This will be the first in a series my muse decided I would write. It may be a while before the next one, but the general idea is to crossover Daredevil with anything and everything under the sun. Yeah, I know, I'm insane, but my muse is a ruthless dictator and there is nothing I can do. Enjoy!

The phone rings silently, vibrations shivering down the table legs and into the floor, traveling so that Matt can feel them beneath the rubber-and-leather soles of his shoes. He focuses on his surroundings, searching for the flowery smell of Karen's perfume, the click of her heels and the swish of her dress.

Both are absent. Karen is on lunch break, which makes it safe for him to be himself.

"Foggy," he calls, his voice soft and yet somehow carrying across the small space of their practice.

There is a thump and a curse and Foggy moves into the doorway, rubbing his head. "Damnit, Matt!" he says. "What?!"

Matt cocks his head. "What were you doing?"

"I was fixing that table leg, which you damn well knew."

"Me?" Matt feigns innocence, widening his eyes beneath his sunglasses in an expression that he has been told is reminiscent of a guilty puppy. "How could I possibly have known that?"

In fact, he's heard the table wobbling on uneven feet for weeks now. It's maddening.

"Quit acting like an invalid!" Foggy moans. "Murdock, you had better have a reason for making me knock my head on the bottom of my desk." His muscles stretched downwards in what must be a frown. "It hurt."

Matt chooses to ignore his friend's theatrics and gestures towards the cell phone on the reception desk. "Your phone's ringing."

There is a moment of silence that must be Foggy sending a glare his way, before the familiar footsteps tromp across the room, echoing through the hollow floorboards. The phone is scooped up and Foggy taps the screen, holding it to his ear.

"What do you want?" he growls rudely. Matt chuckles softly and leans against the doorway, arms crossed before him.

"Oh, come on, you know they make her feel better."

Ah. Brett, then. "Are you seriously still bringing Bess cigars?"

Foggy waves a hand at him—shut up, Murdock—and continues with his conversation. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fine. So what's up? Uh…yeah?" A long pause, and Foggy's heartbeat speeds up with what could be excitement, but could also be fear. "Sure. Yeah, lemme just talk to Matt first. Are you sure, though? This sounds kinda like a big deal."

A big deal? Over the last year Foggy has witnessed murder and bombings, come to terms with Matt's nighttime identity, and personally helped to take down the Kingpin, Wilson Fisk. It takes a lot, now, for Foggy to classify something as 'a big deal'.

"Alright, if you're sure. Okay. Yeah. Seeya." Foggy hangs up.

"Well?"

"Well." Foggy turns to him, chewing on the inside of his lip. "How much did you hear?"

Matt shakes his head. "None. I wasn't listening."

"How come?"

"Oh, come on, Foggy. You know I wouldn't invade your privacy that way."

Foggy makes a sound of quiet disbelief, and Matt isn't certain if he should be offended or not. He decides that it's best not to prod old wounds. (Apparently Foggy hasn't 'come to terms' quite as well as Matt had thought.)

"Okay, whatever," says Foggy with a long-suffering sigh. "That was Brett. He says he's got a weird case for us. Apparently the word's gotten around that you actually like those."

"What wrong with weird?"

Foggy rolls his eyes. Then he freezes. "Uh…I just rolled my eyes."

Now it is Matt's turn to sigh. "I know, Foggy." Then he answers the unspoken question with, "I could hear them."

"Wow, okay, you remember what we were just saying about weird? Let's go with that, and we can add freakin' creepy to that."

Matt grabs a piece of scrap paper from the pile on his desk and scrunches it into a ball using one hand. Then he throws it at his partner, smiling slightly at the crinkling sound of impact that means he has hit his target.

"Mature. Very mature." Foggy scoops up the paper and tosses it into the waste basket. "Anyway, where were we?"

"Something about a weird case, right?"

"Right!" Foggy flips the phone over in his hands, a nervous tick of his. "Well, here's the deal. This is without a doubt the biggest case we've ever been involved again." He pauses. "Actually…no, it's bigger than Fisk. We never directly interacted with him."

"I did."

Foggy huffs in annoyance. "God, you are such a pain."

Matt keeps his face completely blank. "The case?" he prompts.

