Blue Collar for faithburke 1/2

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Blue Collar
Author: chiiyo86
Recipient: faithburke
Rating: PG13
Warnings: some language, background Sam/Jess, spoilers for White Collar.
Author's Notes:You don’t need to know White Collar to understand the story, but there are spoilers for the pilot and the episode “Withdrawal” (2.01), from which I borrowed. There are no spoilers for Supernatural beyond the pilot. You will find the prompts I was inspired by at the end of the fic.
Summary: Sam Wesson is a FBI agent working for the White Collar Crime Unit in NYC. Dean Winchester is an art thief and a forger. As far as everyone knows, the only link between them is that Wesson arrested Winchester two years ago and sent him to prison – what they don’t know, is that Sam Wesson’s real name is Winchester. And now, Sam and Dean are going to have to work together to stop a bank robber nicknamed “the Dutchman.”



Part one

“Dean Winchester. Convicted for bond forgery, but suspected of counterfeiting, security fraud, and art theft.” Turner joined his hands on his desk, a stern look on his face. “And this is the man you want to let loose, Wesson?”

Sam took a deep breath. He’d anticipated this, had his argument all prepared. The trick was just to sound confident and reasonable and not like anything important was hanging in the balance.

“There’s precedent, sir. Winchester would be released in my custody.” He paused. “Or whoever else you think fit. We would keep a leash on him with a GPS tracking anklet. The new ones have never failed.”

“There’s always a first time. You know better than anyone what Winchester is capable of. This is a big risk.”

“Winchester isn’t dangerous, sir. He’s never hurt anyone.”

Turned scoffed. “Oh, I’m not worried about him being a danger to people’s physical integrity.”

Sam lowered his head; point taken, but he wasn’t going to give up now.

“He can help us. If the business cards he sent are to be trusted, the Dutchman is going to rob a bank in New York. He’s been eluding the FBI for months now, he’s making us look like fools and he’s taunting us by sending warnings in advance.”

Turner’s lips tightened and his brow furrowed. He didn’t like hearing these unpleasant facts; Sam was making his point. Sam forced his voice to stay even, not wanting to jeopardize this by sounding too eager.

“The Dutchman is a very intelligent, very arrogant person. Winchester is the same type of criminal, he played us,” Sam let out a sigh, “-- with me -- for years. He will give us a new point of view on this case.”

Turner remained silent for a long moment, and Sam held out his breath, his heart pounding loudly with hope. He couldn’t believe that he’d had the guts to do this, to present this insane plan to his boss and that maybe, just maybe, it was going to work.

“Sam,” Turner said.

Sam’s stomach tightened at the sound of his first name; it was unusual for Turner to use it, and Sam couldn’t figure whether it was a good or a bad sign.

“Yes, sir?”

“I have to say I’m confused. You spent three years trying to put this man in prison, and now you’re trying to get him out?”

“He wouldn’t really be out. He would be under our surveillance.”

“I remember when you were tracking him, how obsessed you were with getting him. Sam, are you really sure you know what you’re doing?”

The answer to that question? No, not really, but Sam couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain exactly what was at stake here. Not if he wanted to keep his job and stay out of prison himself.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

Turner studied him attentively, then his mouth twisted.

“Alright, then. You have my permission.” He frowned and raised a finger. “But don’t screw this up, Wesson. I’ll have my eyes on you and on Winchester. If anything goes wrong, you’ll go down with him. He’s your responsibility. Understood?”

Sam nodded without a word. The only thing he could think about was how his life was never going to be the same again.

---

“Honey?”

Sam found Jess in the living room – she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a glass of wine in her hand, looking down on the papers scattered in front of her. Sam took the time to admire the line of her neck, the way her loose t-shirt exposed her shoulder.

“Is there something wrong with our tables and chairs?” he said.

She raised her head, smiled.

“Hey, babe. You’re late.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward and she strained her neck so they could kiss.

“Your dinner’s keeping warm in the oven,” Jess said.

“Okay, I’ll eat later.” Sam sat on the floor besides his wife. “What you doing?”

“Grading midterms.” She gestured at the papers. “This way I can keep track of how I grade. More room on the floor. How was your day?”

“It was okay.” He dropped a kiss on her ear, then another one lower on her neck and she laughed when it tickled. “Turner approved my project.”

“Your project?”

“You know, the one where we would use Dean Winchester on the Dutchman’s case.”

“Oh.” She pressed a firm hand on his head to stop his kisses, and twisted her neck to look at him. “I didn’t know you were going through with this.”

Under her gaze, he felt himself grow nervous, knew that he had to make his confession now because he would never be so brave again. He wished he could go back to giving her kisses, lull her in comfort and familiar affection but she wouldn’t be that easily fooled, would see it for the distraction it was.

“I told Turner about it today. He agreed.” He licked his lips. “Jess, I have to tell you something.”

