Of Reluctant Allies (The 9+1 Rule For Survival)*SPN x Daredevil*Damned If I Do

The Next Three Rules

4) Don't fight with people you love (they love you too)

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sammy?!" Dean hovered over him as he leaned onto the nearest wall, knees somehow weak. Yeah, that tends to happen when you're bleeding out. He inhaled sharply, new wave of pain washing over him together with adrenalin, making him clench his fists on his abdomen.

"I'm good, I'm good..." he mumbled out of habit, trying to stand up straighter. He looked around, making sure the werewolves were indeed gone. They were. But Sam and Dean were no longer alone. "Oh shit."

"Yeah, I know. Hey, you're gonna be alright-" Dean tried to comfort him, stripping his jacket, pressing against the wound. Sam hissed at the touch.

"No, it's not that. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is right behind you."

And wasn't that fantastic? He stood only few steps behind his brother, visible part of his face pale, his hands trembling inconspicuously. If Sam felt better, he would spit I told you so right to his half-face. But he felt like shit and the Devil seemed quite out of it.

"I'm calling 911," his brother blurted out, already pulling the phone out. Sam stopped him before he could do such an unwise thing.

"You can't, Dean, what the hell are we going to tell them? That a bear attacked me? In the middle of Manhattan?" he suggested with a solid amount of sarcasm, pushing himself up, using the wall as his support, testing the strength in his legs. It was a little better, the adrenalin kicking in.

"Shit."

The masked figure behind Dean stepped closer, his boots scratching against the pavement – Dean spun in his direction, finally acknowledging him. Sam swallowed another I told you so.

"Hey! Stay away from my brother you freaky son of a bitch! I'm serious!" he yelled at him, losing the pressure on Sam's injury to reach for his gun.

The vigilante showed his empty hands, hidden in gloves, offering a no-harm gesture. "He needs help," he stated the obvious, voice low and less growly than when he had talked to Sam the last time. He almost looked like he worried about him. How sweet.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

The man's arm twitched. "I can help. I have a friend. She's helping me when something goes sideways."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Dean asked the same question Sam wanted to ask, apparently his brain-to-mouth connection working better than Sam's. But hey, he was entitled. What did that mean, really?

"She's stitching me up. She's a nurse," he explained slowly, taking another careful step.

"Hey! Step back! No way I'm trusting a dude who calls himself the Devil and runs around New York in-"

"I trust him."

Sam didn't know how the words left his lips, but the moment they did, he realized it was the truth. He would put his hopes in the man who had attacked him less than few hours ago; the man had done it because he had feared for the girl. He had wanted to protect her, because that was what he was doing – protecting people. He wasn't different from them – some people believed they were criminals and they kept hurting others – while all they were doing was trying to save lives.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean snapped his head back to him, shooting him incredulous look.

"I trust him," he repeated, seeing the Devil nodding, phone already out.