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Groundhog Day
by astolat

On Tuesday number sixty-seven, Sam rented Groundhog Day.

The motel room didn't have a DVD player, so he had to break into an empty house to watch it on their DVD player. "Dude," Dean said, looking over his shoulder while Sam picked the lock and dragged him inside. "It wasn't that good a movie."

"Shut up and sit down and don't touch anything," Sam said. He knew by now that wasn't going to be enough. He'd tried tying Dean to a chair once and the ceiling had caved in on him. Another time he'd made Dean lie down under the bed and stay there all day, and Dean had developed a sudden horrible and fatal allergy to dust. Something always killed Dean.

But Sam could postpone it a little—if they followed a track he'd mostly done before and he stayed really cautious, usually he could fend off the deaths until pretty late in the day. Then around ten or eleven or so Dean would get bitten on the ankle by a poisonous chipmunk or slip on a banana peel or someone would open a door and accidentally hit him right in the trachea. The only small sliver to be grateful for was that Dean always went quick.

He shoved the disk in the player. Dean rolled his eyes and sat down on the zebra-print couch and put his boots up on the fancy steel-and-mahogony coffee table, littered with copies of Architectural Digest.

The movie did seem pretty good: Sam could look at it from a long way off and see how you could laugh at it, the way Dean was laughing. Right now, though, all he wanted to know was how the hell Bill Murray had gotten out of the loop. "Hey," Dean said, when Sam tried to fast-forward, and they ended up wrestling for the remote until Dean fell off the couch and cracked his skull open on the edge of the coffee table.

"It was the heat of the moment—"

The next day, Sam just sat next to Dean and watched through the whole movie from start to finish. "Okay, so," Dean said, looking over, "what's next? Caddyshack?"

Sam was still staring at the screen. He was too beaten down to get really upset anymore, or he'd have felt like throwing something through the TV.

"You know, Sammy," Dean said, nudging him, "maybe the movie's right after all. Maybe this is all just a sign you need to get laid."

"Did that already," Sam said dully. He'd tried to take a few rounds off around Tuesday fifty-two, see what happened if he just went off and did his own thing. Dean still got killed. "Didn't work."

"Fine," Dean said, looking away. "So maybe you need to meet somebody special."

"Right," Sam said, huffing a thin laugh. "Because watching you die every day is really putting me in the mood." Anyway, by now he was having a hard time picking anyone up. They all knew that there was something weird with him.

"Whatever," Dean said. "You know it's going to happen, dude, so just—forget about it. Go out there and—"

"Forget about it?" Sam said. He got up and walked out of the house, because otherwise he'd punch Dean in the face, and it would probably end up with the coffee table again.

Dean followed him out, saying, "Hey—" and tripped over the front stoop and broke his neck on the garden walkway.

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Casual sex didn't do a thing. And no, he wasn't going to find his true love in Broward County. That did leave one other possibility. He looked at Dean, tying his bootlaces on the other bed and bopping his head in time. Dean, alive and breathing, and if there was even a little chance this might work—

"Uh, what?" Dean said.

"Look, it's worth a shot," Sam said.

"Uh," Dean said.

"Just work with me on this," Sam said, and reached for Dean's jacket.

"Dude!" Dean said, batting wildly at his hands. "Get off me!"

"Dean, just—"


"Dean, wait. Wait, no, don't go that—"

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam took Dean to a strip club and bought him a lot of drinks and lapdances. Dean was sort of wobbly by the time Sam took him out to the car, and he only made vague protests when Sam opened his pants and bent his head down for the blowjob. Unfortunately, Dean too drunk to shove him off was also Dean too drunk to get it up. Sam gave up after a while and drove them back to the motel to wait until some of it wore off. In the back seat, Dean snored halfway there, then he started puking and choked to death on his own vomit.

Sam bought Dean presents: stuff for the Impala, mostly. That didn't work too well. Dean electrocuted himself, set himself on fire, and, once, blew up the car.

Sam ordered pay-per-view porn for them to watch together. Dean got up to change the channel and tripped over the coffee table, went headfirst into the screen, and slit his throat on the glass.

Sam tied Dean down to the bedframe, but Dean kneed him in the head and then managed to smother himself with a pillow.