She arched an eyebrow, started smiling like she wanted to laugh and diffuse the gravity of the moment, but couldn’t quite make herself do it.

“I’m all ears,” she said.

“I, uh,” He chuckled nervously, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Where do I start?”

“Sam, you’re making me nervous. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jess had completely lost her smile now, and her brow was furrowed. Sam had to turn his head because he couldn’t look at her and see the betrayal on her face when he dropped the bomb.

“I guess the first thing you have to know is that my last name isn’t really Wesson.”

He heard her inhale sharply, but kept his eyes firmly on the floor.

“You must be wondering why I changed my name, right?”

“Among other things, yes,” she said, her voice a little strained.

“I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. Not that it matters much, just… I guess that it all began there. My dad, John, was a mechanic, my mom, Mary, was a teacher – just like you. The night I turned six months, she was killed in my nursery, and our house burned down. My dad barely got me and my brother out in time, but he couldn’t save my mom. After her death he started, uh, having delusions, he thought she had been killed by something supernatural, that there were monsters out there and that he had to hunt them. He took us and ran, and never really stopped running because he was convinced something was after our family. So we grew up on the road, more or less.”

Sam risked a look in Jess’ direction – she was frowning, but it looked more confused than angry.

“It sounds like it was a terrible way to grow up, Sam,” she said slowly, like she was choosing her words with care, “but I’m not sure why it would make you change your name?”

“Because, my dad…” This time he forced himself to look her in the eye. “Jess, my dad, he wasn’t just crazy. He was… he killed people. See, he thought there were monsters everywhere, he thought the people he killed weren’t human, that they were demons, werewolves, vampires.” Or Wendigos, or strigas, or revenants, he thought, but didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to scare her with the things he knew.

Jess breathed in deeply, swallowed. “What happened to your dad? Where is he now?”

“He was arrested. One of his friends, Pastor Jim, finally realized how far gone he was and… My dad got arrested and Pastor Jim took care of us. Now he’s in a mental hospital. But you see, if the FBI had known who I really was, there’s no way I could have gotten this job with a criminally insane father. So I forged myself a new identity.”

“But how? How did you do it? It’s the FBI, they’re not very easily fooled. How did you even know how to do it?”

“I’ve lived a good part of my life off the grid. Let’s just say that, through my dad, I got to know people who could help me with that kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

Sam waited for more, but nothing came. Jess was now hugging her knees. She was worrying her lower lip and not looking at him. Sam’s heart sank.

“Jess?” he said, his voice almost plaintive. “Say something, please. Even if it’s just to yell at me. I deserve it, I know. I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Jess sighed. “I don’t want to yell at you, Sam. It’s just… It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

There was an edge to her voice that effectively silenced Sam. Jess looked about to speak and he held his breath, waiting for what she had to say.

“What I don’t understand is… Why now? We’ve been married for five years. What prompted you to tell me the truth now?”

Sam’s insides twisted. Now it was time for the second part of his confession.

“Because something’s going to happen, and I can’t lie to you anymore. Dean Winchester is about to come out of prison and…”

“Why does Dean Winchester have anything to do with it?”

“I didn’t tell you my real name.”

Her eyes widened and he could see that she understood. He had to get the words out, though, he hadn’t said them aloud in so long.

“My real name is Sam Winchester. And Dean is my older brother.”

---

Sam stood by the window and watched his brother raise his arms as the guard patted him down. Dean’s hair was a little longer than the last time Sam had seen him, locks of hair almost reaching his eyes; he was maybe a little thinner too, his cheekbones more prominent, his collar bones more apparent. Dean’s eyes flickered and when he caught sight of Sam, he raised his eyebrows in fake surprise – he had known Sam was coming, of course.

“Hey, Agent Wesson!” he exclaimed. “Thank you, Teddy,” he said when the guard gestured for him to move on.

Dean dropped himself at one of the tables in the little room. His eyes wandered over Sam for a moment, looking him up and down, like he was checking to see if he was healthy, maybe. Sam’s stomach did a painful little twist.

“To what do I owe the pleasure Agent Wesson?” Dean said, and smirked, daring Sam with his eyes to remark on the insistent way he had said the name.

The guard was still standing in a corner. Dean knew very well that he couldn’t reveal in any way that they were related, that Sam’s name wasn’t Wesson. Sam was sure – pretty sure – that Dean wouldn’t do anything to put Sam at risk, but he still had to force himself not to glance nervously at the guard.

“I have an offer for you,” Sam said, walked to the table and threw down the file.

“An offer I can’t refuse, I bet,” Dean said, his smile firmly in place, but Sam noticed the curious glance he cast at the file.

“The FBI is having a little problem with a bank robber who calls himself the ‘Dutchman.’ He’s robbed banks in Dallas, Chicago and Boston. Before every job he sent a business card to five different banks in the city with the name ‘the Dutchman’ engraved on it. Within a week, one of those banks’ vaults got emptied. And now the Dutchman’s coming to New York – five banks got the card two days ago.”

