Sam and Dean practically hugged their spot beside the barrier as a veritable sea of skaters passed them in both directions. Everyone who had been on the track left it to make room for the next two black and white teams who were beginning to roll on the track together: warming up, stretching, and chatting. Sam noticed that the refs and NSOs all stayed in their respective places, though. The refs were gathered in the center of the track to talk amongst themselves, but none of them left.

"These names are cracking me up," Dean said, his eyes sweeping along the track with the skaters as they made their way around. "Hugh Jassmin, Licker Cabinet, Slamazon Warrior, Grateful Dread, Sweet Baby Cheeses! Holy shit!" Dean let out a hearty laugh that Sam hadn't heard in a long time, and he couldn't help but join in the amusement.

"Have you seen how some of them have numbers that go with their names too?" Sam pointed at the referees and read off the names of those whose backs were toward them, "Shave It, 4L8R -for later-; Rink Master 4000; Skuld... huh, she doesn't have a number."

"Yeah, I saw a couple refs who don't have numbers," Dean replied with a shrug. "I guess they don't need 'em."

"For that matter, none of the NSOs seem to have names or numbers," Sam said, shrugging also. He watched as the skaters were being instructed toward their benches. "Looks like they're getting started. C'mon, let's find someone else to interview."

When Dean didn't respond, Sam looked down at his brother. Dean's eyes were all for the tiny jammer starting for the black team. From this distance, Sam couldn't see her face very well. Her blonde braid was streaked with purple and red, and it hung in front of her shoulder, almost to her knees as she crouched at the sound of "Five seconds!" from the NSO with the stop watch. As soon as the first whistle blew, the white jammer slammed against the wall of black blockers. The black jammer edged toward the inside line, away from the action, and tapped one of her blockers who wasn't being engaged. That blocker surged ahead to knock a white blocker out of the way. Swiftly, the black jammer took the opening before it could be closed and ran on her wheels as she was chased by two other white blockers. One of them hung back to bridge the pack while the other swung in to slam into her, but she jumped back, avoiding the hit. The blocker went out of bounds, and the jammer kept going. Tweet-tweet! A ref held up one finger and a thumb above his head and pointed with his other hand at the tiny jammer, following as she rounded the first turn, her pursuit abandoned.

"That was hot," Dean said. The jammer whizzed past them on the straightaway. Sam saw the back of her tanktop as Dean read it aloud, "Trixie Little Hobbit. Another Lord of the Rings fan."

"Are we learning something on this job?" Sam asked with a nudge.

"Okay, yeah," Dean batted his brother away without looking at him. "Nerds can be pretty hot."

Sam turned back to the scrimmage in time for the white jammer to escape the pack and for Trixie to re-enter it from the back. Tweet! "White, three-two-one, multiplayer block!" Skuld shouted, clasped her hands together in front of her sternum, and then pointed broadly with her right hand. A white blocker, Final Countdown, dropped off the track and headed to the penalty box.

Trixie managed her way through the pack again, glanced back to see that the white jammer was about to enter the back of the pack, and tapped her own hips rapidly with her hands. The jam ref who had been following her blew his whistle. Tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet! Everyone else with a whistle echoed the four whistle blast.

"Alright, Dean, first jam's over," Sam said. "Now can we get back to the job?"

Time ticked by, punctuated sporatically with whistles blowing across the track. For their interviewees, they picked out skaters who weren't actively watching the scrimmages. They asked about what had been seen, what had been heard, what everybody knew from Saturday night. Every story was the same: sadness over the community losing twelve dynamite skaters, best wishes for the two teams and the families, and for those few in attendance who had actually been at Fransisco's, the general statement of "they just died where they stood." They also learned none of the deceased had enemies to speak of; all in all, this giant group of women were very supportive of each other.

"It's bizzare, dude," Dean said as he watched Poetic Injustice walk away to get ready for her turn on the track. She was older than the other skaters they had talked to -probably close to her early fifties, Sam guessed by the silver streaks she allowed to grow in her short, almost black spikes- but still had a strong, athletic body. She wore all of her pads and carried her skates and yellow helmet in her muscular arms. "I thought when you get a bunch of chicks together, they start getting catty."

Sam shrugged, uncertain how to respond. He looked down at the notepad he had pulled out of his back pocket. He scribbled a few more notes from what Injustice had told them, adding it to all the other notes collected from the interviews they had conducted. "Two of the refs out there -Skuld and Misha Ousside- were at the bar on Saturday," he said. "And as we've been talking to people, some more refs have shown up." He motioned to two men and a woman sitting together at the end of the track in the Suicide Seating area; they all wore black and white stripes. Dean looked where he was pointing. "So we can hope that when the next scrimmage starts, they're going to swap out, and we can talk to the to other two."

