ONE:

Good Intentions

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He plodded into the bar as if on autopilot, ignoring the musical noises coming from the lighted box in the corner of the room, and the chatting, laughing and shouting of the patrons. Reaching the actual bartop he plonked himself on a stool and relaxed until both his elbows were on the wooden surround.

"Hey handsome," said an amused voice.

He looked up at a dark young man with a wide smile. "Hello."

"What will it be?"

"Vengeance," he growled.

"Uh - we don't got that but we have like… Let me see." He turned away to survey the bottles on the top shelf. "Well honey, we have Writer's Tears, Unicorn Piss and… Sambuca."

"What's that one?" he asked, pointing to the end bottle.

"Oh that's the expensive one," he said, reaching up for it anyway. "It's a joke whiskey, you know, like the Unicorn Piss. It's called Tears of My Enemies."

"Yes. That one. Give me the bottle."

The bartender's eyes flicked up and down him, cataloguing the scruffy jeans, the nondescript hoodie, the unkempt shag of hair - and the black eye patch. "You sure, sugar? I mean don't get me wrong, you're big and all, but… It's got a kick to it."

"I hope so."

"I'll give you a taster first, ok? You see if you like it," the bartender said. He poured out a shot and left it on the bar in front of his customer.

He snatched it up and sank it in one go. Then he paused to inspect the empty shot glass. "Not bad. Not… enough, but not bad." He set down the glass and tipped a finger at the bottle. "Leave it."

"If you say so," the bartender said. He put it on the counter in front of him and turned to his left. "Oh, hi," he said brightly. "Another handsome one. Anything I can get you, you let me know."

"Find the one drink you wouldn't give your worst enemy, and make mine a double," the new customer gruffed.

"You got it," the bartender said, and turned away from the counter.

The original drinker ran a hand through his short hair and then picked up his bottle. He swivelled on the stool slightly and refilled the shot glass. "You look like a drinker. Would you care to try this? It's really not bad," he said, and held the glass out to the newcomer.

Shorter, younger, but no less sturdy, the new drinker looked at him for a few telling seconds. "What are you in for?"

"Family," he said, still holding out the drink. "You?"

The man took it slowly, considering. "Same." He tipped the drink back and winced as it burnt its way down his throat.

"Well?"

"It's pretty good," he managed.

"There is more where that came from," he said. "After all, I have the night, and tomorrow, and tomorrow - because it's all gone. And the worst thing is, I think it was my fault."

The newcomer paused for a long moment. "Yeah, well… we all got our problems, don't we?"

"What of yours? Do they include the end of the world, of your family?" he asked sourly.

His mouth hitched up at one side slightly, in a way that almost passed for a sad smile. "Ok you got me - what did you do? —If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind," he said. "Although I fear it's more of what I didn't do."

He sniffed, rubbed a hand over the end of his nose, and handed him the shot glass back. "Drink?"

"Oh my friend," he said, "we shall drink tonight and tell our sad stories, and in the morning… perhaps they will not hurt so much that we cannot plot revenge upon the ones who have caused us so much pain."

The newcomer looked him up and down. "Right," he allowed.

He poured him another drink, then rapped on the wooden bar. "Barkeep," he announced. "Another glass, please. My friend and I will share this bottle."

"You got it, honey," the bartender called, then appeared round the bar and handed him two whiskey glasses. "You let me know if you need food, ok? Kitchen's open till late."

"We have no need," the man said grandly. "We have the fury and determination of revenge to keep us fed."

"If you say so," the bartender said. He looked at the new drinker and winked. "Good luck." He turned away to serve other drinks, far down the bar area.

The two men sank another drink each, then appraised each other. "What's your name, friend?" the first drinker asked.

"Dean." He held out his hand. "Dean Winchester. You?"

"Donald Blake." He reached across and shook his hand firmly. "Tell me, can we finish this bottle this evening?"

