#projectmstarter

The past year... had been hell. But he wasn't sure if this was worse than just running for his life. The tablets... weren't just simple to read like a book. He might have been a prophet, but it didn't mean that it wasn't taking a physical toll on the young boy. He was getting an average of three to four hours a night and that was if he was lucky. 

The white chocolate mocha held in his hands had enough shots in it that it should have been syrup rather than a drink, with enough caffeine to give most people a heart attack. He stared into the cream on top of the drink, taking another small sip, trying to relax, if not just for a few minutes. He'd have to go back, start working again. But he needed just a few minutes. The chatter around the cafe was both comforting and a bit annoying. As if that thought was a trigger, the diner suddenly went deadly silent, the cook who had been flipping a pancake frozen into place. 

It took Dean all of three seconds to figure out Cas wasn't an angel, or at least completely one, anymore.

At least he was pretty sure angel's stomachs didn't growl. Nice and loud too. Dean had turned the Impala toward the city around them, easily finding a diner open on the corner.

"C'mon, feathers, let's eat." They could talk about that in a minute.

He sat down at a booth with him, idly messing with the menu and telling himself that he was hungry. He had to be, he hadn't eaten in at least a day. Maybe longer, he didn't keep track anymore. The smell of food was powerful enough to make his own stomach growl and he chuckled.

He glanced up at the angel, haggard and looking much older than he really was under the droning florescence above their heads, other patrons murmuring with their own chatter around them. He swallowed. "Think I'm gonna have pancakes. What about you?" He tried.

He felt guilt start to settle, muscles unwinding one by one now that the angel was near him again. He shouldn't have said what he said to him. At least some of what he said to him. It was just...cruel, some of the shit he said. Desperation and his own idiotic self did that. God he was so fucking stupid.

There wasn't enough liquor in the world to drown this out. Nope. He could stay out here all night, leaned against his car outside some shitty bar and sipping this bottle away and he'd still feel like shit.

Dean was never a good listener. Didn't take advice well, had trouble playing with others that weren't his little brother, sharing issues, all of that etched in every report card from kindergarten on up.

And some things just never change.

Because if Sammy were here right now, Sammy would've said, "Let's wait for back-up" or would have been Dean's back-up. If Bobby were here he wouldn't have let him anywhere near this place alone. If Dad were here he would've slapped him and told him he trained him better than that and he deserved whatever shit came along with his mistake.

The last option seemed to be the closest to what was actually happening.

He'd taken down a nest of vampires by himself before. He'd killed a crapton of demons all by his lonesome, taken on a gaggle of zombies and a family or two of ghosts all by himself. He was thirty five years old for Christ's sake, been hunting since he was seven, this wasn't hard. Or it shouldn't be.

Maybe invading a conference of demons by himself was a bad idea. Instead of the ten he thought would be there it was closer to thirty or forty, all black-eyed and sitting around tables in suits and business attire, all listening to one guy talk about all the chaos and mayhem that was yet to come in the name of some chick named Abaddon but he didn't get to hear much else.

Going in guns blazing always sounds like a good idea at the time but then shit like this happens and you end up looking like a fucking idiot. The mic squeals, the people stop and stare at their...friends? groaning on the floor covered in rocksalt and they get a bit angry. Then they realize you're Dean fucking Winchester and they get pissed.

He had about four seconds before the guns were ripped out of his hands and he was being tossed around the room like a bouncy ball, smacking off of the floor and the walls until the demon who'd been speaking at the mic before had thrown him up with him and pressed her heel to his throat.

"This was by invitation only," she growled, her crisp hair now disheveled around her face. The other demons hissed and panted in their anticipation. Dean looked up at the woman, one eye swollen shut, his cheek broken with blood in his lips and his clothes torn from grabby, greedy people trying to tear something off.

"Sorry, bitch," he spat. "But I love crashin' parties."

She grinned and knelt beside him. "Oh, I'll bet you do, cowboy." She grabbed his hair and threw him over the podium, two demons forcing his arms back and pinning him there, body pointed out toward the crowd. Dean grunted, feeling his wrist fracture in one of the demon's grips.

Yeah he definitely should've brought back-up.

The demon said something about gutting Dean Winchester and presenting his corpse to this Abaddon lady again and the crowd cheered. Dean grimaced, grunting and trying to pull his already injured arm out of the demon's hands. It earned him a hard tug from the big guy holding his fractured wrist and his shoulder leapt out of place. He cried out and the woman grabbed his hair, forcing his head back with a taser in her hand.

"You ready for this rodeo, cowboy?" She grinned, sparking the device to life. Dean smirked, breathing through the pain radiating through his body. He knew very well that he was about to die here. The torture was a formality, a way to get him to jerk and scream for their viewing pleasure before he kicked it, likely with some dream in mind that Dean would beg for death.

"Bring it on, bitch. This ain't my first rodeo," he assured. And it wasn't. Alistair was his first. First real, make him scream, push him to begging for death and mercy and denying it to him "You'll get out of here when your eyes are blacker than my heart" torture. The other shit that had happened during hunts or whatever was a paper cut compared to that.

