WARNINGS: Depressive thoughts and feelings, The Cage, Lucifer being an arse, etc.

Book Four

Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions

Chapter Three

In all the years that he has existed - and they are many - nothing has haunted him quite so much as the howling cry of a dog.

It shouldn't, he knows. If any of them were to be haunted by the baying of a dog, it should be Dean, but the first time Sam lost his brother, when Lilith was still at their heels, would always be the worst for Sam. The howling of the hellhounds had been beyond his hearing then. He wasn't the one they were after and so he had been deaf to them, but still they haunted his nightmares.

Standing on the rocking outcropping of a high cliff, staring over a storm-drunk sea, the sound of a dog's howling shook the world around him.

Sam knew he was dreaming.

Learning to differentiate between dreams and reality had become a necessity for him to survive the madness that was his life. So he knew that the rocky outcropping, the high cliff, and the wild ocean were figments of his once-shattered mind. But the howl that chased the bitter wind to his ears… he didn't know if that was dream or memory and he feared the answer if he dared to ask.

The air itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the howling cry and Sam felt himself shiver with a cold that was likely more than just in his mind. He could feel The Cage trying to form around him, could almost see the edges of it, icy and dark. It superimposed itself over the wide open sky that stretched above him and Sam felt himself cringe away from it, folding his shoulders inward and trying to make himself small.

The walls followed him down, chased him inward, curling around him like the steel contours of an iron maiden, spikes of ice piercing through his skin and tearing holes into his damned and doomed soul. His lungs were filled with the bitter air of an unending winter, his every inhalation a spike of agony both weaker and more painful than the last. He couldn't go on. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't breathe through steel and ice and eternity. Laughter like the jagged scrape of one sword against another choked in his ears and he shook beneath the knowledge that this was his truth. That he was back. That he was in The Cage. That he had never left. That this would always be where he ended up.

"Are you back with me, Sam? I miss you when you go away."

Lucifer's voice was sweet like poison and his breath was cold as he murmured the words in Sam's ear like a lover. He smelled sick, like meat left out to rot, as what remained of Nick's body fell apart around him.

"Say something, Sammy."

Sam shuddered, unable to speak a word even if he had wanted to. He had been out! He had gotten out and he'd had a chance! How was he back here? He had been out!

"Your fantasies are so dreadfully boring , Sam. Although I did appreciate seeing my brother again. Tell me, is that how you imagine he dressed himself when he played being a Pagan? All white robes and gold jewelry." Lucifer laughed coldly in his ear. "Shall I take that form this time, Sam? Would we have more fun then?" Nick's rotting face rippled, changed, and Loki's face - Gabriel's face - replaced it. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat and tears filled his eyes and ran own his cheeks.

Lucifer leaned forward and it was definitely Lucifer. Those eyes, whiskey-gold though they might have been, held nothing of Gabriel. "Why so sad, Sammy? Aren't I pleasing to look at? I promise I'm far more fun that boring old Gabriel." His tongue flicked out and lapped at the tears on Sam's face. Sam cringed away with a whimper. "There, there. I promise it's only going to get worse." He watched as an angel blade fell into Lucifer's hands and that smile, cruel and cold, broke the illusion that his eyes hadn't already shattered. "Do you know what I did to Gabriel, Sam? Do you know what I did that day he stood between us and tried to trick me ?" He hefted the blade in his hand and grabbed Sam's hair, cupping the back of his head with a touch that was almost gentle. Almost kind. Sam stared up at him through tear-filled eyes.

"It was just… like… this…" Lucifer drove the blade forward.

The blade shattered with a crystalline crack that echoed like chimes as shards burst outward in a cloud. Lucifer's mouth opened in a scream of rage, but what came out was a howl that sent cracks running through the walls of the cage like spiderwebbed fractures in ice. They grew to fissures and light burst through, pure white and blazing, and Sam couldn't look away, didn't dare. Let him go blind, so long as the last bit of the world he saw was the light of freedom as it carried him beyond the cage and Lucifer's torments.

The howl continued, less a cry of rage now than a song that danced on the air, still trembling, still haunting, but hanging there like an aurora of sound, kaleidoscoping across his senses.

Sam felt the tears as they ran down his cheeks, hot against cold skin, burning as the light of daylight seared them blind. White overtook him completely, but the cool rush of air came with it, and Sam contented himself with his freedom as he felt warmth cascade over him from the sun against his skin. Nevermind his eyes so long as the cage and Lucifer were well behind him. The dark faded in, blanketing his vision in black, and Sam closed his eyes.

And then… soft. His eyes opened, still blind, still black, but...

Fur brushed against his face and Sam lifted his head, taking a small step back.

