Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This is… highly unusual, Mister Winchester.” The woman peered at him over the top of the file he had given her. Her thin, wire-frame glasses made her appear imperious and unapproachable, though Sam remembered her as being an incredibly helpful woman during his first run through Stanford. She always made time for those who majored in Law and were assigned to her. Sam had visited her frequently and while her position had prohibited them from being friends, he had always enjoyed their meetings. He would be sad not to work with her again.

“I know,” he said and tried not to shift in his seat. “I’m aware that there may be some hesitation since the scholarship I received was to study Law, but I’ve included a portfolio of my work to show that I am just as qualified to study in a new field. The scholarship won’t be wasted.”

“No, I’m sure it won’t.” She lowered the file to her desk and leaned back in her chair, looking at him. “Your choices are ambitious, as well, and the samples you have included display a high level of knowledge in the subject already. That isn’t a concern. What strikes me is how… different the two majors are. Law is on a different level entirely from Parapsychology.”

“Is it a problem?” Sam asked, slightly nervous. He’d gotten it into his head to change his major to something that would be more useful down the road. He was going to be hunting with Dean again in a few years and he had no plans to fall out of practice here at Stanford, either. A Law Degree would be prestigious but not very helpful, especially considering he could probably pass his LSATs in his sleep if he tried.

She glanced down at the file briefly but shook her head. “Honestly, the biggest problem is that I’m sad to lose you. You have a lot of potential in Law, but I think I could say that of any field of study you put your mind to. You’re not the first freshman to change their major, although you’re quite a bit more prepared than I would have expected. I’m not going to turn my nose up at that.” She shuffled the papers into order and closed the file. “I’ll have your major adjusted and the minors you’ve chosen added to the system. You should be able to access your records online by tomorrow afternoon. They’ll show who your new advisor is and the class adjustments for removing you from the Law program.” She stood up and offered her hand. “I’m sad to see you go, Sam, but I look forward to seeing what you do with your future. Good luck.”

When Sam stepped into his Painting I class, it was dark.

Not “the professor forgot to turn on the lights” dark, but “the windows have been boarded up and there is no escape” dark.

Sam felt his body tense up, every muscle going on full alert in preparation for an attack. His heartbeat sped up in his chest and he bent his knees, eyes scanning the area, looking for danger. He didn’t smell sulfur but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a demon around.

His instincts were telling him to go, to leave, but there was a class scheduled and students around and it was possible that some of them had been trapped. His mind went to Brady, due to become a skin-suit for a demon, and he couldn’t make himself leave if there was a chance someone needed his help.

He moved cautiously forward, into the room, despite the sound of Dean’s voice in his head telling him to turn tail and get the fuck out of there. His fingers brushed the wall, searching for a light switch. He shut his eyes to protect them from the sudden change and flicked the switch. He saw the light burst into being even through his eyelids and someone screamed. His eyes snapped open and he dropped into a defensive stance, ready for a fight.

And met the gaze of four very confused freshmen giving him deer-in-headlights looks. They didn’t appear… demonically inclined. In fact, the one looked as though she had just woken up.

“Good afternoon.”

Sam turned his head, still wary, toward the voice. A woman stepped around one of the many easels that decorated the room. She was an older woman, mid-fifties if he had to guess, with the strangest shade of blue-green hair that Sam had ever seen. It was pulled up in a messy bun like she didn’t have time to deal with it, and there were smears of paint in it like she’d wrapped it up right in the middle of teaching a class on finger painting. She wore a large pair of glasses, the thick rims a violent fuschia, and the too-large apron that she wore was splattered with all colors of paint. She was half his size but when she walked up to him, her gaze was sharp, making her seem much larger than she was.

“Did you read your syllabus, young man?” she snapped at him, putting her hands on her hips and staring him down from two feet below his eye-level. “I distinctly recall typing up a note that said our first class would be done in the dark and not to disturb my painters with unnecessary light. Are you perhaps illiterate? Will I be giving you directions via interpretive dance?”

Sam stared at her for a moment, then looked at the other students. They were still staring at him, but some of them had wide-eyed gazes that spoke of concern for his well-being. Perhaps his professor had a history of a temper?

“I’m… uh, sorry?” he asked weakly and cleared his throat. “I was just assigned to this class last week so I actually didn’t get the syllabus. I don’t think they have my email hooked up.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then let out a loud sigh that seemed to cause her whole body to deflate. Sam felt like he had diffused a bomb. “You’re the Winchester boy, I take it?”

“Yes?” The Winchester boy? Why did it feel like he had the displeasure of a reputation already?

“Well, either you are or you aren’t, so which is it?”

“I… yes, I’m Sam Winchester.”

She nodded, as though this had proven a point. “Are you afraid of the dark, Winchester?”

“... no,” Sam said slowly. “Although I’m not fond of surprises,” he added, thinking of the clusterfuck that could have resulted if one of the students had grabbed him while he was looking for the light switch. He was not certain he wouldn’t have pinned them to the wall with a blade to their throat.  That would have been… bad.

“Fair enough.” She turned and walked away from him, but continued to speak. “I’ve been told I’m an unconventional professor who’s difficult to deal with and a bitch on multiple levels. If you can’t handle that, step out the door you stepped in. If you’re willing to suffer through a professor that won’t take your excuses and doesn’t want to listen to you whine-” She glanced back at him. “I am not your mother.” Sam nodded and she nodded in return. “Then feel free to stay, but you will work for your grade. This is an art class, not a study hall, and you’re not in high school anymore.” She executed a military-tight turn and faced him, hands clasped behind her back. “There are three classes that you will spend in almost absolute darkness. This class, the day of your midterm, and the day of your final. The rest of the classes will vary, but for those three days, you will do one thing. YOU WILL PAINT!”

One of the girls on the other side of the room squeaked in surprise at the woman’s shout. She was quite loud and the room was small, adding to her volume.

“Today, we will equip you with the weapons you will need to win against every blank canvas that you must face. You will be given brushes and paints, the tools with which to do battle against white space, and your battle armor to protect you. And then we will turn off the lights and you will face the beasts of your nightmares.”

She met his gaze and hers was bright with passion. "Tell me, Winchester. Are you ready to face your demons?"

Sam thought of the demons he had faced, true demons, and wondered if the dark would bring them out. He wondered if he should worry what his mind might want to put on canvas, but he nodded anyway. "Yes."

She grinned a feral smile. "We'll see."

Chapter Text

By the time class was over, Sam was exhausted. He was also smeared with more paint than he had ever seen in his life and he had once helped Jess paint her parents’ entire house. He hadn’t bothered removing the apron he had been given, fairly sure he would end up wearing the entire can of blue paint it was drenched in if he even tried. His brushes - so many brushes - as well as the myriad of other tools he had no idea the purpose of, were wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve and tucked in his bag. He also had a stack of blank canvases that he was to pick up later that day, when he was “less likely to smear them with a colorful description of your crotch, Winchester.” He fully intended to have a shower first, however, and perhaps sleep for the next three days. Painting in the dark had been weird , but also surprisingly cathartic.

His stomach growled loudly and he remembered that his apartment had a single package of saltine crackers and a can of cream of mushroom soup.

I take it back. Give me the apocalypse. It was easier.

“I see you’ve met The Dragon.”

Sam stopped walking and turned at the familiar voice. She looked different without the purple apron and beret, but her smile was the same teasing grin and it was hard to forget hair that long.

“I didn’t take you for an art major, Sweets.”

“I’m…” He shook his head. “I’m not. Parapsychology.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? Not just Psychology by Para, too? You’ve got goals.” He huffed a laugh and she grinned at him. “So what’re you doing in my art class other than facing your demons ?” She dropped her voice low in mimicry of their professor and he laughed.

“Um, trying to hit all the requirements for my Gen Eds. Art class seemed like it would be… easy.”

“Wow, did you pick wrong.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She’s called The Dragon , Sweets. You don’t get that name from being cute and cuddly.” She adjusted the bag she was carrying and Sam realized it held a collapsible easel he had seen some of the other students using. It was different from the one Professor Drake was having him pick up later, which was a large wooden contraption hat didn’t seem very maneuverable.

“Did you get your supplies already?” He nodded toward her bag at her confused look.

“Ah, no. This one’s mine. ‘Fraid I don’t get to take on The Dragon just once and dash. I’m an art major. I’ll have to fight her for my diploma, I bet, right there on the stage graduation day.”

Sam found himself laughing loudly and was surprised by how good it felt. He shook his head. “I’m gonna keep calling you The Barista in my head unless you give me your name.”

“Not The Feckin’ Barista ? Not doing my job selling the name if I’m just a boring ol’ barista.” She winked at him. “Names’ Kathy, but you can call me whatever ya like.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Nah,” she said with a grin. “Ya Sweets. Already picked a name for ya, darling. No take-backs.”

He huffed a laugh and his stomach growled again. “Ugh. I need a shower and food, sadly in that order.”

She grinned at him. “I’ve got to get to work. Come see me again, Sweets.” She sent a wink his way and headed off toward the direction of the coffee shop. Sam watched her go for a moment, then shook his head. He headed off toward his apartment, thinking about what he would do for dinner. He could call Giovanni’s Pizza before he climbed in the shower and have them deliver something. That would probably be easiest.

What would make it even easier was if he would actually get his dorm assignment. A week into classes and he hadn’t yet been told where he would be staying. So much for getting money back on his apartment rental. At this rate, he’d be using up all he won from Dougherty paying for another week or so.

His email hadn’t been working when he tried to log on so he wasn’t getting any information that way, but when he’d called administration, he’d been told there was a plumbing issue with the building he was due to be assigned, so for the moment, he would need to just stay where he was. He wondered how other students were handling not having a place to live.

I’m really lucky, he thought, as he trotted up the stairs to his apartment. I could be sleeping in one of the lecture halls, instead. He hoped the other students were doing all right and decided to check on the status of the dorm when he had a free afternoon.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Giovanni’s Pizzeria, a little disturbed that he could dial the number without having to think about it, but the human mind was weird. He ordered a vegetarian pizza that would have made Dean cringe and headed for the bathroom.

He didn’t even bother stripping, just turned on the water and stepped in, shoes and all. The water washed down the drain in colorful streams and Sam watched it blur together in a prism of chaos that perfectly described this semester already. At least he only had the class once a week. It would take him the next seven days to recover before he had to face his demons again.

Face the dragon , he thought and grinned ruefully. If nothing else, the class promised to be... interesting.

“No, no!” Professor Drake cried, appearing out of nowhere and advancing on the young brunette who cringed at her arrival. “What is this... this... travesty ?! Are you painting a puddle, girl? Is it an oil spill? Come on now, speak up!”

“It’s... it’s...” The girl’s voice quavered and seemed to deflate the more she spoke, so much that Sam almost didn’t hear her shamed whisper of, “It’s supposed to be a rainbow.”
It was the first time Sam had actually heard the girl speak and they were four weeks into the semester. The timidity of her voice explained why, though, and the snort of laughter from one of the boys on the other side of the room didn’t help as the girl withered like a dehydrated flower right on the spot.
Professor Drake tsked in clear disapproval and Sam prepared to say something. The girl clearly had self-esteem issues. She didn’t need a professor dragging her further down on top of students who should really be adult enough to know better.

He spotted Kathy across the room. The redhead had her long hair braided and then wrapped up in a large bun at the back of her head today but there was still a large streak of blue paint behind one ear. She was glaring at the boy who had laughed and the paintbrush clutched in her hand looked at risk of snapping in two any second. Sam hoped she didn’t get herself in trouble by doing something foolish like stabbing the bully in the eye, no matter how tempting it was.

He eyed the idiot again but he appeared to have satisfied himself and was focused on his own painting. Sam listened only peripherally as The Dragon told them that class was over and they were, as usual, to pick up their painting station completely and leave the room. She turned back toward her desk and left everyone to pack their stations away. Unlike some of his other professors, Professor Drake didn’t have a class immediately following this one, but she still preferred them to have everything cleaned up and be gone within a few minutes of her saying class was ended. Sam had no desire to stoke her ire, so he began to quietly and efficiently pack up his station, all the while keeping an eye on both Kathy and the idiot.

He carried his canvas to the far wall where there were hooks spaced along it for students to hang their paintings. On a campus as busy as Stanford, carrying a wet painting to and from class was nigh impossible. Not only could all manner of dirt get stuck in the wet paint, but bumping into someone could mean anything from dropping your painting on the sidewalk to getting someone’s face artfully stamped across your would-be masterpiece. The wall space designated for his class was a blessing and Sam carefully made sure his painting was balanced and unlikely to topple to the floor at the least provocation. The shine of wet paint gleamed darkly at him and he grimaced at his poor attempt. As much as he could imagine the Impala, sleek and shining and beautiful, he wasn’t able to transfer that image through his hands the way he wanted. Instead, a blob of black like an oozing puddle of bad decisions spread like a disaster across the yellow dotted line of a well-intentioned road.

Sam briefly thought planting someone’s face in the middle of his painting could only improve it.

When he turned to make his way back to his station, he found that the rainbow-painting girl had made her way over to the professor’s desk. The two of them were speaking too quietly for Sam to hear and he hesitated, but the girl didn’t appear distraught, nor did The Dragon appear particularly draconic. He was about to move closer so he could hear what was being said when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked over to see Kathy waving at him lightly. When she realized she had caught his attention, she sent him a wink and a headshake. Her meaning was clear. He didn’t need to interfere with the other girl and their professor.

He sent her a look that expressed his doubts and she grinned at him, walking over. “Trust me, Sweets. You don’t want to stick your head in that cave.”

He pursed his lips at the clear pun on their professor’s nickname. “You sure? The girl looked like she was about to cry earlier.”

“Kennedy’s a dick, that’s why. And Teryn worries too much about pleasing the professors. Trust me, she’ll be all right.” She made a shooing motion at him. “Now hurry up before Drake realizes you’re dawdling.”

He made his way back to his station and wrapped his wet brushes in a paper towel before sliding them into the plastic case in his bag. He picked his easel up by its central column and lifted the bar that normally held his canvas while he was working. The other two legs collapsed inward and Sam locked them down before collapsing the legs until the easel was no more than two feet long. He slid it into the vinyl bag it had come with and slung it over his shoulder.

By the third week into this class, he had been utterly sick of the easel the school provided him. A massive, cheaply-made wooden contraption, its rear leg had been the only one that moved, either extending or dropping down against the main frame. It hadn’t collapsed, folded up, or been easy to transport. It had also clearly been used over multiple years and he kept catching his hand on rough spots or snagging a splinter halfway through class when he tried to adjust his canvas for a different angle. After his third class, he’d finally gone to Kathy and asked her where he could find a decent easel that wouldn’t break his wallet. Rather than laugh at him (although she had laughed, she seemed to do that quite often), she had sympathized with his plight.

Because of their schedules, they’d had to wait until Friday before both of them had off at the same time for more than a couple hours. Kathy had insisted that one did not simply walk into an art store and buy only the thing they were looking for. Once they arrived at DaVinci’s Paradise, he began to understand what she meant. The look on her face was very similar to the way Dean looked when they were in a car parts store. Kathy was definitely an artist at heart.

She’d dragged him to the aisle where they kept the painting easels and he’d nearly run away in terror because Chuck have mercy, there were so many . Easels of every size, some made of wood and others metal, ranging everywhere from $20 to $300. When he spotted the $1500 all-purpose easel with a crank, he turned around and headed for the door.

Kathy laughed at him (definitely at him, this time) and grabbed his hand, dragging him back. “Don’t freak out.”

“Too late,” Sam murmured, making her laugh.

“Okay, unless you’re going to paint for your livelihood--”

“Can I sell my work as firewood? I’d make more.”

“Then you don’t need that fancy of an easel.” She rolled right over his commentary as she dragged him back down the aisle. “So wooden easels are all well and good if you’re keeping it in the same place, but not so much for transport. Carrying it back and forth between classes is easier if it collapses. There’s some where the legs fold up but they’re not as sturdy and a wobbly easel’s no good for delicate work.” She pointed out some metal ones with joints that tightened and loosened to help keep the easel open or collapsed. “These are pretty nice. Can be irritating if the lock fails on ya, but if you’re only taking the one class then it would probably do ya.”

Sam hesitated. He really just planned to take the class for credits and move on toward his major, but something was niggling at the back of his mind. He couldn’t place it beyond doubt, though why he would subject himself to The Dragon for more than one semester was a guess for a saner mind than his.

Still…

“What kind do you use?”

“I didn’t get mine here, but they have one that’s similar. It’s a bit pricier, though.” She walked a little further down the aisle and lifted off an easel that had been collapsed. It was about a foot and a half long all tucked together, folded up so tightly that he could have encircled the whole thing with his hand and touched fingertips to thumb.

“I like this style. It’s more secure.” She began to open it as he watched. There was a large piece of hard rubber on the bottom that looked like a giant bottle cap. She unscrewed it to reveal the legs, which extended in sections. The back leg unfolded from the top and then extended downward, and the rest of the easel opened like a flower, with a ledge that held the canvas and a firm back to keep it steady. There was even a bar at the top that could be adjusted for different sized canvases so it could hold them and prevent movement.

It was compact and light, Sam noted, as he lifted it easily with one hand. But it was also sturdy and neither rocked nor wobbled. He glanced at the price.

“Sixty is probably the lowest you can go for a decent one that’ll last you,” she admitted apologetically. “Unless you’re shooting for short term.”

Again that niggling feeling that was like an itch in the back of his mind. It made Sam’s lips curve into a frown even as he tried to determine what exactly it was trying to tell him.

“You can always come back later if you’re not sure,” Kathy suggested soothingly.

Sam smiled at her and lifted the easel. “No, I like this one.” He began to fold it up, making sure he knew how it worked.

“What’s the frowny face for, then?”

He thought of demon blood and abominations and endless years of torment and forced his lips into a smile.

“Just thinking of home.”

Chapter Text

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 his seidr 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.

Chapter Text

When Sam woke up Tuesday morning, it was well before his alarm was due to go off.

He rolled over and stared at the eye-bleedingly bright numbers on the screen before burying his face back in his pillow with a groan. He’d had a restless night already filled with dreams of being late for his midterms. Dr. Roderick had lectured him in the slow, drawn-out monologue that seemed his preference, though Sam couldn’t recall a word of it. Professor Drake, however, had turned into the dragon she was so often named and eaten him on the spot. Ultimately, the latter seemed less stressful but Sam would prefer not being late at all.

2:40 in the morning was too early even for him, though.

He pulled the covers back over his head and shut his eyes, trying to fall back asleep. His mind danced with possible topics for his midterm art assignment. That first day of class, after the rest of the students had arrived, the lights had been turned off and they had been handed paints and brushes and told to “draw something that you find inspiring.”

Sam hadn’t known what to paint. He hadn’t considered having a topic in mind before coming to the class. In the end, the only thing he could think of was long nights sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, his brother behind the wheel and Metallica blaring just this side of too loud from the speakers. That had been home to Sam more than anything else in the world, and it was what he was here for, back for. It was what he was fighting for.

He’d ended up painting a road. It hadn’t been well-done by any means. Sam had never bothered to paint artistically before in his life. The pavement was too black and the dotted line uneven and too orange, but the sands that blanketed either side of the road were easy, as was the brush and tumbleweeds, mere scribbles of a soaked paintbrush that they were. He’d set the scene during the night, coloring the sky a thick black mixed with purple and dotted it liberally with gleaming white stars, spending far too much time marking out the constellations he knew.

