Unity in Shadow for purplehrdwonder

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Title: Unity in Shadow
Author: Kris Atta
Recipient:  purplehrdwonder
Rating: T (for violence/ mild gore)
Warnings: None other than the rating.
Beta Credits: All my love and thanks go to the Beta Branch.
Summary:  Sam has a vision that send the two to New York, where they happen to meet up with a certain former con man… and his FBI handler. Crossover w/ White Collar.
Author’s Note: Sorry, Wonder, I had to twist your prompt quite a bit. It was the only way it would work for my brain. Still, I hope you enjoy!



“2 slices of fresh blueberry pie, please. With whip.”

The waitress (Jenny, going by her nametag) grins, taking both menus from Dean after writing the short order down.

“Ooh, good choice. The berries are in the middle of their season right now and are divine. Will you be wantin’ anything else?”

“Well, I’ll have a coffee – black – and Sammy here’d like one of those Red Bull thing—“

“I’ll have water, thanks,” Sam interrupts, smiling politely at Jenny before shooting a glare to Dean.

“All right then. I’ll be right back with your drinks. The pie’s cooked fresh, so that might take just a little bit longer.” With another quick grin, she’s gone.

Dean watches her (or rather, a certain, well-shaped part of her) go until she disappears into the kitchen. His gaze transfers to Sam as he half-smiles.

“So you were listening.”

“To you order for me? Yes. I might trust you with my life, Dean, but not with my food.”

Dean smirks. “Aww.”

He’s about to add more when the waitress returns, bearing a platter with their drinks. She sets it in front of them and Dean immediately snatches his coffee. He’s already swallowed a third of the cup before he realizes Sam hasn’t taken the water yet. He looks up just as Jenny speaks up worriedly.

“Are you all right?”

In answer, Sam grits out, “Dean,” sounding all too strained as his left hand goes to his temple. With a curse, the elder Winchester is at his side.

“Sammy?” Comfort and a question in a word.

Sam pants helplessly, and Dean swears, keeping a grip on his younger brother’s shoulders as his gaze slips into nothing.

“Is…. Is he okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

Jenny. She’s still there.

“No, no, don’t call anyone. He’ll be fine. He, um, gets these sometimes. It’s a condition.”

“A condition? Does he need anything?”

“Yeah. Space.”

She falls silent. Dean isn’t sure if she leaves or not and doesn’t really care. One of his hands moves carefully to Sam’s cheek in an attempt to anchor the younger man. It takes a good 15 seconds before Sam shows any sign of returning to reality.

“Sammy?”

This time, there’s a semi-articulate reply. Dean can’t find it within himself to be relieved as he hears it and takes in the sick pallor of the speaker’s skin.

“Dean… gah. Dean. We—we have to go…” Sam cuts off, trembling. Dean pulls back but keeps his hands firmly in place, brow deeply furrowed. This is even worse than normal.

“Take your time, Sammy. Just keep breathing.”

“No, Dean, we have to go now. Please.”

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

Sam falls against him, fist curling in the front of his jacket. “It’s Neal, Dean… Neal’s in danger.”

~SN~WC~SN~WC~

“Hughes, we don’t do murders. That’s not our division.” Peter is leaning against his boss’s desk, neck corded in anger.

“I know that, Burkes. But this is coming straight from the higher-ups; I can’t do anything about it. They want Neal in – they think he’ll be able to give… insight.”

“He’s never killed anyone!” He pulls away, throwing his hands into the air. Hughes sighs, leaning back in his chair and scowling.

“I know. Come on, Peter, don’t take this so personally. They’ll probably have him survey a scene and kick you out again.”

Peter sighs, running a hand down his face. “He’s not going to like this.”

-


“No.” The answer comes practically before the question is finished being asked. Neal crosses his arms, eyes immediately shuttered.

“Neal…”

“No, Peter, absolutely not.”

“Look. All that you’ll have to do is visit one crime scene.” Burke sounds tired, holding the folder out in an imploring gesture.

