Hangman is Coming Down From the Gallows, by withdiamonds, commentary by aynslee (2/4)

[aynslee]

A few more mornings of Ellie talking about her fear of flying and a few more evenings of Tom Cruise grinning and pretending he doesn’t want to kick Jay Leno’s ass and Dean is convinced that the time loop is real. He thinks maybe it really isn’t such a bad deal for now. He has no idea what’s actually going on, but hey, he gets to spend every day with Sam and he hasn’t been torn limb from limb by hellhounds yet, so how bad could it be?

He quickly figures out that the earlier in the day he tells Sam they’re stuck in a time loop, the sooner he can banish the tormented expression from Sam’s eyes when he looks at Dean and thinks he’s failed and that they have to say goodbye today.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, as Sam stares up at him from where he’s sprawled on his back under Dean. Dean shifts slightly and Sam’s cock hits him just right, sending heat fizzing through his blood. “Look at it this way, dude. We have all the time in the world to do this.” He tightens around Sam and gasps as Sam thrusts up into him, hard and fast.

“Yeah?” Sam says with a grin.

“Yeah,” Dean grins back.

Sometimes Sam’s sorrow isn’t replaced by curious relief, it’s replaced by panic as the realization hits him that he’s dealing with yet another time loop. The last one hadn’t gone so well, if Sam’s possessive, almost compulsive protectiveness afterwards was anything to judge by. He hadn’t let Dean out of his sight for weeks after Broward, hardly letting him take a piss by himself, until Dean had threatened to deck him if he didn’t give him some privacy.

“Dude, I had no idea you were into watersports,” Dean had groused, trying to shove Sam out of the men’s room at the hole-in-the-wall bar where’d they’d been trying to pump the locals for information about some missing college students. The tips of Sam’s ears turned slightly pink even as he spluttered and shoved Dean right back.

Dean stopped pushing but kept his hands balled up in Sam’s t-shirt, eying him with fascinated interest. “Yeah, Sam? Really?” and he grabbed Sam’s elbow, pulling him with him into the bathroom. “’Cause I gotta piss real bad. You wanna hold it for me?” He was halfway bluffing, ready to laugh it off if he had to, if someone came in behind them, or if Sam punched him in the face or something. But Sam’s eyes darkened and he had Dean by the shoulders, turning him toward the urinal before Dean could do more than draw a quick breath.

Sam’s heat behind him made Dean almost dizzy as Sam reached for his zipper, easing it down slowly, warm fingers closing around Dean’s cock. “Don’t get hard, Dean,” Sam murmured in his ear. “You can’t piss if you’re hard.” His hand tightened for a moment, then he held Dean loosely and aimed him at the toilet. “Go on.”

Dean knew an order when he heard one.

Letting go was probably one of the hottest things Dean had ever done, and after, when Sam shook him off and tucked him back into his boxers with a smirk, Dean smacked him on the arm. “You didn’t even get me off, you fucker.”

Sam cupped a hand around his own crotch and squeezed gently. “Later. You can wait until later. We’re in a public bathroom, dude,” he said, laughing at Dean.

By the time Sam let him come it was hours later, and Dean was spread out across their motel bed, trembling and sweating and cursing Sam’s name. He totally forgot to bitch about Sam’s hovering that night.

After that, little by little, Sam had eased up on the whole watching Dean like a hawk thing. But now that they’re stuck in another time loop, Dean can see it all starting up again.

“I told you once before, Sam, if you and I decide I’m not gonna die, then I’m not gonna die,” Dean says. “You promised, remember? And, hey, this way every day’s your birthday. (This seems particularly cruel, for the loop to be set on Sam’s birthday, especially with imposter-demon-Sam pretending to celebrate it with Dean.) Pretty awesome, Sammy, don’t you think?”

Sam smiles at that. “Are you gonna give me a present?”

“I gave you your present this morning, dude. What better birthday present could you ask for? My blowjobs are freakin’ legendary.” Ellie’s approaching the table, coffee pot in hand, and she stops and blinks at Dean. He grins up at her and says, “Well, they are.” She laughs delightedly and warms up his coffee with an indulgent smile.

“You’re a legend in your own lunchtime, Dean,” Sam says as he shakes his head and smiles again. It’s good to see.

It doesn’t always last. Some days are better than others and on a bad day, their afternoon drives are almost more than Dean wants to deal with. It’s not like they run out of things to say. Hell, Dean’s never had a problem finding stupid shit to talk about. But when Sam gets into one of his moods, dark and miserable, Dean sees more clearly than ever just how damaged he is by everything that’s happened.

Sam tries to make Dean talk about the days right after Cold Oak. Those days when Sam lay stiff and gray on a bloodstained mattress, his skin chill to Dean’s touch. No way is Dean discussing that, and he’s about as uncooperative as he can manage to be under the onslaught of Sam’s accusing eyes and insistent questions.

“Dammit, Sam, what the fuck do you want to know about that for?” They’re leaning against the car, side by side and Dean pushes away irritably, scuffing his boot against the dusty road. He paces a few steps forward then turns and glares at his brother.

