A/N: just a bit of fluff and nonsense because life stinks and writing Sam's train of thought when he's drugged up is always a lot of fun.

"Today's date is twelve twelve twelve."

"Yes, it is. I bought a lottery ticket."

"Did you know that won't happen again for another eighty nine years?"

"What won't happen? Me buying a lottery ticket?"

They were at their usual brand of flea-bag motel. It was late afternoon. The sky was pouring rain, Sam had a wrenched shoulder, and Dean was bored. So he'd made sure to give Sam the really really good painkillers. Because snockered Sammy was always good for half an hours' entertainment at least.

"No, when the month, day, and year are all – hey, did you know today is National Hot Cocoa Day?"

Dean suppressed a laugh but let himself smile. He was sitting on his bed; he looked around the magazine he was reading over to Sam who was lying flat out on his own bed.

"Would you like me to get you some hot cocoa, Sammy?"

"No, I was just – unless you want some – I saw it on my – although in two years there will be a twelve thirteen fourteen. Even if you win there'll be like a billion other people winning too. You should play the numbers tomorrow because - Well, eighty eight years, two weeks and six days."

"Eighty eight years what?" Dean asked.

"Until – you know – the dates. That's what happened back in - oh, ha, that was eighty-eight too. That's weird."

"Not as weird as you are right now."

"No, Dean. Remember? You were old enough. The numbers eight-eight-eight-eight came up back in nineteen eighty-eight. In August." Sam told him.

"Let me guess, on August eighth."

"No! August ninth! Is that weird or what?"

"Oh, that's weird all right."

"Will we even be alive then?"


"Or – I know – five ten fifteen. I'll be – how old will I be? Dean?"

"When?" Dean asked.

"When what?"

"You asked me how old you'd be."

"Dean, I can do math." Sam groused at him.

"OK, Mr. Mathlete. How old will you be?"


Oh yeah, Sam was definitely a lot of fun in this condition.

"Hey, Sam. Did you know today is National Hot Cocoa Day?"

"I know!" Sam answered, like he didn't remember he'd just said the exact same thing. "We should get some, hunh?"

"Some what?" Dean decided to try.

"One one one. Isn't it, I don't know, sad, that it won't be until one one one again?"

"What won't be? National Hot Cocoa Day?"

"That's today, did you know that?" Sam said. This time, Dean had to chuckle.

"Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere."

"And it's Our Lady of Guapalude Day."

"Come again?"

"Our Lady of Guapa-loo-day." Sam said, slowly, like that would help Dean understand.

"Do you mean Guadalupe?" Dean offered.

"Did you know that Mexico invented chocolate?"

"Good for them. I'll remember to say 'gracias' the next time I eat M&Ms."




When Dean looked over, Sam had pushed himself up on the elbow of his good arm and was looking at him.


"Do you think they're right?"

"'They' being?"

"But we'd know, wouldn't we? Don't you think we'd know?"

Before Dean could answer, with whatever answer he could think of, Sam laid back down with a sigh.

"At least this time I don't think it would be my fault."

"Sam? What fault? What d'you think you did?"

"She's pregnant. Did you know that?"

"Excuse me?" On the one hand – score one for 'Little Sammy', on the other hand – bad news all around. "Who is pregnant?"

"When it stops raining, can we get some hot chocolate?"

"Sam – who is pregnant?"

And Sam looked at Dean like he was being stupid on purpose.

"Nobody's pregnant."

"You just said 'she's pregnant'. Who were you talking about?"

"Our Lady of Guap – Guadalupe." Sam said, slowing down on the correct word. "She wears a sash that back then in that area meant she was pregnant."

"Oh. Okay. Well, that's interesting." Dean said, feeling relieved. Glad he didn't have to stock up on baby booties or anything.

"Dean – we'd know, wouldn't we? If the world was going to end next week, we'd know. Wouldn't we?"

"Uh – yeah. I think somebody would've clued us in."

"Yeah. January first, twenty-one hundred and one will be the next time the month, day, and year of a year will all be the same. That's almost eighty-nine years."

The medication must've been pulling Sam under; he was talking slower and in complete, logical sentences.

"Yeah, that's a long time."

"I hope your lotto ticket wins."

"Me too."

"Hey, Dean? When it stops raining, can we go get some hot chocolate?"

"Sure thing, Sammy."

The End