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It's the delightful and completely fabulous Kas's birthday today! So, naturally, I'm gifting her with a nice, thoughtful present of...uh...dark, abusive Wincest. Ahem. Sorry about that!
This is set during episode 3x11: Mystery Spot. For those of you who read the fic and don't watch the show (yeah, you know who you are, losers! Come on, there are pretty, crying boys! What more could you want?!) this episode sees an enemy called The Trickster - who can alter reality and basically plays (often deadly) pranks on people - create a kind of Groundhog Day situation for Sam. He gets forced to relive the same day 100 times and no-one else can remember a thing. Worse, Dean dies every single day in some fairly inventive ways.
The episode is a great mix of heartbreaking and hilarious. This fic is built on the idea that things take a MUCH darker turn than on the show. So, I'm warning you for language, angst, hurt!Dean and non-con.
Sorry for the darkness and hope that you enjoy it, honey! :D
Tuesday
By the twenty-eighth Tuesday in a row, Sam is feeling strangely resigned to the whole thing. An odd kind of calm settles on him and he thinks that he will take a couple of days off from telling Dean the problem, only to have the same conversations over and over and still watch him die.
He figures that since it’ll still be Tuesday tomorrow, he might as well do whatever the hell he wants until Dean buys it this time.
That day, he’s a total dick. Knowing that no-one will remember tomorrow (Tuesday), he says and does exactly what he feels like, binging on food and alcohol, being rude to everyone, making uncharacteristically lewd come-ons to pretty girls (which totally doesn’t work for him; apparently, only Dean can pull that off), watching four hours of porn and stealing anything that takes his eye. Dean finds it hilarious for a little while, then gets really scared. But it doesn’t matter because during the early evening he trips down an open manhole cover and breaks his neck.
In the week that follows, Sam vents his frustration, and poor Dean bears the brunt of it. Of course, it also backfires sometimes; the day that Sam totals the Impala, Dean breaks his nose and is about to start on his ribs, until a construction worker observing them from some scaffolding accidentally drops a brick on his head.
The next day, Dean is cheerfully bopping along to Asia when the alarm goes off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Running out of fun things to do with the free pass of having his day wiped clean, it occurs to Sam that he really could do anything that he wanted. He supposes he’s been thinking too narrow, too inside the box, too socially acceptable...But it’s dangerous to do anything else. Sam knows all too well what lurks on the edges of his psyche.
Pushing away the nasty little thoughts that arise, fuelled by stress and fear and frustration, for a few days he gets back to trying to solve the problem. Every day Dean tries to avoid dying (even though it’s ‘Dingo ate my baby’ crazy) and every day he fails spectacularly.
Sam feels despair eat away at him. What if it’s Tuesday forever? He wonders whether it’ll be Wednesday if he kills himself, but knows that he can’t do that to Dean. Just in case it works.
Something about how quickly he gets stumped for time-passing ideas makes him reassess his life. He soon comes to the very obvious conclusion that Dean is the only thing that he really has. Hunting is what they do; all they have is one another. Their entire lives revolve around each other and they pretty much spend every waking moment together. Although he has no idea what’s happening, Sam sort of understands why the reset button gets pressed each time Dean dies, because how can he exist without the one thing that keeps him going?
On the fortieth Tuesday, these musings make Sam unusually clingy. Rather than trying to keep Dean from dying, he spends the day making the most of the time he’s alive. Dean finds it strange, but he certainly doesn’t complain when Sam suggests they take a day off and then indulges him by doing as many of his favourite things as possible. Actually, the day is disturbingly similar to the one where Sam decided to be a total dick. There’s food and alcohol and girls and not giving a fuck about anyone else.
Sam manages to tell Dean that the conclusion of the latest Tuesday experiment is that he’s a bit of an asshole before he gets hit by lightning, but doesn’t get the chance to say that he loves him anyway.
In the morning, Dean tries to grin and gargle at the same time and it’s sort of cute and annoying at the same time. Again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the fifty-second Tuesday, Sam makes the (not unreasonable) deduction that he and Dean are WAY too close.
It’s a bad day (and that’s really saying something considering the string of not-exactly-stellar days that preceded it) and Sam is wasted by half past ten in the morning. Deciding that it’s one of those (fruitless) Tuesdays where he tries to shock his brother out of the endless, soul-destroying loop, he thinks this time he’ll freak him the fuck out by coming onto him. It’s not a great idea given his occasional dirty fantasies, he knows that, but he’s drunk and it’s always Tuesday and who the fuck cares?
After spending ten minutes draping himself all over Dean and practically rubbing off on him, he realises that his brother actually hasn’t noticed. It almost surprises him sober.