Sam’s got his ass planted against the car door, feet crossed at the ankles with his arms folded over his chest. He glares right back at Dean. “I just want to know what you were thinking.” (I remember being slightly puzzled by this on the first read, wondering why Sam was being a little insensitive. I didn’t catch on-I thought maybe the monotony and worry had finally gotten to him.)

He’s been probing all day, poking at it like a bruise, or a toothache he can’t leave alone.

“I was thinking I didn’t want you dead. I couldn’t live with that, Sam, I just couldn’t,” Dean finally says with exasperation. “What do you want me to say here?” He spreads his arms wide, lifting his chin against Sam’s fixed stare. “I got nothin’ else.” He shakes his head. “Enough, Sam.”

Sam holds his glare a moment longer then drops his eyes. His shoulders slump in defeat and Dean says, “Aw, Sam. Come on. I’m sorry.” He isn’t, not really, but he doesn’t want to argue about it anymore. It feels like they’ve been doing that forever.

Sam nods, but he doesn’t look up at Dean. He’s quiet and subdued for the rest of the afternoon, and Dean catches him looking at him when he thinks Dean isn’t watching, an expression of speculation on his face.

Things are almost harder when Sam is happy. When he lets go of his grief and anger long enough to laugh at Dean’s jokes, or throw back his head and let the wind blow through his hair as they ride around in the Impala, windows down and music blaring, singing at the top of their lungs. That right there is almost more than Dean can take, because he wants it to last forever and he’s afraid of what it will mean if it does. (This is heartbreaking to think about-that Dean fears the loop will end, and Dean really will go to hell. That kind of waiting would be agonizing for him.)

Sam promised him, promised Dean that he’d save him. Dean tried so hard not to put any hope in that, because even Sam is capable of failure, but as the days go by, as Dean wakes up every morning still alive and kicking, he starts to let himself believe.

“Dude, seriously?” Sam raises his eyebrows and laughs as Dean orders the 24 oz. sirloin at dinner. “You’re in a good mood tonight.” There’s an odd glint in his eyes.

“You bet your ass, Sammy.” Dean smirks up at their waitress, whose name turns out to be Darla. “A real steak for a real man.” He looks over at Sam’s steak and fries, smothered in red and smirks. “Real tomato ketchup, Eddie?” He raises his beer in a salute, and laughing, Sam reaches over to tap his bottle against Dean’s.

When Sam’s happy, it makes it easier for Dean to ignore the weird shit going on around them. All the things that make the spit dry up in his mouth and his heart rabbit frantically in his chest seem to retreat just a little, and the howling and rustlings seem just a little quieter.

When Sam’s not happy, Dean spends the day on edge, glancing over his shoulder at every snap of a twig or car backfire that he hears. He grits his teeth so hard he can barely unclench his jaw by nightfall.

When they’re in bed at night, Dean pulled firmly back against Sam’s chest on the verge of sleep, Dean can never decide if he wants to wake up to the same day again tomorrow, or if maybe he just wants this to be over with. It doesn’t seem to be his choice to make, but as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks he would always choose to have one more day with Sam.

*

Dean’s backed up against the side of the Impala, fingers splayed against her hot metal skin. The engine ticks over, cooling in the night air. Sam is nowhere in sight, and Dean doesn’t know where he is, surroundings desolate and unfamiliar.

Hellhounds surround him in the dark, sharp pointed teeth flashing in the moonlight. He tries to hold them at bay with Ruby’s knife but they just keep coming. They move closer, snarling and snapping, jaws gaping, claws reaching for him. He panics and tries to run, but he seems to be in a dense forest, and the trees spring into his path while the undergrowth tangles around his legs and brings him crashing to the ground.

The hounds close in on him and the pain is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Unbearable heat suffocates him, searing his lungs and burning his eyes. Flames lick at his flesh. The stench of smoldering bones scorches his nose and mouth. There’s nothing but darkness, pain and blood.

“Dad,” he screams. “Dad, help me!” Laughter jeers at him and he tries to wrap his arms around his head, cover his ears, but he can’t move. He’s suspended, tethered, joints stretched to the breaking point. “Dad, where are you? Help me! Sam!”

Dean screams until he’s hoarse, but his father doesn’t come.

Neither does Sam.

Dean jolts upright in bed, opens his eyes to the now-familiar strip of sunlight shining in his face. He blinks at the glare, disoriented until he figures out he’s still in the motel room with Sam. His throat feels raw, but if he screamed in his sleep, it doesn’t seem to have woken Sam up. He swallows down adrenaline and fear and tries to catch his breath.

Once he does, Dean’s tempted to just close his eyes and go back to sleep for the rest of the day. The nightmare has left him exhausted, but the sounds of howling and scratching right outside the fucking door pretty much shoot that plan to hell.

Instead, he rolls carefully away from Sam and out from under his firm grip, extricating himself so he can think. Seated on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, he listens to the wind gusting across the desolate parking lot. They tried to run again yesterday but when he raises his head to glance around, he sees that all their stuff is still there, strewn around the room like it was before, instead of neatly packed in the car like he knows it was last night when they went to bed. (How disconcerting that must be for Dean-to have no control over his surroundings at all. This is a wonderful detail of hell, to take away all of his control.)

