Owner	Pose
Sam Winchester	Sam had figured James Barnes might want some space, or some space /and/ some time with Steve Rogers, but eventually he decided to check in on him. Once he identifies 'the roof of Claire's building' as the proper spot he makes his way up with a six pack of beer. It's not Vodka, to be sure. It's just cheap beer, a mass-market brand in regular old beer bottles. The same brand as the empties that litter up his apartment more days than not, probably purchased from the little convenience store directly beneath it. Showing up, offering a beer. A time honored Winchester tradition that Sergeant Barnes is being effortlessly absorbed into. "Feel like some company?" he asks. Because if James doesn't, well, Sam will respect that. He's dressed casually this evening, for all that his attempts to bring the two sides of his life and needs together has resulted in a lot more time in suits. The flannel outer shirt, tactical jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and boots look restores him to a sort of Winchester baseline, a non-descript uniform of rural areas and backwater places that allows him to blend into most places, as long as they don't cater to expensive tastes. He won't flop down until he receives some sign his company isn't an imposition, trying to respect that space even now.
James Barnes	Given how difficult it was to locate him when he was the Winter Soldier -- without resorting to clairvoyant cheating, anyway -- it's probably a surprise when Sam Winchester finds Bucky Barnes isn't that hard to track down. One might guess at any number of reasons for the fact that the former Winter Soldier isn't trying to hide all that hard. Maybe he's suicidal in the wake of his reawakening to his senses. Maybe he really just doesn't care anymore. Or maybe he's angry, deeply angry, and daring his erstwhile captors to come get him, if they dare. Maybe he's violently reckless enough for something as dumb as that. Some credence is lent to the latter theory by the fact that, when Sam locates Bucky and climbs up to the roof of Claire's building, the man is up there field stripping his pistols, with what looks like an M40 laying beside him waiting its turn. He didn't have one when he was liberated from Hydra, so it's anyone's guess how he came by this piece. Probably not legitimately. He doesn't look up when Sam arrives, which is a clear enough sign that he knew someone was on their way up and who it was a long time ago. He only looks up when addressed, his body language guarded and drawn in, but not overtly hostile. "...If you want. You brought the right bribe for me to say yes," he allows eventually, tilting his head in a 'come here and bring that with you' gesture. The closer Sam gets, though, the more his body language pulls in, his eyes remaining doggedly fixed on the rooftop.
Sam Winchester	Sam puts the bottles of beer between them and plucks up only one, then pushes the other 5 in James' direction. He settles down some distance away, not so far that they have to shout, but...not so close, either. He notices that pulling in and away immediately, and he doesn't want to push it. Instead, he drinks in silence for several long swallows. He's there. He's companionable. But he doesn't seem overly invested in /talking/, exactly. As with Claire, 'how you holding up' is stupid, so he doesn't ask. He's seeing it. He's absorbing it. He's thinking about it. But he's not asking it. Finally, though, he demonstrates that he does in fact have at least one question. "So, I have an important question," he says. He pauses for just a moment, then lays it right down there. "Dude, where's my car?" Ok, so James probably doesn't get the movie reference. But the thing is, it's a low-stakes question. It's just a car. He could steal another six in the next hour, though that would annoy May. Though he did /like/ his Charger. He asks it with some warmth and humor. It dances up and down his tone; he'd like to get it back but it isn't of earth-shattering importance. But if there is a question he can ask that demonstrates he holds absolutely no hard feelings in his heart, while avoiding any and all emotional content on the surface of said question, well, he figures that one's it. When he asks it, he looks over to James with one of those boyish grins he's known for.
James Barnes	He doesn't take the beer immediately, though his eyes do flicker in that direction enough to acknowledge that he knows it's there. His hands just move in motions that look as rote to him as breathing, checking each component of the weapon as he puts it deftly back together. It seems that if there's to be any conversation, Sam will be leading the charge. That lead-in, when it comes, brings James to tense. It's not an overt or obvious reaction, kept as low-key as most of his other responses, but sharp eyes would catch it happening and know why: he is preparing for the blow of an actual difficult question. What actually comes doesn't relax him, per se, but it does bring him to pause -- unsure and a little embarrassed. It's meant humorously, but James' jaw tightens a bit as he keeps his eyes averted. His attention rivets on the weapon in his hands, transparently regarding it as a sort of anchor -- the only thing that has been familiar and consistent throughout his entire life. " "Well," he says. "After I brought you to the dam in it, I drove it to your original intended destination, wiped it down, and left it there for a decoy," he says. "Might still be there. Left it in a parking lot." He shrugs slowly, uncomfortable, the gesture too young and taut for someone of his age and deadly reputation. "I couldn't make it -too- easy."
