Well hello there you supremely patient readers! I know a lot of people have been asking, pleading, begging for an update for this and voila! Wish granted! The amazing Aggie2011 wrote this one which I happily beta'd! Fair warning, it's pretty angstry (my heart felt like it was being crushed on multiple occasions let me tell you!), but for the next chapter, which is mine, we're both adamant about making it happier!

And for those readers of mine who know that I don't really swear in my fics, be warned of some language in this one :)

So enough of me yapping! Enjoy Chapter 9

I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.
Castiel, "Lazarus Rising"

May 2, 2008

Clint grunted as his back slammed into the mat. He didn't have time to even acknowledge that he barely had any air left in his lungs because he was too busy retaliating. He contorted, hooking a leg around Romanoff's chest and scissoring the other one behind her back. Even as he slammed her down, he rolled up.

Romanoff twisted her way free of his legs and he threw himself backwards, rolling over his shoulder and pushing his hands off the matt. He used the momentum to flow up to his feet and he got his hands up in defense just in time for her to be on him again.

They met each other blow for blow for several minutes, then the heel of her right hand made it past his defense, slamming hard into his shoulder. The same hand fisted and swung back, catching him in the chin and sending him stumbling a step away. Then she was practically flying, legs going around his chest and body twisting sharply to the ground.

He hit the mat hard again and groaned out a pained chuckle.

Her legs unwound from his body and she wearily collapsed down next to him.

"You always laugh," she accused with a disbelieving chuckle of her own.

"I laugh so I don't cry," Clint replied, still chuckling. "God, I don't think I can move."

Romanoff craned her neck to look at him, a flash of concern in her gaze. He gave her a grin to tell her he was being dramatic. She dropped her head back down and for a few minutes they just laid there and breathed.

He'd never had someone push him as hard, or as far, as she did. Even in the early days with Phil, it hadn't been a workout like this. He hurt. His whole body hurt, but in the kind of way that reassured you that you were getting stronger. It was a good hurt.

He groaned when his phone started ringing where it was piled with his shoes. It took an extra moment for him to realize what ring tone he was hearing and who that meant was calling.

'I wanna roll with, the gangsters… But so far they all think I'm too white 'n nerdy… Think I'm just too white and nerdy… Think I'm just too white and nerdy…"

Everything in Clint's body froze.

Sam.

That meant…

Dean.

Clint exploded into motion, scrambling across the mat to his phone. He slid his finger across it and brought it to his ear. He felt rather than saw Romanoff sit up, could sense her gaze on his back.

"Sam?"

"Clint…" Sam sounded wrecked. He didn't even have to say the words, Clint could hear the truth of it in his voice.

He closed his eyes, gut twisting.

"When?"

"Last night. We tried to stop it… We made a move on the demon holding the contract and we thought we had a shot but…"

Clint clenched his jaw. They hadn't called him. He could have been there; he could have helped. But they hadn't called him. Dean hadn't even told him the deadline was so close, had in fact refused to disclose that information any time Clint asked.

I don't want you focusing on it, Clint. Your gig is too dangerous to have that kind of distraction. Don't worry about me, worry about you.

"Where are you?" Clint asked.

"Illinois. Pontiac."

"I can be there by tonight if I leave now."

"Clint, you don't have to-"

"Yeah, I do, Sam," Clint insisted, voice unintentionally sharp.

Sam sighed heavily on the other end of the line.

"Okay," he sounded relieved. "Okay. We'll wait for you."

Clint heard the line go dead and slid the phone away from his ear. For a long moment he just stared down at it in his hand.

"What happened?" a quiet voice asked from over his shoulder.

"Uh…" he didn't even know how to say it, how to put it into words. "A friend of mine… He just, uh…" a knife twisted in his gut and he forced himself to just spit it out. "He died."

She appeared at his side, a hand hovering over his arm before falling away without making contact. She opened her mouth to say something, but he stepped back out of reach and shifted towards the door.

"I have to go," he stated blankly, barely noticing her mouth snap closed. He finally looked up and met her eyes. "I have to go," he said again. But for some reason he couldn't move.

She nodded, something like understanding shining in her gaze.

"Okay," she allowed. "I can go with you," she offered carefully.

For a moment Clint considered it. She made him feel stronger, just by being near him. Right now, he needed stronger. Right now, he felt weak. But even as he opened his mouth to agree, he found himself shaking his head instead.

"I need to go alone," he realized. If she came, she'd only be a distraction, an escape from the situation.

Dean deserved for him to leave the distractions behind.

She nodded again, not challenging him and not making the offer a second time.

Clint looked down at the phone in his hand again.

Dean was gone.

The day he'd been dreading for the last year was here. And he wasn't ready.

"Barton?"

His hand tightened on his phone and he drew in a deep breath.

"I have to go," he said one final time. Then he moved, forcing one foot in front of the other until he was headed for the door. He felt her gaze on him until he pushed out of the gym and left her behind.

