I know I shouldn't be starting another story, but this one wouldn't leave me alone! So, enjoy Clint Barton being a Winchester (and part-time Hunter)

Disclaimer: I do not own either Supernatural or The Avengers (or any MCU affiliated characters). Please know this will be the only disclaimer that I put in this story.

1975

Clint Barton liked driving with his family on lazy Sunday nights such as these. Barney was nodding off nest to him in the backseat, and his parents were smiling at one another. Overall, it was an ideal night.

Later, Clint would only remember the screaming

The car was smashed beyond repair, and he was the only one of his family left alive. Four years old, and all alone in the world.

"Do you have anyone you can call?" a dark-skinned policeman asked the small blonde boy, who was wrapped in a blanket and sitting in the lobby of the police station.

Clint sat motionless for a moment.

"I don't know," he finally said, his voice small and quiet. The cop gave him a sympathetic look and a pat on the back.

"We'll see if we can find a relative or someone to take you, okay?"

Clint gave a small noise of acknowledgement, and the cop left him alone once more, only to return a few minutes later.

"We've found someone to take you in," he said. "Your dad had a cousin, John Winchester. We've called him and he said that he and his wife would be more than happy to take you in. They won't be here for another day or so, so you're going to have to stay with someone tonight, okay?"

Clint nodded.

"Do you have any neighbors?"

Another nod.

"But they don't really like me and my brother that much."

The cop frowned, and seemed to be thinking of a solution. Finally, he said, "Would you be okay to stay with me? I know I'm still a stranger, but I can't let you go out there where you don't know anybody."

Clint looked at him; blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Okay," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper.

The cop gave the kid a small smile and offered a hand.

"I'm heading home now, so let's get going."

Clint took his hand and followed him out of the station.

"What's your name?" he asked as they walked to his car.

The man smiled down at him.

"Officer Victor Henrikson, at your service."

Clint wasn't sure what to think of his dad's cousin, this John Winchester guy. He was tall, much taller than the small blond boy who stood in front of him, and his hair was dark and thick. His wife – Mary - looked nice, with pretty blonde curls and a much smaller stature, but he still was unsure of the two of them.

Mary knelt down in front of the small boy, a smile on her pretty face.

"Hi, Clinton," she said to him. "Or do you want me to call you Clint?"

Clint blinked at her.

"I like to be called Clint," he said.

Mary's smile grew.

"You know," she said softly, as if she were telling a secret, "You actually came to our wedding."

"I did?" he asked her, curious. He didn't remember going to any weddings, let alone theirs.

She nodded at him.

"You did. It was two years ago, so you were just a little guy. You and your brother wore matching suits, and I remember that you really liked the cake."

Clint tilted his head a little bit.

"How come my mom and dad didn't talk about you?" he questioned.

John, who seemed to have overheard, answered for his wife.

"Your daddy and I didn't really get along for the most part. I hadn't seen him since I got married. He was the only family member that actually came to see us at our wedding."

Mary looked a little sad at that part, and Clint wondered if her family didn't want to see her get married to John. Maybe they didn't like him, the boy rationalized.

"We would love it if you came to live with us," Mary said, all traces of sadness gone.

"Where do you live?" said Clint.

"Lawrence, it's a city in Kansas," John informed him. "You'd love it."

Clint thought about it for a moment, before nodding. It wasn't like he had anywhere else that he could go, anyway. What would he do, join the circus? Ha! No, he decided, he liked these people. Mary was warm and kind, and he could see that John loved her very much, which must count for something.

"I wanna come with you," he said shyly, and Mary grinned, pulling him into a hug.

1979

It was weird having a new brother.

Little Dean Winchester was only a few days old, but to Clint's eight-year-old mind, it felt like he was a part of a puzzle that had finally been put in place.

John had been really nervous about the baby, the blonde had observed, and had gone out of his way to make sure that Clint never felt like he was any less loved now that his adoptive parents had a son of their own. If anything, Clint was ecstatic. He'd missed Barney terribly in the four years since the accident, and he was looking forward to playing games and having fun with Dean.

Clint stood watching his little brother through the bars on his crib as Dean gurgled and cooed, his chubby pink hands grasping at air. Clint smiled down at him.

"He's awake?" came a voice from behind him, and Clint spun around, a slightly guilty expression on his otherwise angelic face.