“The Dutchman… Like the ghost ship. He vanishes before you can catch him. Nice touch. This guy has a sense of humor. But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“We want to stop the Dutchman from doing to New York what he did in Dallas, Chicago and Boston. I suggested to my boss that we could use a little help. A little help from someone who thinks just like the Dutchman.”

Dean lifted an eyebrow. “And this someone would be me? Bank heists aren’t exactly my specialty.”

“Breaking and entering to get your hands on something valuable? Taunting the FBI by sending them hints about you’re going to do?”

“Okay, sounds like a guy after my own heart. But how would this work exactly?” Dean opened his arms. “As you can see, I’m a little locked up here.”

“I know. But my offer would involve you getting out of here.”

Dean gaped at him, mouth open but out of smartass comments, for once, and Sam had to admit it was still satisfying to be able to shut him up.

“I would be free?” Dean finally asked, and there was such hope in his eyes that it stabbed at Sam’s heart to have to correct him.

“No,” he said, “but for the duration of this case you would be out of here with a GPS tracking anklet. And who knows, if you do good maybe I can convince my superiors to make this arrangement last until your time is served.” Sam pushed the file to Dean. “Have a look, all the details are in there.”

Dean opened the file and started reading in silence.

“Can I think about it?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Of course, but don’t take too long. My boss is going to want an answer quickly, the clock is ticking.” Sam leaned forward, lowered his voice. “It’s a good deal, Dean. Don’t you want to be outside again?”

“Funny you say that, given that you were the one to put me in there.”

The truth hurts, as they say. Sam opened his mouth to reply, to say that he hadn’t known it was Dean he was chasing, not at first, and that when he had found out he just couldn’t stop. But he was interrupted by a polite cough.

“Good morning.”

Sam turned around to glare at the man standing there in a suit, a suitcase in hand, an impenetrable look on his face. Sam had met him before – Jimmy Novak, aka “Castiel” for some reason Sam had never figured out, an old friend of Dean and his part-time accomplice, part-time lawyer.

“Novak,” Sam said. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said with a smile.

“Hello, Dean.” Novak turned to Sam. “My client required the presence of his lawyer for this interview. Obviously, I’m running a little late.”

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean said, like there had been an apology somewhere in there. “Sam and I were just talking.”

“Talking about what?”

“Seems like the FBI has a deal for me. They want me to work for them, can you believe that? Imagine me taking a peek at the other side of the fence.”

Novak’s eyes narrowed. “We should talk about it.”

Sam stood up and placed himself before Novak, who had to raise his head a little to look at him in the eye.

“Try to convince him,” he said. Novak’s eyebrow arched. “Listen, Novak – Castiel, if you want. I know you don’t like what I’m doing, and that you don’t trust me.”

“Only a fool would trust the FBI.”

Dean snorted a laugh, but Sam ignored him.

“Anything would be better than in here, don’t you think? It’s a straightforward deal, I wouldn’t try to trick him. You know I’m…”

“I know.”

Sam turned to Dean. “Let me know what you decide.”

“I will. And Sam?” Sam paused at the serious look on his brother’s face. “Whatever my answer is, I still appreciate the offer.”

Sam nodded, tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Good bye, Dean.”

“Good bye, Sam.”

---

“Are you sure, sir?”

Sam quelled a twinge of annoyance. It wasn’t the first time Jo had asked him that question, or some variation of it; it wasn’t even the second time, and though Sam knew she was justified in her worry, it still grated on his nerves to hear his judgment questioned.

“I’m sure.”

“You took off his tracking anklet. I thought that what was keeping him from running away.”

“The building is surrounded, he can’t go anywhere. Besides trying to run away wouldn’t be a smart move. I caught him once, he knows I would catch him again and then he would be back to prison for a few more years.”

And he was pretty sure that Dean wouldn’t do anything that would cause problems for Sam, and Dean running away would seriously jeopardize Sam’s career. He was like, 99.99% sure, but he couldn’t explain that to Jo, or to anyone. He hated lying to his team, and guilt mixed with annoyance when Jo gave him a doubtful look, drumming her fingers on the wheel of the car to signify that she wasn’t going to argue, but she was strongly disapproving.

“Hey,” Andy called from the backseat. “I think he’s coming.”

Sam twisted his neck to look through the window, and indeed he saw Dean walking toward them with a suitcase in his hand. He opened the car door on his side just in time to block Dean’s way.

“Going somewhere?”

“Hello to you, Agent Wesson,” Dean said, pronouncing Sam’s borrowed name like it was something delicious, probably because he knew how much it made him nervous.

He started tugging at his tie like it was trying to strangle him, loosening it and popping a button from his dress shirt.

“Ha, feels good to be able to breathe correctly. Fucking monkey suits are the evil of my job.” He nodded at Andy, who beamed at him. “Hello to you too, Agent Gallagher.”

