Notes: Although this story is part of a series, it can stand on its own. No knowledge of either White Collar or Supernatural is required. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is thirteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. Additional notes are at the end of the chapter.
Chapter 1: Welcome to Buttonwood
Black Ash Swamp, New Jersey. April 3, 2005. Sunday night.
The woman returned to her car and sped off down the highway.
The two men arrived at the pull-off as the black Mustang disappeared into the evening mist. They'd run with preternatural speed through the swamp but were too late to catch her.
"Damn. She was almost ours." He sniffed the moist air. "I can still smell her."
"Just as well. You know our orders. C'mon. Doc's waiting. The others will have arrived and he warned us not to be late."
"So? What's he gonna do? Not let us feed?" He started back down the dark path then froze, pointing into the swamp.
"What's wrong?"
"Don't you see her?"
"Where? That ghostly pillar of white? That's her?"
"Yeah, and she's coming this way."
"Then we better not hang around." They raced along the path, the trees a blur as they skimmed over the soggy ground. "We can't do anything to jinx our chances. The awakening is only a few months off."
"You reckon the reports are true?"
"Doc met with them. You get him to describe what happened, then you'll believe."
White Collar Task Force, Federal Building, New York City. April 7, 2005. Thursday afternoon.
"Define strange. . . . You're right, even for Mozzie that's a stretch. . . . .He did what? . . . Seriously? . . . I'll come down tomorrow." Neal turned off his phone and looked over at Peter. "I'm not sure if this is an emergency or not, but Janet needs my help."
Up to then it had been a routine meeting to discuss the upcoming White Collar budget, or what passed for a routine meeting when Neal Caffrey was involved. Special Agent Peter Burke had grown accustomed long ago to cutting his consultant a little slack. Janet Dodson, the girlfriend of Neal's friend Mozzie, didn't normally call at the office. Peter was glad Neal had taken it. "Has something happened to Mozzie?"
He nodded. "Just don't ask me what. Mozzie left with Janet on Monday for a week-long getaway to rural New Jersey. Mozzie had never experienced the thrill of spring peepers and —"
"Hold on, spring peepers? Isn't Mozzie normally the one doing the peeping?"
"I had the same reaction when he first mentioned it to me," he admitted, "and was informed that spring peepers are small woodland frogs. They're calling right now—mating season, you know. Mozzie planned to spend several evenings with Janet in a swamp, listening to the peepers. She'd mentioned she'd like to go on a field trip to hear them. He hoped their peeps would act as an aphrodisiac for Janet. Mozzie found a romantic inn near Black Ash Swamp and went to great lengths —"
"I get the idea. No need to draw the picture." Peter had to give Mozzie points. Not a bad tactic. Janet was a costume designer who liked to draw inspiration for her ideas from wildlife. Mozzie prided himself on being a kindred soul with Thoreau, which, coming from a man who'd spent his life in cities was a bit perplexing, but then Mozzie danced to a different tune from the rest of the world.
"Janet called because Mozzie's acting strangely, and she's worried something's wrong."
"Are you sure she's not simply confused by his interpretation of the mating ritual?"
Neal shrugged. "That's certainly a possibility, but even for Mozzie, his behavior seems out of character."
"Perhaps all that fresh air got to him? She should just bring him back to New York. Once he's on his home turf he'll be fine."
"She tried to persuade him. He refuses to leave, and Mozzie can give a new meaning to the word stubborn if he chooses. Janet's asked me to come down to help."
"Where exactly is Black Ash Swamp?"
"It's in the Pinelands, in Wharton State Forest. Janet said they're staying in a small town called Buttonwood which is near the swamp. It's about a two-hour drive from here. I've got a class this evening or I'd leave after work. I'll call her in the morning, and if he hasn't improved, I'll drive down tomorrow." Neal paused for a moment. "You know after all the late nights and weekend work for the last case, doesn't the Bureau owe me some comp time? Tomorrow's Friday. I'm caught up on my case assignments …"
Neal was due more than one day of comp time, and he wasn't the only one deserving a break. Peter's wife Elizabeth was away visiting her parents. The paperwork he'd planned for the weekend could wait. "Would you like some company? I haven't been down to the Pinelands in quite a while. I've got wheels—save you having to rent a car."
Neal broke into a grin. "A road trip with you? I'd love it, but what will you do with Satchmo?"
"We trade dog-sitting chores with our next-door neighbor. I'll give her a call. We can leave from the office after the morning briefing as long as nothing urgent comes up. Couple of stipulations first, though."
"Name 'em, partner."
"We ditch the suits for jeans before leaving. I refuse to drive down to South Jersey in a suit."
"Agreed. I can easily lose the threads. What else?"
"My car. My music."
"Now that one's going to require negotiation."
"When we ride in your car, you can pick the music."
"Very funny. That's enough to make me buy one."
"Be prepared to have your ears educated," Peter said smugly as he picked up the sheet of paper containing Neal's budget requests. "By the way, what has Mozzie done that has Janet so worried?"
