You Will Be Assimilated (Resistance is Futile)

A Thor, Supernatural Fanfiction

Disclaimer: Thor is part of the Marvel Universe and all characters thereof belong to Marvel. Supernatural was birthed by Eric Kripke and all characters of such go to him and the CW.

Summary: Based of a Norsekink prompt, in which Loki is forcefully adopted by the Norse pantheon of the Supernatural verse, specifically SPN!Odin, who is surprisingly personable when he isn't eating humans. Surprise appearance by SPN!Loki, who is in fact the Archangel Gabriel.

Loki was busy falling through the Void when he heard the dull roar of stampeding hoof beats, which was impossible, because it was the Void. Void, id est, an empty space, a vacuum, the nothingness absent of air, water, ground, heat, or light. Except not so much, Loki thought as his failing magic struggled to both keep him alive, aware, and sane. Two bright lights like white eyes swerved toward him, the thundering sound that he could now tell wasn't in fact hooves -the tempo was all wrong for one thing- dying as a door swung open and the scent of leather oils and pine tickled at his nose.

"Ach. You're a long way from home, boy." A voice rumbled, harsh and loud after what seemed like an eternity of soundlessness.

Loki's eyes watered, and he froze as strong arms wrapped around him. "W-who-?" His voice was croak, parched and thirsty for anything.

The unknown clicked his tongue and the world -the Void- rocked. Loki tried to stay awake, to get answers, but his eyes drifted shut against his will as he was placed in the belly of the beast and warm leather cradled him. He wasn't falling anymore.

Loki wakes briefly to a cool cloth on his forehead and the sound of arguing - except the words are spoken with more gentleness and admonishment than vehemence, and they are in a language he hadn't heard in several hundred years. Sharp syllables combined with the slim fingers working their way absently through his hair reminds him of childhood, of sneaking away from the hunting parties and exploring among the Folk. Of nights spent listening to looms clack and stories told.

"It's just, another one?" The female voice, old and soft as a well loved glove, sighs. "I'm too old for this, husband."

"Nonsense." The male voice that Loki vaguely recalls from an... earlier time... shrugs. "You like being the All Mother!"

Alarms chime through Loki's foggy head, but the woman's next words twist his gut and freeze his lungs. "He isn't even a god!"

"Neither is Thor, not really, and when has that stopped us?"

Loki doesn't know what to think about that piece of information, so his body takes over as the woman hums and lulls him back to sleep.

Loki wakes again, fully, in a bed made of goose down and cooling plate of eggs on toast. There's a jug of some kind of juice by the plate, and a quick detection spell doesn't find any signs of tampering. It's food. Loki's stomach makes the decision to eat before he can continue with his paranoia, and as the Mischief Maker sits up on the bed stuffing dripping toast into his mouth he examines the room. It is an old house, but well cared for, and made of ancient wood that faintly hums with power. It is a place that is at the same time everywhere and nowhere, built within a pocket of the universe that has been folded and hidden so well the inhabitants could likely last out the burning of Yggdrasil.

Eventually, the plates are empty, and he's still hungry, so Loki climbs out of the bed and wonders who undressed him. His armor and robes are gone -likely a lost cause anyway- and in their place are light linen bed clothes in the current Midgard style.

It doesn't take much to reach for his own magic and retrieve the clothing he usually wears when making excursions to earth, though he forgoes the over coat, and picks up his dirty dishes as he searches for his hosts. He isn't sure what/who they are, or if they know what he's done, but he would like to know, to thank them, before making future plans. Conquest seems like the best option -he can't return to Asgard- but he'd be a poor guest if he repaid his benefactors by stomping all over their home realm.

Doesn't mean that would stop him, if it came down to it, he is after all a monster.

But even monsters can be polite.

"I thought you'd wake soon." An elderly woman smiles as he walks down stairs into a large kitchen. There's a roaring cook fire in the corner, and she takes the plates and cups from his hands. Her hair is twined in a braid around her head, her dress rough-spun and sturdy and a deep contrast to the finely wrought gold and gems that hang around her neck. "You've slept nearly two weeks!"

"Two weeks?" And countless ones before that falling...

"Yes. My husband has been in a such a state, working, killing, eating, fighting." She shrugs. "You'd think he actually squeezed you out himself, instead of plucking you from the Between. But then, he's always been rather excitable. Comes with being a berserk, I suppose."

