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Lord, Save Us From Idiotic, Self-Sacrificing Hero-Types - SPN/Avengers (2012 Movie) - Chapter 3
Title: Lord, Save us From Idiotic, Self-Sacrificing Hero-Types
Fandoms: Supernatural/Avengers movie
Rating: R to be safe
Pairings: Clint(Hawkeye)/Coulson, Dean/Cas
Warnings: m/m slash (nothing too heavy right now), swearing
Disclaimer: Not a bit of this is mine. Avengers etc. belong to Marvel, SPN belongs to Kripke and others. Just written for fun. Word Count: 2926

When Clint finally surfaced in the waking world it was to find himself a lot less hungover than he'd expected. That he found himself in the medical wing of Shield's mainland HQ when he remembered passing out in his and Phil's bed was a little disorienting but not unexpected considering he'd been trying to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle for the past four days. The funeral was today he remembered with a sudden startling clarity and a feeling like someone (Loki) had just driven a blade under his sternum. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so badly, he thought, if he couldn't remember that dream... that booze induced fantasy where he'd woken to find Phil, whole and alive, waiting for him by the window in their apartment. His arms around Clint had felt so real.

Smothering a sob Clint turned onto his side, curling into a ball of misery until Natasha strode into the room and threw his civilian clothes at his head.

"Get up, get dressed," she commanded. "We've got a lot to do."

"Fuck you, Natasha," he snarled, though his voice was somewhat muffled by cotton and denim.

"That's classy, Barton," she replied, "But really not how you should talk to someone who's trying to save your sorry ass."

That gave him pause. "What do you mean?"

The red-head ripped the bundle of jeans and tee off of his head so he could see her sneer.

"Made any deals lately?"

Barton, the asshole, didn't even have the decency to look chagrined; instead his face lit up like she'd just told him Stark was designing new toys for all of them and he got first pick.

"Phil," he breathed and Natasha fought the urge to punch him in the head... hard. Though it taxed her self-control she restrained herself.

"Yes," she said, "Phil, who is waiting for us at your apartment right now."

She'd never seen Barton get dressed so fast; including that time in Monaco.

- - - AVS - - -

It was worse than traveling with a five-year-old, Natasha thought as she drove the two of them back to Phil’s apartment.  Clint could stay statue-still for hours at a time on a job, waiting for just the right moment to pull the trigger or release the bow string but now he just couldn’t stay still; either drumming his fingers on the arm rest, bouncing his leg, or just shifting restlessly in the seat beside her and it was putting Natasha on edge.  Yelling at him to knock it off wouldn’t help; he’d just be back at it a few minutes later.  Thankfully they met few red lights and she kicked his ass out of the car as soon as they reached the front of his building, Clint disappearing inside while Natasha took her time finding a place to park.

Ignoring the elevator that didn’t work half the time anyway, Clint took the stairs two at a time, his heart thundering in his chest in a combination of exertion and nerves.  Part of him refused to believe that Phil would be there, things like that just didn’t happen in the world he’d grown up in; people died and no matter how much you begged or prayed or bargained they stayed that way.  The supernatural was nothing but fodder for bed time stories or cautionary tales, not something that was actually, tangibly real and even though he remembered making the deal the memory was still hazy and dream-like in Clint’s mind.  He trusted Natasha; she would never lie to him… not about this, but the fear was still there.  It took forever and no time at all for Clint to find himself standing outside of their front door, the number 313 staring him in the face as he listened to muffled music through the wood.

The radio didn’t prove anything, his mind told him.  As drunk as he had been most of the last week he or one of the agents that had carted his ass to Shield could have left it on.  He took a steadying breath and gripped the knob; the brief thought that he didn’t have his key with him banished as the handle turned without resistance and he pushed the door open and stepped inside.  Phil looked up from his spot on the couch.

A sound Clint had never heard himself make escaped his throat and the next he knew he was in Phil’s lap, kissing the older man until they were both breathless. Clint had never been so aware of Phil before, his senses were full of him; his taste, his scent, the strength of his arms and the feel of his hands splayed out on Clint’s back, under his shirt.  Then those hands were moving up, sliding out from under Clint's shirt, over his arms and up to his face, holding him in place when Phil pulled away to look him in the eye. There was pain in his gaze and Clint knew what was coming before the other man spoke.

"God, Clint," Phil rasped, his voice rough. "Why? What were you thinking?"

Clint could feel the tension in the hands that cradled his face, a hint of the strength Phil hid so well beneath tailored Dolce suits and a mild demeanor, and he leaned into it, knowing Phil wouldn't push him away. One of his hands came up to cover Phil's but his expression was unapologetic when he said, "I'm not sorry."

Phil huffed out a weak laugh and pulled Clint in to press his forehead to the younger man's, closing his eyes against the ache in his heart.

"I know."

"You both still have your pants on, right?"

They broke apart and turned to watch Natasha stride into the room, one hand held in front of her eyes.

