Chapter Text
"I still think that this is nothing but a giant waste of our time, and our gas."
They had just stopped at a red light, and the sidewalk was much more crowded than what they were used to. Sure, they've spent their entire lives on the road, always hopping from town to town following different cases, but somehow fate never landed them in a city even half the size of New York. They had nearly died while hunting down a particularly slippery jinn in New Jersey a few days ago, and when the job was done Dean managed to convince Sam (or, more accurately: he reminded Sam who owns the car) to take a 'quick detour to the big apple', in Dean's words.
And now here they were, cruising along the busy main streets, Dean nodding at the few passers by who have forgotten the New Yorker stereotypes and acknowledged their classic jet black ride with a wave while Sam was trying to ruin his mood, frowning in the shotgun seat, clearly annoyed.
Various night clubs, stands and the odd store still open at the late hour blurred past as they drove on, just below the speed limit. Dean could barely keep his eyes on the road, childishly enamored by everything new he saw. The street food the vendors were selling looked delicious, and he couldn't wait to get his hands on some of their goods. The ever present crowd of tourists and locals alike was unlike anything Dean had ever seen, not two people looking remotely alike.
Dean quit gazing at the people walking by on the sidewalks and turned to his brother. "Dude, quit whining. We're already here anyways, you might as well suck it up and enjoy our vacay." He honked impatiently at the truck in front of them, not because he had any particularly strong feelings but because he could finally get away with things like that in a crowd. "Besides, what do you have against some fun? It's not like we earned the gas money by hard labor at an office job or something. And we haven't been able to track down any jobs either, so just relax a little!"
Sam scoffed. "Whatever, man. I just hope you at least found a decent place for us to stay. It's late, and I've been sleeping on a pull-out for the last week. You can go hit every bar on the block, I'm fine sleeping for the next three days straight." The younger Winchester looked left to his brother, who gave him a grin in return. "Don't worry Sammy, got us a top shelf residency in the part of town where we'll definitely feel right at home." Sam was way too tired to care or think about his jerk of a brother's implications, and just turned to stare at the stores blurring by the car door window.
But after a couple more turns and traffic lights, he understood what Dean was getting at - gazing down at the city map they got at a gas station and were now using as a guide resting on the front seat, he recognized their location: Hell's Kitchen. Ha, ha, hilarious, he thought. Two guys who have had the worst time of their lives hunting demons and other hellish creatures, residing in a neighborhood named after the very place that was giving Sam gray hairs at the ripe age of twenty-five. He really hoped that his brother didn't force him to take this trip just to make this stupid joke. He turned towards the source of his annoyance, and saw a flicker of smugness in Dean's eyes, like he was waiting excitedly for his reaction. Too bad Sam was not giving him the satisfaction, as he just turned and ignored him.
There weren't many motels in a city as densely populated as New York, so Dean just chose the cheapest hotel he could find while gritting his teeth at the price. Leaving Baby parked in the nearest spot he could find, which was still a short walk away from the hotel entrance, he and Sam made their way to the lobby.
The entrance was not exactly up town, but not shabby either. Dean made his way over to the reception desk, where a bored looking red-haired girl quickly assessed him with a curious look from behind her glasses. Dean flashed her a smile, but Sam was already too busy moving along the room and didn't notice his brother's attempt to lower their renting price by charming the receptionist.
Despite his tiredness, Sam was too intrigued by being in a brand new place not to check all his surroundings immediately. He passed along the shelves bearing different tourist pamphlets advertising the 'Top Ten Spots in New York you Must Visit!' and stopped at a smaller section. It seemed to be more focused on the nearby area, the fliers and pamphlets now mainly talking about Hell's Kitchen and its developments.
He picked up a week-old copy of New York Bulletin, which on closer inspection he realized wasn't a full copy at all - it was a compiled list of nothing but articles involving Hell's Kitchen written in the original paper. It traced back as much as a couple of months ago, when the neighborhood seemed to suddenly started gain more traction for some reason.
He mindlessly listed trough it, checking if anything happened recently that might be worth checking out with his brother. Dean had called their stay here a vacation, but despite what he said to his brother earlier in the car, Sam would be damned if he just sat in a hotel room twirling his thumbs while people were suffering without his interference.
He was torn away from his thoughts by an article catching his attention: the majority of the page was covered by a blurry close-up photograph of a figure shrouded in shadow in action. In his experience, that usually points towards supernatural activity. He read further down and frowned. The article spoke about some kind of being, referred to as 'The Devil of Hell's Kitchen', fighting against a public figure and winning. He couldn't decipher much more from the vague writing which didn't really specify the figure's intentions being for the good or not, and from as much as he could decipher, the general public wasn't sure about that either.
'The Devil'? That was.. something. He will definitely keep this in mind. It's probably nothing more than a way for the newspaper to get more traction, but if he happens to find anything more note worthy, he'll forget his annoyance and tell Dean. Maybe he'll investigate the mysterious figure further tomorrow after his much needed few hours of sleep. Or not, it's really not his priority right now. He put the collection of paper cutouts back on the shelf.
He turned back towards the reception desk and made his way towards Dean, who turned around at the same time and walked towards Sam with the keys to their room in his hand and a pleased look on his face. They proceeded to make their way to their room, Dean throwing a crumpled up piece of paper, presumably containing a phone number, in the trash can on their way.
The two-bed suite they were assigned was nothing above average, but neither of them had expected anything more, so they dropped their bags without much complaint.
