Criminal 1/? (Dean Winchester/Neal Caffrey)
Title: Criminal (Part 1 of ?)
Author: Castiel! at the Disco (a/k/a
calcium_yeah )
Rating: R
Fandoms: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Warnings: None/Nothing you wouldn’t expect from a rated R fic.
Disclaimer: A collection of people own Supernatural, White Collar and their characters. I own nothing.
Notes: This is the only thing I've been motivated to write. I expect it to be a casually continuing series cross-posted to sn_crossovers , sn_fic , and whitecollarfic .
Summary: Dean checks into a New York motel using an identity created for him over four years ago by the best forger, counterfeiter, and general white collar criminal Dean has ever known. That criminal? Well he’s happy to see that identity is still in use.
Dean was always suspicious of ringing motel room phones. Anyone who knew enough to track him to the room should’ve also known enough to call his cell phone. He knew that the ringing couldn’t just be ignored though, because if he didn’t pick it up it would turn out to be the child of some possessed woman in the next room, or Sam in trouble and trying to cover for the fact that he was calling Dean.
It couldn’t be the latter this time, because Dean could hear Sam in the bathroom showering off whatever bodily fluids a hobgoblin expels when beheaded. Still, he knew enough about the horror movie that was his life to know that not answering was probably a bad idea. He took a deep breath, finished reassembling the gun he’d been cleaning, and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.” Dean’s voice was rough when he answered the phone, not just because the cold New York air was wreaking havoc on his throat, but because he wanted to make it clear to whoever was on the other end of the line that he was damn busy and that they’d better have an important reason for calling.
“Well dammit if it isn’t really you.” The caller’s amusement was evident in his voice, and it worried Dean more than any threats or screaming would’ve ever worried him. Dean’s first thought was that the angels might have tracked him down somehow. He tried to remember if there had been any missionaries posted in the vicinity of where he and Sam were staying, but no one particularly religious looking came to mind.
“I think you might have the wrong room.” Dean tried to play it cool, draw out some information from whoever was on the other end of the phone. The angels wouldn't really need to dick around on the phone with him if they knew where he was, but that didn't mean he wanted to be too free in sharing information with whoever this was.
“You have no idea who this is, do you?” The caller’s voice softened, and while Dean never did credit himself as much of an expert in reading emotions, he’d have said there was a definite hint of regret underneath the humor. “It’s been a long four years.”
“Four years?” Dean repeated the other man involuntarily. Who hadn’t Dean seen in four years that would’ve had the ability to track him down like this? Dean could hardly remember what he'd been doing four years ago. Then again, it had been 44 years on his end, so who could blame him if he drew a few blanks here and there? Alzheimer’s had nothing on four decades in hell when it came to screwing with a man’s memory.
“Yeah, a long four years. Glad to see Derrick Burdon is still in the rotation after all these years, otherwise I would’ve had kind of a hard time finding you.” The more that the other man spoke, the more that his voice started to sound familiar. Dean was starting to get vague memories of short black hair and blue eyes. “I would’ve called sooner, but I figured you’d prefer not having records of a guy like me ringing you up from prison.”
Prison.
Prison.
It was like a secret password.
When that voice said the word prison, he might as well have shouted out the name Neal Caffrey.
It didn’t take more than five seconds after that for 44 years of fog to drift away, leaving Dean with a clear image of the man on the other end of the line. It was an image in motion, seen up close from below. That black hair came into clearer focus, spilling out into waves over a pale forehead, bouncing in and out of those blue eyes. Bright blue eyes that were open wide, with a look of hunger and insanity. Dark eyelashes that never seemed to blink. Eye contact that never seemed to end.
Dean felt it like he was there again, back on the floor of some art dealer’s office, asking himself what the hell he was doing. Scared and wanting more and in pain and enthralled all at the same time.
Dean’s heart had been beating in his ears all those years ago, and it was beating in his ears now.
It had been even longer than four years; he hadn’t seen Neal since he’d gotten Sam back from Stanford. He remembered trying and trying and trying to call. Sam was going to be on the road for good and Dean wanted his little brother to get his new IDs from the best. Neal never had answered, and it was with dread that Dean did an internet search not sure whether he was more scared of finding information than not finding anything. He had been both disappointed and relieved to read that Neal had been convicted for bond forgery, and he'd resigned himself to working on the IDs himself.
He hadn’t even thought about this man in years...he hadn’t thought about a lot of people in years. It was like his father went missing, he'd reconnected with Sam, and life and hunting had rushed at him in a way it never had before. For all the angels and demons and angry spirits, in that moment a phone call from Neal Caffrey felt like the most surreal thing Dean had encountered.
“Fuckin' a,” Dean stuttered out a breath.
“Yeah, I missed you too.” And this time, when he heard the amusement in the other man's voice, he could picture the smile that went along with it.