By the end of the class, he was utterly exhausted, but also felt so calm it was almost laughable. He’d felt more himself in that moment than he had since he arrived back in the past. It was as if painting that scene, putting that memory on the canvas, had taken him back in a way not even time travel had yet managed. He was there in the passenger seat, staring out at the road, his brother by his side, as it always should have been.

When Sam looked at his clock and saw that it was past four in the morning and he was still awake , he gave up and climbed out of bed. He was too wired already, too nervous for midterms and everything else.

He showered and dressed, pulling on a pair of faded jeans and one of his flannel shirts, aware that it was likely to get coated in paint at some point during class. He fussed around the apartment for a while, making his bed, sorting laundry and doing dishes, before he gave up and grabbed his bag. Much to his surprise, The Feckin’ Bean was open 24 hours, to help desperate college students have a quiet place to work where they could also buy copious amounts of caffeine. It wasn’t a long walk from his apartment even in the dark and Sam made the trek easily.

The bookstore, Sam noted as he walked by, was also open, though the clerk at the counter looked exhausted, head buried in a textbook. Sam hoped no one bothered him for a bit if he was actually taking a nap and not attempting to study via osmosis.

He slipped into the coffee shop with a sigh of relief as the smell of roasting beans welcomed him. He briefly expected to see Kathy and get a call of “Morning, Sweets!”, but the barista was one he was unfamiliar with. Tall and slender, the man had an unruly mop of dark hair and wide blue eyes. His large ears were prominent but nowhere near as eye-catching as his grin.

“Good morning and welcome to The Friggin’ Bean. What can I fill with espresso and chocolate for you today? Or caramel, if you prefer. Or… plain, though I don’t suggest that. Ew.”

“Isn’t it The Feckin’ Bean?” Sam asked, eyeing the apron the guy was wearing. It was purple, just like Kathy’s, with the same coffee bean distributing the same finger. His eyes caught on the red kerchief around the boy’s neck that sat in garish contrast to the rest of his uniform color scheme.

“Well, yeah, but if I say that, my mum’ll hear me all the way from home and come here and twist my ears.” He flapped his hands at them. “Look at them! She’s already got them sticking straight out from my head. They can’t take any more!”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. It was too early - far too early - in the morning to be dealing with the humor of someone so chipper. “I’m definitely going to need caffeine.”

The boy laughed. “I gotcha covered. You know what you want?” He rubbed his hands together. “I can make anything you can think up. Just say the magic word!”

Sam frowned at him. “What’s the magic word?”

“ Please . Duh.”

Sam grinned. “Please, then.” He placed his order with the kerchief-wearing morning person and briefly considered flopping onto one of the beanbags. He thought once he lied down, though, he wouldn’t get back up, and instead took a seat in one of the purple armchairs. His eyes roamed the room at leisure, taking in the dark purple walls and the numerous photos of coffee art that hung suspended in gold frames. The whole coffee shop was done up in hues of purple, gold, and brown, the countertops the color of butterscotch candy and the ceiling a soft lavender.

Sam eyed the floor, covered as it was in soft brown carpet, and wondered if he was less likely to sleep through his midterm if he laid down there and took a short nap. He was seriously regretting scheduling classes at eight in the morning. Hadn’t he thought during his first run through Stanford that it was a terrible decision he would never make again?

There was a crash and the sound of breaking glass behind the counter that had Sam whipping around. He heard a muttered, “Oh, Gwen is gonna kill me for that,” before a series of clatters ensued.

“You okay?”

“Oh, fine. Yes. Perhaps a little burnt but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sam stood up and headed over to the counter to check on the boy. The clatter of dishes continued and then he heard the kid mutter something, but it didn’t sound English. His head popped up over the counter and for a moment his eyes reflected gold back at Sam, who blinked in surprise.

But then they were blue again and Sam wondered if maybe he should have laid down on one of the beanbags and tried for a nap after all.

“Oh. Hi. Coffee’s almost done. I had a bit of a mixup with where the coffee goes but apparently the floor was thirsty, so… yes.” He grinned at Sam. “I’ll be done in a minute if you want to sit back down.”

“O-kay,” Sam said slowly, heading back over to his chair.

He settled down into the soft cushion, frowning as he heard the boy mutter something under his breath that was definitely in another language. A moment later, he came out with Sam’s latte, looking no worse for wear.

“Thanks,” Sam said, revelling in the warmth of the mug. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Well, depends on who you ask. Kathy calls me Sparks.” He shrugged with a wide grin. “But my name’s Merlin.”

The door to the bookshop next to The Feckin’ Bean had a bell that rang cheerily as he entered. He winced slightly at the groan the cashier let out as he sat up at gazed at Sam with a look he recognized.

“Midterms are murder,” Sam said sympathetically.

“You a senior?” the kid asked, scratching a hand through dark hair and making it stand on end.

“Freshman.”

“Oh, you poor bastard. You’ve no idea what’s waiting for you. Abort. Fucking. Mission.”

Sam thought about the four years he had already spent once getting his degree - or near enough, anyway - and how he was planning to do it all over again. He figured if he actually mentioned that, though, it wouldn’t be the time travel that broke this poor kid’s brain.

Instead, he set the second cup of coffee he’d bought on the counter and pushed it forward, made especially like Merlin the Nighttime Barista knew this kid tended to like it.

“Oh!” The kid grabbed the coffee like he was afraid Sam would change his mind. “Are you an actual god? Because I will change my religion if this is for me.”

“Keep your religion,” Sam said, struggling not to laugh, “but keep the coffee, too.”

He left the boy to drink his coffee - hopefully he had the sense to wait until it cooled before chugging it - and wandered the store. He’d bought supplies for his classes before they began, notebooks and pens and folders, to stay organized, and a few other things to work on making up some plans. His Japanese class had involved considerably more writing than he had expected, however, and he had used up his spare notebooks. Most likely because of all the pages he had torn out and thrown away after messing up the kanji. His hands had grown steady over the years, writing out different alphabets for spells and sigils, but the steadiness and the skill he’d had wasn’t something that had come back with him. The knowledge was there but muscle memory, it seemed, didn’t transfer well across time.

Sam moved up and down the aisles, inspecting their selection. They were less expensive than he had anticipated and he wished now he would have purchased some of his supplies here rather than the store across town.

He picked out a few spiral notebooks and a new set of pens. He moved down the electronics aisle and lamented that iphones wouldn’t be a thing for a few years. He considered a portable CD player, but the cost of CDs was too high for him to see the sense of wasting his money on it. Even buying cassette tapes seemed an unnecessary expense, so he resigned himself to the silence of poor technology and headed back toward the cashiering station.  He was almost out of the aisle when a selection of journals caught his attention.

There was a dark red journal that made him think of burning coals in a banked fire. The color was eye-catching, but the journal could have been any color, as far as Sam was concerned. His eyes were drawn to the image emblazoned on the front. A massive tree with strong branches that stretched across the whole cover done in black, twisting lines like celtic knots. It seemed to call out to Sam and he had to take a moment to double-check that it wasn’t actually something supernatural tugging on his senses, but no. Not even a tingle of his burgeoning powers.

He just wanted the journal.

It was only ten dollars and even though he really wanted to save as much money as he could, he had made $1500 from the jerk at the bar, even if he had spent some renting his apartment for another week. He grabbed the journal and made his way to the counter, setting the notebooks in a careful pile and laying the pens on top.

“Classes stealing your soul and your wallet, huh?”

“Seems that way,” Sam said, watching as the kid reluctantly set down his coffee so he could ring Sam up. Coffee in one hand and bag of notebooks in the other, Sam headed out of the shop, wondering what he would be spending the next few hours doing before it was time for him to face Dr. Roderick and his algebra midterm. The door was swinging shut behind him when he heard the cashier call out, “Praise be, Coffee God!”

Sam rolled his eyes and headed back to school.

His algebra midterm involved a lot of internalized groaning, two instances of dropping his head to his desk in an exhausted sense of failure, and one brief moment of actually dozing off. By the end of it, he was not only more tired than he had been when he first woke up, but also frustrated, worried, and suffering a mild headache. He wandered down the sidewalk aimlessly for about a half hour, looking about as dead inside as every other student who had just crawled away from their 8am class. With a final sigh of defeat, he turned and headed back toward his apartment. He would risk oversleeping and the wrath of The Dragon if it meant he could just get a couple hours of sleep.

He was standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the walk signal with a bunch of other people and lamenting his lack of wings and flight ability, when a familiar voice caught his attention.

“Oh, Chessy, it’s gonna be all right.”

“No, you don’t understand. She looked right at me…” The girl sounded like she was about to burst into tears. “I think she knows. ”

Sam looked around the crowd of people, trying to locate the source.

“Knows what?”

“I was talking with Rey earlier and he was saying how Drake’s like a nesting mother but she’s got paintings ‘stead of eggs and I just laughed like a fool an’ I told ‘im that I could take ‘er. But I can’t take ‘er, Ma. I couldn’t’ve ever taken ‘er!”

Sam caught sight of the back of someone’s head, long copper braid dragging at her hips, and saw the way an unfamiliar girl’s hands were gripping her shoulders, face white with fear.

“I looked into the void and it looked into me and I am unworthy .” She buried her face in Kathy’s shoulder and wailed, “I’ll never deliver coffee again! I am a coffee failure!”

“There, there,” Kathy said, patting the girl’s back. “You’re not a failure, Cheshire.”

“But the dragon lady is scary .”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

There was a bit of a lull as the other girl sniffled into Kathy’s shoulder, but then Kathy mumbled, “I really want to know who was foolish enough to ask for coffee to be delivered to Drake’s class. Especially during Midterm week.”

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat of agreement but it was enough to catch their attention. The girl lifted her head up and looked at him as Kathy turned around.

“Sweets!” she cried, delighted, then frowned at him. “Oh wow, you look terrible.”

Sam snorted. “Thanks.”

She didn’t leave it at that, though, and trotted over to his side. Sam took a step back as she moved in close, her face mere inches away and her hands having no compunction about poking at him. “Kathy, what--”

“Look at those grocery bags. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I got a few hours,” he said defensively, trying to back away from her. She clung like an octopus, moving with him.

“Pfft! A few hours,” she grumbled mockingly. “You need a nap. And coffee. In that order, mister!” She poked him in the side, making him yelp and twist away. “Now, young man. Move your tush.”

She poked him in the side until he started moving in the direction she wanted. “Okay, okay, geez.” He rubbed the spot she had been poking and sent her his best puppy dog pout.

She snorted at him. “Won’t work, Sweets. I deal with Mer lin for half the day.” She poked him again for good measure. “To The Feckin’ Bean, and step on it. I’m gonna be late for my shift.”

Sam didn’t feel like facing her ire so he just decided to go along with it. She gravitated to his side and matched his step while the other girl trailed behind and he walked the increasingly-familiar path to the coffee shop.

Halfway through their walk, he heard a shout and the girl behind him gave a startled, “Oops! Gotta go!” before dashing off down the street.

Two campus security guards ran past them a moment later, hot on her tail but falling behind, and he heard Kathy sigh beside him. “Honestly, I’da thought they’d give it up by now. They’ll never catch her.” She slipped her arm through Sam’s and pulled him forward. “Come along, Sweets. There’s a feckin’ couch with your name on it.”

Kathy kept her word about both the couch and coffee. When they arrived at The Feckin’ Bean, she led him quietly over to one of the couches and pushed him down onto it with a command of “Sleep. I will wake you for our midterm.”

He was mollified by that, having forgotten that she would also be going to Drake’s class for their midterm and so wouldn’t be likely to forget. He still expected it to take him forever to fall asleep, if he managed at all. To his surprise, though, the sounds of cups clattering and the various scents of brewing coffee was relaxing. Sam found himself drifting in and out of a dream about a brightly-lit cafe and a plate of cherry scones, him smiling over the rim of his coffee cup at the person across the table. He couldn’t see their face clearly, couldn’t tell who it was, but their head was thrown back and their laughter was bright and wild.

There was a chuckled, “And what do you plan to do about it, hm?”

Sam woke up with an answer on his lips he didn’t have the words for. He opened his eyes to find an unfamiliar scene and sat up quickly, a blanket tumbling off his shoulders. He glanced around, surprised.

The Feckin’ Bean was quiet, though not empty. Students sat on tables on the far side, books spread out in front of them, reading or working on homework. There was someone sprawled across a nearby armchair, legs flung over one arm and head hanging off the other. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was opened face-down on their chest and they were snoring away.

He lowered his legs off the couch and pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the clock. It was only half past twelve but he felt like he had slept for days. His limbs were heavy and sluggish and his brain felt a bit like a car that didn’t want to start. He shook his head, trying to make the feeling of not being entirely there go away but it clung stubbornly to him, making him feel like he wasn’t settled in his own body - a sensation he didn’t have good experience with and he could feel himself beginning to shiver, a chill of cold air brushing over the back of his neck.

“Oh, Sam, did you really think jumping back through time was going to make me leave? Tsk tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The couch cushions shifted and Sam felt the cold breeze flutter against his face and neck as Lucifer settled next to him. The archangel’s vessel was still rotting around him, Nick’s face all but unrecognizable beneath the cold expression that was pure Devil and the cruel gleam in his eyes.

“You really did think you were going to get away from me, didn’t you?” He leaned in close, his cheek brushing Sam’s shoulder, and his breath was like ice against his ear. “Didn’t I already tell you, Sam? You’re still in the Cage. You’re still here with me. And I’m not about to let you leave.”

Sam’s entire body went icy cold. His vision actually blurred out for a moment, taking the view of the coffee shop with it as a floating sensation filled him. He felt himself list to the side and Lucifer reached out and snagged his arm.

His touch was like falling into a lake in January and bursting to the surface only to find it had already sealed over with ice. Sam’s breath caught in his throat and he dug his thumb into his left palm until his vision wavered. Lucifer’s face blurred like a camera lens splattered with rain, taking the blonde of Nick’s hair and the scabbed and scarred face with it.

But the silhouette of a person remained and Sam felt his lips tremble despite his desperate desire to remain in control . He had begun to shiver again, his limbs shaking hard beneath the burning ice of Lucifer’s hand and he struggled to pull away from him.

“Now, now, Sam,” Lucifer said, but his voice was distorted, skewed. He saw the vague impression of a hand reach for him again and he staggered out of his seat, stumbling backward, his thumb still digging into his palm despite the fact that blood was dripping from his fingertips.

He hit a table and pain ricocheted across his lower back. His skin was freezing cold but his head felt hot, his breath coming in sharp pants as his mind tried to latch onto the truth within Lucifer’s lies. He was not in the Cage. He couldn’t be. If he was in the Cage, that would mean everything since then had been a lie. Everything up to and including his coming back in time, and that wasn’t possible. There’s no way that Lucifer could have made up everything that happened. The Leviathans, Kevin, Cain, and Dean taking the Mark. Crowley being an enemy and then a friend. Lucifer wasn’t… he was creative, yes, but at being cruel. Lucifer knew how to torment, to torture. To build a world filled with terrible events but also hope?

No. No, Sam was not in the Cage.

“You’re not real,” he muttered, digging his fingernails into the back of his hand for leverage as his thumb tore into his palm. “You’re not…”

“Aren’t I, Sam?” Lucifer’s eyes glowed red as he rose to his feet and stepped closer. “Are you sure you want to tempt me to prove myself? There’s so many people here. What would it take, I wonder. A few hundred corpses lined up at your feet? Or I could just burn this place to ashes around you.” He raised a hand and waved it negligently. Flames burst from every surface, rushing outward in trails of white-blue like the floor had been soaked in gasoline. “But you’ll be okay, Sam. Don’t worry. I won’t let my favorite Winchester die. Not. Ever.”

Sam felt the tears slip down his cheeks, hot against his icy skin, and his breath seemed to stutter in his chest. The back of his throat burned with smoke and his nostrils were filled with the putrid scent of burning flesh. He gagged against it, bracing himself against the table behind him as he struggled not to collapse. The roaring of flames filled his ears, the sound of glass shattering against heat, but no screams. There were no screams.

Sam lifted his head and tried to find people in the shop, squinting through the smoke and the searing heat of the flames. Everything blurred beneath his tears and he frantically scrubbed at his face, desperate to find these people who were dangerously close to becoming his friends.

“--supposed to have it done by five o’clock and we both know how ridiculous--”

Sam’s head jerked back toward Lucifer, startled by the voice. It was too soft to be the Devil’s, but as familiar as it was vague. He stared at the blur that was the archangel, frowning at him. He was standing back, away from Sam, arms slightly spread. Sam could still see the blonde of his hair, but something seemed… off, somehow, more than just his body language.

He dared to look away, his eyes scanning the coffee shop again. The flames were still there but they seemed frozen, like one picture overlaid against another. No movement.

“--you have Drake as a professor. Don’t think I could handle her, but then I hate painting. I have to paint my parents’ house this summer and I--”

The smell of smoke wasn’t as prominent. Instead, the smell of coffee was back, almost too-strong to senses that seemed overpowered. The smell of chocolate was sickly sweet at the back of his throat and he felt his stomach churn. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and hissed at the stab of pain in his left palm. He glanced down at it to see he had torn the skin open, blood coating his palm and fingers, streaked down his forearm.

“--taking a French Literature class would be easy since I know the language. I have never been so bored in my--”

He frowned down at his hand, staring for a long moment at the wound, wondering when that had occurred. Then his eyes lifted and scanned the coffee shop again. The flames that had been painted across everything were gone. The coffee shop looked normal, though a few tables were cluttered with books and cups, and he could see a chair that had been knocked over and others that were pulled out from the tables. He frowned, scanning the scene.

“--think once this week is over with, everyone will feel a lot better. At least until Finals come around and we all start freaking out again. At least we have places like this where we can come and relax and drink far too much caffeine. I swear, if my dad knew how much coffee I drank in one week here, he would lock me in a tower. Although if Kathy’s given you a nickname, I suppose you’re well on your way to getting yourself a good caffeine addiction, if you don’t have one already. Or just a Feckin’ Bean addiction. I think there’s actually a support group.”

Sam swallowed, blinking his eyes and taking slow breaths as he listened. The words that hadn’t really permeated his consciousness before were clearer now. The world seemed less muffled, though there was still an aura of distance around his own mind, like his body and the part of him he could recognize as his soul or his consciousness were overlapping but not fused. He felt as though he could float away if he moved too quickly. The sensation was unpleasant but also not new, though the familiarity didn’t make him feel much better. He felt raw, inside and out, as though someone had wrung his limbs like dish rags and drained every emotion. He could feel his muscles twitching in what he recognized as an adrenaline crash, his heartbeat steady in his chest rather than the erratic, screaming jackhammer against the inside of his wrists.

He shivered as a breeze turned the sweat on his forehead into ice and he felt himself take a step back without planning to. His hip banged into the table and he stumbled against the legs of a chair.

“Lock the door, then,” someone was saying, their voice pitched low and calm. “More people coming in here is not going to help. Give him a few minutes to come back to himself and for God’s sake, stay back .”

Sam gripped the chair’s back in his hand and forced himself to focus on the feeling of the metal pressed against his palm. He took deep breaths and brushed his sweaty bangs out of his face.

“So Kathy said you’re a parapsychology major, which seems fake, but she promises she’s telling the truth and I really need to know if you’ve taken the psychic card test. You know, the one from Ghostbusters . I’ve always wanted to know if that was real.”

Lucifer was gone. Sam didn’t even have to look to know. His voice and the overwhelming sense of him being there had vanished, drawn away to wherever the flames and smoke had gone. But someone kept talking and the voice was still familiar, even if Sam couldn’t place it.