"The case," agrees Foggy resignedly. "It's big."

"Just spit it out already, Foggy!" says Matt. He's a patient person, but even he has his limits, and his friend is most definitely stalling.

"Okay." Foggy takes a deep breath, his heart still beating a fast pace inside of his chest. "Do you remember the Winchesters?"

Matt hears the crinkle of fabric-y paper unfolding across the room, smells the unique scent of ink straight off the press. Foggy must be reading a newspaper.

Anything good? is the question he wants to ask, but he cannot because that would mean revealing his secret, which would lead to questions that he didn't want to answer and a sense of betrayal that he couldn't take from his best friend.

He's never had a best friend before, and now that he does, he isn't keen on losing him.

"Hey, Foggy," he greets instead, fumbling for the bed in the helpless act he is so familiar with. Foggy looks up, lowering the paper and sitting up from his pillows so that he can see his dormmate.

"Hey, Matt," he greets. "Newspaper came."

Oh, thank God. "Anything good?"

"Eh. Some sports team beat some other sports team, and losing sports team accused winning sports team of cheating. Some kid beat some record. Somebody shot somebody else in a parking lot. Some politician was corrupt. Some corporation was a leech on society. Blah blah, et cetera et cetera. Same old boring—ooh, this looks interesting."

Matt cocks his head, wishing for the millionth time that he could still see to read over Foggy's shoulder. "What?"

Foggy ignores him in favor of reading whatever article has caught his eye. "Foggy?"

He hates being helpless, having to wait on others to assist him. Hates being treated like he's made of glass, hates that, to some extent, it's true.

"'Wanted'," reads Foggy aloud, holding the newspaper in the air and raising the volume of his voice unnecessarily. After four months of rooming together, Matt's learned that Franklin Nelson has a flair for the dramatic. "'Dean Winchester, for trespassing, credit card fraud, mail fraud, grave desecrations, arson, impersonation of officers, kidnapping, torture, and three accounts of first-degree murder.'" He pauses briefly, allowing time for this information to sink into Matt's mind. "'It was a dark night and the city of St. Louis went about it's business as if nothing was wrong; and for most people, it was any normal night. Not so for the victims of a horrific kidnapping scenario.'"

The article is not particularly descriptive, and yet still Matt can smell the blood in the air, feel it on his tongue as a piece of metal between his teeth. He can hear the screams, desperate and terrified and muffled by a greasy gag that is tied far, far too tight. In the very distant reaches of his memory, he can see the vague image of what such a scene would look like.

He blinks his sightless eyes, breathes the Matt-and-Foggy scented air of the dorm, and the imagined scene is dispelled, leaving Matt to ponder.

What sort of person would do such a thing?

This is what Stick taught him for. This is the horror he's lived with every day of his life, the war that he's been apart of since he was hit by that truck at age nine. This is his world. He tried to escape it, but the fact remains that there is no escaping.

When Stick left, Matt had told himself that he was done. He wasn't going to do what the old man wanted; he'd blaze his own path, the path that Dad always wanted for him. And he did, but he kept training, too.

Not since he started college, though. Not since he stepped through those doors into the next chapter of his life. It's been four months of nothing.

Dad would be proud, he thinks now, but he knows it's only partially true, a desperate excuse to hide himself from his destiny. Dad would want him to be happy, sure, to not fight, but he also wouldn't want Matt to just hide his face from the world and pretend that bad things don't happen.

Because they do. Matt knows this better than anyone.

So he makes his way through the end of a conversation with Foggy, says he's going for a walk, heads to the nearest boxing arena.

And then, beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, he brings his anger out into the leathery air, laying it across the bag before him and pounding it into dust with each punch of his fist, kick of his legs, sweep of his lithe body that spins and slices like a scythe.

Winchesters. He remembers the Winchesters. They are a part, however small, of his decision to become Daredevil.

"I remember," he says, any mirth falling from his face like the corners of his lips as they drop towards the floor.

Every television channel broadcasts it. Every radio station blares it. Every newspaper screams it.

Sam and Dean Winchester are not dead. They're on a trail of terror through the country, leaving pain and death in their wake.

They aren't just killers, though. They are killers who want to be seen.