"We're decent, Agent Romanov," Phil said patting Clint's hip to urge him off of his lap.  In response the archer went boneless, draping himself over Phil's chest with a smirk that had Phil rolling his eyes. Ignoring her partner's antics Natasha settled into the faux-leather recliner off to one side of the coffee table, crossing one leg over the other as she got comfortable.

“What’s the plan?”

- - - SPN - - -

Dean carefully maneuvered the Impala through the maze of detours, ruined buildings and construction equipment that littered Manhattan; Sam sat in the passenger seat, reading, while Castiel stared solemnly out of his window.  Dean caught sight of the angel’s morose expression in the rearview mirror as he switched lanes and debated with himself for a few silent moments before asking, “What’s up, Cas?”

The angel blinked, brow furrowing in familiar confusion.  He didn’t think Dean was asking what was in the sky… it was possible he wanted to know about the damage done to the buildings but it was just as likely that the hunter was asking about something completely unrelated… human idioms still escaped him at times.  As the silence stretched with Castiel looking nowhere near an answer Dean clarified.

“Dude, you look like somebody kicked your puppy.  What’s wrong?”

Castiel thought about reminding Dean that he had no canine companion before dismissing it as another odd human expression and turned his attention to the destruction passing by his window.

“This should not have happened,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Dean replied.  “It’s not like anyone could’ve predicted ‘alien invasion’ or anything.”

Castiel shook his head.  “You don’t understand.  This isn’t the first time outside forces have attempted to overtake this world but every time previous Heaven had forced them back… but not this time.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” the angel replied quietly.  “Heaven is in chaos because of me, Dean.  I killed them… entire garrisons wiped out without a thought to the consequences because I thought that I was right.  When this happened there weren’t enough angels left to fight Hell’s forces and the Chitauri both.

“This blood is on my hands as well.”

- - - AVS - - -

The only excuse Phil could think of to explain his sudden faith in civilian news media was disorientation brought about by recently returning from the dead. He'd pulled together better plans while drugged to the gills and working with people who didn't speak a word of the twelve languages he knew. Being dead and, well... this was about Clint and if Phil could admit it to no one else he could admit to himself that his judgment was always a little impaired when it came to the archer. So that was how three of Shield's top agents came to be disguised in nothing more than sunglasses and civilian clothing, sitting at one of the outdoor tables of the newly reopened cafe across the street from Stark Tower, which, contrary to what he had read in the newspaper that first night back, was not a strong breeze away from crumbling to the pavement. In fact, other than some cosmetic damage to the roof and penthouse level, the building had sustained the least amount of damage of any building in a twelve-block radius. It made sense, of course, seeing as how the machine holding the portal open had been housed at the top of it. Destroying the building holding the key to their arrival would have been beyond counter productive for the invading Chitauri forces.

The point being that the location he'd chosen for its near-guaranteed privacy was anything but; crawling with construction workers and Avengers both, because Stark apparently liked being a team player so much he'd invited everyone to come live with him… even when he though he was dead the billionaire was a pain in Phil’s ass. The agent had tried to call Dean back and arrange a different meeting place but all of his calls had gone straight to voice mail leading Phil to assume that the phone had gotten smashed in the Winchester's current hunt; he knew from experience that that particular lifestyle was hell on possessions, and only hoped that the phone's owner hadn't gotten smashed right along with it. Phil fought the urge to sigh, wondering exactly which deity he'd managed to piss off so badly that this was his life.  It wasn’t a total loss though; Fury had made good on his promise to help in whatever capacity Phil needed and had ensured what privacy he could by calling for one last debrief before Thor took Loki back to Asgard, just to make sure nothing had been omitted or overlooked which ensured that Stark and the other Avengers were out of the tower and, since Tony didn’t trust other people with his projects unsupervised, construction had been postponed for the rest of the day as well. 

Clint's finger brushing over the back of his hand pulled Coulson back to the present. Though they were covered by his favorite pair of aviator's he could feel Clint's keen eyes on him. Forcing a smile to his face Phil took Clint's hand in a rare show of public affection and gave it a reassuring squeeze before picking up his coffee, gone cold while he'd been lost in thought. Natasha, somehow looking elegant even in old jeans and a t-shirt scanned the street between them and Stark Tower while the lovers had their moment. 

"I think these are our guys," she said conversationally, glancing toward the big black classic car that had parked several spaces away from the construction zone and Clint let out a low whistle of appreciation.

“Your guy didn’t say anything about a third wheel, did he?’ she asked as a man in a tan trench coat followed the two brothers out of the car.  Phil shook his head before finishing his coffee; doing his best to suppress his grimace… he’d forgotten the damn stuff had gone cold.  He was more off his game than he’d thought.

“Another brother, maybe,” Clint suggested.

“Or backup,” Phil said.  “Most hunters are loners but they will team up if the case is big enough.”

They watched two of the three men across the street flash badges at the security guard posted at the front entrance and stood as the Winchesters and their friend were let inside before following.

