Chapter Text
Three hours had passed since the confrontation at Nelson & Murdock and the brothers were sitting in an Indian restaurant down the street of their hotel room. Their window booth was surrounded by colorful flashing light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, cheery music playing from the hidden speakers and an overall pleasant atmosphere created by the other guests. But their cozy surroundings did nothing to stop them from mulling over their thoughts, sitting in silence across from each other.
"Okay, so," Sam broke the bubble of quiet. "You tracked no EMF at all in the office, a ghost is definitely off the list. The lawyers did emphasize the guy being unbothered by bullets and being supposedly 'all seeing', and that paired with what we know from the papers.. I think we've got enough proof. This is a job, and we need to start tracking Daredevil down."
The waiter came, a woman with her thick dark hair in a braid. She smiled at them, practiced from her time spent with customers. Balancing multiple plates on her arm, she gave them their orders - for Dean, a plate filled with assorted meats and carbs and Sam a bowl of greens. As she left, both of them leaned over the table, watching her walk away. When the air was clear Dean continued their conversation, now around a fork full of curry.
"Yeah, but - problem," he swallowed. "We can't trap him if we have no clue where the guy will be. He's obviously not a regular crossroads demon, so summoning him would be a no-show. We only know that he's stalking Hell's kitchen. Maybe a stakeout? Heh, We can find the shadiest alley and wait 'til something goes down."
Dean looked away from his brother after his half-serious suggestion, giving his plate some more attention. But before he could do much more than stab his fork into a chicken thigh, Sam was speaking.
"Dude, that's actually not a bad idea. Though maybe we should stick to the rooftops - high vantage, less chance of us getting involved in the beating. We can do it tonight already."
Dean took a few seconds to focus on his bite before humming in agreement. Taking a sip of his beer and pushing another fork full into his mouth, he looked at Sam. "And what when we find him? He's a skilled fighter, even for us. He probably watched too much Karate Kid back in Hell - I mean, you've seen that camera footage - he's capable of taking on like ten guys at once, without even using much of his demon mojo. How will we overpower that?"
"I'm not really sure about that either," Sam replied. "I say we lay low for a few days, watch and keep track of him - learn his movements. Then, it's probably our best bet to lay down a Devil's trap for him, have him trapped and tied." Dean nodded, and for a few minutes they continued eating in silence. It's not often they got to enjoy something that wasn't roadhouse burgers, and they could both appreciate the change of culture. After they've finished their plates, Dean stood up, fishing around in his leather jacket for his wallet and putting four crumpled up ten dollar bills onto the table. Sam picked up his jacket from the seat next to him and they stood up to make their way towards the glass exit doors.
— - +
It's way past eight in the evening when they arrive back to their small hotel room. On the way here, they had stopped at the Impala's parking spot to pick up some essentials from the trunk - holy water, rock salt and a bucket of paint they'll store in their room for when the time comes to put the trap down. Sam also had the thought of grabbing two pairs of binoculars, not often used on their hunts but a must for this one.
They did a light sweep over the area and found an open roof access door on a tall apartment building overseeing a big part of the kitchen - perfect spot to execute their plan for the night.
Once arriving at the hotel, they quickly changed their clothes to ones more fit for an October night stakeout, adding layers of undershirts and flannels to their figures. Dean grabbed a duffel bag filled with their needed supplies plus some snacks, a bland oat protein bar the older brother called bird food for Sam and a much more sugary one for Dean.
Once set, they glanced over the room again to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything important and stepped out into the New York City night.
The building they assigned as 'theirs' for the hunt was a fifteen minute walk away, and Sam had to glare at Dean for a good thirty seconds to convince him that they don't need to take the car. Arriving at the pale yellow brick and plaster facade, they scaled the ten flights of rickety spiral stairs quietly as to not draw any attention to themselves from the tenants, and opened the creaking roof access door.
The rooftop was generic for the city, a concrete platform littered with broken bottles and discarded food wrappers. Every few feet a ventilation fan would rise up, all connecting to a large exhaust fan at the far end of the building.
Swatting away a flock of pigeons Dean set the supply bag down at a ledge ten feet away from the door and took out an old woolen blanket, setting it down on the hard cement ground to make their job more comfortable. Sam sat down next to him and handed him binoculars, exchanging determined looks.
They sat like that for an hour, surrounded by the ever-present sounds of the city. In the late hours of the night, they were kept from dozing off by the inconsistent traffic, horns blaring and people drunkenly laughing and yelling on the streets below them.
As the third hour of their stakeout had passed, even New York seemed to quiet down around them. Earlier in the night the brothers had agreed on exchanging half an hour of sleep each, and so Dean was now spending his time with his headphones on, music blaring while he tested how many times he could poke Sam in the ribs before his brother woke up.
