An hour later found Sam spread out on the floor of Bobby's study as his doppelganger shared all his research. He showed off the five old books from which they'd pieced the whole thing together; the bottles of ingredients they'd collected with colorful, disjointed stories about each one; a spiral bound notebook full of what was sort-of-almost a map of nearby realities (or as much as Sunshine could "sense" of them, which even other Sam couldn't really explain); and a handful of post-its in Dean's handwriting that made no sense to anyone. Sam was actually getting it enough to ask questions that got other Sam talking fast and excitedly flipping through one of the books to show him a scrambled passage in Greek.
Other Dean popped in with a plate of goldfish crackers and apple slices as "an after school snack for the study group." He thought he was hilarious, but the joke was on him, because neither Sam was going to feel embarrassed about eating goldfish, and other Dean was the one who went through all the effort of coring a couple apples for the sake of a really dumb joke.
So yeah. Sam was too busy to go with Dean and Cas on their recruitment adventure. He didn't really want to hear them bicker for the rest of the day anyhow, and he'd spent the morning fighting his way into a prison, so there was that. Dean muttered about leaving Sam "unprotected" in a strange universe and promised to be back as soon as humanly possible.
Sam popped another apple slice (soft and grainy) into his mouth and talked around it. "Have fun."
Dean's frown deepened, and he visibly held himself back from upending their snacks to send goldfish all over the floor before he and Cas disappeared.
After a while, they decided that when more angels started showing up, they were going to need a way to keep track of them all.
Well, no. They didn't. They could just take the bunch of angels that looked and acted mostly identically, tell them what to do for the spell to work, sort of listen to them mutter about it, and then have them grudgingly accept it and follow through. That would work just fine. It wasn't Sam's job to convince them, to figure out the specific way to approach each individual Castiel. That was up to Dean and Cas, and Sam couldn't decide if that was a brilliant idea because Dean could convince Cas to do all sorts of ridiculous, reckless things, or if it was the equivalent of shooting themselves in the foot by making the most stubborn, least trusting, most difficult one of them their ambassador to another universe.
So Sam didn't need to keep the angels straight or know anything about their universes of origin.
He just wanted to, and so did the other Sam.
They set to work on a detailed chart of the time lines on a poster sized sheet of tan butcher paper. With a couple of yard sticks they'd found in the basement, they marked off months at regular intervals, like a time table in a day planner, going from the present at the top of the chart to a few years ago at the bottom. Sam drew a straight line right down the center of the chart, and other Sam bent forward to label major events in his history before Sam's pencil had even finished moving. Other Sam put a dot on the line in mid-September 2008, labeled it "Cas gets a vessel," and drew a branch off of it from which Sam drew in the second time line with his yard stick, labeling them A and B at the top. Other Sam sketched in arrows at the hub of the branch, labeling one "Mary Ann" and then asking Cas' vessel's name before labeling the other "Jimmy."
They sat back on their heels, looked down at their work so far, and grinned at each other. Organizing this kind of project with Bobby would end up with notes all over the place about all the things he wasn't so sure about. Dean (if he helped at all, which he wouldn't because he didn't do craft projects) would change tracks part of the way through (deciding circles were really a better representation than lines), only to change again in another hour (drawing arrows all over everything to connect similarities and exclamation points to denote differences), and then decide the whole thing was stupid and draw some stick people in the corner and then take a three hour break. His handwriting alone would make the whole thing look like a serial killer collage. But with other Sam, it was neat and orderly and systematic. They were on the same wave length, with the exact same strategy, exact same small handwriting written in the exact same .5 lead mechanical pencils.
Instead of writing lowercase vowels, they both wrote uppercase letters at half the size.
"You take Reality A," Sam said. Dean would hate that and insist that if the other group was Reality A, then they were Reality 1 or Team Awesome or something. But they were going to have to deal with several realities in the next few days, and if any other Deans showed up they'd run out of synonyms for "best universe" pretty fast. Someone's ego had to take a back seat. "This whole thing is your Cas' idea, and we're using this as a home base, so you should be A."