After they had called it a night and went to lay down in their beds, despite his throbbing headache and sore limbs, Sam couldn't sleep. He listened to the sounds of the city, hoping that they would lull him to sleep soon. After what seemed like an eternity of listening to loud police sirens, drunken yelling and even a stray gunshot coming from down the street, he decided to hone in on Dean's soft snores instead. As much as his older brother got on his nerves, he was one of the few constants in Sam's life, and just hearing Dean relaxed and near him had the tension in his muscles slowly begin to leave. But right as he was on the verge of consciousness, a bang on their fire escape stairs jolted him right back into action.
He silently yanked the covers down and reached a hand under his pillow, immediately grabbing the pistol he always kept on hand - courtesy of his hunter training and general anxiety over everything that was certainly always out to get the Winchester brothers. He spared a glance at Dean's bed, but his brother was unmoving, and Sam had no interest in hearing him complain about being woken up in the middle of the night if the sound that Sam heard just turned out to be a stray cat lurking around their room, or a particularly fat New York City rat.
Sam gripped the pistol tighter in his hands, blinking trough the sleepy haze quickly leaving his head to inch slowly towards the window. He reached it in a few strides and stopped in front of the closed curtains, pressing one ear to the cold glass and listening intently for any signs of disturbance.
A few slow seconds pass with nothing sounding out of the ordinary, so he reached a hand towards the curtains and lifted one slightly, creating an inch of free space from where he could observe the quiet street below them. Then he froze, realization setting upon him. He was right, the street was quiet. No more traces of the earlier yelling or the gunshots, they were all gone - replaced with an eery silence.
Something was definitely up. He stood by the window for a few seconds more, until he finally heard a sound from outside - loud, uneven footsteps from right below their fire escape, as if the person responsible for them was limping heavily.
He strained his neck to get a better view, and what he saw made his heart begin to pound a beat faster in his chest. A figure was staggering away from their building, limping on one side and grunting quietly. He took a soundless step back, but the figure suddenly froze in time with him, tilting its head, and for a second Sam feared it had heard him from what now had to be at least twenty feet away, not even counting the height difference from Sam being on the second floor.
But to his shock and dismay, he seemed to be right. He has been spotted, somehow. A lamp post flickered above the shrouded silhouette, and Sam could see it turn around and begin to drag towards him.
With only a split second to think, he yanked the window open and aimed the gun, pre-loaded with a salt round. The thing probably wasn't a ghost, but a rock of mineral salt to the head would hurt anyone. He fired a shot, certain to hit his target in the close proximity they were in, but the figure- was gone? No, that couldn't be right, Sam had just seen it-
A flash of movement dragged his eyes up towards the roof of the building opposite of him, and there was the figure. Outlined against the shine of the city lights and the full moon resting above them, someone was watching him, devil's horns clear in the dim light. In the blink of an eye, the figure was gone.
Sam desperately tried to calm his beating heart - he was raised a hunter, he's not going to freak out over a thing with its only clear ability seeming to be teleportation, or whatever the hell the figure just did.
He nearly stepped out to the fire escape, but stopped himself. Going after an unknown creature alone and without Dean even knowing will guarantee at least a week of anger and grumpiness from his brother, and Sam really didn't want to deal with that on top of everything. He looked down onto the street for one last sweep.
Where the figure had been walking, there was blood. Quite a lot of it, too. The fire escape where he was certain the thing landed at some point seemed to be clear of it though. He gazed back towards the roof where the creature disappeared, but it was empty with no signs of its return. He quickly assessed the narrow scene, gathering as much information as he could for what will now definitely be a job tomorrow.
The figure seemed to have the ability to teleport, or at least was able to move incredibly fast for it to scale a barren wall and climb onto a roof in the few seconds it took for Sam to get a shot in. On the other hand, there were some large trash cans and fire escapes that could very well be used to scale such a distance, but you'd need incredible reflexes and level of acrobatic skills to pull this off, and amazing knowledge of the terrain as well. From his experience, teleportation seemed more plausible to Sam.
But at this point, he really could do nothing but close the window, turning the lock for good measure. Tip toeing towards his bed on the other side of the room, he glanced at Dean.
The gruff facade of his brother seemed to fade when he was sleeping, the soft side even Sam only got to see on rare occasion showing. Dean must really be sleeping like a drugged baby, for all the ruckus that just went down not waking him up. He should feel damn lucky, Sam thought. At least one of them will be getting a good night's sleep.
When he finally awoke, it was to the sound of Dean blaring some too-loud rock music in his ears and grinning at him menacingly.
Sam lifted his torso and rested on his elbows, clumsily running a hand trough his horrible bed hair and rubbing at his eyes. He scowled up at Dean, but soon relaxed when he saw his brother's offering he was holding up in his hand.
"Here, Sammy. You took a while to get up so I just ran down to the coffee shop, got you some premium breakfast in bed."
In one hand he held up a muffin, seemed to be blueberry and raisin, while he placed a to-go coffee cup on the nightstand next to Sam's bed.
Sam mumbled an incoherent grateful response, throwing his legs over the bed and sitting up.
"You were pretty grouchy yesterday, so consider this a peace offering. Don't get used to it." He rolled his eyes but smiled before continuing. "I know how you're all about your rabbit food crap, so I just got you the healthiest option. No need to thank me, please. I know I'm thoughtful."
Sam's heart warmed a little hearing the care in his brother's voice, carefully hidden behind layers of snark and feigned nonchalance. He thanked Dean, gruff with his morning voice but clearer than his previous attempt at speech.
"Wha' time is it?" he blearily looked towards Dean. He obviously had missed his morning alarm, as Dean usually got up considerably after Sam did.
