Hangman is Coming Down From the Gallows - Part 1

[withdiamonds]

Hangman is Coming Down From the Gallows

Master Post

Part 1

Today is the last day of Dean Winchester’s life.

He blinks at the sun slanting into the motel room between the crack in the drapes. Sam never gets them closed all the way, and Dean hates the little sliver of blinding white that creeps in through the unprotected spaces in the early morning.

Dean won’t see the sun again after today, but that thought barely registers. There are too many other things pushing and shoving their way around in his head, all clamoring to be the thing he’s going to miss most. The damn sun is the least of them.

The thing he’s going to miss most is actually sleeping right next to him, sheets tangled around his hips, one hand tucked under his pillow. Dean’s had an entire year to figure out how to say goodbye, but how he’s supposed to end a lifetime spent looking out for Sam is beyond him. Eternity’s probably not going to be long enough to figure that one out. He’s a goddamn fool and he knows it.

He watches Sam sleep and blinks rapidly as his eyes prickle with sudden tears. It seems he’s got more time than he thought he was gonna have. The hellhounds didn’t show up at midnight the way they’d expected. That means today will be both the shortest day of Dean’s life and the longest. It’s already stretching endlessly in front of him as he waits to leave his brother forever.

They’re not giving up, but they’re out of time. They left a trail of broken bodies and exorcised demons in their wake as they looked for answers, and Dean can almost regret that now. He wants to know exactly what to expect, and when, and there’s no one left to tell him.

It confuses him that he can hear the hounds and yet they still haven’t come for him. Dean handles things better when he knows what’s going on. This is hard enough without having to watch Sam react to every unexpected noise or movement, waiting for the hellhounds or worse to show up.

That’s one reason they’d left Bobby’s. Dean doesn’t need a bigger audience for this.

“Just stay here, kid. Maybe we could -”

“Could what, Bobby? You wanna hold my hand while the damn hellhounds rip me to shreds? There’s only three hours left, man.” Dean has to stop himself from getting up in Bobby’s face. Bobby means well. He cares. Dean backs down, shaking his head.

“Don’t be a smartass, boy. We can set up some protection, keep the hounds out, buy us some more time,” Bobby says with exasperation.

“There has to be some way of finding Lilith, Bobby,” Sam says, looking up from the pile of books covering the table.

“Other than some kind of fancy demon GPS, I don’t know how, Sam,” Bobby says. “And what’re you gonna do, march in there with that pig-sticker? Without the Colt?”

“We’re not gonna march in anywhere,” Dean says. “We go in smart or we don’t go in at all.” He’s gathering up his things, making sure his weapons are clean and Ruby’s knife ready, although for what, he’s not sure. There’s nowhere to march in to.

“Dean, I could just summon Ruby -” Sam starts for the millionth time.

“No! We’re not gonna keep making the same mistakes over and over again, Sam. It ends now!” Dean shoves a bag of goofa dust into his duffle angrily.

“What does that even mean?” Sam demands, getting up from the table and spreading his arms wide in exasperation.

“Dad’s deal, my deal? Every time one of us is up the creek, the other one is begging to sell their soul. We gotta stop being martyrs, Sammy. It’s what those evil sonsabitches want, don’t you see? And Ruby’s part of it.” He shakes his head. “No.”

“If we can’t find Lilith, there’s no one to sell my soul to, Dean,” Sam reasons. “I don’t think Ruby -”

“Which is why we’re leaving.” Dean cuts him off and turns to Bobby, holding out his hand. “Thanks for everything, Bobby. You take care of yourself now.”

Bobby stares at Dean’s hand, then yanks him into a hug. “Don’t give me that handshake shit, son.” He holds on a minute and Dean feels himself start to tremble. He grits his teeth. He fucking hates goodbyes.

“I don’t want you to see it happen,” he whispers, holding himself rigid, Bobby’s arms tight around him.

“I know.” Bobby lets go. He stands back, his eyes bright. “I’m sorry, Dean. I wish -”

“Me, too. Don’t worry about it, Bobby.” He gives Bobby a half-smile and walks out of the room. “You coming, Sam?” he throws over his shoulder as he hits the front door. He looks back at Bobby’s face one more time, unable to stop himself.

Sam scrambles to grab his stuff, shoving a couple of dust-covered books into his bag and looking helplessly at Bobby. Dean makes himself turn away. “Sam!” he barks and his brother follows him out to the car.

