Part 2

Natalia Alinova Romanov liked to think she handled the unexpected well. People in her former line of work (and her remarkable similar current line of work) had to handle the unexpected, had to think fast and well on their feet. Or they wouldn't be in either line of work. Actually, if one didn't think on one's feet in either line of work, they wouldn't be breathing. Tom ay toe, tom ah toe, as her new American co-workers would say.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was nicer as far as puppet-masters went when it came to after mission treatment: better medical care, less severe accommodations while on base... people who honestly smiled. But in the field? In the field it was still her and her wits against the world.

Okay. Sometimes her, her wits, and Clint Barton against the world.

That... that she was still getting used to. This whole having a reasonably trustworthy ally idea. Ally, not friend. She was the Black Widow, she couldn't afford to have friends.

Besides, she wouldn't know what to do with one if she had one.

Natalia sighed. Defecting to S.H.E.I.L.D. wasn't as cut and dried on a personal level as she thought it would be. But she was a professional and a long-term survivor on the international intelligence playing field, she would adapt to the unexpected softer edge of her new employer.

And she'd do it without loosing her own sharpness, dammit.

Thoughts about the unexpected, adaptability, sharpness and allies whirled through her head even as the universe decided to drop a test case in her lap. Okay technically down the alley from her, but that was still pretty close to her lap. And really, what else would the universe do?

Above her, a glass window exploded outwards. In the middle of the glass a man followed suit butt first and nearly folded in half. The force of whatever sent him through the glass tossed him clear across the alleyway.

Natalia could hear his tail bone connect with brick. The momentum unfolded him and his head bounced off the same brick. She winced, that would leave a mark. Dazed though the man must have been, he still tried to recover as he fell. Strong fingers scrabbled for nearby window ledge or railings, but ultimately the necessary coordination wouldn't come. He slid down the story and a half of brick, no doubt collecting an impressive amount of road rash on his way down.

He hit ground with a thud, but not a bone breaking thud.

Groaning and growling, the man clawed his way up a trashcan. But his feet wouldn't stay under him (to his immense frustration) and the trashcan was the only thing keeping him upright. Finally he gave up on getting up and stayed clutching the trashcan, panting through the pain.

Natalia gave him points for effort though. She knew agents who would be out cold by now.

That's when he finally noticed his audience. Despite the numerous trickles of blood and the dilated pupil (yep, that's a concussion) the man managed to ask, "Kiss me?" in a only slightly slurred voice.

Natalia laughed. "Winchester." She hadn't recognized him under the blood, or rather hadn't gotten a good look at him before. Softer edged life really was beginning to make her slip.

Clanging above their heads interrupted whatever else she would have said. A man leapt out through the window now empty of glass to land on the opposing fire escape. Snarling, he leapt again with murderous intent in his eye, determined to finish what he had started on Winchester.

Dean let go of the trashcan at the first clang, landing flat on his back with a pained grunt. Adrenaline fueled hands produced a shiny Colt 1911. It barked three times at the man flying towards its owner. All three bullets hit center mass, but only one hit exactly in the heart.

The newly minted corpse had no where to go but down. It landed hard. On Dean.

All air rushed out of the young man's lungs which tipped the balance against him in his personal battle to remain conscious.

Which in turn left Natalia Romanov standing in an alley with a dead body leaking all over its killer. And only a few minutes to decide what to do before the police arrived, drawn by the sound of the gunshots. Walk away or help the man who once helped her?

The USSR's Black Widow would walk away and let his chips fall where they may.

S.H.E.I.L.D's Black Widow... hmm.

Natalia sighed. Why couldn't Winchester use a silencer? That would've given her more time to move him. He looked heavy.

…

Clint Barton didn't ask his new partner very many questions when she pulled up in front of their temporary safe house with an unconscious man in the back seat. He didn't asked too many questions when she told him to take the man's arms and help her get him to the room. Because he was "chertov heavy!" (Though there were snide comments on who always seemed to get stuck with the heavy end of the load.) He didn't even ask why there was so much blood on the guy.

For all that, Natalia was grateful.

She didn't know exactly what she was going to say; how she was going to explain this.

Instead of answering complicated question like 'why', she settled to work with the med-kit. It took her half an hour to pick all the small bits of glass out, clean the wounds, and apply the butterfly bandages. Towards the end of her ministrations, Dean roused enough to mutter something that sounded like 'Sammy?'.

"Shh," Natalia admonished. "You're safe."

Dean mumbled something before drifting off again.

"Bringing home strays, Nat?" Clint asked mildly.

Without looking at her partner, she answered, "I had red in my ledger."

"Ah," Clint acknowledged. After a beat of consideration, he asked, "So how went the intel gathering?"

Relieved, Natalia made her report.

The S.H.E.I.L.D. agents weren't there when Dean Winchester woke up the next day. They didn't see him groan and rub at the goose egg on the back of his head. They didn't see him discover he was only in his boxers under the blanket and that all of his clothes were laundered and folded neatly on the dresser. They didn't see him lurch for the bottle of water and bottle of Advil before he bothered to put on the clothes. (Though they would have approved of him checking his weaponry for working condition before he stowed them away on his person.)

And lastly, they didn't see his reaction when he found the note she'd left behind for him:

"Room's paid up for a week. Now we're even."

It was signed with a kiss of red lipstick.