Clint looked up when a knock came at his door. He didn't bother moving to answer it. If it was who he thought it was, Phil would just invite himself in anyway. If it was anybody else, Clint didn't want to talk to them.

Sure enough, a moment later, he heard the lock disengage on his door. Phil leaned in and eyed him in concern.

"You okay?"

Clint gave him an impatient glance. Judging by the look in Phil's eyes, he knew what happened. So really, that was stupid question. Stupid questions didn't get answers. So he went back to throwing stuff into his backpack.

Phil sighed and eased his way into the room.

"Romanoff told me you got a call… Is it Dean?"

He jerked his head once to confirm the guess. Phil sighed again and moved closer.

"I'm sorry, kid."

"I have to go," Clint stated as he yanked the zipper on his backpack closed.

"Clint…"

Clint finally turned to face him, slinging his bag onto his back.

"I have to go," he said again. For some reason, it seemed those were the only words his brain could come up with.

Phil's expression shifted, understanding and sympathy rising in his gaze.

"Okay," he allowed. "Let me come with you."

Clint shook his head sharply in denial and moved, shifting past Phil towards the door. Phil caught his arm as he passed.

"Clint, come on, kid. You don't have to do this alone."

Clint looked down at the hand on his arm until Phil slowly released him.

"Yeah, I do."

"Why?" Phil challenged, but there was a hint of desperation in his tone. He wanted to be there for him, Clint knew that. But he just...couldn't let him. For the same reasons he'd said no to Romanoff.

Clint forced himself to draw a slow breath.

"I have to go," he stated once more, firmer this time.

He heard Phil sigh in defeat.

"Okay, I'll walk you out."

Clint didn't bother fighting that losing battle and just started for the door instead.

The walk to the motor pool where his motorcycle was stored was quiet.

It wasn't until Clint was throwing his leg over his bike and jamming the key into the ignition that Phil spoke again.

"How long are you going to be gone?"

Clint shifted the bike under him, toeing up the kickstand.

"A couple of days," he replied quietly.

Phil nodded.

"I'll make sure you're clear. Where will you be?"

Clint brought the motorcycle to life and dug into his jacket pocket for his sunglasses.

"Illinois."

Phil frowned.

"You're driving to Illinois? Clint, that's like a 14-hour drive."

Clint knew that. If he pushed it, he could shave some time off. It would be a long drive, but he'd done longer.

"You can't drive that straight through, especially not in your frame of mind."

Clint tossed his handler a mild glare, the effect of which was lost behind his sunglasses.

"I have to go."

Then, without giving Phil time to protest further, he shifted into gear and twisted the throttle. He thought he heard a 'be careful' hidden in the roar of his motorcycle's engine, but it faded away before he could be sure.

12 hours later

Sam looked up from his silent vigil next to Dean when he heard the growl of an engine outside the cabin they were squatting in. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Bobby moving through the house towards the front door. He eased it open and looked out into the night.

"It's him," Bobby announced.

Sam drew in a steadying breath and looked back down at Dean one more time before forcing himself to stand. Dean had loved Clint like a brother. Sam had grown to consider the other man a friend. He'd researched tirelessly right along with Sam, searching for a way out of this.

Sam wasn't selfish enough to believe that he was the only one who had lost a brother because of this. It wasn't the same, he knew, but there had been something real between Dean and Clint. A different kind of brotherhood.

He moved through the cabin and past Bobby out onto the front porch. He watched a black Ducati slow to a stop next to the Impala. Clint killed the engine and toed down the kickstand, then eased himself off the bike and turned to face Sam.

For a long moment they just stared at each other.

There was weariness in Clint's posture. He would have had to drive all day, straight through, to be here by now. Without realizing what he was doing, or that he'd even decided to move, Sam strode down the steps and across the drive. He wrapped his arms around Clint in a hard hug.

This guy had meant something to Dean and Dean had obviously meant something to Clint.

He felt the assassin go rigid under his arms, but he didn't let up. Dean had always hated hugs, too, even when he needed them. But then, after a long moment, Sam felt hands on his back.

"What can I do, Sam?" Clint asked quietly and Sam huffed a broken laugh, finally releasing the other man and stepping back. Clint was so much like Dean it hurt. Dean always wanted to fix things as well, to make them better. That instinct is what had brought them to this.

"You being here is enough," Sam assured. "He would have wanted you here."

Clint nodded slightly, eyes straying to the door over Sam's shoulder.

"I'll take you to him," Sam offered.

He started back towards the house and Clint fell into step behind him.

Bobby was hovering by the door and gave Clint a nod of greeting as they passed. Sam stopped at the door to the room where Dean was and stepped aside so Clint could pass.

The assassin didn't even glance at Sam as he moved slowly into the room. Bobby appeared next to him and together they watched Clint move to stand next to the bed Dean was laid out on.

Then, as if his legs had lost strength, Clint went to one knee, eyes pinned on Dean's lax face.

"I'm sorry," they heard him whisper. "I should have been there."