Somehow the news station got a hold of a video taken by one of the Winchesters' victims. Matt sits in Foggy's apartment, knuckles turning white as he grips his cane, the screams echoing in his ear alongside the heavy beating of Foggy's heart.

"Oh my god," whispers Foggy, horror in his voice like Matt's never heard. Not from him. Foggy is innocent, naïve. He doesn't need this.

Matt stands. He says nothing, simply presses the power button on the TV, only just remembering to fumble for it. "It's late," he says without preamble. "I should get home."

"You're gonna sleep?" chokes Foggy, swallowing around a lump in his throat. "After that?"

Matt shrugs. "We'll see."

He doesn't sleep, though. He goes to and orders the athletic gear he'd resolved to get two days after he'd taught a lesson to that abusive father.

Then he pulls out his mask and slides out his window into the night, the Winchesters' voices ringing in his ears alongside the screams of their victims.

"Well," says Foggy carefully. "They're here."

Matt doesn't answer, so he hurries to clarify. "At the precinct. They were dumb enough to come into the city, get caught on camera, and now they're locked up on maximum security."

"They'll be convicted," murmurs Matt. "There's nothing anyone can do." (Nothing anyone should do, is the thought lying just beneath the surface of his words.)

"See, though, it's not as cut and dry as all that," Foggy argues, moving into Matt's office and opening the laptop that he'd left there earlier in the day. "There are all these people claiming that the Winchesters are monsters, right? But there's also this huge number that tell it differently."

Matt turns his head slightly. "What do you mean by 'differently'?"

"Put frankly, the Winchesters are made out as angels."

Matt doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he clears his throat and speaks with false calm. "Care to elaborate?"

"Well, here. Brett sent me this file." Matt listens to the whisper of Foggy's fingers on the touchpad of the laptop, then the gentle click of the pad depressing to select whatever Foggy is looking for.

There is rustling sound, like a camera being set up. Then a voice, most likely a cop's, speaks up with the usual. "Talk directly into the camera, first stating your name for the record."

"My name is Dean Winchester." The voice is strong and low-pitched, young but with a bit of gravel. The speaker is sarcastic, cocky, and yet Matt can detect a hint of fear. Normally he would sympathize, but not with Winchester. Not with this monster. "I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women." There is a pause, as if Winchester is gathering his thoughts before continuing. "And I did not kill anyone."

Matt shifts his weight, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. "Foggy…"

"Shut up and listen, Matt."

"But I know who did. Or rather what did. Of course I can't be sure, because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory is that we're looking for some kind of vengeful spirit."

Foggy hits the space bar, pausing the recording. He turns, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. "See," he said. "Weird."

Matt shakes his head. "So he's spewing crap. Or he's deranged. Either way, he and his brother killed people, and there's no getting around it. Nelson and Murdock represents good people, Foggy. Innocent people. Not serial killers."

"Yeah, but that's not all," says Foggy earnestly. "There's this public attorney who gathered all this information together when they were assigned to her. The cop from that video? He died around the same time the Winchesters escaped. His partner shot him for attempted murder and resisting arrest, and not only that, she swears up and down that they're not actually criminals. Says they're caught up in things that put them in the spotlight for crimes they didn't commit."

Matt blinks. "You can't be serious. Foggy, they're criminals."

"Hundreds of people, Matt!" exclaims Foggy, throwing his hands up and beginning to pace. "Hundreds of people say that the Winchesters saved them. This isn't as simple as people think! We don't even have to except the case, but can we at least go down to the precinct and take a look?" He pauses. "Well, okay, not a 'look', exactly, but—you know what I mean!"

Matt exhales slowly, mulling over the information. "Fine," he says at last, reaching for his cane where it rests by the door. "Let's go take a look."

He can practically see the look of triumph on Foggy's face. And he can definitely hear the 'yes!' that is murmured on his friend's breath as Matt turns away.

He can't believe he agreed to this.

"Nelson and Murdock. My favorite sharks." Brett raises both hands in the air as Matt and Foggy enter the precinct, people forming a path before them. Matt hates having to use the cane, but he does admit it has some advantages. No one wants to risk tripping a blind man.