"And learn what, Sam?" Dean's question was heavy with exasperation. "That all twelve of the skaters 'just died'? That's all anyone has said. Do you really think two more people will tell us anything different?"

Sam sighed. He had no good arguement for Dean's question. "Alright," he ceded. "Then let's get out of here."

"Or..." Dean looked around with a gleam in his eyes. "Maybe we could stay for a while. The rules said every one of these girls are eighteen or better. Hell, even you could find a date here."

Sam rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Dean gave him a firm backhanded pat to the chest and spoke first. "C'mon, at the very least let's keep watching the scrimmages. I'm actually enjoying this."

Sam followed Dean to the Suicide Seating on the end of the rink. As they edged their way between rows of chairs, an already-seated skater turned to watch them.

"Ooohh, day-um! A snack and an appetizer!" Dark brown eyes appraised them both, and a dazzling white smile stood out against smooth skin almost as dark as her eyes. "How you boys doin'?"

"Uh, good. We're good," Dean answered with a nod as he took a seat behind her. She nodded back.

"Alright, alright," and swung her eyes to Sam. "Mmm, lookit that long hair, baby. I bet it's as soft as it looks. You like gettin' it pulled on?"

Sam was taken aback at her forward question and stammered for a moment as he hesitated in dropping into his seat. He was saved from answering by a loud SSSKKTT as another skater, fully geared, flew toward them and turned hard on the edges of her wheels into a hockey stop.

"MILF, you harrassin' folks again?" The question was light-hearted, asked with a laugh and a smile. Sam looked up at the newcomer. She reached up to remove her blue mouth guard to reveal braces with blue bands that matched the blue ponytail hanging from underneath her helmet which was so covered with stickers, Sam was uncertain what color it was. He had a fairly strong assumption it had started blue also. "Sorry, ya'll," she addressed the brothers. "Our dear Chocolate MILF just can't resist her some pretty white boys."

"And mosta'da time, they can't resist me neither!" MILF declared, still drinking in Sam's form.

"You signed up for the next one?" the standing skater asked MILF. "They only got about two minutes left." She thumbed over her shoulder at the skaters on the rink.

MILF glanced back at her, "Nah, I got here late. I'm in the last one." She turned to the brothers -to Sam- again. "Which means I get to enjoy this view for the next half hour."

"You're a mess," the blue mouthguard was clamped back into her mouth, and she skated away.

"Bite Marks," Dean read the name on her back as she left.

"Yeah, that girl... She a vampire nut, you know? Seen 'Twilight' one too many times if you ask me."

"And your name," Dean mused. "I take it you're a mom?"

"I am," MILF beamed proudly. "Got me two sweet babies. My mama's over, keepin' them right now, bless her. She knows how derby keeps me sane, so she makes sure I get to all the events I want."

"So everybody's names match their personalities or interests in some way?" Sam asked.

"For the mos' part, yeah." MILF turned a little further in her seat to face them, her tone changing from the overt flirting to something a little more serious. "See, derby attracts all sorts of folks. We all different. Some of us are moms, some are married, dating, single... we got nurses, EMTS, dentists; teachers, students, homemakers; some of 'em are waitresses, hairdressers, or in retail; there's folks in all sorts'a different religions and sexualities... An' then all you got to do is look around to see all the shapes an' sizes an' colors of skin. You want a meltin' pot? This is where you find it. In derby. An' our names reflect that."

Sam looked thoughtful as he took in what she said. Dean's voice cut in, "Well, I guess it's too bad it's a women's-only sport."

MILF laughed, "Baby, you wanna play merby? They got men's teams too, just not as many."

Sam smirked; he knew Dean couldn't even stand in roller skates and had only spoken to have something to say. He decided to save face for Dean. "I think we'll just stick to watching for now." He looked at his watch. "Unfortunately, we can't stick around long enough to see you skate. Is there going to be another scrimmage happening soon?"

MILF lit up, "Nah, not a scim. But our B team is playin' Plainview this Saturday."

"Plainview?" Dean asked. "I thought they lost half their skaters."

"Half their A team," MILF corrected. "An' we thought their B team was gonna cancel our bout, but they decided they gonna press on. Strong girls; I dunno if I could do it."

.oOo.

Sam was a few steps ahead in the parking lot as Dean trailed behind, eyeing Death Leppard over his shoulder as he stuffed her phone number into his pocket. He lengthened his stride to reach his brother and clapped a hand to the taller man's shoulder. "Here you go again, Sammy, hurrying us out the door. What's up?"

Sam shook his head, "I just can't think in there, Dean." Dean dropped his hand.

"Yeah, I don't blame you. It was all that ass distracting you, wasn't it? Did you notice? Like, ninety-nine percent of those girls had nice, round, perfectly shaped..." He put his hands up in front of himself like he was holding a basketball. "You could just take a bite out of-"

"It's distracting out here too," Sam interrupted. Dean snickered, but Sam just sighed. "I don't know, man. I just feel like... like I'm missing something that's right in front of me."