Dean struggled against sleep last night. He tried to stay awake, waiting, his back tucked against Sam’s chest, letting Sam keep him safe right up until the end. They’d found a motel about an hour from Bobby’s place, and they spent a long time thoroughly covering the doorway and window with salt and goofa dust, Sam drawing patterns and sigils on the floor, Dean re-checking the guns.

Sam coaxed him into at least laying down for a while, arms strong around him. He held the palm of his hand flat over Dean’s chest, keeping guard over his heartbeat, not willing to let it stutter to a stop just yet.

“I’m here,” Sam murmured, lips against the soft skin behind Dean’s ear.

No shit, Sherlock, Dean tried to say, going for the witty comeback, but he hadn’t been able to get any words past the panic he had to keep swallowing down. The last time. The words kept looping in his brain, running in circles like a hamster in one of those crazy wheels. This is the last time for this.

The past few months have turned Dean into one maudlin son of a bitch. It’s not as funny as you might think.

He hadn’t wanted Sam here. He fought Sam on it, fought tooth and nail for Sam to let him do this by himself. Dean knows exactly how hard this will be on Sammy, especially after the Tuesdays and whatever else happened that Sam refuses to talk about.

“What the fuck does it matter if it’s hard, Dean? You’re a bigger dumbass than you look like if you think I’m just going to walk away and leave you to die alone.” Sam’s voice had broken and he faltered a little on the words die alone. He didn’t look away from Dean, though. He’s as stubborn as John Winchester ever was and then some.

It matters to Dean that it’s hard. The last thing he wants is for Sam to sit here and watch Dean die again, for real this time. It’s a cosmic joke of the highest order that today happens to be both a Tuesday and his brother’s birthday.

“I don’t want you there, Sam.” Dean thought maybe if he kept saying it, the words would eventually penetrate his brother’s thick skull.

“No way in hell are you doing this alone, Dean.” Sam’s face could be carved out of granite for all the resolve Dean saw there.

“No way in hell? Oh, that’s funny, Sam,” Dean snorted.

“Bite me,” Sam retorted.

And Dean finally gave in, because in spite of all his protestations, he really doesn’t want to do this alone. In a last stupid act of selfishness, he’s going to let Sam watch him die one last time.

Dean slowly eases himself out of Sam’s grip, strong even in sleep, and sits on the edge of the lumpy mattress. His elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he tries to gather strength for the day ahead. He slept well enough in Sam’s protective grasp, but he ran from the hellhounds in his dreams. They are some ugly motherfuckers.

Dean raises his head sharply at a noise outside. It could be a car engine or a plane flying overhead, demonic claws scratching at the door, or simply wind blowing across the flat, empty parking lot. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he shivers once. A flicker of light catches his attention and he startles before he sees the TV out of the corner of his eye.

They left it on last night, a holdover from when Sammy was little and afraid to go to sleep without Dad there. The quiet drone and dim light of the television made the drab, crappy motel rooms they grew up in less likely hiding places for the monsters Sam was so certain would one day get them. When even crawling into Dean’s bed in the dark hadn’t been enough, the noise of the TV made Sam feel less scared and alone.

Some morning news show is on now, the volume turned down too low for Dean to hear more than a murmur of voices. There looks to have been a plane crash somewhere, and Dean sits for a moment and watches images of flames and emergency vehicles, people running, the crawl across the bottom of the screen telling him it happened somewhere in California. It doesn’t interest him much. He feels oddly removed from the rest of the world, as if he’s already gone from it.

Sam stirs behind him and Dean pushes himself to his feet, running a hand over his face. Should he shave, shower, act like this is just another day? Does it matter if he brushes his teeth before he’s dragged off to the pit? He has to piss, and once he’s in the bathroom, he shrugs and goes through the motions of personal hygiene, concentrating on the familiarity of his morning routine to try and keep the terror at bay. He promised himself he’d maintain, for Sammy’s sake if not for the sake of his own dignity.

It doesn’t exactly work, and when he comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, he has to swallow the hard lump of fear and sorrow that lodges in his throat when he sees Sam sitting up in bed, staring at him with haunted eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing, genius?” It comes out shaky instead of irritable like he meant it to, and Dean scowls. He moves across the room to his duffle bag, intent on finding clean underwear, a shirt, jeans. No way is he confronting any hellhounds while he’s naked.

“Come back to bed, Dean.” Sam’s voice is flat, an order brooking no opposition.

Dean turns around slowly, a pair of boxers in one hand. “Sam,” he says.

