Mystery Spot Day #99
Spoilers: All up to and including 3x11 Mystery Spot
Genre: Gen, angst
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke -- who'd best treat them well.
Summary: Sam Winchester has spent the last 98 days in the same town, living the same day, ending the same way -- with his brother Dean dead. This is day #99. (Sam POV.)
A/N: Some swear words.
It was the heat of the moment
The heat of the moment
The heat of the moment showed in your eyes …
No. No. No!
"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean says before lip-synching in oblivious stupidity to the world's worst song. Ever.
Sam lays there. This is safe, he thinks. He's been able to just lie here for as long as an hour without Dean dying. As long as he keeps his brother from the shower. He sighs. Might as well get up and start the explaining.
"You mean like Groundhog Day?"
He's so tired. He doesn't know for sure if he ever sleeps. Supposes so because nobody can live for more than 10 maybe 11 days without sleep. Unless he's dead. A recurring thought that certainly would explain why he couldn't die. God help him that actually made sense.
Dean has the same puzzled, almost but not quite amused expression he's had for the past 98 days. His brother says they should solve this over breakfast.
The innocence of that comment threatens to bring Sam to tears.
"No."
"No?" Dean repeats back incomprehensibly.
"We're not leaving this room. I think … maybe … I can do this. Keep you … stop it … but we can't leave. Or separate."
Dean flops back down on his bed with a pout. "Guess we can order in."
"No."
Now it would get harder. Separating Dean from his stomach was no easy task under the best of conditions. Much harder when Sam felt as coiled as a cobra with a stick of dynamite stuck in its jaws.
"We gotta eat," Dean whines plaintively.
"No. We don't." It takes all his reserve to stay calm. "One day Dean. That's all. We just have to make it to midnight."
"I'll starve, man."
Sam glares at his brother. Fights the retort. Prays for patience in this the worst fucking day of his life.
"It's just for a few hours. And then we can leave and you can have all the double bacon cheeseburgers your bottomless stomach can handle."
"Why don't we?"
"Don't we what?"
"Leave Sam. If this place is so toxic let's just get out of Dodge. Screw the case."
Sam runs his hands through his hair exposing his forehead for a brief moment before turning to face his brother. It's there again. Like it has been 98 identical Tuesdays in a row. That shuttered concern in Dean's too bright eyes. Growing each day because Sam knows that his ability to hide is slipping bit by bit. This has to work. He fears one of these days Dean will awaken to a blubbering idiot of a brother.
Slowly. Don't blow. "We can't leave."
Dean grunts in exasperation. "Why the fuck not?!"
Breathe. Release. Breathe. "I explained how this has happened before. Keeps looping. We've tried to leave Dean. Many times."
Dean waits. Finally blurts on cue, "And?"
Didn't matter the direction. Didn't matter the transportation. Didn't fucking matter. "We don't get out."
"Like there's a force field around this town?"
Same semi-comic reply. Every time. Too many Twilight Zone reruns.
"No. At least I don't think so. It doesn't get that far. On the … way out … there's always an accident."
He fights the waterfall of images from taking him over the edge. Dogs. Guns. Desks. Cars. Trucks. Blades. Fires. Arrows. Poison. Lightening. Decapitations. Standing and pacing Sam stays quiet because he fears if he opens his mouth he'd scream and never stop.
Dean is uncharacteristically still as he looks Sam over.
"And I die?"
Sam nods. Every time.
"What about you?"
"I wake up. Again."
"No," Dean interrupts. "Do you die in these accidents as well?"
Sam starts because not once in the past 98 days has Dean asked him this. The answer is no, of course. No accident has befallen him. Only Dean. He'd tried to die. Anything to get out of this. But he couldn't tell his brother that.
Looking up into inquisitive eyes he shakes his head no.
"Huh," Dean says. His brother's normal fidgetiness returns and he paces around the room.
Dean turns back to Sam. "Can I at least watch goddamn T.V.?"