He figured it wasn't worth the bitch face Sam would give him if he woke up before the half hour timer went off, so Dean shuffled back towards the ledge, his back braced on the low fence. He turned his face to peer down at the dark alley below them, stilling when he saw movement from the main street down their way.
The sound of harsh boots hurriedly hitting concrete filled his ears as Dean quickly ripped out his headphones, disconnecting them and pressing his body down so he won't be as easily seen from below. The top of his head peaked over the ledge as he took another look, and he relaxed.
Down the alley came a woman, and judging by the way she swayed slightly on her feet Dean could discern she's been at a bar. Takes one to know one, he chuckled. He sat up on his knees, observing her further. It's not like he had much else to do, and shut up Sam, she's a beauty!
She wore chunky black boots on her feet, leg warmers more for style than use and ripped fish nets on her long legs. Her hands were deep in the pockets of a fur jacket that almost swallowed her whole torso. Had Dean not been on a job and had she not been drunk already, he would already be making his move.
But in a split second, the scene changed. A second silhouette emerged from the dark end of the street, opposite of the woman. Dean tensed.
He watched as the dark figure inched closer to the woman who was none the wiser, pressing the buttons on her phone furiously. Surely this was not what Dean thought it was?
When he saw the glint of steel reflect off of a lone light in the alley and shine on the small pocket knife the approaching man slipped from his sleeve, Dean had all the conformation he needed. He knew he had to move fast to save the woman, even though he'd be rescuing her from a different kind of monster than usual.
Dean jumped up to his feet and quickly rummaged around for his gun, deciding not to wake Sam. A warning shot should scare the creep off and if it wouldn't, then he'll have to opt for a shot in the leg. Dean hoped for the latter.
He had one hand steadily gripping his rifle in the duffel bag and pulling it out when he heard a series of grunts coming from down below. The man had made his move.
Dean whipped around and peered down the edge again, gun cocked and aimed at the alley. His trigger finger almost clasped down before he realized there was no one to shoot at.
The woman was turning the corner, her high boots hurriedly clicking against the cement as she stumbled and ran.
It took Dean a second to find the man in the dark - when did the street light stop working? - He was slumped against the wall, his back resting against the brick. He was heaving in pain, clutching his arm close to his chest and his face bloody. Could the woman really have done this much harm in the short amount of time that Dean's attention was elsewhere, even in her drunken state?
The hunter's blood ran cold as he realized that this was not the case, as a foot away from the beaten man, there stood a taller figure. Shrouded in shadow, menacing. It crouched down low until it was at eye level with the scum, and Dean could see its mouth move as it muttered something to the man. From his high vantage point, Dean couldn't see much else except for the rough stubble on the tall figure and the glint of hard metal horns. This was him, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Blood dripped from Daredevil's knuckles as he rose up again, and Dean held his breath, his heart beating fast. As the demon took a step back and cocked his head to the side, Dean moved a step back and blindly beat his arm behind his back in search of Sam's sleeping figure. His brother had to see this.
He felt his finger prod into his brother's side, and Dean risked taking his eyes off of the demon still standing frozen down below to shake Sam awake. But just when a grouchy groan escaped his brother's awaken mouth, Dean heard a low whistle in the air and felt the air around him change. Before he could move to react, the only thing he felt was pain as a dull object hit his head.
The last thing he could see clearly was the object being reeled back to its owner (a grappling hook?), and the demon disappearing back into the shadows as Dean was enveloped by the dull, aching darkness.
— - +
In the early hours of the morning, the city was as loud as ever as Matt sat on the ledge of a fire escape staircase and let his radar sense take him away. His face sported a mild gash, courtesy of an attacker's dull knife that Matt felt was more strategic to let it graze him than to dodge. Ignoring his sore ribs and badly bruised leg, he was content with ignoring the pain.
He could sense a cat scurrying after a rat on the back alley below him, a man watching this night's baseball match one floor above him, a woman snoring softly the floor under. Nothing out of the ordinary, no people in need of saving. The city was safe, just for this night. Matt smiled to himself. He made that happen.
But his thoughts kept running in circles, leading him back to the drunken woman he saved from a thief preying on her or more specifically, the two men above him that watched it happen. He knew who they were, he was positive of that.
It was the same two men that visited his office the previous day, lying trough their teeth about their identity. In their brief encounter, Matt had inspected them well enough to know the shape of their bodies.
He presumed they were just reporters, but now even that thought seemed far fetched. In theory, he could see why two reporters would camp on a rooftop in the middle of the night, no matter how strange it seemed. Life was hard, and New York's press will do anything for money - or to get a good shot in their case.
But still, Matt could not wrap his head around one question. Why would two reporters just 'scouting for a good picture' need to have a whole arsenal of loaded guns right next to them, waiting to be used? The stench of weaponry was unmistakable, though containing higher concentrations of salt than Matt was used to in bullets. He could say with certainty that those two men were definitely not reporters.