Author: Castiel! at the Disco (a/k/a
calcium_yeah )
Rating: R
Fandoms: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Neal Caffrey
Spoilers/Warnings: None/Nothing you wouldn’t expect from a rated R fic.
Disclaimer: A collection of people own Supernatural, White Collar and their characters. I own nothing.
Notes: This is the only thing I've been motivated to write. I expect it to be a casually continuing series cross-posted to sn_crossovers , sn_fic , and whitecollarfic .
Summary: Dean checks into a New York motel using an identity created for him over four years ago by the best forger, counterfeiter, and general white collar criminal Dean has ever known. That criminal? Well he’s happy to see that identity is still in use.
Dean was always suspicious of ringing motel room phones. Anyone who knew enough to track him to the room should’ve also known enough to call his cell phone. He knew that the ringing couldn’t just be ignored though, because if he didn’t pick it up it would turn out to be the child of some possessed woman in the next room, or Sam in trouble and trying to cover for the fact that he was calling Dean.
It couldn’t be the latter this time, because Dean could hear Sam in the bathroom showering off whatever bodily fluids a hobgoblin expels when beheaded. Still, he knew enough about the horror movie that was his life to know that not answering was probably a bad idea. He took a deep breath, finished reassembling the gun he’d been cleaning, and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.” Dean’s voice was rough when he answered the phone, not just because the cold New York air was wreaking havoc on his throat, but because he wanted to make it clear to whoever was on the other end of the line that he was damn busy and that they’d better have an important reason for calling.
“Well dammit if it isn’t really you.” The caller’s amusement was evident in his voice, and it worried Dean more than any threats or screaming would’ve ever worried him. Dean’s first thought was that the angels might have tracked him down somehow. He tried to remember if there had been any missionaries posted in the vicinity of where he and Sam were staying, but no one particularly religious looking came to mind.
“I think you might have the wrong room.” Dean tried to play it cool, draw out some information from whoever was on the other end of the phone. The angels wouldn't really need to dick around on the phone with him if they knew where he was, but that didn't mean he wanted to be too free in sharing information with whoever this was.
“You have no idea who this is, do you?” The caller’s voice softened, and while Dean never did credit himself as much of an expert in reading emotions, he’d have said there was a definite hint of regret underneath the humor. “It’s been a long four years.”
“Four years?” Dean repeated the other man involuntarily. Who hadn’t Dean seen in four years that would’ve had the ability to track him down like this? Dean could hardly remember what he'd been doing four years ago. Then again, it had been 44 years on his end, so who could blame him if he drew a few blanks here and there? Alzheimer’s had nothing on four decades in hell when it came to screwing with a man’s memory.
“Yeah, a long four years. Glad to see Derrick Burdon is still in the rotation after all these years, otherwise I would’ve had kind of a hard time finding you.” The more that the other man spoke, the more that his voice started to sound familiar. Dean was starting to get vague memories of short black hair and blue eyes. “I would’ve called sooner, but I figured you’d prefer not having records of a guy like me ringing you up from prison.”
Prison.
Prison.
It was like a secret password.
When that voice said the word prison, he might as well have shouted out the name Neal Caffrey.
It didn’t take more than five seconds after that for 44 years of fog to drift away, leaving Dean with a clear image of the man on the other end of the line. It was an image in motion, seen up close from below. That black hair came into clearer focus, spilling out into waves over a pale forehead, bouncing in and out of those blue eyes. Bright blue eyes that were open wide, with a look of hunger and insanity. Dark eyelashes that never seemed to blink. Eye contact that never seemed to end.
Dean felt it like he was there again, back on the floor of some art dealer’s office, asking himself what the hell he was doing. Scared and wanting more and in pain and enthralled all at the same time.
Dean’s heart had been beating in his ears all those years ago, and it was beating in his ears now.
It had been even longer than four years; he hadn’t seen Neal since he’d gotten Sam back from Stanford. He remembered trying and trying and trying to call. Sam was going to be on the road for good and Dean wanted his little brother to get his new IDs from the best. Neal never had answered, and it was with dread that Dean did an internet search not sure whether he was more scared of finding information than not finding anything. He had been both disappointed and relieved to read that Neal had been convicted for bond forgery, and he'd resigned himself to working on the IDs himself.
He hadn’t even thought about this man in years...he hadn’t thought about a lot of people in years. It was like his father went missing, he'd reconnected with Sam, and life and hunting had rushed at him in a way it never had before. For all the angels and demons and angry spirits, in that moment a phone call from Neal Caffrey felt like the most surreal thing Dean had encountered.
“Fuckin' a,” Dean stuttered out a breath.
“Yeah, I missed you too.” And this time, when he heard the amusement in the other man's voice, he could picture the smile that went along with it.