365 days.

Sam couldn't sleep.

A year. One year. It was such a gyp. It was like winning a million dollar lottery and walking away with only two hundred thousand after taxes.

Had they used one day already? Was it an "exact time of bargain" deal, or was it a sundown to sundown kind of thing? It's not like they had someone they could ask for clarification.

Sam tried to harness his racing thoughts, but all he could focus on was how much time they were wasting. Did they really need to sleep? Right now? It's a good thing they were never an eight hour a night kind of a family. If Sam had to calculate, he'd say Dean was a six hour a night kind of sleeper, barring any unforeseen illness.

Six hours a night for three hundred and sixty four… Wait, if this night counted as three hundred and sixty four already, shouldn't he be calculating using three hundred and sixty three? Better to err on the side of caution. So. Six hours a night for three hundred and sixty three nights…was two thousand one hundred seventy eight hours. Damn. Divided by 24…Christ! That was 90.75 days spent sleeping. 91 really, if he rounded up.

91 days out of 364 – that was huge! Practically three months!

Sam resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to roll out of bed, bolt across the room and wake Dean up. We have to get started, we have to start working! But he already knew the response he was going to get.

Sam. I need to sleep. You need to sleep. We'll start in the morning. Sam knew Dean was right; the deep ache in his back reminded him of the blow that had killed him and started this whole mess. But that was not a topic for pondering. Not now. Probably not ever. Or at least, not until…

Okay. Sam had to give Dean at least six hours to sleep each night. How much time did he need to eat? Sam's forehead wrinkled in thought in the darkness of the motel room. In actuality, Dean didn't need much time to eat at all. He was a real grab a meal on the go kind of guy. If there was anyone who insisted on sitting down occasionally to eat, it was Sam. But the difference between using two hours a day to eat and one hour a day was enough to convince Sam that there would be no more sit down meals in their future. Not until…

Right. One hour a day to eat for three hundred and sixty four days. That really wasn't so bad. Three hundred and sixty four hours divided by twenty-four. Ouch. That was still 15 days spent just on eating. And maybe Dean wasn't a guy who spent a lot of time eating…but he sure did enjoy showering. Crap. Bathroom time was easily another 15 days. Eating plus bathroom was a whole month they were losing.

Sam rubbed his hand against his face and tried to ignore the tightening in his throat and chest. 364 days minus 91 for sleeping and 30 for eating only left them with 243 days. That was a little over eight months to figure out how to release Dean from the bargain he'd struck. And that wasn't taking into account anything else they might do in the meantime.

Sam sat bolt upright in bed; an accompanying spasm from his back reminded him that sudden movements were a bad idea. But the pain in his back couldn't distract him from the new path his thoughts had taken. How much time did they spend in the car traveling from place to place?! Could he even calculate it? Did he even want to?

Pulling the reigns in hard on the imminent panic attack, Sam ruthlessly gathered his racing thoughts. It was hard to tell if it was his voice or Dean's he heard in his head, "It's more time than Dad ever got."

Sam took a deep breath and laid back down. He turned on his side to face the bed where Dean lay. It didn't really surprise him to see Dean staring back at him.

"Youokay, Sammy?"

He nodded in response. "Yeah. It's alright."

Dean continued to stare for a moment, then he saw something in Sam's expression that satisfied him and closed his eyes. Sam watched Dean for a long time. Eventually the sun came up.

364 days.