“Please,” Sam says. Dean has to look away from the desperation in his eyes.

He glances at the windows again, his ears straining to hear what might be waiting for him beyond the door. He shivers, his shower-damp skin chilled in the frigid air of the motel room. Most motels can’t seem to get the air conditioning right. They either freeze your balls off or they leave you to try and breathe in dank, muggy heat. This one could be located on the Arctic Circle.

Sam clears his throat. “Can you - I mean, do you hear -” he breaks off, darting a glance at the windows, lips tightening into a thin line, a worried furrow between his eyes.

Dean shakes his head. “Not yet,” he lies. Sam looks back at him and his frown deepens. “Dude,” Dean says. “I’ll let you know.” He shivers again and watches as Sam makes to get up, to look and see for himself what’s out there.

Dean throws his hands out in surrender and crawls back into bed.

They end up in the same place they have for the past four months, ever since Dean admitted that he didn’t want to die; with Sam at his back, arms and legs tangled tightly together. Once upon a time, Dean’s body had been the one to cocoon Sam’s protectively, but those days are long gone. Dean abdicated that position the instant his lips met those of the crossroads demon. He spent the first six months afterwards keeping Sam at arm’s length, the only way he could get through it without breaking, but he gave that up a while ago, too. He has no defenses now except Sam.

Sam nuzzles at the back of Dean’s neck, his breath warm behind Dean’s ear. He places soft kisses over Dean’s jaw and pulls him closer. Dean thinks stupidly that he doesn’t know if he can push past his grief and terror to do this one last time. Sam’s lips on him feel like failure.

But Sam soothes his hands down Dean’s sides, palms his hips, burying his face between Dean’s neck and his shoulder, and Dean finds he can close his mind to everything but Sam. Sam’s touch, his smell, and nothing else matters.

He lets Sam spread him out, lay hot kisses along his collar bone, in the hollow of his hips, sucking bruises on the tender skin of the inside of his thigh, as if by marking Dean as his, no one else can take Sam’s brother away from him.

It almost breaks Dean, and when he comes, Sam thrusting into him hard like he’s demanding that Dean not leave him, he finally gives in to his grief, hiding his face in Sam’s shoulder so Sam won’t see.

Sam comes with barely a sound, a soft gasp, Dean’s name like a prayer on his lips. It’s a long time before he lets Dean go, before he slips out and rolls off to the side, curling his body back around Dean’s.

Dean startles awake with a sense of dread some time later. He must have dozed off, and he grits his teeth in frustration at that. Sam tightens the grip on his shoulders and Dean shrugs him off. He glances back and flinches at the flash of hurt that crosses Sam’s face. He grimaces an apology. He’s already wasted more time than he should have sleeping today and he doesn’t want to waste any more of it arguing with Sam. They’ve done enough of that over the past year.

Dean’s stomach growls. Sam laughs softly behind him, and just that easily, Dean is forgiven. He tries to ignore the guilt that forgiveness brings. This whole thing has brought temptation to Sam, caused him to be tempted by things he shouldn’t be, drawn to things Dean fears and hates, and it’s all Dean’s fault.

Dean doesn’t know if he’ll actually be able to eat anything, but his stomach is empty and he’ll be damned if he’s going to cower in this god-forsaken motel room all day, waiting. He reaches back and pats Sam’s hip, letting his fingertips linger, savoring the feel of smooth skin. “I gotta move, dude. Let’s go find some breakfast.”

He can feel Sam hesitate, and Dean waits for him. He’ll stay here curled up in this bed all day if that’s what Sam wants. This day is for Sam, for better or worse, but Dean would really rather be up and doing stuff.

Sam tips his head forward and drops a kiss on Dean’s shoulder, lips brushing lightly over Dean’s skin. “Sure. Breakfast.” Sam kisses him again, then swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. “I guess I should shower if we’re going to go out somewhere to eat, huh.” He looks at Dean, stares at him like he’s trying to memorize his face, then hauls himself up and heads for the bathroom.

“Yeah, you don’t exactly smell like a rose, Sammy,” Dean calls after him. Sam flips him off as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

Dean gets heavily to his feet and goes back to his duffle, picking up the clothes he never got around to putting on before Sam coaxed him back to bed. “Way to totally waste my shower, Sammy,” he mutters, but he doesn’t have the oomph to say it louder, to make a thing out of it and give Sam a hard time. His sense of humor seems to have checked out early. That’s unfortunate; it might have been a useful thing to have down in Hell.