“I’m an artist. I work with words and paint, not blood. I don’t do death.”

“I can’t stop this. It’s coming from the top. You refuse to cooperate and they send you back to jail. These guys aren’t your friends.”

Neal growls in aggravation, falling back against the wall. His shoulders are hunched defensively, which unsettles Peter. His partner’s posture never sways from a confident, straight saunter.

“Hey. We’ll make it as painless as possible. Remove you from the action as much as we can. They just want to pick your brain.”

“Because of my experience, right?” The word is dripping with scorn.

“We all know you’ve never killed anyone.”

“Do you?” And suddenly Neal’s gaze is so much colder, and Peter loses his assurance. Neal steps closer, barely half a foot away. “I’ll do it. But, Peter-“ His words taper off as his fist clenches. The agent suppresses a shiver.

“Yes?”

Neal releases a short, violent breath. He closes his eyes briefly, and when they open again, they’re swimming in desperation. “Just this once. Please.”

Blinking, Peter stammers out, “Yeah. O-of course.”

He waits until Neal steps away to compose himself. “All right. So. Three deaths in the past week and a half, all men. About the same standing in society, which would be very wealthy. Death by…” Here Peter pauses, face going a little green. “Disembowelment.” He clears his throat. “The suspected link between the murders is an antique portrait. It’s famous for going missing over 200 years ago. Then it surfaced out of the blue two weeks ago. The first victim bought it for $300,000 and was dead the next day.”

Neal is staring at the wall, brow furrowing. “Why? If this guy was after the painting, he would’ve stolen it; there would be no need for the murders. What’s his goal? Fame? If that, he’ll slip up or even turn himself in. Anonymity won’t be enough.”

“So what do we do? We can’t exactly wait him out.”

Neal shakes his head vehemently. “No no no, of course not. That might not even be his goal.”

They stand in frustrated silence for a moment until a familiar face appears at the door.

“What do you need, Jones?” Peter asks after motioning for the man to come in. He enters, but stays at the threshold.

“Actually, I came for Neal. He… has visitors.”

~SN~WC~SN~WC~


Sam and Dean are waiting in the front lobby when Neal comes down to see them. When he does, his expression changes from puzzled to openly excited. He skips the last three stairs and strides over, reaching out a hand.

“Sam!” He exclaims as the younger Winchester returns the warm handshake with vigor. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. How are you?”

“Great!” And Dean’s marveling at the sparkle that hasn’t been in Sam’s eye for months. “It’s really good to see you. And here, of all places?” He lifts an eyebrow and Dean feels very left out. Then Neal turns to him, smile no less shining than it had been for Sam.

“You must be Dean! I gotta say, from what Sam told me about you, I half-expected you to not exist. He made you out to be superhuman.”

Dean is momentarily speechless. Sam hasn’t vocalized his hero-worship for him in years.

“Yeah, well, he’s always been overdramatic. I’ve heard a bit about you, too, which is sayin’ something. Sammy here doesn’t talk about his college days much.”

This time, Neal is the one to arch a brow. “Oh. So how much did he say, exactly?”

Before Dean can reply, Sam cuts in. “Everything. It’s my whole family, remember? I almost called him when things got hot.”

“You should have,” Dean insists quietly. Sam ignores him.

“Anyway, that kind of brings us to why we’re here.”

There’s a rather short pause before revelation dawns on Neal’s face. “The portrait!”

Sam furrows his brow before nodding shortly. “Right. I… saw some sort of painting.”

“Wait. What do you mean, saw?”

Before Sam can answer, a loud voice echoes from the staircase. “Neal? What’s going on?”

All three men look up to see another, coming slowly down towards them. He’s obviously a fed, and Sam and Dean shift nervously.

“Hey, uh, we better be going. Meet you around eight at the Lilac Motel, kay?”

And they’re gone before Neal can say a word. Peter reaches his side and glances after them, frowning.

