It's here, it's done, and it's really freaking long. And I mean really, REALLY long. Sorry about the wait, but I hope this makes up for it.

In this chapter, there's some OC action going on. I'm really excited to introduce to you Aurora. She's half-demon, half-angel, Dean's adopted daughter, part-time Avenger and Daredevil's apprentice.

NO.

No, I won't do that to you. No stupid over-powered flowery-named warrior princess OCs. I promise. The OC does get a point of view, but he's a generic minor character who's present for about five paragraphs and then disappears, never to be seen again. He's essentially a plot device.

(Sorry if my strong feelings on OCs is offensive to anyone. I play it like I see it, okay? I'm part Scottish, part Jewish, all opinionated sarcasm.)

Anyway, without further ado...

Andriel is not pleased.

He is not pleased because he knows that his superiors will not be pleased. When his superiors aren't pleased, their superiors won't be pleased. The displeasure will go up and up the chain of command, and eventually it will reach the top. Then it will come back down, displeased angels all looking for someone to punish, and that someone will be Andriel.

Needless to say, he wants this cleaned up. And quickly.

Unfortunately, demons are stubborn bastards and not apt to simply give in. The whole matter had started out so trivially, and yet now it has escalated to such a point that the mud-monkeys are starting to notice.

Go figure.

The spat had begun in a bar. A lowly demon had been tempting humans into sin, a minor angel had been passing by and decided to stop it. The demon lashed out, and the angel was killed. The angel's friends had retaliated, and the demons had responded in kind.

Andriel had been sent to clean it up. He hadn't anticipated it taking so long.

"Stand down, demon!" he calls, angel-blade gleaming in his clenched fist. The demon laughs.

"And miss out on such fun? I think not."

"It killed Damael!" yells Sarael, the dead angel's closest friend. They'd behaved like siblings are supposed to, Andriel recalls. They protected each other.

"The feather-brain was interfering in our work!" shouts another demon. "It should've known better!"

"He was carrying out his heavenly duty!" retaliates Yael. She takes a step forward, eyes blazing, and the demon copies the action.

Andriel's wings unfurl, shadows spreading across the buildings behind him that are alight with both hell-fire and heavenly blaze. "Enough!" he shouts. "This is unnecessary. Mistakes were made, and now we must leave! This is not our world, and we are being noticed by those whose world it is!"

"The humans?" sneers the demon who killed Damael. "They know nothing!"

"And yet they'll learn," growls Andriel. "If we continue to fight so publicly!"

Sarael throws up her hands. "Do you see a single human?" she says, gesturing at their deserted surroundings. "They fear us too greatly to interfere!"

Andriel rounds on her. "Your senses are blinded by anger, sister," he spits. "We are being observed."

Sarael blinks. "What?"

Across the asphalt sea, the lead demon stirs, black eyes traveling to a nearby rooftop. "He's right," it hisses. One of its kin nudges it, rolling its eyes.

"A human? So what? Let's just kill it and be done."

A third demon shifts nervously. "The Winchesters are human," it points out.

The first demon smiles. "Yeah, well this is no Winchester. Think of it as target practice."

Yael prods Andriel with one wing. "Should we stop them?" she murmurs.

Andriel thinks for a moment. On the one hand, it is their duty to protect God's favorites. On the other, this human has presumably heard every word and so becomes a liability.

"No," he says finally. "Let them have their way. If it gets them to stand down, then it is no harm to us."

Yael nods and retreats, and the angels spread their wings as one and are quickly gone.

The demons grin at each other, before slowly advancing on the rooftop.

Matt is alarmed, to say the least. Muggers, he can handle. Rapists, murderers, domestic abusers, human traffickers, all are comfortably within the range of things he can deal with.

Demons? Not so much.

This is completely insane. He is religious, he believes in demons, but only abstractly. Not as something he would ever actually come across.

And yet here they are, smelling of sulfur and gleeful rage. Their footsteps pound the asphalt as they approach the building.

