comment_fic: one angel in another's hell - SN/Avengers, PG, gennish
Title: one angel in another’s hell
Fandom: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Shakespeare
Warnings: spoilers for Avengers; future!fic for Supernatural; possibly AUish for Clint’s backstory; character death; mentions of violence and child abuse; mentions of substance abuse
Pairings: unrequited Clint/Coulson
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1005
Point of view: third
Prompt: Supernatural / Avengers Movie, Crowley & Hawkeye, “We both know that you will go to hell, when you are done up here.”
Clint's never made a deal. The fortuneteller back at Carson's, Helena, she warned him off it right before everything went sideways and ended with a month in the hospital he couldn't pay for and another home gone.
Helena had smiled at him, taken his hands in hers, and said, in that creepyass voice he'd thought was fake, Stay away from the crossroads, little hawk. You'll never find what you seek, if you take the deal.
He learned about crossroads later, after an op gone so wrong only he lived. And then he didn't, falling eyes wide open into the criminal underworld when he'd have been blamed for the whole FUBAR'd thing.
For a second, looking at the grinning old man, listening to the rattle of his bones and gasp of his breath, Clint thought about undoing the whole thing. Just a little deal and erase the whole mess. Get his men back. Fuck, go back even farther and get his brother back, or his parents. Get his dad out of the bottle, and Mama away from her pills. Have a real family.
But he remembered Helena, and instead of saying a thing, he watched the old man die.
And as the years passed, as he hit the big-time and got snapped up by SHIELD, as he brought in the Black Widow instead of putting an arrow through her eye, as he became a cloudy-eyed minion and mourned what he never had with Phil, as he dreamed of his ex-god - he never made a deal. Thought about it more than once, but never went to a crossroads and buried a box and waited for a demon, never sealed anything with a kiss or heard hounds howl.
He never forgot Helena’s words.
But there’s a demon standing in front of him, with a slick Brit accent and a smirk, and he says, “Come now, sweetheart - you know how it ends. Why put off the inevitable?”
Tasha talks about red in her ledger, and debts, and how cruel old men tried to make her into the perfect weapon. She’s sure that if she does enough good it’ll all balance out, somehow.
Clint knows better. Maybe the difference is, he doesn’t really care about wiping the slate clean. He lost that drive in a bottle when he was a kid, in the pills always underfoot, in a beating when another father turned on him. He doesn’t owe anyone a debt. He’s owed.
He could’ve been a better man, like Phil. He could try and balance the scales, like Tasha and Stark and even Banner.
The best thing he can say? He’s never made a deal. Never sold himself to Hell to fuck up the natural order. Things happen for a reason - Helena said that, too.
But now there’s a demon, and the demon drawls, “You know, boyo. You’ve always known in your heart of hearts, haven’t you?”
He’s the only Avenger left standing, and he’s standing at a crossroads.
Taught by a criminal, honed by Special Forces, wielded by SHIELD and a mad alien-god, trusted by the Earth’s greatest…
They’re all dead, Tasha and (Phil’s) Captain America and Banner and Stark and Thor. Loki collapsed beside him, after appearing out of thin air and slaughtering the remaining fuckers, and didn’t move until he was dragged away, silent but shaking.
They’re all dead except for Clint, standing in front of a demon, moon high in the sky at midnight.
Helena would smack him across the face. She always got pissy when people didn’t heed her advice.
“Well?” The demon claps his hands together and smirks wide. “Let’s make a deal.” He walks a circle around Clint, not even twitching the dust at their feet. “What do you want, and how long am I willing to give you for it?”
Clint looks at him. He’s spent three years assessing his team, ten assessing SHIELD, and a lifetime assessing all the still-breathing corpses shuffling around and pretending to live. And in the fifteen hours since his team fell and Loki got buried so deep nobody could find him, Clint’s been figuring out what went wrong.
He’s not a good man. Maybe he had a chance, once, but he lost it, bleeding on the floor.
So he smiles at the demon, his brilliant, showman smile, the one little old ladies love and enemies underestimate, and he says, “Change one point in history and take me now.”
“Hmm,” the demon says, spinning on his heel to face Clint. “And which point might that be?”
Doors open both ways. Loki crawled into his heart and remade him, and Clint dreamed about a thousand-year childhood for six months. He didn’t see everything, but he saw enough.
Clint’s assessed it all. So he’s sure when he tells the demon, “Have Loki be banished with Thor.”
The demon chuckles. “Clever boy,” he purrs, and pulls Clint in, and drags him all the way down.
Clint’s not a good man. He was always going to Hell, and he’s always known it. And he doesn’t believe in evening the scale and settling balances, or repaying debts. He’s been a weapon his whole life, and all that ever changes is who wields him.
He knows he won’t remember himself long, whatever the demon has planned, but he figures there’ll be some way to survive. There always is.
Just before the demon pulls away, he mutters into Clint’s mouth, “We’ll have fun with you, archer. You might even be a defter touch than the Righteous Man.”
And then the world goes quiet, goes white-hot bright, and Clint’s chest burns, and there’s howling, so much howling -
And Clint inhales sharply, gaze flicking unerringly to the demon, who says, “My parlor, love. Be a dear and step in.”
Clint laughs. “I’ve met the spider, bucko,” he drawls, drawing even with the demon. “She’s got a finesse you don’t.”
“Ah, give it time,” the demon chuckles. “Now, c’mon. There’s a rack I need to strap you to. See how long you last.”
