Inspired by my gif series for them which you can find on my tumblr. It's basically the movie-ized version of the plot that this story will more or less follow. If you enjoy this I suggest you go check it out. They really are gorgeous together.
...I am full of holes, full of empty spaces…
Everyone is surprised when Dean transfers to the White Collar Division, including himself.
He'd been on a fast track to the top; young and capable of being just as ruthless as the people he was tacking down. He was the FBI poster child, the golden boy. Fearlessly going after the most dangerous criminals in NYC.
There were some that whispered that he had a death wish, that he was trying to make up for his father's breakdown.
So, why White Collar?
Looking back, Dean thinks it might have been fate.
At the time it was Sam, his younger brother, visiting him before the start of his senior year of Stanford. A full ride, Dean still tells anybody who will listen, voice full of pride.
"You're all the family I've got," Sammy said in that tone of voice Dean always gives in to, "I can't lose you too."
And that's how Dean ends up here, straight-backed and uncomfortable, waiting for Agent Burke to arrive.
Neal sighs.
He's feeling itchy again; a tightness in the skin around his mouth and eyes and his hands tingle as he clenches them in his lap. He imagins them covered in black leather and guilt swirls in his stomach.
He jiggles the leg with the anklet subconsciously.
The little voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds like Mozzie, is whispering details about the new exposition opening in the Met this weekend.
What Neal needs is a case.
One filled with tension and intelligence and high stakes; one where the adrenaline drips off the sides. In short, he needs a distraction.
And he needs it soon.
"Down boy," Agent Burke says as Dean jumps to his feet and straightens.
He blushes, not wanting to seem an overeager suck up; it's a habit he still can't break. Agent Burke's voice is amused and warm though, not mocking.
The older man smiles wryly, "But then again, it'd be nice to have some respect around here. Isn't that right, Neal."
The last part is aimed at someone behind him, pointed and affectionate.
Dean turns with a polite smile locked in place, hand already extending for the introduction.
"Hello, I'm-"
He stops. Stares.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear Sammy laughing at him, telling him he's catching flies not to mention making a total ass of himself. Dean swallows, tries to smile normally and finishes.
"I'm Dean."
The man leaning against the doorframe smiles at him and Dean wonders who the hell he is. FBI agents don't dress like that, don't smile like that, don't fucking look like that or they'd be in another profession.
Several jobs spring to mind. Dean ignores all of them; he's a professional.
"Neal Caffrey. The criminal consultant," the man explains, "So you're the new kid?"
Dean bristles at the veiled mockery because, looks aside, he doesn't let anyone talk down to him. He knows exactly what he is and that is fucking fantastic. He's earned the title Golden Boy.
He hasn't been the New Kid since the Oro Figlio arrests.
Really, Dean promised himself he wouldn't start again, not this early. Because, sure, he's the rising star, maybe it goes to his head a little. He follows his orders, it's ingrained in his blood, but that doesn't mean he does it quietly.
Dean is quite known for his pissing contests, for picking fights. Especially if someone brings up his family.
So he rises to his full height, shoulders thrown back, stance automatically widening and says, "No. I'm Dean Winchester."
He doesn't say bitch, but it hangs implied in the air between them.
See, Dean doesn't come from a nice Harvard background like the other people here do. His dad was a ex-soldier would worked for everything he ever had and he made sure Dean knew and was damn grateful for it.
Not like Neal; everything about him screams money and family connection right down to his designer shoes. He knows the type: arrogant and knowing they can get everything they want with a snap of their fingers, throwing a fit if they don't.
Slick as oil underneath the pretty surface.
Probably why he's here, Dean thinks bitterly, he hired someone to steal the one thing no one was willing to give him.
Neal drops the white smile, the bright charming one and looks at him, little crease appearing in his forehead. Dean fights to hold onto the righteous anger and finds it frustratingly hard to do.
"Okay," Neal says, "Dean."
Neal watches the man in front of him with interest.
"Hello I'm-"
Pretty, he thinks, very pretty.
Maybe just the distraction he's looking for. He lights up his most charming smile and is pleased with the reaction. The man breaks off, a brief hesitation as his eyes flickering over Neal's form, only for a moment. He recovers surprisingly quickly to Neal's disappointment.
"I'm Dean."