Sam Winchester	Sam may be leading the charge, but he's not sure how to proceed. So he has fallen back on what works with his brother. A little gentle humor. He is at least aware enough to know it might fall flat here, but he tries it, and he adjusts. He's certainly not fool enough to believe reaching out to James will be easy, let alone offering some kind of friendship. "Thanks, I'll go have a look," he says. Because there's no way to avoid the touchy bits-- all that stuff happened. He doesn't think pretending it didn't is exactly helpful, even if he doesn't blame the man now sitting here for the fact that it did. It's all uncomfortable, maybe will be for awhile, but he doesn't see that as much of a reason to avoid /trying/. The boyish grin drifts off his face in favor of something more thoughtful; he takes another sip, beer making slight sloshing sounds in the bottle. He looks out across the city and leaves his gaze mostly there. He nods to the M40. "My Dad had an M40. Lost it in one of his Hunts and never got around to replacing it, but I think it's the same kind of weapon he used in Vietnam."
James Barnes	At the least, there seems to be nothing particularly personal about the difficulty of the interaction nor the closed-off way James holds himself. It is obvious the trauma is still deep, the man still in shock from suddenly being reawakened to eighty years of truth after as many years of lies. How does a man easily process, all of a sudden, that his accepted reality was a lie, and that he was the punchline of some joke for decades? That he was made into the precise opposite of all he had aspired, since his youth, to be? It seems the only thing James has clearly figured out about his own emotional landscape is the fury -- the desire to fucking wipe out those who did him so incredibly wrong. The rage lurks beneath all his silences and lives permanently in his blue eyes. "I don't know what they intended for you," he eventually says, as if knowing that this all is awkward, that Sam is trying, but not knowing what else to do but offer facts and information. "They only told me so much. Now I see why that was, of course." His mouth twists bitterly. He finishes reassembling his weapon and puts it aside. He briefly considers his second weapon, before finally reaching to crack open a beer, instead. A tacit way of trying to lessen the tension. Sam eventually takes notice of the M40. He thinks it was the same kind of weapon his father used in Vietnam. "It was the weapon -I- used in Vietnam," he says. His downcast eyes hold a private addendum: and thank God he did not kill this man's father while he was there. "Wood stock was a terrible idea in the jungle, it warped like hell, but I liked how it handled otherwise." He makes no mention of how a Soviet killer might have gotten ahold of US weapons to begin with. He lifts the bottle and takes a long drink. "Standard issue for a Marine sniper. If he was one, he'd have used it."
Sam Winchester	"I know," Sam says quietly. "It's ok. We'll find out when they try something, unless we got lucky and Volkov is dead. I don't really believe it, and I'd like to go back to the site we blew up, have a look around. I don't know how smart that is though. Those people are an unknown quality to me. Would you be willing to go with me? I don't want to hold you up from any other actions you intend to take." That, at least, is familiar ground. There's a hunt. One that Barnes will, in one form or fashion, probably be taking on anyway. It eases some awkwardness from Sam, at least, though maybe not from the man beside him. "I'm also looking into the spell they were running through Claire, but I don't have anything on it yet." Another sip of the beer, and back to the M40. "Dad was definitely a Marine," Sam says. "I don't know if he sniped or what. I saw him take a few long distance shots with the thing, but...well, there's not a lot of the kinds of things we were after that standard guns help with to begin with. Shotgun shells are a little easier for us to modify." Though he cocks his head to the side as if making a note to himself on that front.
James Barnes	"We would have to be pretty lucky," James says bleakly, finishing another third of his beer. "I heard his last remarks. I saw Anastasiya remain behind. No... he was leaving, and he asked her to die for him to cover his departure." He takes the bottle in both hands, and his left clinks faintly against the glass with an unnatural sound. Sam asks if he'd be willing to go back with him, have a look around. The former Winter Soldier slants a stare at him sidelong, a lone wolf considering whether to entertain the company of a pack. He is silent a long time, transparently not wanting help or a posse, but eventually the remembrance of how Sam got into this mess in the first place brings his gaze to avert. "I already meant to go back and do just that," he begins. "I meant to go alone. This isn't anything anyone else needs to endanger themselves about." He shakes his head. "I guess you got more stake than most, though," he admits. "And there's still that hydra to account for. The spell too... like you mentioned." He grimaces. "I think the hydra will still listen to me. There is no undoing the initial imprinting so far as I know. I wouldn't bet anybody's life on it, though." He lapses into silence as Sam speaks of his father. The talk of Sam's family makes it more piercingly real, what he did to the younger Winchester. His silence is burdened. "Mine was Army," he eventually says, and the three words say a great deal in very few syllables.