Sam felt Bobby's gaze shift to settle on him. Bobby had told them to call Clint, had insisted that a guy with Clint's skills might have been useful. But Dean had been adamantly against it. Sam had been willing to give Dean anything he wanted at that point, so he'd agreed that Clint be left out of the loop.

Maybe it had been a mistake. But it was too late now. Now they could only move forward.

Suddenly Clint was standing, backing away from the bed and brushing past them towards the front door. Sam watched him and then looked back to Dean, torn.

Bobby's hand gripped his shoulder.

"I'll deal with him."

Sam nodded, grateful, and moved into the room to resume his vigil.

Bobby took a deep breath and headed towards the porch. He wasn't sure what to prepare for. He'd dealt with everything from Sam's screaming temper tantrums as a teen, to Dean's sullen quiet bouts of self-recrimination, and to John's angry, shouting self-righteousness.

He'd only met this kid Barton once, in the process of saving his life. But he liked him. He liked that, from what Dean had said, this kid was made of stronger stuff than steel. He'd faced Meg on his own and lived to tell the tale. And he'd been a friend to Dean when that particular commodity ran pretty thin for the older Winchester.

He found Barton standing next to his motorcycle, keys in hand.

Ah, so he was a runner.

But Barton wasn't on the bike and that was something. Bobby approached slowly, not wanting to spook him.

"I should have been there," Barton stated suddenly, not turning. His voice was hard, but there was something else in it, something broken that made Bobby think of Dean. Dean always hid his pain behind toughness, too.

"That's what I said," Bobby replied with a low huff.

Barton turned then, gaze questioning. He wanted to know why the hell he hadn't been called.

"Dean didn't want you involved," Bobby explained.

He watched something like hurt flash through Barton's gaze before the young man turned away again. Bobby felt his heart pull. How many times had he seen that same look in Dean's eyes? Put there by both John and Sam in equal turn. Bobby found himself just as powerless to stay silent now as he had then.

"He wanted to protect you," Bobby explained.

Barton scoffed and shook his head, gaze settling on the sleek lines of the Impala.

"He did," Bobby insisted.

"I didn't need him to protect me," Barton snapped lowly. "I should have been there."

Bobby sighed.

"I know," he allowed.

He watched Barton's head lower and slowly shake, like he couldn't quite come to grips with what was happening.

"When was the last time you slept?" Bobby asked, unable to stop himself.

Barton just ignored him and lifted his head again and fished his phone out of his pocket.

"When are we doing this?" he asked.

Bobby hesitated, thinking of Sam's insistence to forgo the usual traditions. Barton turned, sharp gaze pinning Bobby in place.

"Sam wants to bury him."

Barton's gaze narrowed.

"I thought hunters did the whole funeral pyre thing."

Bobby frowned.

"We do. But Sam's got it in his head that he's gonna bring him back and that Dean will need his body when he does. He wants to bury him somewhere he won't be disturbed."

Barton frowned, looking away again.

"You mean somewhere no one will notice if you guys go digging him up."

Bobby inclined his head in agreement. He didn't like this idea, not one bit. But Sam refused to be swayed.

"Can he?" the young man asked suddenly. "Bring him back?"

Bobby just shrugged and sighed.

"Who the hell knows."

Barton's frown deepened, but he remained silent after that.

Bobby wasn't certain how long they stood there, Barton staring at the Impala and Bobby staring at Barton, before a sound on the porch had them both turning.

Sam stood there, looking grim.

Bobby sighed deeply.

It was time.

"Are you sure you wanna do this, Sam?" Bobby asked as he and Clint followed Sam back inside.

Sam turned slowly from where he'd been headed back to Dean.

"Yeah, Bobby. What the hell else would we do?"

Clint could hear the edge in Sam's voice, and he shifted warily, gaze drifting back and forth between them as Bobby squared his shoulders.

"Give him the hunter's funeral he deserves," Bobby suggested firmly.

"No!" Sam snapped. "We're not burning him. We've been over this Bobby! We need to find the nearest crossroads and make a deal for him!"

"No, Sam," Bobby argued immediately. "That kind of thinking is what got us into this mess."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam shouted. "I know. But if it can bring him back…"

"Sam, listen to yourself! Dean knew exactly what he was doing when he made that deal. He knew what would happen. Now I went along with you when you wanted to bury him. But I'm not going to let your sell yoursoul, too."

"You let Dean," Sam accused lowly.

Clint shifted, subtly moving so he was positioned between them if this came to blows.

Open hurt and then anger flashed through Bobby's expression.

"I wasn't there for Dean. If I had been I would have stopped him!"

"I have to do something, Bobby! I have to bring him back!"

"You can't, Sam!" Bobby finally snapped. "Dean is dead. And it kills me, too. But if there's one thing I've learned here is that dead needs to stay dead! Your brother deserves to be put to rest!"

