"So we begin."

Neal found Dean's declaration upon his return to be a bit cliché, but it chilled him nonetheless. After all, his last interaction with the man had left him unexpectedly unconscious. So whenever Dean spoke, particularly with uncertain or vague intentions, the only feelings elicited were a sense of primal uneasiness without much insight into what would happen next.

It was hard to calculate next steps. Despite finally having visibility into his appearance and a hint of his background, Dean was still a mystery…

Clearly the man was unpredictable and on edge, which made him more dangerous and the overall situation even more unsettling. It didn't help that he hadn't exactly warmed up to Neal either. Neal regretted that now, and knew he probably could (and should) have behaved differently. His earlier actions had all been in an effort of self-preservation and to help Peter. Good intentions. Intentions to escape. To run, like he usually did. But all of those attempts had backfired.

What else could he have done? Maybe he should have pretended to turn on Peter – to gain Dean's trust. He deliberated on that for a moment.

The events following the crash leading up to now blurred in his head. Every time he reflected on the accident, he immediately thought of the pilot. His face. The aftermath. He then instinctively pushed those thoughts away, behind the walls he'd already built to harbor that nightmare.

Stop, he urged himself. Dean is live, in front of you, and this is far from over. He had to be alert. He couldn't be distracted.

What happened next would be a critical turning point for them. Either Peter's approach would be successful, and they would be able to initiate enough of an illusion for Dean so that they could avoid triggering any other events before the FBI undoubtedly found them…. Or, they could actually inadvertently elicit Dean into prematurely acting on this seemingly premeditated plan.

Whatever plan that was.

At the moment, while his thoughts chased each other, Neal chose to remain quiet, watching and listening. Peter's repeated orders to not intervene or attempt his own agenda were not lost on him, and he realized now after his last few efforts felt short that he should heed that warning, at least in the short term.

So he would be silent, passive, submissive. As unnatural as it felt, he would sit on the sidelines. He would put his trust completely into Peter's plan. The plan to 'play along.'

However, as soon as he had come to terms with that, and had resigned himself to sit on the sidelines, Dean seemed to have another idea.

His point of view had located Neal immediately after his opening statement. His eye contact was direct and intense. "Good," he stated. "Neal is up too."

Neal said nothing but suddenly felt colder than before. The words felt… ominous. The other man's eyes remained locked on him, as though looking through his soul. Neal felt his brow furrow instinctively, and another chill go down his spine.

"Get up," Dean directed.

"Who?" Peter spoke first, before Neal could even get his thoughts straight.

"Get. Up." Dean repeated.

Neal said nothing though he knew the answer. It was obvious who the man meant. His eyes hadn't strayed from Neal's since entering the room. Peter's response was futile. He knew Dean meant him. He kept eye contact with the man as well, purposefully unblinking.

"You're talking to me, right?" Peter replied warily.

While shifting his attention over to Peter, the corners of Dean's lips curved upwards with a smirk that was somewhat sinister. "No. Him," he spoke, nodding his head towards Neal.

Peter paused, tilting his head slightly in confusion. "I thought you needed my help, Dean."

"I do," Dean agreed.

"So leave him out of it. He knows nothing about this case."

"It's actually not that simple, Peter…"

"It is. I heard loud and clear what you want. Let me help you," Peter persisted. "I just need to make a couple of phone calls, and we can arrange what you want."

"Right…" Dean sounded skeptical. "You'll make it that easy."

"Yes," Peter affirmed. "Trust me, I want to get us out of here just as much as you want to reconnect with Samantha."

"Earlier you said you didn't have that information. Remember? Why the change in heart, Peter?"

"I can get the information," Peter replied. "You just have to give me the chance to make a phone call."

"We'll get to the phone call… But I get the feeling you're a little unconvinced of the importance of helping me," Dean responded. "That you might think I'm bluffing. And in return, you may not take my request very seriously."

"I don't think that at all," Peter assured him, shaking his head. "I'm taking you seriously. I know what you're capable of, Dean…"

"Do you?" Dean answered, smirk reappearing. He then grew more somber and shook his head as well. "I don't think you do." He then gestured at Neal. "Get up, get up."

"Neal, don't move," Peter said, tone growing more territorial. "Dean. Listen to me. All I ask is that you keep him out of it. Whatever you're trying to prove right now, it's unnecessary. And you're only going to delay getting what you want."