Sam’s duffle is in the far corner, a dark shapeless form huddled on the floor, shirts spilling out of it looking like broken limbs. Dean sees something glinting, two eyes in the darkness, although it’s probably just the buttons on one of Sam’s ugly-ass shirts. He looks away, focuses on the television, learns some more about the plane crash that’s apparently never going to get any less immediate. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do.

Sam’s arms snake around Dean’s waist without warning, pulling him back in under the sheets, back under Sam. Dean didn’t hear him wake up and he almost has a heart attack. He always hears Sam wake up, always that one last soft snore and then lazy snuffling into his pillow, sure signs of life that Dean’s been listening to since as far back as he can remember.

“Dude,” Dean tries, but Sam whispers shhhh and please and I need you (Demon-Sam’s range of emotions are particularly cruel to Dean.) and Dean just goes with it. Sam wants Dean to fuck him and he’s making these small, hurt noises that threaten to make it almost impossible for Dean to get it up. Dean wants to tell Sam to man up and stop acting like a girl, it’s not quite the end of the world yet and it’s possible the end is never coming, until he remembers that Sam doesn’t know that yet today. Dean hasn’t yet told him that it’s okay.

Dean lets Sam cling to his neck and babble about how sad he is and how sorry he is that he couldn’t save Dean, until Dean leans his forearm against Sam’s throat and tells him to shut the fuck up. “I mean it, Sam. How do you expect me to fuck you if you’re all crying and shit?”

An expression of hurt flashes across Sam’s face, and he turns his head away on the pillow and stares at the wall until they’re finished. It doesn’t stop his hips from moving to meet Dean’s every thrust, and it doesn’t stop him from arching up into Dean’s hand and coming all over his stomach. It just stops him from looking at Dean while he does it.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean says, pulling out and grabbing the sheet, wiping himself off.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, still not looking at Dean. Dean flexes his shoulders, releasing tension, then gets up and heads to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

By the time he’s showered and shaved, he’s feeling pretty guilty. Sam doesn’t know about the time loop yet this morning, he doesn’t know they’re stuck like this, that for now they have all the time in the world. Sam thinks today is the end, so Dean needs to cut him some slack, even if he is acting like the heroine out of some romance novel.

When they head out for the diner, Dean can hear the sound of snarling in the parking lot and he glimpses shadowy forms slipping around the corner of the motel. (Another nice detail-the snarling and glimpses of the dogs or other hell-like forms adds to the anxiety Dean feels about being stuck in the time loop and having no idea if or when it will end.) The sun is bright enough that he wishes he knew where his sunglasses were, and the breeze is sweet and velvety soft.

“It’s too pretty for this to be your last day, Dean,” Sam says, a sad little furrow across his forehead. He sighs heavily and opens the car door.

Dean stares at Sam as they get in the car. “Dude. I mean it, what the hell is up with you today?” He slides the key into the ignition and the Impala’s engine roars into life.

Sam’s eyes are over-bright as he looks at Dean reproachfully. “I just don’t want you to die, Dean, is there something wrong with that?” he says, his voice breaking as he leans forward to snap the radio off, glaring at Dean.

They drive the rest of the way to the diner in silence, mostly because Dean doesn’t have a clue what to say that won’t set Sam off again. He didn’t mean to hurt Sam’s feelings, but apparently today’s version of Sammy is extra sensitive. Awesome.

“I hate to fly, I always tell my daughter, Becky, honey, if you wanna see me, get your own ass on a plane, ‘cuz you ain’t gonna see mine on one anytime soon,” Ellie tells them as she hands them their menus. Dean sighs and she winks at him with her good eye. “So, what can I get for you boys?”

“You should go see your daughter,” Sam interjects, his face tragic. “You never know what could happen, and you might never see her again.”

“What could happen is I could die in a plane crash,” Ellie tells him acerbically, before Dean can interrupt to head Sam’s emo off. She sets their coffee cups down on the table with a clunk and brandishes the coffee pot at them with a scowl.

Dean smiles weakly up at Ellie and says, “Sorry, my brother’s feeling a little off his feed today.” He kicks Sam under the table and watches in horror as Sam’s eyes fill with tears.

“I’ll be back to get your order in a few,” Ellie says as she edges away from their table, looking as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to call the men in the white coats to cart Sam away.

If Dean’s truly caught in a time loop and he gets to live this stupid day over and over again, he’d just as soon skip this installment and move on to the next one, thank you. One where maybe Sam isn’t quite so freakin’ insane.

“Would you stop being such a drama queen, you wuss,” Dean says tightly, leaning across the table towards his brother to get in his face. Sam’s lower lip trembles and his chin quivers and Dean holds up his hands and backs off and says, “Whoa, okay, sorry Sammy.” He pauses. “Look, we need to talk.”

Ellie approaches their table cautiously, keeping a wary eye on Sam as she takes their order. When she turns to head back to the kitchen, Dean says to Sam, “You remember Broward county? The time loop? All those Tuesdays?”