He lifted his head and forced himself to look at the couch where Lucifer had been sitting.

She was standing in the same place he had been but he body language was all different. She was relaxed but not arrogant, arms slightly held out to her side in a gesture meant to show she meant no harm and held no weapon. Backed against the arm of the couch, she was as far away from him as she could be without actually moving around the sofa. She was also standing between him and the crowd of people who were lingering by the door, and Sam flinched as he caught sight of Kathy and Rey. He noted there were only about three other people, but he would have felt better if no one had been here to witness this.

“Hey, look at me, okay? Don’t worry about them. They’re gonna stay back there and pretend they’re churchmice.”

Sam looked back at her and this time he actually took in her face. He felt his stomach drop down somewhere near his toes.

Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her, but still the same shade of light blonde he remembered. Her green eyes were steady on his, so open and gentle and concerned that Sam felt tears rush to his own. His mouth tried to whisper her name but he couldn’t make any sounds escape his throat.

“Kathy said your name’s Sam?”

He forced himself to nod even as he continued to stare at her. He hadn’t forgotten about her. She’d been the first person outside of his family that he’d truly loved and once upon a time he had planned to spend his life with her. She wasn’t someone he could ever have forgotten. Still, faces blurred over time and memories got foggy. In some ways, it was like he was taking her image into his mind for the first time. For her, of course, it was the first time they were meeting. He would have liked it to occur under better circumstances.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sam. My name’s Jess.”

“Hi,” he croaked.

She smiled at him, a bright grin that lit up her eyes. “Hi, Sam. Do you want to sit down?” He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Is here okay?” She motioned at the couch.

Sam moved forward but stopped almost immediately. Despite knowing that Lucifer wasn’t there, he couldn’t make himself sit back down where the archangel had appeared to him. He swallowed and shook his head, looking away from her, furiously trying to shove down the clinging fear that was like a bog sucking at him, pulling him back down.

“All right. Is over here okay?” She moved away from the couch, closer to the coffee bar even while she kept herself between Sam and the others.

He nodded and followed her over to the couch that sat in the corner of the room.  It was further away from the others and L-shaped. He sank quietly down into the cushions on one end, his hands curled into fists in his lap, and exhaled a long breath as Jess settled down on the far side of the couch, as far away from him as she could be without choosing a different piece of furniture.

“What’s your favorite coffee from here?” she asked, and Sam looked over at her again. She was still watching him, attentive, interested in his answer. “Or does Kathy just make you whatever her special is as soon as you walk in?”

Sam’s eyes drifted over to where Kathy was. She had opened the door and was ushering the remaining patrons out. He saw Rey glance back at him, a concerned look on his face, before he also slipped out of the coffee shop. Kathy closed the door behind him and then disappeared behind the counter.

“It varies,” he mumbled. “Though I like the first one she made me.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Hazelnut,” he said slowly, “and mocha.”

“That sounds really good. With whipped cream?”

He nodded.

She kept asking him questions, each one spoken in a soft, calm voice. If it had been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have been able to open up enough to answer them, or let go of his nerves. But he knew Jess. He trusted her. Her voice washed over him, soothing, asking questions about his favorite foods or what he liked to do for fun. Always things that related to sensations - touch and taste and smell. It made him think about them. Made him focus on them enough to answer and it seemed to level him out, pull him back down inside himself, until he felt less like he was about to float away.

He found his eyes actually drooping and sat up abruptly. “I have to get to my midterm.”

“You have time,” Jess assured him, making a “lie back” motion with her hands but not touching him. “It’s only a little after one.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. Surely it had been longer than that. He felt like it had been hours.

She nodded and held her phone out to him. The backlit digital clock said 1:04 and he breathed out a long sigh. “Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes and just relax. Close your eyes.”

“Don’t want to be late,” he murmured, even as he shut his eyes, head leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“You won’t be late,” she said softly, “I promise.”

Sam believed her.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door jangled cheerily as Sam pushed his way into the coffee shop. He had to hold tight to the door so it wouldn’t tear from his hands and he heard the clatter of paper cups and condiments thrown to the floor by the force of the wind. After a short struggle, he managed to push the door closed and be certain it latched, even as the wind continued to hammer at it from outside.

“You must be one desperate coffeeholic to be braving weather as bitchin’ as that.”

“Gavin, watch your fucking mouth!” came a shout from the back.

“She says as she swears at me,” the boy idly commented. He grinned at Sam. “Welcome to the Camelot Rift, my morning-addled friend. What can I get you this fine morning? And don’t say alcohol. Morgan threw out my stash last time she found it and she threatened to cut off my bits if I brought in any more. Woman’s got no taste for a good whiskey latte.”

“Stick to visiting bars on the weekends and leave your concoctions out of my shop.” A woman came out of the back carrying a large box filled with cups. Her dark hair was long and wavy, pulled back in a high ponytail from a beautiful but serious face.

“You do recall that I own this coffeehouse, don’t you?”

“And I run it. That makes me your boss. And unless you intend to get your business degree and start performing the tasks required to keep this place running, you’ll do as I say.” She turned to Sam. “Good morning. I’m Morgan and I run the Camelot Rift. This idiot over here is Gavin and his name is on the business license because at least he knows how to sign his name.”

“Yeah, not actually an idiot.”

“Yes you are. You just don’t know it because you’re an idiot. But don’t worry, I’ll remind you.”

Gavin rolled his eyes and turned back to Sam. “So, tall, broad, and lucious, what can I get you?”

Sam stared for a moment, startled. “Um… me?”

“You see any other gorgeous looking blokes in here?” He leaned over the counter and stage whispered, “That’s your cue to tell me how sexy I look in this apron.”

Sam felt his face burn with the force of his blush. Why did people keep hitting on him? He didn’t remember it being like this the last time he was at Stanford. Granted, there had been a few people here and there but this time, he seemed to be attracting admirer’s left and right. Especially in coffee shops. It was weird.

“Can I… uh… you look real nice in your apron?”

Gavin dropped his cheek into his hand and gave a lovesick sigh. “I’m all kinds of twitterpated. Look at me, blushing like an innocent maid.”

“There’s not an innocent inch on your body.”

“There’s quite a few inches that for sure aren’t innocent.”

“Gavin Noble, I trust you’ll be giving Mister Winchester his coffee for free after harassing him.”

“Harassment is such an ugly word, Professor Hot Stuff. I prefer being dashingly welcoming to his gorgeous body.”

Sam was momentarily blindsided by the name Professor Hot Stuff. He half expected to turn around and find Gabriel standing there, dressed in a tweed jacket with too-long sleeves and a pair of glasses balanced on his nose. He looked behind him and couldn’t ignore the flush of disappointment that made his stomach churn.

“Mmhm,” they hummed at Gavin before looking over at Sam. They didn’t appear familiar but apparently knew who Sam was.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he said anyway, holding out a hand.

“Professor Bennie Ryan,” they said, shaking his hand. “I’m hoping to see you in my Arthurian Literature class in the future, Mister Winchester. Which, it happens, I am late for.” They looked back at the barista. “Gavin, stop flirting with everyone who catches your attention or I might start to be concerned.”

“Ah, Bennie, you got my whole heart wrapped around your very talented fingers, promise. But Sam here’s got too much going on that I just can’t ignore.” He side-eyed them. “Besides, weren’t you telling Gwen the other day how sexy she looked?”

“Yes. And I get the good coffee, don’t I?” Morgan handed a steaming cup over the counter. “Thank you, my darling sister. Do try to keep my future husband in line.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Nice meeting you, Sam. You’re ever bored of listening to dumbass doctors of bullshit history spew garbage, come join my class. I’ll tell you what really happened in Camelot.”

The door jangled cheerfully as they left and for a moment, Sam could only stare after them, completely at a loss. And, for some reason, really desperate to take a class on Arthurian Literature.

He turned back to Gavin. “Can I get that coffee?”

Art had become his least favorite class, which was hugely disappointing since he had really been enjoying learning how to paint. He also discovered that Professor Drake, despite her no-nonsense attitude and reputation as a dragon of the fiercest variety, was a good teacher who passed on her knowledge with no hesitation. Sam had walked in to his class the day after the midterm to find her patiently teaching the shy girl in the class how to paint fur. The individual lesson had leaked ten minutes over into their class but there was no note of rush in Professor Drake’s voice and no frustration in her tone as the girl struggled to paint fur using the shown technique. Instead, Professor Drake has quietly encouraged her, complimenting her attempt, and class had resumed. The girl had kept a smile on her face the whole time and Sam couldn’t blame her. After the debacle of Kennedy teasing her over her painting a few classes prior, Sam had been concerned he might have to intervene. He was pleased to find himself incorrect.

But not having to worry about the Professor didn’t make his art class any less tiresome. Or rather, didn’t make dealing with Kathy any less tiresome.

Or not dealing with her, as it happened. Although avoiding her was considerably more difficult than he would have expected.

His only saving grace seemed to be that any time she wasn’t in class, Kathy seemed to be due at the coffee shop. So long as he was able to get into class late enough that they didn’t have time to talk beforehand and get out before she was packed up, he could avoid her.

It should have been satisfying. Years of packing up and running had made Sam an expert at throwing his things in a bag in record time. He should have been pleased that he was so easily able to get away from Kathy and avoid the others. He’d found another coffee shop so he didn’t run into her or Rey or Jess  at The Feckin’ Bean. Granted, the coffee wasn’t as good and the barista seemed to have a ridiculous fascination with flirting with him, but he hadn’t run into anyone he knew there. But Sam didn’t care to spend his every waking moment outside of class at The Camelot Rift or his apartment, so he had to find some new haunts.

His morning runs had taken him all over campus and he’d found places that were unfamiliar to him. On the edge of campus there was a small park - a project belonging to the horticultural department - that hosted dark green grass, benches, an array of flowers, and a willow tree. It had caught his attention because California got so little rain during the year that willows, which consume a truly impressive amount of water, were very out of place.

But it turned out that the little park area had a man-made pond and the tree sat with its roots part-way submerged in the water. As he ran in the mornings, he found himself consistently gravitating back to that area, until he ended up back there during his break one Wednesday after his British Literature class. It was a quiet place to sit and read, stretched out with his back against a tree trunk, bare feet dangling in the water. There were some rocks positioned nearby with a small waterfall, nothing more than a trickle, but the sound of it was a peaceful backdrop.

As the weeks stretched on and he received his grades back for his midterms, he found himself going back there with his textbooks to study for his classes. Or, after receiving his grade for his art midterm (better than he expected but not as good as he would have hoped), he bought a sketchbook and some pencils and would sit for hours just practicing. It was different from painting, of course, sketching with a pencil, but it helped him learn to create an image with intent. Sam had drawn landscapes before - little things, like trees or houses. It was something that had tended to come out a lot when he was having visions. He’d sketch them idly on hotel notepads or in the margins of books, often without even realizing he was doing it until he’d look back at the book or notepad and find fifteen different renditions of the same subject.

He was doing it consciously now. Of course, trees and houses were the easy subjects, and not just because he hands were used to drawing them (or his mind was, at least). Drawing people was a different story. He’d tried sketching profiles but honestly, how were you supposed to draw a hairline? Did it just appear? Did he draw each individual hair? Was it just a line? He tore up most of the pages of his sketchbook before he’d decided to start smaller than attempting someone’s whole head.

He’d searched the college bookstore (not the one by The Feckin’ Bean since he was avoiding that) for books on art. One of the early lessons had involved drawing your own hand, so for a while, Sam had focused on the wrinkles at his knuckles and the shadows around his fingernails. Fists, he learned, were ridiculously difficult to draw and he much preferred having to do them from the back, where there was less need to draw the shadows in between curled fingers. He began to understand why so many cartoon characters wore gloves or mittens. It was to keep the artist from going batshit insane.

He’d eventually tired of drawing hands. It bothered him sometimes, looking at his skin and not seeing the familiar scars, and now he had this image in his head of hands that were his but weren’t his. Not the him that existed in his own mind, the one that had apparently brought Lucifer to the past with him, despite everything that had been done to get him back here.

It seemed he really was destined to be stuck with Lucifer, no matter what he did.

The first day that he tried drawing someone’s hands other than his own was also his last day. Halfway through sketching the handle of something held in a loose fist, he realized that he was drawing Lucifer’s hands holding a whip. He’d thrown his sketchbook into the pond and turned and headed back to his apartment, actually forgetting his bag and his textbooks by the willow tree.

He’d found them the next day, no worse for wear and not even wet despite the rain that had fallen overnight (and of course it would rain the one night he’d left his stuff outside).

He bought another sketchbook a few days later but it took a while before he took it with him back to the willow. This time, he chose something different to focus on.

He bought a magazine at the college bookstore - some cheap thing that he’d been sure had pictures of people inside before he’d bought it. He folded it over until the woman’s face was visible and then wedged it between two raised roots of the tree so he could keep it in sight before trying to sketch the woman’s eyes.

It was surprisingly boring.

Drawing his own hand had been one thing - it was disturbing but also intriguing to see the lack of scars where he remembered them - but he didn’t even know who this woman was. Her eyes were pretty, of course - an odd amber that seemed compelling and familiar, even though her face was unfamiliar to him and he couldn’t find her name. Pepsi ads apparently didn’t include the names of their advertising actors in articles. But though she was attractive and he found her eyes interesting, it just didn’t keep his attention.

He found himself drawing from memory, something he hadn’t expected he would have been able to do.

Dean’s eyes were difficult to draw. Not because he couldn’t get the dimensions right or he struggled to remember the exact shape. Sam couldn’t have forgotten his brother’s eyes if he’d wanted to. But the eyes that his fingers wanted to sketch weren’t his brother’s crinkled in laughter or the eyes Sam remembered so easily from their childhood. It was brows drawn down over a narrowed gaze. It was eyes filled with suspicion, distrust. It was an angry gaze that echoed with shouts and cruel words. It was “Listen here, you bloodsucking freak"  and "If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you"  in an eagle-sharp gaze.

He’d found himself unable to stop sketching until his eyes were blurred with tears that splattered across the page.

He tried drawing other people’s eyes but it was no better. The first time he’d attempted his father’s eyes, there’d been all the rage of John on a mad hunt and he’d been unable to finish even shading in his iris before he’d had to tear the page out.

Easier to draw were the eyes of the Harvelle’s, though his memory of them wasn’t nearly as good and Ellen’s eyes always seemed to come out stressed and distrustful, if not angry. Charlie’s eyes hurt to sketch because, like Jo and Ellen, she had been lost, as well, and because they’d pulled her into this life.

The first time he’d drawn Bobby’s eyes, he hadn’t even realized that was who he was sketching. Not until he’d finished the sketch, pulled back to look at it, and seen those gruff lines and obvious care. It had hit him all at once that he was still alive. That Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Charlie, Adam - all of them were still alive , and Sam had burst into tears there at the foot of the willow tree and simply cried for hours. Coming back… coming back had been easy, fixing things that went wrong, but sometimes he forgot that it was more than just stopping the Apocalypse. He could save people. He could save people he loved .

He’d ended up missing his Painting class, calming himself down only to discover it was three thirty in the afternoon. He expected Professor Drake would be disappointed in his absence but would appreciate it even less if he showed up halfway through and interrupted everyone else’s work. Besides that, he was emotionally exhausted and didn’t think he could make it through even an hour of class with his focus intact.

Painting was his last class before Thanksgiving break started, anyway. He would have the rest of the week off and he wouldn’t be surprised if other students hadn’t left over the previous weekend to head home. Then again, she wasn’t called The Dragon for nothing…

I’ve faced actual dragons, Sam thought as he made his way slowly back toward his apartment, bag slung over his shoulder and head aching. Drake doesn’t scare me.

When he got back to his apartment, he took a minute to shoot his professor an email apologizing for missing her class due to a family emergency. No sense being foolish even if she was a human and not an actual dragon.

Then he threw himself onto his bed and dragged the blankets over his head, determined not to get up until Monday rolled around. Despite the burning desire in his gut to drive to South Dakota and see Bobby, Sam had no cause to do so that the older hunter would understand. For Bobby, the last time Sam had seen him was when he and Dean were kids. Sam just showing up at his door? Bobby would immediately know something was up, and he’d probably call John about it and Sam just wasn’t ready to deal with that, yet. He knew it was inevitable, dealing with his dad, but not yet. He needed time to prepare for seeing his dad again. Time to prepare for dealing with the fallout of everything that was destined to occur.

He couldn’t go see Dean, though he wanted to. Oh, he ached to see his brother. But Sam knew that if he went to Dean now, he wouldn’t be able to resist telling his brother everything. Not now, with a Dean who was so young and still loved his brother. Sam just wouldn’t be able to resist.

No. He couldn’t risk going and seeing anyone and messing up the timeline. Better he stay here at Stanford and just sleep through the shit holiday.

Maybe he’d wake up and it wouldn’t feel like reliving his life was just walking down the same damn path toward Lucifer all over again.

Chapter Text

Someone was in his apartment.

Sam came awake all at once and instantly regretted it. The room was a wavering merry-go-round from hell. His bedsheets felt like sandpaper against his skin. Every single part of his body felt like it had been run over by a garbage truck with a personal vendetta. But there was someone in his apartment. He could hear them in the kitchen. Every clatter was a foghorn that made his head pound harder.

Sam shoved himself out of bed and staggered to his feet, or tried to. He ended up, somehow, belly-down on the floor, moaning into carpet. His stomach abruptly flipped over twice and Sam pushed himself up so he could run to the bathroom. He managed to get his arms underneath him before he was vomiting up everything he had ever eaten in his life.

He managed to roll over so he didn’t faceplant in his sick and just curled up on the floor, the scent of vomit doing nothing for either his stomach or his head. Screw the burglar in the kitchen. He welcomed death.

Every breath seemed to make the nausea worse. He thought his stomach might have crawled up somewhere in between his lungs. Beneath the smell of vomit, he could detect a whiff of whiskey that made him want to puke some more. He thought it might be on his shirt. He didn’t remember much of last night after the liquor store cashier wished him a happy thanksgiving with a pitying smile. He remembered tripping up the stairs at one point, a hand on his arm keeping him from breaking his nose on the steps, and he was pretty sure he’d thrown his shoe at someone at one point. There were golden eyes and something about sword fighting with a mop and bucket, but he wasn’t sure that wasn’t just dreams or drunken hallucinations. He also remembered something about purple elephants but he thought that was from a Disney movie.

“I’m the Dumbo,” he slurred into the carpet.

“That you are.”

The thundering of feet against the floor was a jackhammer against his brain. He let out a piteous whine and curled up as tightly as he could, clapping his hands over his ears. His stomach roiled like an angry pot of spaghetti.

“S’loud,” he whined.

The thundering stopped and there was a huffed sigh from beside him. “Honestly, if you didn’t look so pathetic I’d be tempted to leave you like this. You’d deserve it for being so foolish.”

“Sh’up.”

“Rude.” The smell of vomit vanished abruptly and then a warm hand settled on the back of his neck. “Come on, up you get.”

Sam let out a sound very clearly stating his disagreement with that idea. He was laughed at. “Just let me die .”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” The fingers tightening briefly, digging into sore muscles, and Sam groaned in relief. “Up, Sam. I’ve something for you.”

Sam dared to open his eyes, peering blurrily at whoever was talking to him.

“Rey?”

“I’m afraid so.” The young man Sam had first met at The Feckin’ Bean wiggled a glass filled with a thick green liquid. “A gift from Kathy. She thought you might need it this morning so you didn’t spend the day puking your guts out.”

