"Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?" Dean was startled by the ferocity of Sam's hug. He tried to take the edge off with his usual touch of humour. Sam didn't seem to be having any of it.
"Enough." He said simply, and Dean could hear the strain in voice. His brother was actually shaking, and holding him so tightly it bordered on crushing. Dean's mind was racing, wondering what those Tuesdays must've been like to do this to Sam.
Sam weakly cleared his throat and reluctantly let Dean go, stepping back. "What, uh, what do you remember?"

"I remember you were pretty whacked out of it yesterday." Understatement. Dean hadn't been riding the same train as his brother all day. He kept going on about being stuck in some kind of time loop and didn't even have the patience to really explain anything to Dean, who felt like he was playing a game of seriously disadvantaged catch up. "I remember getting mixed up with the Trickster. That's about it."

Dean watched his brother nod slowly, clearly thinking through whatever in his head. He still looked to Dean like he'd been right through the ringer. Sam took a deep breath as if to steady himself and Dean's concern gripped a little tighter at his chest. When Sam looked at his brother again the relief in his eyes was tangible.
"Let's go."

"No breakfast?" Dean easily slipped into the tone of their usual banter, giving Sam an incredulous look. Sam chuckled knowingly.
"No breakfast."

Dean rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He figured he'd give Sammy this one, since whatever happened yesterday had obviously really shaken him up. "All right, I'll pack the car."

"Wait, you're not going anywhere alone," Sam's voice was laced with panic. His face lost some of it's colour almost instantly and he grabbed at Dean's arm looking very serious. Dean couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at his brother, looking from his face to the hand on his arm and back again.

"It's the parking lot, Sam." I have managed in far more dangerous situations, you know.
"Just - just trust me." The corner of Sam's mouth went up in a half-hearted smile, but Dean knew when he shouldn't push his brother just as well as he knew when he could. He shrugged in compliance and went to sling his duffle onto his shoulder. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed and throwing the last of his things into his bag while Dean lingered by the opened door to their motel room. He watched his brother with narrowing eyes. Sam looked so out of it, absentmindedly packing his things as if he were in another place entirely.

"Hey, you don't look so good. Something else happen?" Dean ventured, tentatively. This talking it out stuff wasn't his thing. It was Sam's. And while Dean wasn't sure what to do with it, he figured if the situation was reversed Sam would be asking him. He didn't answer right away.

"I just had a really weird dream." His voice was quiet when he did answer. Weak, even. Dean nodded. He couldn't read the cues. Wasn't sure if asking was forcing his brother to re-live whatever happened, or what. He shifted a moment at the door before deciding to switch to something more familiar.

"Clowns or midgets?" It wasn't difficult for him grin at his baby brother. But when Sam looked over at him, trying unsuccessfully to smile back, Dean almost faltered. Sam turned away and grabbed his bag, finally standing. Dean took the moment's head start and stepped out of the motel room, unable to shake the growing sense of worry that hadn't stopped nagging since Sam grabbed him. He listened for the sound of Sam closing and locking the motel door behind him before he started for the Impala, Sam following just a step behind.

Sam had been quiet and withdrawn since they left Broward County three days ago. He wasn't responding much to Dean's attempts at conversation, so Dean had been letting him keep to himself. It was another day on the road and another day of mostly silence. Occasionally, Dean looked over at his brooding brother. For the last few hours Sam, giant that he was, was still somehow curled up in the farthest reaches of the front seat, facing away from him. It went without saying that Dean knew him. Knew him so well, after watching after him his whole life, that he didn't need to see Sam's face to know what was going on. He was certain he wasn't sleeping, but that just meant he was on the edge and somewhere far, far away from Dean. Much farther than the other side of the car.

Dean shifted behind the wheel. It'd been hours since Sam had spoken last. While it wasn't unusual for long bouts of silence to hang between them on long drives, since whatever happened at the Mystery Spot, Sam wasn't just not talking. He was distant. It made Dean think about what he was like right after Jessica died, but it was different. Maybe worse. He couldn't put his finger on it. So Dean was worried. He saw a sign ahead for a gas station and what was sure to be a dumpy excuse for a diner and made the executive decision it was time to fuel up.

As Dean slowed the Impala and pulled off into the empty dirt parking lot of 'Frank's Fuel & Food' he noticed Sam had not budged. He put her in park and stopped the roar of the engine abruptly, turning towards Sam in his seat. He almost went right off, his worry manifesting as agitation and frustration. But all it took was a glance at his little brother slumped over in his place to reign it all in. Dean's worry had outgrown his capacity to let Sam be, but when Sam was like this he managed to bring out a softness in Dean. He sighed.

"C'mon, Sammy…" He said it as gently as he could, trying not to sound angry. He wasn't angry. Well, not with Sam. But when Sam was hurting and it wasn't something Dean could fix with stakes, salt, or punches… He always felt helpless. "Please."

There was a rustle as Sam finally acquiesced and pushed himself forward and upright with a small sigh. He still had his head tilted down, deliberately not looking at his brother.