"Sure. Just don't touch it."
"The T.V.?"
Sam nods. Sees the question in Dean's eyes. "It electrocutes you."
Eyes wide Dean stares at the blank screen. "That's not fun," he says softly.
And suddenly Sam is back watching his brother dying in a crappy hospital bed. The doctor's soft pity ringing in his ears as he tries to keep a stiff face and not let Dean see the abject terror flowing though his veins. Because it can't end this way. Not from a fucking Rawhead. Not his brother.
"No," he answers back now. Then says more without even realizing he's speaking aloud. "I used to think that was the worst day of my life." The words wring out an angry sound from deep inside – part laugh, part swear.
Of course Dean knows what day he means. He senses that minute stiffness emanating from his brother which translates to, "We aren't going to talk about our feelings."
Sam braces for a harsh rebuke. Dean surprises him by saying quietly. "I won't touch the T.V. But the remote is safe, right?"
There's desperation at the end. Dean without a remote is a dangerous thing. His brother smiles when Sam tosses it at him and tells him to go to town.
A rush of sounds and flickering lights fill the space as Dean manically moves through the run-down motel's meager offerings.
"No pay-per-view," he gripes.
"What a shame. I won't get to watch porn with you for eight straight hours."
"Screw you. What am I supposed to do all day long?!"
Sam stands and walks to the other side of Dean's bed, looking out the window cautiously. "We could … talk."
"Like with chicks?"
Sam turns to his brother exasperated again. "No outsiders. Doesn't end well."
He buries the horrific sight of returning to the room and finding Dean butchered on the bed by the company he'd invited over.
"I meant like we were chicks Sam. If you think for one minute I'm staying locked up in this motel room to share my fucking feelings with you! Is that what this is … some pathetic attempt to—"
"That's not what this is! I don't know what this is. Sit there in silence all day for all I care. Just don't die!"
Dean's calm now in that way he can flare and cool faster than a cup of coffee in an ice storm.
"Okay. Okay. I know you wouldn't … we'll figure it out Sam. Been worse days, like you said. We'll figure it out."
Sam is still breathing hard. Thousands of angry retorts burning his tongue. He can't shut it off like Dean. Doesn't know how to go from 90 to nothing.
"No Dean," he seethes. "There hasn't been a worse day. Not Jessica dying. Not the Rawhead. Not Dad dropping dead in front of us. Because those days ended. This … this …"
"Sammy?" Dean asks concerned.
Sam breathes in deeply forcing the bouncing sound Dean's head made as it rolled on the floor back inside.
"'M sorry. It's just … I'm sorry. Let's try Dean, please. At the beginning. A few days in, you said that we just had to get past midnight. And we tried, but not like this. It's passive, I know. Hard for you. Me, too. But maybe you were right. Lord knows nothing else I've tried has worked."
Dean smirks. "Well, if I thought of it then it must be good."
They are quiet a few minutes. Dean has muted the sound and is now flipping stations frantically again. Suddenly he perks up.
"Now we're talkin'"
Sam moves away from where he'd been keeping watch by the window and looks at the T.V. It pulls a reluctant smile from his lips. His face muscles twitch uncomfortably. He doesn't remember the last time he smiled.
"Godzilla festival," he says in response to Dean's excited little boy grin.
"The real ones," Dean beams. "Not that abomination of a remake you dragged me to."
"Wasn't so bad."
Dean sends a withering look his way. Sam goes to sit on his bed but then glances back at his brother who is scooted to one side, like when they were kids. He figures it was accidental but it feels like an invite and what would be the harm in sitting next to his brother for a little bit? To feel Dean alive and not fucking dead? No blood. No guts hanging. No terror trapped in his glass green eyes.
"Perv," Dean grumps. "What are you doing?"
"Watching the movie. Now shut up."
"What's wrong with your bed?"
You're not in it. Sam can't answer so he doesn't. Dean moves over a tad to give his ginormous brother some space.