“Wha’sit?”

“I was disinclined to ask.”

“Mmph?”

Fingers tugged at his hair lightly. “Use your words, Samuel.”

“Talkin’ funny.”

“Or perhaps I was talking funny before and this time I am feeling more generous with myself. But I don’t think you’re conscious enough for that conversation.” He held the glass out to Sam. “Come on, now. Drink up.”

It smelled like oranges and cinnamon. Sam wanted to throw up again. Instead, he gripped the glass in uncoordinated fingers, glad when Rey kept a hold of it so he didn’t end up wearing it, and drank it down as fast as he could.

It was syrup-thick and the harsh bite of ginger burned his throat, mixed with the Christmasy taste of cinnamon and cloves. Sam swallowed a few times, then let himself collapse back to the floor. Rey huffed at him but Sam merely whined in response.

“Children,” Rey muttered, and the boy pushed himself to his feet. “I am making breakfast. Any preferences?”

Sam’s stomach curdled at the thought of food. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

Rey snorted. “Let that settle a bit. You’ll feel better shortly.” Sam heard him walk away, feet still pounding the floor. He groaned and buried his face in the carpet. What even happened last night?

As he laid there, breathing in what smelled like dirt and dog hair from the carpet, his head actually began to clear. After a few minutes, the nausea even settled and the aching in his limbs vanished. Sam managed to push himself to his feet, his head aching only mildly, and stumble his way to the bathroom.

He relieved himself with immense satisfaction, brushed the taste of alcoholic death from his teeth, and splashed water on his face. By the time he exited the bathroom, he felt almost human.

His apartment was filled with the smell of bacon and he was beyond grateful that his nausea was gone. He was halfway out of his bedroom when he remembered that he had thrown up at some point, only… it was gone. Sam frowned at the carpet. There was no way that Rey had come in here and cleaned up while he was in the bathroom and successfully made breakfast. For one thing, Sam had been forced to clean up Dean’s vomit more than once and it didn’t come easy out of carpet and there was very little in the world more repulsive than someone else’s sick.

With a frown, he grabbed a clean shirt to replace the one he was wearing, which, yes, did smell like he had dumped whiskey on it at some point the previous night. He pulled on a pair of jeans he had worn a few nights ago. They were worn and splattered in paint from Drake’s class, but among the most comfortable of his things. He decided to forgo socks and just headed into the kitchen barefoot.

Rey had his back to Sam as he entered, standing in front of a stove that was littered with pans. Sam’s sink was filled with dishes and there were plates on the small table already piled high with pancakes. Sam stared at them for a long moment. There was more food here than he could possibly eat in a week.

“Are we feeding an army?”

“You’ve never seen me eat.” There was a sizzling sound as Rey flipped bacon in the pan. “Take a seat and dig in, Sam. You’ve got about two minutes before I come over there and wolf down everything in sight.”  

Sam took a cautious seat at the table and eyed the spread before him. Rey had already put out silverware. There was a pile of pancakes on a central dish and, as he lifted the lid of a platter he didn’t even know he owned, he found scrambled eggs and link sausages. There was an actual restaurant-grade syrup dispenser and he only stared at it a moment. He’d never even seen one outside of diners.

“I… where did all this food come from?”

“God bless grocery stores.”

“You bought all of this?” Sam frowned at the food. He didn’t think he’d even had any eggs. This was a lot of food for Rey to just go out and buy.

“Sure.”

Sam frowned at the boy’s back. He had his hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck while he cooked. He was dancing lightly from foot to foot, just idly, like he didn’t even notice he was doing it. But Sam’s frown deepened as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eight in the morning. His drunk ass hadn’t even managed to sleep in.

“When?”

“Last night,” Rey said matter-of-factly, sliding strips of bacon onto a plate.

“Stores were closed last night,” Sam said quietly. “It was Thanksgiving.”

Rey stilled. “So it was,” he said, and went back to transferring bacon. “I’d forgotten. I don’t celebrate, you see.”

He turned around and carried the plate of bacon to the table, sliding it into a spare place at the edge before sitting down. He was wearing a light blue button-up shirt, Sam noticed, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He eyed Sam curiously over the tabletop before giving him a fast grin. “Eat up, Sam. I wasn’t kidding that I could devour everything here no problem.”

He stabbed a fork through a couple pancakes and pulled them over onto his plate. Sam followed suit, though he was more interested in the eggs and a couple strips of bacon. We was halfway through his scrambled eggs when he realized that Rey was still preparing his pancakes. There were slathered in chocolate sauce and powdered sugar, and he had pulled a bag of chocolate chips from somewhere and was sprinkling them over top.

The bacon turned to ash in Sam’s mouth. For a moment, he could smell strawberry syrup. He put his fork down.

Rey was still looking down at his plate, attention focused on his pancakes. What color were his eyes again? Were they gold?

Had this whole thing been a trick?

Rey sighed and put down his fork. “I’m not going to get to eat my breakfast, am I?” He looked at Sam. His eyes were a deep clementine orange and Sam flinched away from them.

“Right. I told him this was a terrible idea but does anyone listen to the fox? No, of course not.” Rey dropped the half-empty bag of chocolate chips on the table and leaned back in the chair, scowling. His eyes narrowed into slits and it made him look dangerous. Sam felt himself tense in his chair.

“So… what’s the plan, then, Winchester? I know who you are. What you are. And you at least have suspicions about me, so... out with them.”

Sam licked his lips, hesitating. Then, more softly than he had intended, he asked, “Loki?”

Rey snorted. “Wow. Apparently it goes both ways. No, Sam. I’m not Loki, though I think I should probably be either flattered or insulted that you thought I was.” He studied Sam’s face for a long moment. “You have the… specialization right, though, I suppose, going from a D&D perspective.” His lips curled up in a smirk. “What’s that fun thing Loki always loves to say? Oh, yes. Helloooo, trickster.”  

Sam only stared at him. After a moment, Rey’s right eyebrow quirked up. “I am detecting a significant lack of stabbing.”

“Are you… do you want me to stab you?”

Rey looked down at his chest. “Not particularly. Though if the urge arises, let me know. I’m rather fond of this shirt and would prefer not to get blood on it.”

“You’d be dead, though.”

Rey snorted and nodded. “Sure, right. I’d be dead. But my shirt would be safe and that’s what counts.”

“You… why are you still here?” Sam asked. When they’d confronted Loki that first time, there had been chainsaws and strippers and all manner of attempts to distract them. Not hurt them, Sam understood now, but definitely to keep them from interfering. And, he realized later, to make them understand that nonhuman did not mean monster.

Rey pointed at his plate. “Do you see this masterpiece? This has my name written all over it. And if you’re not going to start trying to stick me with sharp things, then I am going to stuff my face.” He picked up his fork and eyed Sam curiously as he began to cut his pancakes.

“I’m not going to stab you,” Sam said quietly. Rey hadn’t done anything to hurt him. He had been an almost constant presence at The Feckin’ Bean. Often quiet, sitting in the background reading a book or making sarcastic comments. A friend, Sam had thought, if one that he didn’t see as often as Kathy or speak to as often as he might have…

Oh.

He hadn’t wanted to get close to people. It was easier not to be hurt when he inevitably lost them if he didn’t care for them from the start. Didn’t let himself feel, but… but Sam had never been able to do that. He never been able to not feel . Dean could go out and have one night stands with girls that he would never see again but Sam couldn’t even hang out with someone at a coffee shop without getting attached.

He had been lost to these people before he even met them.

“Good to know,” Rey said softly. “Now eat your breakfast. I didn’t slave all morning over the stove for these to go to waste. And for Loki’s sake, put something sugary on your plate before I hurl .”

Sam eyed Rey for a moment, then put some sausages on his plate and drizzled syrup over him. Rey made an accepting noise in the back of his throat. The two of them turned to their breakfasts and for a while there was silence between them as they ate, but Sam’s mind kept whirling in place. Why was Rey here? Why had he made Sam breakfast? Why had he, knowing who Sam was, knowing he was a hunter as Sam suspected he had meant, revealed that he was a trickster? What was his endgame here? What was he planning?

“You know, I’m not telepathic by any means, but I can tell your hamster is running wild.”

“Hamster?”

Rey smirked at him, forkful of chocolate-drenched pancakes hovering before his mouth. “Your mind’s running circles, Sam. Hamster on the wheel? It’s clocking overtime.” He shoved the bite of pancake in his mouth and chewed with obvious relish. “How about, when we’re finished with our breakfast, we sit down and have a long overdue chat. You can ask me questions and I’ll answer honestly, so long as you return the favor. Sound fair?”

“No tricks?” Sam asked.

Rey grinned. “I’m a trickster, Sam. Wouldn’t be one if the tricks weren’t a constant thing.” He nodded his head. “But I can tone down the constant urge to dye your hair green for a couple hours, and I promise I won’t lie. Acceptable?”

Sam was briefly stymied by the comment about turning his hair green, but he nodded.

“Good, then. Now eat your breakfast.”

It was a good breakfast. Sam was a big guy and it took a lot of food to fill him up. Buying enough food to feed himself to full every meal was expensive. He’d learned to get used to the feeling of hunger like a constant hum in the background, enjoying a full stomach on the rare moments when he was able. Being able to eat until he was full without concerns about money was a relief, and he was still a little flummoxed by the amount of food left over.

Rey swiped up the last bit of chocolate sauce on his plate with a final bite of pancake and licked his lips. “I am a fantastic chef. This is the best breakfast I’ve had in years. I may have to name my first restaurant Sammy’s Kitchen .”

Sam snorted and picked up his plate, carrying it over to the sink. He heard a snap behind him and the plate vanished from his hands. Along with every dish in the sink and on the counter.

Sam spun around to find the table clear and Rey leaning back in his chair with a sly grin on his face, one hand still held in the air. Sam stared at him for a moment. “Is that a… trickster thing?”

“Hm?”

“Snapping.”

“Oh.” Rey lowered his hand and crossed one leg over the other. “Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn’t noticed before, to be honest.” He thought a moment. “Though now that I think about it, Laverna seems to prelude every action by making some part of her body disappear. Let me tell you, after the first four hundred times you hear the story of her swindling the priest and the lord, you start running when you see her.

“And then there’s Kokopelli who, of course, plays a note on his flute. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to incite him using that around the ladies. It creates all manner of discord and then Eris shows up and there’s contests for who’s the best trickster.” He shook his head. “I usually will a wisp and get out of there as fast as I can. Less mess.”

“So… that story about Kokopelli…”

“Impregnating an entire village of women and dashing off into the sunset? Absolutely true. There’s a whole host of his descendents mucking about on Earth, no idea that they’re one eightieth trickster god. Trust me, if you knew how many people on this campus are descended from deities who simply can’t keep it in their pants, you would piss yourself right here laughing. Nevermind the actual summer camp for demigods not far from here.”

The wealth of possibilities for knowledge right in front of briefly sent Sam’s mind reeling. He had so many questions about stories, whether they were true, how much was metaphor and aesop wrapped up under a well-known name. For a moment, he couldn’t think of a single thing to ask, a pantheon alone to even focus on. His mind blanked under the sheer amount of knowledge he could gain simply by asking .

“So how’s the coffee at The Camelot Rift?”

“Hm?” Sam looked up at Rey to find the trickster watching him with a small smile and an arched eyebrow.

“You asked your question, Sam, now it’s my turn.” He leaned back in the chair. “So… coffee at The Rift. How do you like it?”

Sam made a face and it was apparently answer enough because Rey started laughing. “I miss Kathy’s Hazelnut Mocha.” He looked away from Rey’s face, down at the cracked linoleum. After he’d had that vision of Lucifer, after the flashback, Sam couldn’t bring himself to go back to The Feckin’ Bean. Not because he feared the atmosphere would bring another visit from the devil, but because he didn’t want to see the looks of pity on the faces of the people he had come to care about, or worse, hear the quiet excuses as they listed reasons they couldn’t stand around and talk to him. And, in the end, he’d just been embarrassed at having made a scene, not only in front of friends but also strangers - random patrons of the coffeeshop who had been there to witness his weakness by sheer chance. It had been safer to make the decision himself to stay away, but… “I miss everyone.”

"We miss you, too. I could tell you in great detail my adventures protecting you from Kathy, if you want. She has been incredibly determined to check on you and make sure you're all right. I've been trying to give you space but last night forced my hand."

Sam winced. He was very tempted to ask about last night but part of him was sure he did not want to know. Instead, he asked, “Kathy was worried?”

“Lean down here a sec, Sam, so I can smack you.”  Sam blinked at him, confused. “Dear Loki on his golden arse, you’re serious, aren’t you? Sam.” Rey shook his head and stood. “You know what, I’m not doing this in the kitchen. I need somewhere with cushions before I end up with a crick in my tails.” He snagged the back of Sam’s collar and tugged, pulling the taller student behind him as he headed toward the small sitting room in the apartment, which was really nothing more than a couch shoved up against the wall and a small chair next to a rickety bookshelf.

Rey pushed him toward the couch. “Take a seat, Kit. I’ve got some things to straighten in that skull of yours.”

Kit, Sam mouthed in confusion, walking over and sitting down on the couch. He watched Rey fling himself into the dark blue chair, legs dangling over one arm and grin tamped down beneath a serious expression that didn’t match up with his posture. He crossed his ankles and stared at Sam for a long moment.

“I don’t know what your life was like before you came to Stanford and I’m not asking - your personal life is your business and you’ve got no obligation to share. I will tell you, though, that we aren’t unaware of some of the things that have been going on. And by we, I mean me, Alice, and Kathy.”

Sam hunched his shoulders and looked away from Rey. “There’s nothing to be aware of.”

“Mmhm.” Those red-orange eyes were fixedly him in a gaze Sam had trouble avoiding. “How long have you had visions, Sam?”

Sam stood up abruptly and headed for the kitchen.

And found himself right back on the couch.

He froze, eyeing Rey, who had a hand in the air and a grimace on his face.

“All right, I’m a bastard for doing that and I apologize. I won’t repeat it. If you want to get up and leave, you’re perfectly capable. I won’t stop you.” He lowered his hand. “But please listen, Sam. I’m trying to tell you that you’re not alone. We’re here for you if you want us to be.”

He pulled his legs down and sat in the chair properly, facing Sam, who had remained where he was even though his muscles were tensed to run.

“Thing is, Sam, I’m not a human. I’m not even a witch. I’m a god.” He shrugged. “You’ll forgive the dramatics of the statement. I’m aware that you have powers. I understand that you’re concerned, and perhaps about more than just that - fine. Keep your secrets. But wanting your privacy and to not have everything carried out into the open like some sale of your personal life does not mean that you need to lone wolf it through Stanford.” Rey closed his eyes. “I have tried that, Sam. I have tried to go it alone and I promise you, it will protect you from people and it might even protect people from you, but it means there is no one around to save you from yourself.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Sam. “In the end, it’s your decision. If you want us there, we’ll be there. If you want Kathy and Alice but you’d prefer not to have tricksters messing up your life, then say the word and I am gone.” He studied Sam for a moment, like he was trying to read something about him he couldn’t find. Sam wondered what it was. “Just… don’t try to do it alone. For your sake, please. Find someone to be there for you, even if it isn’t us.” He reaches out like he was going to put a hand on Sam’s knee, then stopped. “Anyway. We’re offering. That’s all.”

Rey stood up, turning away from him and heading for the door. “I’ll let you think on it. You know where to find us.”

Sam sat on the couch and listened as the trickster made his way out of the apartment through the door and down the stairs. He stared at the empty chair Rey had left behind and wondered.

After a moment, he rose and moved to the window, peering outside. He waited only a few moments before Rey appeared, exiting the apartment complex through the door like a normal person. Only once he felt his own surprise did Sam realize he had forgotten to ask Rey which trickster he was. He’d failed to ask any of the million questions that had come to his mind.

He wondered if he had lost his chance?

But Rey had been very up-front about being there for Sam. Or, he had said, about leaving if that was what Sam needed. If he would feel better about the trickster not being there, because Rey knew who he was. Sam was beginning to think that most everyone knew who he was. John had certainly given the Winchester name a reputation, though it was definitely not one that would help them at all in the future. It hadn’t the last time, that was for sure.

It would have been easier if he had used a different name when he came to Stanford, but the truth was, he wanted Dean to be able to find him if he ever tried, and taking a new name… that was good for short stints, but for long endeavors? It made things difficult. It was also dangerous to try and carry a false identity while staying in the same place. Too many ways that it could come out as a lie. So he had used Sam Winchester, because he hadn’t wanted to be anyone else, and the first time around, Sam hadn’t realized just how well-known the name was to the creatures who roamed on the supernatural side of things.

So Rey had probably known from the very start who he was. But, Rey hadn’t kept his own identity any sort of secret. In fact, Sam realized, as he recounted that morning’s event, the clues had been all but blatant .

Not just the pancakes. That had been the final clue. Running it back through his head, Sam put the others into place. After he’d been sick, the sudden disappearance of the smell of vomit and his later confusion at his floor being clean. The fact that his kitchen was filled to the brim with food he knew he hadn’t had and which Rey could not have purchased with all of the stores closed for the holiday. The hangover cure was a toss-up. He and Dean had a similar cure, though it usually left them feeling a different kind of miserable once the hangover itself had faded. Instead, he felt fine. As though he hadn’t drunk a drop, in fact.

He was sure there had been other clues. The fact that someone was in his apartment was questionable, although Sam actually wasn’t sure how he had gotten home last night. He searched his mind but he simply couldn’t remember what had occurred the previous night, and that disturbed him. He could have put himself in significant danger, or worse, hurt someone.

Sam breathed out a sigh, his mind whirling.

The thing was, Sam liked Rey. They didn’t talk much and besides today, the only time Sam ever saw the other boy was in The Feckin’ Bean, but if Rey had known who he was from the start, then that probably explained why they didn’t hang out much at all. He had even commented on the lack of stabbing once Sam had figured out he was a trickster, because he had expected it .

And Sam didn’t want to be the person people expected to kill them. Years working with angels and demons and tricksters against humans and angels and monsters alike had taught him what he had already known, but with certainty. That they were just as good and just as evil and just as flawed as humans.

The difference was, supernatural creatures existed in the same world as Sam. He had tried living in the real world, living a normal life, but the simple fact was that he didn’t belong there. That had never been his world.

And yes, sometimes that was a bitter pill to swallow. The choice of which world to dwell in had never been Sam’s. He’d been pulled there, over and over, by the will of others. It was cruel, but it was also simply the way it was . Sam could either continue to fight it and lose until it eventually destroyed him, or he could accept it and live the life he had been given.

And the truth was, Sam didn’t like being alone. He could do it when he needed to, of course, but being a hunter and being part of a world that didn’t include most other humans was lonely enough. The first time he’d gone through Stanford, it had been hell at first. Sam had always had Dean in his life, and suddenly his brother wasn’t there and Sam was surrounded by people who were worrying foremost about school and grades and relationships, not about the threat of attack around every corner. He had tried shutting off the part of himself that saw the monsters in dark corners and the eyes that peered out of shadows, and for a while, he had managed it. Falling into a relationship with Jess had helped. He’d made friends in Brady and some other students and he’d quietly ignored the thoughts that whispered that he could never tell them everything. That they could never know who he really was.

This time, he had no intention of becoming close with Brady. He’d deal with the demon when it became an issue, but he couldn’t bring himself to befriend the boy who had been a demon for most of their acquaintance.