“Who were they? What did they want?”

Neal shrugs. “They’re just some old friends.”

“Friends? Or colleagues?”

“Friends,” the former criminal spits out with a glare.

Peter backs off, lifting his hands defensively. “Okay, jeez. It’s just… one of them looked familiar. Don’t know why. Must’ve been the distance. Now come on, we have work to do.”

~SN~WC~SN~WC~

It’s nearing eleven when there’s a series of light knocks at the brothers’ motel room. Sam crosses the small space and open the door to see Neal, standing huddled outside in the rain.

“Hey, man, what took so long?” Sam needles as he shuts the door. Neal removes his jacket and drops down onto the end of Dean’s bed

“We got a break in the case and had to pursue a suspect. Turned out to be false, anyway.”

“Ah, tough. Well, we may as well cut to the chase.” Sam saunters back to his seat in their kitchen area. “You’re not safe.”

“I rarely am.”

“Yeah, well the danger is a bit more pressing this time.” Pausing, Sam leans away from the table and drags a hand through his hair. “See… I recently, um, discovered than I’m… kind of a psychic sometimes. I get visions.”

There’s no audible reply from Neal, but he does lift his eyebrows.

“They usually all have a… common theme.” He pauses again, and Dean takes charge, leaning imperceptibly closer to his brother.

“Sammy sees dead people.” There’s one disbelieving snort and one glare. Dean barrels on. “Or, well, people who will be dead. People who are dying. And this morning, he saw you.”

There’s an extended period of silence. It’s only when Sam starts to shift uncomfortably in his chair that Neal speaks.

“So… what do we do?”

Dean shoots Sam a surprised look, and gets an ‘I told you so’ eyebrow in return. “Well. I saw it… happen in some sort of apartment. It was small and pretty high up. Middle of the day. And there was a painting on the wall – the portrait you mentioned earlier, I’m assuming.”

“A girl? Small, pale, in front of a field of-“

“-dead flowers? Yeah.”

Neal seems to sag at his perch, loosening his tie. “How does it happen?”

“Um… you… saw the others?”

The man on the bed pales visibly. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. I did. You… you saw that happen to me?”

Sam sighs deeply, massaging his temples. “Yeah.”

“So…” Neal starts; stops. Takes a breath. “Who did it?”

“That’s the thing,” Dean replies, standing from his seat at the table. “It’s not a ‘who.’ It’s a ‘what.’”

“Like at Stanford?”

“Sort of.” Sam rises to pour himself a glass of water. “Only that was a poltergeist. We think this is just a vengeful spirit, which is actually a lot easier to deal with. It’s attached to the portrait, so all we have to do to get rid of it is burn that.”

That brings Neal pause. “What?”

Sam sighs again, returning to his seat. “I know it’s valuable, man, but there’s nothing else we can do. We’ve got to get rid of this thing.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

“So. Keep us informed. When you find the painting, try to let us know. Your guys aren’t going to be able to take care of this. And stay out of apartment buildings until this is over, okay?”

Dean seems to be dismissing him. He heads over to tug Sam out of his seat, and for the first time Neal notices how unwell the younger man seems to be. He’s pale and quiet, looking exhausted. He collects himself and stands, starting for the door when a soft voice stops him.

“Hey. Neal.”

He turns, trying to that smirk he thought he’d perfected. It falls when Sam’s weary, gentle eyes meet his.

“Thanks for listening.”

The ridiculously grateful statement sends an odd shock through him, and this time as he turns to leave, his smile is genuine.

~SN~WC~SN~WC~

They don’t speak again until almost a full day later, when Neal has the phone handed to him by a bemused Jones.

“Hello?”

“Neal? Hey. How’s the game going?” Neal falls easily into ‘this is a recorded FBI phone be careful’ demeanor.

“Pretty good, actually. Our team’s winning – great offense.”

“Yeah? How soon ‘til the big halftime show?”

“Not long at all. Only a few minutes, actually.”

