I do not own Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

Or Sam. But he is awesome.

Sam Wilson Has a Religious Experience

He had been quietly sitting in the back of the panel van.

Strategizing how to get the hell out of this mess.

Natasha Romanoff beside him, resolutely maintaining her trademark stoicism even through the GSW to the shoulder.

And Steve, the poor punk, had been sitting over opposite of him looking like somebody just dropkicked his American flag in the balls.

"He looked right at me . . . like he didn't even know me."

Definitely shellshocked.

He'd guessed he understood.

If Riley had popped up out of the woodwork and tried to kill him, Sam guessed he'd have some lingering psychological issues too.

Still . . .

"How is that even possible? It was, like, seventy years ago."

. . . their current situation hadn't warranted much of a share-and-cry time for Sam to mop up the guilt pouring out of Steve Rogers.

"Zola. Bucky's whole unit was captured in 1943 . . ."

'Cause they had been quickly running out of options.

Natasha, clearly attempting to keep her fading energy expenditure to a minimum, nevertheless spoke up.

"None of that's your fault, Steve."

The amount of blood seeping out of the bullet hole in her jacket hinted the copious amounts of blood pooling underneath the leather.

And Sam'd had enough.

He turned to the two guards armed to the teeth and geared up like SWAT.

"We need to get a doctor here. If we don't get pressure on that wound, she's going to bleed out in the truck."

Not that people like you care, but I'm just gonna put it out there anyway.

He had expected silence. A rude jab to the knee or face or giblets.

But definitely not what happened next.

The electrified baton'd lit up like a lightsaber in the hand of the guard to his immediate left and he'd flinched just a little . . .

Hey, watch where you're pointing that thing, Mark Furman.

. . . just as the guard flipped it around, jammed it against the torso of the second guard.

And tazed the living hell out of him.

What the . . .

Before kicking him in the plexiglass face shield.

Collapsing the unconscious guy between them.

. . . hell?

Then the remaining guard dehelmeted.

Revealing . . .

"Ah, that thing was squeezing my brain."

. . . a stunning woman.

Dark, wavy, luxuriant hair, slightly disheveled from the helmet.

Brillant blue eyes set in beautifully clear oval face.

Just enough pink in her lips to be completely natural.

And three simultaneous thoughts arrived in Sam Wilson's brain.

Who the hell is this?

I am never pissing her off.

Oh damn. That's my jam.

Special Agent Maria Hill glanced around, taking in the three hostages she had come to rescue.

Gaze coming to rest on her newest admirer.

"Who's this guy?"

Your future boo.

Yeah, it's silly but the way Sam just stares at her. He's processing something. ;)

Plus, it's fun.

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