A/N: i tried jpg. This story takes place post-pacifist/soulless pacifist for Undertale and during the episode Mystery Spot for Supernatural. Frisk is selectively mute and agender, using they/them pronouns.

It was Tuesday. It had been Tuesday a hundred times in a row. Give or take a few Tuesdays. Sam hadn't started keeping track immediately, and the numbers quickly got away from him. He had more pressing concerns at the time. Dean was dying, and he hadn't known how to make it stop. It seemed like every time he thwarted one death, something new would sneak up to pick his brother off. Then he'd wake up in their dingy motel room, Heat of the Moment playing through the alarm clock speakers and Dean lip syncing along as if he hadn't just been trampled to death by a stampeding herd of escaped petting zoo animals, or electrocuted by a freak lightning strike on a sunny day, or any other number of absurd ways he had met his end.

He had a lead now, though. A strawberry syrup flavored lead, with a side of just desserts. A trickster. It had to be a trickster. The cards added up, now that they were all in his hand. And with this new Tuesday morning, he knew exactly what to bring with him to the diner. He stood and stalked the man who sat at the counter out the door when he left, Dean's hushed protests following him, and his reluctant footsteps following that. Sam hadn't bothered checking what kind of syrup the man used this time. It didn't matter. This was ending today.

Sam had the man pinned to a wrought iron fence the minute he turned down the lesser worn street, right hand digging bruises into the man's shoulder and left holding a stake to his throat. "I know who you are. Or should I say what."

The man pleaded for his life, but Sam couldn't quite hear it over the rush of anger pounding against his temples. The nervous Sammy…? from Dean barely registered in his brain. All he could hear was You killed my brother. Over and over and over.

"It took me a helluva long time, but I got it."

This would be justice. For Dexter Hassleback, and Dean, and for himself.

"It's your MO that gave you away. Going after pompous jerks, giving them their just desserts- your kind loves that, don't they?"

He wanted to drive the stake into the man's neck right now, but a part of him doubted his own theory. The worry in Dean's tone when he began suggesting Sam put the stake down only added to his doubts, but he blocked Dean's voice out and continued.

"No! There's only one creature powerful enough to do what you're doing. Making reality out of nothing, sticking people in time loops—in fact you'd pretty much have to be a god. You'd have to be a Trickster."

The man began defending himself, spouting off his alias, his cover, wife and two kids, unremarkable white collar job, all lies. Sam snarled.

"Don't lie to me! I know what you are! We've killed one of your kind before!"

And the man changed in that moment, morphing from a graying fifty-something year old man into the shape of a very familiar god.

"Actually, bucko," his words sounded so smug, and the shock Sam felt mixed seamlessly into his rage when the Trickster said, "You didn't."

He interrogated the Trickster, but he knew why the god is doing it. Everything's a big joke for them. A cosmic prank. And Sam's torment is the punchline.

"So this is fun for you? Killing Dean over and over again?"

The Trickster quirked a brow at him. "One, yes, it is fun. And two? This is so not about killing Dean. This joke is on you, Sam. Watching your brother die, every day? Forever?"

Sam sucked in a breath, breathed out "you son of a bitch," but the words were lost on the chuckle of an unfamiliar voice behind him. Dean turned, staring wide eyed, and the Trickster leaned around Sam as well, his own surprise evident as the confident smirk slid off his face.

Sam turned, hands still firmly holding the Trickster in place, to see who the newcomer was. He was greeted by the sight of a short, stocky skeleton of all things, wearing a blue hoodie, pink slippers, and a wide grin. His eye sockets were closed and his stance was casual, hands planted in his hoodie pockets as if he wasn't now in the middle of a standoff with two hunters and a trickster god. Beside him was a small child in a striped sweater, a look of worry and anguish on their face. Sam didn't think this freak show could get any weirder, and yet...

"maybe you had to be there to get it," the skeleton drawled, low and deep. "but your punchline could use some serious work, pal."

xxx

It was Tuesday. It had been Tuesday one hundred and forty-three times in a row. That was the exact number of Tuesdays. Sans knew this because he started counting reflexively whenever a new reset occurred, kept a tally going in his journal. He knew the kid wasn't the one behind it, or at least they didn't want him to think they were the one behind it. They approached him after the twentieth reset, concern written all over their face. Frisk may have abused their power in the past, but they had promised him no more resets. Call him crazy, but he trusted their word.