Dean looked around the bar, full of lively, happy people. Couples were sat close together, friends were laughing and joking, and a group of young men were celebrating what was clearly someone's legal drinking age birthday by playing shot roulette. He glanced at his watch. "You know what? Screw it. Yeah, we can finish that bottle."

"Excellent," he beamed.

"Eventually I will have to drag myself home to my brother and explain why I left my car here."

"Your brother," he said sadly. "Be happy that you still have one."

Dean studied him as he refilled the glasses. "You say that like it's got something to do with why you're in here."

"It is, friend Dean," he said. "It is indeed."

"Is it something you can fix?"

"Let me begin at the start," he said. They picked up their drinks and took cautious sips. "My brother. First of all, he's adopted. But I didn't know that until we were both well over a thousand years old, so by then it was too late to make a difference."

"A thousand years old, huh?" Dean asked. "You speaking figuratively or literally?"

"Oh literally, I assure you," he said. "I am not mortal, you see. I am of the Æsir, the race of beings who rule Asgard. Or rather, did rule Asgard. It's gone now."

Dean frowned. "Like… Thor, right?"

"Aye, exactly like Thor." He leant slightly closer, his voice going down to a conspiratorial whisper. "However I am travelling under a secret name, so that people do not know I am Thor." Sitting back again, his sipped his drink.

Dean froze. Then his head tilted. "You're saying you're Thor? Like… god of thunder?"

He looked left and right, turning more to see with his one eye. "Sshh. If mortals know who I am they get a bit… They ask me to write on things and take photos on their electronic call devices. I'm trying to 'lay low', as they say."

"Right. But… here's the thing," Dean said slowly. "My brother and I… we killed you. A few years back. And a few other Norse gods. Like Loki, and—"

"I can assure you that you most certainly did not," he scoffed. "Look at me. I'm right here."

"Donald is right here, yeah," Dean nodded. "But—"

"Ok, fine," he huffed. He reached for the vacant shot glass, then held it out as if waiting for Dean to grasp it. But as Dean studied the glass, weighing up his options, his eyes flashed an intense white then blue colour. White-hot sparks jumped and crackled from his shoulder to his hand, until they leapt into the shot glass and fizzed and snapped in restrained power.

Dean just stared. Finally he swallowed, and the sparks petered out until the glass was again empty. "Right," he said quietly. "What's it like, where you're from?"

"Not like here," he said, putting the glass down and picking up the bottle again. He topped up their glasses. "It's more colourful, for a start."

"Yeah, Kansas is like that sometimes," he said, still watching him with wary eyes. "So… who's the president where you are?"

"Asgard doesn't have presidents," he said dismissively. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm getting the feeling you're not from… my reality. Maybe… this is like… your world adjacent."

He blinked. "Oh - like a parallel universe?" He mused for a second, then polished off all the whiskey in his glass. "Perhaps."

"You here alone?" Dean asked gingerly. "Or… you got friends with you?"

"Just me," he said. "After the battle of New York I had… friends. Mortals, like you. And then… so much has happened. I lost my mother, my father, my hammer… and now my brother."

Dean frowned. "What battle of New York?"

"You didn't have giant chitauri warships coming from the sky above your buildings in New York? The Avengers, here, stopping them and repelling their forces?"

"No," Dean said slowly. "I would have noticed."

"Then perhaps this really is a parallel universe," he said. He motioned to Dean's glass. "Drink up, friend. We have a bottle and sad stories to get through. I haven't yet told you of how my brother and my friends were killed, my people slaughtered, and the ship blown up around me, leaving me to drift in space - and how I got here."

Dean sniffed, thought about it, and downed his whiskey. "Hand me that bottle."

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ooOoo

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The rock was warm, uncomfortable, and definitely not his first choice. A soft chaise-longue not being available, he had long ago come to terms with his second, third and fourth choices also being a dream away. As it was, the time spent with the indignity of nothing but harsh granite to park his otherworldly and royal behind was inconsequential compared to the company.