Sam silently fumed and then turned his fiery gaze to Clint. He was asking for help, for back up in this. He was asking Clint to pick up the mantel and fight with him to bring Dean back.

Clint stiffened.

He wanted Dean back, alive, more than anything right now. But… But he knew Dean and he knew exactly what Dean would want him to do.

"No, Sam," he said quietly. "Dean wouldn't want this."

He was unprepared for the punch to cheek. He honestly hadn't seen it coming. He stumbled a step to the side and felt his own hand clench defensively. He felt Bobby's hand on his arm, silently telling him to stand down, to not escalate things.

"Don't tell me what he would want, you didn't know him," Sam accused acidly. His angry gaze turned on Bobby. "Either of you."

Then he was storming past them for the door.

"Sam," Clint reached out and caught his arm. He was ready for this punch, but he let it land anyway, let it hit him so hard he knew it would leave a mark. Sam needed an outlet, Clint understood. Bobby, on the other hand, didn't stand passively by. He shoved his way between the two of them and put his back to Clint, shielding him from Sam's fury.

"Sam, think about this. Think about what your brother would want."

Sam just glared, then turned and stomped to where Dean was laid out. He gathered his brother in his arms and stormed out of the house.

Bobby pursued with Clint only a few steps behind. Sam had climbed into the bed of the truck with Dean and everything about his posture and the glower on his face warned against trying to join him or coax him into the cab.

So after Bobby jerked his chin at Clint and wordlessly told him to get moving, Clint climbed into the cab of the old truck and closed the door.

Clint slowly climbed out of the bed of Bobby's truck - he'd insisted Sam ride inside on the way back - after it stopped outside of the cabin and looked towards his bike, wondering if he should just take off.

"Don't even think about it, ya idjit," Bobby growled as he climbed out of the truck and slammed the door closed. "Inside, both of you." Bobby shifted his glare from Clint to Sam, who'd appeared from the other side of the truck.

Clint thought about protesting. Now that Dean was buried, he didn't feel like he belonged here.

"Boy, don't make me tell you again."

The gruff growl had Clint moving. He started towards the house, but stopped when he saw Sam moving the opposite direction.

"Sam?" Bobby called out.

But Sam didn't even respond. He'd been silent all through the funeral, too. He just jerked open the door to the Impala and climbed in.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted, moving towards the car even as it roared to life.

Sam didn't even look at the old mechanic as he slammed the car into reverse and backed it up.

A moment later all that was left of him was a cloud of dust and some divots in the gravel.

Clint stayed rooted on the spot, watching it all unfold. He was still standing there when Bobby came slowly back towards him.

"Come on," Bobby insisted gruffly.

Feeling numb, Clint followed him inside.

Bobby moved ahead to the kitchen area, but Clint drifted to a stop in the living room. Bobby reappeared with a damp towel, motioning towards Clint's face.

"You've got some…" Bobby motioned at Clint's face vaguely and Clint became suddenly aware of the stiffness of dried blood on his head.

Clint took the towel and pressed it to the cut Sam's fist had opened above his eyebrow.

"Sit down." Bobby nodded towards the ratty couch but didn't touch him, didn't try to nudge him. For that Clint was grateful.

He eased down onto the couch and pulled the towel away. It felt like he'd opened the cut again.

"It's bleeding again," Bobby grumbled. "You need stitches. Stay put."

Bobby disappeared from the room for a moment and came back with a battered First Aid kit in his hands. He lowered himself down onto the coffee table across from Clint and flipped the kit open. Clint reached out and stopped him.

"I can do it," he insisted.

The look Bobby gave him made him feel like a child.

"I'm sure you can, but I'm not about to sit by and let you stitch yourself up," he growled.

Clint hesitated, then drew his hand back. Dean had trusted this man, had called him family. If that alone hadn't been enough to earn the benefit of the doubt, the emotion he could see in Bobby's eyes did it. From what Clint knew of the old mechanic, Bobby had buried a son today. And had just watched another son storm off, hell bent on self-destruction.

He obviously needed something to focus on. That was fine. Clint did, too.

"Just better make sure those stitches are neat and straight, old man."

Bobby started, then huffed a laugh.

"I ain't a seamstress, but I've never had any complaints."

Clint quirked the corner of his mouth in a grin and let Bobby get to work. While he carefully cleaned the wound, Bobby cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry about Sam. That boy's always let his emotions do the talking and he's just…" Bobby sighed.

"His brother died," Clint finished. "I get it."

Bobby's gaze assessed him curiously then, and for some reason Clint found himself explaining.

"My parents, when I was a kid. My brother let his emotions do the talking too."

Bobby arched his eyebrow at the revelation that Clint had a brother but didn't question him further. Instead, he reached for the sterile stitch kit and readied it.

"Maybe I should have let you hit him back," Bobby grumbled as he pushed the needle through the skin above Clint's eyebrow.

"No," Clint sighed. "That would've just made it worse I think."

Bobby grumbled something under his breath and fell silent. A few moments later he slathered some antibiotic across the cut and taped down some gauze.