“Anyplace we could watch the rest of it together?”

“My friend has an apartment downtown. Really nice place – a high-rise.” Neal can’t keep the tremor out of his voice. “Maybe you can bring something. I’ve already got a bunch of junk, so you should cart some fruit over.” He sees Peter approaching, looking vaguely annoyed.

“Meet me there, say 12:30? Though knowing you guys, you’ll probably be at least ten minutes late, give or take a couple.”

“Roger that.”

Both ends disconnect just as Peter reaches Neal’s side.

“Who ya talking to?”

“Just those friends that visited the other day,” Neal replies with an easy smile. “They were wanting to meet up. Don’t worry, I got rid of them.”

“ I certainly hope so. We can’t have anyone in our way, least of all your friends.” Peter says with a smirk, clearly still suspicious of the brothers.

As he walks away, all Neal can think is you have no idea.

~SN~WC~SN~WC~


Sam sets the motel room phone down and stands, instantly starting to gather his things. Dean gets the picture and does the same. They’re packed and in the car within four minutes.

“So where we headed?”

“Downtown. High rise facility on a street named after a fruit. Apartment twelve thirty something… Eight, I’d guess. Oh, and Dean? Be careful. The FBI is headed there, too.”

Dean swears.

“But I only saw the Peter and Neal with us. I think they’re headed there alone. Still, Peter seems like a pretty by the book kinda guy. He’ll probably recognize you.”

“Have to take the chance, I guess.”

“Dean…”

The driver refuses to turn towards his frowning passenger. “What else can we do, Sam?”

There’s a beat of silence. Sam takes a breath. “I’ve never been as important to them as you.”

Dean’s eyes widen as he realizes what Sam is suggesting. “No. Absolutely friggin’ not.”

“It’s just this once! You’ll be no use to anyone locked up.”

“I’m dead to them, Sam – literally. He’ll think it’s a coincidence.”

Sam scoffs. “That’s a pretty big assumption.”

“Well, you said yourself there would only the one Fed. If he tries to cart me off, we’ll take him out.”

“Dean!”

“I don’t mean kill him, stupid. Just knock him out long enough to get away.”

“I only saw him inside the apartment. We have no idea what’ll be outside.”

“I’m willing to chance it. My life; my decision, Sam. I’m going in. End of discussion.”

Sam gapes for a few moments before flopping back into his seat and glaring out the windshield. Dean, still ruffled himself, lets him cool off for a few minutes. But they both know how stupid it is to go into a hunt tense like this.

“Sam… you know this isn’t because I don’t think you can handle it, right?”

And there it is again, Dean’s uncanny sense for all things Sam. The younger hunter hadn’t even been thinking about motives, but now that it’s out in the open… he’s just felt so helpless lately, with the visions and everything. Any sort of blow to his ability makes him more unsteady than usual. And of course, he is concerned for his brother, but they’ve been in this situation before and handled it. He blinks, shifting his gaze to the dashboard.

“No, I know that.”

“Do you?”

Silence.

“Sam… listen. I know you’re capable. This isn’t about babying you or not thinking you can do what you need to. I just – I’m your brother, man. That’s never going to change. And you running off into a situation that we know is dangerous… it scares me.”

That gets Sam to look up. This is Dean, after all. He doesn’t get scared.

“Look, I know you’re worried. I get it. But I’m not letting you go anywhere without me at your back. If things get too hot, I’ll pull out, I swear. I don’t want to go to jail anymore than you.”

It takes a moment, but eventually Sam looks up at Dean and smiles. Everything (okay fine good deal you’d better be serious I love you too man) is communicated in that one expression. Dean grins cockily back before looking to the road again.

“So, what was it? Something about fruit?”

~SN~WC~SN~WC~


“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Peter and Neal are traversing a long, narrow hallway towards a door near the end, Apartment 1238, where they’d discovered the portrait had been transported as of last night.

