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Bad taco. Slipping in the shower. His chair gives way from under him and his neck snaps on impact. The Impala catches fire with Dean inside when they try to flee town. The lamp shorts and electrocutes him. Deadly food poisoning off his breakfast sausage. 

Sam wishes he could stop keeping count, but he can’t. Five hundred, forty-two days. Five hundred, forty-two ways to die. Five hundred, forty-two mornings of knowing it’s going to start all over again. And again. And again.

Sam hasn’t seen a way out. He’s done everything he can to save Dean, to warn him. He’s tried to flee town. He’s tried to keep them locked in the motel room all day. 

Nothing. Dean dies, end of story. After almost two years of it, Sam is starting to get the picture. Even he isn’t that dense. 

Heeeat of the moment

Sam refuses to open his eyes. Not again. Not again. Not again.

Yesterday was getting hit in the head with a fly ball from the nearby baseball park, on their way to breakfast. The deaths haven’t gotten any less creative, five hundred forty-two days in.

Five hundred forty-three.

Dean’s just as jovial, just as unaware, as ever. He wants to solve the case.

Sam wants to go back to sleep and never wake up.

He finally opens his eyes, sits up, stares at his brother. Really looks at him. He’s lived long past the end of his deal, in a sense. He dies every day. It’s technically still that Tuesday. But it’s been two years. At least they had two years of mornings together, he figures.

Dean gets up to head to the bathroom, presumably to brush his teeth. Sam closes his eyes again, body tense. It could happen right now. He could slip on a bit of water from his shower, or impale his brain with his toothbrush. Or, Sam might have to wait until lunchtime–it never goes much later than that–waiting in fear and anticipation. He can never know.

He keeps his ears peeled, listening, although Dean doesn’t always make noise when he dies. Sometimes, Sam doesn’t even know it’s happened, just wakes up to Asia all over again.

Five hundred forty-three days. He’s at a year and a half. A year and a half of this, day in and day out. Never getting a moment’s rest.

He doesn’t deserve a moment’s rest. Dean is going to die any moment, and Sam is failing to stop it. Again.

He finally stands, grabs his gun from under his pillow to tuck into his waistband. He holds onto it for a moment, staring.

He’s never died. Or he has, once, and that’s what got them into the wholedeal mess. But he hasn’t died since they got stuck here. He wonders…

Would it be quiet? Would it be a moment’s rest?

Would it end this?

I’ll just wake up again, he tells himself. Listening to Asia.

Then there’s nothing to lose, he eventually decides. He listens hard. Dean’s still in the bathroom, humming along to the next song now.

Sam makes it quick, anticipating hearing Asia blaring from the radio in a moment.

He doesn’t wake up.