He looked at the creature to his left, currently talking about something to do with family, from what he could guess. He has ceased listening to the being what felt like several years ago, and yet, where there was no time, it was hard to say just how long he had managed to tune out the garrulous creature's yapping.

He sighed. He ran his hands through his hair and leant his elbows on his knees. And then he dropped his face into his hands and, not for the first time, analysed where he had gone wrong.

"What do you think?" the creature asked.

He didn't move. "The illusion was perfect. I wasn't even there," he said. His voice sounded strange; dull, muffled, as if the air of Hel itself were trying to sshh him into submission.

"What are you talking about?"

"How he managed to grab the illusion but also me at the same time… I don't understand." He dropped his hands and looked at the being. "It must have been the stones. That's all I can think of."

"Stones?"

His eyes ran over it, cataloging the six beady eyes in dark tones, the smooth, reptilian style head but the incongruously soft and fluffy round body. Three arms, overly long and with a few joints each, were facing forward and wrapped around knobbly knees bent up to the creature's furry chest. It was staring at him as if he held the secrets of the universe. Which was not beyond the realms of possibility, he realised. "Magic stones. He had one or two or… I can't remember," he admitted. "One of them must have snapped me back to the illusion version. There's no other way he could have touched me."

"Bummer. I got an axe in the head," the creature shrugged. "You? Sharp blade? Poison?"

"Broken neck," he said, as if the words burnt his tongue. "Bastard. I'll find him."

"You aren't leaving here," the creature sniffed. "Some do, but they don't, if you know what I mean."

"This is just another place," he said. He sat up straight. "And anyway, I don't belong here."

The creature gave a snuffled, gurgled laugh. "That's what we all say."

"No, I literally don't belong here," he said. "I'm not from Asgard."

"Well neither am I, but when you die I guess it depends on how it was done." It paused, then nodded to someone walking past them. "See her? I reckon she's human, from Dirt - Midgard, to you. She's not supposed to be here. They have their own punishment afterlife place, so I heard."

"Hmm." He stood up slowly, dusting off the knees of his dark green leather trousers, then batting similar dusty flakes from his elbows. "Is it always this dirty here?"

"Never known it different," it shrugged. "Where you going, anyway? You know this place cheats - moves the edges. You'll just end up back here in a bit."

"I am aware," he bit out. "But I need to think. And plan."

"Ok. You have fun with that."

He looked down at the creature, then walked off.

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ooOoo

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"Dean. Dean - come on, man, wake up."

"Mmmff."

"Dean - Dean. Wake up."

Dean opened a single eye and found exactly who he expected towering above him. "Sam," he groaned. "What hit me?"

"I'm guessing whiskey, because you smell like you fell in it," he said. "And who's the guest in the library?"

"What?" Dean managed to get an arm under himself and found he was flat on his back on the crisis table of the bunker. He twisted his head around to make sure he was actually home. The chairs and the panels were all the same, tiny submarines and World War II battleships scattered around him on the lighted table top. "Oh."

"Come on, get up," Sam said. He stood back, folding his arms. "You went out last night on a beer run. I finished off those maps we were looking at, and when I was done I came in here to get coffee and found you passed out on the table. I left you there and went to bed."

"Your concern is touching."

"And there's a man in the library. He's… snoring."

Dean pushed himself off the table but had to grab at Sam's arm to keep himself upright. "Aw man," he moaned, putting both hands to his head. "I was at a bar, on my way to the liquor store. And… Yeah. There was this dude - we ended up sharing a bottle of whiskey. I think."

"Are you sure it was just one?" Sam asked critically.

Dean rubbed at his eyes. "I need coffee."

"Yeah. I started up a fresh pot. You wake your friend." He walked off.

Dean looked around blearily, then stumbled up the few stairs toward the bookshelves. In the chair in the corner was a tall, wide man in jeans and a hoodie, his arms crossed loosely as he snored for a gold medal. Dean ambled over and knocked his shoulder. "Hey, Donald - Thor - whatever your name is. Wake up, dude."