His brain took him back to that dark alley, right before Matt could pounce on his target. In the periphery of his senses, he could feel the air shift feet above him as one of the men turned around for a shotgun.
Matt had no idea who the men were, what were their intentions, who they worked for. He was not about to give the unknown assailant above him the chance to shoot, no matter who he was aiming for.
The vigilante wasted no time, throwing one of his batons and hitting the lone street light above them. With the alley now plunged into darkness, he made quick work of putting down the armed gruff man below him, lowering his own body next to the heaving man and delivering a low threat, assuring that the man will not return.
Matt rose to his feet once again, testing his surroundings. He took a step away from the man and cocked his head to the side, ignoring the warm liquid dripping down his knuckles with an echoing plop, plop, plop to the ground. The woman he saved was now more than two streets away, her high heeled boots hitting the cement. Good. But he could still feel a pair of eyes watching him from above, frozen in place.
What did the two looming men want, who did they work for? Were they one of Fisk's goons, still loyal to their master?
Matt tensed as he heard a heartbeat quicken, followed by shuffling from above. The man was moving to wake up his sleeping partner, no doubt calling for aid. He will not allow that - though Matt was sure he could take on two more men this night, he knew too little about them and they were much too unpredictable.
In a split second decision and without even turning his head to look - he had reason to act as if he needed to - Matt slipped his batons out of his thigh holster and chucked one of them with all of his strength, ricocheting it off the narrow alley walls. As he heard it hit its target, minutely disposing one of his observers, he smiled.
No need to stick around now. He quickly maneuvered himself away from the scene and disappeared into the depths of Hell's Kitchen, searching for a new person to save - the night was still young after all, and the vigilante had no time to waste with these two while dozens of other people were in need of much more urgent help.
— - +
"Dean! Geez, you had me worried there for a second."
Laying down on a stiff hotel bed, surrounded by bottles of water and painkillers, Dean drowsily opened his eyes.
"Sa- Sammy?" Dean's voice cracked, dry. He coughed twice, clearing his voice enough to give speaking a new attempt.
"Wha' happen', man? Last thing I 'member was we w're on that rooftop, an - oh. Son of a bitch." The older Winchester's head instantly cleared as memories came flooding back to him. The stakeout, the woman, the demon. The hard sting of pain was the last thing that he could recall.
He raised himself on his elbows and snaked a hand around his head, pressing down near the base of his skull. He flinched as the pain soared trough his body, and he quickly removed his hand and stared at Sam.
The younger brother stood still above Dean's bed, chuckling weakly.
"Yeah man, he got you good. But it's nothing you haven't bounced back from."
Dean squinted his eyes up at Sam, as if saying you try being hit in the head by a friggin' steel boomerang. Sam gave a sheepish smile, offering his brother an explanation.
"I debated taking you to the hospital when you blacked out on me, but from what I can tell it's just a mild concussion. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Yeah, whatever," Dean replied groggily as he reached to his bedside for a water bottle. "Did you at least see what he got me with? Felt like getting smashed by a gun's barrel, and I swear the thing just flew away after it got me."
"Well, I dunno. I was barely awake when I saw you get hit and the demon running away," Sam shrugged. "But, while you were out, I did some research."
Dean rolled his eyes. Of course his brother had to be doing research, always. He nodded at Sam to continue.
"I read some witness reports, you know - people who Daredevil 'saved', even some anonymous ones who he beat down. None of them mention any kind of weapons being used aside from his fists. No guns, knives, nothing - except for one thing."
He turned around towards the small table, grabbing his old laptop and setting it on his knees as he leaned back.
"According to the residents of Hell's Kitchen, Daredevil has an odd way of getting around - when he's not teleporting from place to place, he swings. Apparently, with some multi-functional grappling.. thing."
"Like a grappling hook? I knew it," Dean interjected.
"No, see - it's not. It's more like, uh, some people here call it -" he squints at the screen. "Billy clubs."
"Dude, don't call them billy clubs. Makes them sound like an erotic toy."
Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.
Dean paid him no mind, just grinned stupidly at his own joke before continuing. "So, like.. batons? Police batons? That's what those are, right? Still doesn't explain how he hit me with those."
"That's where the 'multi-functional' part comes in, Dean. I think it's like some sort of Jack Of All Trades kind of weapon. Close range, long range, transportation.. Kind of creative, I gotta give him that."
Dean scowled. "Yeah, whatever. All I know is it hurts like a bitch."
"Stop whining, Dean. There's some pills there, take them. They'll help you. Just not too much, you know what happened when y-"
"Okay, okay, Sam," Dean quickly said before Sam could even finish his sentence. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that one time."
Sam threw his hands in the air, a mock gesture of surrender.
"Just reminding you, man," he grinned. "But I'm serious. Take the pills, be ready in an hour. We'll go get some more info' outside."