Burn Down the Sun (1/3)

[phaelsafe]

masterpost | next

The angels came first, creatures of devotion and obedience. Then God created humans and told the angels to love humans as He did, but some of the angels discovered envy and became resentful of the free will humans had been granted. They separated into factions: those who followed the will of God, and those who did not.

The battle between the two, led by the archangels Michael and Lucifer, was fierce. The moon was wrenched right out of orbit, causing death and destruction around the world as the oceans - no longer bound by the cycle of the tides - flooded across the face of the earth.

The Grace of each feuding angel was bound by God within a crystal, their only connection to Heaven, and they were banished for their transgressions, sentenced to earth, and ordered to silently watch humanity until they could love and accept His creations.

But the crystal cracked, and the power within was corrupted. Without the power of Heaven to sustain them, the angels faded into oblivion.

~~~~~~

A flare of white marks his rescue from the rack. A hand grabs him, and the smell of his soul burning is so common in this place that he almost doesn't notice how the touch sears into him. The bliss that sings along his nerves and soothes away the years of pain, however, is so foreign that he can't help but fall into the clutching embrace and welcome the unconditional love and rapture that envelops him.

Dean snaps awake, trying desperately to connect a face to that of his savior in the dream while the images are still fresh in his mind.

Bobby knocks on the door and pokes his head in. "Might want to get up and get dressed. Pam will be over soon," he suggests as Dean rolls out of bed.

The nightmares come when he sleeps, yet another souvenir acquired from spending forty years in Hell. Not that Dean needs to be reminded of his torture: he can call to mind every disturbing moment right up to the point just before someone or something yanked him out.

Dean has no idea how to start a discussion about what happened to him. His brother, though concerned, thankfully doesn't bring it up, and Bobby is willing to wait until Dean is ready to talk.

Nightmares about Hell are understandable, expected even, but the fact that Dean is dreaming, after months of nothing, about whoever granted him salvation seems to bother everyone else. Dean had made an offhand and very much unintentional comment about the addition to his dreams, and Bobby decided to call his psychic friend over to figure it out.

And what does it matter if he can't remember who set him free? It's not a big deal to Dean; he's out even if he is repressing something so important.

Really, Dean just wants to move on. Their lives are getting better: Sam is alive and well; Dean is also alive and no longer in Hell. There could be fewer monsters in the world in need of killing, but they're working on that. All things considered, he should be happy.

Except, he can't explain the void within him. It's deep and dark, and Dean can't seem to fill it, regardless of what he tries. He goes through the motions, smiling, and joking, and fighting when he needs to, but he feels empty and aimless inside.

~~~~~~

Pamela shows up just as Bobby finishes scraping together a late morning meal. They sit down to a heaping pile of eggs and bacon, and Pamela starts the conversation off with a comment regarding the impressive firmness of Sam's ass.

Dean likes her immediately, and he genuinely laughs at Sam's awkward reaction.

As they finish the meal, Pamela drops her fork and she shoves her plate away. "All right, big boy, let's see it."

"What?"

She gestures at his shoulder. "I need to touch something our mystery monster touched."

The handprint-shaped scar on his shoulder usually just tingles in distracting and not entirely unpleasant ways, but the thought of someone else touching it makes Dean uncomfortable. He definitely wants to pull away when she presses her hand to it. Her eyes fall closed, and she lifts her chin, listening to the silence that folds in around them. Dark waves of hair fall away from the angles of her face as she begins to speak; her recitation is mechanical, as if the words are whispered to her by an invisible presence:
When those who Fell from Grace find Grace once more,
-the twisted ones who fled with the Morningstar-
The light within darkness will crack,
The sun shall be made black-
And the world will shatter, lest their power be undone
By a Righteous Hand, or else by none.

A shrill ring forces Pamela from her trance, and Bobby throws his napkin on the table. "Well, that ain't ominous or nothing," he says as he strides over to the phone and yanks it to his ear.

"And you thought you only had a few awkward dreams to worry about. It's about you, though," she says, a rueful smile twisting her lips, and she points a finger at Dean. "And your dreams are most certainly related."

Dean pulls back, startled. As he opens his mouth to ask, Sam beats him to the punch. "I know Morningstar is a common nickname for the Devil, but the twisted ones, Righteous Hand? What does any of that even mean?"