Neal winced. "You don't want to know."
Roadside Diner in East Pennsylvania. April 7, 2005. Thursday afternoon.
"Thank you"—Dean checked the waitress's name tag—"Belinda. What a lovely name. It should be the title of a song."
Sam looked up from his laptop in time to see Dean give Belinda his guaranteed turn-any-waitress-into-mush smile. Sam rolled his eyes upward to the dingy white ceiling of the diner. The stains looked suspiciously like the aftermath of an especially messy demon slaying. They'd stopped for a quick lunch. Just burgers and fries and they'd be on their way again—that's what Dean had promised. But that was before he'd seen Belinda, or the pool table, or the poker game going on in the back room.
The diner was popular with truckers, or as Dean called them "marks on wheels." He argued, not without merit, that their resources could stand with restocking and besides the diner was world-famous for pie. Hadn't he been reading the highway signs for the past ten miles attesting to the fact? Sam smiled. They'd just finished lunch and celebratory slices of pie, all bought with proceeds from a round of pool. If Dean wanted to flirt with Belinda, his kid brother wouldn't stand in the way.
After taking down that last demon in Coraopolis, they both could use a break. Dean had done his best to get Sam to follow his lead, nudging him repeatedly about Lacey at the cash register. But when Sam checked out the blonde bombshell, he had his doubts.
Instead, he'd spent the past hour researching unusual sightings in the area on the internet. He hadn't given up on his dream to go to law school just so he could hang out with Lacey in a roadside diner. Dean was the one who harped incessantly on the family business—saving people, killing things. So that's what Sam was doing and now he'd hit upon something.
Looking up at Dean, he tapped the display. "Here's something interesting."
Dean was still giving a dopey smile to the goddess of the moment. "More interesting than Belinda?"
"Might be. According to a news report, there's a town in South Jersey where the men are turning into dorks."
"It's New Jersey, Sam. Lots of dorks in New Jersey."
"Yeah, but listen to this. The town is called Buttonwood—not much of a town, by the way. It's near a state park. Seems to serve mainly the tourist trade."
"Boring. No wonder they're dorks."
"Hear me out. The women claim their men weren't always that way. They appear to be changing overnight. Only adult men are being affected."
"Maybe the women woke up to the realization they married idiots. Not our problem."
The curvaceous Belinda walked up to Dean with a steaming slice of apple pie. "This just came out of the oven. I thought you'd like a piece . . . on the house."
"Why thank you, Belinda." Dean blinked his eyes winningly as Sam groaned inwardly. "You wouldn't happen to have any ice cream for the pie?"
While the infatuated Belinda left to fetch ice cream, Sam tried yet again to get his brother to focus. "It sounds suspicious to me. And that's not all. I checked the police records. Over the past month there have been reports of four people who've gone missing. That's an unusually high number for a town that size."
"They probably ran away out of boredom. We can't start checking out every town where a few people have disappeared. Are there any corpses? Cattle mutilations?"
"No, but it may still be worth dropping by. It's not that far away. They're holding a festival there this weekend. Peeper Jamboree they call it."
Swallowing a bite of pie, Dean pointed his fork at Sam. "Can it possibly get more hokey? No wonder the town's filled with dorks."
Sam played his trump card. "They're advertising free food at the festival."
"How far away did you say Buttonwood is?"
The dorks of Buttonwood, however, were not considered a sufficient enough threat to warrant an immediate departure. It was late Friday morning by the time they rolled into the metropolis of Buttonwood, a thriving community of 2,950 residents. The sounds of "Soul Man" by the Blues Brothers were blaring out of the car speakers. Dean had been on a nostalgia kick for the past several days. Someday Sam was going to have to modernize his music tastes. He'd taken a few stabs at it earlier, but all attempts had crashed and burned. For a guy whose prize possession was a 1967 Impala, Sam wondered why he even bothered. It hadn't yet arisen that Dean was forced to make the choice of saving either Sam or the Impala, but Sam had no doubt that Dean would rescue him then never let him hear the end of how he'd committed the ultimate sacrifice.
The news report was right. Buttonwood appeared to cater mainly to the tourists, with many more motels and restaurants than you'd expect from a town that size. The place wasn't without a certain appeal. A few Victorian houses, some converted to inns, a volunteer fire station in an old brick building that looked to have been built in horse-and-buggy days. Several antique shops that reeked of "olde towne charme." In fact most everything looked like you should add ane to its name.
"What did you find out about the disappearances?" Dean asked.
"Two of them were from the county high school. Apparent runaways. A motorist was supposedly driving through the area and never reached his destination. A migrant worker disappeared from a farm west of the swamp. The police were skeptical it was a legitimate report. The guy didn't show up for work. He could have just gotten bored or gone somewhere else for higher wages."
Dean grimaced. "In other words, nothing that concerns us. This could be a gigantic waste of time. You were the one who wanted us to come here. How do you propose we handle it?"