“Yes, Peter, I told you. He’s violent but methodical. He plans. If he’s even here, a surprise attack will throw him way off guard. His deal is with the portrait owners; he shouldn’t fight us.” Don’t question me. Just go with it, Petey, please.

“Yeah, it’s the ‘shouldn’t’ that’s putting me off. I’d much rather that be a ‘won’t.’ We could’ve at least brought a couple more men.”

They’re coming… hopefully. “The less people the better. If we overwhelm him, he might lash out.”

They reach the apartment door and stop. With a glance to Neal, Peter stands against the door, gun in one hand. He sets the other on the knob and silently counts to three before bursting inside.

“FBI! Get your hands…” Peter doesn’t even finish the short phrase as he takes in the room. It’s completely void of life. The desired portrait is hanging on the west wall of the spacious penthouse, but there’s not one around to admire it.

Neal comes in more slowly than Peter, taking the place in. The agent motions for him to move around and search to the left. He goes right, towards the bedroom, which is empty. He doesn’t have time to go further before a strained call of his name rings from the kitchen. He rushes out to the sound and finds Neal in the kitchen, face pale, gaze stuck to the floor. Peter tentatively rounds the island between them and stops, feeling bile rise in his throat.

“Guess we were too late.”

Neal doesn’t reply. His stare hasn’t moved from the floor where the portrait owner lies, abdomen sliced open and torn savagely apart. Peter steps carefully around a shredded live at his feet to Neal’s side. Taking the man’s elbow, he leads him away from the body and to the couch, where the former con man sits heavily. And begins to tremble.

“Neal…”

Still nothing. Peter’s halfway to the bathroom to procure a cup of water when the door bursts open.

~SN~WC~SN~WC~

Sam and Dean freeze at the threshold of the apartment, staring at the FBI agents who has a gun pointed at them.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Neal, momentarily shocked into motionlessness by the sudden break-in, finds his muscles working again and stands. He holds his hands out to Peter in a placating motion.

“Calm down, Peter. They’re here to help.”

“Help?!” The agent nearly chokes. “How could they – wait a minute. You two are the ones from the lobby!”

Neal nods. “Yeah, that would be them.”

Peter lowers his gun, but not far. “Care to explain what they’re doing here?”

“That’s kind of a long story.” Neal starts pacing, threading a hand through his already-tousled hair as he does so. “See, a while back, when I was still running, I stayed in Palo Alto for a few days. Turns out that the security at Stanford isn’t as tight as you’d think. Anyway, while I was there, I met a guy. His name was Sam.” Here, Neal gestures to the taller Winchester, who’s standing a bit awkwardly by the door. “He helped me out when I got into some… trouble.”

“What kind of trouble, Neal?” Peter questions, clearly out of patience.

“The kind that would have killed me. There was a poltergeist in the dorms,” he spits out quickly once Peter turns on him.

It takes a minute for Neal’s statement to register. When it does, Peter’s face cracks into disbelieving shock.

“Okay, Neal, this is too far. I mean, even for a con man this is just… I can’t even…”

It’s the first time Neal has seen Peter truly speechless. “Please, Peter, I know how this all sounds, but… we’re not dealing with a serial killer here. You want proof, and I can give that to you. But you just have to trust me.”

Trust me.

The phrase that’s thrown between the ex-con and the agents more than any other. It seems to describe their relationship, just a series of ‘trust me’s traded back and forth in ever more dangerous situations. Peter puts a fist over his mouth before exhaling loudly. He’s reminded of a quote that was in his favorite books as a kid: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

“If it’s not a serial killer, what is it?”

Neal glances to Sam and Dean, as if giving them the stage. The latter steps up.

“To answer your earlier question, I’m Dean. This is Sam. We’re hunters, and right now, we’re hunting a vengeful spirit.”