"I don't know. It's a prophecy recited by those who have passed on. It's not easy to decipher what they have to say in the first place. And prophecies of this magnitude are really rare. They don't usually come with an interpretation," Pamela explains as she studies the table.

"What magnitude?" Dean asks, skeptical. He's accepted a lot of the weirdness in the world - experienced much of it himself - but he has his limits.

"With the number of voices speaking out? And they were all doom and gloom there, complete with the wailing and the teeth-gnashing and the breast-beating...." She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Whatever this is, it's pretty big."

"So, like the end of the world or something?" Dean intentionally exaggerates his interpretation but Pamela levels him with a flat look. "Wait, I'm supposed to stop the apocalypse?"

Bobby interrupts the group still sitting around the table with a snap of his fingers. "Got a case for you two near where the Navajo live. Several people have drowned. Mysteriously, and on dry land, leaving behind weird shadow-like things instead of your typical restless spirits," he announces as he places the phone back onto the cradle. "Just as vicious as the vengeful kind though. Sounds like it might be pretty serious."

"Isn't that," Sam begins, hesitating briefly as he glances in Dean's direction, "uhm, kind of close to the Devil's gate?"

"What's that?" Pamela asks as she starts clearing away the table. She offers a stack of plates to Dean.

Dean snags the last of the bacon and directs a baffled look at her. "Just what it sounds like."

"Enlighten me," she blazes back. "I assume it has something to do with demons. I try to steer clear of 'em, and luckily, they don't come up that often in my line of work."

"It's an area where the veil between worlds is thin enough to pierce that demons can cross without using a summoning spell," Sam explains. Hopping to his feet, he glares at Dean for his terrible manners, then transfers the dishes to the sink. "They somehow got a hold of that land and built a tower on it. All but impossible to approach without being seen from miles away. Not that anyone willingly goes near there these days."

"Except the Navajo. There are several different tribes that have lived around that area since before the Europeans landed on this continent," Bobby adds. "Despite the proximity, they don't seem too bothered by the demons, and the demons tend to leave them alone."

"Demons are rare, and they usually only interact with people who are easily swayed into making deals, exchanging souls for some kind of favor. Lately though? They're appearing more and more frequently," Dean says somberly. "An apocalyptic revelation, weird-ass ghosts, and all of it so close to demons. Ain't that just peachy?"

According to his brother, he had only been in Hell for a few months, but it had felt like an agonizing lifetime to Dean. He isn't thrilled about the prospect of going anywhere near a Devil's gate. People are dying though, and a hunt is a hunt.

"All right, let's go see what this is all about," Dean says as he pushes his chair away from the table. "We can handle any demons we come across. Done it before, we can do it again, right, Sam?" Before his brother can answer, Dean grabs the brown jacket hanging from the back of the chair.

"Dean...."

As he slides his arms into the sleeves, he can feel Sam watching him. He turns and lifts a brow.

