FIC - The Three Faces Of Sam
title: The Three Faces of Sam
pairing: Sam, Sam, Sam
word count: about 1150
rating: PG-13 for language and violent imagery
a/n: for my paranormal25 table prompt “Doppelganger”
“You’re me”, said Sam, a hint of wonder behind his words, tamping down his fear.
The man only looked back at him. Didn’t agree or disagree, didn’t move.
“Not really me, though, right?”
Sam took another look at the guy. Some of it was obvious. Dude had a good 20 pounds on him, all muscle, it was clear even through his clothes (which, Sam noticed, were definitely his clothes). But there was something else. The way he held his head, his posture, some look in his eyes…what the hell was that? It wasn’t empty, not really, just different. Cold? No, not cold either.
He didn’t have time for another thought before the guy was on him.
“Who the hell are you?”, Sam gritted out with difficulty as he was pinned to the ground with most of his air supply cut off by the weight on his chest.
“I’m you, dumbass. Well, kind of you, but not so much of a pansy.” The guy had this crooked smile that didn’t go anywhere past his lips. “I see that big brain workin’, Sam, come on, give it a second, the answer is right there, man, just get your pussy-ass mouth working and say it.” The look on his face was terrifying and familiar at the same time.
And then he got it.
“You really are me. Me from before. Or, from after. I mean, after the Cage and before Dean got me my soul back. You’re not me, you’re what I was. Then.” Sam’s voice trembled at the realization. He swallowed, hard, and tried to catch his breath. He was looking at himself, but it wasn’t really him. It was the him that he wasn’t even supposed to know about. He’d gotten flashes, here and there, seen a few things, but this was different. He was looking into the face of the man he’d been but didn’t remember being.
Why was this happening? He hadn’t scratched the wall. He was sure he hadn’t. What put him here, facing down a stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all?
The guy was laughing now, a low sound that didn’t sound happy at all. “Dean didn’t get your soul back, Death got your soul back, you moron. Dean’s just everything, isn’t he? You should carve your initials into that tree and draw a big heart around them”, he smirked. “Your ideas come from a place where reason and logic don’t even exist.”
“What do you want?” He didn’t know what else to say, was too stunned to think of another question to ask.
Sam didn’t guess there would be any other answer, anyway. “I want to be back, what the fuck do you think? I’m better than you, let your friends and family say what they will, but why would they be better off with you, you weakness, your indecisive conscience, than they would with me? I do what needs to be done. I am so much stronger than you, Sam. You know it’s true. All I have to do is finish you, and the other one, and they’ll have me. They’re in a much better position with me as a partner, you have to know that on some level. How could you, with all your guilt and remorse and misplaced loyalty, do them more good than I could? I don’t make the mistake of letting emotional connections cloud my judgment. I’m more effective. And right now, effective is what matters. If you want your friends and your brother to be safe, you’d want me to be the one looking out for them.” He looked smug and confident, like there was no way to question any of his words.
A stray thought occurred to Sam. “The other one?”, he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.
“He’s worse than you, if you can imagine. Weaker, more damaged than even you are. I know. Hard to believe. But it doesn’t matter.” The guy placed his hand around Sam’s throat, slowly adding pressure until Sam started to see black and white and gray cloud the fields around the edges of his vision.
And no. No no no no no this was not going to happen. Whoever this guy was, the guy who Dean like to jokingly refer to as T1000 or RoboSam, or whatever…fuck that, and fuck this guy.
Sam maneuvered his hand between them and brought it up hard against the guy’s nose. It didn’t give him much time, but enough that when the guy was shaking it off, Sam had a chance to reach his Taurus and put two rounds right through his chest. He stood over the guy for a minute, trying to catch his breath and regain his balance.
“Wait until you run into the other guy”, he gasped, “and let’s see if you’ve got it in you to gank his pathetic ass”. His head rolled to the side, eyes still open and staring up at the trees.
Sam didn’t have even ten seconds before he found himself somewhere else again. But it took even less time to figure out who he was looking at. It was dark and the room was covered in shadows, but the person at the table…yeah, that was him, too. Not the last him that he’d encountered (Jesus, this was getting convoluted as fuck), but him all the same. The him who remembered the Cage. The one with his body and face but who was broken and bloody and burned, the one who begged Sam not to go back, to stay in wherever this place was, who insisted that Sam wasn’t strong enough to incorporate that last Sam and this Sam right here and still walk out the other side whole. This one, though, willingly handed him the blade and told him to go on ahead if he insisted.
And honestly, Sam didn’t know for sure what he wanted. But he did know what he had to do. It wasn’t entirely clear, he wasn’t certain exactly what it was that he had to get back to, but the overwhelming urge to get back to whatever it was couldn’t be shaken off. He looked into the eyes of the second doppelganger he’d seen in the space of a few minutes, and didn’t feel sorry about stabbing whoever that guy was right through the chest.
So, how many Sams are there? Is there really only one? Are there several? Do they knit all of their pieces together to make up the only authentic Sam that is left?
