Sam couldn't breathe.
Both Deans were yelling, at each other, at the Other him, at the Other Cas. He heard 'got to be kidding me' and 'don't you fucking touch him' and 'son of a bitch' and he couldn't tell them apart and he couldn't think and he couldn't breathe and there was a dog nuzzling his side and whining concernedly and that was a hellhound and it was his and something in his head was itching, itching, itching –
"Quiet!"
Cas' voice rent the air like a thunderclap, its echoes dying in the sudden silence. Cas (Other Cas, their Cas never looked at Sam like that, with warmth and respect) was at his side, and he must have mojo-ed his way there, because Dean (his Dean, chest achingly empty of anything glinting and golden) let out a startled curse and surged forward.
"I wouldn't harm Sam," Other Cas told Dean sharply. "Not any version of him." He turned to Sam, face and tone softening. "Sam. What's wrong?"
"Sammy?" Dean questioned, his brow furrowing as he added his own gaze to Castiel's.
"I, um . . ." Sam swallowed. Whatever had been licking at the edges of his mind had retreated, and now he was left squirming under the double weight of Dean's familiar worry and Cas' distinctly unfamiliar concern. "Nothing. It's nothing." He stood. Cas didn't take a step back. In their universe, it had been months since they had to remind him about personal space. "Just, uh . . . maybe we should go someplace else to talk about this. It's, uh . . . kind of tight in here."
He hadn't realized how true it was until he said it. He was more than accustomed to feeling too big for any given space, but this motel room was way too small for two of him, plus Cas, plus a hellhound (Jesus, he had a fucking hellhound), plus two Deans who both looked about ready to turn this into a new contender for the most surreal bloodbath of their lives.
Cas was nodding in agreement.
"I can transport us elsewhere." When he looked over his shoulder for approval, his eyes sought Other Sam – who exchanged a glance with Other Dean. At least that still made sense, and Sam could easily read the downward twitch of Other Him's lips ('I don't care; you?') and the minute shrug of Other Dean's shoulders ('Why the hell not.').
"Alright, Cas," said Other Sam (King of Hell he was the King of Hell how did that happen how could he how). "Take us to Bobby's."
There was a stomach-turning shift, and the next moment Sam was stumbling as the thin carpet beneath his feet changed to linoleum. Bobby's curse reached his ears an instant before he forced his eyes back into focus and found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Do not be alarmed," said Cas, with his characteristic sense of reassurance.
"It's fine, Bobby," said Other Dean, more helpfully. "It's just us. And . . . more us."
"Gee, thanks," said Bobby sarcastically. "That clears everything right up." Still, he lowered the shotgun and gave them each a wary nod. "Sam. Dean. Anyone wanna explain to me why I'm seeing double?"
"We're from, um, an alternate universe," Sam offered, barely believing he was saying that out loud. God, their lives were weird.
"Those two had a transporter malfunction," said Other Dean, gesturing at the two of them with one of the beers he pulled from Bobby's fridge while he handed the other to Other Sam. "Went all 'Mirror, Mirror' on us."
"At least nobody has a goatee," Dean pointed out. Other Dean grinned while Other Sam caught Sam's eye with an exasperated, amused look. Dean is using a wrinkle in the fabric of reality to make Star Trek references with himself. Typical. Other Sam raised his beer to his lips –
– Bobby's eyes widened in alarm, his bark of "Sam, wait!" coming a second too late –
— and the bottle crashed to the ground as Other Sam doubled over, wheezing in pain.
"Dammit Bobby!" snapped Dean's voice, but it wasn't Dean, it was Other Dean, glaring over Other Sam's shoulder as he struggled to keep him upright, "You've gotta warn us when you lace the beers!"
"Well maybe if you'd give me half a second before you start raiding my fridge," Bobby was replying without heat, but it seemed to be coming from far away, and Sam's eyes were still fixed on the Other Him, watching his own shoulders shudder and hitch, smoke rising from his own mouth, hearing his own lungs gasp for air, and it was so, so familiar; this had happened before; Lucifer liked to make him watch sometimes, pulling his eyes from their sockets just so that he could see himself, his own pain, his own weakness, whispering in his ear how pretty he was when he screamed, while beneath it all was the thought of what MomDadJessDeanDeanDean would think if they could see him like this –
"Sam! Snap out of it, Sammy, c'mon, don't you dare check out on me again –"
Dean. That was Dean's voice. Those were Dean's hands, grasping his arms too tight, Dean's face above him (when had he ended up on the floor?) . . . Dean's eyes shining with desperation. Sam had to fix that.
"I'm fine," he managed through the slowly receding haze of blood and agony in his head, pushing himself up. "I'm okay."
Dean's sag of relief was so brief that if Sam hadn't been so close he might have missed it. A moment later Dean was dragging him the rest of the way to his feet, grip and voice rougher than necessary.
"Dammit, Sam. I thought we learned our lesson about scratching."
"We did. I did. I swear." Sam glanced over Dean's shoulder. Other Sam was still somewhat pale and was standing against the counter, well away from the puddle of beer on the floor, watching him. Cas stood in the middle of the kitchen, wavering between the two of them, looking almost uncertain.
