapped in a nightmare, then Dean is dying on the outside, too. By the time Sam shakes himself out of this, Dean will be gone. For real. And Sam will have missed it. Missed all the measly time he had left with his brother. For this.
“I tried everything,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I tried everything to stop it, Dean, and I... I can’t. How am I supposed to save you from Hell? I can’t even save you from a bad taco.”
He ignores the way Dean’s brow twists up in confusion, too exhausted to explain. His body feels worn, dogged. It feels like he hasn’t slept in months, despite the fact that he wakes up in the same bed every morning. His head drops back against the wall. “And now I don’t even know if I should.”
“Should what?”
“Keep trying to get us out of this.” He gestures vaguely, meaning the time loop, or Hell, or both. Probably both. The Mystery Spot has been an exercise in futility. Every Tuesday is like going another round with a brick wall. He’s drained, his knuckles torn to a pulp—and he’s got absolutely fucking nothing to show for it. “Maybe we should just stay here forever.”
Dean looks just as lost as Sam feels, which isn’t a good sign. Usually, his brother can usually muster up a pep-talk when he needs it, even if it’s something they both know Dean doesn’t believe. Instead, he’s reflecting Sam’s own expression back to him, pale and wide-eyed and helpless. Sam gets the horrible, sinking feeling that there’s no way around this. They're both adrift in the same sinking ship. He said out loud exactly what Dean has been telling him all year, and yet now Dean is looking at him like it’s the last thing he ever wanted to hear.
He doesn’t see it happen, but suddenly Dean is holding his jaw, gently, with just the worn pads of his fingers, directing his chin up.
“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know that?” His voice is so soft, gentle in a way Sam hasn't heard since scraped knees and school friends left behind. It clenches something deep in his chest. "You'll figure it out. I promise. But in the meantime, I'm right here."
Sam doesn’t know if he believes him, but it doesn’t matter. Dean’s hand on his face is grounding, a physical presence that feels both real and like a dream. The scent of him—motor oil, aftershave, something else—lingers in the air, close enough for Sam to taste. He breathes it in, desperate to hold on to whatever piece of this moment he can.
"Can't we just," Dean swallows, wets his bottom lip. Sam is transfixed by it, plush and pink. "Can't we just enjoy the time we have?"
Sam's eyes sting again. He feels so, so vulnerable here, with his back against the wall, Dean’s presence filling up every inch of space between them. The room is warm, smells like sweat and Sharpie and that briny, godawful Florida air. He’s painfully aware of the seconds passing—every one a precious reminder that time is slipping away, fast.
Soon enough, there will be empty rooms. On Wednesday, if Wednesday ever comes, Sam might wake up to a roomful of nothing, to stale air without a trace of Dean. To quiet rooms without Asia, without a rise and shine. The thought terrifies him, a lead weight in his belly. He'd rather have a million Tuesdays than face a single Wednesday without his brother.
Dean's index finger traces the curve of Sam's jaw, a soothing back-and-forth, the kind of minuscule motion that Sam doesn't even think Dean realizes he’s doing. He thinks he can feel Dean's pulse there, through the tips of his fingers, the rhythm of it matching his own. His eyes are wide, worry and something else, something Sam can't quite place. Maybe it’s Dean the way he's always been—expecting the worst but hoping for the best. Maybe it's something else.
Sam's breath is shallow and humid, catching in his throat. Dean's chin tilts as Sam's eyes focus in.
"Are you with me?" he asks. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it shudders through Sam, right to his bones.
Can he enjoy the time he has left, whatever that is?
Sam nods. "I'm with you."
That should be the end of it. Dean should smile, pat Sam's face, and back away. He should brush himself off, and say something like, 'Okay, can we get breakfast, now that you're done emoting?' Any combination of these.
Dean should move, but he doesn't.
In fact, he barely reacts at all, except for a slow blink, freckles catching the light. There's a wrinkle between his eyebrows, carved deep, a thoughtful set to his mouth. Usually, Sam is good at guessing what Dean is thinking. He's had twenty-so years of practice. But right now, there's an expression on Dean's face that Sam can't guess at.