"Walk down the street and look for dorks, I guess. What's our cover?"
"Standard FBI. I'm feeling a Chicago vibe. Agents Jake and Elwood."
Sam grinned. "Should we both wear dark glasses? I don't have a fedora."
"Our suits will be good enough. None of these people have probably seen an FBI agent before. Can't be much crime around here, unless the townies get so bored they start fights to give themselves something to do." Dean glanced over at Sam. "In all the research you've done, have you ever found any demons who got their jollies turning men into objects of ridicule?"
"Could be the Trickster acting up again." The Trickster had been an aggravating thorn in their sides, with the demigod adopting various disguises and causing a series of bizarre deaths.
"You could be on to something. The Trickster enjoys humiliating people." As they cruised down the main drag of Buttonwood, it didn't take long to spot a victim. "Bogey on my left," Dean muttered.
Sam glanced over to see a guy strolling down the street. Not an issue there. Middle-aged, mild-mannered in appearance. Looked like he could be a teacher or an insurance salesman. But in pajamas at eleven o'clock in the morning? And trying to balance an apple on his forehead as he walked? Sam turned his head to the right to see a distinguished-looking man in his sixties giggling to himself as he pushed a cantaloupe down the road with a golf putter. Yep, they'd found the nexus of dorkdom in New Jersey.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal had talked with Janet several more times before they left and the reports weren't reassuring. Apparently Mozzie wasn't the only one acting strangely. A local newspaper had carried an article on an outbreak of unusual behavior exhibited by adult men in the community.
Neal discussed it with Peter, and they decided to take their overnight bags and laptops as a precaution. They hoped to convince Mozzie to return with them in the afternoon, but if Mozzie were as difficult to persuade as Janet had indicated, that might not be possible. They were able to leave the office at eleven on Friday. Even with stopping for lunch, they'd be in Buttonwood by the early afternoon.
During the drive Neal avoided discussing Mozzie's symptoms. It was too depressing to talk about. But he realized he couldn't hold off the inevitable forever.
When they were outside Barnegat Township, Peter glanced over. "Isn't it time you stop deflecting and fill me in on Mozzie's symptoms?"
Neal heaved a heartfelt sigh. "For the past two days all he wants to do is watch cartoons. His favorite appears to be Scooby Doo."
"Not Mighty Mouse?"
"Janet didn't mention it, but he was entranced by My Little Pony."
"I'll grant you that's unusual, but —"
"When Janet said all the time, she meant it literally. He doesn't want to eat and falls asleep in front of the TV. She dragged him to a café and he ordered a strawberry milkshake."
Peter raised his eyebrows at that. "Mozzie's lactose intolerant."
"Exactly. This could be serious. There's no way he'd order a milkshake if he were thinking clearly. But it gets worse. He proceeded to play with the straw, blowing with it into the milkshake as if he were a powerboat. He sprayed her with milkshake foam and was beside himself with laughter. You're chuckling, but you wouldn't be if you were there trying to deal with it."
"How was he this morning?"
"Janet said he wasn't watching cartoons, but had replaced them with reruns of The Brady Bunch. I don't think that qualifies as being a positive development."
Neal had been patience personified for most of the drive. He didn't say a word when Peter inserted his Best of Woodstock CD into the player. But now they were only twenty minutes from Buttonwood and Peter was still working his way through his Crosby, Stills, and Nash collection. "Couldn't we have something written in this century?" Neal pleaded. "You admitted you like Coldplay. Just one song by Evanescence?"
"Send your complaints to my brother Joe," he replied, stretching his arms on the steering wheel. "I got my music tastes from him. Woodstock's not far from Albany and some of his friends attended the festival. Joe pleaded with my parents to be allowed, but he was only fifteen. I was five years old at the time, but even I knew it was a lost cause. Joe got his revenge, though. He obtained records of all the performers and blasted the music nonstop, till my dad banished Joe and his music to the basement."
Neal grinned. "And being the adoring little brother, you followed Joe to the basement."
"That music's in my blood now, so you might as well learn to love it. If you'd listen to the lyrics of 'Woodstock,' you'd realize it's highly appropriate. We may not be heading for Yasgur's farm but we're going to rural New Jersey. That's close enough."
"Was Joe also the one who taught you how to drive?"
"I don't think anyone taught me. I was a natural at it."
A natural at causing heart failure. Where were the state police when you needed them? Special Agent Peter "By the Book" Burke when behind the wheel turned into Mario Andretti. Neal sank gloomily into his seat and resigned himself to his fate. Would he be another roadkill along the rural New Jersey highway? They'd gotten off the main highway at Barnegat and would drive the rest of the way on county roads. Narrow roads, oncoming trucks. Not a happy scenario. "You need to slow down. Hairpin curve ahead."
"I have eyes, Junior."
"Truck ahead. Watch it!"
"Didn't you bring a book? There's a notepad in the glove compartment. Make some origami. Stop lecturing me on driving."