Head resting comfortably against Dean’s shoulder, the older man propped up against his headboard as he surfs the web for something, complaining about asshole drunken brothers, Sam does a bit of analysis. He supposes that they’re pretty tactile for grown men, as if touching confirms that they’re not alone, or something. They’ve lived too close for too long to have any kind of normal boundaries, and Sam remembers with a jolt that one time last month (excluding the eternal Tuesday) they actually showered together because the nasty demon-y gore stuff they’d been covered with had been really hard to scrub off.
Sam guesses that this isn’t normal.
Experimentally, he turns his head and presses his lips to Dean’s throat. He gets half jostled away by a shoulder shrug and receives a growled, “Knock it off, Sammy” but that’s it. When he snuggles his head back close, not quite nuzzling, Dean just gives an irritated sigh and wraps one arm around him, eyes not leaving the screen.
He kinda thinks that isn’t normal either.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two Tuesdays later, Sam finds himself walking silently up to the ajar bathroom door and pushing it wider, leaning up against the frame. Dean’s in the shower and as Sam watches his silhouette through the flimsy white curtain he jerks off.
Sam suddenly remembers the phase he went through when he was twelve or thirteen, spying on Dean every chance he got, trying to surreptitiously learn what to do about all the things happening to his body and the new hormone-driven feelings. Not that he’d really needed to be sneaky about it; Dean would have told him anything he’d wanted to know and possibly even shown him some things. But as soon as he’d discovered that watching Dean made him hard, he’d decided that a bit of stealth might be more prudent and lead to less embarrassing situations.
Dean had never seemed to be aware of Sam’s lust-driven crush, although Dad had. Which led Sam to believe that, actually, Dean probably had known (because, please, if Dad had noticed then it must have been pretty fucking obvious) but had been sensitive enough to leave well alone and let it just blow over.
Dad, however, uncomfortable and out of his depth, had tried to have a stilted and heavily euphemistic conversation about it, the upshot of which had been that it was likely normal enough (considering their incredibly loose definition of “normal”) but that Sam had better hurry up and grow the hell out of it.
It’s the first time in years that Sam has consciously thought about it, but he’s not quite sure that he ever did grow out of it completely.
Sam strokes himself through his jeans, knowing that if Dean catches him, he’ll probably just brain himself on the faucet ten seconds later and they’ll be listening to Asia again.
But he finishes before Dean and his jeans are mostly dry by the time his brother is ready to go to breakfast and have yet another Pig in a Poke.
He still doesn’t even fucking know what it is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time Sam kisses Dean for real, he shoves him away, hard, and starts pacing around like an agitated cat, trying to make sense of it. Sam’s actually happy when he has a heart attack.
He soon learns that it’s best to get his brother drunk before trying anything and, even then, to sort of sneak him into it.
It becomes a game. By the sixty-sixth Tuesday, Sam knows that, with the judicious application of tequila, affection and guilt, he can get a few minutes of over-the-clothes third base before Dean has a complete meltdown.
He also knows that telling Dean how much he loves him tends to make things worse instead of better.
Somehow, trying to manipulate his brother into actually making him come before he dies becomes more important than figuring out why they’re in a perpetual Tuesday. On seventy-three, he’s almost there – right fucking there, damn it – and Dean’s hard too even though there are tears leaking silently from his eyes, when Dean has an aneurism.
Sam curses in irritation and doesn’t even have chance to finish off himself before…
“Heat of the moment…”
He’s in such a bad mood for day seventy-four that he kills Dean when they get into a fight about the TV remote and he accidentally snaps his neck during a headlock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean just won’t go further than the hesitant, clothed touching, no matter how Sam applies the tricks he’s been learning – and the guilt for even doing that seems to make him thoroughly miserable. He only gives in at all because he’s incapable of refusing Sam anything that he really pleads and begs for, especially coupled with the accusation that it’s somehow his fault in the first place.
Sam’s sick and tired of waiting and subtly trying to leverage Dean and treading on eggshells, only to get a mostly frustrating encounter with no real payoff. It’s especially irritating as Dean’s hard every single day too by the time Sam manages to paw him through his jeans; it’s not just him who wants it – it’s not, damn it – so why does his brother have to be so difficult?
He knows – of course he knows – that he should lay the fuck off and get back to searching out the elusive Wednesday. It’s beyond wrong to be using this goddamned curse to satisfy his somewhat unrequited lust for his brother, which has come roaring out of repression, but he just can’t seem to care anymore.
They’ve discussed the whole Tuesday thing again and nothing ever fucking changes and on one of the days Sam says “You won’t remember this tomorrow. So please, please, can I fuck you? I know it all feels new to you, but I’ve been putting up with your cock-teasing for almost a month.”
Dean punches him in the face.
That day, Sam’s viciously pleased when Dean trips and somehow manages to impale himself on a rake. He’s sick to death of his brother’s denial – and of everything else really. He’s pretty sure that his sanity is fraying, to say the least, and he’s terrified that this is going to be his life now, forever.