The morning drifts into afternoon. Dean has dozed off somewhere in the middle of the third movie and his head slowly drops onto Sam's shoulder.
It's been so long since Sam was this close to his brother. Years. Why was that? Why did they have to hide so damned much?
Alone in head they aren't always so far apart. He knows with excruciating honesty what his brother means to him. And even more the other way around. It's a burden sometimes to be the reason someone lives for. Harder. So much harder to be the reason someone dies for. The irony flows again as it's done every repetitive day. End this and Dean still dies.
Carefully he brings his arm up and around his brother's shoulder. He seems slighter somehow. When had that happened? Certainly he seemed to eat enough. Well, except for today he thinks with an inner grin. Warmth pressed against his side he lowers the T.V. volume with his free hand. Tempting as it is he can't sleep. He needs to stay awake and protect. Maybe … it has gone well so far. Not even a near miss. The motel has always stayed standing as far as he remembers. And if he just stays close enough maybe they couldn't get Dean this time. God, could it always have been this easy?
Dean murmurs and sinks a little deeper into Sam's side. Sam shifts slightly studying his brother's peaceful features. He looks so young like this. Open. He remembers the thousands of times he'd fallen asleep against Dean. Solid. Warm. Safe.
His father had tried. Had shown as much affection as pride, military and vendetta would allow. For a man as shuttered as he'd been he'd hugged his sons a great deal. More than others realized. But when it hurt. When it counted. Sam had always sought out Dean.
He had long quit praying. Had given up on God altogether the day in the leaky gas station when the spark caught suddenly. Day 5. Dean had been filling the tank so they could "get out of Dodge."
Sam had sprung out and tried to put it out. It wasn't normal; it was as if Dean had been soaked in gasoline which he hadn't been. But it didn't matter. Because his brother's screams burned the air itself as his skin blackened and peeled off his hands, arms, face.
Please. Not today. Just not today. He knew it had to happen. But he needed it to just not happen today anymore. He hugs Dean tighter wishing they could be reversed, wishing he could be five and in his big brother's arms where the monsters didn't dare follow.
Dean stirs again, soft hair tickling under Sam's chin. Outside was starting to darken. He knew he had to get up and scope the situation, try to avoid the mine fields. Again. That meant leaving Dean.
He inhales a last breath of his brother's comforting scent and pulls his arms gently from around him.
"What the fuck?!" Dean grumbles partway out from Sam's huge grip.
"You fell asleep."
"Didn't mean you could molest me, perv."
Sam smiles. "You always said you were the handsome one."
"Got that right." He flicks Sam away. "Get your Sasquatch paws off me." Dean sits up rubbing his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
"What time is it?" he slurs.
"'bout seven."
A groan was his reply. "I'm fuckin' starving."
Sam avoids that topic and decides his best tact is to distract. "We could play music trivia."
"I always win."
"Some other kind of trivia, then?"
"You always win."
"I'm sorry Dean. It's just for a little while longer."
"I'm hungry."
Breathe deep. "I know. It's not like it's the first time."
He wasn't sure why he'd said that. There were things they didn't talk about. Dad spending a few more days away on a hunt than their food supply allowed for was one of them. Dean has that inward stare that used to anger Sam as a boy and stabbed him now.
"Dean. I didn't mean that. It wasn't your—"
"Don't. Let's just get through this torture and blow this town. Fuckin' prison."
"At least we're not wearing orange jumpers."
That coaxed the spark back into Dean. "Good times."
"Where are you going?" Sam asks alarmed.
"To take a leak Sam. Wanna watch?"
Sam looks warily toward the bathroom. "Me first."
"What are you six ducking in ahead of me?!"
"No. I don't have—Just let me check out the bathroom. One minute."
He looks around at the relatively clean white tiles. No visible spill. Nothing to trip on. Shower curtain off, so no strangulation happening. Again. Window closed. He shudders. Stop. Focus. Make it safe.
Dean steps around him a second later. "I gotta pee."