"Now that somehow sounds exactly like something the old Special Agent Peter Burke would say," Dean told him. He reached behind his back and withdrew the gun that had been inconspicuously concealed since he returned. He exhaled with an exasperated sigh. "I don't know why I need to continuously repeat myself to the both of you."

"I already told you. He isn't part of this," Peter repeated, more impatiently.

"No. I told you. He is part of it. He became part of it the minute you brought him here," Dean spat back. He raised and pointed the gun at Neal, now barking his order. "Now get up while you still can!"

Body aching, Neal started to get to his feet, legs stiff from the cramped position he'd maintained on the floor. Despite Peter's objections, there wasn't much of an alternative at the moment, especially when staring down the barrel of a gun. With bound hands, he relied more on his legs and core strength to rise. He focused on his balance, realizing as he rose that his head felt a bit dizzy.

"Neal," Peter began. There was that familiar warning tone again that Neal was accustomed to hearing from Peter, but it was less with its usual tone of accusation and rebuke, and more with concern.

"It's fine, Peter," Neal replied, voice insistent. He was fine in the sense he knew there was no option except to say he was fine. He didn't actually know what was fine anymore, but what else was there really to say? He didn't know what Dean intended, and if was being honest with himself – he was a bit terrified – but he knew he had no choice but to comply. What he did know was the look in Dean's eye. That look of desperation. Peter could insist that Neal wasn't part of this, but Dean was right. The simple fact that he was present meant he was.

If something here went wrong and caused anything else to happen, either to someone at the Bureau or God forbid to Elizabeth, Neal would never forgive himself. And he knew he would be held accountable. He knew for certain that Peter was probably regretting ever even bringing him along. Once again he was creating additional complications for Peter, whether or not intentional. Intentional or not – either way what was happening now was directly attributable to him.

Suddenly Dean's own timeline and history came into question in Neal's mind – had he killed someone? Or had he been the reason someone was killed?

Was there a difference?

Neal wasn't going to let that happen to himself. He wasn't going to allow that to be his story

Once standing solidly on his two feet, he turned his head to view Peter. Peter didn't look happy. His mouth was a thin line, jaw a rigid square. That was an expression that Neal usually associated with an unwanted consequence on the horizon. This time it meant something else. Neal considered saying something. Reminding Peter that this was the plan. To go along with Dean. Play along. That's what Peter had been saying this whole time, much to Neal's chagrin. Neal was now simply playing that part as well. He agreed they had no choice.

Neal found himself feeling frozen in place for a moment, continuing to look at Peter like he would get some sort of message of affirmation or approval. Wasn't this the plan?

But Peter wasn't looking at him.

"Lower the gun," Peter spoke, eyes on Dean and not Neal.

"This is the only way for me to show you I'm not messing around," Dean said stiffly, though he did lower the gun ever so slightly.

"We didn't think you were messing around, Dean," Peter responded curtly.

Dean simply shook his head. "You don't get it. That I know you. I know your games."

"If you know me, you know I want to avoid any harm being done to my team or my family," Peter said rigidly.

Dean smirked. "Good. Then I hope he fits into one of those categories."

With that he tucked the gun into his waistband, hiding it once again as he approached them with confident and broad steps. When close enough, he took a step forward to grab Neal by the forearm, yanking his joined hands forward. "Let's go, Neal."

Peter watched with a muttered curse from the floor as both Dean and Neal left his sight, the door slamming closed behind them.

While maintaining what he hoped to be an indestructible façade of cool and calm, Neal felt his heart pounding as he resisted the urge to pull away from the tight hold Dean had on his arm. The way the man had latched onto him forced his arm at an angle that was far from comfortable, never mind the lack of flexibility provided by the handcuffs. But he didn't pull away and didn't say a word. For once, he just followed his lead, trying not to grimace.

And like that, they were out of the previous room, through the next door. The one Neal had wondered at in curiosity to know what was behind it. Now his curiosity was fulfilled as they walked down another damp hallway, dimly lit, making him realize they truly had no idea how big this place was.

"Where are we going?" Neal asked, wincing as the man pulled at his arm harder.

"Shut up," Dean replied gruffly. He then responded, "Not far. He has to hear you."

Hear me? Neal thought to himself. His heart pounded harder.

He did what he naturally did, and tried to think of a way out.

"You said you helped the FBI," Neal said as they walked, mind racing. There was a door on their right. They weren't far down the hall from where they had left Peter. Dean was reaching for that door's knob, pulling him with him.

"Shut. Up."