He told them not to worry about it, the large grin plastered on his face as reassuring as a dead man's smile can be. Whatever it was, it would sort itself out, eventually. They just had to wait and see.

When fifteen more resets had passed, his grin was a little less easy, and Frisk a little less pacified by it. At fifty total resets, Frisk approached him again, and said they had to do something. They couldn't sit around with their thumbs up their butts anymore. Said the words, not signed them. He was torn between scolding them for their language and asking where they'd even learned that phrase, but instead of doing either, he agreed. It was hard to say no when they spoke. He knew how difficult it was for them.

He took the kid's hand and they walked out the front door, and on the other side was Snowdin, right outside his workshop. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, winking at Frisk, who furrow their brow at the empty space they had just walked out of, before going inside.

"alright," he said, standing in the middle of the workshop, surveying the culmination of his research and life's work. "my machines aren't sophisticated enough to pinpoint the origin of a reset, but maybe that's something we can fix."

He turned to Frisk, who gave him a thumbs up, and when he blinked, he was back in his home above ground. Welp. At least any progress made on the machines would be saved over multiple resets. But still. This was going to be a long, long process. Frisk arrived back at his doorstep about ten minutes later, and they were back in Snowdin, back in the workshop.

Progress was slow going between the resets and the many rounds of rock-paper-scissors it took to determine who would be sticking their hands into delicate machinery to make adjustments and risk losing fingers. After half the disassembly has been completed, Frisk gave him an exasperated look, one that asked why he kept wasting time like this. The look turned dubious at Sans's explanation.

"you're young and in good health. your fingers will have plenty time to grow back if anything happens to them."

'That's not how humans work,' Frisk signed to him. Sans tilted his head, and they clarified. 'You're thinking of lizards.'

"what, they're not the same thing?" He said with a shit-eating grin.

'I think I'm more like you than I am like Alphys,' They said, scowling at his levity, and he chuckled.

"given my proclivity for science, you might want to rethink that statement."

'I meant biologically,' They rolled their eyes, then after a moment added, 'What does that word mean?'

"proclivity?" He asked, and they nodded in confirmation. "means i find the topic real fascinating. it's intriguing to me. engrossing. captivating. interesting."

Their mouth formed an "O" shape in understanding. Sans grinned a little wider and ruffled Frisk's hair, and was rewarded with a small, joyous giggle. He blinked. That was a first. That was a sound usually reserved for the likes of Toriel and Papyrus. Never him. Not with what he knew about the resets. With what he knew about Frisk. They smiled at him, and he was snapped from his thoughts before they could turn any darker. He smiled back and said, "don't worry about the machines, kid. i'll take care of it."

And so his finger bones were the only ones at risk from that point forward, working to upgrade his machines while Frisk flitted through his documents and books, 'hmm'ing and 'ooh'ing at odd intervals, or making frustrated groans when the words became too complex. So he started bringing along some of his physics books for Frisk to read, the junior ones he'd bought during Papyrus's brief science phase. They liked those ones much more than the complicated documents that had more science jargon than plain English in them.

Even that started to lose their interest when the resets began building up, though. They brought their 3DS, but by the eightieth reset had beaten all their story driven games. Before they had even reached their ninetieth reset, the novelty of Mr. Resetti believing that they were purposefully resetting their game wore off.

Sans didn't get out of bed at the big one-zero-zero. He didn't want to get out of bed. He wanted to give up. He felt like he was getting nowhere, and even Frisk's boundless optimism seemed to be waning as the resets went on. It was already in his nature to just let things happen. He wanted to just let things happen. Let this problem fix itself. Why couldn't Frisk just let this problem fix itself? Sans already believed them when they said they weren't the one doing it. What more did they need?

About twenty minutes after Sans would have normally picked Frisk up from Toriel's house, there was a knocking downstairs. He ignored it.

It came again. He ignored it again. Then the doorbell rang, and he ignored that too. The front door creaked open and soft, familiar footsteps padded inside and up the stairs. They stopped outside his door.

'Shave and a haircut,' the knuckles rapping against his bedroom door said.