Somehow, it feels like it would all be just that bit more bearable if Dean would give into him and let him take solace in his body. He needs his brother to let him have this one thing, so that he won’t go completely mad and gun down the entire fucking town before sticking the barrel into his own mouth.
Dean has to let him. He just has to.
The following day – no, wait, the same day, again: Tuesday – Sam doesn’t bother asking, having learned his lesson from Dean’s severe reaction.
Because it’s just another day to Dean, and because Sam has spiked his coffee, his guard is completely down and he doesn’t even think to struggle until after the belt is wrapped around his wrists. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening right up to the point where Sam’s spit-slick fingers are prying him open.
And it feels just too fucking good to stop, anticipation and desperation coiling in Sam’s guts and lust roaring through his veins. Dean’s abortive attempts to get free don’t even really register; it’s all just background, unimportant in the face of Sam’s burning need, and he doesn’t actually hear what Dean says to him when he’s pressing into his tight, virgin ass, just whispering soothing nonsense to him and trying not to rip him up.
Sam never thought he’d be able to rape someone, much less his beloved older brother, but he also never thought he’d be cursed to relive the same day over and over or that he’d have the security of knowing that the encounter wouldn’t really have happened because tomorrow it would just be fucking Tuesday again.
And it doesn’t even feel like rape, not really. Dean doesn’t try to fight once he’s inside and he doesn’t even say the word “no”, although he does keep saying “Sammy” in this broken, begging way that sounds close enough to helpless arousal that Sam can happily pretend that’s what it is.
He can’t stand the way that Dean sobs into the pillow after – it makes it much harder to fool himself as to what this really was – so he leaves. He doesn’t bother locking the door and he guesses when Asia starts playing again that some passing lowlife broke into their motel room and took Dean out.
He doesn’t know how his brother died and doesn’t want to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the fifth day he fucks Dean, he realises that it’s just easier to kill him after.
He doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath, the horror and betrayal and pain. He’s tried making Dean enjoy it too, and that ends up even worse; Dean fights harder and cries louder, alternating between spitting curses and begging for Sam to stop. He’s a lot more subdued when he’s allowed to hate what’s happening to his body.
Sam thinks that if he had time, he could ease Dean into the whole situation, let him get used to it, build up to it with weeks of kissing and touching and reassurance. And it would be fucking amazing, he just knows it would (and he tells Dean this, but gets bitter, jagged laughter that tears at his chest). It’s irrelevant anyway, because they don’t have weeks, because every day is Tuesday and Dean has always forgotten yesterday’s Tuesday, no matter how perfect it was.
So Sam has to take what he can get, or go completely insane. But once he’s taken it, he needs to press the reset button and have Dean look at him with love and devotion again.
By Tuesday, take ninety-four, he’s overdosed Dean with sleeping pills, smothered him with a pillow, slit his throat with his own knife and choked him; he decides that the neck-snapping (discovered accidentally) was actually the most efficient and least traumatic, so he sticks to that.
It’s amazing how much Dean trusts him, when he’s as wary of other people as a skittish foal. Not once has he put up a fight until it’s too late, as if he’s sure that there must be a good reason why Sam’s trying to get his hands out of commission and wrestle him down onto the bed.
And strangely, horrifically, Dean won’t fight back in any way that might hurt Sam and, even worse, he still does what he thinks Sammy needs, even amid the trauma. If Sam shoves his cock in Dean’s mouth, he just takes it, gagging as he tries to breathe, tears leaking from his wounded eyes. It’s arousing and pitiful and beautiful all at the same time.
Sam hates himself and wants to stop, but he can’t. Because tomorrow will still be Tuesday.
Sam suspects that it won’t be long before the routine of fucking his brother gets just as maddening as the breakfast ritual. He’s been changing it up, taking Dean in different places, at different times of day (including, memorably, against the counter in the damned diner in front of everyone), but knows that it’s all just a way to distract himself from the horror of facing an eternal day. He’s increasingly sure that he got sent to hell, rather than Dean.
He finally gets clued in by strawberry syrup. Not maple. For the first time in a hundred days, not maple – and if someone else is able to change things within the loop, then that person must be to blame.
He and Dean attack the Trickster, and all of a sudden it’s not Tuesday anymore. It’s Wednesday. Dear sweet Lord, it’s actually beautiful, blessed Wednesday and there’s no Asia, no Heat of the Moment, and it’s wonderful.
Dean still makes the cute/annoying gargling face though and Sam understands with a jolt like regret that there’ll be no more fucking Dean either.