Matt stands, turns to go, but suddenly the reek of rotten eggs is much, much closer, encircling him with an abruptness that unsteadies him, betrayed by senses so finely tuned that he is never, never startled by an approaching person, be they friend or foe. Now, though, he has been surprised. He is not drugged, not wounded, not half-dead from blood loss, and he'd been unable to anticipate the newcomers' appearances.

He stumbles, suddenly dizzy from the shock and the overwhelming stench. His hands rise before his face, clenched into fists in wary preparation.

One of the men (demons? He can't come to terms with that) laughs. "Nice outfit," he (it?) sneers.

Matt tries to speak (who are you, what are you, why are you here and what do you want) but instead finds himself twisting away from the jab of a punch. He grabs the arm and pulls, sending the offender stumbling away as he himself rolls across the rooftop so that he is standing opposite the group, their perfect ring now an encroaching bunch.

"Get out of my city," he growls on a breath, shoulder hunched defensively. He backs slowly away, listening to the stretch of muscles and skin and the grinding of teeth as the demons smile at each other; they are enjoying this.

That more than anything fuels his rage, and he lunges forward suddenly, grabbing one of his aggressors by the shoulder and using his own momentum to throw the man towards the edge. The aggressor's head hits the ground with a sharp crack, and he is knocked unconscious.

It is at this point that Matt is attacked in earnest. Most of the blows he is able to dodge, the whistle of air current around the fists betraying their presence. Some of them do hit their target, though, and the taste of blood is hot in his mouth. These men (or demons, or whatever) are strong, stronger than anyone or anything that Matt has ever fought.

He is not prepared for this.

Still, he is able to land a few blows of his own, launching up from the balls of his feet and twisting in the air so that an attacker is felled with a single, powerful sweep of his legs. He has used this move before, secretly revels in the brutality and loves the efficiency, but it takes so much more force to take these men down and so he falls as well. He is quick to regain his feet, but the pause was enough for the demons to make their move.

A hand clasps around his throat, presses into his chest to force the air from his lungs, and yet it is surreal. He can feel the pressure, but there is no physical body. Matt chokes, blood staining his lips, as the invisible force lifts him into the air and throws him against the brick wall that surrounds the roof access.

His senses cloud with the smell of iron, and he bites back a moan. He will not show weakness. Cannot show weakness.

Sometimes, Matty, the Devil's inside you, and you just gotta give him what he wants.

His father's voice rings through Matt's mind, unbidden, clear and vibrant as the day the words were first spoken. Matt presses his lips together and swallows thickly.

Then he lets the Devil out.

The street is quiet when the Impala roars to a stop, her engine disturbing the eerie silence. All around them is the aftermath of some great fight; fires smolder in the shattered walls of the surrounding buildings, ash and sulfur dusting the road and sticking in the occasional splatters of blood.

The doors of the car creak in harmony as two Winchesters simultaneously push them open and step out into the street. Sam exhales slowly.

"What happened here?" he asks, voice low and breathy as his eyes wander about his surroundings. Dean shrugs, moving to join him on the passenger side of the car.

"I dunno," he says. "But whatever it was, it ain't over." He nods towards the roof of a nearby building, and Sam follows his gaze.

There is a group of six or seven people on that roof, all facing off against a lone figure clad in red leather. The latter is holding his own surprisingly well against such odds, until one of the aggressors raises a hand and slams him against the stairwell with violent force.

"Demon," say both brothers. They exchange a glance and then start running.

There is no one in the building to stop them as they hurtle up the staircase, dust motes dancing in the beams of light that pierce through the windows and futilely attempt to illuminate the dimness of the twisting verticle corridor. Sam reaches the top first, his long legs taking the steps three at time. His hand clutches the demon knife (Ruby's knife, but he tries not to think of it that way because then it feels like murder) as he pushes through the doorway, metal hinges rattling and scraping.

Sam blinks in the light, stumbling slightly as Dean crashes into him. "Dude!" hisses his older brother irritably. "Why'd you stop?"

"Dean…" breathes Sam. "Look."

The aggressors are undoubtedly demons. It is apparent in their inhuman strength, in their black eyes, in the blood that slides ignored from impact wounds upon their foreheads. They are powerful, they are malicious, they are angry.