"Good idea. I can make vultures to decorate my tombstone."
"It may interest you to know, wise guy, that I drive much more sedately now. You should have seen me in college. I had the sweetest car—red Mustang with black racing stripes—I worked my tail off to pay for it."
"Is that why you drive a Taurus now?"
Peter chuckled. "The Taurus might not look sporty but I've clocked some pretty mean speeds." Neal was about to tease him about it when he added, "All in the name of pursuing fugitives, of course."
"A likely story. How many speeding tickets did you get in college?"
"You think I'd tell you? Not in this lifetime, kid. You'd just spread it around the entire office." Neal's complaints, however, must have made an impact since Peter made a concession. He inserted a CD of Foreigner into the player. Neal checked the jacket. The original album had been released in 1978. Neal hadn't been born yet, but at least Peter was getting closer.
For the past several miles they'd skirted a forest. It had been a rainy spring, and Neal could see the sheen of standing water through the trees.
As they rolled into Buttonwood, "Double Vision" was playing. The song was about going from one extreme to another, and Buttonwood was about as unlike New York City as you could get. "El would love this place," Peter remarked as he glanced down Main Street. "The antique shops, the Victorian architecture—rural America at its best."
"Mozzie and Janet are staying at the Cranberry Hollow Inn. Make a left two blocks ahead onto Tulip Lane."
"Tulip Lane?" Peter grinned. "Mozzie must have chosen the inn because of its location."
The inn was easy to spot at the end of the block. A Victorian-era wood frame house painted in lilac with fuchsia shutters—what could be more romantic? The inn was set among large maple trees with hand-carved bird feeders dangling from the branches. Adirondack wood chairs were scattered on the lawn.
Peter wheeled the car onto the gravel parking lot next to the inn. As they walked to the inn, Peter paused at one of them, running his hand along the hood. "Now this is something you don't get to see very often."
Neal paused to look at it. Old black gas-guzzler. Muddy wheels. Not very impressive. "I guess if you're into clunkers, it's all right."
Peter rolled his eyes with frustration. "For one of the smartest guys I know, your ignorance in certain areas is appalling. This is one of the classic muscle cars. An Impala—mid to late '60s I'd guess."
Neal shrugged. "If you say so. I don't expect El would feel the same way. Does it even have A/C?"
They walked up the brick path and into the inn. "Watch out for lace doilies," Neal muttered to Peter. "We're entering Miss Marple land." The main room—they probably called it the parlor—was just as he expected. Chintz fabrics and bric-a-brac everywhere. He noted with satisfaction the lace doilies on the end tables.
Janet was sitting at a card table next to a bay window. Her short, spiky hair seemed more than normally frazzled. She was talking with two men, both young. The taller one looked to be about Neal's age. Neal wore his hair on the long side but compared to this guy, Neal had a buzz cut. The other at first glance had an eerie resemblance to Henry, but his cousin wouldn't have been caught dead in those clothes. Both of the men were wearing cheap suits with ties which appeared to have been purchased at a garage sale.
When Janet saw them walk in, she stood up and waved them over. The men got up with her. "I hadn't expected other FBI agents to show up," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't take this seriously. It was such a relief to talk with Agents Jake and . . ." She stopped to glance up at the taller one.
"Elwood, ma'am," the taller one said.
"We're with the FBI, here to investigate some strange occurrences which have been reported in the area," the shorter one—Agent Jake— explained. They both flashed their IDs. Neal, suppressing his grin, put a warning hand on Peter's arm.
"Are you really with the FBI?" Neal asked, making saucer eyes. "I've never met a G-Man before. Could I take another look at your IDs?"
"Sure, I guess," Agent Jake muttered, handing it to him.
"Do you carry a gun, too?" Janet shot him a puzzled look through her large turquoise-framed glasses. Neal gave her a quick wink when they weren't looking at him.
"Yeah, so?"
"And what branch of the Bureau are you with, X-Files?" Peter demanded, not able to restrain himself any longer. "Because I'm Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI and this is what a real ID looks like."
"And I'm Neal Caffrey, FBI consultant, and in my expert opinion, you should go back to whoever made these IDs and demand your money back. Definitely an inferior product. Notice how the laminate is curling up and some of the colors are bleeding together." Neal clucked his tongue in disapproval.
Agents Jake and Elwood might be wearing the suits, but Peter Burke was the Enforcer. Despite his jeans and flannel shirt, he froze the two of them with his icy glare. "Tell me why I shouldn't arrest you for impersonating federal agents?"
Surprisingly, Janet spoke up to defend them. "They really were quite sympathetic."
Peter wasn't persuaded. He looked like he wanted to slap them in irons. "Start by giving me your names, your real names this time."
Agent Jake identified himself as Dean and claimed the other was his brother Sam. Neal privately had doubts those were their real names. They didn't even make an attempt to invent last names. Amateurs. Peter must be itching to run their fingerprints.