The expression on Sam's face darkens before he glances out the window. "Never mind." He stands and follows after Dean, but the troubled look remains as they start packing to leave.

~~~~~~

Sam peers over Dean's shoulder as he takes inventory of the weapons in the trunk of the Impala, asking, "We have enough stakes? It might be a trickster."

"'Might' being the operative word there. If it is, you're also going to need the blood from one of its victims," Bobby says. He smacks Dean in the chest with a brown paper sack. "That's for lunch."

Opening the bag, Dean peers inside. He checks the contents and finds a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and some juice. "Oooh! A juice box! Thanks, Mom!" he says in an overly excited voice.

"And don't you forget it," Bobby replies, glowering up at Dean from beneath the brim of his cap. "The Navajo people do have a trickster god in their divine lineup, To Neinilii. More likely to save folks than kill 'em, though - not your typical trickster - certainly nothing this malicious. His idea of a good joke is to literally rain on your parade." He hands the other bag to Sam.

Sam accepts the bagged lunch with far more grace than his brother. After ranging through several expressions, he sighs and looks at Dean. "We've been through so much already. There are other hunters who can handle this."

Pamela walks up behind them, and a surprised yelp escapes Dean as she slaps him on the ass. "Nope. Spirits say Dean here is our knight in shining armor." She chuckles at his response, but the amusement in her eyes fades as she continues, "Since no one was talking to me directly, I put that old spirit board of Bobby's to use. Sometimes when they get spooked," Pamela smiles at her own joke, "they won't speak, but they'll act. Anyway, you have to find the crystal shard, then bring it to where Heaven meets the Earth, before the eclipse. The rain god has it." She slips a note into Dean's palm.

Dean glances at it; everything she just listed off is neatly written down.

"Wait." Pamela grabs his hand and scribbles Castiel across the bottom of the paper, then draws a heart with wings around it. "It's related to why you asked me here, though. Your, you know-" her smile returns, lighting up her face in a far-too-knowing way "-dreams? His name is Castiel. He's an angel, by the way. The spirits got all skittish after naming him, and I'm not about to try sneaking a closer peek at any of God's other children."

"Angels don't exist." Dean automatically says, but then he begins to wonder. He certainly feels far more inclined to believe Pamela now than he had prior to his resurrection. "Huh. Is there any lore on angels?"

"Not a whole lot. Angels appear in most religions in one form or another," Sam replies. "The concept somehow evolved into the fluffy, overly protective guardians we think of today."

Dean digs around in the supplies, pretending he's already lost interest, but Sam knows him better and continues. "They're pretty esoteric. Supposedly, they existed in rigid castes, and at least four archangels are named: Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel. There's a mention of some troublemakers, but there doesn't seem to be much after- what?" Sam asks when Dean shoots him an abrasive look. "I like to read. Maybe you should try it sometime."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Fit it in somewhere between the angels and demons and apocalyptic prophecies...." Dean slams the trunk shut before turning around and resting against the car. His eyes meet Sam's.

Sam returns Dean's gaze, exhaling slowly and searching his brother's face for how he should respond. He reaches a tentative hand out to poke Dean in the shoulder. "This seems a little too coincidental."

"Who's to say it isn't all just a coincidence?" Dean looks back at Pamela. The slight shrug she offers is in no way helpful. "You think we could be so lucky?" he asks.

"Considering this trickster is also a rain god?" Bobby asks with a snort. "No."

Sam pulls a sour a face then smiles at Dean. The expression is tense, devoid of all humor. "Nope."

"Well," Dean says with a clap of his hands. "Then let's go figure out what could possibly be worse than having demons as neighbors."

~~~~~~

After nearly eighteen hours of driving and a night spent in Cheyenne, they are stuck on the side of what barely counts as a road, under the noon sun, somewhere in the southwest part of Colorado.

"Try again, Sam."

"Dean," Sam starts, but he just rolls his eyes and twists the key again. The engine doesn't turn over, the ignition isn't clicking - nothing. The Impala is dead. Sam looks around the raised hood to his brother and shakes his head.

Agitated, Dean throws his hands into the air. "There's nothing wrong with the damn car!"

The heat is certainly not helping tempers any.

"Now what?" Dean asks, unable to mask the frustration in his voice. They didn't bring any food or water - he wasn't expecting to break down in the middle of nowhere because he takes excellent care of his baby - and he doesn't really expect to find much in the way of help in the arid wilderness around them.

"Well," Sam says, and points to the cliffs beyond the scrub. "We can start there."

A narrow trail of pale smoke drifts upward, disappearing into the puffy white clouds that hang in the seemingly endless blue sky over the nearby cliffs. It's too clean to be natural. "Campers maybe?" Dean asks.

Sam watches the horizon and carefully says, "We could go find out."

"What about-" Dean huffs and gestures at the car.

"Not a whole lot of options here, Dean."

"All right. You pack up whatever you think we can carry, and I'll try to find some way to hide her."

With Sam's help, Dean pushes the Impala off the road and into a copse of scraggly bushes. Dean throws a drop cloth over the vehicle. "We better be able to find my car again after all this nonsense...."

"So, tell me again why we're here if this is all nonsense?" Sam quips.

All logic is telling him this is a terrible idea, and Sam seems to agree. Dean doesn't know how to explain that he feels like he's been drawn out here, like Pamela's visit gave him a direction to follow. Dean glowers at his brother and shrugs. "I've been stuck with you overprotective mother hens for months now. I needed to get out and do something anyway."

They trudge along the hard-packed dirt for over an hour, tripping over rocks and partially buried roots, until they reach an abandoned campsite just inside the shadows cast by the towering rock face. Whoever was here is long gone; the only sign anyone was present at all comes from the wisps of smoke curling out from dying embers placed carefully within a circle of stones.

An aggravated noise escapes Dean. Despite the neat design, it's never a good idea to leave hot coals behind. "Amateurs."

