Neal frowned, heart racing. He looked out the window of the vehicle he was now in, eyes fixated on the receding scene behind him as the now abandoned Ford Taurus, parked illegally at a hydrant – the only spot available when he'd been told to pull over – grew smaller in the distance. He turned his head to catch a final glimpse through the rear window of the car. Then, it was out of sight.

The current vehicle, one he could barely describe – was it blue? dark gray? – due to how fast everything had happened, was heading in another direction. Neal didn't know where, just that with each block they passed that he was now further from Peter's home than a moment before.

He turned his head away from the window to view the steering wheel. It was a Nissan. He eyed the one hand on the wheel that now turned them down a different street.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Don't talk," came the caustic response.

From the steering wheel, Neal's eyes rose to Dean's face. He had a hard time not talking as his mind had a steadily growing queue of questions building. But then again, a gun was a strong influence. Pointed directly at him earlier, directing him to get out of his vehicle and then to enter this one, it was now still in Dean's other hand, though more casually held in his lap as the man drove the vehicle.

Still, it was pointed at him. Neal cleared his throat, and a glare was sent his way. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"I said, don't talk. Do you ever listen?" Dean returned. His eyes flitted between the road and Neal.

Neal glanced down at the gun and then back up at Dean's profile. "I just want to know what you want."

"I want you to shut up."

Neal pressed his lips together at that point, refraining from sighing.

He considered his options…

Keep asking questions… Possibly it would get him some sort of information, or it could succeed in simply in infuriating Dean further.

Try to get out of the car… He'd tried that one before and had thought about it many other times. If traffic slowed or they were at a light, it could be an easy exit.

Grabbing the gun… That one Neal didn't think he had in him. Either that, or grabbing the steering wheel. That level of confrontation and risk made his stomach twist just thinking about it.

He glanced toward the door handle beside him.

"Don't even think about it," Dean told him.

"Excuse me?" Neal responded. He turned his head.

"Don't touch the door..." Dean said slowly, voice stiff. "You're not at your destination yet."

Neal slowly shifted his eyes towards the door handle again. "And where is my my destination?"

"You'll know when we get there."

Neal didn't respond.

"Going for that door is a two step process," Dean told him, "considering it's locked. Trust me, my trigger finger is faster than you'd think."

Neal mulled on that for a moment, looking up as they stopped at a light. "Trust you," he echoed.

"Trust," Dean scoffed. "Listen. I thought you were like me, Neal," he began. "Isn't that what you said?"

Neal quieted at that. He had tried that, back at Dean's compound. Or whatever it should be called. It hadn't worked well. "Are we?" he replied.

Dean chuckled in response. It was a bit sinister. "Well…" he responded. "I don't personally think so… But, I think soon enough Peter might believe it."

"What?"

Dean laughed harder. "Funny. I was wondering if you'd be surprised by that or not. Somehow, I don't think he will be."

"What does that even mean?"

"Like I said," Dean continued, "you're just like me… So you told me yourself."

"So just to confirm again. The subject, Neal Caffrey… he is not with you."

"Correct," Peter responded stiffly into the phone. He paced across his home, feeling like he'd been repeating the motion the entire night. "But he's not the subject right now."

"Sorry?"

"I know he just showed up as out of radius, but he's not the current subject. He's out of his radius because of my orders. This should be confirmed when the APB goes out."

"Okay…. Well, can you also confirm you were the one to turn off his tracking device earlier this evening?"

"Yes, I was," Peter responded, tone growing terser. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. But—"

"One moment," the skeptical woman on the other side of the firm interrupted in response. "Please, Sir, hold for a moment."

Peter let out a curse as he turned the corner to pass his kitchen for the countless time. "He's not the subject," he muttered to himself, likely barely audible into the phone itself. "I just need to know where he is…"

As he paced this time, he switched the phone settings to speaker, dropping his arm to his side, tired.

As he did so, he caught his wife's eye.

"Hon," she said slowly… On the couch, she sat with a concerned look, looking unsure. "What are they saying?"

"Not much," he admitted. This slight pause from the phone allowed him to breath. That was good. Maybe. An attempt at a deep breath pained his ribs, and he winced. He stopped pacing and began to slowly walk towards the couch.

"Maybe you should call Reese," she suggested.

He paused and then nodded. "I know. I really need to…" he acknowledged. At that thought, he cursed again, his free hand rising to his head to rub at his temples. "Jesus, this is going to be hard to explain."

"Just… Be honest," she responded.

"Of course," he answered. "Yes, course."