No, wait...It means that there’ll be no more raping Dean – and that’s good. That’s great. And it feels like a burden’s been lifted. Because Sam knows now that his brother at least partially reciprocates his feelings and that if he takes it a little slow, he’ll probably be able to get him to put out willingly. Then he can love Dean the way that he’s always wanted to. It’s almost enough to make him forget that each non-Tuesday brings Dean one step closer to hell.
Wednesday gives a whole new meaning to “brand new day” and Sam feels as though he’s never been happier. Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid in fact, when Sam drags him close for a few moments and kisses his temple.
Wednesday is the best day ever.
And then Dean gets shot in the parking lot.
Sam cradles him to his chest, waiting for Asia, waiting for the Tuesday re-run, waiting for fucking anything...and it doesn’t come.
Wednesday is obnoxiously followed by Thursday and then Friday and on and on and Dean doesn’t come back.
And all Sam can do amid his pain and obsession is pine for the halcyon days of Tuesday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Sam finally finds the Trickster six months later, he begs, actually fucking begs, for his brother back.
The asshole is amused – he’s always amused, damn him – but he also seems not only despairing and a little sad, but hostile. And not the kind of hostile that comes from almost being killed – although, judging from the Tuesday Loop, he’s still a bit sore about that – but from sheer contempt.
“You really think you deserve him back? You really think that he deserves to have to come back to you?”
Sam colours, knowing that the Trickster saw everything that he did to Dean. But damn it, that was his fault in the first place! He altered reality, sending Sam half crazy and also removing consequence from every action. Under normal circumstances, he’d never have dreamed of hurting his big brother. And now he wants the chance to make up for what he did, even if Dean will never realise.
“Please...Just take us back to that day. Please.”
“Dean’s downstairs, Sam. Whether you deserved it or not, he’s burning his toes in hell for you...Like I told you, this self-sacrificing you two do? Never ends well.”
“I can’t...I need him back.”
The Trickster rolls his eyes, exasperated with how very much Sam just isn’t getting it. “Even if I do it, even if I hand him back to your worthless ass, nothing can change the fact that he’s going to the pit, Sam. Not even me. One day, he’ll be gone – and this will be your life.”
Sam just shakes his head, tears shimmering in his eyes. “Please.”
Huffing out an irritated breath, the Trickster is silent for a few moments, still somewhat surprised by how obtuse and single-minded Sam is about his brother. Then again, he’s seen enough of Dean to know that this fraternal obsession is just kind of a family thing. Someone really should teach Dean that his brother isn’t worth the loyalty he wastes on him – and that he certainly isn’t worth going to hell for.
Cocking his head to the side, he asks slyly, “Are you sure you want me to take you back? Think carefully, Sam. However bad things seem, that doesn’t mean that they can’t get worse.”
“Yes! Bring him back! Please? This thing with us is done, I swear; we’ll never come looking again,” pleads Sam, red-rimmed eyes desperate and earnest.
The Trickster looks at him for a few long beats, then shrugs as his smarmy little grin spreads over his face. “Whatever you say, sport...”
He clicks his fingers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But you’d better promise me I’ll be back in time...”
Sam slowly rises upright in bed, eyes flying to the alarm clock. Wednesday.
Heart leaping into his throat, he looks up...and there is Dean. Gorgeous and solid and alive and right there in front of him. He isn’t making his cute/annoying gargling grin; he’s just staring at Sam, arms crossed over his chest and no emotion registering on his face. But Sam doesn’t care; he’s still the most beautiful sight in the entire world.
Sam throws back the covers and leaps out of bed, crossing the room in a couple of huge strides and enveloping Dean in a crushing hug, breathing in his scent and almost collapsing with the relief of him being really, truly there.
Dean doesn’t return the hug.
Sam isn’t surprised; Dean’s only had to live through one Tuesday, not one hundred, and he hasn’t had six months of agony and loneliness and black despair. He squeezes a little tighter and then lets go of the stiff form in his arms.
“I’m sorry, man,” he apologises, grinning at Dean a little sheepishly, his dimples making an appearance. “It’s just...You have no idea how many Tuesdays I’ve had.” He has no intention of telling Dean about the six months when he was dead.
Dean gives a harsh little laugh, and it’s so devoid of humour that it sends ice sliding down Sam’s spine.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“What...?”
And then he sees it all in Dean’s eyes; the Trickster (that rat bastard!) brought him back with the memory of all one hundred Tuesdays. Every death, including those at Sam’s hands. Every betrayal, every abuse. Every fucking day that Sam didn’t even try to solve their Groundhog Day problem and instead concentrated on getting his big brother to put out for him, confident of a clean slate.
Sam wants to die. Hell, he wants Dean to die and for the day to start over. He hates Wednesday with a fiery passion, because he can already see that Wednesday is the day that signals the demise of everything that he and Dean have, everything they are.
Sam yearns with everything in him for Asia and gargling and Pig in a Poke and dropped hot sauce and two stooges with a piano...
