The day passed by without event, with Sam following the pattern of the first Tuesday. Finally, at around eleven-thirty, they found themselves picking the lock to the Mystery Spot.

Sam had the insane urge to grab Dean and just run. They were so close! So close to Wednesday, Sam thought he might scream. Another thirty minutes, 1,800 seconds, and they'd be home free.

The door opened into the neon green hallway, the corny music playing softly above them, and Dean stepped inside. Sam took a deep breath and followed.

He brought the EMF along merely to play the part. He probably didn't need to, but...better to play it safe. He kept checking his watch, though, as they went. 11:38 pm.

Dean made a few smart-ass remarks about the place, and Sam found himself silently agreeing. As he walked through the room, his eyes kept darting over towards the other entrance. By the time they got themselves over there, the door would open, the owner would come out with the weapon-

And Sam still had no idea how to change it.

He was shaking with nerves now, desperation making his gut tighten and his muscles jump. So close.

"Do you even know what you're looking for?" Dean asked, giving him a look.

Sam waved the EMF meter in front of a display and shrugged. "It could be anything in here; who knows where all the furniture and items came from, you know?" It was an idea he'd entertained for a few Tuesdays. "Like Bloody Mary. Remember?"

"Remember. Right. Like I'm gonna forget your eyes bleeding and your heart almost bursting anytime soon," Dean muttered under his breath.

It was good to know that it wasn't just Sam who remembered all the near death experiences, either. Or, of course, the actual death experiences. Whichever.

11:49 pm, and Sam finally led them over to the last place. "You okay?" Dean asked behind him, and the frown and concern were evident in his voice. "Got quiet for awhile, which you don't ever tend to do."

Sam tried to smile at the joke, but he couldn't. When had the owner pulled the trigger? How much time did he have?

Dean sighed. "Look, if you're seriously stressing out that much about the hunting and stuff, we can take a break. I don't care. I mean, I know...I know you've been worried about the whole destiny crap, which is all it is: crap. I know it." Another pause, and he could hear Dean stepping closer. "Are you shaking? Sammy, what the hell-"

"What the hell are you doin' here?!"

Sam whipped his head around just as Dean did, Dean already raising his gun. Sam immediately put his hands into the air. "Whoa, whoa, whoa whoa whoa, we can explain," Dean said hastily, as soon as he realized just who was aiming a gun at them.

The guy's hand shook on the gun, and Sam tried to breathe, then shifted slightly to the left. The owner immediately pointed the gun at him. "You robbin' me?" the owner asked.

The words weren't at all hard to remember. "Look, no one's robbing you, calm down," Sam said, willing the owner to listen to him this time, to please calm down and not accidentally shoot someone.

Not accidentally shoot Dean.

Dean moved, and the gun was aimed on him, and Sam knew what was coming next. He was down to seconds now, he had to do something-

"Don't move!" the owner shouted, and suddenly Sam knew what he had to do.

Dean was lowering the gun to the floor, opening his mouth to explain what he was doing, and Sam said the words instead. "He's just putting the gun down," before he took a full step to the right towards Dean.

The gun went off.

Sam flew back and onto the floor, grunting. It was only a second later that his body registered the blow, and he gasped as pain flared from his abdomen.

"SAM!"

Then Dean was there, hauling him up and pulling him into his arms. Sam whimpered at the movement, felt Dean's hands tighten as a result. "Call 911," Dean said to the owner, his voice trembling.

"I-I didn't mean-"

"NOW!"

The owner was ignored, and Dean was glancing down at him, eyes bright. "Sammy?" he whispered.

Sam blinked, then blinked again. He could feel his blood running down his skin, making his clothing wet, and he felt cold. His vision wavered, and it hurt to breathe.

He was dying.

"Just...just hang on for me, dude. You're gonna be fine. Just...oh god. No, no no no, not like this..."

He blinked hard, his eyes catching onto Dean's watch. 12:01 am.

He'd done it. It was Wednesday.

Sam began to laugh, helpless tears rolling down his face. He was dying, Dean was crying now, but the joy was overwhelming him. "I did it," he whispered to Dean.

Dean straightened his lower lip enough to ask, "Did what, Sammy?"

"I got out," Sam breathed, before he closed his eyes. It was over.

Even through his joy, though, Sam couldn't help but hate himself, too. Irony didn't even begin to cut it: Dean's death had rewound the day; Sam's death would end it. Now, Dean was going to be alone, and there was nothing he could do. Dean was the one holding his dying brother now, and even for the longed for Wednesday, Sam wouldn't have wanted it at that expense.

He couldn't feel Dean's arms around him anymore, and Dean's frantic voice faded away to nothing.

When Sam opened his eyes again, he half expected to hear Asia.

He wasn't in the motel room, though, and the only sounds he could hear were soft voices and a paging system.

After a few blinks, he was able to focus. White room, white bedding, light blue scratchy gown, dark clothed brother in the chair beside him. Sam turned towards Dean.

Dean's head was down, eyes locked on the floor. He looked exhausted and wrecked, and that made Sam's gut tighten again. "Dean?" he rasped, before he cleared his throat.