Sam rolls his still-tearful eyes. “Remember? How could I forget, Dean? It was awful! Watching you die again and again, and then Wednesday you died for real and I HAD TO BURN YOUR BODY, DEAN, so no, I haven’t forgotten it.” He’s practically yelling by the time he’s done, his face all red, and what?

“What? I didn’t die on Wednesday, dude. What are you talking about?” Dean stares as Sam’s hands come up to cover his face.

Sam shudders. His voice is muffled, but Dean can still make out the words, which is kinda unfortunate. “You died, Cal shot you in the parking lot while you were loading the car. I was alone for months, I had to burn your body, Dean, and tell Bobby you were dead. I hunted by myself, and it’s just like what the whole rest of my life is going to be like, Dean, without you, you selfish bastard.” At this point the few people in the diner are staring at them and Dean gets to his feet, pulling on Sam’s arm and yanking him out of the booth without ceremony. (How awful that Dean had to find out about that one Wednesday from demon-Sam. This is just like rubbing salt in the wound, having demon-Sam break down and cry and confess. But it makes for a great hell-like torment for Dean!)

“Okay, let’s go, Sam. We’re getting the hell out of here and you’re going to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.” He waves apologies to Ellie and Kathy, the girl at the cash register, and pushes Sam out the door. Something dark and low to the ground slinks out from behind his car and Dean just about loses it.

“Get the fuck away from my car, you son of a bitch!” he shouts, looking around for something to throw, a rock, anything.

Sam turns to him, eyes wide and frantic. “Can you see them? Are they here? Oh, Dean, oh no!” and he scrambles to stand between Dean and the Impala, arms outstretched like he can keep the hellhounds away by flapping hysterically at them. Dean suspects the damned things have an evil sense of humor, a wicked craftiness about them, and they’re probably laughing their hellish canine asses off at Sam right now.

“Dude, would you quit that?” Dean snaps as he ducks around Sam to unlock the passenger side door. “After you, Princess,” he says as he shoves Sam into the car.

Dean drives them to where they usually spend the afternoons fussing over the car, doing the last-minute maintenance that is really just Dean’s way of saying goodbye to his baby. The squeak is back and he’s going to have to oil her doors again. Or maybe it never left, who knows. Fucking time loops give him a headache.

Sam is still showing an alarming tendency to cling to him, so Dean sits him down at the picnic table in the clearing where they’ve stopped and says, “It’s a time loop, Sam. I’m stuck in one,” without preamble.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. His eyes get wide and Dean has a sudden fear that he’s going to burst into tears. He doesn’t, but Dean suspects it’s a close thing.

“Kill me now,” he mutters to himself. “Look, I don’t know, Sam, someone’s jerking us around, or maybe they want to give you more time to try and figure out how to get me out of this deal.”

Sam’s face does crumple at that, and Dean quickly adds, “How the hell should I know what’s going on? All I know is that every day is the last day of my year, and every morning I wake up to that same day again. We can’t leave, we tried it a few days ago, and we just tried it again yesterday.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says again.

He gets Sam to stop crying by lying to him, by telling him that he’s been hearing the hellhounds less often each day, and that’s a good sign, right? They spend the rest of the afternoon back at the motel, Sam poking hopefully around on his laptop and taking copious notes. It keeps him busy and distracted.

“Put these in a safe place, Dean,” he says, looking up and handing Dean a neat sheaf of paper. “I don’t want to have to do this same research again tomorrow.” Dean nods.

“Good thinkin’, Sammy,” he says, taking the papers and stashing them in the bottom drawer of the flimsy pressed wood dresser. He has no idea what could possibly be left that Sam didn’t research the hell out of already, but he figures it can’t hurt. If Sam has enough time, Dean is firmly convinced he can do anything he sets his mind to.

Dean wishes there was somewhere else to eat dinner besides the steakhouse. That old couple creeps him out, but there aren’t a lot of choices in this one-horse town. They could probably get a pizza and eat in the room, but Sam’s tendency to burst into tears at the slightest provocation is creeping Dean out almost as much as the old folks at the restaurant do. He hates to waste the time with Sam, he feels like it’s a gift he should appreciate each and every moment of, but he’s ready for this day to be over. Whatever kind of Sam tomorrow brings can’t possibly be any worse than this one. (Oh, poor Dean, he has NO idea how bad things can get. Hell is toying with him in the worst ways.)

The waitress at the steakhouse does her unsuccessful flirting with Sam thing, and Dean manages to get her attention when she finally gives up and turns her back on his brother. She smiles beguilingly at Dean.

“Well, Darla, I’ll have a beer. Yeah, the 22 ounce, not the sixteen.” He looks across the table at Sam, whose indignation at being flirted with so shamelessly is still coloring his cheeks. “Better bring me two of ‘em,” Dean says with a sigh.