Sam started to get obsessed with it. He stared at Dean's mouth in the diner, pressed his legs up and around Dean's knees; he walked so close their arms brushed, and the times he could get away with it he put his hand on Dean's shoulder or neck, or in the small of his back. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean's jeans to tug him around, or wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist, where the fragile pulse trembled.

"Dude," Dean said, every day, every time, "personal space."

"Yeah," Sam said, and kept taking more of it. Dean never pushed him away until Sam actually went for it. But Dean always drew the line there; he never gave in, and Sam kept trying and trying, until the morning after Dean had just backed over a balcony and fallen nine stories to avoid being kissed, Sam just rolled over in bed and stuffed his face into the pillow and cried.

"Sam?" Dean said. "Sam—Sammy, come on—" and Dean was grabbing him and pulling him up, cupping Sam's face with both hands and smoothing away the tears with his thumbs, trying to look into Sam's eyes, his own panicked and wide and green. "Hey. Hey. What's going on? Sam, what the hell—"

Sam clung to Dean's shoulders and said brokenly, "You won't let me, and I can't—keep doing this, I don't know how—"

"What?" Dean said. "Sam, come on, anything, just tell me—"

"Dean," Sam said, and pressed his forehead to Dean's. Dean's sour morning breath was on his mouth. Dean was holding onto him so hard his arms hurt where Dean's fingers were gripping him, and when Sam skated his mouth over Dean's, Dean flinched a little, but he didn't pull away, just said hoarsely, "Sam—"

"Please," Sam said. "Please," and Dean opened his mouth and let Sam kiss him. He let Sam clumsily paw open his shirt and tug his tee out of his jeans, and he let Sam pull him back down to the bed, and he let Sam put a hand around his dick, and then he said, "Ow, fuck!" and jumped as Sam tried to jerk him off the wrong way.

The bed collapsed under them, cheap metal frame whining as it gave way. A bar came jabbing up through the mattress and sliced open Dean's femoral artery.

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam spent the next couple of Tuesdays reading through The Joy Of Gay Sex and finding a place that sold lubricant. Then he got up and turned off the radio.

"Dude! You can't diss Asia!" Dean said indignantly.

"Dean," Sam said, and knelt on Dean's bed and took Dean's face in his hands and pulled him close.

"Sam?" Dean said.

"Dean," Sam said softly—just holding him, not trying to push him, just holding him there. "Please."

"Sam," Dean said, low and trembling, and let Sam kiss him all over again, his mouth warm and soft and sour.

After they'd been kissing for about half an hour and Dean was flushed and hard and naked in the bed, Sam said, "Stay here, okay?" and got up and grabbed for his pants.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean said, sitting up and staring.

"Just stay here," Sam said. "Don't get out of bed. I'm going to go get some stuff."

Dean flushed and said, "Side pocket of my bag, the ammo pouch," which turned out to have a stash of condoms and a little silver vibrator and a small leather strap and a bunch of foil packets of lubricant. Sam stared at the vibrator and the cock ring and took the lube.

Dean didn't do much. He kept a hand always touching Sam—his arm, his shoulder, his hair, stroking him, petting gently. Other than that, Dean just lay there and shut his eyes and let Sam do whatever he wanted. He bit his lip and his face crinkled up when Sam slid fingers into him, and his dick was soft between his legs. "No, it's okay," he said, when Sam paused and tried to jerk him hard. "No, keep going," and he kept breathing steady deep breaths while Sam pushed into him.

Afterwards Sam crumpled limply into bed next to him. Dean untangled himself, patted Sam on the back and said, "Yeah, I'm gonna get a shower." He got up before Sam could struggle up to stop him, and he went into the bathroom and locked the door.

"Dean?" Sam said, pounding on the door. "Dean! Let me—"

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam tried the cockring next time. "Whoa, kinky," Dean said. That and a blowjob kept Dean more interested in the whole thing, but he still didn't really get off. Sam tried to keep him in bed, after, but Dean said, "Dude, quit getting girly on me," and the struggle somehow ended with Dean stabbing himself in the eye with the broken remains of one of the beer bottles that had been lying on his end table.