- - - SPN - - -

After bluffing their way inside the two hunters and their angelic shadow paused, glancing around the deserted lobby.  There were various toolboxes and pieces of equipment strewn about, a styrofoam cup sat abandoned on the reception desk while a radio played softly out of sight.  Sam checked his watch and glanced at Dean.

“You sure our guy said to meet him here?”

“Unless you know of another new Stark Industries building in New York,” Dean replied.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” a voice from seemingly everywhere spoke.  The brothers tensed, Dean’s hand creeping back to hover over the gun tucked into his waistband, Sam gripping his own revolver holstered inside of his jacket, Castiel just stared at the ceiling.

“Mr. Stark was unexpectedly called away,” the voice continued.  “But if you would state your names and what business you have, I’ll be sure to reschedule your meeting.”

Dean looked to his brother, frowning.

“What the hell?” he demanded but Sam was getting that look he always wore when he’d figured out a particularly headache-inducing case and had re-holstered his gun.

“You’re Jarvis, aren’t you?”

“That is the designation Sir assigned me, yes,” the voice responded.  At Dean’s expectant expression Sam explained.

“It’s an AI Stark developed, runs a lot of his buildings.”

“And you know this how?” Dean asked.  Sam shrugged.

“First year of college, my roommate was an engineering major.  He read everything about Stark he could get his hands on.”

“Of course he did,” Dean muttered.

Castiel was still staring at the ceiling, head cocked to one side.

“I’m not sensing another living being,” he said.

“No,” Sam replied.  “You wouldn’t.  It’s not actually a person; it’s more like a really advanced computer program.”

“Mister Stark will be returning momentarily,” Jarvis said.  “If you would state your business I could direct you to his office if you don’t mind a short wait.  After all, I’m certain you gentlemen have better things to do than converse with a computer program all day.”

If Sam didn’t know any better he’d say that the AI almost sounded offended.  Dean seemed to pick up on it too.

“I think you hurt his feelings, dude.”

Sam frowned at his brother but any reply was cut short as three people entered the building; an older man in jeans and a dark gray t-shirt was in the lead followed by a slightly younger guy in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses with a smoking hot redhead bringing up the rear.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?’ the older guy asked and Dean nodded.

“That’s us.  You Coulson?”

“Call me Phil,” he replied.

“It is good to see you again, Agent Coulson,” Jarvis said.  “I had been told that you perished in battle, sir.  It appears as though I’ve been misinformed.”

“Not entirely,” Coulson said.  “News of my recovery is classified at the moment.”

There was a slight pause.

“Then you agents are not here to apprehend these men?”

“And why would we do that?” Natasha asked, suppressing a smirk.  She’d known, almost from the start, that this little venture would be a clusterfuck of epic proportions; anything, in her experience, involving hunters usually was and now there was nothing to be done except sit back and enjoy the fallout.

“Because they are criminals,” Jarvis was explaining.  “Samuel and Dean Winchester have both been arrested on multiple counts of mail and credit card fraud, grave desecrations, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping and first degree murder as well as multiple counts of impersonation of law enforcement and government officials and have faked their own deaths on several occasions; the most recent being after a multi-state-wide murder spree two years ago.  Their companion, James Novak, is a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from religious delusions that disappeared from his family home nearly seven years ago.  Video surveillance has also placed him at the scenes of several murders over the course of those seven years.”

Dean didn’t know if he should be embarrassed or proud of the list of crap they’d been caught or accused of doing over the years when the younger guy by Coulson started laughing.

“Is something amusing, Agent Barton?” Jarvis asked, sounding a little pissy in Dean’s opinion.

Clint shook his head before glancing at his partner.

“Jesus, Tash,” he said.  “I thought you said their rap sheet was nothing to worry about?”

She shrugged.  “I didn’t think it was.  It’s nothing we haven’t been accused of.”

Coulson tuned them out with practiced ease and addressed Jarvis.

“I can assure you, Jarvis that these men aren’t murderers.  Everything they’ve been accused of was done in the defense and best interests of the civilian population.  There’s no need to alert the authorities or Shield.”

“Be that as it may, Agent Coulson,” Jarvis said.  “Mr. Stark was alerted the minute my facial recognition programs linked me to the FBI database.  I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Stark will be arriving within moments.”

Coulson fought not to bury his face in his hands as Stark, in full Iron Man armor, chose that moment to burst through one of the high windows that bathed the lobby in sunlight, showering them all in tiny chips of glass and landing in dramatic fashion in front of the reception desk.  Phil did, however, sigh.  Loudly.

-- for the time schedule Jarvis uses regarding how long Jimmy has been missing I counted all of seasons 4, 5, 6 and 7 and half-way through 8 as well as the missing year Dean was with Lisa between seasons 5 and 6 and the missing year Dean and Castiel spent in Purgatory between seasons 7 and 8 for a grand total of almost 7 years.

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Great chapter! Really enjoying this :)

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