The odds are the worst imaginable, a lone man against so much brunt force. And yet he is holding his own.

The man is holding his own against a hoard of demons.

"Jesus Christ." Sam's not sure which of them said it, maybe both, but it is the thought in both brothers' minds. The man in red is flipping through the air like a demon of his own, arms and legs a whirlwind of defense that plows through the demons like they are made of paper.

No human can do that.

"Dean," murmurs Sam. "What are the chances that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is a supernatural being?"

Dean shrugs vaguely. They watch in silence for a little while longer.

Daredevil is thrown to the ground across the roof, grunting briefly in pain. "You gonna help?" he huffs, just barely dodging a fast-moving punch and angling his head towards the Winchesters.

Sam and Dean exchange glances. "Right," they say in unison. As well as Daredevil is holding out, he can't last forever and the demons aren't staying down.

Sam starts forward, raising the knife and whirling into action. He grabs a demon by the shoulder and jams the knife into its stomach, a feeling of mingled satisfaction and guilt flooding through him at the familiar flash of light jarring through the demon's system before it crumples. In the brief pause that he is allowed, he scans above the demons' heads for Dean's location.

His brother is on the opposite side of the roof, holding his own with a shotgun full of salt. Dean seems to sense his glance and looks up, face set in grim concentration and barely concealed glee.

They make short work of the demons. They're not a particularly powerful bunch, and the Winchesters have faced so much worse.

Soon they stand alone on the roof, surrounded by a circle of bodies. A siren wails in the distance and Sam wipes the blade off of a demon's baggy sweatshirt.

He turns his head at the sound of heavy breathing to see Daredevil using the stairwell wall to clamber to his feet. He is tensed, entire body radiating with hostile poise, head cocked in their direction.

There is a pause. Dean is the first to speak.

"Hey."

Daredevil shifts uncertainly, the arm not supporting him clutched against his side and his breathing labored. There is a telltale gleam of wetness on the leather and a splatter of blood around his lips, and Sam suspects broken ribs and possibly a punctured lung.

"What are you doing in my city?" asks Daredevil, the question flat and low on velvety tones that sound vaguely familiar.

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean beats him to it with a dry laugh. "Saving your ass, for one."

"I didn't need your help."

"You kinda did," says Dean with his usual snark, and Sam has to stifle a sigh.

"Dean…" he admonishes, sending his brother a glare before turning back to Daredevil with his hands raised in a sign of good will. "Look, I know what it's like to reject help. It makes you feel weak, I get it, and no one likes that feeling. But as well as you were doing, you couldn't have held out forever. Them?" He gestures to the bodies around him. "They could. Easily."

Daredevil shifts again. "They—" he stops and coughs, scarlet droplets following his breath out onto his lips. He licks them away. "They aren't human." It's a question, sort of, phrased like a statement but tinged with curiosity.

"No," says Dean. "They're not. They're demons."

"Demons," breathes Daredevil, the air whistling uncomfortably through his lungs. "Of course."

"How about you?" continues Dean with his usual lack of tact. "You human?"

The question seems to surprise Daredevil, as he stumbles a bit where he stands. "What?"

"Are you human?"

"Of—" another hack, and Sam realizes that they should really be concerned. "Of course."

Unable to deny the inquiry bubbling in his throat, Sam speaks up. "How can you fight like that?"

Daredevil huffs out a laugh, leaning his head back against the brick behind him. "I'm just a man who wants to help." He pauses, shifting once more. "Like you."

"Excuse me?" retorts Dean.

"You're the Winchesters. Criminals. Convicted. You're supposed to be locked up in the precinct. I should—" he moves forward as if to attack them, legs buckling beneath him. "You—"

Then he falls, blood staining the concrete rooftop where he hits it. Sam drops the demon knife and rushes forward, but Dean catches his arm.

"What are you doing?" his brother says.

"We have to help him!" Sam snaps as he pulls towards the unconscious vigilante.

"Sam, he might not even be human. And if he is, you heard him! He knows who we are, somehow, and he's a vigilante. He'll tip off the police or, or, something."