"What?" Dean asked. He looked up at his brother, wondering what he had almost figured out.

"I'm not sure." They reached the car, and Sam leaned on the top of the passenger side, looking across at Dean. He looked intent, focused. "But I intend to find out."

.oOo.

Thursday

Dean stood at the end of Sam's bed, looking down at the sprawled form of his brother. He dominated most of the mattress with his long limbs, and his face was half-buried in the pillow, the other half all but hidden under the mass of brown hair he refused to cut. Dean knew Sam hadn't slept much that night; he had spent the majority of the darkened hours either sitting at his laptop or pacing the room, deep in thought. Unfortunately, Dean now had to wake him, and he was loath to do so. He found himself still trying to protect his little brother at odd times and in odd ways. In this instance, he simply wanted to let Sammy sleep. Just a little while longer. Let him have the rest he needs. One corner of Dean's mouth tightened as he tried to push away the thought. Neither of them could afford for him to go soft.

"Rise and shine, Sammy." He slapped at the lump under the blanket that could only be one of Sam's large feet. Sam shifted and nuzzled further into the pillow. Dean slapped his foot again. Sam kicked at him. It was enough; Dean knew his brother was awake. "We got a call. More skaters kicked it last night."

That got Sam's attention better than slapping his foot had. He sat up in the bed, his hair making an unruly mane around his head. "Where? When? Was there a bout last night?"

"Negative," Dean answered. "It was at the skating rink, Round the World. It appears we left a little too early. Five skaters hit the ground shortly after the final whistle of the last scrimmage, and two other mysterious deaths were reported in town. It's already been connected that they were both derby skaters who attended -and participated in- the scrimmages."

Sam took a deep breath as he slid his legs sideways from under the blanket and dropped his feet to the floor. He ran his hands over and through his jumble of hair in an attempt to tame the locks. "Why seven this time?"

"I looked into that too." Dean moved away from the bed and sat himself at the small table. There, he lifted one of two Styrofoam cups of gas station coffee and took a sip. "I've already been in contact with Triple-T R's public relations rep. Wanna take a guess how many different leagues were represented at the scrim?"

"Seven."

"Eight, actually," Dean corrected.

"Eight? Then I don't..." Sam trailed off, slowly shaking his head. It was clear he wasn't fully awake yet.

"I have a theory." Dean sipped on his coffee again and set it back down on the table.

"Okay."

"Saturday: Amarillo versus Plainview. I got ahold of the rosters for both teams. Amarillo is a small league since most of the local talent flocks to Triple-T R. So Amarillo rostered only twelve skaters because that's all they had. Plainview, on the other hand, is a bigger league, big enough to have both an A and a B team. So they rostered a full fourteen. But because half of Amarillo was six skaters, it was only six that died from Plainview also."

"Uh huh..."

"Fast forward to last night. Skaters from eight leagues showed up, but one league only had one rep. You can't take half of one person without a huge mess, so she was safe. Next league had two skaters; you can take half of that. So that meant none of the other leagues lost more than one person."

"So you're suggesting fairness? Same-same for everyone?"

Dean shrugged at Sam's questions and picked up his coffee again. "You got something better?"

If Sam had had something better, he would have woken Dean before he flopped himself into bed for the night. Since he hadn't, Dean knew he didn't have anything better, and he wasn't surprised when Sam changed the subject. "Wait, when you did get all of this information? What time is it?" Sam grabbed at the small clock sitting on the table between the beds. His eyes popped, and he scrambled to his feet, his t-shirt and boxers wrinkled from sleep. "Dean! Why did you let me sleep so late?"

"Obviously you needed it." Dean took another leisurely sip of his coffee. "Besides, where would you be rushing off to? You think you're gonna find some more clues that we haven't picked up yet?"

Sam hesitated, and when he couldn't find an answer, Dean lifted the other cup of coffee from the table and handed it to him. Sam accepted it with a sigh and sat back down on the bed.

"Tell me what you came up with last night," Dean directed. "You did have some lightbulb moment, didn't you?"

"Well..." Sam lifted his cup and breathed in the hot steam. He was stalling.

"Tell me," Dean repeated. He knew Sam had something. Otherwise, he would have passed outleep on his laptop, instead of taking himself to bed.

"It's not quite right, though," Sam argued. "I had a thought, but it was totally backwards. When it came to mind, I figured I was just too tired to keep thinking, so I went to bed."

Dean leaned back in his chair and waited for Sam to continue. It took Sam a moment to realize Dean wasn't going to say anything. He took his own taste of coffee before continuing.

"Valkyrie," he said finally.

"You mean the hot chicks with wings? Wearing armor, carrying swords and spears?"