As for Jess… he had loved her once, but that was more than two lifetimes in the past. Sam was so different now, even newly nineteen again, and the love he had once had for her was a memory he would cherish but not cling to. He hadn’t even intended to seek her out, concerned that seeing her would bring him pain, but they had crossed paths nonetheless. He was not entirely sure what to do with the fact that he now knew her in this life, and she him.

The fact was, though, that Sam didn’t want to be alone , and he could ignore the draw of Brady and Jess, both of them human and outside the world he knew best. But Rey? Rey was offering the friendship of a trickster, a creature who lived in the world that Sam had accepted as his, and who could take care of himself. Sam wouldn’t need to constantly worry because Sam had been at the mercy of a trickster in the past - granted, an archangel turned trickster - but he knew well the power they held. He didn’t need to fear for Rey’s safety just being associated with him, and if Rey was offering, then he clearly didn’t care .

Maybe, for once in his life, Sam should shut up and listen to the trickster.

Chapter Text

SEVEN

By Sunday, Sam was fairly certain he’d pissed off a luck deity. Fortuna, maybe, or Lakshmi. He had been trying to get to The Feckin’ Bean since Rey had left his apartment on Friday, but that afternoon had him scouring his apartment for his shoes, both of which had disappeared. He’d found one on the shelf in his closet and the other inside the oven . Then he’d discovered that all of his socks had holes in the toes. All of them. He’d caught his jeans on the stairwell going down the steps and torn them and needed to change. When he’d taken the elevator the second time, it had gotten caught between floors for three hours . When he had finally gotten out of the apartment complex, he’d been halfway across campus when he got a call on his cell phone from the landlord with sirens blaring in the background because the apartment underneath his had caught fire .

He’d spent the rest of the evening packing up his belongings because even though the firemen had cleared the building of flames (it had apparently been a very small fire), the structural integrity of the building was suspect. So Sam had to leave his apartment and there were no other apartments within the complex vacant because of the one dormitory still being out of service. Sam didn’t have a lot of stuff, but it was still a hassle to pack everything in a couple duffles and take the bus into town looking for a motel for the night.

He’d spent most of Saturday looking for a new apartment on the campus computers, in between the internet going down four times, the power going out in the whole building, and every one of the computers Sam used getting an influx of viruses and crashing before the librarian had asked him to please leave or she’d inform the police about his illegal downloading of music.

She hadn’t meant music. Sam had made a quick exit.

The bus he’d taken back to his motel had gotten a flat tire halfway through transit and he’d elected to walk the rest of the way. During the whole two and a half blocks he had to traverse, he’d stepped in dog shit, been mistaken for a fire hydrant, had a bird literally shit on his head , and tripped and fallen into fresh, wet cement.

When he finally did get back to the motel, his key wouldn’t work and the manager had needed to unlock his door for him, after verifying his identity. Miraculously, his driver’s license hadn’t disappeared, caught fire, or melted in his pocket. He had stripped immediately upon entering the room, throwing his pants and shirt into the trash and climbing into the shower so he could wash the cement out of his hair before it dried. The water had been freezing cold.

Sam spent the rest of the day wrapped in every blanket he could find, shivering hard in the center of the bed. The television emitted nothing but static and he didn’t have a laptop yet. He’d found what distraction he could in his textbooks and tried hard not to think about the Cage and the chill of Lucifer’s grace.

Sam didn’t even like to think about Sunday. It had ended with him performing a bunch of different tests to check if he had been cursed, but none of them had come up with anything.

It was eleven before he even made it out of the motel room Monday morning. He’d missed his British Literature class with Dr. Grant, who would no doubt be infuriated by Sam’s absence. Sam, however, couldn’t care less. He had woken up that morning to his skin itching like crazy and had pulled down the blankets to find his chest crawling with spiders.

His first instinct was to dig his thumb into his palm because this was very clearly a nightmare that not even Lucifer had been creative enough to come up with. Except that his hand ached with the force of his nail digging into flesh but the spiders didn’t leave.

Oh god, they were real.

Sam shut his eyes and resisted the urge to scream and squish every one of them. Oh god. Okay.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. I was far easier to think about than to put into practice.

“I am very sorry for whatever I have done to anger you,” he said as calmly as he could, his voice rising at the feeling of a very large spider moving down his hip, “but I have no idea what it is I’ve done and I would really appreciate some… enlightenment.” Oh god, he could still feel them crawling all over him. He dug his fingers into the sheets so he wouldn’t start squishing thousands - thousands - of what were probably Anansi’s fucking children.

A spider skittered across his face, legs slipping into his ear, and Sam let out a shriek he blatantly refused to be ashamed off because spiders .

“OH MY GOD, GET OFF!” he screamed, flinging himself out of bed. He brushed himself off as best he could and tried not to step on any spiders as he threw himself into the shower and turned the spray on as high as it would go.

He sent up a prayer to Chuck that probably contained too many expletives for the water being hot and scrubbed his hands through his hair, shaking the water out of it like a dog and flinging any potential clinging spiders every which-way. He sluiced water down his chest and turned so the spray could run down his back and slipped his sweatpants off, throwing the soaked mess into the corner of the shower as he made sure that no spiders were sticking to any part of his body. Flinging open the bathroom door, he winced to see the spiders still there. There was no not seeing them. There were far too many, but they were apparently gravitating to his bed, so Sam grabbed his duffle and carried it to the table by the door.

He didn’t even bother drying off or searching for boxers. He threw on the first pair of pants his fingers touched and jammed his feet down into boots and threw a shirt on, not bothering to button it up. He didn’t stop to grab anything, leaving his keys and his wallet on the bedside table next to all the fucking spiders and just locked the door and took off. He didn’t have any money but that was fine. The Feckin’ Bean wasn’t that far from his motel, just a couple miles, and that’s the only place he could think to find Rey.

Sam didn’t know what he had done but there was no way that motel was naturally infested with that many spiders. The only thing that made sense was that Sam had done something to piss off Anansi, the African trickster god. He could have sent a message out to the trickster if he’d had the time, but considering his luck since Friday, Sam was inclined to think he would have a hell of a time getting all the ingredients he would need. Better that he just find another trickster less likely to want to give him his just desserts and ask him to send a message. And if that message was just a very loud shriek, well, spiders was a really nasty trick and a terrible way to wake up.

If he’d bothered to get Rey’s number, or even the number to The Feckin’ Bean, Sam could have solved this issue with a simple phone call, rather than a mad three mile jog. But it was okay. It would be fine. He was fine.

He was not fine.

The longest three miles Sam had ever ran brought him stumbling to the door of The Feckin’ Bean. He was missing a shoe, which was both hilarious and absolutely horrifying because how the fuck did a kraken get in that fountain ? His pants were soaked up to his knees from when the water in the fountain came to fucking life , and his shirt was gone, torn off his back by what had felt like claws. He had been hounded by the worst of luck his entire way to the shop and was just glad he hadn’t been run over by a car at one point.

Sam let out a laugh that was far too hysterical and forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down, before he pushed open the door to the coffee shop and stepped inside.

He glanced around, eyes searching for Rey, and found the trickster sitting on a stool at the bar, talking quietly with Kathy. The redhead turned to see who had entered, no doubt to give a greeting, and Sam saw the moment she realized it was him. Her mouth twisted into a wide grin, but a moment later it faltered.

“Sam, are you okay?” she asked, and Sam remembered that he probably looked like he’d gone toe-to-toe with a water gun factory. Rey had also looked up and the trickster’s eyes had gone wide, his mouth dropping open. Sam was just grateful he was here.

A loud mechanical noise filled the room, like a lever shifting, and Sam’s entire body went rigid in horrifying expectation. He stood stock still, looking around warily, waiting for spiders or a tidal wave or the Chuckdamned Loch Ness Monster to appear.

There was a small click, and then Lucifer’s icy grace appeared above Sam, lunging down at him from the vents in the ceiling and Sam leapt out of the way. He crashed into a chair, knocking it over, and ducked under a table, sinking his thumb into his palm hard enough to break skin.

“No no no no no no no,” he chanted to block out any of the lies Lucifer would try to tell him because no, this was not happening, Lucifer was not here, Sam was not going to say yes.

“Sam!” He could hear the footsteps following him, always following him no matter where he tried to hide, and Sam pressed himself against the wall, as far back beneath the table as he could manage. Someone dropped down in front of the table and stared in at him with bright, glowing eyes and Sam flinched away, knocking his head hard on the table leg.

“Whichever trickster just did that? Put it back or I will rip your bits off and feed them to you rectally.” Kathy’s voice was calm for all that the words were a horrific threat. Sam heard the mechanical click again and the rush of cold air stopped. He shivered as its loss made its brief presence all the more noticeable. He curled his arm around the central leg of the table and placed his back against the wall. There were chairs on either side of him and the only way Lucifer could get to him was if he came from the front or ripped the table away. Sam exhaled a low breath and pressed his thumb against his palm where a scar no longer sat.

He wished Gabriel was here.

“Come now, Sam, you know I killed my dear brother the first time. What makes you think I won’t just do it again?”

“You’re not here,” Sam said to the voice. “You’re not real. He said you weren’t. Just bad dreams.”

“Bad memories, Sam. Memories.” A cold tongue licked down Sam’s neck. “I’m not good enough to be a dream.”

Sam yelled and flinched away, dropping to the floor and trying to wedge himself under a chair. A million impossible wishes came to mind, most of them involving how much easier it would be to hide if he was a small animal, like a cat.  

“Sam.”

“No.” He wouldn’t say yes. He would not.

“Sam. Look at me.”

“No. You’re not real. Not real, not here, not real, not here.” He chanted the words in his head and under his breath. What happened if you said yes to a hallucination? Was that a yes to the real thing or did it only work in his imagination? Was a hallucination still imagination? That sounded too kind.

“There’s a Hell in my brain,” he hissed, his eyes shut tight, “and that’s where you come from.”

“Rude.”

Sam blinked his eyes open. He was lying on his side, back pressed against the wall, his head underneath a chair and his legs pulled up so the rest of him was protected by the table. But it was darker under here than it had been and Sam glanced around. A dark green blanket had been draped over the table and the chairs around it like a child’s couch fort, turning the area a low shadowed shade of green that made Sam think of forests and summer greenery.

It smelled like a forest, too. Heavy on the air, he could smell pine, like the thick branches of a tree were bracketing him, hiding him from view. He felt his muscles loosen slightly as his eyes roamed the dark, searching for an illusion of Lucifer but not finding one.

“Is he gone?”

“No one is here but us, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes tried to track the voice, a line appearing between his eyebrows when he couldn’t find the source. It was a familiar voice but there was something odd about it. Not quite an echo, it was like a second, higher voice was speaking in the exact same moment, the exact same words. Sam couldn’t distinguish the voices, couldn’t separate them, and he honestly didn’t think they were separate, but he could tell there was more than one layer of them just the same.

There was a huffed laugh and then an amused, “Here, Kit.”

Movement caught Sam’s attention and his eyes widened as he turned his head, his body stiffening.

“Relax,” the fox said, mouth moving with the words in a manner that should not have looked as natural as it did, furry lips folding around diphthongs in a way too human for the canid face. The bright eyes blinked slowly, fur folding over deep orange orbs, and Sam’s attention was caught by the color.

“Reynardine,” he murmured, almost without thinking about it. Reynardine. Reynard the Fox. He should have realized the moment he learned Rey was a trickster. It made so much sense.

“There you are. Knew you’d get it.” Long, slender legs unfolded and Rey stood. He was larger than Sam expected, certainly bigger than an actual fox, but then he wasn’t really a fox, was he?

His fur was a bright red-orange, thick and fluffy. It ran darker, blended with grey and fading to black down his legs. His ears were tipped with black and, Sam noticed with a smile, he had a long, fluffy tail, ringed in black and tipped with white.

“You’re big,” Sam murmured.

“You’re not the first to say so,” Rey said teasingly. When Sam merely blinked at him, sleepy and confused, the teasing expression smoothed into something softer. Rey dropped his head and took a couple tentative steps forward, nose nudging at Sam’s chest carefully. “Want to come out from under there, Kit? You’re a bit wrapped up in those rungs. Can’t be comfortable.”

Sam glanced up at the underside of the chair. He’d done a poor job of crawling beneath it, only managing to tuck his head under it before his shoulders bumped against the rungs. Carefully, he pulled himself out from under it, hunching over so his head didn’t bang the underside of the table and gazing at Rey from beneath his hanging bangs.

Rey made a soft squeaking sound noise, almost a chitter, and tucked his head under Sam’s chin. Sam gasped as a cold, wet nose pressed against his throat, but Rey pulled away a moment later. “Lay down, Sam.”

“Lay down? But you just told me to get up.”

“You’re squished under the table, ya giant.” A small paw patted his chest and Rey’s head tilted abruptly to the side, ears flopping. “Lay down before you’re stuck looking like The Thinking Man for the rest of your life.” A pink tongue flicked out and licked up over Rey’s shiny nose. “‘Course you might not be able to help that, anyway, the way your mind whirls.”

Sam scoffed as he lowered himself to the ground on his back, bending his knees. “How can I ever stop when it turns out everyone around me is a trickster or a god or both ?”

“Legs down, Kit.” Paws pattered against his knees and Sam lowered his legs. He felt the brush of a blanket like a gentle resistance and was calmed by the realization that his legs were still covered.

“I’m no different than the exhausted idiot you met the first time you wandered unsuspectingly into The Feckin’ Bean, hoping only for a decent coffee. I’m still the culinary arts student who regularly disappoints their parent and thinks that eight A.M. classes are a terrible decision.” The fox moved closer, his steps careful and quiet, his eyes alert. Sam watched him with tired eyes. “I also still frequently fall asleep on bean bags. Some of them at department stores. I once got locked in a Wal-Mart over Christmas. Remind me to tell you that story sometime. It involves far more eggnog than even a god should drink.

“And yes, I am a trickster, and a god. I can also, arguably, be called a Furry, if you want to go that far.” Sam snorted. “It’s just far easier for me to climb into my costume.” The fox carefully stepped over him and then, to Sam’s surprise, laid down.

Sam tried to sit up but Rey dropped his head down on Sam’s chest and made a high-pitched whining sound. It wasn’t like a dog’s whine. It was softer, but longer, more like the trill of some kind of bird. Sam found himself relaxing, though, and Rey settled more firmly on top of him. His body was long, almost but not quite serpentine with the length of his tail added in, and he draped from Sam’s chest down to his knees.

“You’re laying on me.”

“Astute observation, Mister Holmes.” There was a snuffling sound and Rey’s weight shifted slightly. He pressed his nose against Sam’s throat. “We never did get to have our game of twenty questions, did we?”

Sam shook his head slightly. “You left.”

“You needed time to think.”

“Not much. Tried to leave not long after you.” He grimaced. “Tried.”

Rey made a humming noise. “Everything went wrong, did it?”

“My shoe was in the oven . And there were spiders, Rey. So many spiders.”

“I can smell them on you. Anansi’s been busy, it seems.” Rey nuzzled his chest gently. “You’ve had a bad few days, haven’t you?”

“Couldn’t get here.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to give you time alone. I did not mean to leave you unprotected. Kathy and Alice wanted to check on you but I didn’t let them. I should’ve.”

“Not your fault,” Sam murmured. He blinked slowly, staring at the dark underside of the table. “How’d you end up here? Aren’t you from Germany?”

“The original Reynard is.” A tail thumped against his leg and Sam could hear the amusement in Rey’s voice. “It’s not the same with most tricksters. Hermes and Eris, for instance, are the same people they were when they were first made tricksters. But Reynard the Fox is a mantle passed on from one creature to the next. There were hundreds before me and there will be hundreds after I am gone. The world would be a terribly boring place without a Reynardine, don’t you think?”

Sam smiled. “Without tricksters.”

“Ah, from the mouths of babes.”

Sam poked him in the side and Rey let out the strangest trilling giggle that Sam had ever seen. “What… was that?”

“Your fault for tickling.” Rey snapped lightly at Sam’s retreating fingers. “Do you know what a kitsune is?”

“They’re where foxes came from,” Sam murmured quietly, blinking hard. “The kitsunes were imprisoned and foxes evolved from their descendents. But sometimes, if a fox lived long enough, they could gain the powers back.” He frowned. “How does that work? How old do you have to be?”

“It varies. I was… seven, I think, when my tail started to split.”

It didn’t even surprise him, really, the idea that Rey was not only a trickster but a kitsune. In a strange way, it seemed to fit, like he had been seeing only part of a picture but now that the drape covering the hidden half had been removed, the full image was no different than what he hadn’t realized he had already been expecting.

Sam tilted his head to the side, peering down at his legs. Rey’s tail wagged teasingly, thumping against his thighs. Rey nuzzled at his collarbone. “Do you want to see me?”

“Can I?”

It was hard for Sam to keep his eyes open. He was warm from having Rey draped over him like a blanket, the fox’s naturally high temperature warming his skin and melting the icy feeling that had seeped down into his bones. The world was a dark green forest that smelled of pine and Rey lifted himself off of Sam, staring down at him with eyes like twin suns of warm light.

Sam stared up at him and watched as the red fur bristled and seemed to take on a shine. It didn’t brighten the room, but Rey still seemed to glow with the same power that burned in his brightening eyes. As Sam watched, the fox’s tail split, unfolding like locks of hair slipping out of a braid, each lengthening, growing, until they were surely too large to fit in the small area, and yet the area itself seemed to have grown.

Nine tails, Sam counted, as they spread behind him like the feathers of a peacock, lifted high and falling to the side and dragging the floor. They were the same color - deep red fur ringed in black with a white tip. The tail of a red fox, and yet so much more.

Sam looked back at Rey’s face, back at his eyes, the deep orange color of clementines burning bright in the dark. Sam frowned as he met that bright gaze, and maybe it was the shape of Rey’s face, or how large he seemed standing above Sam, but…

“You look like Fenrir.”

Rey leaned his head down, licking Sam’s cheek with a warm, wet tongue. “Yes, I suppose I do. It is part of the mantle of Reynard the Fox and something that carries over.” At Sam’s confused look, he smiled. “We are brothers, of a fashion. He and my trickster side share a father. You have, of course, met Loki.”

“Loki’s your dad?”

“Loki,” Reynard said quietly, as the tails faded away and he seemed to shrink in power and size, “is the father of all tricksters. And the mother. He created us.”

“It must have been a long time ago.” Sam thought about it. Tales of gods and tricksters had been alive for eons. Gabriel must have created them not long after he came to Earth and hid himself away. But then, Sam realized, it must have been terribly lonely. Suddenly being separated from your family, forced to hide, no friends to turn to. So he’d made some. Made himself a family.

“Can archangels create souls?” That didn’t seem right but maybe they had more power than Sam had ever realized. He’d always thought that Gabriel’s creations were little more than illusions…

And then he’d realized what he’d said, that he’d called Loki an archangel, and his whole body went rigid with sudden tension. Because Gabriel had been hiding for millennia as Loki and Sam had managed to fuck it all up in five minutes.

His mind raced, turning over and over with thoughts of how much it was like him to ruin someone’s complete life, about how angry Gabriel would be. What if he was in danger? What if someone had overheard him and now they knew? What if Rey would be angry and would go after Gabriel, tell the other tricksters and be mad? Sam needed to warn him. He needed to—

“Sam.” Rey laid back down across him, the heavy weight of the fox on his chest calling his attention more than the use of his name. “Calm down.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Sam said, and he could feel the tickling heat of tears behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone.”