"Sorry, Mom, I should have got you when he woke up," he said.

Mary shook her head, a tired smile on her face.

"No, sweetheart, it was rather nice to have a few minutes to myself." She walked over to the boys and scooped Dean out of his crib, carrying him over to an upholstered rocking chair and motioning for her adopted son to follow her over. He did so obediently.

"He's really little," Clint observed, gently stroking the baby's foot. "Like a little bean. Dean the Bean."

Mary gave Clint a loving look, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"You were almost three times this size the first time I saw you, you know. Babies do grow." She kissed Dean's chubby little cheek.

"Did you ever want a girl instead?" Clint asked her, his curiosity getting the better of him.

His mother considered this for a moment before shaking her head.

"No, not really. I would have been happy no matter what I got." A playful look crossed her features. "And don't tell your brother, but I actually named him after my mom."

Clint gave a little laugh.

"Your mom?" he said. "Are you sure you didn't want a girl?"

Mary laughed softly as she traced the baby's face with one slender finger.

"I'm sure. My mom and dad actually both died not long before I married John, and I wanted to name my children after them." She shrugged. "Dean just fit him. He should be glad I didn't name him Deanna."

Clint knew that Mary's parents had both passed away, before he even came into the picture. He supposed that this was the reason that he'd bonded with his new mother so fast, their shared experience in losing their parents. He'd never asked how they died, but he assumed that they probably had an accident like his own parents.

Dean gurgled at his mother and older brother, tiny hands grabbing at his mother's long blonde curls, and she laughed, running a hand over the baby's still-bald head. Clint smiled at the tiny boy.

He almost didn't notice when John came into the room, and jumped a little when his adoptive father placed a large, warm hand on his shoulder.

"How're my boys?" John asked, his voice a little gruff but still full of affection.

Clint beamed up at him.

"Clint is taking his job as big brother very seriously," Mary said, casting a look at the oldest boy. "And he's doing wonderful. Dean just loves his big brother."

"He's a good little Bean," Clint told his father with a smile.

John laughed.

1982

"Dean, Clint," Mary began as she and John sat opposite the two boys. "Your father and I have something very important that we want to tell you."

"Are we getting a puppy?" Dean asked excitedly, his eyes wide and shining.

Clint put an arm around his little brother.

"I think that you should wait and listen to what they have to say, little Bean," he told the boy. Dean wriggled in his grasp, as hyperactive as any young child.

John laughed.

"We're not getting a dog," he said, "but we are expecting something else in about six months." He placed a hand on Mary's stomach, and she placed her hands on top of his.

"We're having another baby," she said, a smile lighting up her face.

Dean scowled.

"Why?" he asked, a little grumpy at the realization that there would be another kid taking up all of his parent's attention.

"Because we wanted another baby," John patiently explained, "and we thought that you might like a new baby brother or sister."

"Well, take it back." Dean folded his arms across his chest and slumped down lower on the sofa.

Clint prodded his side.

"Bean, that means you get a little sibling to be the boss of," he said quietly in his brother's ear. "Just like I'm the boss of you."

The almost four-year-old didn't budge an inch.

"Dean, it doesn't mean we don't love you," Mary tried to reason with her son, who's frown just deepened.

"He'll come around," Clint said with a roll of his eyes.

1983

"He's so little!" Dean exclaimed as John held him up to the window of the nursery.

"You were around the same size, little Bean," Clint informed his little brother. "Tiny, tiny, Dean the Bean."

Dean giggled.

"What're we gonna call him?" the boy asked his father, who had shifted him to his shoulder.

"We named him Sam," John said.

"Little Sammy!" Dean laughed. "He's little Sammy."

His older brother chuckled. Dean was going to be a great big brother, despite the resentment that he had initially felt towards the baby.

They were able to take Sammy home when he was three days old, and Dean absolutely doted upon his younger brother. For a kid who hadn't wanted a younger sibling, he sure did dote on Sammy. Clint adored him, as well. It was hard not to, the baby was just too adorable, even a twelve-year-old could admit it.

Naturally, things fell apart only six short months later.

November 2nd, 1983

Clint woke up to the smell of smoke. The room that he shared with Dean was full of the acrid stench, and he coughed, roughly shaking his brother awake.