Eventually, to his relief but even more to his confusion, Neal soon noticed that they weren't actually heading far out of the city.

When he'd initially gotten in to the car, he thought the worst. That they were headed back to that compound or somewhere else. Maybe somewhere even further away and even harder to find.

This didn't seem to be the case.

While he wasn't sharing much, Dean wasn't hiding their destination either. He was only avoiding conversation. After silence over the bridge to Manhattan, and then a slow and quiet crawl to the west side to then exit the city through the Holland Tunnel, it was no secret they were somewhere in New Jersey when Dean briefly took a call.

The phone was to his ear only a few seconds as he said, "Almost there," before hanging up.

Almost there? Really? Neal refrained from again asking their destination. He knew he'd only be told to shut up. But his curiosity was rising, mixed with nervousness. Almost where? And who was on the other end of the phone call?

At the same time, he was anxious about what Peter probably felt. Neal had just conveyed he'd be back to his house shortly, with no indication of there being any sort of problem or delay.

At what stage would Peter panic?

And what would he think?

Neal was pretty sure his phone already had several missed calls from his handler. But he wouldn't know. His phone remained in the abandoned Ford Taurus, which with his luck had already been ticketed for being parked at a hydrant.

He clenched his jaw, once again debating what options he had at the moment. Any time he thought of one, he was again reminded by the visual gun pointed in his direction.

Would someone really fire inside their own vehicle at a passenger in such close range?

Of course he would, Neal told himself. Who was he kidding?

As his thoughts rambled on, soon they seemed to arrive to what appeared to be a residential neighborhood. In the darkness it was hard to make out any of the street signs as he squinted at them. Not that a name of a suburban New Jersey street would ring any bells or give him any clues. But they were clearly slowly down, as though they were nearing their destination.

Then, to his further confusion, they were pulling into a driveway.

If Neal had to estimate, they were only roughly twenty minutes from the city.

Where was this? And why were they here?

Dean seemed to sense his surprise as he put the car into park and then turned to look at him with raised eyebrows.

Neal frowned back.

"Not where you expected?" Dean asked.

Neal's brow furrowed deeper. "Not sure what I expected," he admitted wryly, a little suspicious that Dean was now actually offering a hint of conversation. He really wasn't sure what to make of this other man – his intentions nor his moment by moment personality. "But no… Not quite." He looked out the window, scrutinizing the humble, split-ranch style home now in front of him. The lights were on inside."Do you live here?"

Dean scoffed. "Hell no." He briefly viewed the house himself with a scowl before turning back to Neal. "And no," Dean responded, "I also don't live in those woods."

Neal pressed his lips together, considered asking where he did live. But if this was going to be a limited conversation, or simply a brief change in the mood of the other man, then he also felt it was more wise to be frugal with his questions. "So why are we here?" While he said 'we,' he was far more concerned with his own personal involvement here.

"You'll see." Dean turned the car off with a turn of the key in the ignition. He also now more directly held the gun, pointing it more specifically and squarely at Neal. "Let's go."

Neal glanced at the house again. "But why are we here?" he asked again. "Who lives here?"

"This is her safe house."

Neal paused. He turned his head, first looking down to the gun and then looking towards Dean again. "Safe house?" he repeated slowly in question.

"Right."

"Whose?"

Dean smirked. It was a bit sinister. "I have a feeling you know..."

"How would I know? I've never been here," Neal answered. "Why would we be at someone's safe house?"

"I'll let you guess. Despite the act, I'm pretty sure you might have a good idea who lives here..."

Neal didn't like where this was going.

"Get out," Dean told him again, using the gun to gesture towards the car door. "I'm not telling you again."

Elizabeth watched her husband with a frown as he moved around the house with increasingly agitated energy. She could only hear one side of the conversations he'd had so far, and she was trying to keep up with the series of events.

She tried to remain calm herself, though she could feel the anxiety pulsating off of Peter in waves and it was rather contagious. Still, she forced herself to stay as composed as possible.

Her calmness began to falter as she suddenly saw Peter grab his jacket. He walked towards her with a determined look on his face and stated, "We need to go."

"Go? What?" she asked in alarm. She watched him walk past her as he pulled one arm through the sleeve of his jacket and then the other one. He was heading towards his wallet and keys which sat on the table. "Honey, wait – we need to go where?"

He turned back towards her as he reached the table, house keys now in hand."I can't just stay here," he told her. His voice had a hint of frustration and desparation. "I know something's wrong."

"Then where you do plan to go?"

"I need to get to the office."

"The office?" she echoed incredulously. "Peter, why?"