He stirred, then lifted a hand and scrubbed at his one eye. His hand dropped and he spied the human. "Ah! Dean!" he cried happily.

"Keep it down," Dean urged, one hand over his right ear. "Some of us have hangovers."

"Ah yes - the mortal part of you, no doubt," he said cheerfully. "Sit, Dean. We haven't finished our stories. Tell me more of these monsters and vicious creatures you fight - and the many weapons you have in this wonderful place."

Dean found himself a large wooden chair on the opposite side of the table to him, landing in it like he expected it to be made of feathers. He leant on the table for help, watching him. "What happened last night?"

"Ah, well you see you were telling me about Jack, your adopted son-type-person, and the trouble he seems to have got himself into in various parallel universes. And I was telling you about my universe, and about my brother being killed by a planet-shredding purple monster."

"Like Barney?"

"You said that last night - who is this Barney?"

"Never mind. So… where are we up to?"

"Uh… you were going to explain everything to your brother and then I could stay here for a week to lay low."

"Right," Dean nodded. He yawned, then scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Right. Let me think."

"Uh - hi, hello," said Sam, carrying three large mugs of something black and steaming into the room. He put one down in front of Dean, then one in front of the other man carefully, depositing his own on the end of the table closest to him.

Thor stood abruptly. "Sam!" he cried with glee, wrapping huge arms round him and hugging him. He lifted and Sam's feet left the floor for a whopping three seconds before Thor let him down again.

Sam just froze, instinct telling him it may be the best way to get through a one-sided hug from someone possibly possessing of otherworldly power. "Uh - hi," he managed.

He let him go and stood back. "So this is the brother you told me about. He seems very strong," he nodded, clapping a hand to Sam's arm amicably.

"Uh - thanks," Sam said. "Sorry - who are you?"

"Introductions, yes," he said. "I am Thor, and I met your brother in a bar last evening. We were commiserating. Family," he nodded wisely.

"Thor?" Sam blurted.

"Another one," Dean said, picking up the coffee and getting a whole mouthful in him. He swallowed and then let out a long, heartfelt sigh of satisfaction.

"Yes," Thor said. "From a parallel universe. You have not had aliens or the battle of New York, and I have not had leviathans or human apocalypses."

"Right," Sam said. He found a chair and fell into it. Staring at Thor still, he sipped his coffee.

Thor stretched his arms out, then swung them round as he wandered to the bookcases to his right. "Nice place you have here. Very… bookish." He noticed knives set into a display case and peered closer. "Very nice. Where are these from? Somewhere near… Svartalfheim, I'd guess from the curve and metals used."

"Norway," Dean said. "On Earth."

"Ah." He turned and put his hands in his jeans pockets. "So… I appreciate you letting me in here, and… everything." He paused. "I… If I could stay for a short time, just to…"

"Uh yeah - about that," Sam said. "I don't know what my brother's told you, but we don't normally let people just—"

"Sam," Dean said quietly - a little too quietly.

Sam turned and watched him.

His eyes closed and he rubbed the palm of his left hand into one with determination. Then he squinted at Sam through his four-alarm headache. "His brother just died. Give him a few days."

Sam looked over at Thor quickly. "Oh. Sorry."

"It's ok - you, know he's been dead before," Thor said with a smile, a little weak in its earnestness. Sam stared, he couldn't help it, as all pretence at humour, at pleasantness drained from Thor's face. "But… this time it feels like it might be true." He looked at his boots. "He's probably in Hel right now."

Dean swallowed a large mouthful of coffee. "So you gonna get him out or what?"

Thor and Sam looked at him. And stared.

Dean's gaze went from Thor to Sam and back again. "Well… you said he was your brother."

"Yes," said Thor faintly.

Dean shrugged. "When do we leave?"

.