He misses Tuesday.
THE END.
This is set during episode 3x11: Mystery Spot. For those of you who read the fic and don't watch the show (yeah, you know who you are, losers! Come on, there are pretty, crying boys! What more could you want?!) this episode sees an enemy called The Trickster - who can alter reality and basically plays (often deadly) pranks on people - create a kind of Groundhog Day situation for Sam. He gets forced to relive the same day 100 times and no-one else can remember a thing. Worse, Dean dies every single day in some fairly inventive ways.
The episode is a great mix of heartbreaking and hilarious. This fic is built on the idea that things take a MUCH darker turn than on the show. So, I'm warning you for language, angst, hurt!Dean and non-con.
Sorry for the darkness and hope that you enjoy it, honey! :D
Tuesday
By the twenty-eighth Tuesday in a row, Sam is feeling strangely resigned to the whole thing. An odd kind of calm settles on him and he thinks that he will take a couple of days off from telling Dean the problem, only to have the same conversations over and over and still watch him die.
He figures that since it’ll still be Tuesday tomorrow, he might as well do whatever the hell he wants until Dean buys it this time.
That day, he’s a total dick. Knowing that no-one will remember tomorrow (Tuesday), he says and does exactly what he feels like, binging on food and alcohol, being rude to everyone, making uncharacteristically lewd come-ons to pretty girls (which totally doesn’t work for him; apparently, only Dean can pull that off), watching four hours of porn and stealing anything that takes his eye. Dean finds it hilarious for a little while, then gets really scared. But it doesn’t matter because during the early evening he trips down an open manhole cover and breaks his neck.
In the week that follows, Sam vents his frustration, and poor Dean bears the brunt of it. Of course, it also backfires sometimes; the day that Sam totals the Impala, Dean breaks his nose and is about to start on his ribs, until a construction worker observing them from some scaffolding accidentally drops a brick on his head.
The next day, Dean is cheerfully bopping along to Asia when the alarm goes off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Running out of fun things to do with the free pass of having his day wiped clean, it occurs to Sam that he really could do anything that he wanted. He supposes he’s been thinking too narrow, too inside the box, too socially acceptable...But it’s dangerous to do anything else. Sam knows all too well what lurks on the edges of his psyche.
Pushing away the nasty little thoughts that arise, fuelled by stress and fear and frustration, for a few days he gets back to trying to solve the problem. Every day Dean tries to avoid dying (even though it’s ‘Dingo ate my baby’ crazy) and every day he fails spectacularly.
Sam feels despair eat away at him. What if it’s Tuesday forever? He wonders whether it’ll be Wednesday if he kills himself, but knows that he can’t do that to Dean. Just in case it works.
Something about how quickly he gets stumped for time-passing ideas makes him reassess his life. He soon comes to the very obvious conclusion that Dean is the only thing that he really has. Hunting is what they do; all they have is one another. Their entire lives revolve around each other and they pretty much spend every waking moment together. Although he has no idea what’s happening, Sam sort of understands why the reset button gets pressed each time Dean dies, because how can he exist without the one thing that keeps him going?
On the fortieth Tuesday, these musings make Sam unusually clingy. Rather than trying to keep Dean from dying, he spends the day making the most of the time he’s alive. Dean finds it strange, but he certainly doesn’t complain when Sam suggests they take a day off and then indulges him by doing as many of his favourite things as possible. Actually, the day is disturbingly similar to the one where Sam decided to be a total dick. There’s food and alcohol and girls and not giving a fuck about anyone else.
Sam manages to tell Dean that the conclusion of the latest Tuesday experiment is that he’s a bit of an asshole before he gets hit by lightning, but doesn’t get the chance to say that he loves him anyway.
In the morning, Dean tries to grin and gargle at the same time and it’s sort of cute and annoying at the same time. Again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the fifty-second Tuesday, Sam makes the (not unreasonable) deduction that he and Dean are WAY too close.
It’s a bad day (and that’s really saying something considering the string of not-exactly-stellar days that preceded it) and Sam is wasted by half past ten in the morning. Deciding that it’s one of those (fruitless) Tuesdays where he tries to shock his brother out of the endless, soul-destroying loop, he thinks this time he’ll freak him the fuck out by coming onto him. It’s not a great idea given his occasional dirty fantasies, he knows that, but he’s drunk and it’s always Tuesday and who the fuck cares?
After spending ten minutes draping himself all over Dean and practically rubbing off on him, he realises that his brother actually hasn’t noticed. It almost surprises him sober.
