Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters represented by the show. This writing is strictly for entertainment purposes.

Routine. The human brain's self-preservation at its finest. The most world-renowned coping mechanism among all living things, almost without exception.

Dean has a routine. Get up, shower, brush teeth, check on Sam, eat breakfast, find a hunt, drive around, tease Sam, kill something, eat dinner, get a motel, sleep, repeat. Up, shower, teeth, Sam, breakfast, hunt, drive, tease, kill, dinner, motel, sleep, repeat. Throw in 'talk to witnesses' in place of 'find a hunt' or 'track something to kill' instead of 'kill something' and you pretty much have Dean's whole life mapped out in front of you, give or take.

Jess had had a routine too. Get up, take a shower, brush teeth, make breakfast, wake Sam, go to classes, get lunch, go to work, find dinner, come home, kiss Sam, eat, sleep, repeat. Up, shower, teeth, breakfast, Sam, classes, work, dinner, Sam, eat, sleep, repeat. And hers was even more stable than Dean's because aside from the occasional accidental lie-in or not-so-accidental round of sex with Sam, nothing ever really changed. As a general rule, Jess didn't worry about being eaten or possessed or shot when she went out of the house, and therefore hospital trips weren't really an issue.

Even dad had had a routine. Get up, take a shower, brush teeth, hunt, do research, hunt, eat food, hunt, check on Sam and Dean, hunt, hunt, hunt, repeat. Simple, really. Basic human needs, basic parental duties (most of the time), hunting, hunting, more hunting and you know what? Let's just throw in some extra hunting for good measure.

Anyway, there is some sort of routine in everyone's life; it's a constant fact, there's something the same, every day, without fail.

Sam's routine, as of late, has been... interrupted. Ever since Dean decided to add 'die' into his schedule, the younger Winchester has been forced to make some adjustments. Pretty major adjustments. Basically, he's had to trash his whole frikin' agenda and start from scratch. But the real kicker is that in order to keep what's left of his sanity, he's had to plan every single fucking minute of the fucking day and he has to follow the routine perfectly or he's going to end up in some mental institution. Not that it would matter, because after he checks 'watch dean die' off of his to-do list he gets to wake up and do it all over again.

And thus we begin.

"Heat of the moment. Heat of the moment. It was the heat—"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam's hand flashes out to smack the alarm clock until it falls onto the floor with a dull thud and a soft crack.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean protests, and Sam knows without opening his eyes that he's gone to check the radio.

He lays there for exactly fifteen seconds before opening his eyes and then it's another fifteen seconds until he sits up. He pulls the covers down and to the left, swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands. If his strides are the correct length, it takes him nine steps to get to the bathroom door and three more steps to get to the shower from there.

Dean, as predicted, is sitting on the opposite bed with his boots half-tied fiddling with the poor, broken alarm clock in his hands.

"What's your problem?" he asks, looking up to glare at his brother. Sam shrugs and begins the slow, steady walk to the bathroom. One, two, three, four, five...

He stays in the shower for seven minutes, shaves the stubble from his jaw in two, dresses in one, and opens the bathroom door. He paces the room as Dean shaves, restless because he has no fucking idea how long Dean is going to take. It's always different, always a reminder that of everything he can control, he can't control the one thing he wants to the most.

Today is takes Dean ten minutes before he comes out with a newly clear jaw. Sam immediately heads back in and picks up his pink tooth brush and squirts a carefully measured amount of toothpaste out before he brings the utensil up to brush in circles that are measured equally as carefully. Dean comes in after about fort-five seconds and looks at him funny in the mirror for six before shaking his head and picking up his own toothbrush. Sam watches him, takes the you're-losing-it glances as they come, leans down, and spits. One hundred twenty seconds. Just like clockwork.

They arrive at the diner at eight thirty-two. Sam takes the old man's keys and sits down and waits.

"Hey! Tuesday, pig-n-a-poke," Dean announces, looking decidedly amused. Sam throws him a quick smile and glances at the clock. Eight thirty-four. Just like always. He feels himself relax a little.

"You feelin' okay?" Dean asks then, voice an octave lower. He's leaning towards Sam over the table, and there's that little V between his eyes that he always gets when he's concerned.

"Fine." Sam throws his brother another tight smile and feels his foot begin to tap as he waits for the server with barely contained apprehension. What if she doesn't come at the right time? What if Dean doesn't want the same thing? What if—?