'Two bits,' he replied halfheartedly against his bedside table.

The doorknob rattled, but it was locked, like usual. Another, more urgent knock came against his door, and it wasn't to any tunes this time. He sighed. The kid sure was persistent. He dragged himself out of bed, shuffled barefoot to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open to let Frisk in. Their face was twisted between concern and annoyance, and he chuckled despite himself. Their expression settled on annoyance at that. "sorry, kid. had a rough morning."

The concern was back, and this time it came with its good friend, confusion.

"it's been fifty resets since we started working on this, you know," He said, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind him. "i just need a, uh. a break. a man gets tired, working on the same project fifty tuesdays in a row. that's fair, ain't it?"

They didn't look completely convinced, but nodded anyway. He started walking towards the stairs, and Frisk followed. "hey, that makes one hundred total," he continued. "we should do something to celebrate. celebrate surviving this long without going postal, that is."

They stopped in their tracks, brows furrowed. They looked hurt, betrayed. It took him a second to realize why, and his grin almost dropped right off his face when he did. "not like that. i didn't mean it like that."

They kept staring, hurt in their eyes, and he felt sweat form on his brow. God. It was amazing how easily he could stick his entire foot in his mouth when he had all those teeth in the way. "i'm not a very motivated skeleton by nature. you know that. all this hard work is making me want to do something reckless and stupid. like get a tattoo. you know how many people regret getting tattoos? or maybe a piercing. i'd look real good with an eyebrow piercing, don't you think?"

They finally cracked a smile at him, but he could tell the damage was already done. He gave them his realest fake grin in return and made his way downstairs, went straight for the kitchen. Pulled a bottle out of the cupboard, a real fancy bottle of champagne he had bought shortly after Frisk had promised him no more resets. He never opened it. Afraid of celebrating something that might turn up false. He began peeling the foil away from the bottle's neck.

"we should celebrate in style. you've never drank before, right?" He turned to look at them and they quirked a brow at him, saying without words or signs I'm nine.

"heh, of course you haven't. let's keep it that way, huh?" He dug through the kitchen drawers until his phalanges curled around a corkscrew, and set to work. "there's juice in the fridge if you want to pretend, though."

It turned out the juice he was thinking of was actually tomato sauce, so Frisk opted to have water out of the faucet instead. He poured a little champagne into his glass and stared at the bubbling, golden liquid for a moment. Then he poured more, until he'd filled the glass almost to its brim. He picked it up and turned to Frisk, who sat at the table with a plastic, polka-dotted cup in both hands, and raised his own in a toast. Frisk hesitantly raised their cup as well, then took a sip from it while he turned his own bottoms up. Oh yeah. He was definitely feeling reckless and stupid right now.

His cup was empty by the time he finished that thought. He refilled it, drank another half before he finally stopped to catch his breath. He flopped down on the chair next to Frisk, feeling a buzz coming on already. They continued to sip their water, watching him with sharp eyes, and he grinned back. "everything in moderation, right?"

They narrowed their eyes, clearly unamused, and he ruffled their hair in response. He almost frowned when it earned him neither a cute giggle nor a huff of feigned annoyance. They really were upset with him. Couldn't just smooth this over with a few jokes and a lifetime of topic avoidance. He set his cup down on the table and sighed. Now was not the time to let his emotions get the best of him.

"i'm sorry about what i said earlier. about losing it." He said. Their expression soften a bit and they tilted their head, waiting for him to continue. He looked down at his lap. "i really didn't mean it like that. won't happen again. it's just… there's been a hundred resets and so little progress. it's frustrating, and i'm getting real sick of tuesday-"

"I forgive you," They said, and he paused, looking up again, catching a small smile from the kid. They spoke to him. Again. Maybe Tuesdays weren't so bad after all. He smiled back.

"heh. if you promise not to tell your mom, you can try a sip," He said, holding the glass of champagne out to them. Frisk looked warily contemplative for a second before taking the glass, giving it a tentative sniff, then raised it to their lips. As soon as the taste hit their tongue, they wrinkled their nose and pushed the glass away. Sans laughed. "it's pungent, isn't it?"

"It's gross!" They said.

"really gross," Sans agreed.

When the next reset hit, Sans had the traces of a buzz in the back of his skull, and a genuine smile on his face.

