Shaddup. It's my headcanon. And it makes at least a little sense...

The latest episode of AOS seems to have shaken me out of a nearly two year long fanfiction dry spell. Thank you Mr. Whedon. Let's see how it holds up.

Recognizable characters, settings and... well, recognizable anything, probably doesn't belong to me.

Grant hauled his brother over the side of the well. He was shaking, water dripping off him in rivulets, soaking Grant's clothes. He didn't care. He hugged his brother, tears that had been held at bay by adrenaline finally falling free. Hell would pay when they returned. Their older brother would be waiting to pitch them into a secret game of deadly revenge their parents would never see. But such Hell was all right as long as the young boy in his arms was alive.

"It's gonna be alright, understand? You're gonna be okay." He held the boy tighter, repeating those words as water soaked him to the skin. A wind picked up, making him shiver as well. "I'm never gonna let him hurt you."

They walked back slowly, deliberately, forcing each step. The boy whimpered periodically, looking up at Grant who reluctantly nodded, sending them forward again. You face it. Even if it's gonna hurt. Even if, God forbid, it might just kill you. You stand up for what's right. He couldn't remember where he'd heard it, but it had become a mantra. It had helped him save the boy at the bottom of the well. Not that he would have let his brother drown, but it had given him a reason to face whatever torture was being cooked up as they trudged back to the house. It was the reason they were walking back at all.

The dwelling at the edge of town was dilapidated. Yellow paint peeled off the siding, and the shutters hung off their hinges. The floor inside was dirty, but the two barely noticed as they hurried up the stairs. Grant looked warily around them, senses piqued for any sign their brother might be back. Grant ushered the boy gently into their bedroom.

"Get yourself cleaned up. I'll keep an eye out for him." The boy nodded, ignoring his shivering and fear as he quickly stripped and put on dry clothes. His eyes were suddenly hard as flint. He'd been trained too well for a kid his age.

Grant stood in the hall. The end window looked out into the forest- a place of warmth and play when they'd been younger, but now, especially in light of the most recent events, it carried a newer, colder view of pain and fear. Grant turned away, looking instead past his older brother's room to the staircase at the other end of the hall.

"What happens now?" His little brother asked. Grant turned to him, his eyes hard now, not only with anger, but with something new. Hate was creeping in. He didn't care much about consequences anymore. Didn't care what would happen to his family, or what his older brother would see fit to do. They would run to town, find someone in charge who would listen. If that didn't work, they'd hop a train, go to a city. Join a circus for all it mattered. They just needed out. Grant picked up his backpack and started shoving things in. An extra set of clothes for each of them, a flashlight, and an envelope of about $30 cash he'd stored away, taking slowly over time so that none was missed. For an emergency, he'd said. This counted.

"We go away. We'll be safe. Trust me. It'll work out." Grant said in as reassuring a way as possible. The calm words hid a torrent of fury. Later, when the boy was safe, it would be directed at his older brother. The control took all he had and more, but now, he vowed, it would only save their lives.

They were about to make their escape when the bottom stair creaked slightly. Grant shoved the boy behind him. "Hide" he whispered. The boy didn't move. "Hide." His voice rasped again. Fear and hate were vying for supremacy. Still, there was no movement. "Please." He begged. Tears began to form in Grant's eyes and he wiped them away. The footsteps on the stairs came closer and still his brother didn't move. So Grant had to.

He drew a breath. "You face it." He whispered. "Even if it's gonna hurt. Even if, God forbid, it might just kill you." He gasped again, pushing one foot forward, then another, until he was standing in the doorway. "You stand up for what's right." This was what was right. Standing here. Protecting his brother. The person he cared about, who was worth protecting at all costs. He heard a metallic clink that made him pause for a second before he realized what it was. A gun. Their father's gun. A handheld revolver he kept in the downstairs cabinet, below the sink in the back corner. They weren't supposed to know about it, but he'd found it one day and filed the knowledge away. It looked like at some point their older brother had done the same.

"Charlie, he doesn't deserve it." The tears of a moment ago ran down his face but he didn't feel them. He'd gone numb, the fear and rage building to a fever pitch.

"My name isn't Charlie." The older boy said in a voice that was far too calm for what he was doing.

"Barney…"

"Stand aside, Grant."

"You face it." He repeated. It was all too real suddenly, as if it hadn't been before. The words were spilling out.

"Excuse me?" Barney's voice was high, mocking.

"Even if it's gonna hurt."

"Oh, it will if you don't get out of my way."

"Even if it's gonna kill-" BAM. The tiny explosion in the barrel of the revolver sent a shockwave through the room. Barney's eyes widened as the kickback wrenched the gun from his hand. It clattered on the floor. Barney didn't go after it. His face had gone white. What had a minute ago been near-psychotic fury had been replaced by a sudden fear, vulnerability. It was one thing to leave someone to die in a well. It was something very different to pull a trigger.

Grant felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach, hard. He stumbled back, oddly not feeling any pain, but easily piecing together what had happened. Strength drained out of him and he fell, a sudden explosion ripping across his midsection, forcing him into the hard floorboards. "Clint!" He screamed. "Get out! Please!" Barney moved forward, his terrified face moving above Grant's own. Grant couldn't think. He saw Clint run out of the bedroom, but towards him instead of away. He was screaming, kicking and punching with all his might the monster that stood in shock, looking at the horror of what he'd done. The blows rained off Barney, but not for lack of effort. "Run!" Grant managed, though it came out much weaker than he'd expected. Clint stopped, turned to him, horror spreading across his small face. Grant tried to shake his head, unsure if the message had gotten across. "Clint…" He drew the deepest breath he could. "You stand up… for what's right."

Grant didn't know what happened next. His eyes closed. For a second, probably, he died. But eighteen years later, an adult Grant Ward awoke with a start in his quarters, 37000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, crumpled wads of bedding clamped in his fists. He shook with the raw memory of the dream, feeling the sheets dampened by perspiration and wondering why everyone on the BUS wasn't running to his rescue. It was the third time that week he'd had the nightmare. But if he could have seen into the next few days, he would have understood that, cliché as it might be; the nightmare had only just begun.

Thanks for reading! Also, its been forever since I've written, so be brutal, I want to do this well.