The old couple is eating peacefully across the way, and Dean tries hard not to look at them. That way he can’t see the man’s pale skull gleaming in the candlelight that’s flickering around the room trying to create atmosphere, or the old woman’s teeth, covered in dark red blood (This is great foreshadowing for the readers who haven’t figured it out yet. I didn’t know Dean was in hell, but I was starting to suspect something more was going on than just a Trickster time-loop.) as she chews her steak.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice that the old folks have gotten even creepier tonight, and Dean doesn’t point it out. He really doesn’t want to know what, if anything, Sam would see if he looked over at the other table. There are some things you just don’t ask.

Sam decides dinner would be a good opportunity to tell Dean all about the time he spent alone when the Trickster was fucking with him. How long he was alone, how he killed a nest of vampires all by himself, how he killed freakin’ Bobby before he even knew for sure that it wasn’t really him. How hard it was to live without Dean.

Awesome. This is just what Dean wants to hear. He looks around for Darla and decides this might be exactly the right night to get shit-faced. He really doesn’t think he’ll have a hangover in the morning.

But Sam puts his hand earnestly on Dean’s wrist and shakes his head. “No, Dean. Not tonight,” he intones solemnly, his cheeks flushed again.

Christ. “Let’s hit the road then, Mr. Not-Tonight-I’ve-Got-a-Headache.” Dean throws the same fifty-dollar bill on the table that he does every night and stands up. “You ready?”

In the restaurant parking lot, the old couple lingers, grinning at Dean as he and Sam get in the car and the streetlights flicker just a bit.

Dean automatically turns on the television when they get back to the room, hoping it’ll capture Sam’s attention enough so that he doesn’t feel the need to talk. Dean laughs extra loud at Leno’s monologue in encouragement.

But when it’s time to go to bed, Dean forgets how annoying Sam was today. He crawls in and settles himself with his back against Sam’s chest and lets Sam wrap his arms closely around him. He slips the amulet over his head and presses it into Sam’s hand as sleep overtakes him, and pretends he doesn’t feel Sam’s tears on the back of his neck. (On the first reading, I thought about how agonizing this loop must be for Sam, and in turn Dean, because when Sam’s unhappy and hurting, so is Dean. I started to think that whoever was causing the loop really knew what they were doing, by having Dean repeat his last day over and over would be torturous for both boys.)

*

When Dean wakes up in the morning, his first thought is please let Sam be back to normal today. They appear to be firmly entrenched in this time loop, and even though Sam is apparently going to be a little unpredictable at times, Dean thinks he can learn to be okay with it. He just keeps telling himself it sure as hell beats the alternative.

He checks in with the plane crash to make sure today is still Tuesday. It won’t do to get complacent.

Dean’s tempted to skip what seems to have become their obligatory morning sex. The memory of Sam staring at the wall while Dean fucked him is still fresh in his mind, but then he figures things can hardly be any worse than they were yesterday. As long as Sam refrains from crying through it, they should be fine.

And they’re more than fine, and Sam is gratifyingly enthusiastic about sucking Dean’s dick, and Dean feels like things are looking up. (This is one of the most vicious aspects of demon-Sam. By acting differently each day, he seems more real, and Dean has no clue that it’s not Sam. Dean also learns that unpredictability is a given, and he’s constantly on edge and filled with anxiety over how the day’s going to go, even before he knows he’s in hell.)

That’s probably because Dean has the forethought to explain about the time loop before they really get into it, and so Sam’s a lot more cheerful while he’s getting his dick sucked. Things goes so well, in fact, that by the time they get to the diner, Dean decides it’s a lunch day for sure, way too late for breakfast. He orders a tuna melt and fries after Ellie makes her little speech about her daughter, her ass, and getting them on a plane. Sam makes a face and orders a club sandwich.

“So what do you think’s doing it?” Dean asks, trying to reach a glob of tuna with his tongue as it slides down his chin. “Or, you know, who? The Trickster again, maybe?”

Sam makes another face and shoves the napkin dispenser at Dean. “How the hell should I know, Dean? You’re the one who’s been here every day, not me.” He carefully eats his sandwich, ostentatiously wiping his mouth after every bite. (Another eye-opening moment, as I can’t see the real Sam reacting this way, not in this instance.)

Okay, it turns out today’s edition of Sam is a bit on the bitchy side, even after a morning of amazing sex. Awesome. Dean foresees endless days stretching ahead of him, trying to figure out every morning what kind of Sam he has to deal with that day. (More anxiety for Dean, having to work to figure out how to deal with a touchy Sam.)

Still better than the alternative, asshole, he reminds himself.

Ellie refills their coffee cups. “Hey, Ellie,” Dean asks. “What happened to your eye?” It looks worse today, the skin on her cheek dark and fragile looking, and Dean can’t believe he’s never thought to ask her about it before. (Great parallel. As things are getting worse for Dean regarding Sam, Ellie’s eye is getting worse.)

Ellie quickly looks around the diner, her eyes resting uneasily for an instant on the heavy-set guy two booths down, the one who never seems to take his nose out of his newspaper. Her hands tremble just a little, coffee sloshing almost imperceptibly in the pot. The guy gazes at her over the rim of his coffee cup, face unreadable. She shrugs and turns back to Dean. “Ran into a door,” she says shortly.

