Chapter Text
When Clint stumbles into his flat after a night of merry drinking (with much help from Captain America because, "You can't drink and drive!"), his first thought the moment he starts climbing the stairs to his loft is that he might have drunk a little too much because there's a guy in a trench coat standing over something on his couch.
"Huh," he says unintelligibly.
It's enough noise for the guy to turn around. The movement is also enough for Clint to see someone bleeding on his couch.
His couch. Now currently stained with blood.
Plaintively, he mutters, "Aw, couch, no."
Clint has bled into it more than a couple times himself, but blood is always so difficult to wash off. And between Nat and Kate, not to mention Bruce ("It's unhygienic, Clint," cue disappointed frown), he's beginning to become an expert couch cleaner. Seriously, he should ask for payment sometime.
He's leaning against the railing, attempting to make sense of it all, when a Sasquatch comes in from his bathroom holding... His first aid kit?
What--
"The hell?"
He says that one louder so everyone (minus unconscious bleeding guy on the couch) freezes. Sasquatch slowly turns to him, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and expectant. Not wanting to disappoint, he climbs the final step, stands straighter and declares, "I am so fudging drunk right now."
"Yes," Sasquatch suddenly agrees, "This is all just a dream."
But it isn't. Especially when Trench Coat starts toward him, one hand outstretched as if to ("You have heart," his mind helpfully subtitles)--
Clint doesn't bother finding out. Never allowing himself to truly be drunk, everything sharpens and he's instantly diving towards his cache of guns, lamenting all the way why he'd placed his bow above the fudging couch. He feels, more than sees, Trench Coat appear behind him (with a whoosh like the wings of a flock of birds); the voice of Sasquatch telling both of them to calm the fudge down in the background. By then, Clint's freed a gun from under his TV and cocks it steadily, not on Trench Coat, but at the guy lying on his couch.
A spy can't be good without being observant and Clint is a very, very good spy. From the beginning, it's been very obvious that both Sasquatch and Trench Coat have been shielding Couch Guy from him. As expected, both Trench Coat and Sasquatch freeze again, but tense now, ready to spring into action; ready to get in his line of fire should he start to shoot.
(Though some people say otherwise, Clint does have morals. Shooting an unconscious, bleeding guy? Not part of it.)
Clint blinks at this, then makes a decision.
Keeping his eyes on Trench Coat warily, he turns to Sasquatch (because the guy is obviously the brains here), and says, "I don't appreciate guys coming towards me with their hands outstretched," because if that isn't a symbol of I-will-fuck-with-your-brain then what is, "So get Trench Coat to scoot over and I'll put the gun down, deal?"
Sasquatch stares at him for a moment, perhaps trying to gauge how trustworthy Clint is. A beat later, the guy must have found something because he nods tersely and tells Trench Coat to, "Step back a bit, Cas."
Trench Coat frowns at Sasquatch, utter confusion on his face. Titling his head to the side, he turns back towards Clint and says, "If you were referring to me as 'Trench Coat' then you are mistaken. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lor--,"
(Clint's brow raises at that, but he doesn't immediately disbelieve. Because if aliens exist, then hell, why can't angels?)
"Cas! Come on, just step back, okay?" Sasquatch exasperatedly interrupts, as if this is something that happens often. "He didn't mean anything by it. Just a nickname."
"A 'nickname'," Clint could practically feel the quotations on that, "Like how you call Dean 'Jerk' and how Dean calls you 'Bi'--,"
That little banter stops when Couch Guy lets out a groan, muttering something that sounds like, "S'm."
Sasquatch and Trench Coat, 'Castiel' Clint corrects, starts hurriedly towards Couch Guy, completely forgetting about Clint and Clint's gun. Clint almost feels offended, but then again, these guys don't know how dangerous he is, how once upon a time he killed and asked questions later.
Now he doesn't kill (without reason). But he still asks questions later.
Shrugging, he takes a look at Couch Guy, determines he isn't going to die if Sasquatch gets to stitching, and nods. Cleaning blood off his couch is one thing. But a dead body on it... Clint starts to imagine the paperwork he'd have to do and shudders. Nope. Not gonna happen.
But just to be sure, "There's more gauze somewhere in the bookshelf to your left if you need it. And god, please don't use that needle. Or that thread. I just sewed my dirty shirts with it. I'm sure there's a suture kit under the couch," seeing the raised brow of Sasquatch, Clint waves the question off and says, "What? The couch is a good place to store these things, I swear! I have one under the kitchen sink downstairs, too, actually. But anyway," Clint plows on, "If you can get the blood out of that couch before you leave, that'd be really cool. But since you're obviously pretty occupied, I'll settle for coffee. God knows I'll probably need a whole damn pot of it tomorrow."
Walking towards his bedroom, aware of the stares he's getting but completely ignoring them, he grumbles, "Seriously. Why do I never learn? Drinking with superhumans and gods... Definitely a bad idea."
Looking at his "guests" one last time, he gives them a nod and a salute before saying, "Night, gents," and closes his door.
"Sam," a gruff, pain-filled voice says, "Where the hell did you take us?"
Sounding just as bewildered, 'Sam' a.k.a. Sasquatch answers, "I don't know, man. I don't know."
When Clint wakes up the next morning, his couch is unfortunately very much still stained with blood.
There's coffee though. A whole pot of it. And a note.
Thanks, it simply said.
Taking a sip directly from the pot, and moaning shamelessly in ecstasy, Clint leans against the kitchen counter and muses, "The Winchesters, huh? Bros aren't so bad after all."
S.H.I.E.L.D. generally leaves the slightly crazy to the FBI, but they're still very much aware of FBI's most wanted. The moment he'd taken a good look at his guests, Clint had known immediately who they were. For a moment, he'd considered alerting the FBI about it.
But there had been something about them that had tugged at Clint's weird instinct-- that same weird instinct he'd gotten when he'd first met Natasha, the same one when he'd not-so-secretly vouched for Thor despite him rampaging through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s base. So they're on the FBI's most wanted list, who the fudge cares, right?
Besides, Clint's never liked the FBI, so.