He admires the man's composure.
Already the pretty green eyes are blank and looking at him with professional detachment, though Neal thinks he sees something flicker behind them, too quickly for him to be sure.
Well, two can play the game. Neal wants to push and see where it gets him.
Really, he just wants to push. Anything to make it easier to breathe, to make the itching less cutting, less crushing.
"Neal Caffrey. The criminal consultant," he says, looking for a reaction.
There's always a reaction when people learn he's a con, whether it's to check for their purse—the smart move—or to lean in closer, which happens more often than not. There's something about the lure of crime that capture's people's attention.
He would know.
But Dean just nods slightly, betraying nothing. It frustrates him, surprises with him how much he dislikes it.
Neal needs to know how people work, how they tickticktick.
"So you're the new kid?"
Well, he gets his reaction now. It throws him a little off-guard, the sudden change from blank to hackles raised, ready to pounce.
Neal blinks, white smile slipping from his face like water.
Over Dean's shoulder, Peter rubs at his face with his ring hand, sighing with his shoulders. I warned him, Peter is thinking, our new addition has a reputation for being touchy.
Neal knows this because he knows Peter. Knows the affection behind the frustration and the reason behind the graying hair.
"No. I'm Dean Winchester."
He can see anger but he doesn't know why, where it comes from. And he wants to.
"Okay," he says, "Dean."
He likes the way it rolls off his tongue.
Dean lies awake that night, staring up at the white ceiling.
The plaster is cracking and its past time to get them redone. He keeps putting it off though, wanting to finish it himself, save the cash, but his life keeps getting in the way. Or rather, his job.
He can afford to get it done professionally.
Hell, he could afford to get a new apartment and really he should but, well. It's the only thing Dad left him besides the Impala and a shitload of authority issues.
And trust issues.
And-
Dean rolls over with a grunt and gets out of bed, toes curling as they touch the cold floor.
The blinking green of his alarm clock reads 4:01 but there's no way he'll get to sleep tonight. He likes to be doing something, always.
He goes a little crazy without a job to do, would float away without the weight of his responsibilities keeping him firmly tethered to reality. Responsibilities to the Sammy, to the people of New York City.
Groaning, Dean runs a hand through his hair and stretches. Everything pops into place with a wince.
Belt, check. Socks, check. Tie straightened, yes sir.
Dean runs through the checklist, a puppet for the routine. Sometimes it feels like he's in a straight jacket, that if his mind decided to stop his body would continue going through the motions without him. Would anyone notice?
Just another issue.
A bitter smile in the mirror and he's ready to go.
Fuck, Dean thinks heavily as he steps out onto the near empty street, this is my life.
Is this really my life? Neal wonders bitterly, lingering again.
He keeps coming back here, despite Peter's disappointment. Tempting fate, the older man calls it, the lines around his mouth tightening. Mozzie would cheer if he knew, but that doesn't help either.
Neal sighs and the sound is swallowed by the grinding of machinery.
Three more inches.
Not even a footstep away, the horizon. The boundary line.
His cage, enjoyable as it is.
Neal can still remember the bedtime stories his mother told him, the ones about wandering gypsy tribes that never stayed, never settled. Sometimes he wonders.
Sometimes it feels like restlessness it tattooed under his skin.
It's not that he doesn't want this life he's created for himself, this Neal Caffrey. He loves Peter and El, loves walking into the office in the morning and seeing familiar faces, hell, he'd even miss the terrible coffee.
Maybe.
But knowing that he can't, that he can't leave- it's strangling him. Tighter and tighter, winding and coiling, until he's ripping at the corners.
Neal takes a step back, a small one. Five inches now.
A bigger step, but still.
Distantly, he wonders what time it is. There's a clock behind him to his left if he turned. He doesn't.
It's not a pretty sight, the stretching miles before him. Construction, jutting and harsh, reflected a thousand times in the surrounding smooth glass windows of high office buildings.
Sometimes it's like he's claustrophobic to the world. He needs to know it's all open, all laid out for him or he gets itchy, restless, reckless.
This is your chance, Neal tells himself, don't fuck it up.
He takes another step and turns.
It'll get easier.
New newest obsession so I expect you'll be seeing lots more of this.
The masterpost of my dean/neal gif sets can be found on my home page.