Clint follows him.
Fandom: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Shakespeare
Warnings: spoilers for Avengers; future!fic for Supernatural; possibly AUish for Clint’s backstory; character death; mentions of violence and child abuse; mentions of substance abuse
Pairings: unrequited Clint/Coulson
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1005
Point of view: third
Prompt: Supernatural / Avengers Movie, Crowley & Hawkeye, “We both know that you will go to hell, when you are done up here.”
Clint's never made a deal. The fortuneteller back at Carson's, Helena, she warned him off it right before everything went sideways and ended with a month in the hospital he couldn't pay for and another home gone.
Helena had smiled at him, taken his hands in hers, and said, in that creepyass voice he'd thought was fake, Stay away from the crossroads, little hawk. You'll never find what you seek, if you take the deal.
He learned about crossroads later, after an op gone so wrong only he lived. And then he didn't, falling eyes wide open into the criminal underworld when he'd have been blamed for the whole FUBAR'd thing.
For a second, looking at the grinning old man, listening to the rattle of his bones and gasp of his breath, Clint thought about undoing the whole thing. Just a little deal and erase the whole mess. Get his men back. Fuck, go back even farther and get his brother back, or his parents. Get his dad out of the bottle, and Mama away from her pills. Have a real family.
But he remembered Helena, and instead of saying a thing, he watched the old man die.
And as the years passed, as he hit the big-time and got snapped up by SHIELD, as he brought in the Black Widow instead of putting an arrow through her eye, as he became a cloudy-eyed minion and mourned what he never had with Phil, as he dreamed of his ex-god - he never made a deal. Thought about it more than once, but never went to a crossroads and buried a box and waited for a demon, never sealed anything with a kiss or heard hounds howl.
He never forgot Helena’s words.
But there’s a demon standing in front of him, with a slick Brit accent and a smirk, and he says, “Come now, sweetheart - you know how it ends. Why put off the inevitable?”
Tasha talks about red in her ledger, and debts, and how cruel old men tried to make her into the perfect weapon. She’s sure that if she does enough good it’ll all balance out, somehow.
Clint knows better. Maybe the difference is, he doesn’t really care about wiping the slate clean. He lost that drive in a bottle when he was a kid, in the pills always underfoot, in a beating when another father turned on him. He doesn’t owe anyone a debt. He’s owed.
He could’ve been a better man, like Phil. He could try and balance the scales, like Tasha and Stark and even Banner.
The best thing he can say? He’s never made a deal. Never sold himself to Hell to fuck up the natural order. Things happen for a reason - Helena said that, too.
But now there’s a demon, and the demon drawls, “You know, boyo. You’ve always known in your heart of hearts, haven’t you?”
He’s the only Avenger left standing, and he’s standing at a crossroads.
Taught by a criminal, honed by Special Forces, wielded by SHIELD and a mad alien-god, trusted by the Earth’s greatest…
They’re all dead, Tasha and (Phil’s) Captain America and Banner and Stark and Thor. Loki collapsed beside him, after appearing out of thin air and slaughtering the remaining fuckers, and didn’t move until he was dragged away, silent but shaking.
They’re all dead except for Clint, standing in front of a demon, moon high in the sky at midnight.
Helena would smack him across the face. She always got pissy when people didn’t heed her advice.
“Well?” The demon claps his hands together and smirks wide. “Let’s make a deal.” He walks a circle around Clint, not even twitching the dust at their feet. “What do you want, and how long am I willing to give you for it?”
Clint looks at him. He’s spent three years assessing his team, ten assessing SHIELD, and a lifetime assessing all the still-breathing corpses shuffling around and pretending to live. And in the fifteen hours since his team fell and Loki got buried so deep nobody could find him, Clint’s been figuring out what went wrong.
He’s not a good man. Maybe he had a chance, once, but he lost it, bleeding on the floor.
So he smiles at the demon, his brilliant, showman smile, the one little old ladies love and enemies underestimate, and he says, “Change one point in history and take me now.”
“Hmm,” the demon says, spinning on his heel to face Clint. “And which point might that be?”
Doors open both ways. Loki crawled into his heart and remade him, and Clint dreamed about a thousand-year childhood for six months. He didn’t see everything, but he saw enough.
Clint’s assessed it all. So he’s sure when he tells the demon, “Have Loki be banished with Thor.”
The demon chuckles. “Clever boy,” he purrs, and pulls Clint in, and drags him all the way down.
Clint’s not a good man. He was always going to Hell, and he’s always known it. And he doesn’t believe in evening the scale and settling balances, or repaying debts. He’s been a weapon his whole life, and all that ever changes is who wields him.
He knows he won’t remember himself long, whatever the demon has planned, but he figures there’ll be some way to survive. There always is.
Just before the demon pulls away, he mutters into Clint’s mouth, “We’ll have fun with you, archer. You might even be a defter touch than the Righteous Man.”
And then the world goes quiet, goes white-hot bright, and Clint’s chest burns, and there’s howling, so much howling -
And Clint inhales sharply, gaze flicking unerringly to the demon, who says, “My parlor, love. Be a dear and step in.”
Clint laughs. “I’ve met the spider, bucko,” he drawls, drawing even with the demon. “She’s got a finesse you don’t.”
“Ah, give it time,” the demon chuckles. “Now, c’mon. There’s a rack I need to strap you to. See how long you last.”
Clint follows him.