"Where are they?" asks Foggy, dropping Matt's arm from where he had been pretending to lead him.

"Locked up in back. I gotta say, I'm kinda surprised you came."

Matt inclines his head and lets out a soft huff that could pass for laughter. "It wasn't my idea. Foggy seemed very drawn to the 'weird'."

Brett laughs. "Weird. Yeah, this one's definitely weird. Well, I'll have them brought into interrogation one at a time." He paused. "They're being kept apart, so you'll have to make do."

"It's unusual," agrees Matt. "But then, so is the case." He raises his arm for Foggy to take, and his friend does. "Lead the way."

"This is a really bad idea."

"Sam, it's a case, people are dying, it's our job. We're doing it."

"Are you forgetting the fact that we're wanted by the FBI and New York is the city of security cameras?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "We're dead, remember? The FBI ain't looking for dead men."

"But if they see us—"

"They won't. We'll be careful." His fingers reach out for the volume dial, and the car is filled with the heavy bass thumping of classic metal rock. Sam sighs and turns away, pressing his lips together in frustration. The road zips past them, their surroundings getting more and more urban as they go along.

This is not going to end well.

"We'll find a way out."

Sam shakes his head, eyes trained on the floor and too-long hair hiding his expression. "Sure, Dean."

"We will! We always have."

"You said that last time!" exclaims Sam, looking up at him with desperation in his eyes. "With Henrickson. You said that last time, and then we got attacked by demons. There are only so many 'get-out-of-jail-free' cards left in the deck!"

Dean sighs and backs away from the bars, moving to sit on the bed. "Sammy," he says, just loud enough so that his voice carries across to the opposing cell. "I'm sorry."

Sam just snorts and looks away. "It's not your fault."

"Yeah, it is. You know it is."

His brother doesn't answer, because he knows Dean is right.

There's the heavy sound of a bolt unlatching, and Dean sits up straighter. The expression of reassurance drops away and is replaced by his usual mask of sarcasm and over-confidence, small smirk carefully in place beneath eyes hard as stone. There are very few people who are allowed to see past to his true self, and most of them are dead.

He's got a reputation to uphold.

"Dean Winchester," says the cop who steps through the door, closing it behind him. His own expression is hard to read, but Dean thinks he's nervous. "Your lawyer is here."

Sam looks up from his cell, brow furrowing in the familiar expression of confusion. "We don't have a lawyer."

The cop shrugs, one corner of his mouth turning upwards. "And these lawyers don't have any clients." He leaves it at that, instead moving to unlock the door of Dean's cell.

Dean could attack him, and probably win, but there's an entire station of cops outside, and they wouldn't get very far. So he plays along, allowing the cop to pull him to his feet and lead him from the room.

Sam's worried gaze follows him as the door is closed behind them.

Dean swallows down his anxiety and trains his eyes on the bare hallway before him. His footsteps, and the cop's, tap against the linoleum and echo off the plaster walls in time with the chime of the chains on his hands and feet.

Soon they reach an interrogation room, and another cop opens the door for him. His cop follows him into the room and stands silently behind the chair.

"I'm serious about the cigars, Nelson," says someone from outside, their silhouette appearing on the other side of the blinded window. "You need to stop."

"She'll sneak them anyway, you know that!" says another voice, following the first speaker and with a third man by his side.

"Yeah, whatever. Just get in there and do your job," groans the first voice exasperatedly. The door is swung open and two men enter the room.

One is fairly ordinary looking, slightly overweight with too-long blonde hair surrounding an unassuming face. He wears a gray suit, and his gaze is slightly nervous as it rests upon Dean.

The other is on his arm, and he is different. He is dressed smartly in black and white, his dark hair combed back from a handsome face, eyes hidden by a pair of round, red-tinted sunglasses. He loosely holds a cane in one hand, quietly tapping it before each step.

He is clearly blind. Dean shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how to treat a man with a disability as such. He's never been great at this kind of thing. Sensitivity is Sam's area.

The two men sit, the blind one with surprising fluidity. His hand searches for the position of a chair almost as an afterthought, as if he somehow knows exactly where it is. Dean realizes that he is staring and tears his gaze away to look at the man's partner, who seems to be glaring at him.