Sam can't believe what he's hearing. "Dean!" he cries angrily. "This man is dying! He isn't doing anything right now except bleeding out on the rooftop, and I'm sorry if I can't take another needless death on my conscience!"

Dean sighs, looking torn. "Fine. But be careful."

Sam rushes forward and drops to his knees by Daredevil's side. Stripping his off first his jacket and then his flannel overshirt, he puts the jacket on once again and wads up the flannel, which he presses to the seeping wound in the man's side. Keeping one hand firmly on the fabric, his eyes drift to Daredevil's face, to the red mask hiding his eyes and the blood that stains his lips.

He knows better than anyone that secrets are deeply personal. He knows that it's none of his business. But if he's going to help this man…

Dean's eyes are on his back, he can feel them. He glances over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows at his brother, free hand hovering over Daredevil's face. Dean understands immediately, nodding at him with lips pursed together.

Slowly Sam curls his fingers around the leather of the cowl, carefully peeling it back. His breath catches in his throat as the man's face is revealed.

A strong jaw, full lips to rival Dean's, a light dotting of stubble. All previously visible, but now paired with dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Mentally Sam paints a picture of red-tinted glasses covering the man's eyes, and the thought he couldn't quite grasp is now fully formed.

"Dean," he breathes. Dean moves to his side and crouches, exhaling loudly.

"Son of a bitch."

It's on the news, a grainy video of a red-clad figure facing off against a pack of people with impossible strength, taken from an apartment window by a panicked civilian with a poor sense of self-preservation. Daredevil is terrifying, and for the first time Foggy really grasps why people call his friend the Devil.

"Jesus," he murmurs. Brett glances at him from where they stand in the middle of the precinct.

"Maybe you should go home."

Foggy chews his lips and nods. "Yeah," he says distractedly, eyes glued to the cycling footage of Matt getting the shit beat out of him.

"Yeah," he repeats, more definite this time, and his feet move towards the door of their own accord. He stops once he's outside, not sure what to do. Should he call Matt, or will that merely distract him enough to get him killed? Should he go home? To the office? Should he check on Karen? Wait in Matt's apartment for when he gets back?

Probably the last one. That's where Matt will stumble back to, bleeding and bruised and in need of a good yelling at from someone who knows him.

Foggy feels helpless, and he hates it.

He moves to the curb and flags down a cab, directing the driver to Matt's apartment. The ride passes in a blur, the quiet murmur of crappy pop music from the radio barely reaching his ears. Soon enough, the taxi pulls to a stop and the driver is asking for his fare. Foggy pays it wordlessly, clambering out into the crisp September air.

His doesn't feel like taking the elevator today; it's unpredictable and he needs the climb to clear his head. Matt's door will be locked, but Foggy knows that the roof access is always open so that his friend can slip in and out quietly, and in case of emergencies involving blood and unconsciousness and fear.

The last time Foggy used the roof access was the night he first found Matt bleeding on the floor. He closes his eyes against the painful memories and steps carefully over the missing bottom step.

Foggy paces for a good half hour before the windows, the light from that god-awful billboard filling the dim room and casting odd shadows across the furniture. Unable to bear it anymore, Foggy pulls his phone from his pocket and dials Matt's number. He needs to know what's happening, and damn the consequences.

The phone rings four times, and Foggy bounces on the balls of his feet in anxiety. "C'mon, Matty, pick up the phone," he mutters.

Click.

"Hello?" comes the wary voice, and Foggy freezes. That's not Matt.

"You're not Matt." Foggy realizes too late that maybe he shouldn't have revealed Matt's name to a potential assailant, but the damage has already been done.

"Um, no. But—"

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing! Nothing. I just wanna help."

"Who are you?"

A pause, as if the person on the other end is pondering something, and line is filled with static like someone has put their hand over the speaker. Foggy can hear faint voices, too muffled to make out. So whoever has Matt's phone isn't alone.

"You're Foggy Nelson, right?"

Foggy freezes. His first name was available on the burner phone via caller ID, but Matt was always careful to keep sensitive information away from hostile hands. He'd never bring Foggy's name into his war.

"How do you know who I am?"

"We've met."

"Have we?"