To his horror, Rey actually scoffed. Sam tried to sit up but Rey pressed his weight down and forced Sam flat against the floor. “You ridiculous human. Calm down, I said.” His paws slid to either of Sam’s shoulders and Sam felt the shift as toes lengthened into fingers. Watched through tear-blurred eyes as the red fur and fox features faded to be replaced by olive-toned skin and dark hair. Clementine eyes studied him as Rey sat up, a leg on either side of Sam, his mouth set in a serious line.

“Are you calm?” Sam nodded sharply and Rey snorted. “You are a terrible liar.” He lifted a leg over Sam and settled into a cross legged position beside him. “So, fun fact about tricksters. We have a very strong belief in being the best in our chosen field of trickery. No one tricks the trickster.” He grinned at Sam, then, a wide teasing smile. “Except maybe another trickster. Or twenty.”

Sam shook his head and forced himself to sit up so he was facing Rey. “I don’t know what you’re saying and I have to talk to Ga—Loki.”

Rey reached out and grabbed his hand, preventing him from crawling out from under the table. “What I’m saying is I already know that Loki is Gabriel.” Sam stared at him. “I know, and so do Eris and Anansi and Maui and Hermès and Coyote and Kokopelli and on and on and on. Not the other gods, mind you. They’re too boring. But we tricksters know who our parent is and really, it’s the greatest sort of trick, fooling the whole Universe. But there’s an even better trick going on.” He met Sam’s eyes with a grin. “Father doesn’t know we know.”

Sam felt his own lips turn up in a grin as his tense muscles eased. All this time they’d known? “So… you’re tricking the trickster. The first trickster.”

“Yep!” Rey said, popping the P. “It’s a bit of an ongoing game with us all. See how long we can go on tricking Dad before he figures it out. We’ve managed a few thousand years, so I think we’re doing well.”

“When he finds out…”

“Daddy will be so proud.”

Sam couldn’t help but imagine what Gabriel’s face would look like when he found out that his kids - his… Sam didn’t even know how many kids - had been tricking him this entire time, for their entire lives. He started snickering, covering his mouth with a hand, but he simply couldn’t stop thinking of how affronted Gabriel would be that he hadn’t figured it out, and how excited he would be. He could just imagine how he would start talking , and soon Sam was laughing loudly along with an amused Rey.

“So,” Rey said, as their laughter died down, “I do believe Kathy has been brewing every granule of coffee in this place in her nerves. If you’re ready, we could go out and reassure here that I haven’t devoured you?”

“Is that something I should be concerned about.”

“You’re not my type,” Rey said with a roll of his eyes. “And if the mark on your wrist is any indication, you are already taken, Dad .” Rey cocked his head. “Or would you prefer Pops?”

“Oh god.” He felt his face heat with the strength of his blush and he buried his head in his hands. “I’m not… no. Just no.”

Rey chuckled and he flicked the back of his nails against the onyx bracelet around Sam’s wrist, but he didn’t say anything. Sam watched him duck beneath the blanket that had been draped over the table and a moment later, he followed the trickster out.

The coffee shop was just as quiet outside of his blanketed fortress. There were no patrons and the majority of the lights had been turned off. Sam glanced at the door to find the sign had been flipped, the OPEN pointed inward. The bolt lock was also turned, so no one could come in unless they had keys or were okay with breaking the glass.

Sam felt embarrassment and shame curdle his stomach. They’d closed down the coffee shop for him .

“That’s not a flattering expression for your face, Sam.”

Sam looked over at the counter to see Kathy preparing something, steaming milk loudly with one of the machines. He only knew what it was because it was the loudest machine they had.

Probably evidence that he drank too much coffee.

“Come over here,” she said, looking up at him. “I promise I bite less than Rey.”

“I’ve heard that’s a lie,” Rey noted idly, though without much conviction. He was clicking the keys of his cell phone in an obvious text message and Sam couldn’t wait to not have to hit the 6 four times for an S.

He was distracted when Kathy set a drink in front of him.

It was hot, steaming rolling out from beneath whipped cream and the KitKats sticking up out of the concoction melting swiftly. Sam gratefully wrapped his hands around the mug and sighed in relief at the burn against his palms.

“Alice is going to be pissed,” she said conversationally.

“Not nearly as pissed as I am,” Rey growled from the door, where he was lowering the shade over the window and darkening the room further.

Sam turned to look at him, holding his coffee mug between his hands as Kathy washed dishes in the sink. “Why? I obviously did something.”

Rey met his gaze with a droll look and sauntered back over, taking a seat on the stool beside him. “It’s one thing for a trickster to hand out just desserts to someone, but six of them ? This wasn’t a lesson, Sam. This was pure cruel stupidity and they’re just lucky I’m more concerned with making sure no one else reaches you right now.” His eyes darkened into something feral and dangerous. “They should be grateful you’re here .”

The threat was not the least bit subtle but Sam’s attention had caught on something else. “Six? You can tell how many there were?”

“Tricksters leave… marks. It’s a bit like a scent-mark, or that’s at least how I’ve always perceived it. Might be different for the others. But the marks let us see that a trickster has already taken care of an indiscretion, or offer a warning that someone needs to be watched.”

“Do I have a warning on me?” Sam looked down at himself as though he would be able to see this supposed mark, but of course there was nothing but the bracelet around his wrist from Loki.

Rey tilted his head to the side in a gesture startlingly similar to Castiel. His eyes took on a glow that made them burn like hot coals, but more concerning was the way his eyebrows drew down over his eyes. “What--”

“Sam, what’s on your back?” Kathy asked, her voice sharp.

Startled, Sam whipped around to look at her. “What?” She raised her hands, though she didn’t touch him, and he stopped moving. “Til helvete med dem,” she hissed, the words unfamiliar to Sam but the tone of fury perfectly clear.

“What is it?” Sam asked, trying to look over his shoulder without success.

“Why didn’t you say you were injured?” she asked. “I’m going to get the first aid kit.”

She stormed off as Rey stood with a quiet, “Let me see.”

Sam spun on the stool so his back was to the kitsune and heard the sharp inhalation of Rey’s breath. “Is it bad?” he asked, trying not to flinch as Rey’s hands touched him. Gentle fingers smoothed around an area Sam hadn’t realized was so sensitive. He remembered feeling something sharp against his skin, like claws, when his shirt had been torn off him, but he’d forgotten about it in the wake of everything else. Now, it didn’t hurt like a scratch should, but rather burned - a deep, aching burn, like acid poured down into a stab wound.

Sam strangled a cry in his throat as Rey’s hand flattened over the area and he tried to pull away. Rey’s other arm came up and wrapped around his chest, holding him still with more strength than he would have expected from the slight form.

“Shh, shh,” Rey murmured into his ear, his forehead pressed to Sam’s temple. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’ll be quick.”

It wasn’t. Not from Sam’s perspective, but pain had a way of making time drag. Rey’s palm lay flat against Sam’s skin but it felt like he was dragging a knife through Sam’s flesh, carving into muscle and shredding Sam’s nerves with deliberate slowness.

He tried to stifle his cries but the pain was agonizing. He could hear Rey whispering to him but the words were indistinct, indefinable. Only the press of Rey’s arm across his chest, his head against Sam’s, held him to the present.

When the pain finally ended, it did so abruptly, cutting off like a severed scream. Sam faltered under the silence of his own cries, the sudden loss of too much sensation, and sagged in his seat. He would have fallen without Rey’s hold on him, and the kitsune’s arm around him held fast as he shook like he was coming down from a high.

The pain was completely gone but a sob still choked out of Sam’s throat and he heard Rey make a soothing noise at his back as he gently guided Sam to the floor. Probably for the best so he didn’t topple off the stool.

“I’m sorry,” Rey murmured, his arm letting Sam go once he was sitting on the floor. Fingers trembled against his back and then pulled away. “Shh, I’m sorry. It’s all right now. It’ll be all right.”

Sam nodded slowly, still breathing hard.

“Kathy, get… can you fix up his shoulder. I need to… I’ll be right back.”

Footsteps headed off as Kathy lowered herself to the floor next to Sam. “Merlin will be pleased to know someone else christened the new first aid kit before he got the chance.” She set a large white box with a red cross on the floor at her feet. “Let me see your back, Sam. If you’re lucky, you won’t need me to give you stitches. No one wants to deal with my fingers and a needle for at least the next seventy-five years.”

Sam turned himself so his back was more available to her and huffed a tired laugh. “You plan on suddenly becoming Master Grandma at ninety-three?”

“Something like that,” she said, as she opened the box and pulled out some gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “It’s cute you think I’m only eighteen. Now hold still. This is gonna sting.”

The sting of rubbing alcohol was not an unfamiliar pain in the face of all the wounds that had been patched up over the years, or would be patched up, and it paled in comparison to the agony he had just gone through. He sat quietly while Kathy cleaned up the cut and bandaged it. It was as she was putting supplies back into the kit that he asked, “What did Rey do?”

Kathy sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I know some things about tricksters but it’s not my purview. Alice could tell you, or you could ask Rey when he gets back. He wouldn’t keep it from you.”

“Where did he go, anyway?”

The door opened and both Sam and Kathy whipped around to look. The tall, dark-haired woman looked familiar, but it still took Sam a moment to recognize Morgan. She looked… different. It wasn’t her hair or her clothes, but the way she walked seemed almost… regal.

She shut the door behind her and turned the lock before looking at them.

“Morgan?” Kathy asked slowly, pushing her glasses up to sit at the stop of her head. “Oh.”

“Rey came by and asked that I stop in and see how you were doing. He said he needed to see a man about a dog .” She rolled her eyes and then smiled at Sam. “Gave us up for the Bean, I see.”

“They really do have the best coffee,” Sam admitted sheepishly.

“Oh, I know.”

Kathy sent them both a smile as she stood up and carried the first aid kit back behind the counter. A few moments later, Sam heard her making coffee.

“So, you’ve had an interesting morning.”

Sam gave her a weary smile. “That kind of defines my life, Morgan.”

Her answering smile was amused and confused at once. “That seems to be the norm around here. And it’s Morgana. Apparently.”

Reynard watched as Morgana, Lady of Camelot, swept from The Camelot Rift with all of the grace of the queen she had been born to be. She didn’t need a gown or cloak or jewels to look regal and dangerous. Jeans and a T-shirt stained with coffee did nothing to hide the raw power of the enchantress she had been once upon a legend.

It was perhaps earlier than Merlin or Bennie had planned. No doubt they weren’t quite ready for the return of Morgan le Fay, but Reynard didn’t have time to hunt down another trickster who would listen to his words and not take the word of his idiot siblings as fact. If he could have found her, he would have sent Alice to keep an eye on Sam, to make sure no other tricksters went after him with Rey not there to defend him, but the younger girl was in the wind. Without any other immediate options, and unwilling to leave Kathy to deal with it alone, Morgana was the next best choice.

Besides, it would do Merlin some good to have some more of his friends back with their memories intact. Rey smirked at the thought of what the warlock would have the pleasure of dealing with but his humor didn’t linger. The image of the mark clawed into Sam Winchester’s shoulder was too prevalent in his mind.

He was ashamed he hadn’t noticed it before. The scent of blood should have caught his attention, but Coyote hadn’t drawn much and the scent of the six tricksters who had gone after Sam had been almost overwhelming. Still, he should have paid better attention.

When he’d looked to see if Sam had been marked with anything beyond the scent-aura of the tricksters, he had expected something like a glaring “Maui was here” done in graffiti across Sam’s being - a type of victim-tattooing that the Oceanic trickster seemed to enjoy a lot. Instead, he’d seen the runic mark left behind like a puncture wound, not on Sam’s skin, but deep in his soul, black and pulsing with infection. Isa reversed, carved through Sam’s soul and twisted with magic, made to blind and deceive, a mark of betrayal that would cause only more pain in Sam's life.

It was enough to have made Rey sick if not for the fury that coiled in his belly. He hadn’t even been able to comprehend it at first. Not until Kathy’s curse and her sharp look had revealed that she had seen it too.

And fixing it…

Rey felt sick at the memory of what he had been forced to do. Not merely move the mark, which would have been painful enough, but change it. He’d needed to cut into Sam’s soul, leaving his own scars behind, to make the rune into something that would not harm and hinder. And yes, he had changed it into something better. Had reversed Isa and added the branches for Algiz. It would protect him, help him, but that didn’t change the fact that Rey had carved into Sam’s soul .

That was irredeemable. Unconscionable.

But the one who had forced the action, who had made it necessary...

Rey would make sure that Sam’s pain was mild in comparison.

He let his form change, let his nine tails burn their way out of the ether, as his ears extended and his eyes took on their clementine glow.

He snarled low in his throat, snapped his fingers, and vanished from Earth.

He had a coyote to put down.

Chapter Text

EIGHT

“Exactly what part of under my protection escaped your notice? I’m aware I don’t often stake claim on mortals but I thought my mark on Samuel Winchester was perfectly clear.” There was a long silence and then Loki’s sharp, “Well? I expect an explanation sometime this millennium. What exactly were the six of you thinking? Were you thinking?”

The six tricksters shuffled uncomfortably under Loki’s golden stare until Eris finally rolled her eyes. “The idiot boy deserved it after what he did to our charge,” she said archly.

“What could he have done, I wonder, that would require the combined retaliation of six tricksters and yet not alert me to his indiscretions. He must be something truly evil to not only evade my sight but elude my notice when I have seen his very soul. ”

Eris winced, turning her head away at Loki’s raised voice. Maui was fiddling with his hands and refused to look up, while Anansi muttered quietly to the spiders crawling over his shoulders and down his arms. Laverna kept alternating between her head and her body vanishing in her shame and Hermès’ ankle-wings flapped and fluttered in agitation. Only Coyote appeared unconcerned with the dressing down they were receiving, leaning against the table with a smug look on his face.

Loki paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t even receive notification of one of my marked being targeted for retribution from my children, as is proper. Instead, I had to learn about it from a devotee. In a prayer.” His eyes sharpened and he lowered his hand, piercing them all with a gaze like a golden blade. “Are you aware you sent Sam Winchester into a panic attack? That Reynardine had to reveal himself as a kitsune in broad daylight to calm him? Do you understand what could have happened to him? To you? We survive by our ability to blend in and you put Reynardine’s safety in jeopardy.”

Coyote snorted. “So kick ‘im back to his earth if he’s going to get all stupid about the humans and name someone else Reynard. Not like they’re ain’t a million foxes to choose from. He ain’t nothing but a fleabag dog with a fancy coat.”

The doors to the room slammed open and the fox in question burst into the room like a hurricane. He had foregone his human or fox form and gone straight for his trueform. Tall and lean, the crimson fur that covered his body glistened with light, puffed out in rage. His ears were flattened against his head and his lips were pulled back from sharp teeth in a snarl. All nine of his tails were raised in clear aggression, flaring out behind him, the tips seemingly burning with the blue flame of the wisps that circled around him.

His bright orange eyes seared the room like a flashfire and then settled on Coyote. The fox let out a snarl that would have ruptured mortal eardrums and every one of his tails burst into bright red flame.

“I vote we give you the same treatment, Coyote. Allow me to make you into a coat we can pass on to someone more worthy.” Then the fox slammed both hands forward and Coyote went flying.

“Reynardine!” Loki shouted, as the other tricksters scattered to get out of the fox’s way.

Reynard ignored him. “Do you know what I had to do to fix your mark, Coyote? Do you know what I had to put Sam Winchester, my friend, through? I had to drag my claws through the soul of a boy worth a hundred of you, YOU MANGE-RIDDLED BASTARD!”

The air grew heavy, like the feeling of thunder low overhead, a storm about to shatter the world around them. Coyote let out a yelp like a kicked dog and leapt out of the way moments before the wall behind him cracked from floor to ceiling, fire burning bright red along the fissure.

Reynard didn’t let him go. The fox leapt at him with a snarl, tackling the other trickster to the ground and sinking his claws into his shoulders. He didn’t bother with physical damage. He’d promised that Coyote would hurt worse than Sam had and he’d meant it. Rey sank his claws deep into the other trickster’s soul and dragged them down his back.

Coyote writhed beneath him, screaming and howling in agony, but Rey didn’t let up. Not until he had carved into Coyote’s shoulders the rune that had been carved into Sam’s, and a few others. He snarled as hands grabbed him, pulling him off the screeching trickster, and his tails lashed out, slapping them away.

Coyote turned with a snarl, his own human form fading as he took his more animalistic trueform, his muzzle wrinkled with the force of his snarl. Saliva dripped from his teeth as he launched himself at Rey’s throat.

With a cry of rage, Rey’s tails snapped forward, his power rushing like the air before a tidal wave, crashing into Coyote and sending him flying into the far wall hard enough to leave cracks.

Rey stood slowly, lowering his tails, and growled low at the trickster as he rose, stumbling, to his feet. “I could kick your ass from here to oblivion and don’t think I’m not tempted, Wiley.”

Coyote snapped at him but Rey’s snarl was louder and made the other trickster flinch and drop low. “If you ever come near Sam Winchester again, I swear on the name of the first Reynardine, I will end you. ” He bared his teeth and looked behind him at the other tricksters. “And if anyone has a problem with that, they can fucking take me out now, because as of this moment you are all banned from The Feckin’ Bean and Stanford campus in general. If I even see your footprints, I will hunt you down and carve my name down your spine. Are we clear? ”

The others glanced at each other but none of them attacked him, so Rey took that as acquiescence. He turned back to Coyote with narrowed eyes but the other trickster remained where he was, clearly unwilling to tempt Rey’s ire.

“I almost think it’s not worth asking you. Not worth wasting my time with your drivel, but after what I had to put Sam through, I will have an answer for him when he asks. And he will ask. So tell me now, Coyote. What could Sam Winchester have possibly done in this life or the next that you carved Isa Reversed on his soul ?”

Coyote sneered at him. “As you just did to me?”

“ANSWER THE QUESTION!” Rey roared, fire dancing along his tails.

Coyote grinned at him. “Or what?”

There was a loud crack that made both tricksters whip around to find the conference table had split in half down the center, like two tectonic plates bursting apart. Rey saw the charred edges of the cracks and smelled burning wood. His eyes flicked toward his father.

Gabriel stood with his back flush to the wall, hands curled into fists at his sides. Rey could actually smell blood where his fingernails had sunk down into the flesh of his palms. More worrying still were his eyes, flickering between bright blazing gold and emerald green, as archangel grace fought with pagan magic, not caring which won so long as one of them managed to hold fast to his rapidly unraveling temper.

The air smelled of windswept smoke and something sharp, like the too-soon chill of winter air striking the lungs. It made Rey’s chest ache and his fur stand on end. And there was a word in his head, whispered over and over and getting louder:

Run.

The flickering of Loki’s eyes grew faster and more wild. The archangel’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a soundless snarl as the air grew heavy. Shadows lurked behind the trickster god, growing thick like smoke as they coalesced.

“Get out,” he growled low, eyes glowing with dangerous power regardless of the flickering color variation.

“Father,” Hermès said, stepping forward.

The shadows of great wings flashed across the wall and Loki screamed with the force of a tornado’s roaring wind.

“GET OUT!”

The room shook around them, the floor trembling beneath their feet. Hairline cracks tore through the walls as plaster and dust rained from the ceiling. Rey ducked low, that voice in his head, some leftover instinct from when he was just a fox, shrieking louder and louder. Run. Run. RUN. RUN! RUN!

