Chapter 1
Sam's POV.
Sam couldn't take it anymore.
He just couldn't. He had lived through 12 Tuesdays.
All on November 2nd.
The day his mom had died.
The day his Jess had died.
Everyday, or rather, every Tuesday, he had wake up to Asia blasting through the radio, getting more paranoid Tuesday after Tuesday, frustrated and tired, a hole aching in him as he checked the calendar over and over again hoping to see a 'Wednesday.'
Each day would go on the same way. Dean would order breakfast. Sam would try explaining to Dean about the previous Tuesday, but all Dean understood was that Sam was experiencing deja vu. They'd leave, and Sam would try his best to stay with Dean at all times, hoping to stop what would happen, dread filling him till he almost choked. He didn't give a damn if Dean thought he was insane. He couldn't go through the raw agony of seeing his big brother die over and over again.
He hated feeling so helpless, hated it that there was nothing he could do to get out of this time-loop he was stuck in, hated it that Dean was the one dying over and over again in the most ridiculous way, and there was NOTHING he could do about it.
He had become inhuman, had ripped apart the Mystery Spot twice, had almost killed an old man, and yelled at the restaurant employees till he could feel blood in his mouth.
But at the end of the day, Dean would be dying in his arms, clinging on to Sam's jacket for dear life as the light in his eyes faded; Sam, traumatized, with tears streaming down his face and driven to the brink of insanity, would keep on murmuring that he would fix everything, cradling Dean against him, the hole in his chest aching, every Tuesday.
And Sam couldn't do one thing about it.
And it was always, November 2nd.
Dean's POV
Dean didn't have a clue as to what was happening.
He'd lived through 12 Tuesdays, each one involving Sam dying, over, and over, and over again, in the most ridiculous yet savage way.
And it was killing him.
Seeing Sam dead once had been excuciating. He didn't think he'd have it in him to see his little brother die again. But he was living his nightmare now.
He'd felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest when Sam somehow first fell off a bridge onto the hard asphalt below, and had stopped just in time before he'd almost blindly jumped over to reach his brother. He'd been covered in his little brother's blood, shaking him, screaming for him to wake him up, shaking himself, hoping to God or whatever that he was dreaming.
And just like that, it ended, and he was back in his bed, with some ridiculous Sam-type song playing on the radio while Sam tidied up his bed.
He'd tried telling Sam, getting pissed off each day, that he was stuck in some sick, 'Groundhog Day,' type loop, and that Sam died every single day. He'd constantly be by Sam's side, but at the end of the day, he'd be holding Sam in his arms, his face buried into Sam's hair, weeping, as Sam slowly faded away.
Each day got worse. Dean was at a loss as to what he could do to stop Sammy from dying. He couldn't think straight. He'd almost given up hope and had closed up, just a lifeless body, sticking to Sam wherever he went, and when Sam died, it had taken all his will power to not completely break down and think of a way to get out of the crap he was stuck in.
But nothing worked.