Dean would stay in bed for long, slow blowjobs, though, and Sam got more patient the more of them he gave. "Jesus fuck, Sam," Dean gasped, staring down at him, the day Sam finally figured out how to ease Dean all the way down his throat, except Dean got pissed off and angry after, for no reason Sam could figure out, and shoved his way out of the room so fast he tripped over the cord of the maid's vacuum cleaner and took a header right into the concrete wall outside.

Sam tried getting Dean to fuck him. Dean shut his eyes and lubed himself up and shoved in, and it hurt so much Sam thought maybe he was going to die. He couldn't help making a noise of pain. Dean yanked back out, which hurt even more, then he pulled his pants on, shot out of the motel room, and tripped over the vacuum cleaner cord again.

Sam started going through pretty much the entire table of contents of the book. One Tuesday he learned that Dean loved it when Sam nosed along his neck and kissed him right up near the jawline, with teeth. Another Tuesday he learned that Dean got squirmy when Sam nudged a knuckle right in the warm damp hollow behind his balls. The one after that, he figured out that Dean liked having his balls sucked, too.

Dean liked to be smacked on the ass a little, but not a real spanking. He liked to have his nipples licked but not bitten. His skin was sensitive; too much fingering or jerking-off, even with lube, got him sore and unenthusiastic. He just rolled his eyes if Sam tried to lick behind his knees or suck his toes. Dean loved to get rimmed, maybe even more than he loved blowjobs, although he always got twitchy and embarrassed about it for the first minute or so.

The vibrator didn't do anything for him, turned out; he just kept it for girls. He liked the cockring, though, the way it kept him hard all the way through. The one time Sam tried tying him up, Dean was nervous the whole time. He made Sam leave a knife in reach for him to cut himself loose with, except he managed to slit his wrist instead.

Dean liked being on his stomach and curled over a pillow, but he didn't like admitting he did, so Sam had to pretty much manhandle him that way, which Dean liked even more. Dean liked kissing unless it went on too long, and then he started getting weirdly tense and shoving his way out of Sam's arms and trying to get out of bed, and any way Sam tried to keep him there, it always ended badly.

"Groundhog Day," Dean said flatly, shoving back the covers. "And, what, you figure I'm Andie McDowell? Get me laid, break the curse—"

"Well, I thought, maybe," Sam said. "No, Dean, wait, listen to me—"

Dean's gun slipped out and hit the ground as Dean grabbed at a pair of boxers.

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam kissed Dean soft and slow back down to the bed; kissed Dean's neck and licked his nipples and rubbed his thighs until Dean spread for him. He sucked Dean's cock for a while, wet and messy, then his balls, and licked and nosed at them with lube-slick fingers wrapped around Dean's cock, teasing slowly.

Dean was panting and sweating, almost ready to come. Sam snapped the cockring on, laying kisses on Dean's thighs, and then he sat back and said, "Turn over."

"Dude," Dean said, half-protesting, and Sam pushed him over onto a pillow and put a hand on Dean's back to keep him there. "Hey, taking charge there, huh," Dean said, trying for lightly.

"Yeah," Sam said, low, and kissed the back of Dean's neck, kissed his way down Dean's spine and licked at the sweat in the hollow of his back, slid down between Dean's thighs and licked over his hole. Dean twitched and squirmed and shoved his face against the pillow. "Shh," Sam said, and licked him some more, poked his tongue inside. Dean was shaking under him, his shoulders tight and tense, and Sam kept licking until Dean finally relaxed into it, his whole body opening up.

Sam slicked Dean up, not for too long, and then he pushed in slow but steady. Dean was ready for him, gasping; he even said, "Yeah," once briefly, and then he shoved his face back into the pillow.

"Dean," Sam said, panting. "Dean." He eased all the way in and pulled Dean back against him, kissing at his throat again. Dean was more open around him than he'd ever been before, and Sam's cock moved easy in him, in and out, and he was starting to lose it. He was scraping his teeth against Dean's skin, and Dean was groaning under him, and then Dean said something, barely audible.

"What?" Sam panted.