"Don't touch anything," Sam says moving back to the main room.
"Gonna get a bit messy in here in that case Sammy boy."
Sam bitchfaces. "Jerk," he mumbles under his breath.
He holds his breath outside the door but only hears a flush. The tap turns on.
"Cold only," Sam yells out quickly.
There's a bear-like grumble from the other side. Dean stomps back in glaring. But his expression softens at Sam's intent stare.
"I'm fine. For God's sake relax. We'll get through this."
"You always say that. Exactly that."
"Sammy …"
"Then you say that."
Dean starts to balk again but thinks better of it. His expression hardens. "Let's get to it then. How did I die? Anything cool?"
"Cool?"
"You mentioned the Mystery Spot owner shooting me and the car accident. What else?"
"Dean … I …"
"Did we do this before?"
"No. I don't like—"
"Of course you don't. So let's do it anyway. Because I am going to die Sammy. Maybe this is intended to help you see that."
No. He was not doing this to him. Not today. Not after losing him 98 times. "Maybe I'm dead Dean," he shouts. "Did you think of that? Would explain everything. All of it. I can't die no matter what I do because this is Hell. It's where I'm going, isn't it, with my exclusive by-invitation-only blood. The demons lied about fire and brimstone. It's this. Every. Day. This."
He doesn't realize he's been holding anything until he sees how he's kneeded a throw pillow in his hands so tight the stuffing is leaking. Tossing it aside he faces his brother's ever darkening gaze with heat of his own. "Fire. Knives. Trains. Windows. Floors. Dogs. Cats. Bugs. Bags. Plugs. Books. Bats. Fucking shower curtains. Only one thing is the same. I can't save you."
Damn it, his voice broke. He swallows madly to keep it under control. Eyes narrow, he glances at Dean.
"Don't," he warns his brother.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say, it's okay."
Dean looks contrite. "I didn't … I wouldn't ... Sam, look just a couple of hours." He runs his hand over his face. "I'd kill for a beer. Couldn't we just …"
Sam glares at him. Out that door was certain death. He knew Dean couldn't possibly understand this. God, was yesterday really just yesterday for him?
"Never mind," Dean says quickly. "We don't need beer. We'll do what you said before. Just talk."
Worried, Sam stares. Uh-oh. Some sort of brain tumor?
"Remember that play you did?"
"In Middle School?" Sam responds still guarded.
"Yeah. You were good Sam. Real good. Did I ever tell you that?"
He meets his brother's eyes. So rare to see them this exposed. "Yes. You did."
Smiling despite his worry he asks back, "Remember that camp. Swim something?"
"Swimaway. Yeah."
"I'm surprised Dad trusted leaving us there. Two weeks, right? Best summer I remember."
"The owner was a friend of Bobby's."
Sam looks up at this. "I didn't know that. Did you … you liked it, too, right? I mean I know you groused that it was for little kids."
Dean looks down but his expression remains open. "Yeah. I liked it. We definitely swam a lot."
Sam laughs at the awful almost pun. A real laugh. Figure that. He felt pretty good actually. Not quite hopeful but maybe … Maybe.
"You taught me to swim," he tells Dean.
There's no response.
"Did I ever thank you?"
"For teaching you to swim?" Dean asks confused.
"No, you idiot. For freakin' everything."
"Sam …"
"No. Let me. Just once, let me. Maybe if you hear it. If you believe me. Maybe this time you'll remember it tomorrow."
"Have you done … this … before? No wonder I died. You chick flicked me to death."
Sam laughs. It was either that or cry. I love you Dean. With all that I got. But there's no way you'll hear it.
"Hundred bottles of beer?" he suggests instead.
"No. Fuck no. Man, Dad hated that song. Don't remember where you picked it up. Some class trip to a museum. First time you started up with that shit in the car he tried to keep his cool figuring you'd outgrow it."
"I didn't."
Dean narrows his eyes. "Always had to provoke."
"It's a kid song Dean. I was a kid."