Oops.

"Lawyers, huh?" says Dean cockily, falling back on his usual weapon of sarcasm and confidence. "I wanna sue for poor room service."

"Shut up," snaps the cop who led him in. Dean opens his mouth to retort something snarky, but he pauses when the blind man holds up a hand in the general direction of the policeman.

"Henry, right?"

The cop looks uncertain for a moment, before nodding. The long-haired man nudges his companion. "He just nodded," he murmurs, and the cop looks mortified.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry—"

"It's fine," says the blind man nonchalantly. "Henry, could you let us speak to our client in private?"

Henry shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not certain—"

"Let him have his lawyer-talk," says a dark-skinned cop from the door. Henry bites his lip, glancing between his apparent superior (Mahoney, according to his badge), the blind-man, and Dean.

"Henry, it's cool. Murdock knows what he's doing."

Henry nods and does as instructed. Mahoney shoots the lawyers a look as he goes to follow, saying, "You better know what you're doing."

The long-haired man smiles reassuringly. "We're good. Yup. Totally good. You can leave, thank you, Brett."

Mahoney makes the classic 'I'm watching you' signal with his fingers before closing the door behind them. The lock clicks, and the pair of lawyers turn towards Dean.

"So. Um, yeah. So…we're your lawyers," begins the long-haired one awkwardly, twitching fingers on the tabletop betraying his nervousness. Dean raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"You got names?" he asks skeptically.

"Matt Murdock," the blind man says calmly, his voice smooth and low and rich like velvet. Unlike his partner, he does not appear to be nervous, or maybe he's just better at hiding it. "This is Foggy Nelson. We're attorneys from a private law firm in Hell's Kitchen."

"Well, I'm Dean Winchester, and I gotta say, you got your work cut out for you on this one."

Murdock lets out a single, huffing laugh. "Yes, we know."

Nelson straightens, seemingly determined to make up for his earlier blunders. "Nelson and Murdock represents a very specific clientele. We're here today to determine whether or not you fit that clientele, and whether or nor we should take your case."

Dean scoffs. "And what exactly is your clientele? Impossible cases?"

Murdock shakes his head and leans forward, and Dean shivers despite himself. Beneath the tinted glasses, the man's sightless eyes seem to pierce his very soul, and Dean's hunter instincts vaguely mull over the possibility that the lawyer could be not entirely human. He discards the idea as a ridiculous one.

"Nelson and Murdock represents only the innocent people who have been unjustly arrested," says Murdock softly. "So tell me, Mr. Winchester. Are you innocent?"

Winchester's heart skips a beat, and Matt cocks his head a fraction of a degree to the left. He can feel Foggy's eyes on him, watching him carefully, knowing exactly what is going on. It's nice to have his best friend at his back, instead of naively in the shadows of Matt's own lies.

There is a moment of relative silence (Matt's world is never truly silent) as Winchester seems to debate his next words. Then, slowly, deliberately, he opens his mouth. It freezes in position, tongue pressed against the roof, before he speaks.

"No."

A single-word answer. A simple yes-or-no question. No complexities, no trickery, and no way for Dean to misunderstand. There is no reason for the man to reply as he did, no advantage behind this angle.

But he's not lying.

"No, I am not innocent," continues Winchester, all of his previous jest gone and his tone now deadly serious. "I've done things that I'm not proud of, and I'll be the first to admit that." He swallows hard, and Matt can sense the tension in his shoulders.

"But those murders? Those cold-blooded, evil, psychopathic killings, without motive or reasoning? That robbery in Milwaukee, those tortures in St. Louis?" He pauses, and Foggy leans forward slightly by Matt's side.

"Those weren't me, and they weren't Sam. I'm no murderer."

His heart is steady, with no hesitation that Matt can detect. His words are clear and distinct, and he speaks with chilling severity.

"Matt?" breathes Foggy questioningly, too quiet for Winchester to hear but with more than enough volume for Matt's heightened senses. He is waiting for his friend's verdict, knowing full well that Winchester's future rests on Matt's shoulders.

Matt sits back, his hands sliding from the tabletop and smoothly folding together on his lap.

"I believe you."