"Uh.." Dean dramatically mimed lifting his sleeve and checking his watch. "According to my wrist it's eleven. Honestly Sam, are y-" He was immediately cut off by Sam scrambling from the bed, nearly spilling the coffee he had picked up.
"Eleven?! And you waited 'till now to wake me? You know my routine, I wake up at-"
Dean rolled his eyes again. "Geez Sammy, what's with you? Is it your time of the month, did you turn into a chick?" He stood up, throwing accusatory hand gestures at Sam. "You've been so pissy lately, and don't you blame it on me."
Sam opened his mouth to argue further with his brother, but.. he had just woken up, had the worst night in months, and didn't even know what to say. He was way too exhausted for this. He closed his mouth and tried again after a few seconds.
"Okay dude, you're right. Just give me a second to wake up, I'll tell you. I saw something last night, we got a job."
With that he stuffed the remainder of his breakfast muffin in his mouth, chugged the last of his room temperature coffee, and made his way over to the bathroom.
He came back after about half an hour, his hair sitting nicely on his forehead, dressed in his old jagged trousers and the first clean t-shirt he could find - a muted purple color.
Dean was sitting at the small table overlooking the street down below them, and Sam joined him. When Dean looked at him pointedly, beckoning him to start talking, Sam began. "Okay, so yesterday - at the reception, when you were hitting on that worker-" Dean immediately interrupted. "-I wasn't hitting on her, I was just using the looks given to me to our advantage", he wagged his finger at Sam, "saved us a few bucks too, by the way."
Sam chuckled. "Okay, yeah, that. Anyways. I noticed a newspaper, some local stuff. I think that we got some kind of haunting here."
"..A haunting" Dean said, unconvinced. "What made you assume?"
"Well, I don't know if it's a haunting per se, it's probably not a ghost. But just check any news. 'The Devil of Hell's Kitchen', I think they're calling it."
"Dude. " Dean looked at his brother, as if expecting Sam to burst out laughing any second now, but halted at his serious look.
"'The Devil of Hell's Kitchen'? you mean as in, like, the maniac in tights? Daredevil, or whatever they're calling him now?" He searched for recognition in Sam's eyes, finding none. "You're actually not kidding, are you? You've never heard of him?"
Sam looked mildly taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. He leaned forward, his serious case-investigating face on, fully interested.
"Uh, no? Should I have?"
Dean sat back a little. "I mean, I guess it's not really our kind of deal, so no…" He waved his hand around. "It's just that you spend so much time with your nose on the news, I assumed you've probably heard of the guy. He's become a big deal, especially around these parts."
"Huh. " Sam seemed to take a moment to process the new information, then snapped his head back towards Dean. "Wait, what did he even do? Or, uh, what does he do? 'You said a 'maniac in tights', you mean like that spider guy or something?"
"Dude, calm down. I seem like a tabloid to you?" Dean shrugged. "He's just going around beating people up as far as I know. I'm pretty sure he went up against some big politician guy recently or .. something. I dunno. I'll leave the research to you, you seem pretty geeked up about him."
He huffed out a laugh at his own tease, then went over to one of the beds, flopping down onto his side and grabbing a magazine that came with their room. He lazily opened it and started flipping trough, then turned around when he realized Sam was still looking at him.
He turned his head over his right shoulder while still laying on his side. "Go do your thing, nerd," Sam heard him call out from the bed, "I'll be here. Some of us didn't get our beauty sleep like you did."
Sam snapped his fingers - "Oh, dude that actually reminds me of what I meant to say to you in the first place -" Dean looked at him from across the room, unimpressed at his peace being broken before it even really began.
"I'm pretty sure I saw him yesterday, Dean. Outside our room, on the street."
Dean leveled him with an uninterested look. "So? I'm pretty sure this block is his home turf, that's nothing to be worried about. Unless he came over to you and started complaining about smelling sulfur and noticing cold spots, this isn't a big deal."
"No, that's the thing - I swear there was something inhuman about him. He's not just a guy in tights, he's weird, like, our kind of weird." He realized how insane and incoherent he must sound right now, so he tried again, more simpler. "I saw him teleport, Dean." He paused, not sure how to continue without looking like he was pulling at strings. "So I thought about it, and you know what I think when I think teleportation? Crossroads demons."
Dean looked rightfully dumbfounded at that. Then he thought about it, mulling the proposal over in his head. "So, what you're saying is," he started slowly, "the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, famous vigilante, is actually a crossroads demon, picking up the souls from his deals? And that's why he's fighting people all the time? Not cause he's a guy with an inflated ego and a martyr complex?"
Sam immediately moved to defend his stance. "Well, to me it seems like the most obvious conclusion. I haven't really searched the guy up, so I might be wrong, but seriously dude. Why else would he be out in the streets fighting every thug he sees?"
Dean scoffed. "Yeah, how crazy do you have to be to risk your life all the time for no obvious cause? C'mon, think about it. If he's not a weird hunter then he's probably just a masochist with a leather suit fetish. Like I said, not our jig ."
A new counterpoint to further prove his right occurred in Dean's head, and he sat sideways on the bed before talking again. "Even if it was one, why would a crossroads demon walk around in a devil's costume and go trough the efforts of actually physically fighting people instead of sicking a hellhound after them? Pretty sure they got better stuff to do with their time."
But Sam seemed to be prepared for that argument as well. Damn his brother's mouthiness, Dean thought. "Well, remember that shapeshifter we fought in Pennsylvania, who posed and even acted as Dracula? Maybe this is a similar deal, a possibly rogue demon with a knack for theatrics. I say it's worth checking out."
Sam gave his brother a determined 'end of discussion' look, but on his face it translated as a patented Sam Winchester puppy-dog eye look. Either way, the big hazel eyes and the small pout on his brother's face won Dean over, as they always do.