“Man, call me Andy,” Andy said, sounding seconds away from giggling like a school girl.

From the corner of his eye, Sam caught Jo rolling her eyes. Dean of course noticed it too; very few things escaped him, that was what made him so good at what he did. He smirked and winked at her.

“And hello, Agent Harvelle. You look particularly lovely today.”

Jo’s knuckles whitened as her grip on the wheel tightened.

“Cut the crap, Winchester. Do you have the money?”

“Does that question even need asking?”

He set the suitcase flat and opened it for their eyes.

“Tada!”

This time, it was Sam who rolled his eyes.

“Did you have any trouble getting it?”

“Nah, it was like candy from a baby.” Dean closed the suitcase. “Which I would never do, of course. Where’s the fun in that?”

Sam put his hand on his brother’s as he was going to push the suitcase’s lock.

“You know you don’t get to keep that, right? Give it to me.”

Dean put on a wounded face, lips pursed and eyebrows knitted together. He looked ridiculous, like he did when he was a kid and was making faces to get a giggle out of Sam.

“Not even a few bills, Daddy?”

“If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll let you go to an art gallery to look at the pretty paintings.”

“With you breathing down my neck? That sounds more like torture.”

Sam felt a laugh bubble in his throat, was about to reply with something equally snarky when Jo cleared her throat loudly.

“Should we go now? They’re waiting for us.”

Dean shrugged and climbed in the backseat with Andy, who put the tracker back on his ankle. Sam glanced at Jo but she was watching in her rearview mirror, checking for oncoming cars before she merged into traffic. He felt like he’d just been caught red-handed in the cookie jar, or however that metaphor went. Dean was chatting cheerfully with Andy, who drank in every one of his words. Everything was fine, Sam told himself. He had let the familiarity of banter with Dean get to him, but it was bound to happen. Now he just had to be careful that it didn’t happen too often, and not where people could see.

The drive to the office was silent, and when they got to the conference room where Turner and several men were waiting them with stern faces, it was all business again.

“Here he is,” Turner said when Sam entered the room.

He rested a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Agent Samuel Wesson, from the White Collar Crime Unit.”

“Isn’t he a little young?” said one of the men, a fat man who was mopping nervously his forehead with a tissue.

“Agent Wesson is the best, I can assure you. With him on the case there’s a good chance that what happened in Dallas, Chicago and Boston won’t happen to your banks.”

The grip on Sam’s shoulder tightened a little, and Sam heard the message loud and clear – don’t screw this up. Which was alright, because Sam didn’t intend to.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “As you know, Mr. Mark Simons,” Sam paused to give the little man standing at a corner of the conference table time to nod at the room, “who is charge of security for all the Midtown banks requested that we conduct a security test. It was done by our consultant, Dean Winchester.”

Sam stepped back to leave room to Dean.

“Dean Winchester?” said another of the men. “Isn’t he that thief who was arrested a few years ago?”

“That I am, sir,” Dean said, “and that’s why I’m most qualified to poke at the holes in your system. And I’ve found several. Basement, first. I bypassed the metal detectors way too easily. Your employees need to be more vigilant, too, and should never wear their badges clipped to their waists. Around the neck, that’s how you keep naughty fingers from lifting them.”

He wriggled his own fingers to illustrate his point. Sam glanced at the room and saw they were all watching Dean in silence, whether they were in shock or seriously paying attention to him.

“The pass codes,” Dean continued, “you need to change them daily, not weekly, and…”

The meeting lasted several hours, spent thinking of ways to improve the bank’s security system. When all the bank managers were gone, it was past 9 pm.

“Thank you, guys,” Sam told Jo and Andy, who said their goodbyes and left.

“Good job, Wesson,” Turner said. He studied Dean for a moment before adding, “You too, Winchester.”

“Oh, uh, thank you, sir.”

Dean watched Turner’s back as he walked away.

“I think your boss’s starting to like me,” he said.

“As long as he’s not sending you back to prison for breathing wrong, we should be grateful.” Sam glanced at his watch. “Shit, Jess is going to kill me.”

“Dude, don’t tell me you never had to pull a late night when you were after me.”

“Doesn’t mean she has to like it. And for your information, I’ve worked on other cases besides yours over the years.” Dean yawned and rubbed his face warily, and Sam felt something ease in his chest. “Need a ride home?” he asked.

“Thanks, but Castiel’s picking me up.”

“This guy is weird. I know he’s your friend but he gives me the creeps, to be honest.”

“Well, I’d rather live with him than in whatever shitty motel the FBI would graciously purchase for me. And he’s not so bad, once you get used to the intense staring.”

“Just give him a call, tell me I’m driving you back.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’m gonna run away, Agent Wesson?”

“Don’t be an ass, Dean.”

“Just trying to play the part, Sammy.”

Sam couldn’t help but glance around to check that they were alone. Dean gave him a knowing look, and Sam sighed.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go, my wife is gonna be waiting for me.”