Progress started to move faster after that. Sans's mood was considerably higher, and Frisk insisted they help with assembly. It took thirty more resets to have everything ready, but the work didn't feel so overwhelming with two sets of hands.

Monitoring the results was even more painfully boring than the initial disassembly and reassembly had been. There was a lot of sitting involved, which normally would have delighted Sans, but the paying attention part was a drag. By one hundred and thirty five resets they had narrowed their search down to the east coast of the United States. At one hundred and forty resets, they knew they were looking in Florida.

One hundred and forty-one: they narrowed the results down to southern Florida.

One hundred and forty-two: they narrowed the results down to Broward county.

One hundred and forty-three: they narrowed the results down to an exact location.

Sans leapt from his seat with uncharacteristic urgency. "it's show time, kid."

Sans didn't know what he was expecting at the small, Broward county town, but somehow it was surprising to him that everything seemed in perfect order. Maybe it was just his experience with Frisk coloring his judgment, but he thought more murder and mayhem might be present with the frequency at which this series of resets was occurring.

"should we split up, or stick together?" He asked, turning to Frisk and see what they thought. They frowned at the suggestion and took his hand. Stick together it was.

The two meandered along main street, looking for something, anything that seemed out of the ordinary that might point their anomaly out to them. Everything seemed… so average. So normal. Sans wondered if perhaps his results had been inaccurate.

He stopped when he felt a tugging on his hand, turned to see Frisk stopped in front of a diner, peeking in the window at the menu. He chuckled. "what, you forget breakfast?"

He moved next to them, looking in as well. Everything looked as ordinary as the streets did. A quick sweep of the room revealed nothing that seemed particularly relevant, and his interest moved to the menu instead.

"pig in a poke, huh? not sure what that even is. seriously kid, are you hungry? we can eat if you want. i'm sure the anomaly isn't going anywhere anytime soon." He said, but Frisk didn't have a chance to respond before a man in a decent suit came out. Their attention shifted from the interior of the diner to the door, where another man emerged, dressed like some kind of hunter and looking for all the world like he was planning murder. Another man dressed in similar attire to the second pushed the door ajar before it had even finished closing, confusion gracing his features.

"Sammy, hey! Wait up!" He shouted after the other as he jogged past Sans and Frisk. Frisk turned to Sans, pointing after the trio of diner patrons intently.

"follow them?" Sans asked incredulously, but Frisk's nod was vehement. It wasn't as if he had a better lead himself and if they were wrong they would just have to look someplace else during the next reset, so with a shrug he turned and followed the three men down a less traveled side street.

The scene that greeted them made Sans rethink his skepticism immediately. The second man, Sam, had the first pinned against a fence with a stake against his throat, the third looking alarmed as he played mediator in the confrontation. "Planning murder" was apparently an even more apt description of Sam's expression than he realized.

Frisk grabbed his hand again, holding tight as the confrontation went along. The first man turned out to be a Trickster, something powerful enough to do what Frisk only could with the combined determination of two red human souls. Wasn't that just peachy? Sans was regretting letting Frisk talk him into this plan more and more. What was he going to do against something that could just drop him into a black hole if he pissed it off enough?

He took a step back, Frisk's grip tightening on his own phalanges the only thing keeping him from turning and high tailing it out of there. At least, the only thing until Sam spoke again.

"So this is fun for you? Killing Dean over and over again?"

He could hear something smug in the Trickster's tone that made his magic boil. "One, yes, it is fun. And two? This is so not about killing Dean. This joke is on you, Sam. Watching your brother die, every day? Forever?"

Sans knew Sam was responding to that barb in some way, but he couldn't quite hear the words for himself over his own involuntary laughter. In an instant his mind had been changed, and his fear transformed into bubbling rage. He didn't care what the Trickster might do to him anymore. What was it about people with the ability to bend time to their will and being dirty brother killers?

His finger bones creaked at Frisk's grip. Three sets of eyes were now staring right at them in shock, and he realized his laughter had been loud enough to draw their attention. He gave a crooked grin, pulled his hand out of Frisk's grip and shoved it into his pocket, looking as nonchalant as possible.

"heh. maybe you had to be there to get it. but your punchline could use some serious work, pal."