"Listen, Sammy… You gotta, uh, you gotta talk to me. I'm…I mean, what happened, man? There's, uh, something you're not telling me?" Dean groaned inwardly, irritated at himself for sputtering through so ineptly. He was desperate to help Sam climb out of this but hated that he couldn't find the words. He hoped he wasn't saying the wrong thing.

Now Sam's teeth were working tensely on his lower lip, and he'd started letting his thumbs run over his fingers as his hands sat on his lap. "Dean, I." He shook his head and exhaled roughly. "I don't know. I don't. I haven't been able to shake this. I'm afraid," he paused, and took another deep breath. "I'm afraid saying it will make it more real. Make it real, again." His voice was low, and a bit husky from being out of use. It cut right through his brother, whose own heart was thudding anxiously in his chest. Then he looked at Dean.

His eyes were raw, and more than a little red. His eyelashes were dark and pulled together by remnants of tears, though he wasn't crying at the moment. Dean felt like the wind was knocked out of him. He never did well seeing Sammy this way. He wondered how long or how often Sam had been choking that down over the last few days as he'd sat next to Dean in the car. Sam let out a ragged breath, obviously trying to keep it together.

"I don't know what to do with this, Dean."

"Hey, woah, little brother…" Dean impulsively moved a bit closer to Sam as he answered. "Why don't you go ahead and tell me, uh, tell me what happened. Maybe…" He let his right hand find Sam's closest shoulder and give it a gentle reassuring squeeze. "Maybe it'll help you let it go."

Dean had put on his best brave face, and gave Sam an encouraging smile. On the inside, he was shaken up, too. While he knew Sam was a grown - well, overgrown - man, when he saw him like this and couldn't separate him from the little boy who'd come to him after a nightmare, or with scrapes on his hands and knees needing attention.

Sam looked up at the roof of the Impala desperately, his hands still fidgeting on his legs.

"I uh, lost track of the Tuesdays, Dean. So many times, I had to watch you die, helpless to stop it. I was already at the end of my… I didn't know how much more I could…" He blinked a few times, clearly trying to control the memories. Dean watched him in growing agony. He tried to imagine if the situation was reversed. He'd already watched Sam die, held him in his arms. And it had wrecked him. He couldn't imagine going through it over, and over again.

"But then we found the Trickster and," Sam rubbed the heel of one hand into his eye. He took a strong breath, finding some control. "When we found the Trickster he swore he'd let us go. I'd wake up and it would finally be Wednesday. And he did. It was. I was so relieved, Dean. It was finally…" He trailed off a moment, cleared his throat. "You went to pack the car, and I stayed to finish with my things in the room. A few minutes later, there's a gunshot. I'm out the door and with you in a heartbeat. I. I, uh…" He started to slip again. His voice was getting more strained. "I held you in my arms as you bled out with a bullet in your chest. That goddamn Trickster. It was supposed to be fixed! But then…"

Dean had been listening intently to his brother, waiting for the parts of the story that would be new to him. The distance between them had gotten smaller, and Dean still had his hand on Sam's shoulder. When the silence had stretched on, he gave another squeeze to try to get Sam to continue. When Sam looked back at him then, he was crying in earnest.

"I didn't wake up. I didn't wake up, Dean. The day didn't restart. You were really gone. Really dead. You died, and," Sam was spilling it out now, hurried and rushed by the sobs he was fighting down and that kept catching in his chest. "Six months. Six months, I was alone. Hunting, hunting that son of a bitch and trying, uh, trying everything to get to him, so he could fix it. You were dead. Six months. For six months and I, uh, -" he was not in control anymore. He was losing the battle against his cries and looked away from Dean in frustration, his fingers gripping tightly into his legs.

Dean could barely keep it together himself. Six.. Six months? He'd been gone for six months, and Sam… Sam had had to hunt the Trickster on his own… He could've… His thoughts were racing as he grappled with getting his head around what all that must've meant for Sam. Sam, who was sobbing as silently as he could manage in the seat next to him.

"Ah, Sammy…" Dean barely said it above a whisper as he brought his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him in without any resistance. Just like that Sam was 8 years old again with his face against Dean's shoulder, and his brother's arms tucking him in best they can given that they were sitting side by side in the Impala's front seat. Dean let his chin sit on Sam's head and brought one hand up to push into his eyes for a moment. It's all he could do to steel himself again the muffled sounds of his baby brother.

It wasn't something Dean could fix. He couldn't undo what happened. He couldn't erase that time from Sam's memory. He understood now why Sam had been so messed up by what happened. All the things they'd seen and done and survived and shit kept getting less and less believable. It was all kinds of crazy and all kinds of cruel.

Dean wanted to say something. His instinct was to remind Sam that he was there, and he wasn't going anyway. That he would never leave him. But his clock was ticking. He'd made that bed and he was going to have to sleep in it. He would, in the end, leave Sam. And that end was rushing closer with each passing day. Those were the only words he could find, and they were false and hollow. He couldn't bring himself to say them. Instead he let Sam let it out, hugging his brother to him like when they were kids, trying not to think of anything past that moment, like what Sam would be like when he was gone, and who would hold him then.