The Impala is parked right outside their door. A few patches of grass are trying valiantly to grow through the cracks in the sidewalk, but otherwise the run-down motel is drab and bare of foliage, the parking lot barren. Dean raises his face to the sun. It’s late spring and the air is soft and warm on his skin. Clouds scud across the bright blue sky and a light breeze carries the scent of some kind of sweet flower on it. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.

“Dean?” It’s Sam’s worried voice.

“Dude, get your ass in the car,” Dean says brusquely. “I’m starving.” He opens the car door and it creaks louder than usual. He really needs to oil that before…well, before.

There’s a diner just a couple of blocks from the motel. It’s almost empty when they get there, and Dean doesn’t know if they’re too early for lunch or too late for breakfast. He doesn’t want to know what time it is, didn’t even wear his watch. There’s no goddamn way he’s counting down the hours today. That’s just too fucking melodramatic.

Their waitress’s name is Ellie. She’s a fairly attractive woman of indeterminate age, curly red hair and cleavage down to there. There are lines of tension around her eyes, maybe the faint hint of a bruise under the makeup around her right eye, but she smiles at them as she takes their order.

“How about that plane crash,” she says, making cheerful conversation. “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.” She shakes her head darkly then says, “So, what can I get for you boys?”

The feeling of dread gnawing at Dean’s gut won’t let him stop thinking about the time, and he reaches out and grabs Sam’s wrist in spite of his best intentions, turning it so he can see his watch. Adrenaline jolts through him, fear making him light-headed. Sam stares at him with worry in his eyes. Dean just shakes his head and Sam’s lips tighten again. Dean’s really tired of seeing Sam make that face.

Ellie’s starting to look a little concerned and Dean manages a smile.

It’s 11 o’clock in the morning on the last day of Dean’s life and he has to decide if he wants an omelet with a side order of bacon or a cheeseburger with fries.

Breakfast, which turns out to be lunch, is mostly silent. Sam stares out the window at what few passersby there are, his face a study in deep concentration. He’s probably thinking about what he missed, what he hasn’t thought of or didn’t know enough to try, and guilt turns Dean’s hamburger to sawdust. He tosses it onto his plate in defeat and wipes his greasy fingers on the flimsy paper napkin he grabs from the dispenser in the center of the table.

Sam turns his head and looks at him, sorrow on his face.

“Don’t you beat yourself up over this, Sammy. Don’t you do that,” Dean growls fiercely. Sam shakes his head.

“I just - there’s nothing - Dean, I can’t -” He stops talking, his teeth clicking together as he shuts his mouth, so much despair in his eyes that Dean can’t look at him. “Ruby -”

“I’m not doing this, dude,” Dean says. He stands up abruptly, pulls some bills out of his pocket and throws them on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

In spite of Sam’s protests that there are things they could be doing to find a way to break the deal, they spend the afternoon driving, although Dean knows better than to think they can outrun what’s coming. The Impala has always been where he feels the safest, this car that he and Sammy grew up in, riding the highway, together and warm in the backseat with their father at the wheel.

When Dad gave her to him, with gruff instructions to take care of her, Dean, do right by her, it was like John was trying to give Dean his childhood home back the only way he could. He misses his Dad, wonders if he’d be able to figure out some way to help Dean if he was still around.

There’s nowhere Dean wants to spend his last day more than in his baby, Sam at his side on the open road, driving too fast, music cranked until Sam’s ears bleed. They share old memories, things they’ve done and places they’ve been in this car, and Dean throws out the occasional pointed question about her care and maintenance. Sam smiles and rolls his eyes and gets every answer right.

They spend time pulled off at a roadside park, oiling the Impala’s doors, checking the oil and tire pressure just for the sheer pleasure and satisfaction it gives Dean.

“Hey, Sammy, remember that summer at Bobby’s when Dad was gone for a whole month? You were ten, weren’t you?” Dean shakes his head. “Man, what a weird looking kid you were.” Sam nods and smiles, handing Dean the tire pressure gauge. “You were supposed to be learning how to shoot.” Dean snickers. “How many of Bobby’s windows did you shoot out before you got the hang of it, Quickdraw?”

“Shut up,” Sam says mildly. “I could out-shoot you by the end of the summer.”

“In your dreams, Rambo,” Dean scoffs. “I just didn’t want you to start crying.” He twists the cap back on the tire’s valve and straightens up. “You remember how much her air pressure is supposed to be?”

