Leaning back against his headboard, Dean stared at the socks on his feet. He noticed that several of the threads covering the big toe of his right foot were worn. Experience told him he could get one more wearing before he would have to throw the sock away. A quick mental review of the contents of his duffle revealed he had an orphan sock at the bottom of the bag waiting for a mate. Instances like this were why he always bought the same brand of socks in the same color – black.
Dean snorted in disgust.
It was a sad state of affairs when discovering a soon-to-be hole in his clothing was the most exciting thing he’d done all day. It was torture sitting and doing nothing. Sam wouldn’t let him eat, shower, shave or watch TV. In fact, any kind of movement had been forbidden. It had something to do with this Groundhog Day loop the brothers were apparently trapped in. The only constant was sometime, somehow, somewhere Dean would die before the day was over.
While Dean couldn’t remember any of the previous Tuesdays so was unaffected personally, he could see what they were doing to his brother. Not even after the deaths of their father or Jess had Sam looked so beaten down. The only time he would reveal to Dean how one of the deaths had occurred in a previous loop was when Dean would try to do that activity again. Sam would quickly stop him with a pained expression on his face. That alone made Dean reconsider his actions, which is why soap was drying in his hair, and his shoes sat across the room.
Dean decided that tripping over his own shoelace had to be the most embarrassing way he had died so far.
His eyes absently glancing around the room, he unhappily realized his nose itched.
He twitched it, deliberately imitating the babe on Bewitched and hoping to ease the irritation. But it only seemed to make it worse. On a hunt, Dean could sit for hours ignoring any discomfort.
This wasn’t a hunt.
If it were, he was certain he wouldn’t be bothered by the sensation of something crawling under his skin. Feeling as though he would go crazy if he didn’t scratch, he realized Sam would never know he had gone against orders. Carefully lifting his left hand, Dean used the nail on his index finger to cease the annoyance.
Sighing with relief when a bolt of lightning didn’t strike him dead, he dropped his hand back down to his stomach. It was a strange life they led when he was afraid to move a single muscle in his body.
With nothing else to distract him, Dean found himself staring at his socks once again. At this rate, he was about to find out if someone could actually die of boredom.
Sam waited patiently as the gas station attendant put his purchases in a bag. He was in no hurry to return to the motel room he shared with Dean. One of two scenarios waited for him there. Either he would find Dean dead and the day would reset, or he would have to listen to his brother bitch about how bored he was. Neither prospect was appealing.
The plastic bag in his hand weighed down by a package of beef jerky and a bag of M&M’s, Sam walked outside stopped in his tracks. Closing his eyes, he turned his head up, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. It was a rare occurrence when a hunt could be conducted in daylight, even rarer to actually have the sun shining. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time fighting evil in the rain.
Someone bumped against Sam’s arm, bringing him out of his reverie.
Before he had left to obtain sustenance, Sam had told Dean to lie on his bed and not move a muscle. While this kind of order would normally have caused his obstinate brother to do the opposite, Sam could tell by the look in Dean’s eyes that he would comply. It had made Sam realize that the torment of the situation he found himself in was becoming visible -- at least to Dean.
The sound of an engine drew Sam’s eyes to the sky. Against a backdrop of white clouds, he saw a single-engine plane flying slowly across the treetops. The spectacle held little interest for him until he noticed its flight path.
When the engine sputtered, Sam dropped his bag and started to run. He had no fear for his own life. No matter how often he was in the line of fire he was never hurt. He hadn’t received so much as paper cut, while each day Dean had died.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the pilot eject from his aircraft. Even knowing what was going to happen, and that he would be too late, Sam kept running.
Smoke trailing in its wake, the plane dove. Air passing over its wings and body at such a high rate of speed had it screaming as if in its death throes. Sam continued to run toward it as those around him ran away.
Even though he had known the outcome was inevitable, Sam watched in horror as the small plane crashed into the hotel. Specifically, into the room where Dean lay helplessly on his bed.
Hands grabbed Sam’s arms, preventing him from running headlong into the fire engulfing the room he had shared with his brother. He didn’t fight their hold. When the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, Sam closed his eyes and ignored the meaningless platitudes uttered by the men restraining him.
All he had to do was wait.
The day would reset.
He just wanted it to happen quickly.