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For the Love of God and Hammer

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So, it hadn’t really become a thing – yet – but Sam had maybe taken to carrying the hammer with him everywhere he went. And maybe also made clear that Dean could hold it when he pried it from Sam’s cold, dead fingers. Who wanted to haggle over specifics.  

He hadn’t meant to keep it. The Old Dude Monster had lent it to him, after all, polite as you please, but slamming it through the skull of Plutus’s lackey had just felt so good. All that strength, and power, washing up his arm like the jets in a jacuzzi, warming and exciting and steadying all at once. Plus, the guy just had bags of partial virgins lying around, so he kind of deserved it. (5/8ths of a virgin? How did over half a girl fit into that drippy bag? Or was it just an unknown quantity of some poor girl who’d let her boyfriend stick it in a few inches before demanding he pull out so that her purity ring was still valid? If it was being bartered in the same room as human souls, these details mattered.)

There was a knock on the motel door and Sam stepped out of the bathroom with the hammer – yup, still holding it – to see who it was.

Dean opened the door a crack, gun aimed at chest height, then moved it up another several inches once he looked outside.

“What do you want?”

“Human,” a deep, slow voice said like he was doing a recording for a villain in a children’s cartoon. “I require my hammer back.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean said. “You’re gonna have to come in and take it.”

There was a slight pause and then, “That is possible.”

Dean was startled back by the door being pushed in and heavy, booted feet pushed through the salt over the threshold. Sam thought Dean could have held the door, but something gunning for them that could cross the salt and the wards and the holy water spritzer currently dripping off the end of his nose kind of… narrowed down the possibilities. He just wasn’t sure to what.

On first glance Sam thought, Freak. Also, tall – taller than Dean – and freaking built. Like, if Sam had a stunt double for life, maybe this guy could be it (and wouldn’t it be nice to have someone else jumping out of all those 2nd stories windows and getting into fist fights with monsters for him). Mountain Man would just have to dye his hair, and then it could work. But even with all that, still: freak. The guy had a long flowing red cape – seriously, it flowed, like he was still walking through a field with grass leaves or dwarves or some magically subservient being gently plucking it backwards to flap in the breeze he himself made – and metal armor made of scales. Or maybe… a quilt? Of metal? What was this guy dressed as?

Dean was obviously thinking along the same lines, eyeing the strewn salt cautiously. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I am Thor,” the guy said simply. “Ruler of Asgard.”

“O-kay then,” Dean said, and turned around to see Sam. “Sammy, there’s a god at the door.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. ‘Bout that.”

“Human,” the guy said, directly to Sam this time. “I have come for my hammer.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Sam answered slowly, looking down at his clenched fist. He flexed, the hammer bobbing in his hand and making the air crackle with tiny sparks of dry lightning. “That doesn’t really work for me.”

“It is mine. I am Thor, son of Odin—”

“Dude,” Dean cut in. “This guy’s an ass-guard. I don’t think he’s foolin’ around.”

Sam twitched, knowing better than to smirk in the face of a wannabe-god crazed fanboy. Real gods didn’t look like that, with the Hot Topic leg armor and so many… primary colors. Colors that loud got you killed. Or, well, noticed. And then killed. Sam flexed again, the strength from the carved metal in his hand flowed up his arms and across his shoulders, planting his feet steadfastly to the thin carpet, and raising his chin in the face of their new… whatever. “What do you think, Dean? Maybe I should let him fight me for it.”

The heavyweight nodded again, and stepped forward. And, seriously, it was like one step brought him halfway into the room. How the hell did a guy move like that? He was no taller than Sam, boots and cape and even poofier hair notwithstanding, but Sam’s legs only took him a step’s length, not this unending room’s-length gliding shit.

“I would prefer not to hurt you,” he said, voice suddenly as foreign and metallic as his shingle-wear, and Sam’s eyes narrowed. That was their line. Who was this guy? “I am the rightful heir to the throne. Only I can wield the Hammer—”

“Oh really?” Sam said carefully, testing the weight in his hand just to see sparks fly across the room again. “I’ve been wielding it just fine.”

“Only those who are given the Hammer in free will are imbued with the strength to wield it. It was willingly passed from one person to another until you came to possess it. But it is not yours.”

“Wait,” Dean stepped in. “So Sam’s gotta give you the hammer before you can pick it up?”

“No.” The guy’s face darkened – or actually, maybe that was just the clouds gathering out the window. Sam could suddenly hear thunder far off. “It is mine, and will have it back.”

“But if other people have been carrying – sorry,” Dean held his hands up, “wielding it, then you willingly gave it away in the first place?”

In a sharp contrast to his shadowed and foreboding expression, the guy suddenly frowned. It was small, almost petulant, and Sam knew Dean was on the verge of cracking jokes about him not getting the happy meal toy he wanted.

“I gave it to my brother for safekeeping.”

Dean scoffed. “Brothers. You ask them to do one little thing…”

“He was—” there was a pause, and then a wince. “Mislead.”

Sam glared, daring Dean to fucking identify with that one.

“I will use it for a good purpose. Perhaps you have heard of me,” the guy said, brightening up. “We recently closed a portal above New York.”

“That sucks,” Sam offered.

“It made the news.”

Sam and Dean both unintentionally grimaced harder. “That double sucks. Feds’ll be on your ass for months.”

“No, we – You really have not heard? I am Thor, God of Thunder.”

“Yeah,” Dean threw back, “and I’m Captain freaking America.”

Sam was mesmerized by the flap of the red cape as Mr. Thunder Face turned sharply to Dean. “No, you are not. I have seen him without his mask.”

Dean couldn’t even pretend to hide the smirk at that one, and unceremoniously coughed “pervert” into his fist.

“Look,” he started, but Dean held up his hand.

“Cool your heels, bleach blond. I get it. Sarcasm is not your first language.”

The guy’s nostrils flared, like a horse, and Sam would swear he saw one foot stamp at the ground. If nothing else, his right fist was definitely clenching around where a gigantic hammer should be. “It is not, and I am running out of patience.”

Sam had one last impression of more gliding before he made a hasty reintroduction with the floor.


“Sam? Hey, Sammy, come on.”

Sam blinked, groaned, and unceremoniously rolled himself over to get his face out of the grungy carpet.

“Heeey,” Dean said. “Welcome back to the living. How you doing there?”

“Feel like I got hit by a…” boot, mountain, cape, mountain in a cape… “hammer.”

“Not quite. I don’t think even your thick skull could make it through that.”

“What happened?” Sam asked, not even bothering to try to get vertical.

Dean just shrugged. “Guy really wanted his hammer. And he might have had some god in him after all.”

Sam groaned, again, in agreement. “Did he want anything else?”

“Uh, yeah. He wanted to know where to find some good… shawarma?” Dean said the word like it left a bitter film on his tongue, and then extended a hand to help Sam up.

Sam couldn’t really make himself wrap his brain around that one. Not like it mattered. The hammer was gone, and he had more important things to think about. Like tracking down a angsting teen prophet, stalking the King of Hell and one of God’s stone post-its, and learning more exorcisms backwards.

“What a freak.”

Dean used a rough hand to wipe the carpet bits off his shoulders and then straightened Sam’s shirt to cover up his sunny pentagram, anti-demon, brotherly-love matching tattoo. “You said it.”