Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the Avengers


Dean sat on the cold hard ground, his back against the wall, and his knees drawn to his chest. He pondered the life he'd led. After all, wasn't that what people normally did in prison? Think back on all the pain they'd caused, the lives they'd torn apart? Maybe that wasn't what normal people did, but then again, no one in their right mind would call Dean Winchester normal. He wouldn't be in Ryker's if that were the case.

Sam, no doubt, was in a cell in Alcatraz, his mind slowly deteriorating from the hellish hallucinations he'd been having. The worst part was, Dean couldn't be there to bring him back to reality, to help him out of his nightmares come to life. Dean relished in the fact that Sam didn't know about Amy. He still felt incredibly guilty over it, but at least Sam didn't know. And if Dean did spend the rest of his life in this cell, Sam would never have to know.

Dean sighed, placing his head in his hands. He could faintly remember when the toughest thing he'd had to face was a wendigo. He chuckled, remembering when he thought he couldn't handle a haunted airplane. Little had he known then, he'd have to face hell, an apocalypse, and damn leviathans. Man, he hated those flesh eaters.

It was precisely those monstrosities that led him into this mess. Sure, being framed by a couple of shape shifters beforehand hadn't helped his criminal record, but he'd never been the FBI's most wanted. Which of course, led to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s involvement.

Dean had never heard of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division before, but it had quickly become apparent they weren't to be trifled with. All of their agents were highly trained and skilled. From what he'd heard, a few of them were former assassins as well. Dean could deal with freakish hell bound monsters, but humans were another matter entirely.

With a secret organization like S.H.I.E.L.D., Dean knew there was no escaping this claustrophobic cell. It would be easier to escape out Hell's back door. If he wanted out, he'd have to negotiate. And he doubted they'd listen to a convicted murderer like himself.

So, nothing skyrocketed Dean's curiosity like a visit from the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. himself. He was dark skinned and bald, with a goatee, and a black eye patch covering his left eye. He wore a long, dark trench coat, and a leather uniform, accompanied with a gun and holster. He meant business.

The man approached Dean, his footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet space. He looked down upon the Winchester.

"We need to talk."


A/N: Thanks for reading the prologue for my new story. I should be posting the first chapter soon.