The sky was still there, blue and bright, but taking up most of his vision was a massive wolf. Fur as black as blindness, as thick as rushweeds, the massive wolf peered down at him with eyes the color of spun gold. There were ages accounted for in those eyes, but so too was there laughter. He stared for a long moment, wondering why they appeared so familiar, until the size of the wolf triggered a memory, and he realized who exactly he was looking at.

"Fenrir?"

The giant wolf's head tilted to the side, the large ears perking up. The wolf was twice his size sitting down and he wondered how small he must seem to a creature that could devour him easily. And yet, he wasn't afraid. There was something… not a feeling or even knowledge, but something told him that he was safe here, in this place, with this creature. Perhaps it was just the familiarity of those golden eyes, so very much like Gabriel's.

"My father has been paired well, it seems."

The wolf's voice was softer than he'd expected. He would have thought the voice of Fenrir to be deep and guttural, every utterance like the sound of rocks cascading in an avalanche. Instead, it was a soothing tone, smooth and gentle, like a warm summer breeze blowing gently at his hair.

"Paired?" Sam asked, registering the words.

He didn't know wolves could smile.

The long legs eased out on either side of him as Fenrir lowered himself to the ground. Laying on his belly, his face was level with Sam's, and they stared at each other down the length of Fenrir's muzzle. The wolf's breath smelled of mint and pine, and every exhale was a bath in warmth that eased the chill that still lingered from memories of the Cage. Sam shut his eyes and just revelled in feeling so safe .

"A tale for another time when we've longer than the span of a dream." Sam opened his eyes again to find Fenrir staring back at him, his gaze warm and welcoming.

"Why are you here?" Sam asked.

The wolf tilted his head again, regarding Sam with eyes too intelligent for a face that appeared so much like a normal canine despite its size. "You had need of me."

But why? Sam wondered. Of all the creatures to come to him in his dreams, Fenrir would be the last person he would think of.

Well, no. The last person he would expect to join him in his dreams would be Chuck, honestly, or maybe Michael. Someone who was supposed to be protective and kind. He never would have even thought of Fenrir had the topic come up, and he only knew the creature from all the myths he had read of Loki. He had read Storlusun's Prose Edda , and the tale it told was one of unkindness to Loki and his children. Part of Sam had hoped that it was merely a myth.

And perhaps this was merely a dream.

The great wolf rumbled a laugh like a stuttering wind and turned those bright gold eyes on him in a look as sly as his father's trickster persona. "Dreams are merely gateways, Winchester. That you are asleep as they occur does not make them less real." He bent his head and nosed gently at Sam's arm. Sam lifted his hand and rubbed it through the fur on Fenrir's great muzzle.

The wolf laughed and his tongue rolled out, licking a long line of spit up Sam's arm and over the manacle he still wore, even in this dream.

"You bear my father's mark. I could hear your soul crying out were you deep in my sister's realm. Blessed be the Norns who brought you here so you were near to me."

Sam's mind put meaning to the semi-unfamiliar words even as his eyes traced the symbol on his wristband that he knew belonged to Loki. He glanced up at Fenrir.

"What does this mean?"

The wolf made a groaning noise as he shifted position. "It is the mark of my father, as you well know."

"Yes. But what does it mean that I wear it?"

"That you wear a band bearing my father's mark would itself be a small thing, perhaps marking him a patron, or at least someone you admire. That, in itself, should be no surprise to you. That you bear his mark on that band, however, speaks of my father's regard for you."

Sam's breath caught. Loki's regard?

"I am sure you know, tricksters are curious by nature, and my father has never done anything by halves. You have caught his attention and he wishes to… understand, perhaps. This mark is his, and the band is obsidian. It is a stone born of fire and air and earth, and is a stone well known to reveal the truth. I cannot see how it will do so with your truth, however. You are well-wrapped in protections such that if not for your soul crying out and my father's mark, I would not have known you. You are all but invisible."

"Is this a beacon, then?" Sam asked, tugging futilely on the bracelet.

"No." Fenrir nosed at Sam's hand, brushing it away before he could wound himself with his struggles. "I recognize my father's magic because hisseidr is with me and has been since my imprisonment. I felt it calling out for another part of itself, so near, and I came to see if it was my father when I heard your soul cry out for aid. That is when I saw how my father had marked you. A curiosity, and a treasure." He smiled again, that teasing laughter filling his eyes and making them burn bright gold.

"A treasure, huh?"

"It is an egg on the other side of the bracelet, is it not? Secrets lie within, and golden presents." He licked his lips.

Sam pushed the giant wolf's muzzle away and was rewarded with a heavy rumble of laughter. "You're like him, you know."

Fenrir's ears flicked upward with pleasure. "Thank you. No one has said so before in a way meant to be kind. It is good to hear that not all creatures view my father so poorly."