Sam forces himself to take a deep breath, forces his muscles to uncoil a little. It'll be the same time, the same order, just the way it always is. Always. And it is. The waitress comes at eight thirty-nine, Sam says, "He'll take the special, coffee, side of bacon, nothing for me," and when Doris is gone Dean smirks and replies, "Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that."

"I know you do, Dean," Sam returns automatically. He unfolds his napkin and puts it in his lap beforeadjusting his silverware.

"OCD much?" Dean asks, and when Sam looks up he's frowning. He sighs. The OCD comment is the same every Tuesday, but the facial expression always remains to be seen. Sometimes it's a frown, sometimes it's a smirk, and sometimes it's that 'my brother is such a geek' kind of fond expresison that had always made Sam blush in the past.

Sam doesn't reply. He catches the hot sauce, watches with impatience and a little bit of dread as Dean eats and doesn't choke (thank God, those are always the worst), and drags Dean out of the diner as soon as he finishes, in a hurry to get to the mystery spot on time.

Unfortunately, Dean has other ideas.

"Whoa, hold up," the older Winchester says, stopping Sam with a hand on his chest. He studies his younger brother, his brow furrowed. "Sammy, what's wrong, man? What's going on?"

Sam sighs impatiently and checks his watch. Of all the times for Dean to pull the Big Brother Card. "I'm fine, Dean. Come on, we have to go."

"Sam," Dean warns.

"Dean," Sam replies. He tugs on Dean's wrist. "Come on. We're going to be late."

"Didn't know we had an appointment," Dean mutters, but allows himself to be dragged down the street by his clearly unhinged baby brother.

"Where's my dang keys?" The old man says as they hurry past. Sam check his watch and lets out a relieved breath. Nine-oh-three. Still on schedule.

He slows down a little and lets go of Dean's arm. The older eyes him, mumbling, "No, good, you're totally balanced." Sam has to fight down the bubble of hysterical laughter threatening to escape his throat.

They go to the Mystery Spot, have a pointless interview with the owner, get back to the motel, and all in good time. But Sam's starting to get antsy, becuase the day is coming to an end and Dean is still breathing. Briefly, Sam considers the sheer and utter wrongness of this phenomenon.

They eat at exactly six thirty, Sam paces for fifteen minutes after they finish, and it isn't until seven twenty-eight that Dean starts coughing up blood, and it isn't until ten fifty-seven that his heart ceases to beat.

"Heat of the moment. Heat of the moment. It was the—"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

This time, when Sam throws the damned electronic on the floor, Dean doesn't say anything. Something akin to panic has Sam's eyes snapping open and his head turning toward his brother, who is studying the younger man with his eyes narrowed slightly and the beginnings of worry showing their green depths. Sam's stomach drops and he swallows. It's different. Today is different, it's all going to go wrong, he can feel it.

"You look like shit, Sam," Dean observes slowly. Sam swallows again. Dean finishes lacing up his boots without taking his eyes off of Sam, and when he's finished he says, "Go take a shower, then we're going to eat."

Shakily, Sam stands and tries to get himself back into routine. Nine steps to the bathroom. Three steps to the shower. Seven minutes, two minutes, one minute. Six minutes for Dean to shave and Sam is thrown off again. Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Into the bathroom, toothpaste, circles, one hundred twenty seconds.

Still, they get to the diner late and Dean doesn't let him not order for himself.

"He'll have the same as I'm having, thanks," Dean interrupts, smiling at Doris.

"Sure thing, hon," she replies, writing it down on her notepad before walking off. Sam turns to stare at his brother.

"Don't give me that look," Dean snaps, glaring. "What the hell is going on with you, Sam? You look like you haven't eaten in weeks. You were fine yesterday."

"And I'm fine today," Sam retorts, tapping his fingers on the table. He stares at the clock, wills the hands to move backwards so that he can get back to abnormal, fucked-up version of normal.

"The hell you are," Dean says. "Look at me, Sam. Look at me!"

The younger man turns his head to meet his older brother's eyes. If they leave now they can still get to the Mystery Spot on time...

"Are you sick?" Dean demands. "Hurt? Are you depressed? Tell me, Sam!"

"I'm fine," Sam bites. It takes all his strength not to stand up and run, out of the diner, back to the Mystery Spot and routine and safety as valid as safety can be in this god damn town.

"Bullshit," Dean grounds out. He opens his mouth to say something but the food comes, and Sam makes himself shovel it into his mouth so that he'll have no chance of responding to his older brother's interrogation. When they're both done he's out the door before the money even hits the table.

Halfway down the block Dean snags his shoulder, almost making him trip.

"Cut the crap and tell me what the hell is going on." It's not a request. It's an order.