The end of his statement is punctuated by the apartment door slamming behind him. The lights flicker, and suddenly everyone’s breath is fogging. Dean swears, catching the duffle Sam tosses to him and flicking it open. He throws an iron rod in both Neal and Peter’s direction. Looking grim, Neal picks it up and grips it tightly. Peter does the same, though his expression is quite a bit more confused. Sam comes over to Dean and grabs the salt his brother is holding out.

“You two. This way,” he commands, heading to the middle of the main floor.

Once there, he begins pouring the salt generously from its container into a circle on the floor.

“Get in.”

Neal does as he’s told, but Peter holds back, staring at Sam with an affronted look. “Are you kidding me?”

The lights flicker again. “Not at all, sir.”

Peter glances from a pale Neal to Sam and back again before he shakes his head, lifting his hands and turning.

“You know what? This is ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re all playing at, but I’m not buying it. Maybe you’ve finally snapped, Neal.”

The well-dressed, snappy con man, usually so quick to find the right speech to play the heart strings, is at a loss for words. He can’t stop Peter.

The agent is halfway to the door when the spirit appears in front of him.

He shouts and stumbles back, falling to his seat. The pale woman from the painting looks down at him, cocking her head and assessing his form.

“You are not able.”

She passes through him without another glance. Peter scrambles to his feet and falls against the wall, chest heaving. Sam is holding his sawed-off towards the spirit but hasn’t fired yet, still processing her statement.

“Not able? What does that mean? Dean?”

His brother is opposite him, extending a hand towards Peter and guiding the shaken man to the salt circle. His own gun is constantly on the woman in the midst of them all. She’s staying where she is, only rotating to survey them. Her gaze turns to Sam, who grips his gun more tightly but stands firm.

“You are not able.”

He blinks, staring straight back. “Not able to what? What do you need me for?”

She ignores him, moving on to Dean. He holds back a shiver as her dead eyes sweep over him.

“You are not able.”

Finally, the spirit turns to Neal, safely in the salt circle. Still, he holds the rod given to him out in warning.

As soon as her gaze lights upon him, she changes. “You. You are able.”

A strong wind kicks up, dancing around the apartment and starting to play with the edges of the circle.

“You are able. Come.”

Neal is backing up, unsure what to do.

“Come. Finish it. You are able.”

Her hair is becoming less gray and brittle and more brown and supple. Her flesh is knitting itself back together. Sam glances to Dean, brow furrowed.

“Finish it.”

The wind becomes stronger. “You are able!” The grains of salt are beginning to scatter as she draws nearer.

Sam fires his gun. The salt explodes through her, dispersing her and the wind. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“It won’t last long. We’ve got to burn that picture.” He heads for the portrait, but is knocked back to the opposite wall before he can reach it.

“No! It must be finished!” She’s back more suddenly than anyone expected, her eyes alight with fire as she turns them on Neal. “You will finish it.” Her head turns and she finds Sam struggling to his feet. Back to Neal again. “You have a bond with him?”

“What?” Neal shakes his head, backing further away from the crazed spirit. “No – I, no I don’t…”

“You lie. You owe him a great deal.”

Her form floats between the two men, head slanted in indifference. Suddenly, Sam is thrown straight against the wall, held there stiffly by an unseen force. He groans.

“Finish it or he will perish.”

“What?”

“Not on my watch, chick!” Dean’s gun is discharging, and she’s gone… only to reappear moments later in the exact same place. He growls in anger, running towards the portrait. He doesn’t get three feet before he’s skidding backwards.

“Finish it! Finish it!”

Neal has dropped the rod by now, gaze jumping desperately from Sam to Dean to the quickly-dispersing salt.

“Finish what? I’ll do it if you tell me what it is! Please! Finish what?”

She glares furiously at him. “You are able! Finish it!” And she points and suddenly Sam is screaming. Neal drops to his knees, staring in morbid fascination as blood starts to appear near Sam’s waistline. He realizes what’s happening with a wave of sickness. He’s got to do something – fast.

Sam cries out again, throwing his head back against the wall and more blood flows down his shirt and jeans.