Dean reckons it’s really none of his business and he nods an apology at her, but it seems like fucked up time loop logic for her to look worse on some days than others. He thought everything was supposed to be the same all the time. He’d secretly watched Groundhog Day a couple of times after Broward county, trying to understand the reasoning behind the Trickster’s actions, other than to torment Sam.

He never did get a handle on it.

Ellie’s back to her cheerful self when she brings them the check. The guy two booths down has his face buried in his newspaper again, apparently oblivious to everything around him.

Dean thinks there might be a better way to spend the afternoon than driving aimlessly around the surrounding countryside, and besides, Sam might want to take a look at the research he did yesterday. Maybe he could still find something useful. Dean turns the Impala in the direction of the motel and tells Sam all about it, and how they tucked it away in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

It’s not there. The notes Sam took yesterday are gone, and the inside of the drawer has a fine layer of dust covering it, not a trace of evidence that it’s been disturbed lately. Dean’s not really surprised. (That must be so disconcerting. And poor Dean has become so used to his lack of control over his environment.)

He shrugs at Sam. “It’s a time loop, dude. Who the fuck knows?” He’s keenly disappointed, even as he tries not to show it. If they’re stuck in endless time, why the hell shouldn’t they be able to take advantage of it?

“So I just wasted the whole day yesterday, is that what you’re telling me?” Sam asks, glaring moodily at his laptop. He closes it with a sharp click.

“Dude, quit being a bitch,” Dean snaps. “You don’t even remember it, because it didn’t really even happen to you.” He drops down onto the edge of the unused bed and scrubs a hand over his face.

Sam huffs out a breath, blowing his bangs off his forehead in annoyance. “Whatever, Dean. Now what are we supposed to do?” Tossing the laptop on the desk he mutters quietly, but still loud enough for Dean to hear, “Whole thing’s a waste of time, if you ask me.” (This was the first time when I sat up and thought, whoa, that is not really Sam. I thought maybe Sam was possessed, or whoever was causing the time loop was controlling Sam.)

Dean’s stomach clenches in shock. All those promises Sam made, is that what he really thinks? That it was all just a waste of time? No wonder he hadn’t come up with any answers. (At first I was surprised that Dean would consider that Sam would feel that way, but on second thought it makes sense. Dean is deeply unsettled by the loop, and he’s lost his footing here. He’s always been a little unsure of being loved, and Sam is his only source of companionship. Also, Dean has no clue that he’s in hell. He was expecting fire and pain, not the same day repeated endlessly.)

Dean refuses to feel guilty at that thought.

Sam gets crankier as the day progresses.

If anyone had asked Dean just a few weeks ago, before all this started, if they had asked him if he would find an afternoon spent in his brother’s company boring as fuck, he would have laughed. Sam can be a dork, and annoying as fuck when he gets stubborn, but he’s hardly ever boring.

Okay, maybe when he’s lost in a book and Dean has to throw stale microwave popcorn at him every ten seconds, timing it to see how long it takes for Sam to tackle Dean to the bed and make him stop, he can be boring. But generally, Dean doesn’t let him get away with that shit.

And whether Sam’s boring, annoying, or just deeply weird, Dean’s been storing up every moment with him, memorizing everything, hoping that way he can keep something of himself alive after he dies.

But an afternoon of Sam stomping around the room, restless and impatient, bitching at Dean for every little thing is too reminiscent of Sam’s adolescence for Dean to be able to do anything as lame as treasure it. He already has those memories and they weren’t that great the first time around.

From the age of twelve to sixteen, Sam was insufferable. He was pissed off at the world in general and his father in particular, he thought he knew everything and that his father and brother were idiots, and he didn’t hesitate to let the world know it. He also grew at the rate of about an inch a week, which made it hard for Dean to kick his ass when he got to be too much of a pain.

That didn’t stop Dean from trying, though, and his attempts to wrestle Sam into submission eventually became attempts to kiss him into submission.

That worked a hell of a lot better to cheer Sam up, and Dean was just thankful at the time that John had no idea why at age seventeen, Sam became a lot more adept at choosing his battles instead of going off about every little thing. (It’s so sad that Dean is having to relive his unhappy memories of Sam. Although it’s a perfect aspect of hell.)

It didn’t keep him safe within John’s orbit, though, and in the end, Dean had to let him go. Much like he’s been telling Sam to let him go this past year, although Dean’s pretty sure Stanford and Hell don’t have that much in common.

You’re wasting precious time with Sam, Dean keeps thinking, but he can’t help it. He mostly wants to deck Sam and start the day over again. The awesome sex seems a hell of a long time ago.

When they go to dinner, Sam glares icily at Darla as she flutters her eyelashes at him, enough that she actually takes a step backwards. Dean smiles apologetically at her and grabs Sam’s elbow, shoving him down into his seat. The old woman at the other table smirks. Her nose is bleeding.

Dean has a sudden urge to march over there, overturn their table and knock their wine to the floor. It would give him great pleasure to scatter their food everywhere, get his hands around her throat and ask her what’s so fucking funny.