"Shouldn't you see Mozzie before going any further?" Janet pleaded. "He's in the TV lounge."
Peter was reluctant to leave the two fake FBI agents alone and remained behind to supervise them. "Unlike you two bozos, my gun's legal issue."
Sam appeared to the more accommodating of the two. "You should at least give us a chance to explain, and then we'll go along with whatever you decide."
Right. By the cocky look on Dean's face, he was just biding his time to make a run for it. What Neal couldn't figure out, though, was what angle they were playing. It was hard to see how they'd gain anything by investigating a town of dorks. He postponed solving that puzzle till after he checked on Mozzie.
The cause of Neal's road trip was sitting in the lounge along with several other men, ranging in age from their twenties to a man in his eighties. They were all gazing with rapt attention at the TV. Mozzie, the man who liked to expound on the necessity of multiple rabbit holes for escape routes, was now snickering at the antics of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
Neal tried to pry his attention away from the cartoon. "Hey, Mozz, you feeling okay?"
"Of course. You wanna watch too? There's room." Mozzie patted the cushion on the couch next to him and drew Neal down. He didn't seem at all surprised that Neal was there.
"How about joining us in the other room so we can talk without disturbing the others?"
"And miss the ending? I couldn't do that. Come back later, maybe tomorrow. Or Sunday. Yes, Sunday, I may be free."
"You see what I mean," Janet whispered to Neal. "This isn't normal."
"No, something's definitely loony, and I'm not talking about the cartoon."
After several minutes of fruitless coaxing, Neal and Janet gave it up as a lost cause. When they returned to the parlor, Peter was in the midst of grilling Dean and Sam.
"We arrived here this morning," Dean said. "Read a news report about women complaining that the men in their lives were overnight turning into dorks. We were in the area and decided to stop by."
"All they were doing was asking questions," Janet added. "They didn't harm anyone."
Peter eyed her skeptically. "Forging FBI badges? Impersonating federal agents? I should call the police."
"And how will that help your friend?" Dean challenged. "We've had experience in dealing with this sort of phenomenon. Have you?"
"And just what kind of phenomenon are we talking about?" Neal asked. "What makes a person, who granted is a trifle eccentric but nonetheless brilliant, turn into a goofball?"
He was impressed at how seriously they took his question. Despite their appearance, maybe they did know something.
"We have a couple of theories," Dean said. "Only adult men are affected. The youngest we've found was a kid of eighteen. The oldest was a retired schoolteacher who was eighty-nine. The first occurrence anyone is aware of was on Monday. Before then, they were behaving normally. It was as if a dork pill had been given to them."
"What do you suspect?" Janet asked.
Dean was reluctant to answer, but Sam who'd been studying them silently, spoke up. "You're probably going to think we're nuts too, but it could be demonic possession or a witch may have cast a spell on them."
Peter snorted. "Demonic possession? Let me write that down. You're right, you are nuts."
Neal sighed and took a moment to gaze around the parlor rather than laugh in their faces. Sunlight was streaming in through the bay window. Not the right ambiance for ghost stories, and yet here were these two scruffy dudes informing them that demons were the cause of Mozzie's abnormal behavior.
The situation was getting out of hand. After Sam's comment, Peter went back on the warpath to have them arrested. Janet was wringing her hands and demanding something be done. Neal, as was typical, was the calm cool voice of reason and attempted to serve as mediator.
"Demons, witches—that's crazy talk," Peter scoffed.
"We're not that comfortable with it either," Sam admitted.
"It's not a typical spell to have so many affected simultaneously," Dean added.
"And how many demonic possessions have you dealt with?" Peter asked.
Sam shrugged. "Let's just say, many more than you have. We've been interviewing the townspeople to try to find a common thread. If you hope to have your friend return to his normal state, you better let us continue our work."
Neal turned to Janet. "When did Mozzie first exhibit symptoms?"
"We arrived here on Monday, and he was fine. We spent an idyllic couple of days, browsing through the shops and going out to the swamp to hear the spring peepers. This has been an exceptional spring for frogs. You really should take the opportunity to hear them. Black Ash Swamp is beautiful at night—the reflections of the tall cedars shimmer in the moonlight. . . ." Janet's words trailed off and she gazed out the window for a moment, a faraway expression on her face. Pulling out a notebook from her bag, she opened it to a blank page and rapidly scribbled a note, muttering, "Taupe silk, forest green leather."
Neal gave her a nudge. "Janet?"
"Oh, yes. As I said, evenings we spent at the swamp. We brought folding chairs. Mozzie had an ample supply of wine." Janet sighed. "It was heavenly. We could even see will-o'-wisps floating over the surface of the water. I know will-o'-wisps are most likely puffs of marsh gas, but that doesn't make them appear any less magical. Some of them drifted right over our heads." Janet paused to jot down a few more notes.
"Ma'am, when did Mozzie begin to change?" Sam asked.