“Okay.” Dean clapped on Sam’s shoulder. “I would feel bad if I made your wife mad at you on my first day.”

“Don’t forget to call your boyfriend so he doesn’t come here and spend the night waiting for you.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.”

“I try. Also, what the hell is that nickname, Castiel?”

“That? Hmm, that’s a very long story…”

---

Sam knocked on the door, and waited for it to open. He waited for a long time, until it was obvious that no one was going to answer. Sam sighed, reluctant to go now that he had finally worked up the nerve to come here. Where could Dean be anyway? He wasn’t in prison anymore, but he could only travel within two miles radius around their office, and even if it was Manhattan, that didn’t give him that many places to go. On the other hand, it was Dean they were talking about. He always found something, even if it was trouble.

Sam was turning to go when the door opened, but it wasn’t Dean behind it.

“Uh, hey,” Sam said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Agent Wesson,” Novak – or Castiel, whatever – said.

For some reason it felt weird to hear him use that name, even if that was what everyone had been calling Sam for six years. Maybe it was because Castiel knew Dean and he were brothers, maybe it was because Sam could feel the judgment behind those blue eyes.

“Call me Sam,” he said.

“Sam.” There was a long, awkward pause. “You came to see Dean, I presume. He’s not here.”

“Isn’t he? Where is he?”

“He left about one hour ago.”

“Okay. And where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

Castiel didn’t seem willing to share any more information. Sam prided himself in being good at reading people, but it was hard to say whether Castiel wasn’t saying anything else because he honestly didn’t know or because he didn’t trust Sam enough to tell him. I’m his brother, Sam wanted to protest. He doesn’t need protection from me. But then, from Castiel’s point of view, Sam putting Dean in prison probably didn’t make him look very trustworthy.

Sam tilted his head to try to see behind Castiel, but he couldn’t see more than the corner of a table with some papers on it. They looked like drawings.

“Are they Dean’s?” he asked. At Castiel’s questioning eyebrow, Sam pointed to the table.

“Yes, Dean did them.”

Sam had a flash of Dean lying flat on his belly in the room they shared, one of those interchangeable motel rooms, his tongue sticking out, so focused on his drawing that he couldn’t hear Sam call him. For their whole childhood it seemed like Dean had been drawing on some surface – walls, tables, dinner napkins, envelopes, the margins of his homework, or Sam’s. Sam still didn’t know exactly when it had translated in Dean becoming a well-known forger.

“Can I see them? I haven’t seen one of Dean’s drawings in a long time.”

Sam didn’t really expect Castiel to agree, so he was taken aback when the man nodded and went back inside to grab the drawings. When he handed him the papers, Sam suddenly felt shy, like he shouldn’t be allowed to see them.

“I don’t know, maybe…”

“Dean wouldn’t mind,” Castiel said. “You know how he likes to show off.”

Sam couldn’t help a smile, and he could have sworn that the corner of Castiel’s mouth had turned up ever so slightly. Sam cleared his throat and looked down at the drawings. They were portraits, all of men that Sam didn’t know, some men with moustaches, some with beards and tattoos, all with grotesque expressions on their faces, like Dean had tried to make them look as ridiculous as possible. Only the collars of their clothes were visible, but Sam recognized the guardian uniform and the prisoner overall from the prison where Dean had been detained. He swallowed, and handed the drawings back to Castiel.

“So you have no idea where Dean has gone?”

“No. But you do. Doesn’t he wear a GPS tracking anklet?”

Oh, of course. Castiel didn’t even smile or look mocking, but Sam still felt the weight of his stare, like Castiel was doubting Sam’s intellectual capacities.

“Well, sorry to have bothered you.”

“Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, um, Castiel.”

As soon as the door had closed, Sam reached in his pocket for his phone, but it started ringing before he could touch it.

“Wesson.”

“Boss, is Winchester with you?” It was Andy’s voice.

“No.” Sam looked around him for good measure, like maybe Dean was hiding in a dark corner. “He’s not with me. Why?”

“Well, he left his perimeter. And, uh, according to the GPS, he’s at your house.”

Sam had been walking to his car but the words stopped him.

“What?”

“That’s what his tracking GPS thingie says. He’s at your place.”

So while Sam was looking for him and having an awkward conversation with his weird roommate, Dean was simply waiting for him at the house? Sam felt a quick surge of anger – this was so like Dean, never where you expected him to be, and it pissed him off as much now than it did when they were younger. And yes, Sam had come to invite him for dinner with him and Jess, but that wasn’t the same as Dean leaving the fucking perimeter on his own and risking being sent back to prison.

“Boss? Do you want me to send someone to check?”

“No, I’ll check. It’s my house, after all.”

“Do you think Jess is in danger?”

“No.” Of that, Sam was sure. “Don’t worry, Andy, I’m handling it.”

“Okay, boss. See you tomorrow, then.”