There is another pause. Then, "I'm Sam Winchester."

Foggy has the sudden urge to hurl the phone against the opposing wall, but he resists. "How did you get out of the precinct? What did you do to Matt? Where are you? Why are you doing this? This won't help your case, you know. Generally when you're trying to get acquitted of all charges, you don't kidnap your lawyer!"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" soothes Winchester. "I already told you we didn't hurt him, and we didn't kidnap him either. Look, Foggy, there are things in this world that you don't know about. Dark things."

"You don't get to call me Foggy. You're a criminal."

"I thought you believed that we're innocent."

"Matt believes you're innocent, and I believe Matt. But I'm beginning to have serious doubts." Foggy stops, thinking back to what the man had moments ago said. "What dark things? What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter. Just…you're friend is in trouble."

Something in Foggy stops. "What?"

"Um, we're on the top of a building at 42nd and 5th," says Winchester. "There was a—a brawl of sorts, and, well, Matt—"

"Oh, god, how bad is it?"

"Well," Winchester clears his throat uncomfortably and Foggy has to choke back a scream of frustration. "He's unconscious, for one thing. He got beaten up pretty good."

He's avoiding the subject, trying to protect Foggy from the truth of the matter because he thinks he can't handle it. Foggy hates that, hates that people are constantly patronizing him because they think he's too soft. He's tired of being weak.

"How. Bad."

Winchester sighs. "There's an open wound on his side that's bleeding pretty well. Definite broken ribs and I suspect a punctured lung."

"Jesus Christ," breathes Foggy. "Jesus—" he would curse more, but he can't summon up the energy. Suddenly feeling as if he is made of Jell-O, he sinks down onto Matt's couch.

Foggy is weak. His best friend is injured and probably dying, being cared for by convicted murderers.

No more weakness. It's time to be useful. For once in his life, he can be useful.

"Matt has a friend who patches him up whenever this happens," Foggy says, surprised by how calm he sounds. "I'll call her."

"Where do I bring him?" Winchester sounds relieved, and Foggy thinks that maybe, just maybe, Matt was right about the brothers' innocence.

"I'm at his apartment now," he says, and rattles off the location. They exchange a few more words, and then the line clicks off as Winchester hangs up.

"Jesus Christ," says Foggy one more time as he lets his head fall back to rest against the couch.

Daredevil is heavier than he looks and five stories is a lot of stairs.

Especially backwards. With a dying blind guy in leather.

There's a lot of panting and sweating and Dean almost tripping and killing them both. (It was rock-paper-scissors to figure out who was going down backwards. Needless to say, Dean lost.) But eventually they make it back out into the sunlight and to the car.

Now Daredevil (or Matt Murdock, take your pick) is strewn across the back seat, getting blood all over the upholstery. Sam is sitting in back trying to keep him from drowning in it, and Dean is driving as fast as he can without getting caught.

He doesn't turn on the radio, even though he wants to, because it seems wrong to surround such grimness with heavy metal rock. Dean can feel the muscles around his neck bunching up with the tension, and he has to break the silence.

"So," he begins, eyeing Sam in the rearview mirror. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is a blind guy."

"Yup."

"And our lawyer."

"Yup."

"And completely human."

(Sam had tested him as soon as Dean had pressed the pedal to the floor.)

"Yup."

"Well, damnit."

"Hey. Um…it's Foggy."

Claire stiffens, frozen in place with the fridge still open and a carton of milk in hand. There's something in his voice, and even if there weren't, there's only one reason Foggy would ever call her.

"How bad is it?"

"Uh, well, I don't actually know."

She has to choke back a growl of frustration. This was supposed to be her night off. "What do you mean you 'don't know'?"

"I mean, he's not actually here. Here being his apartment. But he was on the news and then I called him and a…not a friend, but someone we sort of know picked up. And they're bringing him back here. But they say there's a lot of blood and something about ribs and lungs and—"

Claire sighs loudly, the violent exhalation cutting the panicked lawyer off mid-sentence. "Foggy, I'll be over there as fast I can."

