Author's Note: This death is the eighth death shown in the episode 03x11 "Mystery Spot", but we know that Sam lived through approximately one hundred Tuesdays of watching Dean die. I've assumed for the sake of this story that the on-screen deaths are not consecutive, but interspersed throughout the one hundred. Happy reading!

Dean had died forty-seven times on forty-seven Tuesdays, and Sam thought maybe, just maybe, he was starting to get used to it. This Tuesday would be the one that Dean would survive, Sam was sure of it. He had to be sure, otherwise the twisted, sour feeling in his gut would return and his heart would clench and his hands would reach out of their own volition to clutch at Dean and never let him go.

But if Sam did that, Dean would just give him a look and tell him what a freak he was.

Which brought them to today, the forty-eighth Tuesday. Sam's nerves jangled all the way through breakfast as he explained to Dean, for the forty-eighth time, what was going on. Pig in a Poke. Hot sauce. A golden retriever. The girl in the pink jacket. A pair of movers bitching at each other. At the curb Sam yanked Dean back by the sleeve of his jacket as Mr. Pickett barreled past, but found no relief in it. It took all of Sam's willpower to release the leather bunched under his fingers.

Dean stared at him, shocked. "Thanks, man." He paused. "Wait, did he –"

"Yes." Sam said shortly.

Dean grinned. "Did it look cool, like in the movies?"

Sam, having already had this conversation countless times, lost his patience. "How could you even ask me that, Dean? How could watching you die ever look cool?"

The grin slid from his brother's face. "Geez, chill out, Sammy. It was just a joke. Sorry."

Sam set his mouth in a grim line and said nothing as he crossed the street, his long stride causing Dean to have to jog to keep up with him. "Hey, man, come on, don't be like that."

"Forget it," Sam said, not slowing down.

Dean threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. You win. We'll go check out this Mystery Spot. We'll go tonight after it closes, get a nice long look."

Sam gave a shake of his head and spun around to look Dean in the eye. "No. I'm done with this. All of it. We're going to go now, and I'm going to burn that place to the ground."

"Whoa, Sammy, just calm down –"

"Don't tell me to calm down! I can't calm down, I can't, because –"

"Because I die today?" Dean asked. He rubbed a hand over his face. "We'll figure this out, just like we always do. Okay? How about this – we go back to the motel, you do a little research, I'll watch some TV or something, and then we'll go to the Mystery Spot tonight and see what we can do. Maybe we can reason with the owner."

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. But okay. Just – if I tell you not to do something tonight, can you just trust me? I've been through this a few times now."

Dean gave him a sideways glance but said nothing as they walked back to the motel.

True to his word, Dean laid on the bed and flipped through the staticky channels of the television, settling on reruns of Magnum P.I. Sam sat at the cramped round table with the laptop open in front of him, frowning.

"How's the research?" asked Dean during a bout of commercials.

"Fine," Sam said stiffly. He had already done most of his research on the Broward County Mystery Spot and Dr. Dexter Hasselback during previous Tuesdays. Mostly ones where he confined Dean to the motel room against his will and he also had to stay and watch him. Sam had stopped trying that after Dean committed suicide twice. Now Sam's research focused on the time loop phenomenon he found himself in, and possible ways to stop it. He hadn't been able to dig up much, but that didn't stop him from trying.

After several hours, Dean turned off the TV. The room was starting to dim as the sun set.

"How many times, man?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam didn't answer at first, but they both knew he had heard.

"Forty-seven," Sam finally said.

The number hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He tried to imagine watching Sam die that many times over, and couldn't. He had watched Sam die once, and it had nearly destroyed him. Suddenly Dean's one-year sentence to Hell seemed trivial in comparison: he had gotten off easy.

"Jesus, Sammy."

"Mmmm."

Dean sat up and stretched, then moved about the room, collecting weapons, gasoline, salt, and matches.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"I'm with you. Let's burn that motherfucker to the ground."

The Impala growled as they rolled into the deserted parking lot of the Broward County Mystery Spot. Dean cut the lights and engine. No reason to alert the owner to their presence before it was time.

Sam rummaged around in the duffel bag in the backseat, selecting duct tape and a fire axe. His pistol was already tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He had triple-checked the safety on Dean's gun before allowing his brother to carry it, earning him a muttered "freak" at his retreating back.

Dean hefted the duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. Sam popped the lock open in no time at all.