"Wait, Dean!" Sam warns as he reaches for his brother.

Dean sidesteps the arm and strides over to the circle. He stamps out the remnants of the fire and turns back to Sam, waggling his eyebrows. "Only you can prevent forest fires."

Sam replies with a silent scowl as Dean lifts his foot for one final stomp.

The moment his foot hits the ground, Dean yelps in surprise and lurches forward as it suddenly softens enough to swallow half his leg. Tossing aside the canister of what little water they had in the car, Dean glares down at his trapped limb. He tries to pull it out with a grunt, and then turns the look on to Sam. "I'm stuck."

"Amateur," Sam suggests with a smirk. "What part of this well-prepared, yet somehow neglected arrangement screamed not-a-trap to you?" He asks as he steps lightly toward Dean. He pauses just within grabbing distance, chucks his duffel bag of weapons next to their water, and chews on his lip as he examines where Dean's leg disappears into the sand.

Dean grimaces. "It's hard as concrete. Maybe there's a spell at work here." He doesn't sense the tell-tale tingle of magic, which is why he didn't think anything of walking right on up - despite the fact that Sam knows perfectly well what magic feels like, he's still giving Dean a dirty look.

Sam rummages through the underbrush until he finds a suitable branch. Dean snatches it away and tries to dig himself out, to no avail. He thrusts the end of the stick at Sam. Sam grabs it, then, straining with the effort, he hauls back with all of his weight. Dean doesn't budge.

"Great-" Sam is cut off as the ground beneath him bulges upward suddenly, and he topples toward Dean. He flounders precariously for a second, his arms windmilling wildly, and settles simply for jumping into Dean's arms instead.

They must look ridiculous, Dean standing on one leg while barely maintaining his hold on his much taller brother, but at least Sam wasn't ensnared by the spell as well.

"Too heavy. Can't-" Dean tenses his arms and heaves Sam away.

The momentum carries Sam too far forward; his knees crack painfully against the ground and his arms fly out to keep him from plowing face first into the dirt. With a groan, he pushes back onto his feet. "Little bit more warning next time?"

"Maybe next time you shouldn't trip over your gigantic feet," Dean suggests. He wobbles from holding the tiring pose for so long.

"I didn't tri-" Sam is interrupted by a slow, steady clap.

"Sam and Dean Winchester. Nicely handled!" exclaims a short man wearing a blue, beak-shaped wooden mask wreathed by feathers and evergreen branches. Beaded leather thongs adorn his upper arms and wrists. A brightly-colored cloth with geometric patterns is belted around his waist by red leather that is embellished with silver inlays. "You lose points for the initial stupidity of falling for it, but I must say, I forgot how well you two work together."

Even though the person before him is quite likely responsible for his current predicament, the first words out of Dean's mouth are: "What the hell are you supposed to be?" And predictably, Sam hisses at Dean to shut up, which is probably a good idea since this person does seem to know who they are.

The mask tilts at a curious angle. "Not too bright, are you? Why didn't you just douse the fire with water?"

Dean stares dumbly at the container of water resting not too far away. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "We're stuck out here," he starts to explain. "Didn't want to waste it." It's not really a lie. Dean is willing to bet they're facing the being they are hunting, and he certainly does look like a trickster. Not too many people running around the desert in that kind of getup. He catches Sam's eye and his brother's nod is just barely perceptible.

"What are you doing way out here anyway?" Comes the voice from behind the mask - definitely masculine, and smooth as glass with no noticeable accent.

"We're trying to find someone. To Neinilii." Dean really wishes Bobby had shown them an image of the trickster.

The guy straightens and asks in a voice laden with suspicion, "Who sent you?"

Dean snorts. "Nobody. This dude is killing people, so we've come along to mete out some-”

"We're looking for a shard," Sam cuts in abruptly, scowling at Dean. "A crystal shard."

"You're the Righteous Man? No," the mask turns back to Dean. "You are, I see it now." But he rips off the mask. " …you are supposed to stop the apocalypse?" The man rakes a hand through his honey-colored hair and glares at the heavens. "Of course you are. And I thought I had a twisted sense of humor."

The man snaps his fingers. Sam and Dean grab for each other in an effort to keep upright as the axis of the world suddenly tilts around them, and they find themselves standing before a series of square buildings constructed along and into the side of a cliff. The windows are cold and empty, abandoned by their original owners many centuries before.