Janet winced at being called ma'am. "Wednesday morning. After dinner on Tuesday, we spent the evening at the swamp and then came back to our room and, well, the spring peepers were quite an aphrodisiac, if you follow me." Sam nodded sympathetically, while Dean and Peter performed nearly identical eye rolls. "The next morning I knew something was wrong when he got up at seven and turned on the TV to Scooby Doo. I persuaded him with difficulty to come downstairs for breakfast but then he insisted on Froot Loops with milk."
"Lactose intolerant," Neal muttered to the others.
She sighed. "The worst part was when he found a magic decoder ring in the box and got so excited, he spilled cereal all over the table."
"That's not so idiotic," Dean said. "I had one of those decoder rings myself. It was my prize possession."
"And how old were you?" Sam asked pointedly. "Six, maybe?"
"He then arranged the Froot Loops into a picture on the tablecloth," Janet said.
"Of space aliens?" Neal asked hopefully. That would at least fit into his list of obsessions. Making a picture of Hitler clones would be more difficult, unless there were black cherry Froot Loops.
Janet considered for a moment. "I believe it was an ice cream cone. He poured milk over the Froot Loops —on the tablecloth, mind you—to make a 'milkcolor' as he called it. That made him snicker so hard he almost fell out of his chair."
Dean shook his head. "I'm done. If guys want to act like idiots, let them. I'm heading for the bar."
"I disagree," Sam said. "This could be serious. Dorks one day could mean demons the next. We can't ignore an outbreak of . . . of . . ."
"Exactly," Dean said pointedly.
"You can't give up!" Janet pleaded. "You said you'd help me."
Sam looked over at Dean. "We did say that."
"You said that, not me. Don't hang this on me."
"Let's at least spend a few more hours, check out the town, and then we'll decide."
Peter had remained quiet as he listened to their exchange, but at that, he interjected, "Oh no, you're not. No more impersonating FBI agents."
"Peter's right," Neal agreed. "We'll go with you."
Peter spun around to glare at Neal. "That's not what I had in mind. I've already crossed lines not to have them locked up."
Dean studied Peter with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "You want to flash your badges? Fine. I'll go with Mr. Law and Order. We meet back here at five. Sam, you think you can keep out of trouble with Junior Fed?"
Sam eyed Neal dubiously. "We'll hit the antique shops and bookstores."
"Good idea," Dean agreed. "Peter and I'll canvass the bars and saloons."
"That's Agent Burke to you," Peter growled as he rose.
"Whatever. You're all dicks."
Neal grinned as he watched them walk off, arguing all the while. After an afternoon with Dean, Peter would give Neal a pass for anything he did for at least a month.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"Well, that was depressing." Neal got up to pour himself a mug of coffee from the coffeemaker in the parlor and gloomily resumed his seat on the chintz-covered sofa. Sam smiled in sympathy, his eyes focused on the display of his laptop.
The results of their canvassing were not encouraging. Everywhere more cases were popping up. Any man eighteen and older appeared to be at risk. They didn't find any women who'd been struck by a sudden onslaught of dorkyness, although there were a few whom Neal would have to classify as having chronic symptoms.
Neal had seen plenty of evidence of the adult male population running amok—guys painting mustaches on posters, chasing each other with fly swatters. Three elderly men staged an impromptu clown act on Main Street, oblivious to the traffic. He considered it one of his few successes for the day that he'd managed to persuade them to move their act to the sidewalk. After the clown incident, Sam's alarm over the phenomenon escalated dramatically. He urged an immediate return to the inn so he could research dorkdom on the web.
Mozzie along with the rest of the afflicted men at the inn had been corralled into the TV lounge with concerned female relatives taking turns monitoring them. Janet had gone upstairs to rest.
Neal sprawled on the sofa watching Sam work. When he wasn't hunched over his laptop, he pored over an old journal. The book appeared to have gone through several wars with many of the pages on the verge of falling out. Sam resisted Neal's attempts to learn more about the journal, but he could hardly keep Neal from sneaking a peek. Surprisingly some of it was written in Latin.
During their afternoon reconnaissance, Neal had been able to extract a few details about Sam which only served to make him more curious. He'd attended Stanford but dropped out when he was a senior. He gave up on his plans to go to law school so he could join his brother on the road. Neal hadn't been able to discover yet why Sam changed his direction, but he sensed the cause was some traumatic event.
Neal could relate. He'd run away before graduating from high school and spent a few years drifting with his cousin Henry before taking off for Europe. In 2003 in a moment of clarity he gave up on his goal to become the world's preeminent con artist and forger, and made a deal with Peter to work for the FBI. What Sam and Dean were doing with their lives was less obvious. Was it simply investigating strange phenomena? Who would do that? What would they live on? They weren't spending much on clothes, but still. . . .
"No other outbreaks in New Jersey," Sam reported. "The effect appears to be localized to Buttonwood." He paused and glanced over at Neal. "So what is it you do at the FBI?"