"Thank you! Thank you, Claire. I really…I mean, thank you so much. You have no idea—"

"Foggy?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

It takes her fifteen minutes to gather her stuff, grab a cab, and drive the eighteen blocks of heavy rush-hour traffic between her apartment and Matt's. She climbs out of the car, distractedly paying her fare through the window, and pauses for only a second to stare at the unfamiliar sight of a shiny black '67 Impala parked on the curb.

(Her abuelo was obsessed with old cars, and every time he caught her playing with his fifty-plus models he'd derail her with facts about every car ever manufactured in rapid-fire Spanish. She'd learned to recognize the different models so when he asked her what any given car was in the hopes of going on another rant, she'd be able to waylay him and make an escape to where Abuela Rosa was always baking cookies.)

Claire swallows a surge of fear as she spots the droplets of blood on the pavement, making a crimson trail from the Impala's back door to the entrance of Matt's apartment building. Matt would have to be really injured before accepting the help of 'not a friend, but someone we sort of know'.

She tightens her grip on her medical kit and sprints up the stairs, ignoring the elevator completely. A middle-aged woman laden with shopping bags raises an eyebrow at her, and a few little boys point and whisper loudly to each other. An older man glares at her and mutters something about young people always being in a rush.

None of it matters. Matt could be dying and, at the moment, she's the only one who can save him.

Soon she stands before his apartment, pounding on the door with urgency and not waiting for anyone to answer before roughly twisting the knob to find that it is, in fact, unlocked. She opens it and storms in, slamming it behind her and hurrying past the entranceway to get to Matt's living room.

Foggy meets her at the end of the partition, clearly having been on his way to let her in before she chose to admit herself. Claire takes one look at his pale and frightened face and feels her heart sink. This must be really, really bad for him to look that way.

There are two unfamiliar men in the room, both well-built and tall as all hell. The one with the long hair is perched on the edge of the coffee table, doing his best to clean Matt's wounds, while the bow-legged one paces by the windows, light from the billboard playing across his face.

Claire busies across the room and all but shoves the long-haired one out of the way. "Claire," she says as he opens his mouth. "I'm Claire. Now shut up and get me a damp towel."

He looks surprised, but does as she says. "I'm Sam," he calls over his shoulder as he makes for the kitchen sink. "That's my brother, Dean."

"Great," she says drily before moving on. "Foggy, go outside."

Foggy blinks at her. "What?"

"You'll give yourself a heart attack watching this. Go outside."

He shakes his adamantly. "No. No, I have to be here for Matt."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

Foggy pauses, and she knows that they are remembering the same thing. The first time they met, Matt was dying, bleeding from cuts that were so, so deep and barely breathing as his already dampened skin clammed up with sweat. Foggy had insisted by being by his side; until he'd run to the kitchen sink and vomited down the drain.

"I can handle it."

Claire nods curtly; she doesn't have time to argue with him, and besides, he's a lawyer. She'd probably lose.

"Stop pacing," she snaps at Dean as she pulls out her stethoscope, needing the gage the internal damage.

"Sorry?"

"Stop pacing. It's distracting. Go sit over there and be quiet."

Foggy kneels by her side silently, and Claire can feel him shaking. "Let me help."

She eyes him for a moment, then nods again.

"Get my antiseptic out of the kit."

This is going to be a long day.

Matt blinks his eyes open to aching pain and a tight feeling in his chest. He listens intently to the rhythms of his own body, noting the grinding of broken ribs and the oozing whistle of air escaping a lung that, although punctured, is already clotting with blood to seal up the escape of precious oxygen.

That done, he expands his senses to the room around him. His nose is bombarded with the sharp smell of antiseptic and the rubber of bandages, paired with the soothing smell of lavender soap that means Claire is here.

Where is here? The familiar mold of the couch beneath him indicates that this is his apartment, and he is confused for a moment as to how he got here. Then he smells the metal of Foggy's tapwater and hears the swish of long hair scraping the shoulders of a detergent-scented suit and knows that his friend is nearby.

But it's not just him, and Claire, and Foggy. They are not alone. There are strangers, unfamiliar smells of gunpowder and beer and leather and blood, large and menacing and powerful with the taught pull of strong muscles as they move.