Dean sighed in resignation, accepting his defeat. "Okay, I guess we really don't have anything better to do. Let's dig deeper into this guy, but if we don't find anything obvious that proves us you're right, I'm dropping it."
He stood up from the abandoned comforts of his bed to sit beside Sam at the small table and started listing gloomily trough the stack of papers already included in their room from where he got his previous magazine, now forgotten on the bed. Sam opened his laptop to start his own, more enthusiastic research, moving slightly to give some space to his brother on the table.
In the few newspapers on the pile, one stood out to Dean - the date was listed as a couple of months back, odd to keep unless it marked something important, a way for the hotel to keep their guests entertained and coming back - flaunting the importance of their location. He lifted it up to read the front page and in big, bold letters right below the company's name, 'New York Bulletin', was the title covering half of the page: DAREDEVIL COLLARS FISK .
That caught his interest, and examining the page closer, there were two more pictures of the so-called Daredevil. In the middle and half covered by the title text, there was a big photograph of a figure, wearing some kind of red fighting suit and mostly shrouded in shadow. Dean had to admit, to the normal person who didn't fight hell spawn on a daily basis, the little horns on the guy's head really must be somewhat intimidating. Aside from that, nothing seemed to be particularly demonic about him but maybe, Dean thought, that was the guy's intention.
The second picture, located on the bottom of the page, was more clear about the figure though still a bit blurry - probably a screen capture taken from a security camera mid action. The demon was now without the red suit seen in the first photo, instead rocking an all black attire. Half of the man's head was hidden below a black cloth, successfully concealing his face. Great for hiding your identity if you don't want it be known, but Dean noted it's also good for an another thing - hiding your eyes, if they were to, let's say .. glow bright red while using your demonic powers. Looking trough his brother's lens, Dean realized that maybe Sammy was actually onto something here.
He raised his eyes from the newspaper and opened his mouth to pass this information onto Sam, but his brother spared him from bruising his ego by having to admit his defeat again by beating him to it with an observation of his own, looking up from his laptop with an I-told-you-so look on his face.
"I think i got some of the proof you wanted", started Sam, moving his head slightly to flip the mop of auburn hair on his head out of his way. "So get this; like you said, the biggest feat of this guy was 'taking down' a philanthropist businessman Wilson Fisk. The kicker is, this happened about a decade after Fisk got big." Sam paused a little for dramatic effect, letting Dean connect the dots himself.
"So in other words", Sam relented, "This Fisk guy - I looked him up - was from the poor parts of the neighborhood, then suddenly, he rose to succession out of nowhere. After a specific time period, he's been 'taken care of by Daredevil' as the newspapers put it. To me, this smells fishy, er, sulfury? I don't know, but almost certainly this was a deal that ran out."
Dean bounced that over in his head for a second before slowly replying. "Yeah, and pair that with the fact that he's always carefully covering his eyes 'cause they're probably glowing red, and you straight up saw him teleport, I say I owe you a beer." Sam grinned at him, pointing a finger up at Dean over the table "Hell yes you do, dude. Why did you even doubt me in the first place?"
"Shut up, I'll punch you", came Dean's natural reply. "Now that this is actually a case, where do we begin? I don't think the dare-dude's got any sidekicks we can walk up to and press for more, no active crime scene for us to pose in as FBI.." He trailed off, distractedly looking at Sam who has now begun to furiously hit the laptop keyboard.
Sam seemed to throw himself into a brief search for conformation on a theory he had brewing in his head. After a couple minutes of the sounds of clacking keys and the slide of his finger on the cursor, he nodded to himself gleefully.
"The guy is obviously too into the mysterious act for the press to have any legit proof on him, so I went further into the Fisk case instead. And check this out - " he turns the screen towards Dean, who leans forward to get a look. It was a blurry photograph of three people, two men and a woman, standing in front of a bar, all smiling. They seemed to be celebrating something, considering the flush on their faces and the fact that one of the men, lean and wearing shaded sunglasses (in the evening, Dean noted), was still holding up a bottle of alcohol.
Dean was ripped from further developing his growing skills of deduction by Sam continuing. "These are the owners of a law firm, Nelson & Murdock," he pointed to the two men - the tall one with shaded glasses, and a shorter, stockier man with dirty blonde hair. Dean felt as if he could guess which one was which based on looks alone. "And this is their secretary, Karen Page." He moved his pointed finger slightly to the right of the screen, to a pretty woman with long straight blonde hair who looked like she packed a punch despite her thin frame. "Apparently, they are responsible for the biggest part in taking down Wilson Fisk, aside from the demon. In fact, they are said even to have been working with our guy. I think that they are our best bet for more information."
Instead of replying, Dean stood up from the chair, walking over to the small kitchenette and grabbing a glass of water. He took a tentative sip before a crease appeared between his scrunched eyebrows.
"So, you think they have ties to the demon? Why would an off-kilter businessman from hell be working with a small firm full of randos?" A couple of beats passed, both brothers silent in thought. "Maybe," Dean continued to think aloud, "they have some sort of leash on him? That seems like an incredible tool for a law firm, an infinite case-winning glitch."
Dean looked towards Sam, expecting him to shut his theory down, like he usually does. The fact that they are stuck in an endless business road trip doesn't mean that they will ever put a pause on their brotherly bickering. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see his brother finally agreeing with him quickly for once.