"I'm a white-collar crimes consultant. Advise them on cases—art thefts, frauds, forgeries. Art crimes are booming these days. What do you call your profession or is researching weird occurrences a hobby?"
Sam hesitated a moment. "You could say we're in the family business."
He didn't elaborate but Neal was interrupted from questioning him further by Dean and Peter's return.
"That's one dream machine," Peter said. "You have it purring like a kitten." Dean acknowledged the praise with a satisfied shrug. Neal was impressed. He assumed they would have been at each other's throats by now, but apparently they'd built bridges. Peter turned to Neal. "That Impala we saw? It's theirs."
So that explained it. Auto diplomacy. What was this love fest with old cars all about? If it had been an Aston Martin like James Bond drove in Die Another Day, Neal would have understood. Now that was a car.
They spent several minutes reviewing what they'd learned. The earliest cases appeared on Monday morning with the most recent victims developing symptoms on Thursday. Based on the sampling they'd conducted, Neal estimated that perhaps half of the adult male population was afflicted.
"The only other item that popped out," Peter added, "was an unusually high number of will-o'-wisps this spring. Some of them have even been spotted in town. It's also been a record year for spring peepers. Some of the women claim that it's the noise of the peepers that have driven their men goofy."
"We heard that too," Neal said. "One woman played a recording, and I can see where they could be annoying, but if that were the cause, women would be affected too."
"Find anything on the web?" Dean asked Sam.
He nodded in Peter's direction. "We'll talk later."
"No you're not," Peter ordered. "If you have any ideas, we want to hear them."
"Have it your way," he said with a shrug. "To have so many afflicted, I suspect a targeted manipulation. Most likely someone's cast a spell. Sounds like a man-hater to me—a witch, Jezebel, or succubus."
Dean nodded, scratching his chin. "Some craggy hag in the swamp has targeted Buttonwood? We should search for hex bags."
"But I've never heard of hex bags being used on so many victims. And supposing for the moment there is a witch here, why would she target someone like Mozzie who just arrived in town? To me it looks like there's some other force at work."
"What about the will-o'-wisps?" Neal asked. "Could they be involved?'
"It's a strong possibility," Sam agreed. "Will-o'-wisps, or ghost lights as they're called, have been associated with malicious spirits in many cultures such as the Hitodama in Japan, but there's no record of any man-haters among them."
"You're treating these myths like they're real," Peter objected.
"Look, you asked for our opinion, and we're giving it," Dean said. "Just because you've been lucky enough not to run into demons doesn't mean they don't exist. Will-o'-wisps or spring peepers could be acting as agents of a witch or man-hating demon, but what set her off?"
Peter turned to Neal. "These guys are as fruit-loopy as Mozzie. Surely you don't believe them?"
"What other ideas do we have?" Neal challenged. "Would you rather believe that space aliens have invaded and are taking over our bodies? They're going to conquer Earth with an army of dorks. If Mozzie were only in his right mind, that's what he'd be saying."
"That's as reasonable a theory as man-hating demons," Peter countered. "What do you think, Dean?"
But Dean was in no mood to answer. He was sitting back, eyeing a chick who'd just walked in. Neal looked at her. Yeah, he could see where Dean was coming from. She had long auburn hair and was wearing a tight turquoise sweater, black leather short skirt, and black suede boots. She was hot.
Sam glanced up from his laptop. "Earth to Dean."
"Check her out, Sam. Have you interviewed her?"
"Not yet."
"Well, in the quest of thoroughness, we need to." He stood up and walked over while Neal sat back to enjoy the show. But Dean had barely started when Janet entered the parlor, seeking an update. Neal filled her in, helped by Peter. They left out the speculation on witches, but stuck to a simple description of what behavior they'd observed. Peter made a point of stressing several times how they were sticking to the facts.
Janet was discouraged but not surprised. She glanced over at Dean. "What's he doing with Chloe?"
"You know her?" Sam asked. "What can you tell us about her?" He was wise to ask. From the way Dean was smiling at her, he probably wasn't going to be sharing anything for a while.
"Her name's Chloe Bishop. She was already here when we arrived on Monday. She mainly stays in her room but I did have a chance to talk with her shortly after we arrived. She said she was a technical writer, but she also writes urban fantasies. She must be good. She's had several published."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Cecilia Hepburn in Buttonwood? Dean had been prepared to leave the men of Buttonwood to their curse, but no longer. This investigation could take several days, maybe more. Too bad their conversation was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. He was just getting started.
He returned to the table. "That's Cecilia Hepburn. I thought she looked familiar but couldn't place her."
"No, that's Chloe Bishop," Janet corrected. "I'm sure I got her name right."
"Her pen name is Cecilia Hepburn. I've read all her books about Zoe the Demon Slayer. She writes some terrific stuff."
A grin spread over Burke's face. "You read urban fantasies?"
"We stay in some pretty remote spots. The nights can get long." Not that he needed to explain himself to a fed. What did Burke do on stakeouts? Organize his wanted posters?