"Didn't we kill you back in that college town?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes in recognition. He whips around to snatch a stake from the duffel bag and finds nothing. "You left our stuff behind?" Dean sighs. He's not really surprised, but the look of disbelief the trickster shoots at him is totally worth it.

"Dean," Sam murmurs softly.

Dean flings a hand at the trickster and declares, "This is just great. Now we have no weapons to-"

"Dean," Sam tries again. Wrapping one arm around his brother, Sam cuts Dean off with a hand over his mouth. He leans in close and whispers into Dean's ear. "He is obviously not just a trickster, so maybe we shouldn't threaten him just yet. And what if he has the shard...?"

The trickster rolls his eyes. "I haven't received this much disrespect since they tried to kick me out of Asgard." He turns and walks off through a stone doorway. "If all you want is the shard, then come on," he says, tossing the words over his shoulder as he disappears into the dark recesses of the building.

The hunters exchange wary looks and Dean jerks Sam's palm away from his face.

"We've already killed him once," Dean says, his tone deadpan.

"Maybe he had a brother?" suggests Sam.

Dean's eyebrow wings upward. "Asgard?"

"Like I said," Sam checks the doorway. He crosses his arms and repeats, "he's not just any trickster."

"Well, there are several the Tricksters out there, but yeah; if he's Loki, that might explain why he's still alive. What's he doing here, though?"

"Are you coming or not?" The mocking words drift through the open door. "I've got better things to do than cater to lost hunters."

"This is a bad idea," Dean complains, following Sam's gaze,

Sam shrugs and heads toward the open door. When Dean doesn't follow, he backs up and drags Dean along. "If he wanted to hurt us, he's had every opportunity to do so."

"Seriously, Sam?" Dean digs his heels into the ground and glares at his brother. "Trickster."

"This would be an awfully elaborate setup," Sam admonishes as he pulls harder.

Dean relinquishes, but he makes Sam haul him along. "Yeah, 'cause Loki is so well known for playing simple tricks."

Sam sighs, sounding irked. "Quit whining and let's go see what he has to say, at least."

"This is a bad idea," Dean says again as they make their way through the dim room. It dead-ends at a blank wall, and he spins around to examine the room again, but it's completely empty. "Uhm... hello?"

Sam furrows his brow and steps toward the wall. "Dean."

A fine seam runs the length of the wall, and as Sam approaches, it splits apart, spilling bright light around them. Two rectangular stones slide away to reveal a set of stairs that lead up into a huge circular observatory. Panes of frosted glass span the ceiling of the dome, diffusing the remaining sunlight that filters throughout the airy space.

Set directly in the center of the room is a massive orrery. Hundreds of metallic arms whir and clank tirelessly, moving crystalline balls that glitter in the burnished afternoon light. Some speed around so quickly that they seem to defy the laws of physics, while others are content to loop about in lazy orbits. Upon closer inspection, even smaller versions are distinguishable within the spheres, each with their own set of mechanized rotations.

Dean's jaw drops at the sight. "Whoa...."

Sam is too busy regarding the machine to notice much else, his eyes wide and sparkling with awe. His lips work silently around words he can't seem to give voice to. Instead, he settles for a low, impressed whistle.

"Everything within the heavens is here: suns, moons, stars," explains the trickster. He's now wearing blue jeans, a t-shirt, and a button-up; he's dressed not unlike the Winchesters. "Well, almost everything. Mainly the bits of the galaxy that affect this pale blue dot." He ducks just before an orb has the chance to knock his head from his shoulders. "I was there during that solar eclipse, where the angels fell beyond Heaven's reach. A similar conjunction is approaching, and you'd better have your shard before then, hunter. What's going to happen?"

Dean watches as the demigod deftly maneuvers through the chaotic system to the far end of the room. It's not chaotic at all. That's the purpose of a machine like this: the oscillations are predictable and pretty accurate. "I don't suppose you could just tell us? Skip the whole guessing game?"

"The end of the world," the trickster says dramatically. Then, with a nonchalant shrug he adds, "Or the beginning. It's all the same to me. Either way, a big change is coming. Either way, all this pointless fighting stops."

The sound of Sam clearing his throat draws Dean's attention back to his brother. Though his eyes still roam over the mechanism, Sam has apparently rediscovered his voice. "Eclipses happen often enough. What's so special about this one?"