He doesn’t know how long they sit like that. His face is numb; lips are dry, and taste like salt, even though he didn't think he'd let slip any tears. Dean is taking up all his space, knees pressed against his, breath on Sam's face. But in this moment, Sam doesn’t care. All he can think about is how much he wants to hold onto this, this piece of Dean, before everything slips away.
Maybe it would be worse, if he were to give up. After all, Tuesday keeps coming, but there's no guarantee that it always will. Perhaps Wednesday will sneak up on him when he least expects it. And who knows, maybe time is passing out there without him. Perhaps he'll get used to Tuesday, and wake up on Wednesday, Dean-less, without so much as an inkling beforehand to brace himself. Is it worse to know, or to not know? To be oblivious, or to have a fighting chance?
But then again, maybe not. Maybe time isn't passing for anyone, anywhere. Maybe the world outside is standing still, and he gets to keep Dean all to himself. The thought is crazy, sends a thrill through him, searing hot. Maybe he doesn't have to find an answer. Maybe all he has to do is hold on.
And, he thinks selfishly—if he can’t save Dean, at least he’ll have this. If this isn't real and Dean is out there torn to ribbons, it means he never has to know about this. His brother will be none the wiser.
Before he can finish the thought, his mouth is on Dean's.
Dean freezes instantly. Sam doesn’t stop, not quite yet. He surges upward, pressing himself in closer. He pours everything he has into it, a dozen years and nearly a hundred Tuesdays of it. Pours himself against Dean, because he needs something solid, whether it's real or not.
For all the time he's spent imagining, fantasizing, worrying—the real thing feels easy. Like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before, even if they haven’t. Dean tastes like mint toothpaste and something sharper, a flavor too familiar to be comforting. His lips are soft and full like a girl's, and Sam isn't sure why that surprises him, but it does.
Nothing Dean has said or done has startled him in over a hundred days. And yet, it startles him when finally, finally, he feels Dean give in. He blows one breath out his nose and seems to slump, crushing his nose against Sam's. Fingers reach up, slide from his jaw to tangle in the hair at the back of Sam’s neck. A shudder rumbles down his spine. Dean tugs softly, pulling him inward, even as he mumbles “Sam,” around his lips, a warning.
When Sam only hums in response, he tries again. “Sam.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
There’s no answer. Sam is a live wire, every nerve crackling and electric. Dean swallows, trembling, still close enough that Sam can feel his breath. Sam pulls back enough to get a breath in, but doesn’t open his eyes yet. However Dean looks now, he doesn’t want to know. Dean's free arm is bracing the wall, right next to Sam's head. It boxes Sam in, shields him from the rest of the world. Sam can't help but think that it's backwards. After all, Dean's the one who needs shielding.
"It's a bad idea," Dean says finally, voice rough, like he can barely scrape the words out.
Maybe that's true, but Sam is so upside-down that from here it looks like a very, very good idea.
"We've had worse ideas," he says instead. Dean swallows again, a dry click in his throat. Sam mimics it unconsciously, wanting.
He leans it again, gradually, eyes open until the very last second to make sure Dean's not going to run screaming for the hills. He doesn't. Instead, Dean's chin dips, infinitesimal in its movement, his eyes going hooded. Maybe Dean can't find it in him to say what he's thinking, but Sam doesn't need him to. Never has.
This kiss is slower, more exploratory. It's a little clumsier, too. Sam's teeth click and Dean's forehead bumps against Sam's, knocking his head back into the wall. His hands flutter over Dean's shirt, not sure where they want to land, weighing what's safe versus a lifetime of wantwantwant. They end up scrabbling against Dean's chest, wrapped up in his t-shirt, in the amulet hanging right there in the center.
Dean's teeth graze Sam's bottom lip as he pulls back, and Sam strangles a small sound back into his throat.
"Up," Dean says. Sam's a bit dazed, so he isn't sure how, but soon enough Dean's manhandled him up off his ass and against the wall, his head smacking with a thunk against the drywall, his brother's hands sliding up under his t-shirt. Oh, God, this is happening.
Dean leans into him this time, taking his mouth rough and greedy. It's no secret that Dean's a good kisser. Sam has watched him for years through door cracks and car windows. Hell, he's based his own technique on watching Dean. It's an out-of-body experience, knowing exactly how it looks on the outside, every little nip of Dean's teeth and every flick of his tongue. He knows exactly what they look like now, has seen it all before. He swallows a moan for the thought.