"How did you help them?" Neal asked. "Were you an informant?"

Door open, Dean let go of Neal's arm but shoved him in front of him, through the doorway. Neal stumbled forward, barely keeping upright at the force of the action. He hardly had time to take in the room, which seemed mostly empty, as he focused on Dean, trying to make eye contact. The man was doing a good job of avoiding it.

He also wasn't answering the question.

"I'm not an agent," Neal continued, trying to speak calmly and not too quickly. Trying to sound compelling. "I think it's important that you know that. I'm not like Peter."

"Oh yeah?" Dean replied, sounding barely interested. He was moving around the small room. There was another desk in the corner, this one without a chair. He rummaged through its drawer.

"I'm like you," Neal insisted, afraid of showing the apprehension he felt. He watched Dean with intermittently blurry vision. Was there a better way to phrase this somehow? After all, he knew he had to at least try to reason with the man.

Dean scoffed at that. "Right… You're here with Peter, but you're like me. That makes sense."

"I'm not with him in that way," Neal persisted. He glanced at the open door beside them. Should he try to run? Dean was only partially facing him… He could find his way back to Peter. They could barricade the door.

No. No running, Neal told himself. It would never work. "I'm not an agent," he said instead.

"You need to shut up now," Dean told him. "Take off your shirt."

"What?" Neal replied, caught off guard. He stood there, hands cuffed, and stared back at the man leering at him, coming closer. "Why?"

"Don't ask me questions," Dean replied with an edge. "And don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Listen. I am like you," Neal replied. He spoke quickly now – he had to if he was going to get this message out. "I'm not an agent. I'm a CI. Peter took me out of prison, and I—"

The sudden and solid punch to the stomach that followed caught Neal off guard. It was an unexpected quick lurch forward from Dean, who closed the remaining gap between them in seconds, followed by the blow. Neal found himself bowed over in pain, gasping for air. He hadn't even seen it coming.

"I don't have time for this," Dean said gruffly. "Don't try to feed me your bullshit."

"I'm not," Neal managed, still gasping for air. "Really I'm not."

"Let's get this straight. I don't give a shit who you are," Dean persisted with an edge of annoyance, jabbing a finger into Neal's face, "except that you're conveniently with him. And when I say convenient, I mean convenient for me."

"But I'm not," Neal persisted, trying to ignore the searing pain he felt in his ribs. He knew he was repeating himself and struggled to find more eloquent words. He found the finger in his face irritating and resisted the urge to bat it away with his tethered hands. "I'm not with him." He held up his arms protectively, bound hands in front of his chest as he sensed Dean winding up to strike again. "Just listen for a minute. I can help you."

"Help me," Dean echoed. He was clearly skeptical. "Oh yeah? You can help me. Yeah right."

Neal nodded earnestly. "I can. Look - I'm not here because of the reason you think," he said again. "Dean, I'm like you. I'm one of you guys. The only reason I'm with him here is because he didn't trust leaving me behind."

Dean looked increasingly cynical. "Yeah, I bet. That's the best you've got?"

"It's true," Neal insisted. "I signed a bunch of documents to get released, and now I'm assisting the FBI. Assisting Peter." Hands still raised, he did sarcastic air quotes with his fingers as he spoke the words. "Sound familiar?"

"No," Dean replied dryly. "It doesn't."

Neal let out an exasperated breath, but persisted. "I know you were a CI," he stated firmly, holding his ground. "I know what it's like. I can help you out. We don't need Peter."

"You know what it's like," Dean scoffed. "Right."

"I can help you," Neal repeated.

"There's no way you can help me. Only he can."

"I have access to the same information."

"Bullshit."

"I do. And I'd give it to you without all this."

"You're right. I was a CI. And because I was a CI, I know you don't have the information," Dean answered. "You don't get that access. Not to what I need."

"I do. Things have changed."

"That's complete bullshit!" Dean shouted.

It was. Neal debated arguing otherwise but it felt futile. It wasn't a viable argument. It was a desperate argument that was barely hanging on to threads. Neal felt his plan to commiserate and side with Dean in order to get his cooperation waning. The man wasn't having it. At all. He tried to think of what angle to try next.

There was no angle. He was silent as Dean glared at him.

"What were you in for?" Dean asked after a beat passed.

"Huh?" Neal asked, only hearing the end of the question over his own loud thoughts.

"You claim you went to prison," Dean said. "What did a pretty boy like you do?"