"There you go. You won't be winning no beauty contests anytime soon, but at least you ain't bleeding."

Clint nodded his thanks and moved to stand.

"No," Bobby denied sharply.

Clint raised his gaze, startled by the harsh command.

"If you're gonna be driving back to wherever you came from, you need sleep."

"Bobby, I…"

"No, dammit. Somebody is going to listen to sense today. Now lay your scrawny ass down and sleep."

Clint's brow furrowed at being called 'scrawny' but he didn't try to rise again. He was at an impasse now. He trusted Bobby, in so much that Dean had trusted him. But letting his guard down enough to sleep was out of the question.

Bobby sighed, and seemed to realize what he was asking.

"Dean'd have my hide if I let you take off on that motorcycle without getting some rest. I know you're packin' some heat," Clint thought of the gun and knife both hidden at the small of his back, "so if I make a wrong move, you have my permission to shoot me."

Clint couldn't help the grin that turned up the corners of his mouth. He made a show of pulling out his gun and kept it in his grip as he shifted to lie down. He draped the gun across his chest and cocked an eyebrow at Bobby, silently asking 'happy?'.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and strode out of the room, flipping off the light as he went.

To Clint's surprise, sleep came quickly.

A few hours later, Bobby peaked into the living room, cradling a beer in his hand.

Barton had shifted in the hours since Bobby had left him. He was curled on his side now, gun nestled under the throw pillow he'd settled his head on.

He eyed the bandage on the young man's head and fought down the urge to find Sam and return the favor. But if he did that, he'd have to drag John out of hell and throttle him, too, because they were cut from the same cloth. John had always taken his pain out on the people closest to him, usually Dean. He'd only been violent once, and Bobby had grabbed his shotgun then and run the man off. He never could tolerate a man who hit his own children. No, John's favorite weapon was his disappointment. He had been an expert at making Dean feel like a failure, at manipulating the boy to bend to his will.

Sam had learned that lesson well, and when he'd gotten older he'd started using the same tactics.

Bobby had sat back and watched as Dean took verbal and emotional hits from all sides, watched the boy stand stoically through the storm because he cared too much to ever walk away, to ever shield himself when someone he loved need a proverbial punching bag.

He'd seen that same quality in Barton today, as the young man had squared off with Sam and let him land a second hit. He'd seen the resolve to be whatever Sam needed, to take whatever hits Sam needed to throw.

And Bobby hadn't been able to stomach it a second time.

He'd failed Dean. He hadn't stepped between Dean and John or Dean and Sam. He hadn't pulled Dean away from the shouting arguments and told him it wasn't his job to play mediator.

He'd failed Dean before, but he refused to fail him again.

Whoever this boy was, whatever he'd been to Dean, he'd mattered. He'd seen the truth of that when Dean had adamantly, and passionately, refused to pull Barton into this final fight.

"He's not a part of this, Bobby! He's not in this world! It's too late for me to protect Sam, but I'm damn well going to protect Clint. I'm not calling him. That's the end of it."

Bobby found himself idly wondering what Dean would have done if he'd seen Sam throw that punch. Would he have stopped him, defended Barton against his brother? More likely, he would have stepped forward, taken the hit himself instead. That was Dean.

Bobby started when the figure on the couch stirred, waking abruptly.

He eased back behind the door frame and watched Barton climb off the couch, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Then he glanced around, found a pad of paper on the coffee table and searched briefly until he found a pen. One hastily scribbled note later, he was heading silently for the door.

Bobby moved into the living room even as he heard the motorcycle growl to life.

He picked up the note and looked it over.

Bobby, I suck at goodbyes. Thanks for the patch work.

-Clint

PS – You breathe louder than most people snore. I know you watched me leave. Thanks for not making it awkward.

Bobby huffed a laugh and crumbled the note up, tossing it in the trash as he headed to the kitchen for another beer.

October 14, 2008

Clint rolled his neck tiredly as he resumed manually piloting the jet. In the co-pilot seat next to him, his partner stretched.

"About 30 minutes out," he told her, eyeing the GPS.

She nodded and took a swig from her water bottle. When she held it out to him, he took it gratefully and took a long swallow. He handed it back and reached for his phone when it rang.

There was no specialized ring tone, so he eyed the display before answering.

He didn't recognize the number. Arching a curious eyebrow, he slid his finger across the screen and brought it to his ear.

"Barton."

For a moment there was no response. Clint pulled the phone back and checked to make sure the call was connected. Romanoff shot him a questioning look and he shrugged.

"Who is this?" he asked into the phone.

"It's me."

Clint felt the blood drain from his face.

"Dean?"

He saw Romanoff stiffen next to him. She knew about Dean now; she knew the story and that Dean was supposed to be dead.

"In the flesh."

"What… How?"

"Long story, man. What matters is I'm back."

Clint swallowed thickly, mind whirring.

"Where are you?" he finally asked.