Dean grunts when they break for air this time, a sound like he's still fighting with himself, even though he's halfway through taking Sam's shirt off. He looks Sam dead in the eye, pupils blown. “You’re not just doing this ‘cause I’m dying, right?”
“No,” Sam promises.
But, well—yes, in a way, he is. He's doing this because he wants to keep Dean from dying. He's doing this because Dean has died, over and over, and all it's done is make Sam want to dig his nails in even more. He's doing this because he can't seem to stop Dean from dying. But he’s also doing it because he’s exhausted and greedy and just selfish enough, in his misery, not to care what happens next.
It’s not just the Mystery Spot that’s wrung him dry, it’s everything; this whole god-forsaken year, since he woke up in that cabin smelling like death. The panic has been sitting sourly behind his teeth since the day they closed the Devil's Gate. The Mystery Spot really only brought it to the forefront.
It’s just like Dean, though, to assume that Sam is giving more than he’s taking. To assume that this is some kind of fucked up altruism, instead of pure self-indulgence. “Want to do this,” he swears. He punctuates it with a tilt of his hips, pressing firmly into the hard line of Dean to prove his point.
"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters under his breath. His voice is raspy, cracked open. "Jesus, Sam."
It's as much as an admission as anything, about as vulnerable as his brother can be. There's a pained look on his face. The last time Sam saw it, he'd just killed Yellow Eyes, hands still shaking with the adrenaline. I had to look out for you, he'd said. As if Sam doesn't fucking get it. As if Sam's not just as far off the reservation.
He shuts his brain off before he can follow that train of thought any farther, busying himself with the button on Dean's fly.
It's surprising just how normal it feels. Well, not normal—it's definitely not normal. Kissing your brother should feel like the world ceasing to turn, like your toes slipping off the edge of a cliff. The thing is, Sam has been feeling that way for so many Tuesdays, now, that he's lost count. Off-kilter as he is, kissing Dean feels just about as standard as anything else. It's the first thing in as many Tuesdays, though, that has felt right.
Dean is much more dressed than Sam, layered in shirts and jeans and heavy boots. Sam feels like an awkward teenager fumbling with it all. Meanwhile, Sam is only in pajamas, so Dean has an easier time getting to his skin. Rough, calloused hands slide slow and gentle up his ribcage, thumbs brushing just briefly over Sam's nipples, sending a shudder through him. Fingers slide up, up, into his hair, guide his head to tip sideways so Dean's mouth can get at his throat, wet and impossibly warm, Sam's breath hitches, toes curling. Fuck.
Dean leans back enough to get his own shirt off, and tugs at Sam's pajama pants. Sam kicks them away, and Dean slots a knee in between Sam's, knocking his legs further apart.
Sam isn't small. The last vestiges of his baby fat have finally disappeared, and he's filled out his lanky frame, tall and broad and large in every sense of the word. And yet, somehow, crowded against the wall with Dean pressed up against him, he feels like he is.
He rolls his hips slowly at first, experimentally, afraid that it'll be the thing that sends Dean running. It's not. Dean slides a hand down, squeezes at Sam's hips, guiding him. He rolls his hips again, and Dean grunts, like he approves, like the friction is on his own dick.
Fuck.
It's tactless, juvenile even, all grabbing and rutting and clashing like they don't know what they're doing. Sam's obsessed, single-mindedly focused on the heat of it, on the friction, delicious rough denim outside the one remaining layer of Sam's boxers. It's too dry, almost painful, but it feels real, more real than anything else has felt in however many Tuesdays.
Dean grabs the meat of Sam's thigh, hoists it up to hitch over his hip, like a fucking girl. And that's fair—he's riding Dean's leg like a fucking girl. The pressure is building in his stomach, hot and swirling. Sam shakes with it, eyes squeezing tight, mouth going loose. Dean's hand slides up then, gropes at his ass, pulls him apart under the thin layer of his underwear. He traps a noise in his chest before it can escape.