Sam hung up and thrust the phone angrily in his pocket. If Dean thought he could get away with that kind of stunt, he was mistaken.

---

Sam didn’t know what he had expected to see when he came home, but it wasn’t his wife and his brother chatting amicably in his living room with glasses of wine.

“Oh, honey,” Jess said when she saw him come in. “Look, your brother has come to visit us. Isn’t that nice?”

“Yeah, nice.”

She was smiling brightly at him, but he knew her and she wasn’t that dense. She was perfectly aware that Dean couldn’t come and go as he pleased. He wasn’t sure whether she was trying to piss him off or diffuse the situation.

“Dean? Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.” Dean put his glass of wine down on the table. “Shoot.”

“In the kitchen. Please.”

Dean glanced at Jess, like he was asking for her fucking permission or something. She smiled at him.

“Go talk to your brother, Dean. I’ll pour you some more wine.”

“Thank you, Jess.”

Sam’s jaws clenched. How long had Dean been her to be such buddies with his wife? Unless they had decided to team up to get on his nerves, which he wouldn’t put passed either of them – and Jess was still raw about having been lied to for years, even though she said she forgave him. For the first time, seeing Dean and Jess together like that, Sam noticed how similar his wife and his brother were, which was a bit disturbing.

Dean took his time walking to him, and Sam grabbed his arm as soon as he was in reach to drag him to the kitchen.

“Hey! Careful with the merchandise, bro.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Me?” Dean’s eyes widened, and the manufactured innocence only served to anger Sam even more. “I’m just paying a visit to my sister-in-law. It was more than time that we met each other. She’s way out of your league, by the way.”

“You’re out of your perimeter! You could be sent back to prison!”

“Come on, Sam, don’t be a drama queen. You can see where I go with your GPS thing, right? You could see I was at your house, so it’s not like I was trying to run away. Besides, it’s not like there was any other way for me to see your home.”

There was the slightest trace of bitterness in Dean’s voice, and Sam felt his anger deflate.

“Dean. I just came back from your place. I was going to invite you for dinner tonight.”

“Oh.” Dean’s mouth stayed open in an ‘o’ for a few seconds, before he found his words again. “Well, thanks. Uh, am I still invited?”

“Seeing how you totally charmed my wife I don’t think I can send you back home, now.”

Dean smirked. “What can I say? The ladies love me.”

Sam punched him in the arm.

“Boys,” Jess called from the living room, “if you’ve finished bonding, can we start dinner? I’m starving.”

Sam was starving too, and Dean, well Dean never said no to food. Jess had made a salad, some mashed potatoes and roasted beef. Dean entertained them with stories of some his most elaborate heists.

“Of course, all this is just in theory,” he said. “Things, you know, that I could have done.”

Jess sent Sam a confused look.

“Dean hasn’t been convicted for these,” Sam said.

“Oh, okay, got it.” Jess took a sip from her glass. “So, Dean, you’re the first person I can ask this: what was Sam like as a kid?”

Sam tightened his grip on his knife. He glanced at Dean and their eyes locked over the table.

“Sam? He was a dorky kid,” Dean said, “but you probably know him well enough by now to have guessed that. When he was seven, he was convinced that he was a selkie.”

“A what?”

“It’s a shapeshifting creature, a seal that can shed its skin and become human. So he spent a lot of time in bathtubs and pools when he could find one. He would take a blanket with him and wrap himself in it – it was supposed to be his seal skin so that he could shed it when he got out of the water.” Jess was giggling behind her hand, and it encouraged Dean. “Also, you could never talk to him when he was in ‘seal’ form because duh, seals can’t speak.”

As the heat flushed Sam’s cheeks, Dean continued to delight Jess with stories of Sam’s selkie period, before moving on to other stories of Sam’s imaginary friend, or the time he thought all dogs were werewolves and wouldn’t go anywhere without the silver medal Pastor Jim had given him. Jess laughed until she choked on her water. Sam rubbed circles on her back.

“That will teach you to laugh at your husband,” he said.

“Aw, baby, don’t be mad. You were just as adorable as I imagined. And very imaginative too – where did you get all those ideas?”

“Oh, from Dad’s books, mostly,” Dean said.

Sam felt the atmosphere immediately freeze. The subject of their father had been avoided until now, but seeing how Jess paled, she obviously remembered what Sam had told her about him. Sam felt like something heavy was weighing on his chest and keeping him from breathing normally.

“Huh.” Dean’s fingers were playing with his napkin. He looked at Jess. “I take it that Sam told you about our dad.”

“Uh, yes.” For the first time she looked embarrassed, was avoiding looking at either of them. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Dean said. “It is what it is. He’s still our Dad, even if Sammy would like to pretend he’s not.”

Sam raised sharply his head. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Changing your name, for starters. And I bet you’ve never been to visit him during all these years. You know he asks for you? Or at least he did the last time I was able to go see him.”