Sam nods seriously. He’s always known it’s important to get the details right and Dean appreciates that.

When it starts to get dark, they head to a steakhouse a few blocks up from their motel. The afternoon with Sam soothes the ache in Dean’s chest, eases him enough that dinner isn’t the disaster lunch was.

The waitress seats them with a smile, twitching her hips as they follow her to their table, actually fucking fluttering her eyelashes at Sam. He’s totally oblivious, the big dork, much to her displeasure. She slaps his menu down on the table in front of him and turns to Dean, smiling sweetly and handing him his menu with a there ya go, sugar and a wink.

Dean wolfs down a steak and crispy, fried-just-right onion rings, washing it all down with a couple of beers. Sam sits and watches him with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just toying with his own food.

It’s peaceful, a respite Dean appreciates more than he can say.

The air is cool when they come out of the restaurant, the clear night sky filled with stars. Dean hears howling and he grabs for Sam’s wrist before he can stop himself. Sam comes to an abrupt halt and glances quickly around the parking lot, his hand going for Ruby’s knife, which is tucked safely inside his jacket.

“Dean?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nothing, Sammy. It’s nothing.” An older couple eyes them with suspicion and ducks quickly into their car, slamming the doors emphatically. Dean doesn’t know if they caught sight of the knife or if it’s the hand-holding that spooked them.

He and Sam both know the knife won’t be of much help to them. It’s not like Lilith herself is going to show up to drag Dean away, not when she has hellhounds to do her dirty work for her. They’ve spent too long thinking of the Colt as their only salvation, and even though it’s gone, it’s still a hard habit to break.

Dean’s rage at Bela comes back full-force; he hopes she’s the first thing he sees when he gets to Hell. Fucking bitch.

“Dude, stop staring at me,” he snaps at Sam. “It’s creepy. I don’t hear a thing.” Dean looks away, off into the distance, straining his eyes. There’s nothing there to see.

“This isn’t the time to start lying to me, Dean.” There’s real anger in Sam’s voice, and even though Dean knows it’s not directed at him, he feels guilty enough that he nods.

“I can hear them howling,” he says simply. Sam goes white under the fluorescent streetlights.

“Let’s move,” he snaps and he pushes Dean at the car, towards the passenger side. There’s a bit of a scuffle then, because hellhounds on his heels or not, there’s no way Dean’s passing up the chance to drive his car one last time.

“Get your ass in the car, Dean,” Sam shouts at him, frantic.

Dean slides in, shoving the key in the ignition, throwing the car into gear, and then he stops, leans his head on the steering wheel and breathes. Sam glares at him.

“Dean, what the fuck! Go!”

“Why, Sam? It doesn’t matter. Where are we gonna go?” Dean asks desperately.

“Back to the motel! We can keep them out!” Sam’s still yelling and his voice echoes around the closed confines of the car.

Dean’s heart is racing and he thinks he’s starting to hyperventilate. “Can we please calm the fuck down? Christ.”

Sam glares some more, until he finally looks away. “Okay. Sorry.” He puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck and they sit in silence until Dean can breathe again.

Dean takes one last deep gulp of air and turns to Sam, leaning towards him. Sam meets him halfway, kisses him once softly on the mouth then rests his forehead against Dean’s. Dean closes his eyes and does something he doesn’t often do.

He prays for the strength to see this through.

Back in the room they undress quietly. The TV plays softly in the background, Tom Cruise trying to convince Jay Leno that he’s not keeping his wife and child prisoners of some kind of cult and that Katie is thrilled to be pregnant again. Dean methodically folds his clothes, packing his duffle neatly. No reason to leave that for Sam to do later. He takes off his ring and his amulet and then hesitates. He shoves the ring into the bottom of the duffle and closes his hand over the necklace.

By common consent they crawl into the unmade bed, the sheets cool and wrinkled, still smelling like them from earlier in the day. Sam curls into Dean’s chest and Dean reaches for him, his hand on Sam’s cheek, forcing him to look up. He tucks the amulet into Sam’s hand, folding his fingers over it, holding it in place. “Thank you, Sammy,” he whispers.

Sam’s face crumples and he loses his composure for the first time in a very long time.

And although he doesn’t mean to fall asleep, Dean does, holding his tear-stained little brother in his arms, listening to the sound of howling just beyond the motel room door.

*

When Dean opens his eyes, it’s morning. It must be morning, because the sun is shining in through the space where the drapes separate just a bit. “Dammit, Sam,” he bitches automatically.