Sam Winchester	It's Sam that wants his help, so he blinks a few times and gives a sheepish smile. As wolves go, this is an adolescent puppy really, big, huge, but still a pup. Only...a pup that had to figure shit out damn quick. As it is he doesn't have to make his case. Barnes is already agreeing, and he grimaces. "Son of a bitch. I forgot about that hydra." There has been so much going on that he /forgot/ about a /hydra/. And he's startled enough by it to use a phrase that is way more typical of Dean than of him. He makes a mental note to get /that/ research done too. Hydras are, as of yet, outside of his purview. "If it will still listen to you then I just gotta figure out-- we've just got to figure out-- what hydra's weaknesses are so we can gank it," he says solemnly. James tells him his Dad was Army, and he sits with that for a moment. Barnes followed in his Dad's footsteps. Sam rebelled. By. Getting a straight A average and running away to college. It fills him with shame all the same. He remembers seeing James' Dad, in the vision. "Was he a good Dad?" he asks. He seemed like a good Dad, but blithely telling another man you got a filmreel of some of the most intimate memories of his life is just rude, and, well, there were /days/ when even John Winchester could manage to pull out something reasonably paternal.
James Barnes	"Hell of a thing to forget about," James says, though he says it in a way that suggests he understands full well why Sam forgot. He looks puzzled about the word 'gank' -- not in his lexicon -- but covers his confusion by finishing his first beer and reaching for a second. He can guess the meaning from context, anyway. "Fire," he supplies, in regards to the weaknesses. "Intense and continuously-applied. The flash burns it got from the explosions weren't sustained enough." He shrugs. "I don't know the first thing about magic, though. Might be you find a cleaner way to tie it up." The persistent talk about family silences him. There is something that feels almost... imbalanced, to him, to stay silent while Sam is so open. He almost feels as if he owes... something, and his admission about his father might be the form which that concession takes. The question, however... Bucky looks away. He turns the as-yet unopened bottle in his hands. There are memories almost ninety years old circulating under his lowered lashes. "Yeah," he eventually says. "I wasn't a good kid." He pops the top off the bottle. "You probably already know that," he says, withdrawing again. The memories are both personal and painful. "Most of my life seems to be public record."
Sam Winchester	"Fire kills just about anything is kind of a truism," Sam says. He might find a cleaner way, but...fire is good. Sam looks down thoughtfully as Bucky comments that most of his life is public record. "There's...what the record says, and there's what a person says about his own experiences," he says. "I guess it just seems right to me to ask you directly, not rely on what I read or think I know." He is ready to let his childhood hero drift away on the wind in exchange for knowing the man who inspired that image. Though the toy soldier in the Impala has been Barnes for so long he's not sure it will bear any other name. Fortunately it's not something that ever gets addressed by name. With that said though, he has an intuition that he's perhaps coming close to too much togetherness. The hand has been extended. They've got some work to do together. And he has finished his beer. For today, it seems about the right amount of interaction, given Barnes' clear signs of withdrawal once more. "Let's go take care of those things soon," he suggests, as he stands up. He's leaving the rest of the beer, it seems. He offers a smile. Soon, but not today. Everyone is still in recovery mode, still processing. It seems better to let folks catch their breaths.
James Barnes	"I've found a couple things fire don't kill, in my time," is Barnes' grim rejoinder. "Men made entirely outta fire is one of them." He used to work with a couple, after all. He withdraws a little, however, as the conversation dares unexpectedly towards somewhat personal waters. Admitting small facts about his dad is once thing, it seems... but to ask him to dredge up any emotion related to his lost father is too much, too soon. The last time Bucky Barnes was still in his own right mind, after all, he was only twenty. His father was barely a decade in the grave. And now... "I guess that's true enough," he says. "There's little enough about me that the newsreels ever got right. Mostly on purpose. Lot of what I did wasn't fit to show the kids." Never mind that he was a kid himself, at the time -- at least by the standards of the modern day. At any rate, it seems right to ask the man rather than assume from a book, Sam explains. "Fair enough," he answers slowly. Perhaps feeling badly about his own standoffishness, he adds, "I might... have an easier time answering. In time." But ultimately, it seems work-- brutal, necessary work-- is the soul of what keeps James Barnes sane. He responds to 'let's go take care of shit,' more easily than anything else -- in fact, seems to respond almost with a desperate eagerness to have something to do to keep his mind from chewing itself inside-out. "Whenever you're ready," he says, his laconic voice reflecting little of that intensity in his eyes. "I got nothing but time to see them burned to the ground."