"Not exactly. There is some lore that describes them like that, but it's newer, not as accurate. The original Norse valkyries were much more sinister. Some were depicted as using entrails of warriors to weave tapestries."

Dean grimaced into his coffee. "Lovely."

"Thing is, though, valkyries were the choosers of the slain. They'd scour battlefields for the fallen and take half of the dead to their god Odin in the hall of Valhala."

"Well, that works with my theory of halves."

"Yeah, until you consider the fact the people who are being chosen aren't 'the slain.' They're still very much alive until," Sam snapped his fingers, indicating the sudden deaths of the skaters. "Nobody dies in roller derby, so nobody should be chosen to go to Valhala."

"Battle," Dean said.

"What?"

"You said valkyries scour the battlefield. We talked to tons of these girls. Tell me they don't see their time on the track as a sort of battle."

"Then why would the best skaters be taken? Wouldn't it make more sense for the worst skaters to be killed off?"

"I'm trying here, Sammy."

"I know." Sam irritably pushed his hair back with one hand and sipped at his coffee. "Like I said, it's all backwards. There are wars being fought at any given time on this planet; why would a valkyrie be here, killing off talent instead of picking up the fallen?"

"Because it wants the best?" Dean's suggestion caused Sam to furrow his brow in thought. "Generally speaking, and with exceptions, the ones who die aren't exactly the best. Maybe it's just tired of the leavings; maybe Odin demanded better tributes; maybe they're just building numbers and aren't as picky as they used to be. I don't know."

"Actually... That could very well be it." Sam's eyebrows lifted and his brow smoothed as the thought struck him. "We've been preparing for the Apocalypse but haven't really given much thought to the fact other religions and their deities are being affected as well. Maybe they're doing whatever it takes to build their armies. Today, most wars are fought with men as the soldiers, but the Norse were just as likely to have women in battle as men. Odin could have recognized the fact that roller derby is dominated by strong women and sent a valkyrie to gather warriors; strong, talented warriors." As he talked, Sam's tone got more energized. Dean attributed it more to the gathering certainty than the caffeine.

"So now what?" Dean asked.

"Now we have to figure out who the valkyrie is." Sam moved himself from the side of the bed to the second chair at the little table where he had left his laptop for the night. He set his coffee down and slid the laptop to himself.

"And how do we do that?" Dean inquired.

"Names."

"Names?"

Sam spoke as he typed. "Almost nobody in derby goes by their legal names. They all have skater names that show off their individuality. So all we have to do is compare all the names to..." he turned the laptop to Dean.

"'Prose Edda'?" Dean read at the top of the screen. He turned a confused face to Sam. "What's that?"

"Thirteenth century literature about Norse mythology. More specifically, in the first part, 'Glyfaginning,' there is a list of the valkyrie's names."

"How do you even know this crap?"

Sam turned the laptop back to himself, ignoring Dean's question. He scrolled down the page, eyes dancing over the words. Finally, he stopped and read out loud. "'I will recite the names of the valkyrie of Odin. Hrist, Mist, Herja, Hlökk, Geiravör, Göll, Hjörþrimul, Gunnr, Herfjötur, Skuld'..." He stopped and looked at Dean.

"No way. The ref?" Dean leaned over to see the screen for himself. Next to the text was a black and white image of a painting depicting beautiful winged women riding horses through the sky. Dean remembered with wings painted on the sides of Skuld's helmet.

"She didn't even bother hiding, not even by changing her name a little."

"Must've been confident no one would expect her to be a real valkyrie. But now that we know... how do we gank her?"

.oOo.

Sam was hunched over with his elbows on the table, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, when the hotel door opened behind him. "Evening sustinance," came Dean's voice as the door closed. He felt Dean pass around him to the other side of the table and heard the rustle of a plastic bag as it was set down along with the clinking of glass bottles. "I'm going to guess you can't find her."

"No, I can't." Sam slid his hands off his face and turned the motion into pushing his hair back on the sides of his head as he lifted to sit up straight. The bag of food interested him way more than the six pack of beer. "I did find out she's one of Plainview's refs. I got a legal name from them, but it's a fake. 'Jane Dover' doesn't exist."

"Jane Dover? One syllable away from 'Jane Doe.' How original." Dean slid a beer from the cardboard carrier and popped off the metal cap. "Did you get an address from the league?"

"Yeah; the address they have on file is listed as unoccupied through county records, and I even checked on satellite imaging to see for myself. It's a decrepit, abandoned house with an overgrown yard. We can go check it out, but I doubt anyone has been there for a long time."

"So basically, all we can do is wait two days until the bout." Sam lowered his eyebrows in a questioning look at Dean's comment which prompted Dean to continue. "Your new girlfriend, Chocolate MILF, said she's playing against Plainview this weekend. Damn, man, maybe the little stoner girl was right; you don't focus very well."

"Like I said, it was distracting in there."

"And like I said: All. That. Ass."