“Sam! Sammy!” Dean is struggling against his own invisible bonds, frantically clawing at the floor in the vain hope of setting himself free. “Let me go! Sam!”

“Stop! Just stop! What do you want?” Neal realizes how wrecked he sounds, and can’t really care. He’s known anxiety before, but this fear – this realization that he is absolutely responsible for the unbearable suffering of his own friend, and the probable deaths that will occur if he doesn’t do something now – that’s new.

“Finish it. Finish me.”.

“The painting!” Peter suddenly makes his presence known from the corner of the room. Later Neal will be mildly impressed that he spoke at all during the event, but right now he’s focused only on what his partner has said. “The portrait, Neal! She wants you to finish the portrait!”

It doesn’t make any sense. It’s finished already. But there’s nothing else to do, and Sam is still writhing, and Dean is still yelling, and he really should just burn it but he doesn’t know about these things what if it doesn’t work she’s making a request after all

And out of nowhere there is a paintbrush in his hand and it all goes quiet.

He steps out of the now-thin circle of protection and towards the canvas, mind already entranced, tracing over every detail – the brush stroke, the exact patterns of thickness, the dozens of different color shades too subtle for the untrained eye. But Neal’s is so very trained, and he picks up on everything. So when the frame falls away, he sees it immediately. There is a small spot in the lower right corner of the painting that was never covered with any shade, was never given attention after the rest of the portrait seemed so beautifully completed. It’s nothing complicated, just a fold of material to finish her dress. Neal raises the brush, already dipped in the perfect color, and sets it down. His expert hand recreates the original artist’s stroke perfectly, and within a minute, he’s finished.

He feels a cold breath over his shoulder and realizes that the spirit has approached him. For some reason, it doesn’t cause the feeling of alarm it should.

“Thank you.”

And she’s gone.

There’s a crystallized moment after her departure when all in the room seem to acknowledge the peace of a departing storm. Then it falls back into reality.

“Sammy!”

As soon as he’s free, Dean is across the room and at Sam’s side. The aforementioned brother has slid down the wall and onto his side, and is not moving. Neal follows Dean, but only partway before he realizes he has his own partner to tend to.

“Peter?”

The agent appears from his stance by the wall, face whiter than Neal’s ever seen it. He tries to offer and smile and isn’t sure whether or not he succeeds.

“Caffrey… there’s quite a bit you haven’t been telling me.”

Neal laughs unexpectedly. “Yeah, well. You’re gonna hear it all now.”

Burke chuckles along with Neal, but his mirth soon fades. “So that’s what was causing all those deaths? A spirit? But… how?”

“She was attached to the portrait. I guess it was important enough to her to keep her behind once she died. The person who painted it must have been special, if him not finishing it was that strong a motivation to stay behind.”

“Right. Hey… will he be okay?”

Peter is gesturing past Neal, who remembers with a shock what Sam went through because of him. He rushes over to the fallen man’s side. Dean glances very briefly to him, and despite Neal’s talent for reading people, he can’t for the life of him tell what emotions were in that look.

“Come on, man, talk to me.” Dean is practically begging. Neal’s beginning to think he shouldn’t be here but can’t bear to get up and leave.

“Please, Sammy.”

The man laying on the floor is pale, blood still oozing from his torso as he gives no reply. Dean’s hands flutter desperately over him, finally landing on his shoulders and shaking none too gently.

“Talk to me, Sam!”

The break in his voice seems to do the trick. Sam shifts, long bangs falling into his eyes only to be brushed back by a gentle hand. His eyes open so slowly Dean swears Sam is just trying to spite him.

“Hey there. You okay?”

“Peachy,” he quips, the outward bravado countered by him leaning into Dean’s touch. “Are you?”

“I’m fine, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Neal can’t stop a chuckle at the obviously familiar insults. The sound causes both brother’s eyes to snap towards him, and he shrinks back a bit. Sam smiles at him.

“Thanks, man. You figured it out. Saved my butt.”