Other Sam shrugged. "Okay. I won't point it out to your brother."
Sam huffed a laugh. "Thanks."
Even Reality B seemed a bit too important to Sam. There were an infinite number of realities out there. Only of fraction of those (but still an infinite number) had Cas still alive after a failed apocalypse, and fighting a heavenly civil war against Raphael. In the grand scheme of things, Sam's life was probably more like Reality Q. Or Reality three hundred twenty-eight million, five hundred forty-nine thousand, seven hundred twelve. Being Sam B was more than he deserved.
It was a lot like being back in school when he'd enter a classroom and the teacher would designate him "Sam W." because there was already some other kid named Sam, who would instantly dislike him.
Sam bent forward to start at the beginning, filling in events in their shared history before the branch, and from there it took about thirty seconds to find the flaw in their plans. Sam's pencil made a mark in May, then froze. Other Sam stilled, and Sam wondered if his counterpart's heart rate had spiked like his. Maybe their pulses beat in time, the same mix of guilt and horror and pity washing through their systems. Sam took a breath and numbly bracketed off a four month period.
"Dean in Hell"
He looked at the other years laid out before them, the other awful things he would have to write, to admit to if they continued. Something like acid or poison cramped through his arms.
Other Sam took a deep breath. "Did you have the case at the haunted baseball field?"
Sam blinked. "The what?"
His counterpart groaned, a noise strained but aiming at levity. He bent forward and carefully started filling in points on his time line as he talked. "The worst case ever. Or, well, the worst case that didn't involve the end of the world. Or—okay, maybe not the worst case, but it was bad."
Sam didn't want to hear about the worst case ever. But other Sam had his jaw set like he had a plan, and was going to drag Sam through it. Sam needed to trust him, to let him to take care of them both, and gave in to the dim hope that this story didn't end with the monster being human or with emotional manipulation or betrayal. A heart beat and he gave in and leaned forward, buoyed and distracted enough to fill in his own dots. "Rising of the Witnesses- Sioux Falls" "Rugaru- Carthage"
"Back in the seventies, there was this explosion on a minor league baseball field in Arkansas. Killed eleven guys on the team, and we showed up because their ghosts were terrorizing people."
"Baseball themed terrorizing?"
"So corny, you've no idea. Actually, no, you can probably guess. They weren't creative."
"Alastair dies- Cheyenne"
"So Dean gets this idea that he's going to salt and burn them all, while we distract them by challenging them to a game."
Sam glanced up. "You played baseball against ghosts."
"Me and Cas."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"How'd that go?"
Other Sam laughed, a bark of disparagement to cover a real—if self-deprecating—smile. "How do you think? I mean, I think I played T-ball with Bobby and Dean a few times. Right?"
"Yeah. A few times." Bobby set up the T for Sam and pitched for Dean. He threw slow, underhanded pitches that Dean still missed half the time with wide, Hail-Mary swings. Sam insisted that it didn't count if they weren't all wearing hats, so Bobby had found a cap that smelled pleasantly of old sweat and then pinched the back of it between his fingers and set two staples in the fabric to make it small enough that it would fit Sam's head. Bobby let them win, and then Dean demanded some kind of victory dessert from the ice cream push cart on the edge of the park.
"Gouhl Adam- Windom"
Bobby must have bought that T-ball set just for him.
"So I sucked," Other Sam said. "But, just sucking like a normal person wasn't enough. You know? Because the universe hates me. So not only was I the least athletic person out there, but I was the only one on the field who couldn't teleport."
Sam couldn't help but laugh, and couldn't help that it came out like a burst of hysteria.
"Yes! It was awful! And Cas kept glaring at me for messing up. Half way through the second inning, she kicked me off the pitcher's mound and had me be catcher while she covered all the other positions by herself."