"Yeah, that actually seems kind of smart. Wish I'd have thought of that." The dry joke went past without as much as a huff from Dean, acknowledging Sam's past pursuit of a law degree before he was dragged back into hunting - the family business. Dean tried his best to ignore the tiny twirl of sadness in his chest over his little brother's fruitless attempts at a normal life, and went ahead to talk more about their newest case.
"So? You got any more info on them? Where's their firm's seat at, we can go and pay them a visit today."
Sam quickly switched some tabs on the screen, pulling up a website. "Well, according to their site, their office is right here in Hell's Kitchen. Just a couple of streets away, actually, no need for the Impala," he gave Dean a look as if that fact could possibly convince his brother. "Not much more info on their personnel though, except for their credentials and such." He looked at the screen in poorly hidden nerdy admiration, gawking at the words. "Woah. Summa cum laude at Columbia.. Even if these guys are using a demon to get their paychecks, they sure know their stuff."
"Yeah, yeah, Sammy. Stop fawning, I don't want to deal with another one of your man-crushes. What should our pretense be?" He ignored Sam's clear eye roll and abandoned his now half-empty glass of water on the counter, walking over to their beaten duffel bags to pull up the various cheap suits they've used over the few years they've been faking their identities, breaking multiple laws for the greater good.
"Uh..," Sam thought for a few seconds, debating their options in his head. "We can't be feds, I don't think that the FBI is bothered enough to actually be investigating the dare-dude. Maybe reporters?" Dean mulled over the options as well, eventually settling with his brother's recommendation. "Well, I'm not so sure they'll be willing to give out a ton of information about their top secret demonic activities to the press. But considering it's between that and being priests again," he trailed off, before Sam chimed in.
"Wait, we're complicating stuff too much here. They're criminal defense attorneys, we can just go there and fake a case for them to take. Of course, we bail before we actually go to court. But they will surely be more comfortable giving information out to potential clients."
"Huh", Dean replied, "why didn't I think of that?" Sam chuckled. "You've got a couple of strong suits, thinking just isn't one of them. No need to be ashamed of it." Dean scowled at him, feigning offense. "Shut up, bitch." Sam quickly delivered on their unspokenly agreed-upon saying. "Whatever, jerk."
And that's how the Winchesters find themselves a few hours later, dressed in their nicest casual clothes and walking towards a small office building. Dean was confidently leading the way, sporting his usual leather jacket over a bland tee and the most presentable jeans he could find. Sam tried to get him to give his boots a scrub, but his efforts were fruitless - a grumble of "c'mon, Sammy, a tiny lawyer's office can't be that fancy" was enough for Sam to drop it.
As for the younger brother, he was wearing the clothes he put on in the bathroom when he woke up, with an addition of his favorite, well, only dark arhartt jacket. Dean, as Sam later did about his boots, had given him shit earlier for wearing his old purple tee with a silhouette of a dog on it. Dean proclaimed it was too 'childish' to fit a man supposedly going to get legal help, but Sam just told him to quit it and left the shirt on.
As they rounded the corner of a street, they finally saw a plaque advertising their destination on the wall of a small building made of brick, with a hardware store on the bottom floor and rusty fire escape stairs climbing the wall.
They exchanged confident glances, Sam nodding encouragingly before making their way in. On their brief walk to their destination, they had quickly rehearsed the fake case story, mostly relying on their improv skills - well polished after many years - to get this over with without much suspicion.
Making their way up the cramped stairs and two long hallways, badly lit due to their closed-off position despite the autumn afternoon sun blaring outside, they finally arrived at a blurred out glass door with a cheap looking Nelson & Murdock sign on it.
Sam raised a hand to knock but before he could manage to make contact with the glass, the door suddenly burst open, and an tiny older woman stepped into their view, ignoring them while profusely thanking someone behind her back as she walked out of the office. Dean instantly recognized the smell of pie now wafting from inside the small space, which seemed a little odd for a client to bring along. But on second thought, he certainly wouldn't be against a home baked pie as a thank you from the people he and Sam helped once in a while.
Before turning the corner of the hallway to leave, the old woman turned around towards Sam and Dean still standing dumbly in front of the door. She gave them a wrinkly smile and said, trough a thick Spanish accent and over slightly teary eyes; "Don't worry, boys. You're in good hands now." Dean had to think about the time that he almost crashed the Impala and got beat up by John when he was sixteen in order to not start laughing his boots of right in front of the poor woman. She must've watched too many cheap telenovelas, talking to people like that. Again, she looked behind their confused and, in Dean's case, amused heads towards the room from where she just came out of and continued outside gratefully.
The display of genuine unadulterated gratitude rattled both Sam and Dean, throwing them off their game. They were preparing themselves for conversing with demon-owning locally famous stuck up lawyers, not the teddy bear looking man - who apparently saved fragile old ladies for a living - now standing in front of them in the doorway looking down the hallway where the old lady just disappeared off to with a fond smile plastered across his face.
The man blocking their entrance looked like he might've won multiple awards for New York's Most Approachable Man. Dean recognized him from the picture of the trio that Sam showed him earlier, but now he could take in more of the man. He was of average stature, though looked considerably shorter compared to the brothers, especially Sam. He did have quite a similar hairstyle to Sam's though, with shoulder-length, neatly combed hair minus the bangs that Sam stubbornly refused to let grow. He wore a dark gray suit with a pink button-up shirt underneath covered by a patterned tie, and seemed to be in his late twenties.
He regarded them with a practiced inviting smile, beckoning them into the small office. They obliged, quickly assessing the room for more information. Disappointed to find it was practically bare save for the desk at the front, large windows in the back and a rackety printer in the corner, they turned their attention towards the man who now sat comfortably on the edge of the big table.