Dean groaned and said indistinctly, "C'mon, Sammy," and Sam shuddered all over, because Dean hadn't ever—

"Tell me," Sam said. "Dean, please, tell me—"

"Oh God," Dean said. "Sam. Sam—"

"Please," Sam said. "Please, Dean, I need to hear—tell me—"

"I'm telling you!" Dean said, his voice cracking. "I'm telling you, come on, Sam, do it—" Sam was fucking him, harder and harder and faster, and Dean was arching under him and pushing back and saying, "Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, yes."

Sam pulled Dean close and sobbed into the back of his neck and said, "Dean," and then Dean was coming over his fingers, his cock jerking and spilling, even with the cock ring. Sam kissed his neck again and Dean sighed, slumping back against him, soft and warm and languid, and this time, when Sam lay him down, Dean didn't try to get away when Sam curled around him and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

Sam kept tugging Dean back down every time he halfheartedly tried to get up. "Dude, we've been in bed all day," Dean said, tipping his head over to look out the window. It was dark outside, and the clock said 8:43.

"Yeah," Sam said, softly, touching Dean's face. "Stay. Stay with me."

Dean looked over, his face scared and longing. "Sam," he said, low and husky, "this—all of this—"

"I love you," Sam said, and Dean flushed and looked away, stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were bright and wet even in the dark. Sam curled close around him and whispered, "I love you."

"Yeah," Dean said, thickly, and curled his hand tight into Sam's hair, and Sam fell asleep on his shoulder, with Dean stroking fingers against his scalp.

Sam woke up at 11:58pm. Dean was up and walking into the bathroom. It was too late to stop him. The choked-off gasp hurt worse than the gunshot on the first night. Sam shut his eyes and waited to wake up again.

"It was the heat of the moment—"

Sam woke up. Dean was singing along with Asia again. Sam looked over at him.

"Dude, Asia," Dean said, smirking.

"Yeah," Sam said, and got up to brush his teeth for the first time in a month of Tuesdays.

"But you'd better promise me, I'll be back in time—"

"You okay?" Dean asked, in the car, heading north out of Broward as fast as she would take them. "You're still looking kinda out there, Sammy."

"I'll be fine," Sam said. He had his hands clenched in his lap to keep them from shaking. "Just get us out of here."

Dean drove all day. Sam didn't let him stop until they crossed the Mason-Dixon line, and the clock ticked past midnight.

"If I could turn back time—If I could find a way—"

Sam woke up in the morning, but he didn't open his eyes until he heard Dean singing in the shower. He sat up slowly, stiffly, as Dean came out of the bathroom toweling his hair with another towel wrapped around his hips. Sam stared at him.

"If I could reach the stars... What?" Dean said defensively, trailing off.

"This is what life is going to be like without him."

"Earth to Sam Winchester," Dean said, waving a hand in front of his face.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam said, and went to put his head under the spray. It pounded away at his neck and his shoulders. He put his hand up to touch the side of his chest, where the bullet had skidded up against the rib. The skin was smooth, unbroken, but he still felt a twinge of phantom pain. It'd happened only three days ago. Or it hadn't happened at all. Maybe all of it had been—

Or maybe it was still happening. Maybe he'd picked up a fever from the gunshot and he'd just dreamed waking up. Maybe there was blood leaking beneath his fingers, and he'd—

"Dude, come on, I'm starving!" Dean yelled, from outside. "You didn't let me stop for anything besides Doritos and beef jerky yesterday!"

Sam started and got a faceful of water. He stood in the shower shaking with it, little motel bar of soap skidding out of his hands. He scrubbed his hair with his fingers because he couldn't unscrew the shampoo and got out as fast as he could.

Dean sang all the way to the Denny's, drumming on the steering wheel with his fingers. Sam kept looking at him. Dean glanced over. "Seriously, what's with the staring?"

"Nothing," Sam said softly. He reached out and put his hand on Dean's arm, fingers curled loosely around his wrist.

"Dude, personal space," Dean said, but he didn't try to pull away. After a minute, he casually let his hand ease off the wheel and settle on the seat, so Sam could hold on more easily. Dean kept his eyes facing forward, his other hand strong and firm on the wheel, keeping them in lane. Sam kept his eyes on Dean. Dean's pulse was a little fast. Sam thought about saying please.

He touched Dean's pulse again with his fingers, and decided he could wait. There'd be time after. He wasn't letting go.

= End =

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