Head resting comfortably against Dean’s shoulder, the older man propped up against his headboard as he surfs the web for something, complaining about asshole drunken brothers, Sam does a bit of analysis. He supposes that they’re pretty tactile for grown men, as if touching confirms that they’re not alone, or something. They’ve lived too close for too long to have any kind of normal boundaries, and Sam remembers with a jolt that one time last month (excluding the eternal Tuesday) they actually showered together because the nasty demon-y gore stuff they’d been covered with had been really hard to scrub off.
Sam guesses that this isn’t normal.
Experimentally, he turns his head and presses his lips to Dean’s throat. He gets half jostled away by a shoulder shrug and receives a growled, “Knock it off, Sammy” but that’s it. When he snuggles his head back close, not quite nuzzling, Dean just gives an irritated sigh and wraps one arm around him, eyes not leaving the screen.
He kinda thinks that isn’t normal either.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two Tuesdays later, Sam finds himself walking silently up to the ajar bathroom door and pushing it wider, leaning up against the frame. Dean’s in the shower and as Sam watches his silhouette through the flimsy white curtain he jerks off.
Sam suddenly remembers the phase he went through when he was twelve or thirteen, spying on Dean every chance he got, trying to surreptitiously learn what to do about all the things happening to his body and the new hormone-driven feelings. Not that he’d really needed to be sneaky about it; Dean would have told him anything he’d wanted to know and possibly even shown him some things. But as soon as he’d discovered that watching Dean made him hard, he’d decided that a bit of stealth might be more prudent and lead to less embarrassing situations.
Dean had never seemed to be aware of Sam’s lust-driven crush, although Dad had. Which led Sam to believe that, actually, Dean probably had known (because, please, if Dad had noticed then it must have been pretty fucking obvious) but had been sensitive enough to leave well alone and let it just blow over.
Dad, however, uncomfortable and out of his depth, had tried to have a stilted and heavily euphemistic conversation about it, the upshot of which had been that it was likely normal enough (considering their incredibly loose definition of “normal”) but that Sam had better hurry up and grow the hell out of it.
It’s the first time in years that Sam has consciously thought about it, but he’s not quite sure that he ever did grow out of it completely.
Sam strokes himself through his jeans, knowing that if Dean catches him, he’ll probably just brain himself on the faucet ten seconds later and they’ll be listening to Asia again.
But he finishes before Dean and his jeans are mostly dry by the time his brother is ready to go to breakfast and have yet another Pig in a Poke.
He still doesn’t even fucking know what it is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time Sam kisses Dean for real, he shoves him away, hard, and starts pacing around like an agitated cat, trying to make sense of it. Sam’s actually happy when he has a heart attack.
He soon learns that it’s best to get his brother drunk before trying anything and, even then, to sort of sneak him into it.
It becomes a game. By the sixty-sixth Tuesday, Sam knows that, with the judicious application of tequila, affection and guilt, he can get a few minutes of over-the-clothes third base before Dean has a complete meltdown.
He also knows that telling Dean how much he loves him tends to make things worse instead of better.
Somehow, trying to manipulate his brother into actually making him come before he dies becomes more important than figuring out why they’re in a perpetual Tuesday. On seventy-three, he’s almost there – right fucking there, damn it – and Dean’s hard too even though there are tears leaking silently from his eyes, when Dean has an aneurism.
Sam curses in irritation and doesn’t even have chance to finish off himself before…
“Heat of the moment…”
He’s in such a bad mood for day seventy-four that he kills Dean when they get into a fight about the TV remote and he accidentally snaps his neck during a headlock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean just won’t go further than the hesitant, clothed touching, no matter how Sam applies the tricks he’s been learning – and the guilt for even doing that seems to make him thoroughly miserable. He only gives in at all because he’s incapable of refusing Sam anything that he really pleads and begs for, especially coupled with the accusation that it’s somehow his fault in the first place.
Sam’s sick and tired of waiting and subtly trying to leverage Dean and treading on eggshells, only to get a mostly frustrating encounter with no real payoff. It’s especially irritating as Dean’s hard every single day too by the time Sam manages to paw him through his jeans; it’s not just him who wants it – it’s not, damn it – so why does his brother have to be so difficult?
He knows – of course he knows – that he should lay the fuck off and get back to searching out the elusive Wednesday. It’s beyond wrong to be using this goddamned curse to satisfy his somewhat unrequited lust for his brother, which has come roaring out of repression, but he just can’t seem to care anymore.
They’ve discussed the whole Tuesday thing again and nothing ever fucking changes and on one of the days Sam says “You won’t remember this tomorrow. So please, please, can I fuck you? I know it all feels new to you, but I’ve been putting up with your cock-teasing for almost a month.”
Dean punches him in the face.
That day, Sam’s viciously pleased when Dean trips and somehow manages to impale himself on a rake. He’s sick to death of his brother’s denial – and of everything else really. He’s pretty sure that his sanity is fraying, to say the least, and he’s terrified that this is going to be his life now, forever.