"What the hell was that?" Other Dean demanded. He looked pissed, but that was pretty much Dean's default reaction to anything he didn't understand, particularly if it involved Sam.
"None of your damn business," Dean snarled, rounding on his Other Self.
"Put them away, both of you," Bobby ordered. "Sam – both Sams – sit down before you fall down."
"I'm –" Sam began in unison with himself.
" –fine, I know," said Bobby, rolling his eyes. "I could tell from all the coughing and collapsing. Sit down, you idjits."
They sat.
"You," Bobby began, pointing at Other Sam. "Holy water shouldn't knock you on your ass like that. You been sleeping and eating?"
"Yes," said Other Sam defensively, simultaneous with Other Dean's dark 'No.' Other Sam glared, while Cas' frown deepened in concern.
"You ought to take care of yourself," the angel stated, a touch of rebuke in his tone. Other Sam turned his glare on him, eyes darkening with a dreadfully familiar power. Cas held his gaze. The air crackled. Sam's stomach turned, and he felt rather than saw Dean tense.
"Get a room, you two," Other Dean griped, and the moment was broken. Other Sam dropped his gaze to the table, more sulky than dangerous (did Sam really look like that?), and the room relaxed around him.
"Well now that that's settled," said Bobby sarcastically. "Castiel, don't suppose you can just shove these two back to where they belong?"
"I believe so," Cas replied. "With time. I could . . . look into it." Again, he shot an almost-not-quite questioning look at Other Sam, who nodded tiredly.
"Go on, Cas. Wait," he added. "Come here, first."
Cas obeyed, and Other Sam pulled him into a kiss. Other Dean rolled his eyes while Dean gaped, and Sam felt a jolt through his entire body. There but for – there –
Before he could form a coherent thought, they broke apart and Cas disappeared in a flutter of wings.
"You," Bobby said, turning to Other Sam as if nothing had happened, "go take a goddamn nap. You too," he added, and the smug smirk slid off Other Dean's face. "I don't want to see either of you until I call you for dinner. And don't you roll your eyes at me!"
Other Dean groaned.
"Fine, fine. We're going. C'mon, Sammy." He hauled his brother to his feet. "What about those two?" he asked, pausing in the doorway as Other Sam shook off his hand and disappeared into the living room.
"I'll take care of it, now get!"
Other Dean held up his hands in mock surrender and followed Other Sam.
"Okay," said Bobby, turning back to Sam and Dean. "You wanna tell me what the hell's going on with you?"
"No," said Dean flatly.
"Dean," Sam rebuked him, put off. He got that Dean didn't like to talk about this kind of thing, but this was Bobby. Close enough, anyway. Dean shot him a sideways glance, and Sam understood. He was scared, terrified of setting off another hell-seizure, or worse. Sam pushed his chair back from the table and rose. "Look, I should probably start researching all this anyway; try and figure out a way out of this mess. You get Bobby caught up."
He waited for Dean's reluctant nod of acknowledgement and left before he could change his mind. Bobby would bully the information out of him. He'd always been good at that.
Sam wandered into Bobby's living room, scanning the room for differences. He couldn't find any. It looked the same as always; books and old furniture and dust. He glanced up, and there was still a Devil's Trap on the ceiling. Holy water shouldn't knock you on your ass like that. He shivered.
He tried to research. Thought about it, anyway. But his eyes kept drifting to the doorway, and before he knew it he was mounting the stairs, some horrible curiosity dragging him onwards. He paused outside a familiar door, his heart in his throat.
"It's open," said his own voice, casual, almost bored. Sam pushed the door open.
Other Sam was sitting on the bed, ankles crossed on top of the covers, a book in one hand while the other hung out of sight on the other side of the bed. He glanced up as Sam took a cautious step inside.
"Hey. You okay?" he asked, setting his book to the side. "That thing in the kitchen, that was, uh, pretty dramatic."
"It's a long story," said Sam, taking another step forward. This was beyond surreal. He had dealt with his own lookalikes before, but none of them had looked so . . . concerned. "I'm fine."
"Right," said Other Sam, his lips quirking as if they were sharing an inside joke. "Look, you should probably sit down anyway."
"Jesus!" Sam jerked backwards, stumbling as he hit the wall. Other Sam had gestured towards the battered desk chair with the hand which had previously been obscured by the bed – or rather, with the mangled mess of meat and bone which had once been a hand. Shit. This couldn't be real. This was a dream. This couldn't –
"Oh," said Other Sam, blinking at the gory stump. "Sorry." He twitched, and his hand was whole again, flexing experimentally. "Theron gets a little enthusiastic sometimes. Theron! Ascende!"
The bed shifted, and Other Sam grinned. It looked like a mirror cracking.
"You really can't see him?" he asked, looking at Sam, and the color of his eyes was familiar, bright, clear, hazel, but the expression in them was . . . wrong. Sam had seen evil in his own eyes, demons and nightmares and the Devil himself, and this wasn't it. He had seen himself broken, after Jess, after Dean, after the Apocalypse, and this wasn't that, either. It wasn't malice and it wasn't pain but it wasn't right, it wasn't right, he needed out, out, out –
"I need some air," he said, sounding tight and distant to his own ears, and fled down the stairs and out the door.