"Ohio. Headed to Pennsylvania for a gig."

Clint frowned. A gig? He was already hunting again?

"Dean…"

"Just meet me, huh? I'll text you a place."

Clint found himself agreeing and the line went dead.

He lowered his phone and stared at it. A moment later a new text came in.

"What's going on?" Romanoff asked quietly.

"We need to make a detour," he answered, already adjusting the controls.

"Okay," she allowed without argument. "You gonna tell me where and why?"

He turned to meet her gaze.

"That was Dean."

She nodded, obviously having gathered that fact when he'd said Dean's name multiple times on the phone.

"He's alive," he went on with stating the obvious, but he couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Ohio."

She nodded again and fell silent. But after a moment she shifted in her seat.

"But how?"

Clint just shook his head.

"I don't know."

Clint led the way into the bar Dean had instructed him to meet at. His partner hovered at his shoulder, eyes sweeping the space for threats. He appreciated her caution, because he only had eyes for one patron.

Dean was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer.

"Dean," Clint found himself stating as he moved toward him.

His friend turned at his voice.

"Clint," Dean greeted, standing and unpredictably snatching Clint's shoulders and pulling him into a hard hug. "Damn good to see you," Dean muttered gruffly.

"You're tellin' me," Clint huffed, eyeing Dean critically when the older man pulled back. He didn't look any worse for wear.

"And who is this?" Dean smiled charmingly at something, rather someone, over Clint's shoulder.

"My partner," Clint shifted, giving her a clear line of sight to Dean, "Natasha Romanoff. This is Dean Winchester."

Dean's smile brightened even more.

"Ah, the famous partner. Clint's description of you did not do you justice."

Clint felt his hackles rise a little when Dean made no effort to hide the attraction in his gaze. Next to him, Romanoff just arched a dismissive eyebrow and looked at Clint.

"I'll give you two some time. Find me when you're ready."

He nodded and she disappeared into the crowd.

"Damn, boy, talk about holding out. She's–"

"Deadly," Clint interrupted as they both slid onto bar stools. "And way out of your league, remember? You wouldn't be able to handle her, trust me."

Dean's smirk didn't fade.

"I guess you would know," he teased. "You two, uh…" he waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

Clint glowered.

"No."

"Dude, why not?"

Clint cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

"We're not here to talk about me. Wanna tell me how you're not dead?"

Dean's expression morphed from teasing to understanding in a second flat.

"Oh I get it. You actually like her."

Clint glared. He didn't know how he felt about Natasha Romanoff, and he wasn't about to start analyzing it now.

"The not dead thing?" he asked again, more forcefully. "I was there when they buried you. Seemed kinda final."

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah. You ever been buried alive?"

It was obviously meant to be rhetorical, but Clint arched a brow and tilted his head a bit in admittance. Dean's eyes widened.

"Dude, when?"

Clint shrugged.

"A couple years back." Then Clint frowned. "Wait, did you come back in there? In the grave?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably on his stool and that was answer enough.

"Dean…" Clint shook his head, eyes wide with sympathy. "Sam and Bobby didn't get you out before bringing you back?"

The hunter sighed deeply.

"It wasn't Sam and Bobby's doing."

Clint frowned, confused.

"Then how the hell are you back?"

Dean just shook his head and waved him off.

"Long story, remember? Really don't wanna relive it right now."

Even though Clint wanted more than anything to push until Dean spilled the truth, he let it go instead. He didn't like talking about Uzbekistan and his too-close call there, so he got it.

"So you're on a job?" he asked instead, letting Dean off the hook.

Dean took a drink of his bear and nodded.

"Goin' after a vamp in Pennsylvania."

"Sam with you?"

Another nod. Clint glanced around, looking for the mop of brown hair but not finding it.

"So where is he?"

Dean took another drink but shook his head this time.

"He's back at the hotel. Didn't seem to want to see you; said you two didn't exactly keep in touch." The bitter anger that was laced through Dean's words had the back of Clint's neck tingling warily.

"Yeah, you could say that."

Dean shook his head and took a drink from his beer. Clint frowned.

"How are you mad at me?"

"How am I…? You were supposed to keep an eye on him. You and Bobby, you were supposed to look out for him after I left."

Clint frowned incredulously.

"After you left? You've got to be kidding me. You died, Dean," Clint hissed. "And he didn't take it well." Neither had Clint or Bobby for that matter.

"All the more reason that you should have been there, to look out for him."

Clint blinked, remembering whispered words to Dean's corpse five months ago.

"I'm sorry. I should have been there."

Something in him snapped.

"Fuck you, Dean."

Dean's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in anger.

"Last I checked, me being there was the last thing you wanted," Clint growled lowly.

"Seriously?" Dean shot back. "You're gonna whine about me not calling you for the final fight? Don't be a little bitch, Clint. You had no place there."

Whether Dean meant it the way Clint took it or not, the barb stung.

"You're a selfish bastard, Dean."