He hadn’t the strength to resist it even if he was foolish enough to try. He turned and fled the room, bolting out of the doors and tearing down the hall. He tried to teleport away but the heavy force in the air was preventing him from leaving so easily. With a thought, he slipped into his fox form, letting his long legs carry him swiftly down the hall as the world shook around him. He ran as fast as he could, heart hammering in his chest, too frightened to look back and see the destruction being wrought. He could hear the grinding of stone as the room was torn apart behind him.

Rey ran until he escaped the heavy force against his magic and teleported away with a flick of his tails, reappearing a few miles to the east.

Standing on the precipice of a familiar cliff, the current Reynardine watched as one of the towers of Asgard erupted in brilliant white light and then crumbled inward, rubble pulled into the singularity at its center until the tower had devoured itself, leaving a blank spot on the landscape as though it had never been.

Rey stared at the place where he had been only minutes before and shuddered. Loki the LieSmith, fooling the world into believing that he was nothing more than a pagan trickster god. Oh, his silver tongue would have a ready-made excuse for this catastrophe but that didn’t change what Rey knew. Come Creation or Apocalypses or all that lay between, there was nothing in the world more terrifying than a pissed off archangel.

He spared a brief thought for his siblings but couldn’t bring himself to care whether any of them had made it out of the tower alive. He thought of Sam and Kathy and hoped neither of them had fallen prey to another trickster in his absence. And he thought of Coyote, who he couldn’t count on not going after Sam in retaliation.

With a flick of his tails, the trickster fox teleported back to Stanford University.

He’d check in with his father later, once the archangel turned trickster had calmed down and was less likely to turn him into a floor rug.

So… maybe in about twenty years. Give or take a century.

Loki appeared with the sound of wings, collapsing to the floor of one of his safe houses with a shuddering howl. He tried to pull himself upward, tried to drag himself across the floor, but the weight of his grief and his wings was too much. Heavy against his back, they fell around him in disarray where he lay shaking, sobs gasping from his throat.

It was Heaven all over again. It was Lucifer and Michael again, one brother trying to kill the other and his family tearing itself apart. Pure horror had kept him from interfering in the fight, locking him in place with memories of those terrible days before he ran flashing through his mind.

And then knowing what Coyote had done. Carving into Sam Winchester’s soul. Mutilating the boy, and for what? He hadn’t gotten an answer, so pure was his rage. It was like a living thing inside him, writhing snake-like in his vessel and demanding retribution. He’d barely managed to withhold his fury long enough for his children to leave the tower where he had summoned them, before it had burst loose and devoured the room in its avenging hunger.

His charge.

It wasn’t enough that he had gone after an innocent human - Coyote had attacked his charge .

His fury still roared within him, demanding. His grace ached to hunt down and punish the one who had done wrong. It took all the strength within him to bind that fury, to keep from taking back the mantle given to him by Heaven and reap just desserts as the Archangel of Justice.

But Coyote was his son. His son. And he had seen well enough in his life what destroying a son did to a family. He resolutely ignored the voice in his mind that said his little group of tricksters was far from anything resembling a family. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t flee yet again from a family tearing itself apart. He’d rather stay and be torn apart himself, because leaving this time would surely kill him where he had somehow managed to survive before.

Hand reaching out, Gabriel snagged a magazine off the table near to his head and dragged it down to the floor. He flipped it open to a random page and buried his grace into its pages.

“Sam,” he whispered, letting his grace reach out, follow the call of the onyx band he had marked Sam Winchester with, a line thinner than a thread that stretched from Sam Winchester’s soul and back to Gabriel.

Thousands of miles and worlds away, a Pepsi ad appeared on the page of an open magazine. Golden eyes peered out from a face framed by wild blonde curls and Gabriel sought out Sam Winchester. He sighed as he found the boy, whole and unbroken, and felt tears he wouldn’t allow to fall fill his eyes.

Gabriel the archangel in hiding curled six aching golden wings around himself and stared longingly through the pages of a magazine at the boy who wore his mark.

He would not allow anything to hurt this young man. Even if he had to take preemptive measures to make sure the boy was unharmed, Sam Winchester would be protected. He would make sure of it.

Rey reappeared in an alley near to The Feckin’ Bean, the fur of his tails puffed out and his magic screaming to attack. Startled, he turned, looking for the threat that was causing his magic to react, but he saw nothing.

“Rule number one,” he heard the familiar voice of Alice snap out angrily, “trick those who deserve it in accordance to what they have done.”

He sniffed the air, searching out the scent of the younger girl, and was greeted with the familiar smell of woodsmoke and powdered sugar. She was on the roof.

“Rule number two, do not impose guilt where there is none, instead search out evidence of wrongdoing, testimony of the wronged, or admission of guilt from the perpetrator.”

And he had a fairly good idea as to why.

“Rule number three, never interfere with another Trickster’s territory.”

Rey flicked his tail and reappeared on the roof of a nearby building, behind the large air conditioning unit and out of sight.

“Rule number four, only trick one another if you are certain you will get away with it. When I first came here, I sought you all out for help with powers I could not control, and to grow in my abilities so I could find the one who made me suffer.”

Rey sighed sadly and peered our around the unit. He was not the least bit surprised to see the six tricksters crowded together, with Alice facing them, her hands in fists at her sides and her eyes filled with angry tears.

“In tricking Sam Winchester, you violated every single rule you taught me, making yourselves no better than monsters.” Anansi and Coyote flinched at the word but Alice took no mind of their reaction.

“I’m done. I don’t ever want to see any of you anywhere near The Feckin’ Bean, Sam Winchester, or myself ever again. You shame all gods with this crime, Trickster or otherwise.”

Eris opened her mouth but Alice bowled right over her. “Before any of you start, yes, this was a fucking crime. He did nothing wrong, and any guilt he may have had that night was to be judged by me alone. Not you, not anyone else. I refuse to associate with anyone who thinks that just because they are strong, they can decide innocence or guilt, and as such, kindly FUCK OFF!”

There was a ringing silence for a time. Rey remained in hiding, watching. He suspected that Alice had summoned the tricksters here for this and so he didn’t plan on using it as an excuse to attack them. That wouldn’t make Alice feel better.

Besides, she was hurting them more with her words than Reynard’s magic could ever manage.

That probably shouldn’t please him as much as it did.

“If you change your mind—” Eris started.

“I won’t!” Alice snapped. “I know how to be firm in my punishments. You all taught me that. This is yours. You’ve earned it. ”

It was Laverna who acquiesced first. She was, to Rey’s surprise, not hiding any part of her body. Her eyes were sad as she spoke. “I’m sorry, Alice.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Alice demanded. “I’m not the one you hurt.”

The Greek trickster nodded softly. “I understand. I’m still sorry.” Then she vanished with little fanfare.

One by one, the others vanished as they realized Alice wasn’t going to budge in her decision. Rey watched quietly as the girl held firm, until finally Anansi left with with a quiet word and the girl was alone. She trembled where she stood and Rey respected her immense strength of will, even as the tears slipped free and she started to cry.

He flickered over to roof where Alice stood. Once there he was able to see the spell circle and the ingredients she had used to summon the six tricksters. Less than a traditional summoning. It was different, of course, when they were your mentors.

He felt a pang of sadness as he studied the twisted remains of what had been gifts given to a cherished student. These were things that Alice had loved and her use of them in the summoning, burning them to call the tricksters, had been explanation enough as to the reason for her call.

“I’m mad at them,” Alice said through her tears, fingers clenched into fists. Her voice cracked on the words. “I’m mad at them.”

“That doesn’t make their loss hurt any less,” Rey said quietly. Alice whipped around to look at him. He gave her a sad smile. “Hey, kiddo.”

With a sob, Alice threw herself into his arms. Rey hugged her to him tightly as she cried tears into his shirt. “They’re bullies!” she sobbed. “And hypocrites!”

Rey rubbed a hand down her hair, wishing he could do more for her. But this kind of pain was just the sort you had to cry out and learn to live with. People disappointed you throughout your life. Sad fact, but true.

“It wasn’t even Sam’s fault,” Alice sobbed, wiping her eyes. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Startled, Rey grabbed her arms and stepped away from her so he could see her face. “What do you mean he didn’t mean to hurt you? Are you injured? What happened?”

Sniffling, Alice wiped her nose on her sleeve, making Rey grimace. He snapped his fingers, summoning the box of tissues he knew Kathy kept in her office. Alice took one and wiped her eyes with it.

“Alice. Tell me.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay.”

“All right, you’re okay. Now tell me why you weren’t .”

She blew her nose to stall for time, setting the dirty tissue on fire so it burned into ash.

“Aliiiiice.”

“I was following Sam,” she mumbled, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away, “on Thanksgiving. He was drinking a lot and I… I was worried.” She took another tissue and wiped her still-streaming eyes. “And he said some stuff and… it hurt. A lot. And then Loki showed up and I ran. And I’ve been missing because I had to deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” Rey said, feeling terrible that he hadn’t asked why Alice had been so adamant about checking on Sam the day after Thanksgiving, only to disappear for days after he’d denied her. “You should have come to me.”

Alice shook her head. “I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, so can I. Doesn’t mean it’s not nice having someone there to hold onto when you feel like you’re drowning.” He met her gaze. “Don’t do it again. You come to me if you can’t go to Kathy. Don’t disappear on your own.”

“I don’t wanna bother you.”

“You’re not a bother, Alice. You’re like my baby sister. Come nag me like a baby sister should. Okay?”

She sniffed and offered him a watery smile. “Okay.”

Rey nodded. “Good. Now, I bet Kathy is worried to death about you if you’ve been missing even from her, and I want to check that Morgana and Bennie haven’t murdered one another with courtly sass.” He looked at her. “You know how to teleport?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess if the rest of my siblings are gonna be dumbass bullies, you ought to at least learn something from me . Pay attention, Kit. Don’t want you to end up somewhere unsavory, like Knockturn Alley.”

Alice giggled. “You’re such a nerd.”

“ Foxy nerd.”

Kathy had dragged Sam behind the counter while she made drinks for Morgana and the newly-arrived Professor Ryan. With the level of tension in the air, he was glad to have the counter in between them, but it didn’t last. Thankfully, neither did their animosity. Oh, it was still there, but they had at least agreed to push it off to a later time, and the four of the had relocated to the couch and chairs. The revelation that not only was Camelot more than a fairytale but that Merlin who worked in The Feckin’ Bean was the Merlin from the tales, and an actual warlock, had grabbed his attention because holy shit.

At one point, the cuff on Sam’s wrist had lit up, the sigil for Loki glowing such a bright emerald green that they had needed to look away or risk being blinded. It was, Sam would think only later, almost like they had been closing their eyes against the force of an angel’s grace.

“That’s an interesting jewelry choice, Mister Winchester,” Bennie had said once they had been able to open their eyes again.

“Thanks,” was all Sam had said in reply, not feeling up to explaining to them that he had been given the mark after flirting with a trickster god a kidnapper had attempted to sacrifice him to.

His life was so weird.

Eventually, though, even the curiosity from that had faded in the wake of Sam’s exhaustion. Three days of dealing with trickster attacks that had him looking for answers, a new place to live, and rushing to The Feckin’ Bean on what felt like his last leg. Then getting here and dealing with another hallucination of Lucifer, and then whatever Rey had done to his back. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and so it was no surprise that the kitsune’s arrival was a mere whisper on his radar. He noted the trickster’s appearance with a brief glance through his lashes and then went back to dozing on the couch.

He distantly heard the fox let out a sharp breath, as though he had been holding it in for a while.

“Rey?” Kathy asked, concern in her voice.

“It’s nothing, Kath. I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.” There was a wealth of disbelief in her tone but it went unanswered.

Part of Sam thought he should struggle back to consciousness, find out what was wrong, but he was just so tired . He could hear what was going on around him, could even identify voices, but he couldn’t seem to make his eyes open or his limbs move. It might have concerned him under different circumstances, but with Rey and Kathy there, he found he wasn’t worried. It was strange. He’d only met them a few months ago, but it was almost like he’d known them for years.

“How’s he doing?” Rey’s voice was quieter than Sam was used to, an edge of sorrow in it he didn’t like and couldn’t determine the cause of.

Kathy snorted. “He’s survived the bitchfest between Isabene and Morgana, so I’m sure he’ll be right as rain. I can’t say the same for the state of my wards.”

“Thank you for keeping an eye on them, Morgana.”

“I suppose I should thank you for waking me,” Morgana said highly, “but I’m not sure I’m grateful yet.”

“Then don’t thank me. I appreciate your assistance regardless of your feelings on it.”  

The shifting of fabric and the groaning of chairs announced the movement of multiple people. “If you’ve returned for the foreseeable future, I need to pay a visit to a certain warlock.”

“Merlin is set to cover a shift this evening, Morgana. Please refrain from killing him.”

“No promises, Kathy,” the enchantress said, and Sam heard multiple footsteps moving away and the door open. “Goodnight,” Morgana said, with Professor Ryan echoing it.

A chorus of farewells followed their departure and the room fell more quiet. There was the shifting of people taking seats and he thought he heard Kathy wander off and water running somewhere, but his mind was slipping down into the cavernous depths of dreamland and nothing was happening to hold his attention.

Right on the edge of full slumber, he felt fingers run through his hair and the scent of pine fell around him like a forest. “Sleep well, Sam,” Rey murmured softly. “You’re safe here.”

And so he did.

The wind was howling.

Sam blinked open his eyes to find the world full of a low fog that hung just below his knees and hid the ground beneath his feet from view. The mist rolled around him angrily, careening like an angry wave broken upon the sand and still rushing inward - charging and consuming but not dispersing. Everywhere, an angry storm of white with no promise of release, and the sound of a howling wind.

No, wait. Not just the wind.

The howling of a wolf, deep and low and filled with sorrow. Sam’s stomach curled to hear it, like a lament upon the sky. He looked down at his feet, at the white fog that obscured them and his treacherous path, and scoffed.

If this was just a dream, then he need not fear falling. And if it was more than a dream…

He hesitated only a moment before he started walking, following the sound of the howling cries, his feet blindly moving across the rocky terrain he had walked once before.

It was easy in the way dreams often were, his concerns for gravity and his lack of sight unfounded. Sam’s feet found ground at every step and he moved quickly across the fog-strewn landscape, following a path he knew but didn’t quite remember.

He found Fenrir, because of course it was Fenrir, but the giant wolf was not the calm creature Sam recalled from his last dream. Head thrown back, Fenrir’s howls shook the world, and Sam could see fire burning between Fenrir’s teeth, as though trying to burn up his howls before he could release them. The wolf strained against some binding that Sam could not see, his bellows as much mourning calls as battle cries, and behind him…

It was the strangest sort of light, like a fog with a silver glow, it twisted and writhed in the air behind Fenrir. Sam knew, somehow, that it was connected to the fog that spilled across the landscape, but it was not the same thing. This strange mist had a light to it, a life to it, that the fog blinding his sight of the ground had not been able to boast. This was like a living creature and yet… not quite. He thought there was more to it, could almost see definition in its shape, but each time he tried to focus his attention on the details, it would shift and he would lose whatever knowledge he had been gaining. It was simply beyond his sight.

But Fenrir was not.

Moving forward again, Sam made his way to the howling wolf’s side. The creature towered over him. He seemed bigger than he had before, though perhaps that was just the force of his cries making him seem larger. Regardless, Sam was not worried. His hands reached out, fingers brushing through thick black fur, hot as though it had been baking in the sun, and he felt the wolf shudder beneath him.

“Fen?” he asked quietly.

The large head moved, looking down, and Sam found himself staring into bright golden eyes that ran with tears, the fur down his cheeks soaked wet with them.

Sam reached up and brushed his hands across tear-stained strands of fur. Fenrir closed his eyes, sending more cascading down over Sam’s hands as the wolf lowered his head.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured, as the head lowered enough that he could press his forehead against the great muzzle. “Tell me?”

Fenrir made a low whine of pain that Sam ached to hear and dropped his head further so Sam’s forehead was pressed to his. He took a few shuddering breaths before he was able to speak.

“My father,” he whimpered, trembling against Sam. “He is in pain.”

“Loki? Is he hurt?” he asked sharply, thinking of the Elysian Hotel and archangel blades and exploding grace.

“Not injured, no,” Fenrir said quickly, and Sam felt his panic abate slightly. “But he hurts. There is so much loss, Sam. So much pain. I don’t understand.” His voice dissolved into a keening whine that had Sam wrapping his arms around Fenrir’s muzzle in what had to be the strangest hug ever. “How is he not screaming?”

“Because he’s strong,” Sam said, even though the words tasted like a lie on his tongue. He’d been in a place like that, filled with so much pain there wasn’t room inside him for anything else, feeling like the world was bearing down on top of him with no end in sight. It wasn’t strength that had kept him from screaming, but futility. What would be the purpose of calling out in pain, calling out for help, when there was no one who would listen?

“He needs me and I cannot go to him!” Fenrir snarled, pulling away from Sam and snapping at his hind leg. When Sam looked this time, he could see something. Glowing red like a readied cattle-brand, it was just a line against the air, no thicker than a thread. It wrapped around Fenrir’s hind leg, the other end sinking into the ground.

Sam stared at it for a long moment. Gleipnir, he thought. The snare. And the fire Sam had glimpsed between Fenrir’s jaws may well have been the blade that kept them apart.

He would worry later why he was seeing these things now, even at the barest edge of his perspective. His fingers buried themselves in the thick fur that covered Fenrir’s neck, scratching lightly.

“What can I do?”

The great head shook from side to side, even as Sam thought up potential solutions and discarded them. He couldn’t destroy a snare he could barely see, especially not one that had held Fenrir captive for centuries, so he could not help the wolf escape and go to Loki. He did have an hour that the god had promised him, but what good would calling the trickster to him do if Gabriel spent the entire time waiting for an attack? And while not being in the best state of mind to start with. It would only cause him further pain and Sam had no desire to do that.

He could ask Rey but the tricksters weren’t supposed to know that Loki was Gabriel, and if Rey went to him… Sam didn’t know how the archangel would react. And he couldn’t call on an angel for help, even if the desire to pray to Cas grew stronger every day. The Castiel that existed here and now was not the one that Sam remembered and though he loved the angel like a brother, he couldn’t trust him with Gabriel’s secret or safety.

He was tempted to give up his secret to the archangel, to tell him he had come from a future where he had known him, if only so he could be there for him. But what would that do? Would Sam give up his secret only to lose the advantage he had by keeping it? If he spoke it aloud, how could he be sure he wouldn’t be overheard? Even with the runes on him, protecting him from being found, he was Lucifer’s true vessel. He had no illusions that he wasn’t being watched as closely as Heaven and Hell could manage it. He was not a fool.

If only…

Sam thought for a long moment. No, he couldn’t call on angels or the tricksters and Gabriel’s own children were unable to help. But there was someone that he could at least ask. Perhaps nothing would come of it but… he could ask.

Sam closed his eyes and prayed.

“Who are you calling?”

Fenrir’s voice was low and sad, and Sam opened his eyes to find the golden gaze watching him. He sighed and gave the wolf a sad smile. “Someone who probably isn’t listening.”

The large ears drooped and Fenrir lowered himself to the ground, laying his head down. “There is no one who would come,” he said quietly. “If there was, I would not be here .”

Sam wished that weren’t true. He wished he could break the bindings that held Fenrir here. Even as he knew he didn’t have the power to do so, his mind searched for a solution, a subroutine of Free Fenrir running in the background.

But that was low in the back of his mind, working on a level Sam couldn’t see. In reality, or what passed for reality in a dream, he settled cross-legged on the ground and reached out, fingers brushing over Fenrir’s nose. The wolf opened his eyes and regarded Sam curiously.