He gave a minuscule flinch, as though he just realized he should probably say something and make his potential clients want to stay and talk, and not just stare at him in silence. Quickly schooling his face into a polite smile, he extended a hand towards the newcomers to shake.
"Gentlemen, hello! My name is Franklin Nelson, though you may call me Foggy, if you want." He smiled sheepishly, cementing his kind though obviously professional nature, before continuing. "Everyone does, anyway. How may we help you here at Nelson & Murdock?" After shaking Sam and Dean's hands, Foggy looked up to them expectantly.
In the other room on the side, Matthew Murdock was having a bad day. His alarm didn't ring, the line at the coffee shop he frequented each morning for his breakfast had winded longer than usual, and now even the damn braille printer decided to break on him. Oh, and on top of all that - he couldn't put pressure on his left leg, courtesy of a stab wound and a couple of stitches, and his ribs hurt each breath he took from a nasty fall down a fire escape. Why did he decide that moonlighting as a vigilante was a good idea? He obviously had enough on his plate already.
Though the fact that he had this conversation in his head every other day didn't stop him from repeating his escapades every night. It was just who he was - spending every waking moment of his life helping people, may that be in a court defending sweet old ladies from corporations wanting to tear apart their homes, bringing his coworkers and best friends coffee every morning, or of course beating the living daylights out of every criminal he came across in the dark streets of Hell's Kitchen. This was just day to day life to him, and he couldn't do without it.
It may not be what he had imagined for himself when he was a kid at St. Agnes, it's definitely not what his father had wanted of him either. But Matt had learned to live with that, and it has gotten significantly easier now that he has stopped lying to his friends about his activities.
The circumstances in which Foggy had found out about his secret identity were of course less than ideal - bleeding out on your couch was never a good way to break life changing secrets. But nearly half a year had passed since then and his best friend seemed to accept it, enough to even crack a joke about it once in a while or stay at Matt's apartment overnight to ensure he got home safe. They still had a minor disagreement about wether Karen should be let in on the secret as well, not knowing if it's more dangerous for her to be in the know or not. They eventually settled on not involving her, much to Foggy's grumbly dismay - but Matt had been insistent on the fact that this is better for their dear friend.
He adjusted the dark red tinted glasses that sat on his nose and continued to move his fingers over documents, reading them carefully. It was incredibly hard to focus, his head throbbing from the cacophony of noise coming from down the street, from inside their building, and from the room over where Foggy seemed to be accepting two new clients.
He sighed in resignation, not even slightly in the mood to plaster on a smile and welcome newcomers. He really hoped that the two men he could hear conversing with his partner weren't the kind of assholes that took just one look at him and immediately asked what was a blind man doing at a law office, because he might just lose all self control and punch them if that happened to be the case. He shook those thoughts away - a job was a job, so he stood up from his chair, carefully stepping on his injured throbbing leg and running a hand over his shirt to check for any blood stains from torn stitches. Detecting no questionable warmth from spilled blood on his torso, he extended a hand to brush against the wall to his right. He didn't need to do that, could sense where he was just fine, but it came on instinct. He made his way towards the door separating his office from the main greeting area that they mostly used for takeout lunches when clients weren't around.
Honing his radar senses onto the room he stepped into, he quickly started mentally breaking apart and cataloguing the odd pair of strangers that he could sense. After noting their general size and posture - Good lord, that man was tall - the first thing that hit him was their smell. To him, they downright reeked of gasoline, fast food and the dry cleaners, though he doubted the smell was obvious to anyone else - they were both wearing cologne after all. Their smells mingled and mixed together, and if Matt had to guess he'd say that they spend quite a lot of time with each other. Not lovers, he noted, as there were no traces of arousal on either of them. Good friends then, or coworkers with a shared working space.
The conversation stopped when the trio noticed him enter. He strode his way across the room over to the table that he could sense Foggy was leaning on, subtly finding his foot with his own to confirm his position and settling himself next to his partner. Foggy stood up from the table straighter when Matt came next to him, attempting to give off a more presentable and sophisticated vibe to their clients. Obviously, can't have both of the professional lawyers leaning on the table like they were in a bar. Matt had always deemed his partner's attempts at looking like some big shot silly, mostly because he's been there with Foggy while he had beer spurting out of his nose from too much laughter. But he understood the attempt - after all, they were a serious firm with serious goals to achieve. Following his friend's lead, he fixed his own posture, though he still leaned slightly on the table. He was an injured blind man, sue him for wanting some small comfort of a crutch. Hell, sue him and he'll win!
One of the men - shorter than his friend, rocking a cropped spiky hairstyle and a sharp set jaw - stepped up towards the pair of lawyers. Before he even opened his mouth to speak, Matt could easily hear the sound of muscles tightly coiling in focus and determination all across the man's body. Not something that their clients usually did, he noted - at least not the well-intentioned and innocent ones. Shifting his focus to the taller man, he could tell that both of the newcomers were exhibiting the same characteristics - and combining that, Matt could tell that they likely weren't here because they were victims. He cocked his head, trying to listen for the men's heartbeats. They were both steady as of now, a practiced calm. He'll let them speak their minds for a little while longer.
"Matt! These are Mr. DeLonge and Mr. Hoppus. And gentlemen, this here is my partner - Matthew Murdock". Matt was thankful for Foggy's introduction disconnecting him from his thoughts, and he flashed a polite smile towards the pair. "Pleasure to be at your service", he quipped confidently. The shorter, bow-legged man, who frankly reminded Matt of a squirrel - with the way he was short, tense and jittery - came closer to the lawyers, offering Matt a hand to shake in greeting.