Dean closes his eyes against the glare and tries to think. He remembers falling asleep, which wasn’t really part of the plan. He’d rather go out in a blaze of glory, Sam at his side, trying to keep Dean alive by force if not by their wits, taking as many evil things to Hell with him as they can kill. That’ll be hard to do if he’s tucked up in bed, snoring.

They’ve shifted in the night and Sam’s behind him, arms unyielding around his waist, hand in its usual place over Dean’s heart. Which gives a giant leap in his chest when he realizes.

He’s made it; he’s made it a day past his deadline. His due date’s come and gone and he’s still here.

“Sam!” he shouts. He sits up, trying to pull himself out of Sam’s grip, which tightens instead of loosening. “Sammy! Let go, Sam! It’s okay. Dude, it’s okay. Hot damn!”

Sam opens his eyes, gazing sleepily up at his brother, confusion etched on his face. “Dean?” Then Sam’s reflexes kick in and he sits bolt upright in bed, eyes sweeping the room with almost chilling intensity. “Dean, what’s going on?” He reaches for Ruby’s knife under his pillow and in an instant he’s standing, putting himself between Dean and the door.

“Dude, it’s okay,” Dean says again. “I don’t know what you did, Sammy, but it’s okay. You did it! You’re a fucking Einstein, dude!” He grabs Sam’s shoulders and pulls him around, kissing him exuberantly. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He feels like he could fly. He feels like he could run a marathon, or single-handedly shove every damned one of those evil sonsabitches who escaped the Devil’s gate right back inside.

He settles for pushing Sam down on the bed and straddling him, leaning down to kiss him again. Sam kisses him back, because that’s what they do, but he’s distracted and he finally twists his head away, saying, “Dean,” in a voice Dean doesn’t want to hear. “I didn’t do any -”

“What, Sammy, you did! Of course you did, you freak! C’mon, let’s celebrate. Let’s get you naked.” He strips Sam out of his t-shirt and sleep pants, yanks his own shirt over his head, and has Sam’s dick in his mouth before it’s even half hard.

Sam gasps and thrusts his hips up like he can’t help himself, even though he’s obviously got other things on his mind. Dean shifts, wiggling around to get his own boxers off.

With one hand around his dick and the other one grasping the base of Sam’s, Dean bends down and finishes the blowjob he started. He’s practically giddy with relief and that makes him even better at this than he normally is, which is actually pretty awesome going by the noises he can usually get Sam to make. He gets Sam off in record time and then he kneels up, grinning at Sam from between his legs, hand still moving over himself, and he comes hard, shooting all over Sam’s belly. He laughs and thinks he sounds a little bit hysterical, but goddamn, after the year he’s just had, he fucking deserves it.

“Dean,” and now Sam’s kneeling up, too, facing him, his hands holding Dean’s biceps in a vise-like grip. Dean’s laughter falters a little when he looks at Sam’s serious face. “I didn’t do anything, Dean. Nothing’s changed. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I didn’t do anything, I couldn’t, I couldn’t find any answers, I don’t know what to do, how to stop it -” and he’s starting to sound frantic, so Dean takes a deep breath and then another one as he tries to center himself and concentrate on what Sam’s saying.

“Whaddya mean, Sam?” He gestures down at himself. “I’m here, I’m alive, it’s all good. I’m awesome.”

Sam shakes his head, his hands tightening further. “Well, yeah, you’re here, but just because you made it through last night - it’s still early in the day.” He gives Dean the strangest look. “Do you hear anything? Dean, the hounds?” he presses urgently.

Dean cocks his head, listening. He hears the wind, that’s all. He hears people talking on the television, still talking about the plane crash from yesterday. He hears a tree branch knocking softly against the window. That’s all. “Nope,” he answers with a grin. “And what do you mean, just because I made it through the night? I made it through more than that, man. I made it through the whole damn day!”

Slowly Sam lets him go, still looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Dean flexes his arms and says, ”That’s quite a grip you’ve got there, Samson.” He leers at Sam. “I kinda like it.” Sam gives him a perfunctory smile. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s go get some breakfast. I’m freakin’ starving! I could eat a horse.”

Dean calls first dibs on the shower, and he knows that while he’s in there Sam’s going to have his nose buried in his laptop, or on the phone to Bobby, trying to figure out how he saved Dean’s life and soul from the pit of Hell. Dean stands blissfully under the hot water, shampoo in his eyes, and sings Highway to Hell at the top of his lungs, with no sense of irony whatsoever.