"Nuh-uh," Dean says, nipping at his jaw. "If we're doing this, you're gonna let me hear you. Right, Sammy?"
Sam's whole body shivers. "Oh, God."
He can feel Dean's lips stretch, a grin that's half-malicious. "Thassit," he croons. "Jesus, fuckin' gorgeous, Sam, you know that? Could eat you alive."
Sam swallows. He'd let him. Christ, he'd let him. "Dean."
He can't help but wonder if this urgency would be here if he hadn't watched Dean die ninety-something times. The universe has found every way to take Dean apart, but Sam is determined to find his own. He scrambles, reaches to tug Dean's jeans out of the way. Unable to wait another second, he shoves his hand into the heat of Dean's boxers, wraps it around his cock.
Dean moans, a sound too earnest for just a hand on him. "Oh fuck, Sammy."
He's thicker than Sam. He's throbbing. Sam feels dizzy, high on the fact that Dean is hard for him, that Dean wants this as much as he does. He rubs his palm against the fat head, gathering up precome before he works his fist over the shaft, frantic, tight, disjointed.
Dean leans in, kisses him hot and messy. The noises he makes are guttural, sounds like it hurts coming out. Dean deposits them right into Sam's mouth. Every one sends electricity through him, makes him fucking twitch. His whole body is writhing on Dean's goddamn knee.
"Just like that," Dean mumbles, probably without realizing. "Yeah, yeah, shit."
Sam moans for it, nods half-deliriously, in agreement, in understanding.
In jerky motions, Dean shoves Sam's boxers down under his ass, gets his hand on Sam's cock. Sam makes an embarrassingly high sound, clamping down on his lip so he doesn't come right fucking there.
It's beautiful like that, his hand on his brother's dick, his brother's hand on his. Like a loop of their own. A complete circuit. Sam would put up with a thousand Tuesdays just to get to this.
"Here," he pants, wriggling until the last of Dean's clothing is out of the way. He guides them together, lines Dean's cock up with his own, wraps his hand around the both of them, around Dean's hand too. Dean hisses, cursing softly.
They pick up a rhythm together, tight and steady. Sam's not sure who's leading or who's following, whose pace it is, but it's perfect, the head of his cock bumping wet against Dean's, Dean hand gripping the flesh that Sam can't reach. Sam watches them move together in heady amazement, and when he looks up Dean is watching too, slack-jawed. There's sweat pooling in his collarbones, a bright flush on his cheeks, mottling his freckles and making the hazy green of his eyes stand out even more starkly than usual. Sam has never seen anything more beautiful.
"Oh fuck, Dean," he's muttering, can't help it, no control over his tongue. His stomach is coiling up tight, whole body throbbing. So fucking close. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean, Dean—"
Sam can't remember the last time he came. It's been, at the very least, ninety-something Tuesdays now. Not like he's felt like beating off while his brother is dying on repeat. It doesn't even occur to Sam until he's on the edge of the orgasm coming now—body coiled up tight, thighs tensing.
Dean's eyes flick up, meet his gaze for a moment, wide and helpless. Then he's kissing Sam again, kissing him like he wants to devour him, like Sam might not make it out of this alive. He's fucking right into Sam's hand now, hips chasing every twist of Sam's hand. Sam's high on the power of it, on taking Dean apart piece by piece, on snatching up these pieces that had never been his before.
Dean's free hand reaches down, gropes crudely at Sam's ass again, pulls him apart. His finger rubs against Sam's hole, quick and totally dry, and that's it. Sam yelps, and his head knocks against the wall again as fireworks explode behind his eyes. His hips jerk, trapped between Dean's hand on his cock and Dean's hand on his ass, the most pathetic noise escaping his chest, somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
It's relief. Ninety-something Tuesdays worth. A lifetime worth.
Dean strokes them both through it, doesn't let their pace change at all, because he's a good big brother who already knows Sam like the back of his hand. Sam looks down between them, watches the last spurts of it drip over their joined fingers, over the flushed head of Dean's cock.
"Oh, fuck, Sam," Dean gasps, apparently watching it too. "Holy shit."