"Because I need to do something, El."

"Can't you do something from here?" she answered.

"From here?" he echoed. "No. Honestly, El, I feel trapped here. At the office, at least I have my team."

"Your team? At this hour?" she challenged. "Are you so sure?"

He glanced at his watch, sighing. She was right. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's possible they're still there, but either way, I'll feel better if I'm there, El. I have more resources and—"

"Peter," she said firmly, cutting him off. "Trust me on this. You have the same resources here. Going there isn't going to solve anything, because we don't know what there is to solve."

"Neal should have gotten here by now, yet he's not here. That's what I need to solve. They've got an APB on him, which is like a target on his back, and I…. I don't know, El."

"Well, won't he come here? Don't you want to be here when he does?"

"I have a feeling he's not coming here," Peter said stiffly. "He'd be here already."

She looked at her husband with a frown. Then she glanced towards their door. They didn't know what was out there. She knew leaving wouldn't solve anything, but getting her restless husband to realize that was proving to be challenging. "Try Reese again," she offered. Peter's first attempt at his boss a few minutes ago had only gotten him voicemail. "See what he suggests."

"He's probably going to suggest I find a new job," Peter responded dryly.

"Peter…"

"What, El?" he replied. "It's true. Consider my conversation with him earlier today, and now this? Letting Neal and his questionable friend take my Bureau issued vehicle to assess whether it had been compromised?"

El followed his logic, though she herself frowned at the implication. "So… He's going to ask why you didn't raise the concern to him…"

"Of course he will," Peter responded stiffly. "And better yet, why I requested Neal's anklet to be disabled at the same time. What do I say to that?"

She sighed. "You've re-enabled it…" she reminded. "It's on now."

"Now," he echoed sarcastically. "Right. Listen, it looks bad, El," he persisted. "But you're right, it looks equally bad whether I'm here or at the office…"

"Well, before you jump to conclusions, you should really speak to him first."

He began to pace again. "Just think – everything I've done, all the effort I've put in, years of it, and it's going to come down to this. This case. And last twenty-four hours. One god damn day."

"Hon," she persisted. "Just take a deep breath."

He turned, facing her again and slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry. This case wasn't meant to turn into this, El."

"I know," she answered.

"White Collar. Who knew, right?" he said with bitter sarcasm. Then from his jacket pocket, his phone began to ring. Quickly he went for it and took a look at the caller ID. "Speak of the devil," he muttered.

She stayed silent as she watched her husband bring the phone to his ear.

"Sir," he answered, immediately beginning to pace the room again. "I just tried to call you. Did you get my voicemail?"

She studied his face. The furrowed brow, stiff jaw. All the tell-tale signs of a stressed Peter Burke were playing out clearly in his physical demeanor. And yet she didn't know what to do to help, or to even simply to make him feel better. She just stood by, trying to take it all in. At the same time, she herself was terrified of what was out there – at how they were potentially at risk.

And still, Peter had his jacket on.

He didn't even have his car – she realized she should have reminded him of that. How was he planning to get anywhere?

"Sir, yes," Peter was saying into the phone. Then a pause, as though he was listening. "I understand." Another pause. "Yes, I did. And I take full responsibility for that." He paused again. This was a longer pause.

Presumably Hughes was giving him a piece of his mind.

This time she couldn't see Peter's face. His pacing had led him to turn his back to her at the moment.

She frowned.

The conversation continued, and she tried to keep up. It was mostly one-side – Hughes seemed to be doing most of the talking. Peter seemed to be confirming and denying in return, depending on the part of the conversation. She gave him a lot of credit – he actually sounded calm and level headed, though she knew he currently felt anything but that.

Then the discussion evolved. "Tomorrow," Peter said, as though he was repeating the word. "Of course… No, we need to… Sir, we can do both. If what he wants is closure with her, then we need to go through with that, even with this change in events." Again he paused, listening. Pacing. "Of course. Yes, I understand. But we need to do this."

Need to do what? Elizabeth wondered. What was 'tomorrow'?

Then, Peter was suddenly off the phone. The phone was back in his pocket, and he had returned to pacing, hands on his hips.

"Hon?" Elizabeth began tentatively. "What did he say?"

Peter exhaled, muttering at first to himself. He then turned to face her, making a face. "Oh, he had plenty to say…"

She debated to ask him for details, but didn't want to get him more agitated. She expected he would share when he was ready to. She could infer from what she heard and her husband's body language what was discussed and dreaded slightly to hear the full extent of the conversation. Instead she focused on the part that was most questionable to her. "What's tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow… Well, tomorrow is when she's ready to meet."