The trickster busies himself with rifling through shelves and drawers; apparently he likes to collect things. "It's all in the alignment. They intend to draw the power of the firmament down upon our heads," comes his distracted reply as he pulls out a wooden box. He shakes it, and Dean can hear a tinkling over the sound of turning gears.

"Found it!" With a smile upon his face, the trickster lifts the box up to show them. He hurries to where they stand, edging along the outermost sweep of the orrery.

Sam and Dean both step back as the trickster approaches. He chuckles, points to the floor, and the Winchesters find themselves suddenly seated where indicated.

"You want a shard?" he asks and upends the contents onto the floor. Crystals scatter across the hard stone. "The question is: when you figure out which is the right one, what do you do with it? You heal the damn crystal, that's what."

"Actually, the question is: which is the right one?" Dean snarks, leveling a look at the trickster. "Though, I'd settle for your name."

A frown mars the trickster's face as he kneels down to study the shards. He pulls three fragments away, then snaps his fingers. The box and the other crystals instantly disappear. "It's one of these three, but I'm not telling you my name. I know what hunters do with names." A disturbingly sly smile spreads across his face, and he flops down to watch. "There is still so much to learn, and you are almost out of time."

~~~~~~

They can't leave. Sam tried walking out only to find himself walking back in through the same door. That makes Dean laugh, at least until he remembers where they are and who is holding them captive. Though the trickster does offer them dinner: some kind of spiced stew with corn and, of all things, apple pie.

By the time night has fallen, Dean is no closer to picking out the correct shard. He flicks each one, listens to the tone, and gets nothing new. They all sound like ringing crystal to him.

The trickster is no help either, which is not entirely true - there is no light source in the observatory, so he is graciously blowing through the circle of his thumb and index finger and producing phosphorescent bubbles. The fragile spheres float along unseen air currents for quite some time before gravity destabilizes the surface tension and the magic dissipates entirely.

A bubble drifts into Dean's line of sight; he doesn't really see it, but his eyes subconsciously follow its path as he thinks. Sam leans over to pop it.

"I'm not responsible for those deaths," the trickster says, breaking the silence. He creates another bubble and gently waves it away. "The demons have been kidnapping people, including members of the tribes around here, to create an army of shades. They're getting stronger as the eclipse approaches and were able to slip past my defenses."

"Shades? You mean like spirits from the Greek underworld?" asks Sam.

The trickster becomes distant, thoughtful. "Kind of, but more like a cross between a daeva - I know you've run into those-" Sam narrows his eyes at the mention of their past "-and a ghost. Underworld spirits are less... spiteful. These demons have figured out how to strip the light from human souls."

"And you're sticking around to help the Navajo fight off demons... as one of their deities?"
When the trickster nods his head, Sam continues, "aren't you a little, uh-" he stops, casting about for the right word.

"Short to be To Neinilii?" the trickster supplies with a delighted laugh. "That's what the vikings used to say." As soon as the words slip out, his eyes widen then flick back and forth between Sam and Dean.

Dean doesn't look up from his task. "Hah! Told you."

Sam shoves at his brother. "My idea first." He glances up at the trickster and asks, "Then, you're Loki? Kind of far from home...."

"Eh, I got bored. Wanted to see the sights. The people around here have a far more interesting perspective on the world. More respect for Tricksters. You should hear their Creation story."

Dean glances up and raises a brow. "Pretty sure you said they kicked you out of Asgard earlier."

Loki rolls his shoulder in the most apathetic shrug Dean has ever seen. "Same thing."

"Shouldn't you be concentrating on those crystals, Dean?" Loki reminds the hunter.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Dean sighs and presses his palms into the floor behind him. "I've tried everything I can think of, here."

"Here, let me-"

Dean recognizes the centered expression on Sam's face, and his fingers fly out, tightly encircling Sam's wrist and keeping him from his intended target. "Do not use your powers. Not for this, not ever."

"Please, Just-" Sam pleads. He closes his eyes and inhales in order to compose himself. "-trust me."

With his peripheral vision, Dean sees Loki shift as he watches their exchange with interest. The trickster doesn't seem surprised in the slightest; he even smiles as though he's pleased with where this is headed. "What aren't you telling us?"

Loki nods at the taller hunter. "Why not let Sammy try? You're certainly not getting anywhere."

Breathing out his frustration, Dean pushes his free hand through his hair and glowers at Sam. Pressing his lips into an adamant line, Sam stares back. "Fine," Dean finally agrees, releasing his grip. It's Sam's choice; Dean doesn't have to like it, so he keeps any further comments to himself.

As he extends his palm out over the crystals, Sam glances toward Dean just to make sure. Dean trades it for one of indifference, but Sam knows better, and the corners of his lips twitch with gratitude.