Sam wasn't fooled. "Did she have any useful information or did you just ask for her autograph?"
"Plainly, she's not affected. I'll get her to open up over drinks."
Janet broke in. "What am I supposed to do with Mozzie? Should I try to get him to return to New York and see a psychiatrist?" They'd succeeded in calming her down earlier, but she was back to looking more harried by the minute.
Sam shook his head. "Your friend's best hope is to stay in Buttonwood. If you take him away, he may never be cured." Sam's advice was sound. Were they smart enough to recognize it?
Neal stood up. "I'll get us checked in."
"I hope they have a room free," Janet warned. "With the jamboree tomorrow, most rooms are taken. You may have to share."
Dean wavered for a moment. He'd be closer to Chloe if they stayed at the inn. But the Winchesters living in frou-frou central? Nah, not gonna happen. "We saw a motel on our way into town that's more our style. We'll try our luck there."
Burke wasn't saying anything. He had a sour expression on his face like he'd eaten too many burritos. Dean had seen that same expression earlier. The guy needed to carry antacids around with him.
"What's bothering you?" Neal asked.
"How are we going to protect ourselves from coming down with the same symptoms?"
"Some of the men are fine," Neal pointed out. "The last case we heard of was on Thursday. The witch may have grown bored and moved on."
Dean blew that argument away. "More likely this is a warm-up act for something worse to come. Burke's right. The longer you stay in town, the more likely you are to get possessed, infected, or whatever the hell is causing this curse. We haven't discovered any way to protect you. Janet's safe, but you're not."
"What about you?" Burke demanded. "You're running the same risk."
"Trust me," Sam said, "this phenomenon is nothing compared to what we usually face."
"I can't allow it," Burke said, shaking his head. "We should call in the CDC, the EPA. Maybe there's something in the water or a contagion—"
"That affects only adult men?" Dean didn't bother hiding his impatience. "Get real. You two should leave now. Janet has your contact information. She can call you when it's safe to return. Let us do our job."
"I'm not going to abandon my friend," Neal protested.
"You don't know how to fight these things," Sam argued. "We do."
"And what makes you think you can fight them?" Burke had put his hands on his hips and was giving them a no-nonsense look which might work with his agents, but not with John Winchester's sons.
"Because of the river of crap we fight every day," Dean said, glaring right back at him. "We deal with demons that would send you screaming to the nuthouse. The men are harmless now, but things could quickly turn ugly. You should get out while you can."
He thought that would be an end of it. Dean didn't blame them for wanting to stay around to help their friend, but they were out of their league. Burke looked like he could take care of himself. But his consultant? Neal might be able to spot a forgery, but against a witch or demon he'd just be another innocent they'd have to protect.
And Dean wasn't exaggerating the risk they were running. What first seemed like a joke was giving him a bad feeling. For any curse to affect so many people, the demon causing it had to be a powerful one. And those missing person reports Sam had found continued to be an itch that wouldn't go away. Could there be a connection?
The two feds didn't back down though. Sam's attempts to talk them out of it simply made them more determined to stay. Neal refused to leave his friend. And Burke? He was probably staying because he didn't trust them. Fine. The Winchesters had made truces with cops before. They never lasted for long, but having a couple of temporary allies wasn't a bad thing.
Burke could look into the missing person reports. He'd have an easier time getting the local cops to open up. Hard to see how Neal would be good for much, but he could help Janet babysit his weird friend.
Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was more engaged than he'd been in a long time and apparently enjoyed working with Neal. So, it was settled. They'd face the dorks of Buttonwood together.
Notes: Thanks for reading! I hope you'll join me next Wednesday for Chapter 2: The Nocnitsa when Dean's suspicions prove correct. Events are about to take an ominous turn.
Many thanks to the awesome Penna Nomen for providing outstanding beta services. She turned me onto Supernatural in the first place, and I'm dedicating this series to her. We've been tossing plot bunnies back and forth for months. The character of Chloe is very much a collaborative effort and she also had several great suggestions for this chapter. Penna is acting as co-DJ and chief muse for the series. The music referred to in this chapter as well as photos of the cast members and other visuals are pinned to the Whispers in the Night board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site where both Penna and I pin illustrations for our stories.
Whispers in the Night is the first story in a fusion series of the Caffrey Conversation AU with Supernatural. The series is called Crossed Lines. Peter Burke crossed the line once already to recruit con artist Neal Caffrey to work at the FBI. To work with the Winchester brothers he'll have to do the same. Similarly Dean and Sam will have to let Neal and Peter into their world if they want to succeed.
You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and Crossed Lines on our blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation. We also have summaries for all the Caffrey Conversation stories on the blog. This week I wrote about the dynamic between Neal, Peter and the Winchester brothers in a post called "Crossing Lines." Penna's post this week is about Satchmo and Bugsy: "Playfulness and Puppies amidst the Angst." Links to both our blog and Pinterest site are in my profile.
If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur.
Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas.