Chapter Text
The rain pounded the Blüdhaven rooftops like a relentless barrage, turning the night into a treacherous slick of shadows, street light glare, and the faint, underlying musk of pheromones carried on the wet wind.
John Winchester held his position behind the vent, shotgun ready, eyes locked on the penthouse. Viktor "The Broker" Russo, Intergang fixer, arms dealer, and unwitting host to a sulfur-emitting hitchhiker. John's client wanted proof of the kill; John wanted the demon gone before it hopped bodies and turned this into a plague.
Then the shadow dropped in: Deathstroke, black-and-orange armor cutting through the downpour like a blade. Silent, efficient. No preamble.The moment Slade landed, John's nose caught it, sharp, commanding, like gun oil, cedar smoke, and raw dominance. Alpha. Undeniable, even muted by the rain and whatever suppressants the merc used on the job. John's own scent, muted and steady like old leather and faint whiskey, barely registered in comparison. Beta through and through. Always had been. It kept things simple. No heats, no ruts, no bullshit biology dragging him around by the instincts.
"You're on my mark," Slade growled through the modulator, voice flat as a grave, but there was an edge to it now, a low rumble that vibrated under John's skin.John kept his cool, hand steady near the Colt.
"Same here. Russo's mine. Walk away, plenty of contracts out there."
Slade's head tilted, that single eye slit assessing. John could practically feel the alpha sizing him up, nostrils flaring subtly behind the mask.
"Non-negotiable. Intergang wants him silent. You're collateral now."
John tried one push: "It's not just a hit. Russo's got complications. The kind that means he won't die easy."
"Everyone dies easy with the right tool."
Slade drew his sword an inch, then sheathed it, a warning. But the air between them thickened, Slade's scent spiking just enough to brush against John's senses like a challenge.
"Last chance: step off."
John met the stare. No give. Fine. He'd played this game before, alphas thinking their pheromones gave them the upper hand.
"Your funeral."
Slade moved without another word, grapnel line firing, swinging across the alley to the penthouse balcony. John waited a beat, then followed low and quiet, slipping through the service door Slade had jimmied open. He stuck to the shadows, watching the merc work, trying to ignore how the alpha's presence filled the space like smoke.
Inside, Russo was pacing, phone to ear, barking orders. Slade struck like lightning: suppressed shots to the legs, dropping him. Sword out in a blur, slash to the arm, severing it clean. Russo screamed, but it twisted into something guttural, inhuman. The body jerked up, wound sealing with black smoke and a hiss, eyes flaring red. Not dead. Not even close.
Slade pivoted, unfazed, another cut, this one across the torso. Guts spilled, but the thing laughed, a wet, echoing rasp.
"Flesh is temporary, soldier."
The severed arm twitched, reattaching with a sickening squelch. A Telekinetic shove hurled Slade back into a wall, cracking plaster.
John stepped out then, Latin already rolling off his tongue: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."
He advanced, shotgun barking salt rounds into Russo's chest, pinning the demon in place as it howled. Slade recovered fast, rolling to his feet, sword raised.
"What the—?" His voice dropped lower, nostrils flaring again as the demon's sulfur stench clashed with the room's growing tension. John's own scent had sharpened under stress, faint but steady, cutting through the chaos like a grounding note.
"Demon," John snapped between verses. "Your blades won't kill it. Keep it down, I'll send it packing."
The thing lunged, faster now, claws forming from smoke. Slade met it mid-air,promethium edge cleaving through the shoulder, but the wound smoked and knit. He cursed under his breath, dodging a swipe that shredded the couch.
"Not my usual dance partner."
John kept chanting, voice steady as the room chilled, shadows writhing. The demon focused on him now, blast of force knocking the shotgun aside. Slade intercepted, tackling the body to the floor, pinning it with a knee and a blade through the thigh. His armor pressed close enough that John caught the full hit of alpha pheromones, aggressive, territorial, edged with something almost possessive.
"Finish it, stranger!"
John closed in, slamming his palm against Russo's forehead, etched devil's trap flaring. "tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos !"
Black smoke erupted from Russo's mouth, screaming as it coiled toward the ceiling. John barked the final words, and it imploded, banished back to the pit.Russo's body went limp, truly dead this time. Slade yanked his sword free, wiping it on the rug. He stared at John, breathing even, but that eye sharp with reassessment,and something hotter flickering beneath. The alpha's scent had shifted, less aggressive now, more... interested. Like he'd just caught a whiff of something rare and stubborn.
"You tailed me."
John retrieved his shotgun, reloading, keeping his movements deliberate. His own scent stayed level, no spike, no submission, just the quiet certainty of a beta who'd long ago learned to ignore alpha posturing.
"You didn't listen. Had to improvise."
A long pause. Rain drummed on the windows. Slade sheathed his weapon, stepping closer, close enough that John could feel the heat rolling off him.
"Interference like that usually gets a bullet."
"But it worked," John said flatly. "You got your kill. I got mine. Call it even."
Slade snapped the proof photo on his burner. "This time."
He headed for the balcony, pausing at the edge. His head turned slightly, voice dropping to a low, modulator-rough murmur that carried straight to John's instincts despite the beta neutrality.
"Next mark we cross... don't follow me. Or do. Makes it interesting."
A faint, almost amused rumble undercut the words,like an alpha testing boundaries, liking what he found.Then he was gone, grapnel zipping into the night.John rifled the safe for the envelope his client told him about, pocketing the cash. He smirked faintly as he slipped out, the lingering trace of cedar-smoke alpha still clinging to his jacket like a brand he hadn't asked for.
"Pros like him think they're untouchable. Wait till they meet the real monsters."
The Impala roared to life, tires cutting through puddles. Another night, another reluctant save. In this world of capes, killers, and secondary genders, John Winchester didn't need partners,he just needed results. But damn if that alpha scent didn't linger longer than it should have.
The rain in Gotham fell heavier than in Blüdhaven, thicker, dirtier, like the city itself was sweating out its sins.
John Winchester crouched on a fire escape overlooking Crime Alley, the neon bleed from a flickering pawn shop sign painting his face in reds and blues. His target: a low-level Falcone lieutenant named Marco "The Mouth" Rossi, who'd been making deals with the wrong kind of supplier. Not guns or drugs, something worse. A cursed artifact smuggled in from overseas, the kind that whispered promises and left bodies twisted inside out.
John's client (a nervous fellow low level Falcone who'd seen too much) wanted the thing destroyed and Rossi gone before the rot spread or the thing got out of control and started dropping fellow gang members. John just wanted the sulfur stink out of the air before it drew bigger things and if he got paid for it all the better.
He'd tracked the deal to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the Bowery, Falcone's old turf, now contested by every two-bit crew with a grudge. John moved quiet, shotgun slung low, devil's trap etched into bullets and salt rounds chambered. Beta scent muted as always: faint leather, gun oil, and the ghost of cheap motel coffee. Focused on the job.
Across town, in the shadowed Financial District high-rises, Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, had his own contract. A clean hit on a corrupt Wayne Enterprises exec who'd been skimming from black-budget projects tied to the Court of Owls. The client: anonymous, deep pockets, no questions. Slade didn't care about the why, only the payout and the precision. His armor cut the night like a shadow blade, grapnel silent as he perched on a gargoyle overlooking the target's penthouse. Alpha pheromones tightly suppressed under the suit's seals, cedar smoke and steel, coiled and waiting.
He didn't need scent to intimidate; the sword did that just fine.
John slipped into the warehouse through a busted loading door. Inside, Rossi paced under harsh fluorescents, haggling with a hooded figure over a black iron box etched with sigils that made John's skin crawl. Sulfur hit him hard,demon-tainted, fresh possession or worse. Rossi's eyes flickered yellow for a second when he laughed. Not just a crook; a walking vessel.John chambered a round, Latin ready on his tongue, ready to move.
Miles away, Slade breached the penthouse balcony. Glass cutter, silent entry. The exec was alone, pacing with a phone, sweating despite the AC. Slade's modulator clicked once, warning shot into the ceiling. The man spun, eyes wide.
"Contract's up," Slade said, flat.
Sword half-drawn.The exec bolted for a panic button. Slade was faster, suppressed pistol, two to the knee, one to the shoulder. Down. Clean. He stepped closer, blade ready for the finish.
Back in the Bowery, the deal went south fast. The hooded supplier snarled, claws, smoke, eyes blazing red. Not human. Rossi's body jerked, black veins crawling up his neck as the demon flexed.
"You think you can just take it?" it rasped, voice layered.
John stepped into the light. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."
Shotgun barked, salt round to the chest, staggering the host. The demon howled, smoke whipping out, lashing at him. John rolled, chanting steady, hand already drawing a devil's trap sigil onto the concrete floor with chalk from his pocket.The demon lunged,claws raking air where John had been. He came up firing rock salt again, pinning it.
"tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos..."
The room chilled, lights flickering.
Across Gotham, Slade's target begged, promises of money, power. Slade ignored it. Sword down in a clean arc. Blood on the carpet. Proof photo snapped. Job done.But as Slade turned to leave, his comms pinged, low-priority alert from a merc network he monitored for overlapping contracts. Sulfur reports in the Bowery. Demon activity. Unusual for Gotham's usual brand of crazy. He paused, eye narrowing behind the mask. That faint, stubborn scent memory from Blüdhaven lingered in his mind, beta, unflinching, no submission. Winchester.
Slade sheathed the sword. Grapnel fired toward the east. Not his contract. Not his problem.But, interesting.In the warehouse, John slammed the trap closed. The demon shrieked as it poured from Rossi's mouth, black smoke slamming against the invisible barrier, twisting, screaming Latin curses. John finished the rite, final words sharp as bullets. The smoke imploded, gone. Rossi dropped, dead weight, heart stopped clean.
John exhaled, wiping sweat. He rifled the corpse for the artifact, small iron box, humming with wrongness. He poured Holy oil on it and lit it, the curse bleeding out harmlessly into the air. Job done. He finished up and stepped out into the rain, the Gotham mist hung low, turning streetlights into smeared halos as John Winchester stepped out of the Bowery warehouse.
Rossi's body was still warm inside, throat opened clean with a blade, no sulfur traces left behind this time, no sigils burned into the floor. John had scrubbed the scene methodical: wiped prints, scattered a few shell casings from a common 9mm to muddy the trail, left it looking like a professional hit gone sideways. The cursed artifact? Burned ,smashed and would be scattered in the river two blocks over. No one needed to know about the whispers or the black veins crawling under Rossi's skin.
Better they chalk it up to mob housekeeping.He was halfway down the alley when the shadows moved. Batman dropped from the fire escape in front of him, silent, cape settling like spilled oil. White lenses fixed on John, cold and unblinking.
"You," the gravel voice said. "Dead Falcone lieutenant. Clean entry, no witnesses. You're not one of the family's usual cleaners. Out-of-town contractor?"
John stopped, hands loose at his sides, shotgun tucked under the duster where it wouldn't show. Beta scent stayed flat, leather, gun oil, old coffee. No tells.
"Contractor. Yeah. That's close enough."
Batman advanced half a step. "Rossi was connected. You left the body where it could be found. Message? Or sloppy?"
"Message," John said evenly. "He crossed the wrong people. Had to be done. Clean. Quiet. No civilians caught in the crossfire. Job's finished."
The lenses narrowed. "You don't get to decide who dies in my city. No warrant. No trial. Just a paycheck and a body. That makes you a killer for hire. Same as the rest of the scum."
John's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"Scum would've left a mess. Scum would've taken trophies. I don't play that game. Rossi needed to go down before he dragged half the Bowery with him. Call it preventive maintenance."
Batman’s gauntlet flexed,batarang probably palmed already.
"Preventive sounds like an excuse for murder. You're operating outside the law. In Gotham, that ends one way."
Tension snapped tight. John shifted his stance just enough to remind himself the Colt was within easy reach. Batman mirrored the movement, ready to close the distance.Then cedar smoke and steel cut through the mist like a blade. Grapnel line hissed from above, Deathstroke landed between them in a controlled drop, boots silent on wet concrete, sword drawn halfway in one fluid motion. He rose, armor shedding water, planting himself squarely in the Bat's path.
"Back off," Slade's modulator rumbled, low and flat but carrying that alpha edge, territorial, possessive, pressing against the night like a claim. "He's not for you to collar tonight."
Batman pivoted, stance widening instantly.
"Wilson. This is my city."
"Was your city five seconds ago."
Slade took a measured step forward, scent spiking deliberate, challenging the vigilante's iron control.
"He finished a contract. Clean. Necessary. No bleed-over. You want to drag him in for questions? Step over me first."
John stayed silent, jaw set. He hadn't asked for the shadow to step in. Didn't need an alpha marking territory like this was personal. But the shift was immediate, Batman's focus split, recalculating: unknown merc with unknown skills and known killer with a healing factor and promethium edge.
"You're vouching for him?" Batman pressed, voice colder. "Since when do you care about collateral?"
Slade tilted his head, single eye slit gleaming. "When i care is my business. We've crossed paths before. Blüdhaven. Now here. Your rules don't cover this one."
Rain pattered on armor. Batman held the line another beat, weighing odds. Then, strategic withdrawal. He stepped back, grapnel firing upward.
"This isn't over," he said, gravel scraping stone. "Either of you cross my lines again, I take you down."
Slade didn't flinch. "Keep dreaming."
The Dark Knight vanished into the mist, cape snapping once before the shadows claimed him. Slade sheathed the sword fully, turning to John. Close enough that heat rolled off the armor through the cold. That cedar-smoke scent clung again, stubborn, probing, laced with something that made John's pulse kick despite the beta calm.
"You keep drawing heat," Slade said low through the modulator.John met the stare.
"And you keep jumping in front of it."
A short, rough sound,almost a laugh.
"You make it interesting."
Grapnel line already in hand, he stepped back.
"Next time the Bat corners you... don't count on me playing shield."
He fired upward, orange-and-black silhouette disappearing into the night.John exhaled through his nose, rain washing the lingering alpha pheromones from his coat. He muttered under his breath as he headed for the Impala.
"Freaking capes and Alphas mercs. Both think everything's their territory."
The Engine growled to life. Tires cutting through standing water, headlights slicing toward the highway out of Gotham.