The old lady whispers something to her husband and he turns and looks at Dean, grinning toothlessly at him. Dean subsides back in his seat and turns away. He doesn’t want to see their faces.

Dinner is silent, Dean lost in thought, Sam apparently sulking. Dean’s thinking he wishes Darla would flirt with him for a change, then at least he would have a friendly face to look at and not the scowling hulk across the table from him.

“Dude, seriously, what is up with you? I haven’t seen you this crabby since the itching powder in your shorts.” Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe tomorrow he’ll instigate a prank war. It might keep Dean from dying of frustrated boredom and doing the hellhounds’ job for them.

The bitchy snarl he gets from Sam at that is enough to cheer him up for the rest of the meal. Now, those are some good memories, the kind he wants to take with him. The way Sam laughed when he glued that beer bottle to Dean’s hand, Dean would give a lot to hear Sam laugh like that again.

There’s trash blowing across the parking lot when they leave the restaurant, Sam walking silent and brooding behind Dean. An empty plastic grocery bag, some loose newspapers, a used MacDonald’s hamburger wrapper; they all rustle against the chain link fence surrounding the lot. The bag swirls at Dean’s feet, tangling itself briefly around his ankles before another gust of wind carries it away. (Here I am reminded of American Beauty, and the quiet creepiness of that plastic bag scene. How eerie.)

“What was that?” Sam asks urgently, pulling Dean back against his chest, arms around him like steel.

Dean wants to scoff, to tell Sam it’s only a piece of trash and to please lighten up, but this whole place always feels creepy as fuck and the words stick in his throat. He pries Sam off him and gets in the car before the old couple even comes out of the restaurant, peeling out of the parking lot like the hounds of hell are on his trail.

Which would be funny if his hands would just stop trembling on the steering wheel long enough for him to laugh.

Dean’s pretty much had it with Tom Cruise and Leno, so he finds an infomercial that drones in the background while he and Sam silently get ready for bed. When Dean comes out of the bathroom, Sam’s already under the covers, his eyes closed. Dean putters around with his duffle, packing it almost out of habit. He feels as if someone’s watching him, but whenever he turns to look at Sam, Sam’s eyes are shut.

And then he catches a glint of light shining under Sam’s eyelids, light reflected from the small bedside lamp that’s still on and he realizes that Sam is watching him slyly out of the corner of his eye, a small smile in place.

Dean looks at the other bed, thinks how it would feel to sleep alone, the sheets cold and no one at his back.

He gets in bed with Sam and shuts his eyes. Sam’s hand comes around him and closes over the amulet on his chest.

*

If Hell really is other people, (Lovely literary reference!) then Dean suspects he may have already arrived in the pit, only without the HellRaiser CGI. (Funny that Dean would think that, but of course, he IS waiting for that HellRaiser CGI, so he doesn’t truly suspect he’s in hell. Which is brilliant.) Dean thinks it was some French dude who said that, and he surely knew what he was talking about. Sam will know who it was, and Dean would ask him if his mouth wasn’t so busy sucking Sam off. (It makes me smile that you referenced Sartre’s play, No Exit. )

Part of the problem, Dean thinks, is that they never see anyone else but the folks in the diner and the folks in the restaurant. And Dean likes Ellie just fine, but he’s tired of worrying about her black eye. It looks worse every day, and yesterday Dean could have sworn a strip of skin had been hanging down, exposing her cheekbone. (More deterioration of Ellie’s condition that goes with the overall feeling of anxiety that’s getting worse for Dean.)

Sam didn’t seem to notice, and Ellie had been her usual cheerful self. Dean was too busy trying to stave off her airplane speech to look any closer at her face, because there are days when he thinks if he hears her talk about her fear of flying one more time he might just go nuts and shoot her. He wonders what that would do to the time loop, but he’s confused and anxious enough not to actually try it.

Besides, he really does like her.

It doesn’t make sense about her eye, though. He thought - well, he’s never actually given time loops that much thought, because, hello, headache, but surely that’s wrong. (Good point. Her eye shouldn’t be getting worse if this were truly a time loop. I wonder if Dean’s starting to suspect at this point.)

The heavy-set guy two booths down has taken to staring at them over his morning newspaper while they eat. It seems to make Kathy nervous, and she jangles the change in the cash register drawer, a nervous clinking that’s punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter from Ellie.

Today Sam seems pretty happy, all things considered. Dean hasn’t told him about the time loop yet since he’s been so cheerful. He figures he’ll explain it to him over breakfast. Again.

Some days Dean’s tempted not to bother with the explanations, depending on Sam’s mood. He’s just - he’s tired of telling it over and over again. Sam usually catches on pretty quickly - he’s already lived through a freakin’ time loop himself, so it’s not like he doesn’t believe they exist. It never takes very long to convince him.

“Just like Groundhog Day, Sam. Just like Broward county.” That’s usually enough to have Sam nodding.

Dean’s just more tired than he would have thought. Kind of run down, or something. Maybe he’s getting a cold, or the flu.