"Me?" Dean scoffed.

"You sit there and lecture me about not keeping tabs on Sam and then in the same breath tell me I don't belong in your world. Which is it?"

Dean glared at his friend, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Clint's words.

Sam was using his powers. Sam was killing demons with his mind. Nobody had stopped him, nobody had kept him from going down this road. And right now, Dean needed someone to blame. He wanted to blame Sam, but… Sam was Sam. Sam was his baby brother.

And Clint? He wasn't. It wasn't fair, but right now Dean didn't care about fair.

He had an angel riding his ass and the threat of a super powered brother.

Clint was here. Clint was an easy outlet.

"I thought I could trust you," he spat.

Hurt lanced through Clint's gaze before it disappeared behind steel strong defenses.

"I tried to stop him, Dean. You know what I got for my trouble? A fist to the face twice. So forgive me if I didn't chase after him to play punching bag."

"You should have tried harder," Dean accused.

"This isn't on me," Clint shot back. "He started yelling about making a deal. Where the hell do you think he learned that from? You wanna be pissed at someone? You're the one who set the fucking example!"

Dean struck out without thinking, catching Clint hard in the mouth. Even as his friend scrambled to keep himself from falling off his stool, a strong hand caught Dean on the shoulder. A breath later he was pressed back on the bar with a forearm on his windpipe.

A pale face framed in fiery red hair loomed over him.

"It's okay," Clint stated firmly. "Let him go."

Dean watched Natasha Romanoff slide a gaze over to Clint, but the pressure on his throat didn't relent.

"It's okay," Clint said again, softer this time.

With seemingly great reluctance, the woman backed away, letting Dean straighten.

Dean arched an eyebrow. If these two weren't a thing, it was only a matter of time. They were kidding themselves if they thought there was nothing there. The way Natasha was glaring at Dean now suggested that he was lucky Clint had spoken up when he did.

He rubbed at his throat and eyed her warily.

Clint's hand latched onto Dean's arm, dragging him towards the door. A flash of red told Dean Romanoff was following.

Once they were outside and away from the prying eyes of the bar's patrons, Clint rounded on him.

"I tried to stop him, Dean. He wouldn't listen to me."

Dean sighed. He realized now they were talking about two different things. Clint didn't know what Sam was doing and why would he? Dean hadn't told him. Clint thought Sam had gone and made a deal or something. Dean closed his eyes, berating himself for taking out his own fears and frustrations on the one person who didn't deserve it.

"I've been back for three weeks, Clint," he stated abruptly. He needed to clear the air. They needed to restart this conversation on even ground.

He watched Clint's eyes widen in shock, saw his fists clench at his sides. He waited for the punch, but it never came. Instead, Clint turned from him, pacing a few steps away to put some distance between them.

"You can hit me, you know," Dean tried. "I deserve it and you kind of owe me one."

Clint, back still to him, just shook his head sharply, spitting out a harsh and sarcastic laugh. Dean watched Romanoff shift, eyes on Dean, but body angled towards Clint. Her gaze was hard and unforgiving. Dean hadn't won any favor by sucker punching her partner.

"Say something, Clint. Hit me. Yell at me."

Clint's hand went up to rub tiredly at his eyes.

"I'm not going to hit you. I don't hit the people I care about."

Dean winced, flashing back to a 13-year-old little boy with scars on his back. Guilt gnawed at him.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely. "I shouldn't have punched you."

Clint turned then, seeming to unconsciously drift closer to Romanoff even as he faced Dean again.

"Three weeks? Three weeks, Dean? And what? You didn't think I merited a phone call?"

The guilt in his gut doubled.

"I'm sorry. It's been kind of a shit storm."

But Clint was having none of it.

"Jesus, Dean! 30 seconds. That's all it would have taken. Hell, you could have just shot me a goddamned text."

Dean sighed. God, he was an ass. He rubbed at his forehead, willing away the headache taking hold.

"Clint…"

"You know what, save it. I get it. Message received, Dean. It's my own fault for being so damned slow on the uptake."

Then Clint was jerking his chin at his partner and she was falling into step with him as he stalked away.

What the hell?

"Clint, wait."

"Why did you even call me, Dean?" Clint snapped, turning to face him. Romanoff stayed at his shoulder, posture coiled for a fight. "You don't want me here. You didn't want me there then and you don't want me here now. Three weeks? And you can't find a minute to pick up the damned phone? That says something. It says it loud and fucking clear."

Dean blanched. That hadn't been… That wasn't… God, how had he made such a mess of this?

"I'm sorry," he offered. "I'm so damn sorry, Clint. That wasn't what that was about. You're family, you know that."

"Do I?" Clint challenged shaking his head helplessly. "Because all the evidence seems to point to the opposite. And I get it, okay? It's fine. You have Sam. You have Bobby. You don't need me. So stop lying to yourself and stop lying to me."

Then Clint was walking away again. Dean knew he had to do something. He had to say something or this would end and he'd never see Clint again. How could he justify it? How could he explain that he'd barely had a second to breathe since he came back.