"I bet Dean loved that."
"He wouldn't shut up! It would have been worse if he'd been there to see it, but then he would have had to play and he would have looked like a loser too." He shook his head. "I think he knew it, and that's why he weaseled his way into checking out the graveyard."
"Jerk."
"I know, right? And then he didn't even burn the bones. We thought nine innings would be enough time, but digging up that many graves...It tuned out the team was just sticking around to win their game. Once they stomped all over me and Cas, they were done and moved on."
Sam groaned.
"Yeah."
"Lucifer Rises- Ilchester"
"And the worst part is that Cas started doing all this baseball research and getting way too into it and came out knowing all these statistics and telling us about trades. And anytime we rolled into a city where there was a major league game, she'd mention it in that fake it's-no-big-deal way of hers, and then stare at us pointedly until one of us would give in and say, 'Oh hey, Cas, if we get done with this soucouyant by seven, want to go check out Minute Maid Park?'"
Sam laughed, all the muscles in his back pulled so tight he thought he might snap. "War- River Pass" "Did you do the bowling alley lightning case?" Other Sam shook his head. "Right, so a few weeks ago, there was this town outside St. Paul, where three different guys were struck by lightning and killed within a week and a half. And it turns out they were all on the same bowling team, and there's only this one guy, Sven, left from their team, and we figure he's the next target. And then Cas shows up to say it's probably another one of the weapons he's after and it's important that we take it seriously. So Dean decides it'd be a good idea to fill in for the dead guys on Sven's bowling team because it's probably someone on a rival team, and he drags me and Cas into it, and he signs us up, and somewhere he finds these matching bowling shirts and demands we all wear them, because that's how seriously he's taking it. And then lightning guy decides he's going to go after Dean instead of Sven, because Dean's way more annoying, and they end up in this wrestling match in the parking lot, fighting over this bowling ball sized nuke from heaven that brings down lightning when you get pissed and kinda squeeze and shake it. So they're both grabbing for it and pissed at each other and pulling at it, and BAM. Struck by lightning. And Dean's all wheezing and charred, and the other guy isn't doing much better, and Cas thinks they're both idiots and heals them up and takes his angel bowling ball and leaves."
Other Sam chuckled, then stopped writing enough to hold out his arm to show a burn mark across the inside of his forearm. "You probably don't have this. That's from teaching Rachel to make pancakes."
"Rachel?"
"One of Cas' lieutenants. Cas thought it'd do her good to do some human things, get an appreciation for it—so she'd stop being so suspicious of Dean all the time, I think—so I showed her how to make pancakes, because everyone loves pancakes, right? But then the skillet beeped or something, and she freaked out and, like, flipped the whole thing over and it got me."
Sam had a three inch gash on his calf he could show off, but he didn't have any idea how he'd gotten it, and that would bring this conversation back into the realm of depressing.
Maybe other Sam knew it and rolled right into another story. "Did you have the flower fiasco?"
"Flower fiasco?" "Famine- Cottage Grove"
"So there was this witness in Wichita. She was this florist whose brother had gone missing. We thought we'd just go in and talk to her, and—neither one of us know how—but she talked us into buying like eight dozen of these flowers that it turns out Dean's allergic to. And we didn't know how to get rid of them because any time we offered them to anyone, they gave us this look like 'Who are you? Why are you giving me eight dozen flowers?' Dean kept getting slapped. They were all stuffed in the back seat, and the whole time we're in town, everybody's asking us what the deal is with the flowers and no one buys that we're with the FBI. And then it turns out Panswé Belu don't usually try to eat you, but they will if you smell like flowers, so it tries to eat us. And when we finally get out of town, Dean pulls over on this bridge and chunks all these flowers into the river. And I'm trying to get him to calm down, and he's sneezing and tearing up and swearing and throwing these flowers, and there's...just...so much snot involved. And this highway patrolman rolls up. And he doesn't know what to do about it, but Dean's got all this blood on him from the belu and snot all over himself and flower petals everywhere and he's stopped on the middle of a bridge, throwing things in the water. So he gets arrested and I had to find a way to throw out the rest of the flowers properly and vacuum the car and buy some Benadryl before I could bail him out."