"We gotta get out," he said, and Dean nodded, covering his mouth with his hands.

The two boys exited their bedroom into the hallway, and Dean yelped, running towards the youngest Winchester's bedroom. Their dad was there, holding Sammy in his arms.

When John saw his two older sons, he thrust Sam into Dean's arms and shouted at the young boy to take him outside to safety. Clint grabbed his little brother by the shoulders and dragged him outside.

When his father finally exited the house, the boys learned that their mother was dead.

Clint felt numb with shock. Mary was dead? The woman that had been a mother to him for most of his short life was gone, just like his birth parents. He swallowed a lump in his throat, but was unsuccessful in holding back the tears that burned his eyes.

The three Winchester brothers and their father sat outside on the hood of the Impala as the firemen tried to sate the hungry flames.

"Dad, are you crazy?" Clint hissed, trying not to wake the baby. Dean was holding tight to his older brother's hand.

"Clint, I know what I saw," John said, his voice rising slightly, indicating his frustration. "She was on the ceiling with her stomach ripped open. I did not imagine that!"

Clint set his jaw. It wasn't like John to imagine such things, but grief did tend to drive some people mad. It was just his luck that his adoptive father was one of those people.

"Don't yell…" Dean mumbled tiredly with a yawn, and instantly John's face softened. He scooped up his young son.

"Let's put you to bed, buddy." He said softly, casting the oldest boy an apprehensive look.

After settling Dean down on one of the beds on the other side of the half-wall in the motel that the Winchesters were currently staying in, John turned back to Clint and spoke to him quietly.

"I know what I saw, Clinton. I didn't imagine it." His voice was firm.

Clint closed his eyes briefly. He really didn't want to argue with his father, not so soon after Mom's death. If John wanted to believe that something… not natural killed Mary, fine. It didn't change the fact that his mother was dead and that there were two little boys to take care of.

"I'm going to go see someone tomorrow," John said after observing his son's silence. "She claims to be a psychic. I want you to stay here with the boys."

Clint stared at him.

"You're leaving me alone with them?" his voice cracked a little.

John placed a warm hand on Clint's shoulder.

"Just for the day, son. I know you're responsible enough for this."

The boy sighed.

"Okay," he said. "Just, promise me that you won't do anything too stupid," he said as he gave John a quick hug before returning to the sleeping area of the motel room. He nudged Dean a little before climbing in under the covers next to his little brother

1987

The sound of early-morning cartoons drifted from the television set at the far end of the motel room. Sammy had begged his older brothers to let him stay up late, and the two fell victim to his puppy eyes.

"One of these days," Clint reprimanded him, "that's not going to work."

Sammy just gave him a brilliant grin and hugged his leg. Clint, being sixteen, usually disapproved of the physical contact, but once in a while he would humor his youngest brother. After all, he had nearly lost him only a few months earlier, when a shtriga had attacked him in his sleep.

It really was a miracle that Sam had yet to discover just what their father did for a living.

Clint pocketed a wad of cash that John had left for the boys.

"Hey, squirts," he called to his younger brothers. "Who wants to go get breakfast?"

Sammy cheered, and Dean's face broke out into a large grin. The two of them shrugged on their jackets and shoes and followed the oldest boy out of the motel.

Sam got tired of walking only a mere five minutes after they had left the motel, and Clint had pulled him onto his shoulders in a piggy-back ride. Dean walked to the left of his older brother, gripping his hand tight when they crossed the street or passed a suspicious looking area.

They arrived at a local mom-and-pop diner and were able to get a table for the three of them. A pretty red-haired waitress came up to them – she looked about college age – and Clint let his eyes linger on her for longer than what was probably acceptable. She didn't seem to really notice.

"Hi there," she said with a bright smile. "What can I get you boys to drink today?"

"Orange juice!" Sam said with a large smile that could melt even the hardest of hearts.

"I'd like chocolate milk," Dean said.

Clint shrugged.

"Coffee for me. Black." He had grown used to the bitter tasting drink after using it to keep himself awake to look after the boys when their dad was away on a hunt. By now, coffee was more of a habit than anything.

The waitress nodded and jotted down their drink orders.

"I'm Alice, by the way," she said. "Do you know what you want to eat, or do you want a few more minutes to decide?"