When Sam’s in there, not singing, which he never does anyway, Dean sits on the end of the bed and tries to relax. He feels wired, high as a kite actually, and for some reason it’s freaking Sam out. He maybe needs to chill a little.

So he does more deep breathing to keep himself centered and concentrates on the TV for distraction. They’re still showing video of the plane crash, pieces of flaming fuselage spread across a field, emergency vehicles everywhere, misty mountains in the background. The crawl across the bottom of the screen doesn’t say anything different than it did yesterday, and Dean idly wonders why this is still getting so much airtime a day after it happened. Something else more newsworthy should have happened by now. Maybe someone important was on the flight or something.

He hears a siren howling in the distance, at least he thinks it’s a siren. That’s all it can be, it’s nothing really, nothing supernatural about it. Just a siren. “Sam, come on, hurry the hell up,” he shouts as he glances at the window. There’s nothing out there. “Sammy!”

It’s another beautiful day, soft and spring-like, a gentle breeze blowing Sam’s hair around his face, into his eyes. Dean smiles at the sight. “Get your ass in the car, dude,” he says. His door creaks as loudly as it did yesterday and Dean scowls. Cheap-ass oil. He tries to buy the good stuff for his baby, but sometimes they both have to settle for less than the best.

Ellie still looks tense this morning and the bruise around her eye is a little darker, but she hands them menus with a friendly smile. “How about that plane crash,” she says while Dean looks his over. “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.” She shakes her head at them and says, “So, what can I get for you boys?”

“Now that’s just freaky,” Dean says. Ellie’s words make him edgy and he doesn’t like it. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, a short stack, and extra bacon,” he says, and he watches her write it down while he thinks furiously.

He digs in when his food comes, but after a few mouthfuls his appetite seems to desert him. He chews on a strip of bacon and looks around the diner, studying the few people scattered here and there. A couple of young guys are sitting at the counter eating, one with blond hair and a dark-haired one with a mustache. A heavy-set guy two booths down is reading a newspaper and drinking coffee, and then there’s the girl at the cash register. Plus Ellie, and that’s it. They look like the same people who were here yesterday, but Dean really hadn’t been paying that much attention.

Maybe he should start.

Sam eats quietly, chewing morosely on his toast. Dean shovels a huge forkful of pancakes into his mouth and starts to talk, making sure Sam can see every crumb.

There’s no reaction.

“Sam,” Dean says impatiently, the word muffled by the food. He chews and swallows quickly. “What the hell’s the matter with you, dude?”

Again with the are you insane? look. “This is the last day, Dean. Your last day, and I didn’t find -” he stops talking when Dean slaps his palm down on the table. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Dean?”

“What, you mean why aren’t I dead yet?” he snaps. Sam pales and Dean immediately regrets his temper. “Sorry, I know, sorry.” He waves his hand in apology. Sam takes another bite of his toast and this time he chews it accusingly. It’s a talent he’s had since he was thirteen.

They finish their meal in silence, Dean’s euphoria gone before the last of his coffee.

“Can we get the hell out of Dodge?” Dean asks as they get in the car. Sam turns to look at him in surprise.

“I thought you wanted to stay here until -” Sam breaks off and looks away, stares out the window at the small town street with its boarded up storefronts and rusted out cars. Not really much to look at and the diner is only a few blocks away from the motel, but Dean didn’t want to walk here for breakfast. He wants the security of being in the Impala whenever he’s outside their room.

Dean doesn’t answer Sam. He doesn’t know what to say.

They go back to the motel and Dean wants to pack, wants to shove everything in their duffles and go back to Bobby’s. They’d picked this place because it was nearby, so Sam could go there, after. Not for comfort, although Dean knew Bobby would do his best to provide it, but so the two of them could keep researching.

“One month, Sam. One month and that’s it. Then you move on, find something else to do, something to hunt. No obsessing,” Dean insisted. He made Sam promise one night when Dean was buried deep inside him, refusing to move until he had Sam’s word. Dean doesn’t put much stock in promises extracted under sexual duress, but it’s better than nothing. Dean didn’t give Sam his life back so he could spend the rest of it focused on Dean.

When they get in the car and drive, Dean finds that they’re unable to leave the area and he can’t quite figure out why. They pretty much drive around aimlessly, just like yesterday. Dean even oils the car doors again, and he wants to just go, drive until he gets to an ocean, he doesn’t give a fuck which one, but he can’t find a way out.