"Forgive me," Loki interrupted. "But you are?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. You must be terribly confused, dear. I am Frigg, Wife of Wotan, and All Mother to the Children of the Northern Pantheon."

Barely banked anger blazed to life, and Loki felt his nails cut into his palms as he stared at the woman, searching. "That is not possible." He bit out, cold and emotionless. "For I am Loki, and Frigga is-"

"Someone else," Her eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge, and she reached out to rest her hand on his, slowly prying his fingers open. "You are from the Utgardar, the Outlands, then? These things can be confusing, I know. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Who cares! Certainly not the egg or the chicken, and the egg will soon be a chicken, so he knows where he is going! Do you, my Loki?"

"You speak in riddles."

She laughed, but it wasn't mocking. "I think you'll find, child, that riddles are sometimes all we have. Come. Wotan -but I think the mortal's lexicon has changed it, again, you may feel more comfortable with Odin- is in the garage working with Sleipnir."

This Odin's Sleipnir was not an eight-legged horse. A horse emblem is marked on the front, a horse running with mane flashing, and as the aged but by no means old man wheeled himself from beneath the machine he explained that it was a Mustang Fastback with a V8 engine. Once upon a time it had been a horse -a horse much like Loki's foster father's- his blood brother had gifted him with, but gods change with their people and grow with the times, or perish. Though gods do not die, they can be forgotten, weakened, and ground like mill under the wheel of time. Loki wasn't sure how much he believed, though the story did explain why the Norsemen had thought he'd given birth to several monsters before he'd even gone through puberty.

Through all this Loki said nothing, watching the magic spark from Wotan's hands to the gears and pipes and metal of what was, somehow, still a living creature. It reminded Loki of the Destroyer Armor.

Loki listened, thinking, as Wotan rambled on, and handed the man -god- wrenches or pliers when requested. Wotan was nothing like Odin. Where the King of Asgard was aloof and wrathful dignity given flesh, the All Father was just that. A father. He was what Loki imagined Volstagg might be like if the warrior were a bit more blood thirsty and raised on Midgard. Loki watched as Wotan slammed the hood down and gave his steed an affectionate pat. Sleipnir gave a purr of contentment, engine sputtering, and Odin laughed as he wiped black oil from his hands.

The side door burst open, bringing with it a welcome cool breeze to the stifling garage, and the not so welcome shape of a man with a wide smile. "Bro!" The new man shouted, arms wide, power rolling off of him in invisible waves like wings.

Wotan rolled his eyes, but there was obvious affection in the gesture. "Loki." When he said the name the second son felt his own eyes pop open, because it was said in an entirely different manner than from when he addressed the frost giant. Wrapped around Loki were the words Brother, Lover, Trickster, Kin-of-my-Heart, Pain-in-my-Ass, Guardian-of-my-Back. There would be no mistaking the two Loki's.

"Who's this?" The other Loki asked, perking up with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Loki." Wotan said as though presenting a great prize, and bundled within the name were, Son, Sorcerer, Survivor, Mine.

"You named him after me? Brother, I'm touched!"

"Wait a moment," Loki protested, "I never agreed-"

The other Loki chuckled, slapping a hand on Loki's shoulder, hair glinting red in the harsh light, and whispered in the fallen prince's ear as Wotan yelled into the house calling for refreshments. "Give it up, kid. Once the Old Man's decided you're family, you'd have better luck escaping the event horizon of a black hole. Trust me on this."

"Father, what manner of weapon is this?" Loki asked curiously as he poked at the bulky tube-like monstrosity resting in the place of honor over the mantle. There was magic wrapped around it, but though it seemed somewhat familiar Loki couldn't place where the thing had come from. Wotan looked up from his game of hero-chess -the pieces were carved to resemble Midgardian mortals and animated to fight so it never certain which piece would take the square- to smile smugly.

"That is Gungnir, Loki." Brilliant-child-of-Mine.

"It... doesn't look a spear."

"And Sleipnir doesn't look like a mutated horse. The spear is no longer the height of advanced weaponry," Wotan shrugged, and sent his model of Emma Frost after Loki's Uncle, Friend, Teacher, Companion Johnny Blaze. "We change with the times, remember? Gungnir has taken the form of a rocket launcher. There was a period during the middle ages where it insisted on being an English Longbow."

"Oh." Loki fiddled with the locket hanging from his neck. He couldn't pinpoint when the Casket had changed, but it had, and it was now his, in the same way that Thor's hammer was Thor's.

"Now, tell us more about this cube you've discovered."