A split second of silence shared between them, and the man realized his mistake. Seemingly flustered, blood rushing to his face and a nervous laugh barely escaping him, he removed his hand from hanging in the air between them. Both Matt and Foggy were used to this exact moment repeating with the majority of people the blind man met, so they let it slide with just a small grin. Trying to recover from his brief embarrassment, he quickly responded to fill the now awkward silence. "Pleasure is all ours, Mr. Murdock, Nelson. We're grateful that you're willing to take our case, I know it sounds pretty shady."
Matt cocked his head, intrigued. He hadn't been focusing on the pair of them when they entered and told Foggy the predicament they were in, so the way he turned slightly towards his partner and furrowed his brow for explanation wasn't feigned, as it so often is. Foggy immediately got the clue, filling Matt in with an explanation. "Mr. Hoppus here on your left," he gestured towards the shorter man, "was at a party with his friend, Mr. DeLonge. They were the last to see a girl before she allegedly committed a murder and disappeared, and are now treated as suspects in her case."
The monolith of a man standing near the doorway now added his input for the first time since Matt had entered. His voice was softer than Matt had expected, nearly timid. "Yes, I agree it must look bad from outside. But we're innocent, just gave her a drive, she seemed drunk. We really had nothing to do with it." Matt frowned. Both of the men now seemed to be giving off strange signals that obviously only he could pick up on, as Foggy was acting like he always did towards potential clients - calm, understanding. But Matt could tell that something was wrong - the tall man's heartbeat sped up when he added his remark, now beating considerably faster than if just nerves were to blame. Lying, Matt figured. He could the hear blood rushing rapidly in both of their bodies, so the shorter man was in on it too. Further incriminating him, the man in front of him was swallowing down saliva more than what an innocent and collected person did, sweat pooling at his hairline - Matt had learned that this all always amounted to something.
But he couldn't just turn them away with no obvious reason, he'll need to press further. Collecting all of his experience in getting information, both from choking thugs against the walls of dark alleyways and from sitting trough years of boring lectures at Columbia, he started. "So, tell us more about your situation," he directed. Get them comfortable before springing onto them, he chuckled in his head. Works in the office and in combat. "Have you spoken to police yet? We advise you against doing that with no counsel present." Matt could hear the flick of hair against fabric as the two men turned to look towards one another, exchanging a look. As if they weren't sure that their stories would match up.
"Uh, we haven't spoken to any authorities yet, no," the shorter of them confirmed. "We were planning to, just haven't gotten around to it - like you said, better to have council present." He cackled a bit, trying to lighten the mood that he could probably feel was getting colder by the second. "We watch enough movies to know that that's not a smart move, hah."
Foggy didn't seem to notice the weird atmosphere hanging around in the room yet, so he just replied, smiling. "Good, that's one of the things that the movies get right, usually." He walked around to the back of the table, pulling up some paper. "Well, considering that you haven't spoken to police yet I'm assuming that you aren't official suspects yet, but you'll probably become ones soon. Smart move to come to us. Now, we can start on the-!"
He was cut off in his court proceedings by the door slamming open, a flushed Karen stumbling in, her blonde hair a mess. "Jesus! Why did I ever decide to move to this God forsaken city?? The stupid traffic's a mess, I'm pretty sure that damn barista spit in my drink, and - oh." She stopped in her ramblings when she nearly slammed her face into the muscled chest of the tall man now looking down at her with a mix of terror, confusion and amusement. "Uh..," she sputtered, seemingly even more embarrassed than the bow-legged man who tried to initiate a handshake with a blind person earlier. She turned angrily towards her bosses, her voice accusatory as he whisper-shouted. "Matt, Foggy. You didn't tell me we were expecting clients!" Looking towards the other two men, she smiled deceivingly innocently and continued. "I am so sorry."
The tall man into whom she just nearly crashed gave her a reassuring smile. "No, no, don't worry - we didn't have an appointment anyway, we must be intruding, really." He sheepishly looked towards his spiky-haired friend, seemingly finding comfort in their eye contact. "You must be Karen?"
Karen seemed pleasantly surprised at having been recognized. She glanced at Foggy, her eyes grazing just for a second over Matt. No reason to look towards someone who cannot see you, after all. She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks still pink. "Yes, that's me! Sorry for this introduction, I don't usually barge into the office like this."
As the now overcrowded small room filled with small talk, a shrill sound suddenly pierced Matt's ears. The pitch of it took every fiber of his being to fight against squirming or making a face of utter discomfort. It reminded him of the high frequency hum that some devices let out, specifically ones used for playing music, like a Walkman. Though that couldn't of have been the case, as he couldn't hear any music and nobody else in the room seemed to react to the intrusion save for the shorter man twiddling with something in his jacket's pocket. The guest must be responsible for whatever was attacking his over sensitive ear drums right now, Matt was sure of it. Sadly, societal norms (and his leg, he winced) didn't support him jumping over the room and tackling the man to the ground, and of course, he shouldn't be jumping to conclusions either. Mr. Hoppus, or whatever the man proclaimed his name to be, would of have made a move by now if he and his companion were here to hurt him.
Using the opportunity of the room not wanting his specific say in their relaxed conversation, he took a few seconds to brainstorm all of the possibilities of what could possibly be causing the dog whistle attack on his ears. The painful sound had now stopped and conveniently, Mr. Hoppus had both of his hands in front of him - which means the device could be of the recording type, a microphone of sorts. He recalls a similar sound bothering him when he and Foggy sometimes had to record testimonies, though it had been much less extreme. And if the men had microphones that could record, it could just mean one thing. Matt snapped his thoughts back to the present conversation.
