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The first time he woke up, he had dismissed it as a bad dream.
But it seemed so real, his mind whispered. It had been so vivid; he could picture the scene clearly, the dimly lit Mystery Spot, neon swirls adorning the walls, glowing eerily as Sam cradled a gasping Dean, struggling to breathe as the color drained from his face through the bullet wound in his chest, Sam pleading through the tears flowing freely down his cheeks, “Hey, no no, not like this…”
“Dean,” he whispered, as the hunter’s eyes fluttered shut.
“Heat of the moment…”
“Rise and shine, Sammy!”
Sam woke up.
By the tenth Tuesday, Sam’s smile had lost its luster.
By the fiftieth Tuesday, Sam had stopped smiling.
“Hey Sammy, you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“No, Dean. I’m not.”
Despite Sam’s objections, Dean insisted on bringing him to see the local therapist. Halfway through, Dean stepped out for a coffee, and Sam’s eyes snapped open to Asia.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!”
Sam refused to go to therapy after that.
“Come on. You love this song and you know it.”
“You don't-you don't remember? Any of this?”
“You'll thank me when it's Wednesday!”
Sam woke up. He didn’t open his eyes.
By the two hundredth Tuesday, Sam was tired. Too tired to care anymore.
He stared into the bathroom mirror.
He had long since stopped telling Dean about this- thing, this phenomenon. Some days he tried, tried to keep his brother safe, checked and double checked and triple checked his precautions, avoid this street, don’t go down that alley, steal Mr. Pickett’s keys, don’t buy this brand of tacos. If possible, Dean’s inevitable end only seemed even more gruesome on those days.
“Heat of the moment…”
Sam fingered the razor.
Other days, Sam simply tried to make the most of his time with his brother. He’d drag a bewildered Dean to the park, a pair of Frisbees in his other hand. Attempt a smile, try to have fun. Close his eyes when a gunshot echoed across the field.
He never cried anymore. He was too empty.
And he hated himself for it.
“I'll have the special, side of bacon and a coffee.”
“Uh, nothing for me, thanks.”
By the one hundred seventy-sixth Tuesday, he had stopped speaking. He simply looked at Dean as he begged, pleaded, for Sam to utter even a single word.
He pressed the razor to his wrist.
“Will it stop?” he asked his reflection. “Is it ever going to end?”
His reflection stared back.
Empty, emotionless.
Sam closed his eyes.
Dean woke up.
Casting a glance at Sam’s figure on the other bed only to find it motionless, his lip curled in a smirk, and he reached for the radio. He fiddled with the controls, wincing at a particularly loud burst of static, but his brother remained still. Even as Asia’s “Heat of the Moment” filled the room.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!” he said loudly, but his brother didn’t move.
It was then that Dean noticed that Sam wasn’t breathing.
A golden haired man stood silently at an unmarked gravestone. Bowing his head slightly, he seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.
With a snap of his fingers, he disappeared into the wind.