Sam felt something sharp and burning in his guts, but he didn’t know whether it was guilt or anger. Anger was easier to handle, though, always had been.

“Is it that ridiculous that I don’t want to talk about how our father is a murderer? That I want to move on with my life? I’m doing what I can, man, we got dealt a shitty hand. I don’t understand how you can pretend it wasn’t such a big deal.”

“He’s sick, Sam, it’s not his fault. He did the best he could with what he thought were the circumstances.” Dean pushed himself away from the table. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

He stood up; Jess did the same and gave him a hug. He squeezed her shoulder and gave her a strained smile.

“Thanks for dinner, Jess,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.”

After he left, Sam and Jess cleared the table in silence. Jess rinsed the plates while Sam filled the dishwasher.

“I’m sorry,” Jess said suddenly.

Sam straightened up.

“For what?”

“For asking questions about your childhood. I should have known better than to touch on that subject after what you told me. I just, I wanted to know more about you.”

“It’s okay.” He took a step to get closer to her, put a hand on the back of her neck and started playing with her hair. “What did you think of my brother?”

“He’s a very charming man.”

Sam chuckled. “He likes to think he is. He told me you were out of my league.”

“Well, we both already knew that.”

They exchanged an easy smile.

“He also loves you very much,” Jess said.

“Oh, really?” Sam turned to get some other plates and silvery from the sink. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“The way he talks about you as a kid. The way he looks at you, he seemed so happy to just be at a table with you. We should invite him again. I promise to avoid any touchy subjects.”

“Hmm, yeah, we’ll see.”

He bent over the dishwasher so Jess couldn’t see the expression on his face. He blinked a few times to ease the burn in his eyes.

---

The next morning, Sam found Dean in the conference room, his head bent over an open book of some paintings. Several other books were piled up around him. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, the kind of clothes he always wore when they were younger – the kind of clothes their dad wore – and Sam would have frowned at the infraction to the dress code, but he thought about their fight, and couldn’t comment on it.

“Hey,” he said.

Dean raised his head, smiled a little too wide. “Hey there, Agent Wesson.”

Sam lowered his head, bit his lip. He was starting to hate his borrowed name.

“I think I have something,” Dean said before Sam could say anything. “I talked with Cas last night about the Dutchman’s card.”

Business it was, then. Sam sat at the table, threw a look at the book Dean was reading. Looked like it was about Russian painting.

“Yeah?”

“The font used for the ‘D,’ we thought there is something Cyrillic about it.”

“Yeah, but we already caught on that. Our guy being Russian doesn’t really help us.”

“Ah, but see,” Dean raised a finger, “I don’t think he’s anymore Russian than we are. Just a fan of Russian contemporary painting.”

He turned the book he was reading to face Sam. There was a colorful painting on the page, a dark-headed woman lying on the grass, animals and children and balloons surrounding her.

“What am I looking at?” Sam asked.

“Look at the signature. Vladimir Dubossarky. Look at the D.”

Sam leaned forward, narrowed his eyes. Dean pushed one of the Dutchman’s business card next to the painting.

“They’re the same,” Sam said.

“Exactly!” Dean folded his arms on his chest, looking triumphant. “And that narrows it down a little.”

“We need to find everyone who has bid on Dubossarkys for the past two years. Um, that maybe still a long list but if we cross referenced with people with a business connection the cities that were robbed by the Dutchman…”

“Done, and done,” Dean said.

He was looking at somewhere over Sam’s head, so Sam turned to see Jo enter the room with a file in her hands.

“I have the info you needed,” she said. She was talking to Dean, and Sam looked from her to his brother in surprise. “Good morning, sir.”

“Hey, Jo. So, I take it you two get along, now.”

Jo frowned. “He had a lead. I’m just doing my job.”

“Uh, okay. What did you find?”

“Well, after cross referencing, the list shortened considerably.” She opened the file. “Look at that.”

Sam and Dean both leaned in to look at the paper she was holding.

“Bela Talbot,” Dean read out loud. “Huh. Look like our Dutchman is a woman.”

“We should have a conversation with her,” Sam said.

Dean nodded and stood up, took off the leather jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair. Sam’s inside knotted at the sight of this jacket – it had been their dad’s. He met Dean’s eyes, but with Jo still with them in the room he couldn’t say anything. It was only once they were alone together in the elevator that he finally opened his mouth.

“About yesterday…”

“Forget it,” Dean said, not looking at him.

“Forget what? Look, we don’t agree about Dad, we never have and we probably never will. But I didn’t invite you over to fight, so I’m sorry I got worked up.”

Dean sighed, rubbed his nose. “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t have baited you like I did either. It’s not just about Dad, though.”

“What then? Is it the name change? You know why I did it, it’s not about being ashamed of our family.”

“Yeah, I know, the FBI. But can you honestly say that it’s just because of your job? That you’d have no problem talking about our family otherwise?”