He keeps his grip on the both of them, Sam's dick going soft against Dean's, so sensitive but he doesn't want Dean to stop, wants to wring every last ounce out of this, even if it hurts. Dean's losing finesse now, his forehead knocking against the wall next to Sam, mouthing wet and loose at Sam's ear.
Dean makes the most beautiful, heartbreaking sound when he starts to come, deep in his chest, like something being cracked in half. Sam closes his eyes against a stupid, prickling rush of tears, as if he can feel the depth of it. He sinks his teeth into Dean's shoulder, and Dean shudders, the last of his orgasm making him sensitive.
They stay like that for a moment, panting in unison. Then, on wobbling legs, Dean drags them both back to the closest bed, which happens to be Sam's. They flop down side by side, chests heaving, whole bodies still shuddering.
Sam rolls onto his side, props his head up on his hand so he can look at his brother. Dean's flush is fading slowly, whole body rosy against the yellow sheets and covered with sweat. He doesn't meet Sam's eyes for a moment, glazed over, like he's seeing stars.
“Dean?” Sam asks. A very real possibility occurs to him. “Please don’t have a stroke.”
Dean huffs a laugh, the sound low and rough and shaking. “No promises.” Sam swallows roughly. It's a joke, Dean's joking, has no idea how fucking serious it is. Sam's wires are all crossed. He can't tell whether it makes him nervous or unbearably fucking horny.
He lifts his head, meets Sam's gaze, and it's all soft, all big brother. His fingers brush damp hair off Sam's forehead. The gesture is so sweet that Sam almost wants to cry. Again.
A laugh bubbles out of him then, this one softer, under his breath. Sam Winchester cries his way through sex.
Dean's brow furrows with immediate concern. "Jesus, not again."
"Sorry," Sam says, shaking his head. "Inside joke."
Dean's frown burrows deeper, a dozen questions running past his eyes before he seems to decide not to ask any of them. "Freak," he sighs, closing his eyes.
Sam settles down then, lets Dean guide him into the crook of his arm, lets himself rest his head right against Dean's chest, the amulet brushing cold and gentle against his forehead.
Dean's heart is still beating. He doesn't even notice when he drifts off to sleep.
•••
When Sam wakes up, it's to Huey Lewis & the News.
The synth cuts through the last vestiges of sleep, the upbeat melody oddly comforting through Sam's tired haze. He blinks once, twice, body tangled in the sheets. He's in his own bed, dressed only in his boxers, the faint smell of sweat sticking to his pillowcase. The Florida sun streams through the thin curtains, brighter than he remembers, casting golden streaks across his bed. The distant chirp of birdsong feels louder, more insistent, as if the world itself is celebrating something Sam can’t quite grasp.
He's in his own bed, and he's alone.
The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom, accompanied by the familiar echo of someone humming off-key. Dean pokes his head around the corner, blue toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, hair damp from the shower. He frowns. "You gonna sleep all day?" he asks, voice muffled through toothpaste foam.
For a moment, Sam just stares. It takes him a second to process the scene: Dean’s in different clothes, with a different song playing. His mind stumbles, but then he looks at the alarm clock to confirm: WED.
"I know," Dean says, following Sam's gaze. He steps fully into the room, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "No Asia. This station sucks."
"It's Wednesday," Sam says. His voice is rough, not quite his own.
"Yeah. Which usually follows Tuesday."
Usually.
A breath bursts out of Sam's chest, hard and painful. For a second, it feels like his ribs might collapse, and he wonders if he’s about to dissolve into hysterics again. His fingers curl into the sheets, digging into the fabric, as if holding on to the last threads of his sanity. It's Wednesday. It's Wednesday.
It's Wednesday, and last night he kissed his brother. It's Wednesday, and last night, his brother kissed him back. It's Wednesday, and last night, they—
He wets his dry lips, blinking several times until the blur in his vision fades. Maybe this is it, he thinks. Maybe he's finally, finally cracked under the weight of it all. Maybe this is the hallucination, a dream, and if he thinks too hard the illusion will break and he'll wake up and it'll be Tuesday again. But then, he doesn't think he could hallucinate something as vivid as this. Dean looks different than he did on Tuesday. His eyes are rimmed red, as if from a restless night. His shirt is wrinkled from having been balled up in his duffel for days. The shirt is so familiar, and yet Sam hasn't seen it in so long that the sight of it—of Dean in anything other than what he wore on Tuesday—tightens his chest.