Somehow, it feels like it would all be just that bit more bearable if Dean would give into him and let him take solace in his body. He needs his brother to let him have this one thing, so that he won’t go completely mad and gun down the entire fucking town before sticking the barrel into his own mouth.
Dean has to let him. He just has to.
The following day – no, wait, the same day, again: Tuesday – Sam doesn’t bother asking, having learned his lesson from Dean’s severe reaction.
Because it’s just another day to Dean, and because Sam has spiked his coffee, his guard is completely down and he doesn’t even think to struggle until after the belt is wrapped around his wrists. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening right up to the point where Sam’s spit-slick fingers are prying him open.
And it feels just too fucking good to stop, anticipation and desperation coiling in Sam’s guts and lust roaring through his veins. Dean’s abortive attempts to get free don’t even really register; it’s all just background, unimportant in the face of Sam’s burning need, and he doesn’t actually hear what Dean says to him when he’s pressing into his tight, virgin ass, just whispering soothing nonsense to him and trying not to rip him up.
Sam never thought he’d be able to rape someone, much less his beloved older brother, but he also never thought he’d be cursed to relive the same day over and over or that he’d have the security of knowing that the encounter wouldn’t really have happened because tomorrow it would just be fucking Tuesday again.
And it doesn’t even feel like rape, not really. Dean doesn’t try to fight once he’s inside and he doesn’t even say the word “no”, although he does keep saying “Sammy” in this broken, begging way that sounds close enough to helpless arousal that Sam can happily pretend that’s what it is.
He can’t stand the way that Dean sobs into the pillow after – it makes it much harder to fool himself as to what this really was – so he leaves. He doesn’t bother locking the door and he guesses when Asia starts playing again that some passing lowlife broke into their motel room and took Dean out.
He doesn’t know how his brother died and doesn’t want to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the fifth day he fucks Dean, he realises that it’s just easier to kill him after.
He doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath, the horror and betrayal and pain. He’s tried making Dean enjoy it too, and that ends up even worse; Dean fights harder and cries louder, alternating between spitting curses and begging for Sam to stop. He’s a lot more subdued when he’s allowed to hate what’s happening to his body.
Sam thinks that if he had time, he could ease Dean into the whole situation, let him get used to it, build up to it with weeks of kissing and touching and reassurance. And it would be fucking amazing, he just knows it would (and he tells Dean this, but gets bitter, jagged laughter that tears at his chest). It’s irrelevant anyway, because they don’t have weeks, because every day is Tuesday and Dean has always forgotten yesterday’s Tuesday, no matter how perfect it was.
So Sam has to take what he can get, or go completely insane. But once he’s taken it, he needs to press the reset button and have Dean look at him with love and devotion again.
By Tuesday, take ninety-four, he’s overdosed Dean with sleeping pills, smothered him with a pillow, slit his throat with his own knife and choked him; he decides that the neck-snapping (discovered accidentally) was actually the most efficient and least traumatic, so he sticks to that.
It’s amazing how much Dean trusts him, when he’s as wary of other people as a skittish foal. Not once has he put up a fight until it’s too late, as if he’s sure that there must be a good reason why Sam’s trying to get his hands out of commission and wrestle him down onto the bed.
And strangely, horrifically, Dean won’t fight back in any way that might hurt Sam and, even worse, he still does what he thinks Sammy needs, even amid the trauma. If Sam shoves his cock in Dean’s mouth, he just takes it, gagging as he tries to breathe, tears leaking from his wounded eyes. It’s arousing and pitiful and beautiful all at the same time.
Sam hates himself and wants to stop, but he can’t. Because tomorrow will still be Tuesday.
Sam suspects that it won’t be long before the routine of fucking his brother gets just as maddening as the breakfast ritual. He’s been changing it up, taking Dean in different places, at different times of day (including, memorably, against the counter in the damned diner in front of everyone), but knows that it’s all just a way to distract himself from the horror of facing an eternal day. He’s increasingly sure that he got sent to hell, rather than Dean.
He finally gets clued in by strawberry syrup. Not maple. For the first time in a hundred days, not maple – and if someone else is able to change things within the loop, then that person must be to blame.
He and Dean attack the Trickster, and all of a sudden it’s not Tuesday anymore. It’s Wednesday. Dear sweet Lord, it’s actually beautiful, blessed Wednesday and there’s no Asia, no Heat of the Moment, and it’s wonderful.
Dean still makes the cute/annoying gargling face though and Sam understands with a jolt like regret that there’ll be no more fucking Dean either.
No, wait...It means that there’ll be no more raping Dean – and that’s good. That’s great. And it feels like a burden’s been lifted. Because Sam knows now that his brother at least partially reciprocates his feelings and that if he takes it a little slow, he’ll probably be able to get him to put out willingly. Then he can love Dean the way that he’s always wanted to. It’s almost enough to make him forget that each non-Tuesday brings Dean one step closer to hell.