"Dad ended it."
"He threatened to pull a gun on me Dean."
"But he didn't. Was joking."
"You know that for sure?"
Dean doesn't answer. Sam knows his father would never … Still, it was Dean that maneuvered his way between them that day and changed the conversation, the tone, everything, to something else. Anything else. It's what he did.
"What did you mean before?" Dean asks suddenly.
Nobody could pick up a thread of a conversation from whenever the hell it happened quite like his brother. Because this could be from earlier today or any time in the past 24 years he had to ask. "About what?"
"You said you couldn't die no matter what you did."
Uh-oh. Had he said that?
"Sam …"
"It's nothing Dean. I just had to know."
Dean's eyes are frozen on Sam, comprehension turning them a deep, dark green. "God, Sam."
Sam ignores this and notes the time. Wow. After eleven. They've lasted longer than on any previous day. A new record. Maybe. Maybe. Dean picks up on what's caught Sam's attention and relaxes.
"Fifty minutes to food."
Looking around for minefields Sam surveys the small space that's kept his brother safe all day. Nothing has changed. He's blocked as many outlets as he could plus has warned his brother away from them. Nothing is loose or left about to fall over. He's memorized every way Dean died in the room. Windows are closed, curtains pulled safely back and nothing external coming in. This was it then, the final wait.
"And counting," he says to his brother. "So Bobby knew old man Waller, eh?"
"Still thinking about that camp?"
"I liked it there Dean."
Dean shakes his head slightly. "I know you did Sammy." He stretches out on his bed again.
Sam stays standing, moving around here and there. Vigil. He'd been eight when his father had mysteriously dropped them off at Camp Swimaway for two blessed weeks. Dean was just twelve and felt too old for such things. Sam took in the normalcy, the freedom, the fun, the safeness and wished he would never leave.
They were separated because of their ages. Dean hated that part. Every night he'd swing by Sam's cabin to check up on him. This embarrassed Sam to no end. He'd told Dean it wasn't necessary. That there were no monsters.
"Better to be safe than sorry," Dean had responded, sounding so much older than twelve.
The other boys had teased him about his big brother's over-protectiveness. Not that he needed it. By eight Sam was developing a steely toughness that scared off most – even those considerably bigger than he was.
On their last night there was a storm. One of those late summer thunder storms that shook the ground and lit the surrounding woods in eerie incandescence. Storms never bothered Sam. Why would they? When you had actual evil to contend with nothing natural could phase you. He liked storms usually. Shook things up without anyone getting hurt. Adventure he could get behind.
The other boys, however, weren't as matter-of-fact about the raging weather. The little cabin took a pounding as the heavens opened up hard. One little boy was crying and while Sam labeled the kid a huge wuss he thought maybe he should go over and see if there was anything he could do to help. The loud knock on the door had made them all jump.
No, Sam had thought. He wouldn't of … Dean stood in the open doorway soaked to the marrow. After a second of gaping at the idiocy that was his brother Sam had pulled him in and ran to get a towel. "Just wanted to see if … " Dean had started to say before Sam tossed the towel over his big brother's head.
"It's like a monsoon Dean," his little boy voice had squeaked out.
"'S okay," Dean had muffled while swiping at his face and hair with the coarse towel.
Sam smiles again at the image of a soaking, crazy boy who even then he'd known he'd do anything for.
"Dean, remember that crazy storm?" he asks, turning around from where he'd been spying out the window at the calm empty parking lot.
No! The world stops again. Dean lies askew across his bed. One leg dangling a bit off, arm outstretched slightly to his side. His head is straight and even as Sam approaches on legs so heavy they could pull him to China, he knows. Icy green eyes peer up at him. He shuts his own eyes but it's no use because it doesn't happen instantly. Dean can't just be dead. He has to be good and dead. How else could Sam feel this? Every. Single. Day.
He looks at the time. 11:59. Neat trick. Fucking hilarious. And that means something for the split instance before it all goes black.