Crowley being the next round there was no fucking way that this stupid, low-level bitch could ever be up to snuff. Yeah, it'd hurt. Hurt a lot, actually, he might make some noise or something but if they wanted him dead they'd get tired of his mouth and just fucking do it. There weren't a lot of people alive or dead that could stand Dean's mouth for too awful long.

Don't hate me too much for this, Sammy... He thought as the electricity jolted through his body and burned his skin, wind rushing through his ears so loud he barely heard himself screaming. Just didn't want to bug you with crap like this. Not important. And Cas... Well what could he say to him?

The prayer to the angel stopped as sharp pain snapped him from his clouded state. He screamed again, cursed and spat in faces while he was bludgeoned and cut and torn over and over again. He still laughed and cackled and spat and made smart remarks that only let things hurt worse.

This was for the best. It was good that he was gonna die. Then he wouldn't have those nightmares anymore, he wouldn't feel so desolate and lost and disgusting, he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder wherever he went or wake up shrieking with that soft phrase "Hello, darling" echoing in his ears. Death was alright, that would be fine by him thank you very much.

{Steve breathed deeply as he exited one of the many Starbucks in Manhattan, a coffee clutched in either hand. Although he’d not grown accustomed to everything this modern era had to offer, he’d discovered Starbucks fairly quickly, mostly due to his inability to work a coffee machine. He was dressed in work-out clothes, having gone for his usual morning run, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin. He’d been intending to head straight back to Stark Tower, but instead had diverted route, deciding to visit Natasha at the hotel she was staying at.}

{Although Tony had been making a valiant effort to encourage as many of the Avengers to move into the Tower as possible, he hadn't got round to speaking to Natasha yet. Steve knew that the spy preferred her own company but he still made an effort to see her regularly, feeling that it was important to maintain close bonds with his fellow team-mates. Also, Steve didn’t have a whole lot of friends since waking up from his deep freeze and the Avengers had become the closest thing to family that the soldier had.}

{He glanced down at his sweat soaked t-shirt and running pants, briefly wondering whether Natasha would mind but he dismissed the thought out-of-hand. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t all seen each other in far worse conditions. The hotel Natasha had chosen to stay in wasn’t far from Steve’s current location and he had memorised the route with ease, trying to keep a low profile as he headed off through the Manhattan streets. He’d contacted her earlier through the latest model Stark phone Tony had given him not long ago, letting her know he was on his way and asking her to meet him in the reception.}

{It didn’t take long for Steve to reach his destination, staring up at the building briefly before pushing through the revolving doors. The hotel was suitably upmarket, classy in a way that suited Natasha perfectly although not like the ridiculously over-priced establishments Tony stayed at sometimes. It was under-stated enough that Steve didn’t feel uncomfortable as he entered the lobby, grinning as he spotted his friend waiting for him.}

{Whilst they were in many ways polar opposites, Steve had found himself developing a close friendship with the woman before him. He appreciated her practical attitude, the fact that she didn’t try to continually ask him how he was coping, instead just accepting him graciously into the new world.}

           ❝Hey Tash.❞

{Steve pulled up to a stop in front of her. He looked eager to please, extending his hand to offer her one of the coffees he had been carrying. The super soldier had taken it upon himself to learn all of his team mate’s orders for when he pulled the short straw and was sent on the coffee run.}

Steve had been pleased when his latest mission had allowed him to stay in New York.

Over the past few months he had been worked to the bone, moments of rest few and far between for the super soldier as S.H.I.E.L.D had sent him across the globe. Whilst Steve had been initially glad for the distraction, still trying to find his place in the new world he had awoken to, even he found the hectic schedule taking its toll. But luckily his latest assignment was nothing major, just a bit of reconnaissance work down in the heart of Manhattan. Some local gang Fury had his eye on had been trying to start a business in dealing alien technology and Steve had been sent in just to find out what he could. No real time limit, just report back when he had something. He had been trying to keep a low profile, staying in his apartment in Brooklyn and only dressing in civilian garb. He doubted he’d need the shield for this particular task.

And that was how Steve found himself in the Lower East side, trying to set up the perimeters for a meeting that was meant to be taking place that evening. He’d left himself a few hours to spare, the late afternoon Sun casting a dingy light over the city. Steve had positioned himself in a café opposite the unused building that was arranged for use this evening having surveyed the surrounding area.  He couldn’t help but laugh to himself at the complete lack of imagination some of these low-level gangs displayed, the complete cliché. Either way, there didn’t seem to be any activity at the moment, so Steve had taken to street watching, inking rough sketches into napkins of the people passing by.

His current muse was a dark-haired man across the road, leaning against a black SUV as he chatted amiably to his companion. Steve bit at his lip as he tried to capture the broadness of the man’s shoulders, the way the light glinted off the sunglasses adorning his face. There was something somewhat familiar about the man, the way he carried himself, smile cocky and self-assured. Steve recognised the make of his coat almost immediately; a standard issue World War II RAF greatcoat. Steve couldn’t help but frown as he wondered how this man had come across such an item, sure that they weren’t available on the market nowadays. Steve himself hadn’t seen one since he went into the ice all those years ago. Still, the man was wearing one nonetheless and it caused a pang of reminiscence deep in Steve’s chest, tucking his pen away.