It didn’t matter anyway, not really. He had someplace he needed to be, something he needed to do. He didn’t know where or what, but he would be at that place and he would do that thing, whatever they turned out to be. Whatever he turned out to be.
pairing: Sam, Sam, Sam
word count: about 1150
rating: PG-13 for language and violent imagery
a/n: for my paranormal25 table prompt “Doppelganger”
“You’re me”, said Sam, a hint of wonder behind his words, tamping down his fear.
The man only looked back at him. Didn’t agree or disagree, didn’t move.
“Not really me, though, right?”
Sam took another look at the guy. Some of it was obvious. Dude had a good 20 pounds on him, all muscle, it was clear even through his clothes (which, Sam noticed, were definitely his clothes). But there was something else. The way he held his head, his posture, some look in his eyes…what the hell was that? It wasn’t empty, not really, just different. Cold? No, not cold either.
He didn’t have time for another thought before the guy was on him.
“Who the hell are you?”, Sam gritted out with difficulty as he was pinned to the ground with most of his air supply cut off by the weight on his chest.
“I’m you, dumbass. Well, kind of you, but not so much of a pansy.” The guy had this crooked smile that didn’t go anywhere past his lips. “I see that big brain workin’, Sam, come on, give it a second, the answer is right there, man, just get your pussy-ass mouth working and say it.” The look on his face was terrifying and familiar at the same time.
And then he got it.
“You really are me. Me from before. Or, from after. I mean, after the Cage and before Dean got me my soul back. You’re not me, you’re what I was. Then.” Sam’s voice trembled at the realization. He swallowed, hard, and tried to catch his breath. He was looking at himself, but it wasn’t really him. It was the him that he wasn’t even supposed to know about. He’d gotten flashes, here and there, seen a few things, but this was different. He was looking into the face of the man he’d been but didn’t remember being.
Why was this happening? He hadn’t scratched the wall. He was sure he hadn’t. What put him here, facing down a stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all?
The guy was laughing now, a low sound that didn’t sound happy at all. “Dean didn’t get your soul back, Death got your soul back, you moron. Dean’s just everything, isn’t he? You should carve your initials into that tree and draw a big heart around them”, he smirked. “Your ideas come from a place where reason and logic don’t even exist.”
“What do you want?” He didn’t know what else to say, was too stunned to think of another question to ask.
Sam didn’t guess there would be any other answer, anyway. “I want to be back, what the fuck do you think? I’m better than you, let your friends and family say what they will, but why would they be better off with you, you weakness, your indecisive conscience, than they would with me? I do what needs to be done. I am so much stronger than you, Sam. You know it’s true. All I have to do is finish you, and the other one, and they’ll have me. They’re in a much better position with me as a partner, you have to know that on some level. How could you, with all your guilt and remorse and misplaced loyalty, do them more good than I could? I don’t make the mistake of letting emotional connections cloud my judgment. I’m more effective. And right now, effective is what matters. If you want your friends and your brother to be safe, you’d want me to be the one looking out for them.” He looked smug and confident, like there was no way to question any of his words.
A stray thought occurred to Sam. “The other one?”, he asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.
“He’s worse than you, if you can imagine. Weaker, more damaged than even you are. I know. Hard to believe. But it doesn’t matter.” The guy placed his hand around Sam’s throat, slowly adding pressure until Sam started to see black and white and gray cloud the fields around the edges of his vision.
And no. No no no no no this was not going to happen. Whoever this guy was, the guy who Dean like to jokingly refer to as T1000 or RoboSam, or whatever…fuck that, and fuck this guy.
Sam maneuvered his hand between them and brought it up hard against the guy’s nose. It didn’t give him much time, but enough that when the guy was shaking it off, Sam had a chance to reach his Taurus and put two rounds right through his chest. He stood over the guy for a minute, trying to catch his breath and regain his balance.
“Wait until you run into the other guy”, he gasped, “and let’s see if you’ve got it in you to gank his pathetic ass”. His head rolled to the side, eyes still open and staring up at the trees.
Sam didn’t have even ten seconds before he found himself somewhere else again. But it took even less time to figure out who he was looking at. It was dark and the room was covered in shadows, but the person at the table…yeah, that was him, too. Not the last him that he’d encountered (Jesus, this was getting convoluted as fuck), but him all the same. The him who remembered the Cage. The one with his body and face but who was broken and bloody and burned, the one who begged Sam not to go back, to stay in wherever this place was, who insisted that Sam wasn’t strong enough to incorporate that last Sam and this Sam right here and still walk out the other side whole. This one, though, willingly handed him the blade and told him to go on ahead if he insisted.
And honestly, Sam didn’t know for sure what he wanted. But he did know what he had to do. It wasn’t entirely clear, he wasn’t certain exactly what it was that he had to get back to, but the overwhelming urge to get back to whatever it was couldn’t be shaken off. He looked into the eyes of the second doppelganger he’d seen in the space of a few minutes, and didn’t feel sorry about stabbing whoever that guy was right through the chest.
So, how many Sams are there? Is there really only one? Are there several? Do they knit all of their pieces together to make up the only authentic Sam that is left?
It didn’t matter anyway, not really. He had someplace he needed to be, something he needed to do. He didn’t know where or what, but he would be at that place and he would do that thing, whatever they turned out to be. Whatever he turned out to be.