| Three |

"Do you believe in magic?" Madelene – Tony's favourite babysitter to date – asks him curiously, her hands diligently smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt, and there's a softness in her sad eyes as she looks down at him that makes them light up oh-so prettily.

Tony shakes his head wildly because he hates standing still. Because he knows from caustic remarks and dismissive eyerolls that it's the answer his father expects him to give.

Staring at the surveillance tapes of a strange man in the odd, roman-or-something-equally-out-of-date get-up with a glowing staff causing havoc in Germany, Tony says the only thing that comes to mind:

"I fucking hate magic."

The kid can't be a day older than fourteen, but he holds the gun in his hands like he's been born to. His grip doesn't waver once. There is blood running down his temple, caking strands of his short, blonde hair against his head. A colourful ring of bruises is forming along his throat, clearly visible against the pale skin, and Tony wishes deeply he didn't know exactly how the kid has gotten them. Wishes he hadn't been forced to stand by and watch it happen.

Tony tries not to read too much into that. Guilt isn't going to help either of them right now, and frankly, he's got bigger things to worry about than his unusually rebellious consciousness.

The kid is throw backwards against the wall with a pained groan – Tony carefully doesn't think about the possibility of spinal cord damage, carefully doesn't think about the fact that it's a windless day and there is no logical explanation for the kid's sudden flight besides something he really doesn't believe in. The kid's still holding on to his gun with admirable stubbornness, but it's pretty clear from his grimace that he's in pain. Tony has the odd urge to push the kid behind him, to shield him somehow from the crazed bitch trying to kill them both.

He carefully doesn't think about that either. Focuses on the murderous bitch instead because Tony Stark doesn't have a selfless, protective bone in his body, thank you very much.

Tony Stark does however have the wonderful talent to get under people's skin and piss them off beyond reason or measure. He'd brag about it, if it wasn't exactly this particular gift of his that has apparently drawn the wrath of his newest, and as of now most dangerous stalker.

Then again, he might die in the next minute, so there really is no time for false modesty. If nothing else, Tony makes a kick-ass distraction.

Behind the witch-bitch – and yes, some rational part of Tony's mind still shies away from the inevitable conclusion – the kid manages to get himself into an upright position again. It looks like a strenuous, painful process.

Tony would wince in sympathy, but he's a little busy screaming his lungs out. Possibly literally, if the tearing pain in his chest is anything to go by.

Once again, the kid pulls the trigger. Hits his mark with deadly accuracy. The bitch stumbles, but doesn't fall.

Tony kinda wishes he'd black out now. It seems like as good a moment as any.

"Fucking witches!" the kid snarls between his shots, and there's a hatred years too old for his appearance in those words.

Rhodey laughs. It's a real laugh, working its way out from deep within, loud and boisterous. The sound settles over Tony like a thick, warm blanket, shielding him against the cold and easing the the knot of tension that's been sitting in his chest for weeks now, hidden behind the arc reactor, where no one can reach it.

Until this very moment, Tony had forgotten how much he's missed that laugh.

"Come on, Pepper." Rhodey grins teasingly. There are crinkles of amusement and affection around the corners of his eyes, and Tony would make a joke about old age catching up with them if the sight of it didn't make the words catch in the back of his throat. "There's no such thing as magic."

Pepper grins, cheeks flushed from the cold and the two flutes of champagne. She looks more relaxed than Tony has seen her since he first stepped off that plane, eyes sparkling, a few strands of hair loosened by the evening breeze, and all the more beautiful for it.

Even Natalie's lips twitch into a slight smile that Tony thinks might actually be genuine. He can't be sure though – and he sure as hell isn't going to say anything about it.

"Alright, alright." Pepper concedes with a shake of her head. She doesn't look embarrassed, only exasperated by the lack of support from her company. "All I'm saying is, it's a nice thought."

"I suppose." Rhodey shrugs, like he doesn't much care one way or another, but is willing to indulge her all the same. He has never seen the use of losing yourself in the aching what-ifs. Sometimes Tony envies his best friend's steadfast hold on reality and how he's still smiling so genuinely despite it.

Tony doesn't smile. Tony doesn't say anything at all.

"So." Tony clears his throat. Ignores the burning in his chest, the rawness of his throat that speaks of too much undignified, though perfectly justified screaming. Being quiet doesn't come easy to him. "Witches, huh?"

The kid peers up at him from where he's kneeling over the bitch's body – and crazy as it sounds, Tony could swear it wasn't the seven bullets the kid put in her chest that brought her down but the odd, handmade bracelet he managed to get around her ankle at some point, except for how that makes no sense at all. He looks way too used to dealing with dead bodies for a kid that can't have finished high school for Tony's comfort, and his hazel eyes are hard with a wariness Tony is all-too familiar with. For a moment, he thinks the kid is going to snap. Shoot him maybe or, hell, mind-magic his memories away the way Tony's day is going. But then the kid sighs, head bowed, shoulders drooping in exhaustion, and he looks so fucking young .

"Yeah." the kid mumbles, "Witches."

Followed by Tony's least favourite words in the world. "Among other things."

"Sir, may I advise you to cut back on your drinking? The alcohol poisoning in your blood is approaching a Protocol Shutdown level," JARVIS states calmly.