They don’t talk like they did yesterday. Sam is totally freaked out by Dean’s insistence that he’s safe out of the deal, that it’s all over with. He wants to wait until tomorrow, or at least until midnight, to call Bobby and tell him the news. Dean figures he can give Sam that much. The pressure on him these past few months has been pretty intense.

When they go to the steakhouse for dinner, the waitress flirts with Sam like she really expects to get somewhere, like she didn’t get shot down just last night. When Sam is as unresponsive as he was before, she turns her fluttering eyelashes on Dean, putting the menus down in front of him as if he’s the only one eating.

“There ya go, sugar,” she says before she winks and sashays away.

“Absolutely,” Dean says appreciatively as he watches her go.

He looks around and sees the older couple from the parking lot last night seated two tables away. They eat the way people who have been together a long time often do, with very little conversation, making eye contact periodically purely out of habit. It looks comfortable.

Dean halfway expects to get the shifty eye from them at some point after they seemed so spooked in the parking lot last night. But there’s no sign of recognition even when they look over at Dean’s inappropriately loud laughter at the face Sam’s making at the way Dean is fellating his beer bottle.

Sam mumbles something about Dean’s oral fixation and Dean tells him he should be grateful for it. He gets a weak smile in return, and sighs.

“Jesus Sam, would you lighten up?” Sam grimaces. “You’ll see tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow we’ll go to Bobby’s and you can figure it all out.”

They eat the rest of the meal in silence, just like the old folks across the way, only without the eye contact. It’s not comfortable at all.

The parking lot is quiet tonight, no howling, although Dean swears he can detect a hint of sulfur on the cool night breeze.

He holds Sam’s hand anyway, and now they do get a look from the old couple, who must have left the restaurant right after they did. The woman blinks and for an instant her eyes shine black under the street lamp and a tiny smile plays around her mouth.

Dean tugs Sam to the car, his heart pounding, and his fear must communicate itself to Sam because he reaches for Ruby’s knife with a sharp glance around.

“Dean, what is it?”

Dean hears the old woman laugh as she and her husband disappear around the corner. The sound feels like broken glass in his ears.

“Nothing, just get in the car, Sammy.”

“This isn’t the time to start lying to me, Dean,” Sam snaps, and for a moment, Dean can’t breathe.

He slides into the driver’s seat and says, “Sam. What day is it?” His voice barely shakes at all, he’s trying not to freak Sam out any more than he already is.

“It’s Tuesday, Dean.” The what the fuck is wrong with you is left unsaid, but Dean still hears it loud and clear.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his stomach swooping somewhere around his feet. “Jesus.”

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks.

Dean catches his breath and manages a slightly panicked laugh when he says, “Have you seen anyone around who could be that goddamn Trickster?”

Sam frowns at him. “What are you talking about?” He’s turned in the seat, staring at Dean with a look of total confusion on his face.

“I’m saying, yesterday was Tuesday, and I think that thing, that time loop thing, is happening again, only to me this time.” And that feels like the dumbest thing Dean’s ever had to say out loud.

Sam turns back around and glares out at the cars parked around them. “Let’s get back to the motel,” he says flatly.

Dean doesn’t waste any time in complying and he drives fast and reckless. The wind has picked up and the smell of sulfur is stronger, ash blowing across the deserted motel parking lot as they hurry to their room.

They leave most of their shit in the car so they can head out first thing in the morning. Dean wants to leave now, but Sam says no, it really is only Tuesday and they need to be inside tonight, behind lines of salt and goofa dust and all of Sam’s amulets and charms and protections. Dean doesn’t know what to think at this point, he’s tired and confused and Sam is adamant.

So they stay. Sam turns the television on as they get undressed in silence. Tom Cruise is on Jay Leno again and Dean’s not even surprised. That certainly seems to clinch the screwy time loop thing. He fingers his amulet while Sam’s in the bathroom, then he shrugs and takes it off. Just because he got one extra day doesn’t mean he’s going to get another. He really has no fucking clue what’s going on. He’s reserving judgment.

He tucks the amulet into Sam’s hand and Sam regards him somberly, his eyes sad. “Can you hear the hellhounds yet, Dean?”

Dean can. He looks at the clock, determined to stay awake until midnight at least. “Just come here,” Sam pleads, and once again Dean falls asleep in spite of his best intentions.

Part 2