"You're just jealous you've never been arrested for littering." They looked up to see Dean (Dean A) leaning against the door frame.
Other Sam rolled his eyes and went back to his time line. "Littering and parking in a no-parking zone."
"That doesn't count. I had the flashers on."
"Dude. I don't think the Impala even has flashers."
"Sure she does. She's got all sorts of hidden talents."
Other Sam's voice turned challenging. "Then how do you turn them on? Where's the button, Dean?"
Dean gestured, indicating an imaginary dashboard. "On...by the radio."
"The radio?"
"Yeah. You know. Like. There." Another hand gesture. "We need to take you back to driver's ed, Sammy?"
Sam tuned out their bickering. It was way easier to do than when he was a participant.
"Apocalypse ends—Lawrence"
It hurt to write. It actually hurt. In his chest. But the other Sam had done it, owning and accepting the events of his past without any whining or avoiding or guilty crying.
But once he wrote it, all his forward momentum slammed to a stop, like he'd hit a wall, suddenly exhausted. Because now he'd reached the span of time that he only knew about second hand. He paused, looking up to see other Sam scrawling in hunt after hunt down the line as he bickered with his brother. "Barista Witches-Scranton" "Smoke Monster-Annapolis" "Haunted Rollercoaster-Coney Island" Then he shifted, scooting further down the line, the shadow of his knee moving to uncover a bracketed section.
"Sam is Soulless"
It spanned less than two months.
Sam stared. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He was just...
Two months.
"Heeeey."
He jumped, looking up to see Dean A peering over their work with a grin. "We're Team A. Awesome."
Other Sam ignored him. "Did we get that poltergeist in Corpus Christie before or after the werewolf in Norman?"
"Who cares?"
"Jerk."
"Bitch. What's going on there?" He pointed at Sam's line, an achingly familiar big-brother-teasing-smirk locked in place. "You wear yourself out already? Chop, chop, Sam! Gotta get your science fair project ready for the judges."
"Oh. I just..." He scratched his neck, trying to control the heat in his face.
Other Sam looked up at him, interest piqued.
Two months. No wonder the guy was so carefree.
"I..." He cleared his throat. "I only know a few pieces. I'll have to ask Cas about dates." Cas. Not Dean.
The look on their faces changed to mild confusion, and just to break eye contact he wrote what he did know.
The line he drew just kept going. And going. And going. He bracketed off a year and a half, then went back to the bottom and labeled it with other Sam's phrasing.
"Sam is Soulless"
No one moved. They stared at his bracket the same way he'd stared at other Sam's a moment before.
"Sonuvabitch," Dean breathed.
Sam looked up to see his counterpart's shocked expression, and Dean's look of horror turning slowly but surely into fury.
Sam winced as Dean exploded. "A year and a half?! What the fuck?! Cas!" He shouted over his shoulder. "Get down here. Something's wrong with your evil twin. A year and a half!"
"Dean," other Sam pleaded, cringing and giving Sam a pitying look.
He swallowed. "It's alright." But it wasn't. "I'm fine now." And that wasn't true either. His ears were ringing. A stuffy buzz built in his head. He squeezed his pencil to make his hands stop shaking.
He bent back over the chart, determined to fill in as much of his history as he could. Look less weak. Feel less weak. He filled in the bits Cas had told him, trying to make the labels sound not horrible, guessing at dates.
Other Dean snapped, "What are you doing?" then dove forward and snatched the pencil out of his hand, slapping him upside the head. "Don't scratch the wall, dumbass."
"God, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, forgetting for a split second that this wasn't his brother.
"Shut up." Dean shouted again, "Cas!"