Something stirred in Steve’s stomach as he stared at the stranger, a feeling akin to deja-vu settling over the super soldier. He felt as if he’d seen a ghost although he didn’t know why, a sudden onslaught of memory knocking him sideways. Memories of cheap beer and warm, friendly, open smiles. Memories of the first time Steve had had any R&R since he put on the uniform and he and the rest of the Howling Commandos had occupied a local bar, raucous and stress-free. Nostalgia crashed over him in waves upon waves, Steve abruptly remembering the smell of musk and the sound of Bucky’s laugh in the background. A stranger offering to buy him a drink, extending a hand and introducing himself as...

Jack.

Before Steve was truly aware of his actions, he was halfway across the street, heading straight for the car and the man in question, feet moving off their own accord. As he approached, he had his suspicions confirmed, immediately recognising one half of the duo who were talking softly to each other.

Steve stood outside the flat door, hands buried deep into his pockets as he hesitated, subdued in his own thoughts. It had taken him some time to find this place, months of whispered half rumours and keeping his ear low to the ground, caught in what felt like a black-ops chase across Manhattan. He still wasn't even sure what he was going to find there. 

It had been months since anyone had seen Thor.

The building itself was fairly nondescript, successful in allowing his team-mate to keep himself under the radar, even out of S.H.I.E.L.D's watchful eye. It was located out in the suburbs, far away from the busy hubbub of the city centre, away from any possibility of a chance encounter with the other Avengers. It was isolated, a somewhat lonely feel hovering over the place and Steve wondered what could have driven his friend to stay here as opposed to the familial warmth of Stark tower.

When Steve had finally managed to track down Dr. Selvig, he had been reserved about what he revealed, unwilling to even share that the Asgardian had returned to New York, let alone tell Steve his exact location. Although Steve had finally managed to convince him to hand over an address, Dr. Selvig hadn't explained why Thor had returned, dismissing Steve with non-committal grunts to his questions, a reservedness Steve had not encountered with the scientist before. He wasn't even sure if this was the correct address or whether it would just be another dead-end in the long list of them that Steve had been accumulating in the search for his team-mate.

Steve couldn't understand why Thor was so unwilling to be noticed, why someone who was usually so forthcoming had chosen to fall off the grid so completely. His absence had been noticed by the rest of the team, his failure to attend a number of briefings and even minor social occasions causing a subtle stir throughout the Avengers. Tony had brushed it off, reminding everyone that Thor was a big boy who could take care of himself but something just hadn't sat right with Steve. Even when Thor was too busy to come to Earth, he usually checked-in to let everyone know that he wouldn't be around for a while.

The uneasy feeling that something was wrong had come to full bloom when Steve began to hear the murmurs that Thor had been spotted in New York, the rumours bubbling up through the mindless chit-chat of the online forums that Tony had taken great delight in signing Steve up to as well as the more reliable source of low clearance S.H.I.E.L.D operatives. He usually dismissed gossip for exactly what it was, but if Thor had returned why had he not reported to the rest of the team and why had Fury not been alerted?

The questions settled over Steve, sending warning signals flashing as he shook himself from his thoughts, staring at the door in front of him. Sometime was wrong and he was damned if Steve wasn't going to find out what.

It started off as a simple walk.  It was meant to stay that way.  Though life has a way of changing plans quite suddenly. 

To admit... Rose was... trying to take it all in. She suddenly found herself back in the dimension that she thought was gone. She'd started to accept it. Only to find out... she'd been brought back. But not to London, or even England. But America. Rose had heard of it, watched shows and movies set in the United States... but the blonde had never been. There'd been no reason. And then with the Doctor... other planets were far more interesting. And America's history started only a few hundred years ago. Now the future... that had been interesting, such as New New York. But needless to say... Rose was well, overwhelmed. 

She knew nothing really of New York, other than the fact that the Statue of Liberty was there, along with other tourist attractions. She'd been gone for quite a few years... and the changes that had happened in her dimension weren't always the same as here and vice versa.  Her attempt to try and learn more about the city shortly ended when confronted by a group of five? (Rose couldn't really tell) people. She'd tried to ignore them, glancing around and noticing... she was alone. All the other people on the street had seemingly vanished. Her heart started pounding, trying to ignore those following until another two stepped out in front of her, forcing the girl to stop suddenly. There was a moments pause before the one of them reached out to her, her body suddenly going limp and weak. She could faintly hear them talking in a foreign fluid language before her vision blackened. 

------

When Rose regained consciousness, she found herself in a barren, rundown warehouse. Trying to move, she realized she'd been tied to a chair, wrists and ankles. Worry and panic washed through Rose, trying to figure out why this was being done. Normally... it would have something to do with the Doctor... but as far as Rose knew, he didn't know she was back and any of his enemies either. For all she knew, Rose no longer could be used as a piece of leverage over the timelord, having been replaced by someone else.