The strangers seem vaguely familiar, but Matt's world is a haze of pain and pure instinct. He jerks upwards, stitches pulling taught through his skin like burning needles of raw pain. He ignores them, though, because there are strange, threatening men in his apartment with Foggy and Claire and they need his protection.

"Whoa!" says a voice, low and unfamiliar as hands reach out to grasp his shoulders and hold him down. "Whoa, easy there!"

The words don't soothe him; if anything, they serve only to arouse his panic further. He lashes out with bruised fists, splits knuckles at first colliding with someone's face but then meeting only air as his potential assailant dodges his instinctual attack.

"Matt!"

He freezes, pain catching up with him as the adrenaline fades. The voice is Foggy's, and it is Foggy's presence that is now by his side, reaching timid fingers out to grip his arm. "Hey, hey, it's okay. They're friends."

"Who—" Matt coughs, throat so dry that it feels like sandpaper. "Water." In seconds Claire is pressing a glass into his hand, urging him gently to drink slowly. He does as he's told, knowing from experience that any disobedience where Claire is concerned is a terrible idea. The liquid is heaven as it slides down, though, and it takes discipline to not gulp it down all at once.

"What happened?" he asks as Claire presses some pills into his hand and waits for him to swallow them before taking the glass away and forcing him to lie back. "How—"

"You were in a fight," comes the reply. Not from Claire or Foggy, not even from the first stranger. It is the other stranger, and Matt realizes with sudden clarity that the speaker is Dean Winchester. With this realization comes others, and a flood of memories send him momentarily reeling.

"They were…" he begins, brow creasing. "They were…what were they?" He knows what the Winchesters told him on the rooftop moments before he lost consciousness, but he needs to hear it again, needs to make sure that it wasn't just a fluke of pain-filled, adrenaline-charged imagination.

There is a pause wherein the brothers exchange a glance. "Uh," begins Sam uncertainly as his eyes travel to Foggy and Claire. "Can we talk about this privately?"

"Like hell," snaps Foggy. "My best friend just got beaten with an inch of his life. I have the right to know how it happened." Sam opens his mouth to retort, but Foggy stops him. "And don't even try to argue. I am a lawyer and I can out-argue anyone."

Matt smiles slightly. "Everyone but me."

"Hey, now, Murdock, that is an unfair statement. I can totally out-argue you."

"Yeah, if that were true, we'd still be at Landman and Zach's."

Foggy's muscles twist in an unusual way, and Matt assumes his friend has formed his face into a rude expression. To confirm this, Foggy says, "I'm making a face at you."

"Means you can't think of a comeback," Matt grunts as he gingerly raises himself upwards so that his shoulders are resting against the pillow that has been propped against the arm of the couch. He turns his sightless gaze towards the Winchesters and redirects the conversation. "They're staying."

"Even—" Sam begins, glancing at Claire. She cuts him off with what must be a stern glare, because he stops in his tracks and nods. "Okay." He pauses. "Well, this is going to be hard to hear. The…the things you fought were…well, they weren't exactly human."

Claire straightens, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "What do you mean, 'not human'?" she asks incredulously.

"They were demons," says Dean bluntly.

Matt sighs and closes his eyes, his memories of earlier confirmed. The sulfur, the inhuman strength, the way they wouldn't stay down…and after aliens raining from the sky, who is he, a Catholic, to deny the proof placed, metaphorically of course, right before his eyes?

His friends have the opposite reaction. "What?" gasps Foggy in shock whilst Claire exclaims, "Did you say demons?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yep," he says, popping the end of the word. "Demons. From Hell. Black-eyed, satanic sons of bitches."

"Dean," reprimands Sam disapprovingly. "Look, I know it's hard to believe, but there are things out there in the dark, monsters who—"

"Stop," says Foggy, sounding a bit faint. "I don't think I really want to know."

Sam nods. "Demons are what attacked Matt. There was some sort of turf war between them and…" he pauses, seeming to consider Foggy's wish to remain ignorant. "Something else. But that 'something else' left and I guess the demons caught your friend eavesdropping, and, well, I think you can figure out what happened next."