Dean can tell when his brother's attention truly shifts away from him by the way Sam's brows knit together.

Whatever Sam is doing produces a delicate tinkling sound as the crystals begin to rattle in place. His face pinches up as he focuses, and the sound ratchets into a hum that sets Dean's teeth on edge. The tones become more pronounced as the central shard begins to glimmer with an inner light. It resonates at a slightly different frequency, and Dean claps his hands over his ears as the ringing becomes piercing and painful.

"Sam?" he hollers, insistent over the noise.

When blood starts to drip from his brother's nose, Dean decides the experiment has failed. He scrabbles toward Sam, and the moment he touches the other hunter, two of the shards shatter. Sam immediately relaxes, his hand lifting to staunch the blood flowing freely down his face.

"Congratulations, boys," Loki says, beaming as he rises to his feet. "You've got your shard. Unfortunately, you have to run now because we're about to have company!"

Dean grabs the shard and tugs at Sam's elbow just as the windows explode and they're pelted with pieces of glass. Sam takes a second to get his bearings, and he stumbles to his feet, still dizzy from using his powers.

Black smoke floods the room and coalesces into a horde of human-shaped forms, but Loki holds both hands up and shoves at the air. The shadows nearest him freeze, and he tosses a hurried "Go!" over his shoulder as more of the shades force their way around their immobilized brethren.

Dean glances around for a way out but it's Sam who points to what looks like a door above the platform extending along the upper portion of the room. There seems to be no stairwell leading up - Loki probably just teleports up there when he feels like it, Dean assumes - and the shadows are swarming the trickster, so Dean decides to take the obvious route: up and over the orrery.

As he clamps down on his panic, Dean pushes Sam onward. They navigate through and around the spinning metal and glass until one of the larger arms sweeps toward them. About the same time, the shades finally overwhelm Loki and head straight for the brothers.

Sam clambers onto the sturdy truss as it swings into an upward arc. Tightening his thighs around the metal for support, he then turns and hauls Dean up with him. As they work their way toward the apex of the machine, Sam and Dean swap places, pushing and pulling each other along through the ever-rotating maze until they manage to hitch a ride on a bar curving toward the balcony.

The trickster disappears beneath the shifting figures, dragged down to the floor by clutching hands, but the shades are suddenly knocked through the air, and Loki stands and shakes himself like a wet dog. The shadows skritch at an invisible barrier that extends a good ten feet around the trickster, trying to claw their way back to him, but Loki just smiles at them.

The snap of fingers sounds through the air like an exploding firecracker. The whine of gears grinding to a halt assaults Dean's ears, and he and Sam come to a stop just next to the balcony.

The machine lurches against the force keeping it from advancing. The brothers climb over the railing just as smoke billows out from somewhere in the heart of the floor beneath them. Vibrations roll through the room, and both he and Sam peer expectantly over the banister at Loki.

Loki glances at the shades that are now attempting to follow the hunters. When he looks back, Dean can make out the unnatural liquid-amber color of the trickster's irises despite the distance between them.

"I said go!" Loki yells at them, adding an impatient jerk of his head.

Sam gives pause. "But...."

"Sam. He's a freaking Norse deity pretending to be a Navajo trickster; I think he can handle a few shadows," Dean says, failing to keep the urgency out of his voice.

As Sam glances back, Loki winks impishly and blows him a kiss.

"Umm-"

"Yeah, okay, Lover Boy, let's go!" Dean turns on his heel, shoves the door open, and drags Sam from the observatory and onto a rocky walkway.

The night air is still hot, but it's also dank in a way deserts should not be. Dean quickly picks his way along the broken path, slipping every now and then on the clammy stone. As he checks for Sam over his shoulder, Dean loses his footing. Sam grabs at him, but gravity pulls them both over and they go crashing the rest of the way down the steep hill.

They land in a tangle of arms and legs just as the slope begins to even out. Dean groans, and when his head finally stops spinning, he begins cataloguing his injuries.

Sam grunts as he tries to sit up. He has a cut above his eye that bleeds profusely, and he cradles his wrist to his chest, but still he manages to ask, "Dean? You okay?"

Dean's lip feels wet so he licks at it; it stings and tastes like copper. He also feels bruised from head to toe, but "yeah, I think so." His wrist may also be twisted; it twinges something awful as he rolls over. "You?"

Hissing the pain out through his teeth, Sam gingerly checks his ankle and winces. "I don't think it's broken." He wipes the blood from his face; at least his wounds are starting to clot.

"We can't stick around here. Those things are likely to come after us," says Dean. As he glances up, the observatory explodes into flames. He scuttles over to Sam as debris rains down upon them; and, leaning upon each other for support, they limp as quickly as they can and into the cover of the nearby trees.