Hoppus was now talking, sending a charming grin Karen's way. DeLonge rolled his eyes at his friend's advancements, and Matt mentally agreed with the taller man. Hoppus continued on, unbothered. "Yeah, we just got a stay at the hotel a few streets over there," he pointed vaguely with his arm. "Don't even get me started on the parking fees - a parking spot costs us the same as the room." Matt saw an opportunity, taking it. Get them comfortable and spring, he repeated in his head smugly.
"The parking spot," Matt inquired, "does that mean that you're still driving the same car that you hit the woman with?" He held in his breath for a beat, anxious to see if the men would fall into his trap. He could hear Foggy turn to face him with an air of confusion, as it was a rookie technique, really - but it had yet to fail him in weeding out real information from false.
The shorter man however did not hesitate. Turning away from Karen and placing a hand behind his neck, he smiled sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, we are. She didn't really get wrecked too bad in the crash, so-" a pointed cough from his companion stopped him dead in his tracks. Hoppus realized his error, and in horror tried desperately to save himself, but it was to no use. "Well, uh no, what do you mean?" His heartbeat was now so frantic that there really was no doubting his intentions of coming here. "There was no car crash. Just, uh a girl. Murder." He let out a strained laugh, but Foggy and Karen have finally caught on and were eyeing the pair suspiciously, ready to strike if needed.
Matt rose up, taking a step towards the middle of the room. He was now vaguely facing the two men. With an accusatory, he began. "You aren't really here for a case, are you? And how did you know Karen's name? Neither me nor Foggy ever mentioned her." The strange men took a step back each. The shorter one, Matt was starting to notice that he was considerably more vocal than his companion, tried to play their defense again. "Uh, no we just, uh - Saw you guys in the - the newspaper. An article, yeah." Lie, Matt could easily tell.
Matt did not risk taking another step towards the men. Instead, he twitched his lip into a small smirk and cocked his head to the side in challenge. "Oh, the newspaper? While we're on about the press," he paused for a beat to assess the men's reactions - elevated heartbeats, as expected, and quick intakes of breath - meaning he's hitting the bullseye on his accusations. "I couldn't help but notice that little device you got in your pocket." He lifted his arm slightly, pointing towards the spiky haired man's jacket with one finger. The man's eyebrows shot up, almost reaching his hairline. His surprise was to be expected, not even a sighted person could have possibly spotted the recorder. Matt paid no attention to his surprise, continuing. "Recording? Smart. Let me guess - The Bugle sent you, another bout of reporters trying to get our side of the whole 'Daredevil' thing, I presume?"
Heartbeat quick and shuffling once on his feet, the taller man spent no more than a second before replying. "Um, yikes. Hoppus, guess we're busted, might as well lay our cards down." 'Hoppus' looked at him in disbelief, opening his mouth to argue, before his partner cut him off. "No, they deserve to know the truth. We've bothered them enough." He sighed, but his heartbeat was still elevated. This is a big thing for them, Matt guessed. He's still nervous. "Look, you're right. We lied to you about the case, we're sorry, but we really need information on the.. Daredevil." Matt could hear his body tense, but detected no significant lie. The shorter man cut in, supporting his friend's claims. "..Yeah. Look, you don't owe us a thing, but this is big for us. Can you tell us anything, anything at all about the vigilante? We'll be out of your hair just, uh, anything that'll make the boss happy."
Matt could sense Foggy and Karen exchange a look, conversing with no words. Matt thought it was a bit of a rude thing to do in front of your blind friend, but he'll let it slide this time. He decided to take the reigns on the situation, seeing as it was about him after all. He could not hear any blatant lies in the men's confession, but he's not going to give them any actual information about himself that easily - but a few not-truths wouldn't hurt.
"So, you want to know more about our one-time helper? Uh, let me think." He turned his head to the side, a slightly mocking gesture. "Well, I heard some reports down at the precinct - he seems to be almost impossible to get on camera, like he always knows where they are. Apparently, he's also got almost super-human reflexes, always being able to dodge." He gave a tiny smile, one that only Foggy could pick up the true meaning of. His best friend, seemingly possessing the ability to read Matt's mind, continued the ploy he has caught on.
"Ah yes, dude's freaky. Karen, remember that client who came in proclaiming Daredevil beat him up? Said that you could 'shoot the devil all you want, bullets don't hurt him'? Like the guy wasn't even human."
Karen gave a brief confused chuckle, only half realizing the lawyers' plans. Of course, she had no reason to play along, Matt mused. Not knowing Daredevil's true identity, she must've thought that her bosses were just in the right mood to mess with the two poor reporters. Ignoring her doubts about the situation, she aided her friends.
"I do remember that. But - I also remember when I was saved by Daredevil, before he even got that nickname. He appeared so suddenly! I didn't even hear him approach, seriously. He was like a ghost, or some sort of invisible.. thing. Beat that thug up too, horrifically."
Matt cringed the last addition, and he hoped that Foggy didn't think about it too much. Focusing back onto the two reporters who have been listening intently throughout their mock statements, he gave them a curt nod. "Gentlemen, I think that this is the best you'll get of us, my apologies. Our collaboration with the vigilante really was just a one time thing - go tell your boss that, I'm sure you won't get into too much trouble." He smiled a sharp-toothed grin, the kind of expression you unlock after finishing law school and passing the bar. "Certainly not more trouble than you'll get into if you walk into another law office faking your identity."
And with that, the men were again apologizing and stumbling to thank the trio. Ducking their heads, they headed out of the office to do the walk of shame down the long hallway.
Matt smiled. He and Foggy will have a lot to laugh about next time they go to Josie's.