Sam's smile fell as his thoughts raced. "The stories of your family… are they true?" He looked up at the massive creature, whose eyes dulled with sadness. "You're not wearing a collar, and there's no sword…"

"Gleipnir is not a collar but a snare about my leg. Her touch is as gentle as a spring breeze, but her hold is as tight as a winter night is long. She is there still, her hold unyielding, and the sword that keeps my jaws apart still rusts betwixt my teeth. But you are dreaming, and here, at least, I have learned to come as I was once, long ago, before it hurt to be."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. He reached out and pressed a hand against Fenrir's whiskers, petting the soft fur of his muzzle. Sam knew what it was like, to be so wounded in your mind that even existing was agony. He could not imagine how terrible it would be to spend centuries that way, tricked and bound and trapped by the people you should have been able to trust. There was a prophecy about Sam, too, and the destruction of the world, but Dean has never been cruel enough to lock Sam away before he himself had faltered. There had been the panic room, of course, but Sam had been mad for demon blood then and long lost to his addiction. When he was young, Dean had only ever cared for him. Imagine if he hadn't.

I never would have survived, Sam thought darkly, his mind turning over the events of his first life. If Dean hadn't been there for him when they were children, Sam wouldn't have made it through John's training with his mind still intact, never mind the rest of him.

Fenrir lifted his nose into the air and out of Sam's reach. Great nostrils flared as he scented the air and his ears twitched. "It appears we are out of time." Sam frowned but then Fenrir's head lowered and he exhaled a warm breath into Sam's face, the smell of mint leaves heavy in the air. "I will see you again, Fjær." His tongue lolled out and licked up Sam's face. Sam shut his eyes quickly as the hot tongue rolled over them and disappeared into his hair. He heard a distant humming growing closer, a low, rhythmic song that grew louder and louder, until it was suddenly blaring in his ears.

Sam's eyes flew open and he sat up, his blankets falling into his lap. A steady, blaring noise filled the room and Sam looked over to see his phone vibrating as his morning alarm tried to shake it to the floor. He leaned over and grabbed it before it could fall and break.

Had it all been just a dream?

Something tickled Sam's hand and he dropped his phone in his lap, turning his hand over.

Across his palm and between his fingers lay long, fine black hairs, like those that catch on your fingers when you're petting a dog. Sam stared at them for a long time, stunned by their existence. He rubbed his hands together, collecting the hairs into one mass, and then plucked it from his skin.

He climbed out of bed and went to go throw it in the trash, but something burned along his skin like a warning and he found himself retracing his steps, back to the bed. He pulled open the top drawer of his nightstand and tucked the tuft of fur in the back, under a book. He didn't know when in the future he could possibly have a use for it but something was telling him to keep it. Despite his wariness at feeling anything with that level of reasonless certainty, he felt compelled to follow the instinct.

Running a hand through his hair, Sam tried to shake the feeling of hunger that had nothing to do with wanting breakfast. On the edge of his awareness, he could almost smell demon blood, and it shook him that the memory came back so quickly and seemed to affect him even now, years before he would meet Ruby.

He scrubbed his hands down his face and snagged his phone from the bed, peering at the clock.

7:52

"Shit!" He shucked his pants and kicked them into a corner before grabbing a pair of jeans from his closet and nearly braining himself on his nightstand as he tried to fly into them. He had British Literature in eight minutes and Professor Grant did not accept tardiness, no matter the excuse. He was still pulling on his shirt as he stepped out of his apartment and turned to lock the door. He heard a startled squeak and looked over to see the girl who lived across the hall looking at her feet with a face as red as a tomato.

"Good morning, Sam," she muttered to her toes.

"Morning, Cecilia." He tugged his shirt down and tried to ignore the disappointed sigh behind him.

"Late for class, bye, Cecilia!" he said, swinging his bag over his shoulder and bolting down the stairs.

"You can be late everyday if I means I get that as a morning view."

Sam ignored the words, echoed as they were down a hall that had deceptively good acoustics. He made his way out of the apartment building and broke into a run, dodging around milling students in his rush to get to class. Professor Grant had a habit of locking the door during class so anyone who was late couldn't sneak in while he was focused on writing on the board. Sam hadn't been late yet and he did not want to get into the habit.

He huffed out a breath. What a lousy start to the week.

He did manage to make it to class just before Professor Grant shut the doors. He ignored the man's irritated scowl as he settled into an empty seat and tried to catch his breath. This was the third night in a row with some variation of a nightmare haunting his brain. If that continued for the rest of the week, it didn't bode well for the midterms that started on Tuesday.

Sam dropped his head to his desk and groaned. I hate Tuesdays.

"Mister Winchester, if you'll care to join us, please explain the premise of Beowulf ."

I hate Mondays, too.