~~~~~~
The trees turn out to be the edge of a really strange jungle. A very, very swampy jungle - there are more areas than not where the water table seems to rest a few inches above the ground.

The flora and fauna aren't remotely terrestrial. Thorny tree trunks rise into the yellow sky, ending in bunches of evergreen needles as long as palm leaves and laden with pine cones the size of pineapples. Strange noises, caws and hoots and whistles, sound from the branches around them. Insects as long as Dean's forearm skitter about as he and Sam pass by, while birds the length of his little finger flit fearlessly about the hunters' faces.

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Dean huffs as he sits on a fallen log. Sweat drips uncomfortably down his face and back in the stifling humidity. They've been wandering around aimlessly for hours.

"Colorado," corrects Sam, earning him a glower from his older brother. Sam limps over and flops down as well.

Dean's eyes sweep along the canopy above them. "You think this is something the trickster is doing?"

"I don't-" The look on Sam's face is uncertain, but he shakes his head. "What would be the point?"

"Trickster...?" Dean suggests for the umpteenth time, but he sighs and lets it drop. With little else to do, he pulls out the shard and traces a finger along the clean planes of the crystal. It's about eight inches long, ever so slightly violet, and fractured. The light passing through it doubles the image of his palm as he holds it. He wonders just how hard the thing is. "What am I supposed to do with this, anyway?" he asks, pressing it into the trunk and dragging it across the rough bark. It leaves behind an impressive furrow.

The shard lights up, and from within the sharp edges appears the image of a fair-haired man standing beside a large, brightly glowing crystal. The man stabs at it with a silver dagger-like weapon, causing lines to spiderweb from the inside out.

"Holy-" Dean exclaims.

Sam leans closer, peering curiously at the shard. "What?"

"You didn't see that?" Dean asks, incredulous.

Sam's eyes slide up to meet Dean's. "...no? What happened?"

"Nothing." Dean shoves the shard back into his pocket and shakes his head to rid himself of the image. He clears his throat. "It was probably nothing. Maybe the heat is finally getting to me."

A twig snaps behind them, and in the suddenly silent forest, the noise cracks like thunder.

Sam and Dean freeze in an instant, and they scan the dense foliage for signs of danger. Sam rises slowly, nudging his brother carefully before tossing his head in the direction the sound came from. Dean falls in behind him, and they quickly and quietly seek out the source.

The younger hunter stops and signals for Dean to look down. Pressed into the loamy ground is the imprint of a man's dress shoe; although, it's already disappearing back into the bog as water fills the depression.

Dean checks behind him, and sure enough, his and Sam's tracks are still recognizable as tracks despite attempts by the swamp to erase them, so there should be more proof that someone was here. He raps the back of his knuckles against Sam's arm, urging his brother onward.

Other than an animal scrambling out of their way, the place remains eerily quiet.

Sam abruptly stops. The sunlight filtering through the trees plays across his face as he turns to listen. Dean pauses, trying to locate whatever has captured his brother's attention.

There's a subtle, yet familiar charge in the air, one that Dean has no immediate frame of reference for. He knows it, but the memory plays along the edges of his thoughts like he just woke up and is chasing after a dream.

The space before him shifts, and the hunter takes a subconscious step back as he finds himself abruptly confronted by an avid pair of blue eyes. As he trips over his own feet, the owner of those eyes reaches out to steady Dean - and holy crap! The hand around his bicep is like an iron band - there is nothing subtle about the way his bones threaten to liquefy at the touch. Dean feels likes he's standing at the epicenter of an earthquake.

"Hello, Dean."

The missing piece of his life falls back into place.

masterpost | next