Maybe… Maybe he just needed to lay all his cards on the table.

"I went to hell," he blurted.

He watched both Clint and Romanoff freeze.

"The literal hell. Like suffering and eternal torment… All that shit."

Clint turned back then, eyes wary.

"And an actual honest to God angel dragged my ass out. I told Sam I don't remember it; I didn't want him to worry about me. But uh…" Dean felt emotion rising in his chest as flashes of the years he'd spent there played across his vision.

"You remember all of it," Clint finished for him.

He nodded, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. He watched Clint whisper something to his partner, to which she nodded and walked away. Then Clint was headed back towards him.

"Why are you telling me this?" his friend asked carefully.

"Because I can't lose you, man. I mean, I get it. I screwed up. That seems to be my lot in life. But don't walk away, not like this." It was time to come clean, once and for all. "I didn't call you, back when we were headed for the final fight, because I wanted to protect you. I needed to protect someone. I know that it wasn't fair and I know that it hurt you. But if Sam and I went down in that final fight, I had to know that you weren't going down with us. I had to know that you weren't going to die fighting a battle in war that wasn't even yours."

Clint met his gaze then, unwilling understanding in his eyes.

"Because I don't belong in your world, right?" he sighed.

Dean smiled sadly.

"No, you don't. I've spent my whole life trying to protect Sam, but I couldn't protect him from this life. I could protect you, so I did. And I would do it again."

Clint sighed and nodded.

"I get it," he admitted quietly.

But Dean wasn't done.

"And I didn't call you when I came back for the same reason. Yeah, I had a shit storm coming down around me and an angel up my ass, but I made a choice not to call you."

He saw Clint frown at another mention of an 'angel', but his friend let it pass without comment.

"Why?" he asked instead.

Dean quirked his lips.

"Because I knew the second I did, you'd be there. And you were." He motioned vaguely around them. "And I didn't want to pull you back into my life when I didn't even know what the hell was going on."

Clint sighed and looked away. After a long moment, he looked back.

"Why'd you call me tonight?"

And here it was, the part where Dean had to admit that he was as much of an ass as his father had tended to be. Maybe Sam wasn't the only one who had learned the lessons of emotional manipulation a little too well.

"Because I found out Sam's been up to some nasty shit and I just… I don't know what to do," he admitted. "And I knew you'd come."

Clint's eyebrow cocked in vague surprise and then nodded slowly.

"And what? You thought you'd just take all this shit out on me and I'd just let you?"

Dean shrugged helplessly.

"I wasn't thinking, man. It was a shitty thing to do and I'm sorry."

He watched Clint draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, when he met Dean's gaze again, there was unexpected forgiveness in his gaze.

"Hell, huh?" Clint asked.

Dean closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath. Clint was letting him off the hook. He didn't deserve it, but he would gratefully accept it.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"That sucks."

Dean huffed a laugh and nodded.

"You have no idea."

Clint nodded back and glanced over his shoulder, as if hearing a call pitched for his ears alone.

"Come back inside?" Dean tried. "I'll buy you a beer."

Clint looked back at him and shook his head, but the anger in his gaze had tempered.

"I'm coming off a job, Dean. I'm beat and my partner's waiting for me." Clint shrugged a little. "I just wanna go home."

Dean nodded, and accepted his disappointment. It had been overreaching to hope for anything else.

"I didn't deserve this, Dean," Clint said quietly.

Again Dean nodded.

"No," he agreed quietly. "You didn't."

"But I'm not going to hold it against you. After tonight, it doesn't have to be a thing between us. But you've gotta give me tonight, okay? You have to give me tonight to be pissed at you so I can be over it tomorrow."

Dean nodded. It was the best he could hope for, he supposed. Clint was promising forgiveness. He was promising absolution.

Clint nodded back.

"I'll see you around, Dean."

Then Clint was walking away. Dean closed his eyes, biting back the urge to call him back.

When he opened his eyes again, Clint was across the parking lot. Dean watched Natasha Romanoff appear from behind a distant car and fall into step with him, and together they disappeared around a building.

Dean was left standing alone in the parking lot, wondering when he'd stop hurting the people he cared about the most.

Woohoo! A semi happy ending! I promise to make the next one a bit lighter! Now, Aggie has her own FFN and has posted this on there herself under "Arrows and Impalas" so please be sire to comment on both to make sure we both hear you!

And for those who are fans of Aggie's (because honestly, who isn't?), you will know that she writes A LOT for the Avengers fandom and have probably seen some newer stuff revolving around BBC's 'The Musketeers' sadly ended TV series! She's participated a few times in a monthly fic challenge thingy, but she's gearing up to release an epic multi-chapter fic here soon! And by soon I mean whenever I can finish betaing it! She's been sooooo patient with me! She will be posting it on her page so keep an eye out for that!

Thanks and see I hope to see you again soon!

~:A:~