"She?" she asked. "You mean Samantha?"

Peter nodded. "Yes."

"In person?"

He nodded again. "Believe it or not, yes… She still has offered to help. With contingencies, but she is willing to help."

"The contingencies that Neal was going to help with…" Elizabeth said slowly.

"Right," Peter answered with a sigh. "Those contingencies… Well, there's likely a delay in that plan, to say the least... But we don't have any more time to waste with Dean's deadlines unless we find him first. And if he has anything to do with Neal's lack of communication right now, well then I'm sure as hell not going to give him any further reason to complicate things. We get her lined up as soon as possible."

At that thought, Elizabeth could see Peter's expression turn. It was a mix of anger and worry. "You think that's what happened?" she asked softly. "Dean and Neal?" It had been on her mind as well, though she hadn't voiced it and neither had Peter.

"I don't know," was all Peter responded. Then he muttered, "Dean and Neal. I don't even know what to make of that."

"I mean, what could have happened? You said he was close to being home."

"He was..."

Neal stood in the foyer of this foreign house, which oddly gave the sentiment of a home, staring into the face of the woman he'd only seen on a one-dimensional dossier within a confidential FBI folder.

She stared back at him.

"So this is Neal," she said, head tilting to the side.

Neal stared back, frowning. "Samantha," he said. "Hagor." It wasn't lost on him that Dean was standing directly behind him, and that he still had his gun in hand, presumably pointed at his back.

"That's not my name anymore," she replied. She then added, slightly thoughtfully, "I thought you'd be different." Then she cleared her throat, pointing her attention at Dean. "Can you put the gun away? You know how I feel about that in here."

"You said the kids aren't home," came the gravely voice behind Neal.

"They aren't," she said stiffly. "Still, Dean. Please."

"Fine."

Neal heard a slight rustling behind him, which he took to mean was the gun being put away. It somehow didn't put him at ease. He wanted to turn to confirm but didn't dare. Instead he kept his eyes on Samantha. The mythical woman from the pages of the case files. "Do you really live here?" he asked.

She seemed affronted by his question, letting out a small but awkward laugh. "Sorry?"

"This is your home?" he rephrased the question.

"Yes…" she answered slowly. "Why? Not up to your standards?"

He shrugged, surprising himself at the casual demeanor he was able to muster. "I haven't seen enough to comment on the interior, but given what I know about you and your current situation…. I have no idea why he," he gestured back towards Dean, "or I would be here." He barely finished his sentence before the blow came to his lower back.

He gasped out in pain, bowing over.

"Shut the hell up," the man behind him growled.

"Dean," Samantha objected sharply. "You brought him here for a reason. And this is not the reason!"

"He doesn't know his place," Dean responded with a menacing tone. "He doesn't know when to shut his goddamn mouth."

"This is my home," she replied forcefully. "My rules. Or have you forgotten?"

"It's my plan," he growled back. "Or have you forgotten…?"

Wincing in pain, Neal forced himself to stand straight again, this time stepping away to the side so he could view the both of them in his vantage-point. He backed against the nearest wall, which was home to a mounted coat rack, and took in the sight of the two of them. He didn't care where he was – he just didn't want Dean against his back.

"Why am I here?" Neal asked, taking deep breaths, adrenaline peaked from the conflict with Dean.

They both turned their heads to him, seemingly forgetting their words with each other, and focused on him.

"You're part of the plan," Samantha told him. "Did he tell you?"

"Why are you doing this?" Neal asked her, ignoring her question. "You got away, got protected. Got your family a whole new identity. And that was all…. because of him, right?" He glanced towards Dean, who was glaring at him. "So why, exactly, are we here?"

"Don't answer that," Dean told her, tone sharp.

"Dean," she began.

"Don't. And please know it's only because of you I'm not knocking his daylights out right now. So help me… He is infuriating."

"Dean," she objected. "Hold on."

Neal clenched his own fists, looking between the two of them. She was just as he expected in appearance, but a little more tentative in nature. While she was clearly with Dean, there was still something about her that seemed delicate and uncertain.

"Trust me, I'm holding on, or he'd be on the floor," Dean shot back in irritation, working his jaw. "Can we restrain him please? We have a lot to talk about, and trust me when I say I believe he is a runner."

"Yeah…" she said slowly, giving a brief look to Neal before focusing back on Dean. "Follow me."

Neal winced as Dean then came forward and grabbed his arm, yanking his forward. "Don't be smart," Dean snapped at him. "You'll see why you're here soon enough."