Dean's head whipped up, red-rimmed eyes meeting his. "Is it Wednesday?" Sam asked.

Dean stared, before he barked out a laugh. "It's Friday," he said. "Well past Wednesday."

Even better yet. Sam closed his eyes with a smile. He didn't care about the owner, or the wound that was now throbbing near his right hip. They were out of Tuesday, and that was enough for him.

When he opened his eyes, though, Dean still looked haunted. The first glimmers of a frown began on Sam's face. "Dean?"

"I've rehearsed this conversation a million times in my head," Dean said, running a hand over his face. "Not like I haven't had the time, you know, since my baby brother's in the hospital because he's got an apparent death wish. So just shut up and listen, all right?"

Sam's frown became more tangible. Death wish...?

"If...If you needed a break, Sam, you could've just spoken up," Dean started. "I mean, I wouldn't blame you, after all of this. What happened with the witches and then worrying about the Colt, which, if I ever find Bela, no one's ever gonna find her again," he added with a mutter. "I just...dammit Sammy, if you needed to step out of hunting for awhile, just say something, all right? Dying's not the way to get out of the game. Okay? It's just not."

"Dying...?" Sam asked, bewildered, before it hit him. His words on Tuesday had made perfect sense to him, because he knew the score. I just feel like I'm surrounded by death...I can't...I can't do it anymore, Dean. I can't...I did it. I got out.

He hadn't filled Dean on about the time-loop. Oh god.

"Dean," Sam began, but Dean waved his hands.

"I told you to shut up and let me finish," Dean said, sounding angry. Sam knew what was fueling the anger, though. "I mean, I just...how long have you been feeling like this? Because I thought I was watching out for you pretty well, and somehow this slipped under the radar. It's like you just woke up feeling this way-"

"Dean-"

"-which is impossible, and I said shut up-"

"I don't want to kill myself," Sam finally said, raising his eyebrows. "Okay? I swear, Dean, and I'll explain everything."

Dean stopped mid-tirade and frowned. "Explain? Explain what?"

"The everlasting Tuesdays."

"The what?"

Sam just shook his head. "Not here, not now. Can we just get out of here?"

Dean narrowed his gaze. So much for that plan. "Sam, you were just unconscious for a good two days because of a freakin' gunshot wound. Which, by the way, we're not being arrested for, because they bought my story about us being undercover agents searching into Hasselback's disappearance. So we're scot-free on that one."

"Good," Sam said, sighing. "I didn't really want to deal with it." He'd dealt with enough, thank you.

"So yeah, you're not going anywhere anytime soon," Dean said, crossing his arms. "We'll be here for another couple of days, to make sure the wound's okay. You're just lucky you're taller than I am; he was aiming for my heart, and he didn't even waver the gun, just swiveled and turned it on you."

"How's Hasselback?" he couldn't help but ask. "His daughter find him?"

Dean froze, staring at Sam. "How'd you know-"

"Lucky guess," Sam said, shaking his head. For all his pranks, the Trickster held by his word.

And Sam would hold by his; there'd be no searching for the Trickster. Ever. He'd let him go south or east or wherever the hell he wanted to go, and if they ever found something that sounded like it was him...

Well, they'd leave it alone and advise Bobby to spread the news to others to do the same.

"Earth to Sam?" Dean asked, waving his hand in front of Sam's face. "Hello?"

"Still here," Sam said, shoving Dean's hand away and wincing when it pulled on the wound. "Knock it off."

"Hey, dude, I'm totally entitled," Dean said, glaring at him. "When you have to sit and watch your brother die, you're allowed to be as obnoxious as you want. And I've seen you die twice now, because your heart stopped on the way into the hospital, therefore I'm so beyond entitled, it's not even funny."

Except it was, and Sam began to laugh, long and hard. There was a thin line between joy and tears, though, and the laughter changed on a hitched breath to a sob. He couldn't catch it in time, and he shut his eyes tight, his head falling forward as he cried.

It was over.

A familiar arm pulled him down and to the left, where a shoulder was waiting for him to cry on. "It's all right, Sammy," Dean murmured.

"It wasn't," Sam choked out. "You kept dying, and I couldn't...I couldn't..."

A pause, then the hand was gently rubbing his arm. "Okay, I think you need to tell me exactly what the hell happened," Dean said softly. "Because it doesn't sound like fun."

No, it really hadn't been. He continued to sob, just as hard as he'd laughed only minutes before. Every single death he'd had to watch was ingrained into his brain. He knew, even after he told Dean what had happened, that he'd still be watching his brother eat, watching him walk across the road, watching him load a weapon differently. He knew now practically every single thing that could happen to Dean.

And he knew that in a few short months, he was going to have to watch Dean die one last time. That time, though, there wouldn't be a time-loop. Just Dean getting dragged off to hell.

Even as he cried, his fingers found Dean's shirt, and he wrapped his fingers in the material tightly. Just let them try. Sam had seen Dean die enough times, and enough was enough.

He'd be damned before he saw Dean die again.