Wednesday gives a whole new meaning to “brand new day” and Sam feels as though he’s never been happier. Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid in fact, when Sam drags him close for a few moments and kisses his temple.
Wednesday is the best day ever.
And then Dean gets shot in the parking lot.
Sam cradles him to his chest, waiting for Asia, waiting for the Tuesday re-run, waiting for fucking anything...and it doesn’t come.
Wednesday is obnoxiously followed by Thursday and then Friday and on and on and Dean doesn’t come back.
And all Sam can do amid his pain and obsession is pine for the halcyon days of Tuesday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Sam finally finds the Trickster six months later, he begs, actually fucking begs, for his brother back.
The asshole is amused – he’s always amused, damn him – but he also seems not only despairing and a little sad, but hostile. And not the kind of hostile that comes from almost being killed – although, judging from the Tuesday Loop, he’s still a bit sore about that – but from sheer contempt.
“You really think you deserve him back? You really think that he deserves to have to come back to you?”
Sam colours, knowing that the Trickster saw everything that he did to Dean. But damn it, that was his fault in the first place! He altered reality, sending Sam half crazy and also removing consequence from every action. Under normal circumstances, he’d never have dreamed of hurting his big brother. And now he wants the chance to make up for what he did, even if Dean will never realise.
“Please...Just take us back to that day. Please.”
“Dean’s downstairs, Sam. Whether you deserved it or not, he’s burning his toes in hell for you...Like I told you, this self-sacrificing you two do? Never ends well.”
“I can’t...I need him back.”
The Trickster rolls his eyes, exasperated with how very much Sam just isn’t getting it. “Even if I do it, even if I hand him back to your worthless ass, nothing can change the fact that he’s going to the pit, Sam. Not even me. One day, he’ll be gone – and this will be your life.”
Sam just shakes his head, tears shimmering in his eyes. “Please.”
Huffing out an irritated breath, the Trickster is silent for a few moments, still somewhat surprised by how obtuse and single-minded Sam is about his brother. Then again, he’s seen enough of Dean to know that this fraternal obsession is just kind of a family thing. Someone really should teach Dean that his brother isn’t worth the loyalty he wastes on him – and that he certainly isn’t worth going to hell for.
Cocking his head to the side, he asks slyly, “Are you sure you want me to take you back? Think carefully, Sam. However bad things seem, that doesn’t mean that they can’t get worse.”
“Yes! Bring him back! Please? This thing with us is done, I swear; we’ll never come looking again,” pleads Sam, red-rimmed eyes desperate and earnest.
The Trickster looks at him for a few long beats, then shrugs as his smarmy little grin spreads over his face. “Whatever you say, sport...”
He clicks his fingers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But you’d better promise me I’ll be back in time...”
Sam slowly rises upright in bed, eyes flying to the alarm clock. Wednesday.
Heart leaping into his throat, he looks up...and there is Dean. Gorgeous and solid and alive and right there in front of him. He isn’t making his cute/annoying gargling grin; he’s just staring at Sam, arms crossed over his chest and no emotion registering on his face. But Sam doesn’t care; he’s still the most beautiful sight in the entire world.
Sam throws back the covers and leaps out of bed, crossing the room in a couple of huge strides and enveloping Dean in a crushing hug, breathing in his scent and almost collapsing with the relief of him being really, truly there.
Dean doesn’t return the hug.
Sam isn’t surprised; Dean’s only had to live through one Tuesday, not one hundred, and he hasn’t had six months of agony and loneliness and black despair. He squeezes a little tighter and then lets go of the stiff form in his arms.
“I’m sorry, man,” he apologises, grinning at Dean a little sheepishly, his dimples making an appearance. “It’s just...You have no idea how many Tuesdays I’ve had.” He has no intention of telling Dean about the six months when he was dead.
Dean gives a harsh little laugh, and it’s so devoid of humour that it sends ice sliding down Sam’s spine.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“What...?”
And then he sees it all in Dean’s eyes; the Trickster (that rat bastard!) brought him back with the memory of all one hundred Tuesdays. Every death, including those at Sam’s hands. Every betrayal, every abuse. Every fucking day that Sam didn’t even try to solve their Groundhog Day problem and instead concentrated on getting his big brother to put out for him, confident of a clean slate.
Sam wants to die. Hell, he wants Dean to die and for the day to start over. He hates Wednesday with a fiery passion, because he can already see that Wednesday is the day that signals the demise of everything that he and Dean have, everything they are.
Sam yearns with everything in him for Asia and gargling and Pig in a Poke and dropped hot sauce and two stooges with a piano...
He misses Tuesday.
THE END.
Current Location: London
Current Mood: 
drained
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