Neal smiled slightly, forcing it despite the resistance from his body. Perhaps this was his chance to impress Dean; show him that he truly was like him, and that they could trust each other. "What did I do, or what was I convicted of?"

Dean didn't look impressed. "The latter," he said stiffly.

"They only got me on bond forgery."

"Bond forgery…"

"Yeah."

"Peter caught you?"

"Eventually," Neal replied with a nod. He debated disclosing how long it had actually taken Peter to achieve that feat, but refrained. At the moment, less was more.

"And now you're his CI?" Dean continued.

Neal nodded again. "Yeah. It's pretty recent but—"

"I don't care," Dean interjected. "How early did he get you out?"

"Early? I mean, I had four months left…" Neal replied slowly. He wasn't sure how to read Dean's expression nor his tone. What was he getting at?

"Four months? Why bother? He must like you if he agreed to that," Dean replied, looking thoughtful. "That's good for me."

"How is that good for—" Before Neal could get the question, Dean caught him again with another solid bunch below the ribs. Neal doubled over in pain, the blow again completely unexpected.

"Enough with the chitchat. You wanna help me?" Dean asked, almost tauntingly, watching as the other staggered for a moment on his feet. "If you wanna help me, then make it a good show."

"Show?" Neal gasped.

"Shirt. Off now, Neal."

Peter's mind was racing.

He found himself on his feet as well, pacing the room. It had been a slight struggle in a weakened state to get to a standing position, but now he felt himself restless and angered as he walked from one corner of the space to the other.

He debated following them out the door. Dean hadn't explicitly asked him to stay behind. It was just implied. What would happen if he followed?

He had to be careful. He had to make the right moves.

The gun pointed at Neal. It was repeating itself in his mind.

What did Dean want with Neal?

Peter wrestled with his own culpability. Why had he even brought Neal here? In hindsight, he realized he should have left Neal with Diana and Jones. They could have handled him. He could have been back at the office, driving them crazy, but at least he would be safe.

He regretted so much of his recent plans now. The evidence on the case, too good to be true, had clearly been a set-up. They had been lured here, unbeknownst to them, by a bigger and more sinister plan. This wasn't a simple trip to canvas a site and pick up some evidence. This was a trap.

A trip specifically targeting him.

Now their lives were at risk. Now he had other agents out in the field in equally precarious situations, completely outside of his control. He couldn't even contact anyone.

He couldn't contact Elizabeth.

And Neal. Where had he taken Neal?

He couldn't follow them. If he did, he risked Neal's life.

The pointed gun was becoming too frequent.

Peter continued to pace, pausing only slightly behind the computer at the desk, wondering at the pages he had just flipped through earlier. The flashbacks of that case that were caused with the simply resurrection of the images of the family.

He let out an exasperated sigh, weary from his pacing and his tormented thoughts.

He then heard a commotion from a near distance. It was coming from behind the door from which they had disappeared.

Peter found himself up against the door now, ear pressed against it, trying to make out any sound he could.

He heard mumbled conversation. It was too faint to make out.

In his mind he tried to coach Neal. Don't do anything stupid, he thought. You're in it this far, following along. Just keep at it. No running. No games. No cons.

It was futile. His mental notes did nothing. If anything it spiked his anxiety. Neal couldn't hear him. If anything it reminded him of everything Neal was capable of, which only made him more perturbed.

Neal was spontaneous. Neal was unpredictable. Candid. Neal was… Neal. In the last few hours, Neal had done what he thought was 'right' but had inexplicitly put himself in harm's way and incensed Dean. Peter had been close enough to him in those instances to prevent some of that harm. Now they were separated. Now there was no buffer between Neal and Dean.

As if on cue, there was another commotion from behind the door. Noises of a struggle.

And then Neal's voice, yelling, almost sounding strangled.

It was a sound like he had never heard from him before.

It sent a jolt of fear through Peter like a bolt of lightning.

The noise was seconds only before it became more muted, and then there was what sounded like Dean – however, the message behind the words was too difficult to make out behind the walls. There was then the sound of a scuffle before silence.

That sound of Neal's voice had Peter's adrenaline racing. Unable to hold back, he now went for the doorknob. He quickly found it to be locked, turning the knob back and forth futilely. He then slammed his hand against the door, cursing.

"Dammit!" he shouted.

TBC

Author's note: Next update will come sooner than the last, I promise. I apologize for how long this took me to update. It was unintentional but the last few months presented some unexpected curveballs.