"Dean," he said in a low voice. "Keep your gun holstered until I say otherwise. Got it?"

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "What?"

"Just promise me."

"Fine! I promise."

They crept down the eerie hallway, painted in spirals of chartreuse and black, the exit lights lending a sickly cast to their skin.

Sam paused behind a section of wall and held up his hand for Dean to stop as well. They stayed there, their breathing the only sound, until they heard footsteps on the other side of the wall. Sam leaped out, bringing his arms down and disarming Mr. Carpiak with an efficiency borne of premonition, slapping a length of duct tape over his mouth as he whimpered. Dean took the rifle from Mr. Carpiak's slack hands.

"Now," said Sam, and Dean drew his pistol, pointing it at Mr. Carpiak. He used the barrel to gesture at a chair.

"Sit down, and no one gets hurt," Dean said. "Do you understand?"

Mr. Carpiak nodded, his eyes wide and his hands up in a gesture of surrender. They were shaking.

As soon as he had sat down, Dean kept the gun trained on him while Sam wrapped duct tape around his chest, wrists, and ankles, confining him to the chair.

"Keep an eye on him, Dean," Sam said, stone-faced. "Any funny moves, you blow him away. Got it?"

Mr. Carpiak whimpered again, and Dean nodded, kneeling down beside the hostage owner. A feeling of unease settled in his stomach. Was this cold, unsympathetic man really his baby brother?

"Sam, maybe we should just talk to him," Dean said as Sam hefted the axe and began taking down the walls.

"No," said Sam, swinging the axe again. Each time the blade bit into the garishly painted drywall, a grim sense of satisfaction flooded him. Fueled by desperation, he imagined each contact to be one of Dean's deaths. Death by gunshot. Death by choking. Death by electrocution. Death by car.

Dean looked away, and his eyes fell on Mr. Carpiak, who was clearly terrified. Dean forced a smile. "Everybody's fine," he said. "Nobody's gonna get hurt, okay?" The tempo of the axe's destruction had increased. "Sammy?"

Sam said nothing, a thin film of sweat beginning to soak through his T-shirt.

Dean swallowed. This is not what he had intended when he told Sam he stood behind his decision to burn the place down. If Sam kept going he was going to go too far. "Maybe you should drop the axe and let this guy go, what do you say?"

Sam's breathing was coming in short gasps. Death by arrow. Death by heavy object. Death by falling down the stairs. Death by slipping in the shower. Each of Dean's death's flashed before his mind's eye, and he knew he couldn't stop until this place and whatever power it held was destroyed.

"Something's gotta be going on here. I intend to find out what," he said.

"Place is tore up pretty good, dude," Dean said. "Time to give it a rest."

"No!" Sam roared. "I'm gonna take it down to the studs." He continued his rampage, turning his back on Dean.

Dean grimaced and made to stand up. "Sammy? That's enough." He walked towards him. "Give me the axe."

"No!" Sam had worked himself into a frenzy, his blood, his cursed blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would beat right out of his chest. Death by carbon monoxide. Death by food poisoning. Death by drowning. Death by decapitation. Each of those memories unfolded before him, and each swing of the axe felt like it was biting deep into Sam's heart. No matter what he did, he couldn't save Dean. Not now, not ever.

"Leave it, Dean!" he said furiously as Dean approached him and reached out. His hands closed around the smooth handle, but Sam would not give it up.

"Give it!"

"No, you give it!"

"Let it go!"

"No!"

"Let it go, come on!" Dean was starting to get angry.

"Dean, leave it, please!" Sam said. Dean gave another yank, and in a blink Sam remembered finding Dean naked in the shower, curled in on himself, the entire floor covered in dark blood and a razor blade beside him. Another blink. Dean lying motionless on the motel bed, a gun in his hand and half his head splattered all over the wall.

Sam froze, his fingers slackened, and Dean came away with the axe in his neck. Blood sprayed, bright and hot, over Sam and Mr. Carpiak. Dean's eyes glazed as he fell, blood ebbing out over the floorboards and all that Sam could do was watch in helpless horror.

"Dean?" he breathed, feeling sick. He fell to his knees beside Dean, the knees of his jeans soaked in blood. Sam's hands were shaking as they hovered over Dean's body. He didn't know where to put them. Tears blurred his vision. His chest tightened as he held in his sobs. "You did this," he whispered to himself, over and over. Maybe he was a monster after all.

Of one thing, Sam was certain: death by brother was by far the hardest to witness.