Clint nodded his head and rattled of the orders that he basically knew by heart. Sam always wanted pancakes, Dean wanted anything that was greasy and had bacon, and Clint was partial to waffles. Alice smiled and left to go put their orders in.

"Do you know when Dad's going to be home?" Sam asked his two older brothers, and Dean and Clint exchanged a somber look before Dean answered the youngest boy's question.

"He said he'd be back tonight, remember?" Sam nodded, though he didn't look much reassured. "And when he comes back, we're gonna go someplace new! It'll be exciting!"

Sam frowned under his mop of messy brown hair.

"I want to stay somewhere for a while, though," he complained. "I don't like moving, I never get to make any friends!"

Clint leaned towards him from across the table.

"You do get to make friends, Sam," he said. "You have friends in every part of the country! You're probably the most popular kid in the world, by now."

Sammy sat up a little straighter in his seat.

"Really?" he asked. "Do you mean that?"

Clint nodded seriously.

"Of course I do, buddy."

1991

"No."

The response to Clint's question was firm, leaving no room for an argument, but that didn't mean the twenty-year-old man was going to back down without a fight.

"I am an adult, Dad," he growled. "I can handle myself, and I'm the best shot out of anyone I know, including every single dang Hunter we've ever come across. I need to go out on my own."

John fixed him with a glare.

"I said no, Clinton. I'm not having you go out on your own just so that you can get yourself killed."

Clint resisted the urge to stomp his foot like a spoiled teenage girl, instead choosing to dig his fingernails into the leather seats of the Impala, which was parked outside yet another dingy little motel.

The argument had started when Clint had mentioned earlier that now that he was an adult, he should be able to venture off by himself, do his own hunts. John, naturally, had opposed this idea.

"Do you really expect me to do this forever?" Clint asked him, feeling tired. "And what about Dean and Sam, for that matter? Is this the life that you want for us, for them? Dad, Sam still doesn't even know about the supernatural."

John sighed and ran a hand across his face. For a moment, Clint could see how the past eight years had aged his father. His face was tired and lined, the dark circles more prominent with every passing day. His hair was starting to go gray in areas.

"I don't want you to get hurt." He said finally, his voice unusually soft. "I can't lose you."

Clint cast a look at the motel where his sleeping brothers were staying.

"I'll call you," he said finally. "I'll let you know that I'm alright." He glanced at his father, who still looked unconvinced. "Besides," he added, "Although you and Mom raised me… you aren't my real parents. Despite how much I loved Mary, this isn't my fight."

John bowed his head.

"I know," he said in a low voice. "And alright."

1996

It didn't take long for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division to become interested in one Clinton Winchester, currently going by his birth name of Barton for the sake of secrecy. At twenty-five years old, he was already doing things that most of the senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had never even dealt with.

He had just finished hunting a Wendigo when they found him, his clothing ripped and bloody, and an impressive bruise covering the entire right side of his face. He was even approached by the director of the secret organization, Nick Fury.

"How long have you known about these things," Fury asked Clint, gesturing a hand towards the wooded area where the Wendigo had met its fate.

Clint shrugged.

"Wendigos specifically?" he said. "Probably about ten or so years." Fury fixed him with an impressive one-eyed glare that reminded him strongly of John Winchester. "The supernatural as a whole? I've known since I was twelve."

"And you've been doing this alone?"

Clint considered what he should tell the director. Sure, S.H.I.E.L.D. was recruiting him, but he and his family tended to use less-than-legal methods to support them while they were on the road. So, instead, he told Fury a tale that was as false as Bigfoot.

"My parents and older brother were killed when I was a kid." Truth. "I didn't want to spend my life in foster care, so I ran away and joined the circus. I learned how to use a bunch of different weapons, mainly arrows, and then one of my friends was killed by a demon. I've been hunting ever since."

Fury observed him with his good eye, but Clint's expression didn't waver under the gaze. When you grow up with both John Winchester and Bobby Singer giving you the stink eye all the time, you don't tend to be scared easily. Besides, he'd fought of much scarier creatures than an angry pirate-man.

"Are there others that do what you do?"

"Yes," Clint said easily. No point in denying that. "But I'm one of the best." Of course he was. He was a Winchester.

Fury nodded.

"Pack your things then, Agent Barton. You start next week."

Word Count: 3,594 without A/N