"Jesus," breathes Claire.

A thought occurs to Matt, and he opens his eyes again. "Your charges. The kidnappings, the torture, the murder. That wasn't you, was it."

Dean shakes his head. "No, it wasn't," he says, and Sam continues for him.

"Some of it was demons, some of it was…other things. But we didn't kill anyone."

"Although the breaking and entering and the arson are on us," adds Dean helpfully, ignoring Sam's protestation. Matt has to smile.

"That could count as a confession, but I really think I'm not in a position to prosecute anyone for protecting people outside of the law," he says, and Foggy snorts.

"Claire," says his friend matter-of-factly. "I never want to see another vigilante again. You?"

She grins. "Actually—"

"No. No, you did not find another idiot already."

Matt's head snaps up in indignation. "Hey!" Then he rewinds what was said. "Wait, you're replacing me?"

Claire puts her hands up in submission. "I'm not saying a word."

"Claire…"

"Nope."

They descend into companionable silence for a while. The painkillers finally start to take effect and Matt drifts happily into the familiar sounds around him: three girls playing hopscotch on the pavement outside, Mr. Martinelli cursing at the sports team on his ancient television set, Mrs. Tanner's cat grooming itself with its raspy, scritch-scratching tongue. His world.

The sun shines on the pavement as early-morning commuters pass the group of unlikely companions. Matt stands on the stoop of his apartment building, clutching his cane and leaning against Foggy's shoulder.

"So," says Dean. "This is it."

Matt nods, smiling slightly. "Stay out of trouble."

Foggy snorts. "They're wanted criminals slash monster hunters. They're not staying out of trouble. Trust me, Matt, I know. They're just like you."

"We'll do our best," reassures Sam, resting his elbow atop the shiny black hood of the Impala parked on the curb. "Same to you."

"Sure," agrees Matt. "And thank you."

"Eh, no problem," scoffs Dean. "You were doing a pretty good job on your own."

"Still."

Sam nods. "You ever need supernatural help, give us a call, alright?"

"And if you're ever in the area and need either a lawyer or a vigilante, call Nelson and Murdock."

They shake hands, Matt with the barest twinge of pain as his sore muscles are forced to move so abruptly.

The Winchesters climb into the car and Matt waves at them through the window. Sam waves back, a tad uncertain about nonverbal gestures towards a blind man. Matt has to smile at that.

The engine revs once, the sound of metal rock blasting from the car's speakers, and then they disappear into downtown traffic. The lawyers watch them go in silence, the hustle of New York City's daytime life surrounding their small point of stillness.

"Well," says Foggy. "We should probably get to work."

"Yeah," agrees Matt, and turns to go, but Foggy holds him back.

"Matt?"

"Yes?"

"Let's leave the world-saving to the Avengers from now on, okay?"

Matt pauses, fingering his cane. "Okay," he finally says. "I think this city is big enough for Daredevil."

"Good."

"But," he continues, and Foggy turns towards him, eyebrow raised. "Maybe us lawyers can help change the bigger picture."

Foggy laughs drily and tugs him towards the side of the road, raising his arm to hail a taxi. "Sure," he says. "Nelson and Murdock, saving the world."

FIN

Like it? Hate it? Gimme a review and tell me what you thought.

Now, let's discuss the next installment in this series. They'll all be crossovers, and I have some ideas, but i can't decide which to go with and I thought I'd let you guys vote. So here are the options:

Daredevil meets CW's The Flash/Arrow/Both/One or the other (which, well, guys, should there be dimension travel or should we just imagine that the Arrowverse is in the same universe as MCU?)

Daredevil meets BBC's Sherlock (because, come on, Sherlock's analytical skills meeting Matt's supersenses? It'd be awesome.)

Daredevil meets Spiderman (which is still in the MCU, and technically I've already written one of these, but I just really love Spidey and there will be cuddles and fluffiness and advice will be given.)

Daredevil meets...any other ideas? Suggest them! If I see an idea that I absolutely love, it may just beat out all prior votes and things will happen and stories will be written.

Review! Please! Thank you! Have a nice day! Thanks for reading!