“Just barely. Sorry about… that.”

Sam brushes him off. “Seriously. This is nothing. It would have been a whole lot worse if you hadn’t done what you did. So thanks.”

That seems to be all, as Sam turns back to Dean once he’s spoken. The older brother smiles and slides a hand behind Sam’s back.

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong on the inside?”

“Positive. I’ll have a nasty gash for awhile, and a pretty bad bruise, but anything she started Neal stopped.”

Confirmations done, Dean pulls one of Sam’s arms over his shoulders and levers the younger man up, keeping a grip around his waist as they stand.

“Well, I guess we’ll see you guys around, huh?”

“What?” Surprisingly, Peter is the one to speak up this time. “After all that, you’re just leaving? No, at least… well, at least have dinner with us. I’ve definitely got questions.”

Dean smirks. “And I’m sure Neal has answers. If not, give us a call, but Sam n’ I aren’t ones to hand around. We’ve got work to do.”

It doesn’t sit while with agent or con man, but they both nod. Neal approaches the brothers with his trademark smile in place.

“I expect I’ll be seeing you again. My number’s already in Sam’s pocket, so should anything come up, or you just happen to be in New York again…”

Dean winks at him. “We know who to call. Thanks again. We’ll be seeing you.”

And with that, they’re gone. Neal sighs deeply and turns to Peter. “You can never doubt me again,” he says with a cheeky grin.

The agent scoffs. “Keep trying, Caffrey. Now…” he shakes himself out, breathing deeply. “If you can reassure me that this all really did just happen, we have some brainstorming to do. We’re going to need an explanation.”

~SN~WC~SN~WC

It’s not until Sam and Dean are in the Impala, well on their way to the next motel room where Sam can recover when things really start registering.

“I guess he never did recognize you.”

Dean grins. “Told ya so, Sammy. People see what they want to see; you know that.”

“True. He’ll come across you eventually, but Neal will be able to explain. Still… that leaves the question. Why did I get sent here in the first place?”

That causes Dean’s smile to falter, its owner not appreciating the allusion to some power controlling their actions.

“What do you mean?”

“You know as well as I do that most of my visions revolve around the Demon. But he didn’t pop up at all.”

The two are quiet in their thoughtfulness for a moment.

“Maybe they’re expanding,” Dean suggests, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to distract himself from just how uneasy the idea makes him. Beside him, Sam fidgets.

“I hope not.”

“Hey, it could be a good thing. You could start getting some control over them. I mean, you wanted to know about Neal, right? Subconsciously, at least. So… I don’t know, maybe you’re starting to have some sway over it.”

“Maybe…” Sam slouches in his seat, clearly not liking the way this conversation is going.

“Hey,” Dean says, punching his brother lightly in the shoulder. “We saved him. That’s all that matters. Remember, nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to you, all right? So man up.”

Sam can’t help it. He grins. And Dean turns up the music as their car speeds down the open road.

~SN~WC~SN~WC~

Peter is sitting back in his chair in his office, safely back at work two day after he and Neal had debriefed their superiors about ‘what had happened.’ They’d spun some BS story about the murderer getting away but leaving the portrait. That’s what he was after, right? They were in a tizzy at the moment but it would die down after a few weeks and no bodies.

At the moment, Peter was busy being introduced to an entirely new world.

“He told me demons were real, but I never saw one. We hunted the poltergeist together then went out for a drink; that was really my only supernatural experience until the painting.”

“Wow. So that’s why you never talked about Palo Alto. I mean, I knew you’d gone there, but you never mentioned it before.”

Neal simply nods, gazing out the window as he sips at his tea. “I have always been into it, though. Supernatural stuff.”

Peter nods, recognizing Neal’s tone and furrowed brow. “Any reason in particular?”

“Well… I guess you could say it was inevitable. I’ve never remembered this, but my dad became a drunk because of it. See, when I was six months old, there was this weird nursery fire…”

*fin*