It's Wednesday, and beyond all odds, Dean is here.
Relief hits him so suddenly that for a second, Sam can't breathe. His lungs ache with it, heavy and suffocating, like he's been holding his breath for nearly a hundred days. Dean frowns, but opens his mouth to say something—but in a flash Sam is up, crushing Dean into himself, pressing his face into Dean's freshly-shaved cheek.
Dean doesn't react, save for a tentative pat on Sam's shoulder. "Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"
Sam shakes his head. He breathes in right there, where Dean smells like sweat and toothpaste and aftershave. He breathes in right there, where he'd buried his moan last night, shaking and falling apart, when Dean had—
"Wait. Wait." He pulls back, holding Dean at an arms length, looking him up and down. He swallows, and his throat clicks, sticking to itself. "What do you remember?"
Dean blinks several times. His cheeks are pink, but whether it's from his shower or it's a flush, Sam can't tell. "I remember you were pretty whacked out yesterday," he says. Something flickers in his eyes—a shadow of hesitation, gone as quickly as it appeared. "But you're a freak, so. Nothing special."
His voice is tired, steady. Sam swallows the lump in his throat. That’s it. That’s all Dean remembers. It's not enough information, doesn't make any sense—But if his Tuesday was unremarkable, then that's probably a good thing. Right? Probably for the best. This was the plan, after all. This is what he wanted.
Wasn't it?
Dean wriggles, stepping gently out of Sam's grasp. Sam lets him go. "Got a call from Bobby this morning," Dean says, clearing his throat. He's looking down, gathering up errant socks and underwear and shoving them into his duffel. "He's got a possible lead on Bela. Lets shake a leg, huh? I wanna get the hell out of Florida."
Like it’s just a regular day. No weirdness. No time loop. No nothing. His voice is steady, tired, but there's nothing else no confusion, no recognition. Just an ordinary Wednesday morning.
Sam swallows, biting down so hard on his cheek that his mouth fills with blood. "You're telling me."
Sam insists on being the one to throw the last of their bags in the car, leaving Dean to do the final check of the room. "Hurry up," he tells Dean on the way out, voice sharper than he intends. It's not too late for Broward County to close in on him again, after all—not too late for the rug to get pulled out from under him.
"Yeah, I'm hurrying," Dean mutters. He’s crouched by the bed, looking under it for anything they might have missed. "Can we at least get breakfast on the road?"
"Not until there's fifty miles between us and this fuckin' county," Sam insists.
He locks the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat. The leather creaks, molding itself perfectly to the kinks in Sam's back, as if welcoming him home.
It must've been the watch. Yeah, that makes sense. He burned the watch two days ago, now—it must have taken some time for the effect to kick in. The Bermuda Triangle is so big. Thousands of square miles. It'd take a lot of time for something like that to reverse. Wouldn't it?
Either that, or Dean was right. Maybe it was a djinn who sucked at being a djinn. Maybe he needed some greater act to shock himself out of the loop—maybe last night was just the right thing to do it.
There's a little voice, in the back of his head, that tells him he should figure out which. But here, his brother in one piece and the car pointed north, he can't bring himself to care. He doesn't know what caused the time loop. And for reasons he's not going to examine, he's alright with that.
It's a little frightening, what he's willing to let go of to sink his fingers into Dean.
Sam closes his eyes. The Florida sun hasn't felt good in ages, but it prickles his skin now, soothing and pleasant. Tuesday was hot on sticky. On Wednesday there's a breeze, salty and cool, that blows the humidity away. When Dean gets in the car, Sam will tell him he was right. He won't tell him what for. But it'll make Dean smile anyway, and Sam will smile for it. And they'll go meet Bobby, and the South Dakota winter will be nothing like Broward County, cold and dry. He'll watch the thermometer tick downward for the entire drive, grateful for each little drop, every time he looks and it's different than it was before.
He plans this out in his head, lulled into a sense of peace. He doesn't watch Dean lock the door behind him.
He doesn't watch as Dean clenches his eyes shut, licking the last taste of Sam off his lips.