“C’mere,” Sam murmured, gesturing toward his legs. Looking mildly perplexed, Fenrir inched forward,his nose sniffing at Sam’s face, blowing his bangs back from his eyes.

His fingers brushed through the fur around Fenrir’s jaw and he scratched lightly at the thick mane as he guided the wolf’s head into his lap. Fenrir followed slowly, as though he expected a trick or, worse, that Sam would change his mind and push him away. But eventually the massive head rested against his legs.

He was heavy. Fenrir’s head was almost as long as Sam’s torso, his ears the size of Sam’s hands, but the weight wasn’t a strain. It was comfortable, in a way, to feel that heaviness holding pressing down against him, to feel each time the massive creature swallowed, the exhale of his breath against his stomach.

Sam’s fingers ran through the fur between Fenrir’s ears and the huffed a loud breath in clear pleasure. It occurred to Sam, sitting there, that Fenrir had been imprisoned here for centuries. Not only without visitors but without touch . Only the feel of a snare around his leg and fire behind his teeth. No touch that was gentle. No act that was kind.

And yet when Sam had been in danger, when his mind had brought Lucifer the The Cage forth, Fenrir had helped free him, helped calm him. Despite being imprisoned, locked away and hurt for eons, Fenrir had shown him kindness when he had no reason to beyond a name circling Sam’s wrist. What did it say of a creature who, when shown little else but cruelty, their first act was to be gentle? And what did it say of the ones who imprisoned them?

Sam resolutely kept his breath even, though his eyes were blurred with unshed tears. He pressed his fingers a little harder against Fenrir’s skin just the same, scratching him behind the ears and kneading the muscles in his neck. The great chest moved up and down in a slow, steady rhythm and Sam thought the wolf might even be asleep, despite the low groans that occasionally murmured out from between his teeth.

Sam’s fingers trailed across Fenrir’s face, the thin fur around his muzzle like the scruff of an unshaven chin, just long enough to be itchy. The skin of Sam’s palm tingled pleasantly as his smoothed his hand across the short, coarse fur, fingers tracing the line of bone between his eyes, then dragging down to brush back thick, black whiskers.

He needed to come here more often, to visit Fenrir. If the great wolf had no one else to talk to or offer him a kind touch, then Sam would make sure to do so. Only, the times that he had been here, he had arrived without thought or planning, merely waking in his dream to find himself there on the cliffs, or in the presence of the giant wolf.

He would need to find out how to train himself to come here. Perhaps it would require nothing more than thinking about Fenrir and this place before he fell asleep, so that when he became aware within his dreams, he could find his way back here. But he could do some research when he woke, perhaps look into Dreamwalking. After his experiences with the Dream Root, Sam didn’t think that he should have too much trouble determining how to control his travels to this place.

But he would worry about that when he was awake. For now, he would focus on giving Fenrir as much love and gentle touch as he could while he was here.

Sam’s hands smoothed over thick black fur and he smiled as Fenrir huffed a breath into his stomach, his tail thumping against the ground as his paws twitched against the ground.

Sam hoped he was dreaming of something beautiful.

If Gabriel had the inclination, he could have made the floor the softest thing in the universe. He could have given it the appearance of the clouds drawn in children’s books and made laying upon it more rewarding than stretching across silk sheets in the quarters of an Arabian King.

Instead, the floor was as hard as it appeared. Dark brown hardwood, firm and unyielding, made his vessel’s hips ache in protest. His spine was one long line of tension, the joints where his wings attached feeling as though they were bent wrong from the strain of lying on a hard surface without proper support. But he deserved nothing less. He, who had fled Heaven and abandoned his family, his brothers. Who had turned his rage against his children, nearly unable to prevent his wild grace from consuming them as it had the tower. He, who had allowed his children to be imprisoned because if one man’s belief in the immutability of prophecy. Gabriel the Coward deserved far worse than a hard floor and aching joints.

So when he felt the arrival of another force within his safehouse, a place crafted with his grace and so only accessible by another angel, he didn’t even bother looking to see who it was. Maybe Michael had finally figured out he was still alive and decided to come do away with another brother. Or Raphael was attempting to be rid of a potential problem before he put his plans in order. Or maybe Zachariah was going to go crazy a little earlier than Gabriel expected.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

A hand slid under his arm, gripping his bicep and pulling him up. The better to stab him in the heart with a blade. A regular angel blade wouldn’t hurt him, of course. Archangel it was. Raphael or Michael? Maybe he should summon a coin for the sole purpose of flipping. Heads, his would roll. Tails, his grace turned to dust.

It sounded like too much effort. Better to just let them get it over with.

A soft sigh broke the silence and Gabriel’s arm was draped over someone’s shoulders, one of his wings following suit without his permission, seeking comfort.

“Come on, little one. On your feet.”

Gabriel’s eyes opened in shock even as he scrambled to his feet, the arm around his waist helping to keep him balanced as he stared at man standing in the middle of his safe house.

“Hello, my little platypus.”

“Dad?!”

Chapter Text

NINE

Sam would never say his life returned to any semblance of normal, but after that, the semester returned to its regular level of busyness. That being the entire population of university students going into a raging panic over pending Finals. Sam’s downtime, limited as it was, was spent partly on his morning runs, which continuously carried him to the willow tree, often with a book in hand. Unlike the last few weeks, however, he split his time and spent the other half at The Feckin’ Bean. Still often with a book in hand. It seemed he spent every waking moment either studying or going somewhere he planned to study.

Once he was given his assignments for projects, he wasted no time in getting them done. His Algebra and Psychology classes each required a final exam he would have to sit during the last week of classes and his Japanese class had an oral exam. But Professor Grant had assigned a Final Paper instead and Sam spent two evenings at The Feckin’ Bean with a photocopy of Beowulf he’d taken from his textbook and a notepad. The sounds of turning pages and soft crying was familiar background noise for someone who had been through Stanford once before already.

Kathy kept him supplied with caffeine and Alice was an entertaining distraction when he needed a break. At one point, she had come flying into the coffee shop, jumped on the counter, opened the grate in the ceiling and climbed into the air vents. Sam had watched, perplexed, as the grate was pulled up behind her, only for two security guards to come skidding into the coffee shop moments later.

He’d hidden his face behind his coffee cup to hide his smile as the one starting swearing about “the hell-spawned cat burglar born to try his patience.”

It took him two days of scratching in a notepad to write out the rough draft of his final paper. Half the time he had his teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached for the rest of the day, and at one point he had snapped his pencil in half, he had been gripping it so hard.

If his father had seen the topic of his essay, he would have been forced to run laps until he dropped, but since Sam had no intention of ever showing it to John, he had no qualms about giving it his all as he dissected Beowulf down to the letter, explaining in exquisite detail why Beowulf was the villain of the story and Grendel the victim of cruel discrimination.

Every word he wrote was penciled on the paper with another victim of cruelty in mind, and when he typed up the draft later and made edits at one of the lab computers on campus, he had discovered that more than once, he’d written Fenrir instead of Grendel.  

He’d turned in his paper early with relish, pleased to be able to mark it off his list of projects. Algebra was easy. Not only had he taken the class previously, as well as Algebra II, but Sam was confident in his math skills. He wasn’t concerned about Algebra or even too concerned about Psychology. His Japanese class, however, had turned out to be more difficult than he had expected, although learning a new language, especially one with a new alphabet, was always a bit of a struggle for him. He had picked up on it rather quickly, as he had with all of the languages he was now fluent in, but an oral exam was different. Having a casual good morning-how are you-I’m well-thank you conversation was considerably different than muttering the words to an exorcism.

Which, Sam was not ashamed to admit, he had translated into Japanese two weeks into the class, just to be sure he would have it memorized if he ended up needing it. He’d never had a teacher who ended up possessed before, but he’d also never had Professor Hasimoto before.

He was sitting at a table, face in his hands and muttering Japanese phrases under his breath, when he heard the chair across from him move at the same time as he caught the scent of pine and cherries. He didn’t need to look up to know that Rey was there with his chocolate cherry mocha in hand. He continued his recitation, trying to get through the phrases for formal conversation before he opened his eyes and spied his notes.

So it came as a total surprise to him when, as he finished with a sigh, Rey said, “Anata wa saisho no gakki ni umaku yatte imasu.” (You are doing well for your first semester.)

Sam’s head snapped up so fast his bangs took up temporary residence in his eyes. “What?”

Rey grinned at him. “Sore o nihongo de iu.” (Say it in Japanese.)

Sam hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Nani?”

Rey nodded with a smile. “Good. You’re doing well.” He leaned back in his chair. “When is your Final?”

“Tuesday.” He couldn’t quite contain the groan in his voice. He hated Tuesdays. Curiosity was a good distraction, though. “How do you know Japanese? Aren’t you from Germany?”

Rey chuckled. “Actually, I was born in Pennsylvania, but when you become a kitsune trickster and a god, you find you crave more than just sweets. I spent some time in Germany and England, investigating the tales of Reynard the Fox. And then I visited Japan for a few years, looking for more kitsune.”

“Did you find them?”

“Two.” Rey’s smile was pleased. “We keep in touch, though not often. Our lives carry us in different circles. But we’re not here to discuss my origin story, no matter how exciting and Hollywood-worthy it might be.”

Sam rather thought it would be considerably more interesting than continuing to study for an exam that was making his stomach curdle with nerves.

“Ohayō, watashi no yūjin. Anata no kōhī wa dōdesu ka?” (Good morning, my friend. How is your coffee?)

“Kōhī?” Sam asked, following Rey’s lead into Japanese.

“Coffee.”

“Oishīdesu. To anata no?” (It is delicious. Yours?)

“Zetsumyōdesu.” (Exquisite.)

For the next week, Sam had a partner to practice Japanese with. When Tuesday rolled around, he had a casual conversation with Professor Hasimoto that didn’t require Sam to use the exorcism he had memorized.

He probably shouldn’t have found that quite so disappointing, but the excitement would have been a nice way to wake up his brain after sitting through his Algebra exam, a two-hour multiple-choice scantron test that turned his mind to soup in his head. His psychology exam had at least required some written answers and actual thought.

Even more than his oral exam with Dr. Hasimoto, though, Sam had been nervous for his Art Final. Like the first day of class and their midterm, the Final was to be given in the dark, with a single canvas and the supplies that Sam brought with him. And like their midterm, they would be given a prompt.

Sam had expected something like “your favorite place as a child” or “your favorite fruit in a bowl.”

So he nearly dropped his easel when Professor Drake said, “I want you to draw a person in your life who means something to do.”

“You want us to draw people ?” someone asked loudly, and Sam mentally applauded them not only for their bravery in questioning The Dragon, but also for asking the question that had been burning at his mind. He’d had enough trouble with trying to draw metal during his midterm. He couldn’t draw a person .

“If the person in your life who means something to you is a person, then… yes, that is what I want you to draw.” The lights flicked off at a touch of her finger and the room was plunged into abrupt darkness, only enough ambient light for him to see a vague impression of his blank canvas by. “You have three hours to complete your painting so I suggest you don’t waste time thinking too hard about the subject matter. Someone who means something to you, be they guardian, sibling, friend, or enemy. It is time to face your demons. Good luck.”

Sam stared at his canvas for a moment, ignoring the shuffle of nervous people around him, thinking. Professor Drake was right about them not wanting to waste time. Three hours wasn’t really sufficient to do a painting in, particularly when Sam was far from practiced at painting humans. He didn’t want to waste too much time wondering at who to draw.

He pulled his brushes from their pouch and set his station up, planning to just start painting and let the details come. That seemed to happen often enough in this class, with his mind wandering and his hands drawing what they would. His midterm had resulted in a massive willow tree, vines hanging down in thick cascades of paint he had sponged on in varying shades of green, the branches of the tree stretching around it and carrying a heavy load of color.

The trunk had been too dark and he had drawn it sat down in the middle of a lake rather than on land, but Professor Drake had complimented his use of different brushes and sponges, and taken time to teach him how to add texture to the bark of a tree. She had been, to his shock and delight, impressed, and he’d received an A for a midterm he had spent almost the entire time daydreaming during, as his hands moved of their own accord.

He saw no reason why he shouldn’t let the same thing happen here, even if he was almost certain he would end up drawing Dean.

How many points would he lose if he ended up drawing a stick figure?

He idly sketched out the barest outline - a circle for the head, some lines for torso and arms to make sure he had enough space - and then gathered his paints and some water for washing his brushes. He had a little less than three hours. He could do this.

His brush trailed over the edge of an arm with a light pinkish-cream color, and Sam let his mind wander.

Around him, the sound of brushes smoothing across canvas was interspersed with quiet cursing or the murmuring of discussion. The clink of a fresh cup of water being set down, the burp of paint being squeezed out onto a pallet. Sam let it roll around him like white noise, in one ear and out the other, as his fingers carried his brushes across canvas, destroying white and leaving color in its place.

He was thinking about his plans for Winter Break. The university would close down for the holiday and Sam was still staying in a motel room after the fiasco that had him leaving his apartment. Staying in Palo Alto without the benefit of the university library would be a waste and he thought he might enjoy getting away for a little bit. His mind had been digging at the idea of finding a case - nothing huge but something he could handle easily on his own, and he’d been scouring newspapers and the internet in his minimal spare time, looking for an easy salt and burn.

Instead, an overheard discussion had caught his attention and his memory.

After finishing his Psychology Final, Sam headed down toward The Feckin’ Bean for a break. He hardly needed more caffeine with his nerves already at their limit for his Art Final, but just a quiet place to relax and maybe a distraction in the form of Rey or Alice, would be helpful. He ended up walking a few feet behind a group of girls headed in the same direction and couldn’t help but overhear their discussion.

“What are blintzes?”

“Cheese burritos,” one of the girls said quickly, to which the other laughed uproariously.

“They are not !”

“They look like burritos and they’re filled with cheese. Ergo, cheese burrito.”

“Thanks, Shakespeare. Ergo , really?”

“Shut up, Karen.”

“They’re rolled pancakes, basically. Filled with cheese, fried, and smothered in fruit. I bought a box of them from the freezer aisle since I was here over Hanukkah and I think Grandma cried when he told her that, so she’s coming over and making homemade blintzes for our late Hanukkah party.”

“Mm… can I come to your house for Christmas? I mean Hanukkah?”

“Aren’t you going to Ireland?”

“Yes.” There was a loud sigh. “I don’t really want to talk about it. What are you doing, Jen?”

“My brother’s moving so my older sister and I are flying to Florida and then driving with him to Oklahoma. His boss wants him to go work with this new land developer out in some place called Oasis Plains, so he has to pack up everything and move.”

“Wow.”

The conversation continued but Sam had stopped listening. His mind had stuck on the name Oasis Plains. It was a familiar name and it only took him a few minutes to remember why it brought up feelings of exasperation and dread. Oasis Plains had been a town under development that had suffered from a curse. So many people had died as a result of the curse and only the developer’s near-death at the hands of termites had kept anymore deaths from continuing when he agreed to stop development.

Four years before he and Dean would have gone to Oasis Plains and they were already preparing to start developing the land? He knew a project such as that would take some planning but he had realized it was so long.

Getting… the developer (Sam didn’t remember his name) to stop development had been a trial that almost ended in all of their deaths. But Sam could stop the curse from ever awakening before it became a real issue.

Nothing said he couldn’t take care of some familiar cases before he would have normally come across them. Sam had come back planning to keep the Apocalypse from happening but this… this could save even more lives.

He guessed he knew what he was doing over Winter Break.

“Twenty minutes.” Professor Drake’s voice cut through Sam’s preoccupation and he looked over at the woman where she stood in the doorway, her face in shadow. “Finish up and get your workstations cleaned up. You’ll hang your paintings on the wall where you normally hang them. Don’t forget to sign them this time.”

He hadn’t realized almost three hours had passed and he’d spent the whole time lost in thought. He glared down at the paintbrush in his hand, almost afraid to look at his painting. He would bet his laptop, which he didn’t have yet in this timeline, that it was horrible and he would probably want to burn it before handing it in as his Final.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a breath. Then turned to look at the painting.

Eyes like sunlight, burning gold, stared at him teasingly from the canvas and Sam dropped his paintbrush with a clatter.

He stared for a moment, unable to look away, sure in just a moment that an eye would wink at him and he would have to explain why his painting was flirting with him . But no wink came. Nor a blink. And the teasing upturn of lips didn’t shift into a smirk. It was just a painting. Just a painting of Gabriel, of Loki, that Sam had done without even thinking about it because he couldn’t have a crush on another student like a normal person .

“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, then winced at his choice of phrase.

He heard a choking sound behind him and turned around to see Kathy staring at his painting. He could barely see her in the dark room, but what light there was glinted off her glasses, perched where they were on her head.

“That’s… amazing, Sam. It looks so real.”

Sam turned and looked back at his painting. It really didn’t. He was no good at drawing people.

The proportions were off. The tan-gold fabric of Loki’s robes looked like a blob of color with no folds. He hadn’t shaded anything with any particular skill at all. The hair was… recognizable as hair and the nose was…

The less said about his attempt at drawing a nose, the better.

The only thing Sam had gotten right in the painting was the smile. It was a small thing, just a curve of the lips, teasing and gentle. And the eyes.

The eyes, Sam thought, looked too real . It made him nervous to look at them, as though he was meeting a gaze that recognized him for what he was.

“It’s… not awful,” he admitted. “I might actually pass.”

“It’s amazing.” Kathy’s voice was breathless with shock and Sam was a little insulted.

“I’m not that bad of an artist.”

She turned her wide-eyed gaze on him but seemed at a loss for words and only shook her head.

The lights flickered on, distracting Sam by suddenly blinding him. He groaned as he shielded his eyes.

“Five minutes,” Professor Drake called. “If you haven’t already, clean up your workstations and get your paintings hung on the wall.”

Sam scanned his painting but it was as finished as he thought he could make it without ten more years of painting experience and probably three months of actual implementation. He’d even signed his initials without thinking about it, the familiar sign he usually used on paintings for this class - a green W with a yellow S woven around the letter like a snake.

With a shake of his head, Sam picked the painting up and carefully carried it to the wall, hanging it so it could dry and be judged by Professor Drake. Then he returned to clean up his workstation.

Sam didn’t get a chance to talk to Kathy again. She had another Final she needed to leave for immediately, so he packed up his art supplies and headed back to his motel room.

He spent the rest of the day running through his mind the list of Finals he had taken or projects he had turned in, reassuring himself that he had sat every exam or finished every project as the panic over missing one cropped up randomly throughout the day. He cleaned up the motel room, not that he left it dirty, and packed his clothes in preparation for leaving for Oklahoma.

By the end of the day, he had almost convinced himself he had nothing more to worry about for Finals Week and he was just waiting on grades. He’d gone to the computer lab to check his college email and received a message about a change in housing for the next semester to accommodate the fact that the dormitory he was supposed to have been assigned was undergoing renovation. The email said he would be sent an update in a couple weeks, so Sam would need to make sure to check his email while he was away.

He visited The Feckin’ Bean but it was filled with nervous students scrambling through some last minute studying before their next Final and a frantic barista who was unfamiliar to Sam. He’d ordered a hazelnut mocha and left, returning to his motel room to spend the rest of the night relaxing.

Lying in bed that night with nothing in particular on his mind, Sam was almost completely asleep when a pair of acrylic whiskey-gold eyes flared into his memory and he opened his own with a sudden thought.

Rey was going to laugh his ass off.

Shit.