Dean was looking at him, serious in a way he rarely was, and Sam didn’t know what to say to him. He didn’t have to say anything, though. A ring, and the elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, and two people came in.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Sam said.

Dean snorted and shook his head.

---

“Miss Talbot will be here in a minute.”

Dean smiled at the young woman, whose pale skin turned red before she hurried out of the room. Sam gave him a look.

“What?” Dean said. “She’s cute. I didn’t do more than smile. Not my fault if I’m irresistible.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Sam said, but his brother’s attention was already elsewhere.

He was standing in front of one of the paintings on the wall. The style looked familiar to Sam.

“Is it a Dubossarky?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “There’s another one over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite wall. He laughed. “She’s making it so obvious, I doubt the Cyrillic font was anything but intentional. After all, what does it prove?”

“Yeah, sounds like someone I know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re the guy who signed the bonds you counterfeited.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean’s eyes didn’t move from the painting but the corner of his mouth curved up. “What I do know, however, is that this painting is a forgery.”

“You sure? Okay, stupid question, of course you’re sure. She has the money to buy a real one, why would she have a forgery? Unless she doesn’t know.”

“Maybe she’s the forger.”

“Gentlemen?”

Sam and Dean spun around in a synchronized motion. The elegant young woman had a slight smile, like she enjoyed taking them by surprise.

“We were just admiring your collection. Miss Talbot, I presume?” Sam held out his hand for her to shake. Her grip was firm, and she looked at him straight in the eye. “Agent Wesson. This is my consultant, Dean Winchester.”

Bela Talbot looked at Dean with open curiosity and maybe some interest, her eyes detailing him until they fell on the bulge at his ankle.

“And what is that, Mr. Winchester?” She had a British accent. “You just made me curious about what exactly is your area of expertise. Nothing legal, I assume.”

“Oh, legal is a matter of point of view.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure Agent Wesson would agree.” She caught Dean glancing at the forged painting. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. Dubossarky, right?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I’ve heard that you like Dubossarky a lot, Miss Talbot,” Sam said, trying to take back control of the conversation.

“I do like Russian contemporary art,” she said. “I wasn’t aware this was crime, though.”

“Oh, it isn’t. I was merely making conversation before we had to get onto more unpleasant matters.”

“This is very nice of you, Agent Wesson, but I’m not one to beat around the bush. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Where were you on April 6th?”

“Well, I’m a very busy woman, so I can’t really tell you that off the top of my head.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, but I’m sure someone keep track of that.” Sam’s eyes flickered to the corner of the room, where the young woman who had blushed at a smile of Dean had been standing during the whole conversation. “Your assistant, maybe?”

Bela didn’t turn. “Rose? Can you check?”

Rose immediately started to push buttons on her phone, but as she opened her mouth Bela stopped her with a raised hand.

“Don’t say anything. Agent Wesson will need a warrant for this information.” Her smile widened. “Agent Wesson, I’m sure it won’t be a problem if you have compelling evidence. If you don’t, then I’m not sure what you’re doing here.”

“Very well,” Sam said.

He hadn’t expected much from the visit, but he had to admit that her smile grated. She knew what he thought and she was obviously delighted in the knowledge that there wasn’t anything that he could do about it.

“Let me show you to the door,” she said.

“We’ll find our way out.”

Sam nodded politely at Rose, who diverted her eyes. Once they were in the street Sam let his frustration come out.

“It’s her, that’s obvious. Did you see her smile? She didn’t even ask why I wanted to know where she was. She knows I know and she fucking gets off on it. Why does she even have to rob banks? It’s not like she needs the money.”

“Dude, I forgot how much of a bitch you are when you don’t get what you want.”

“Come on, man, doesn’t she piss you off? Even just a little?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s one smug bitch, no argument there. But you have to admit that she has style.”

“Dean, she’s a criminal.”

“Yeah, and who are you talking to? Or did you forget the fucking thing attached to my ankle?”

That was a sobering thought. Sam felt Dean put his hand on his shoulder to pull him to a stop.

“Sammy, don’t sweat it. You’re gonna get her, I know you will. You got me, didn’t you?”

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling a little. “Yeah, you’re not conceited at all.”

“Hey, Winchesters are awesome, that’s all there is to it. You will get her in handcuffs and it will feel almost as good as when you did it to me.”

Sam’s smile vanished. “It didn’t feel good at all when I did it to you.”

For a moment, all they did was to look at each other while passers-by walked hurriedly around them. Dean cleared his throat.

“Well, that’s good to know.”

“Yeah. Um. I have to go back to the office, we need to get flight records to see whether she went to Dallas, Chicago or Boston the days of the robberies.”

“That sounds exciting. Mind if I come back later? I’m supposed to have lunch with Cas and I’m starving.”

“As long as it’s in your perimeter then no problem. You need a ride?”

“I’ll take the subway.” Dean patted his shoulder. “Alright. See you later, then.”

Part Two