Today Sam doesn’t seem worried about the situation when Dean explains it to him between bites of biscuits and gravy. In fact, he barely seems interested. “Hang on, Dean,” he says as he gets up and heads across the diner toward the men’s room. On the way, he stops to talk to Kathy at the cash register, and Dean watches them laughing, Sam chatting with her like he doesn’t have a care in the world. (This is one of my favorite aspects of this hell-world-that Sam is apparently so dismissive of Dean on certain days, something he’d never really do. It really makes the reader speculate as to what’s going on, without giving everything away.)

The gravy is cold and congealed on what’s left of Dean’s biscuits by the time Sam comes back to their booth. He smears it around his plate with his fork, making patterns with the tines, not looking at Sam.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

They go for their usual ride in the car. Every day Dean thinks maybe he can find the road out of town, that this will be the day they can just drive off into the sunset. Every time that they can’t, every time it’s impossible to find their way, Dean finds himself freaking out a little more.

Sam’s just the life of their little party of two this afternoon. He tells jokes, tells Dean a million stories about his years at Stanford; how terrific it all was, how hot Jessica was in the sack. How happy he was to be away from home, away from Dean. Dean turns on the radio, but it doesn’t shut Sam up. (More clues, perfectly formulated to torment Dean.)

“You should have seen her tits, man. Jess had the greatest tits. All round and soft, they fit right in my hands so perfect.” Sam holds his hands out in front of him, flexing his fingers, studying them. “And you know I have big hands, don’t you, Dean?” He chuckles. “If anyone would know, you would. I remember, you couldn’t keep your eyes off ‘em, back when I was about what, twelve? Thinkin’ about what I could do to you with ‘em even then, weren’t you, Dean?”

Dean never thought he’d ever get sick of the sound of Sam’s voice. The years Sam was away at college, that’s what Dean missed the most, the sound of Sam’s voice. Whether it was whispering secrets in Dean’s ear, earnestly explaining over breakfast about the lore on whatever it was they were hunting that week, or raised in anger at their father, Sam’s voice grounded Dean, gave him something to hold on to whenever John’s voice disappeared into silent disapproval.

Those days after Cold Oak were the most silent of Dean’s life. He couldn’t hear the sound of the birds, there were no crickets chirping at dusk, the wind blew through the trees without even a murmur of rustling leaves. He needed Sam’s voice to make it possible for him to hear everything else. The noise of the Impala’s engine on the way to the crossroads was the first sound he heard after enduring those two days of silence.

And now Sam’s voice is grating against his ears, rubbing his nerves raw, and all he wants is for it to stop.

His hands tremble on the steering wheel as he drives them to the steakhouse for dinner.

Tonight Sam seems pleased with Darla’s attentions, his face lighting up, smile wide, dimples out in full force as he takes the menu from her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She blushes at the contact and Sam chuckles in triumph.

“I bet she’s a screamer, huh, Dean,” he winks. “You think she’d go for both of us at once? This one time with me and Jessica, there was a guy at the bar and - that was the first time I ever got fucked, dude, and let me tell you, it rocked.” (Here, I knew that this wasn’t really our Sam. This has been a perfect, subtle build up of showing the reader just how “off” Sam was.)

That’s not true, Dean thinks fiercely. That’s not true, Sammy, the first time you ever got fucked was me, when you were seventeen and Dad was away. We were in Oklahoma and the summer was scorching hot, remember? There was a thunderstorm and it cooled everything off after, the air was like velvet out on the back porch of the old cabin we were holed up in, and you let me, you begged me to. And I was so scared, Sammy, scared I was doing something so wrong there’d be no coming back from it.

Sam’s grinning at him, and maybe it’s a trick of the candlelight, but his eyes, just for an instant his eyes flicker and darken. Dean blinks and the effect is gone, and he’s not sure that he didn’t imagine the whole thing.

But he’s not imagining what an ass Sam is being. “Shut up,” he mutters. Then, louder. “Shut up, Sam.”

Sam just laughs.

The old couple’s clothing tonight is torn, bloody rags on their feet instead of shoes. There are leaves and twigs in the woman’s hair, but no one else seems to notice anything out of the ordinary at all. The way they watch him in the parking lot almost makes Dean feel as if he’s being chased to his car.

The ride back to the motel is blessedly silent, but once they’re inside their room, Sam starts in again.

“You know what I can’t figure out, Dean? I can’t figure out how you talked that crossroads bitch into making this stupid deal in the first place. I mean it’s not like you had anything of value to bargain with. Your soul versus my life? No contest, dude.” He shakes his head as pulls off his jacket and starts to undo the buttons on his jeans. (The beauty of this is that if Sam had started acting like this immediately, as soon as they were in the loop, Dean might have figured it out. But Sam was so very much himself at first, that Dean had no reason to suspect. Brilliant!)

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says again and slams the bathroom door behind him.

He sleeps in the other bed for the first time since this all started. Sam doesn’t remark on it except to say that if he’d known he was going to be sleeping alone, he’d have invited Darla back with them for sure.

Dean turns his back to Sam’s bed and watches shadows flicker across the window until he falls asleep, his amulet clutched in his hand.

He misses his brother desperately. (Heartbreaking!)

Part 3