"What?" Sunshine frowned as she slipped into the room, looking just as grumpy to be summoned as Cas ever was.
"Look at this." Dean pointed.
Sunshine's eyes rolled over the chart. But instead of taking part in their communal freak out, her face cleared, and she leaned forward in interest, looking almost impressed. "It hadn't occurred to me to look into our histories this throughly. This will be extremely helpful." She nodded to each of them in turn. "Well done, Sam. Sam."
Dean groaned.
Her eyebrows rose and she turned to him to explain, "This is an unusual opportunity. You could find new allies. Or share new hunting techniques. Maybe we can learn about Raphael's plans from his actions in the other realities."
"Yeah, okay, great," Dean said. "We can compare notes later. But right now, we've got bigger problems."
"Like what?"
"Like Sam being soulless for a year and a half?" He pointed at Sam like being soulless meant he had chicken pox on his face. He felt himself flush.
Sunshine blinked at him, looking for the chicken pox, before turning back to Dean. "What about it?"
"...You knew about this?"
"Yes."
"Well, what the hell is your alter ego doing, letting this happen?"
Sam spoke up, "It wasn't Cas' fault. It's not like there was anything he could do about it."
Dean looked more exasperated than ever. "So the guy goes to hell, spends five years there fighting his way to the cage, confronts Lucifer again, drags you out, then just lets you loose to walk around like a sociopath?"
What? "Cas didn't get me out of the cage."
"He...what?"
"We don't know how I got out. It's a mystery."
"A mystery," Dean repeated, like this was the most confusing thing he'd ever heard. Sunshine pressed her lips together and frowned with that same look Cas often got when he had a whole lot he could say, but there was no way he'd ever let any of it out. Other Sam's forehead had wrinkled beyond reason in his concern, and—crap, was that his "bitch face"? Yeah, that was not a good face.
"Your Cas didn't rescue you from hell?" Dean said, trying to get this straight. He shook his head. "That's even worse."
"I didn't think it was something he could do."
"Why not? He got fake Dean out...He did do that much, right?"
"Yeah, but that was—like—regular hell?" He winced. "But I was in the cage. Which makes it harder?"
Dean jerked his head towards Sunshine. "She managed it. Why couldn't yours?"
He didn't know what to do with that. "I guess it didn't occur to him. We're not really that close, and he didn't have enough down time to mount a rescue mission. With the war and everything."
It was rare to see Dean completely speechless, but his head's impending implosion apparently did the trick.
"Let it go," other Sam said. "It's not like he's soulless now. Everything's okay and they got it fixed just like we did. With Death, right?" He smiled at Sam, or at least tried to, knowing that his words weren't entirely true, but the sentiment and the empathy were the important part.
Dean shook his head and frowned at Sam, "I'm not saying it's your fault. I saying I don't trust your angel. He sounds like a fuck up and he's creepy."
Sunshine huffed. "He's not creepy."
"Come on. With the trench coat and the staring? Who does that?"
"The same person who never takes off her rain coat?" other Sam offered, nodding at where Dean had absently hooked a finger through a belt loop on Sunshine's coat.
He dropped his hand when he noticed. "Shut up."
Sunshine didn't react, her attention back on the chart and her tone musing. "Theirs is a solitary universe. They all want to handle their problems on their own."
Dean snorted. "And how's that working out?"
With Sam grappling in the dark. With Cas stressed and bitter, and Dean stressed and desperate to hide the deep fractures through his heart. With a heaviness settled over everything. With their lives poised in suspense, waiting for the last shoe to drop before they riped apart completely.
That last straw would be him. He knew it. He could feel it coming. He wouldn't want it to happen, and he wouldn't be able to control it, and he probably wouldn't even see it coming as it snuck out of the shadows of the last year and a half, but it would emanate from him. It would be his fault. And it would destroy their lives completely.
"I don't trust him," Dean repeated. "Something's off."