Tony doesn't bother acknowledging him – or the pointed, non-judgmental tone of voice that makes him feel very judged, for that matter. His gaze stays fixated on the screen in front of him, where he watches the too-familiar face of a total stranger smile a deranged, blood-thirsty, familiar smile. Tony has lost track of how often he's watched the footage of the massacre a while ago. Often enough to no longer flinch at the screams and the laughter, at least.

The content remains the same, unchanged, tragedy forever repeating itself on the various surfaces of Tony's workshop. Sam and Dean Winchester publicly gun down twenty-seven civilians in full view of various security cameras. Brutally and clearly enjoying every second of it.

Tony feels sick.

It feels like his entrails have melted together into one big, malevolent puddle of dangerously bubbling goo. The murders aren't the worst Tony has ever seen, not by far. Thanks to JARVIS' hobby of hacking SHIELD, Tony has a very clear idea (and the examples to back it up) just how far human depravity can really go. Compared to some of the torturous fates he has seen in files, these deaths aren't particularly spectacular.

Of course, it's not so much the manner in which the people were killed as the identity of the men pulling the triggers that's bothering Tony. Their terrible pleasure in the face of the destruction they cause.

Everything he is, everything that defines the man he's so desperately trying to become, screams for him to get into his suit and hunt these sick fuckers down. To eradicate them from existence. Give the poor families of those victims the only peace of mind that is left to give.

Tony feels sick.

Everything he was, everything about the man he so desperately doesn't want to be anymore, rallies against that plan, refuses to accept the truth that so clearly plays out in front of his eyes. Remembers a kid with too-steady hands and too-knowing eyes, asking him "You're gonna believe me? Just like that?" with the bitter disbelief of someone who has forgotten what it means to be trusted – has never learned it in the first place.

And what had Tony done? When faced with a kid rambling on about what was at best a rich imagination gone out-of-control, at worst the indication of a serious mental illness? Tony had been a hypocrite. Tony had denounced every rule he lived by, still lives by, had discarded everything he knows to be true, refused the logical actions that should have been taken.

Tony had been twenty-two and he'd looked into Dean Winchester's eyes and he had believed. There had been no logic, no rational explanation to justify his actions. Not when he'd shaken a fourteen year old boy's hand. Not when he'd let JARVIS 'misfile' a couple of outstanding warrants. There is no explanation now either, as he watches the footage rewind and start over once more.

Tony feels sick.

There's a chance – a very real chance – that this is a frame-up. God knows, there's enough fucked-up shit out there that could pull something like this off. Enough fucked-up shit with the motivation to go after these two men in particular too. And sure, Tony's already checked the footage for the most common ones. The easy explanation that would ease the ache in his chest that makes the arc reactor feel ten times more heavy than usual. But there's probably other stuff out there, things that no video content analysis in the world will be able to prove.

Still.

There is a chance – no matter how small, no matter how much he hates to admit even this much – that this is real. There's a thin line between hunter and monster. Tony knows the numbers. He's damn good with numbers.

There's no way to know for sure.

What it comes down to is something Tony hates, something he despises with his very being, something he doesn't believe in, something insufficient and flat, something insubstantial and unreasonable. What it comes down to is faith.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part is, Tony knows what he's going to do. He knows it with a certainty that scares him, terrifies him, makes him sick on his stomach. Because he can't know for sure and this is a risk that can't be taken, a token of faith that can't be granted, not with twenty-seven innocent lives. Not by Iron Man. Not by a hero.

But Tony Stark was never recommended for the pretty save-the-world-in-spandex club – and maybe, underneath the still smarting wounds, the calculation and the manipulations, there is an actual reason for that.

"You're gonna believe me? Just like that?"

"JARVIS," Tony says, manages to keep his voice as steady as he once watched Dean hold his gun, all those years ago, despite the heavy taste of whiskey on his tongue. "Enable Protocol Ghost. Targets are Sam and Dean Winchester and that trench coat guy, what's-his-name. And the car. Parameters include all intelligence agencies, social networks, hell, fucking WhatsApp. And get rid off those pesky APBs. Oh, and anything SHIELD has on these guys? Wipe it. No one's getting anything on these guys that I haven't personally approved of, got it?"

"Understood, sir." Then, after a beat of silence. "Sir… are you certain this is the course of action you wish to take?"

Tony closes his eyes. He thinks of twenty-seven dead civilians. Thinks of their families who'll never get the justice they deserve. Thinks of a kid with green eyes that doesn't expect to be trusted. Thinks of the names of every soldier that got killed by his own weapons. Thinks of mythical forces he doesn't believe in and religious constructs he has no use for.

And he makes his choice.

His resolve does nothing to combat the sick feeling in his stomach.

"Hey kid, if you ever… Just, you know. I owe you one."

"Look, keep your cash and whatever. I was just doing my job."

Tony Stark doesn't believe in faith.

(But he believes in Dean Winchester.)

He believes in settling his debts.

I've always wanted to explore the price people pay for believing in the Winchesters a bit more. Because even when you know about the supernatural, as long as you aren't an expert or in the know, there's always that lingering doubt in your mind... and I don't think people like Tony handle it well. At. All. I mean, Tony is about the last person I see as someone who relies on faith and hopes for the best, so I realise that this is an OOC choice for him, but at the same time that's exactly the point, you know? Against all reason, he does believe in Dean and it's breaking him because it goes against everything he believes.

Okay, enough rambling. This chapter was a bit of a different style, with a lot more jumping around to different times in Tony's life, but I hope it still made sense and you enjoyed this added teaspoon of angst :)

Next up: Bruce