"Dean, please," Sam begs, checking his watch. They're already over thirty minutes late, fuck, fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. "We're so late—"

"Late for what?" Dean shouts. He lowers his voice when the people around them turn to stare. "We're not fucking late, Sam. We have nowhere to be."

"The Mystery Spot—"

"Can wait," Dean breaks in. "We're going back to the motel room. You need a break, little brother."

Sam doesn't say anything. He follows Dean obediently as they walk back to the motel, counts his footsteps along the sidewalk in a futile attempt to regain control. When they get there Dean makes him sit down on the bed, checks his forehead for a fever Sam doesn't have, makes him stand up again, check for injuries that aren't there. He double-checks Sam's head. Shines a light in Sam's eyes only to find that the pupils are equal and reacitve.

In the end he just chalks it up to the exhaustion that in his mind wasn't there the day before. He tells Sam to lie down and get some sleep, but Sam doesn't lie down right away. He sits there and looks up at Dean who is standing over him with his arms crossed and his expression expectant. He looks around the motel room, but there's nothing here that's the same. Nothing. It's different. It's unnacceptable.

He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to remind and start the day over so that it's just like any other day in Tuesday-hell. He doesn't do any of those things, though. Instead, he gets up, pulls his arm back, and decks Dean straight in the nose.

Underneath of Dean's cry of surprise Sam can hear a crack, and then blood is gushing down Dean's face and clogging the back of Dean's throat and Dean is making these awful gagging, gurgling noises as he chokes.

And for the first time in a long time, Sam cries.

"Heat of the moment. Heat of the moment. It was the—"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

This time Sam throws the radio, hears it shatter aginst the opposite wall and Dean's enraged shout of, "What the fuck?"

After fifteen seconds, Sam opens his eyes. After another fifteen seconds, he sits up. Pulls the blanket down and to the left, stands, judges the distance from the bed to the bathroom. So far so good.

But as he's walking, Dean halts him with a hand on his shoulder. "Dude, what the hell—?"

Suddenly Sam is holding Dean against the wall by his shirt collar, seeing the surprise written all over his brother's face a feeling his fair share of the shock as well. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady.

"Stop messing it up," Sam says.

"Messing what up?" Dean demands, pissed now that the surprise is gone.

"The schedule, Dean!" Sam yells, shaking his brother a little. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm down. "The schedule, Dean. My routine. I need this. I need this, do you understand?" He can't stress this enough. He hadn't realised before just how much he really needed this. "I need it."

The urgency in his tone is at least getting through to his brother. "All right, man," Dean agrees, soothingly. "Whatever you need to do, Sam, okay? Whatever you need."

Sam takes a breath and lets Dean down gently, smoothes his shirt before goes and gets into the shower. Seven minutes. And so the cycle begins again, a little late, but uninterrupted and whole once more.

When they're driving back from the Mystery Spot, Heat of the moment comes on on the radio. Sam can't turn it off fast enough.

"Dude, you love that song," Dean teases. Sam swallows.

"Yeah," he replies shakily. "And if I ever hear it again I'm going to kill myself."

Dean turns to looks at him then, all the humour gone from his expression. It was kind of meant to be a joke, but Sam guesses that trying to make a suicide joke when it's half-true and you're getting to the point of all-crazy isn't a good idea.

He has just enough time to scream, "Dean, look out!" before the pickup truck plows into them.

"Heat of the moment. Heat of the moment. It was the—"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam reaches out to turn the alarm off. He does it gently this time, saving Dean the trouble of yelling. The routine goes smoothly today, right up to the point where it takes Dean twelve minutes to shave. When he comes out, Sam is sitting on the bed with his pistol in his lap.

"What's up, Sam?" Dean asks. It's slow and cautious, like any wrong move could make Sam break even though Sam is pretty sure Dean hasn't quite caught up to the situation yet. He laughs a little.

When he brings the gun up to his temple, Dean takes one halting lung forward before Sam's finger twitching on the trigger has him stepping back and raising his hands as though in surrender.

"Okay, Sam," he says. He swallows against the tremor in his voice. "Okay. Whatever this is, we'll work it out, okay, Sammy? Just—put the gun down, alright?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, Dean. I need this, do you understand? I need this. I can't save you. I can't. All I can do is count your breaths."

Dean cries out when he pulls the trigger, but Sam can't hear him over the numbers in his head.

"Heat of the moment. Heat of the moment. It was the—"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

So tell me what you thought! I'm sorry that it's so short and seems so rushed; I really just wanted to get is posted.