Chapter 1: An Ill-Starred Day

House in the Woods. New Haven, Connecticut. Wednesday, May 11, 2005.

The sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass window signaled the need to depart. With a regretful sigh, Maia stroked his face with her fingers, tracing his lips. Sleep well, Sam. Till tomorrow.

She dissolved his image in her mind and opened her eyes. Folding back the mauve satin sheets, Maia rose from the bed. She still had plenty of time before she needed to leave for Yale. She paused to study her body in the full-length mirror before slipping on a silk kimono. What would Sam think of her? Would he naturally be attracted to her? What would happen if they met?

Musing over that delicious idea, she strolled down the oak staircase. She half-expected Electra to be waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.

She poured herself a glass of blood from the crystal decanter on the sideboard and took it into the study where she found Electra standing by the walnut library table. She'd already dressed for the day although she wasn't due at the store for another hour. Maia drew close to see what she was examining so intently. The choice—Goya's Witches' Sabbath—indicated Electra was likely thinking of Curtis Hagen. Electra had used Goya to test the artist's suitability.

Electra turned to look at her. Maia's hair was still tousled from the night and she hadn't bothered putting on makeup. Electra smiled knowingly. "Pleasant dreams?"

Maia sank into a velvet chair and stretched out her bare legs. "The best."

"Who was it? The French sculptor?"

Maia nodded. Electra wouldn't be pleased to hear she'd been visiting her new protégé. "Has the time come?"

"Yes. All the preparations have been made."

"Will you go?"

"No, I ordered Alcyone to be my emissary. She needs something constructive to do." A frown crossed Electra's face. "I've heard disturbing reports recently. Alcyone's become unfocused."

"Sending Alcy to New York is hardly a punishment. I could go in her place."

"No, she needs the discipline."

Maia stood up and approached the painting. When she'd first seen the version Goya had painted for public display, she was outraged that he'd represented them as old, wizened hags. But Electra was unsympathetic to her complaints. She told Maia she'd insisted that Goya paint them as Spanish witch-vampires.

Electra had kept the original painting for her collection. There they were—the sisters in all their radiant beauty. And soon their demon would join them.

Federal Building, New York City. Friday, May 13, 2005.

"The Dutchman's vanished," Peter said, a worried frown on his face.

Neal liked to think he wasn't suspicious. A broken mirror didn't fill him with terror. He walked under ladders without a second thought. He admired the beauty of black cats with nary a shudder. So when Friday the 13th dawned, he didn't rummage through his cupboard for a rabbit's foot.

But when Peter greeted him with the news about the Dutchman upon his arrival at White Collar, Neal began to believe that there might be something to the superstition after all.

The FBI had pursued the art forger Curtis Hagen for over a decade. He was so elusive that Peter dubbed him the Dutchman. Like the Flying Dutchman, he disappeared into the fog after each crime. At long last, they succeeded in capturing him last month in a warehouse in East Harlem with a priceless painting by Raphael in his possession. Evidence was seized proving that Hagen was creating forgeries of the painting and selling them off as originals. He'd also set up an operation to print counterfeit copies of a Goya bond. The case was ironclad. Hagen was incarcerated at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. The D.A. had even succeeded in convincing the judge that he was too much of a flight risk to be released on bail. There was no way Hagen could escape.

Except he had.

Or maybe not. Neal eyed his boss warily. Peter had been known to play practical jokes before. True, not many. Neal could remember only one time he'd been fooled. That was when Peter banished him to File Purgatory while the team finished preparations for a surprise party in Neal's honor. But that didn't count. Peter routinely banished him to File Purgatory. That time he simply had a valid reason. "You're not trying to pull my leg, are you? It's Friday the 13th, not April Fools' Day."

Peter's grim face made the answer abundantly clear. "The prison director called me. When the guard performed a routine check this morning, he discovered Hagen was missing. There's no explanation for what happened. Hagen was recorded in his cell during the night check." Peter's jaw tightened. "I'm heading over now. Want to come along? You're an escape artist. Maybe you can spot something."

The Metropolitan Correctional Center was only a few blocks away. Within minutes they were standing inside Hagen's empty cell. The Dutchman had been held in a maximum-security section of the center. Since he'd been cooperating, his lawyer was able to negotiate additional protection and a reduced sentence. The terms were exceptionally sweet for someone who'd built up such a long record.

Why would Hagen throw it all away? That was the question Neal asked himself as he studied the spartan furnishings. He didn't find anything in the cell to enlighten him. Hagen was an artist, but he'd left no sketches or doodles to give any hints to his mindset. Neal gloomily looked around the cell, scanning the space for clues.

"Eww."

"What?" Peter demanded. "If you poke around a toilet, don't expect it to smell like jasmine and lilacs."

"Yeah, but rotten eggs? And this isn't coming from the toilet but his bed." Neal crouched along the baseboard. "Correction. Not the bed but the floor. What is this? Sulfur?"

Peter dropped next to him, his nose wrinkling as he examined the powder. "Sure smells like it." He reached inside his case for a specimen bag and collected a small sample. The guard stood beside them, looking perplexed. "Was the cell treated recently by an exterminator?" Peter asked.

"Not to my knowledge," the guard replied. "But the prisoners complain about roaches. That might be pest bait."

Peter didn't look convinced and neither was Neal. He'd never heard of roach powder containing sulfur.

Their next stop was the prison control room where they would review the camera feeds. To speed up the chore, Peter and Neal worked alongside prison officials at separate monitors. Thirty minutes into the review, Peter exclaimed, "Here's the answer!" He jabbed an accusing finger at the monitor.

The feed showed Hagen sauntering out with a woman. They strode straight past the guards and the sergeant at the desk with no one looking at them. It was as if they were invisible. Hagen was wearing his orange prison jumpsuit. The woman was slender, almost as tall as Hagen, and clad in a dark maroon-and-black Victorian steampunk dress with a matching maroon military coat. Her dark hair was pulled back into a chignon. An elaborate silver Venetian mask covered most of her face. She had her hand on Hagen's arm and appeared to be loosely guiding him.

"Were the guards all drugged?" Neal stared at the prison officials in disbelief. No one could come up with a rational explanation for why Hagen and the mystery woman weren't stopped.

By the time they returned to Peter's office, they still hadn't come up with anything that made sense.

"My best guess is an Invisible Man potion," Neal admitted. "Do you want me to ask Mozzie about it? He's an expert on drugs. Perhaps he's heard of something."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but go ahead," Peter replied. "But if Hagen had been rendered invisible, why did he show up on the camera feed? Perhaps all the prison guards were drugged. That's even more in Mozzie's bailiwick. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about his experiments last month."

Neal shrugged acknowledgment, but his thoughts had already moved in another direction. Someone had mentioned sulfur recently. . . He snapped his fingers. "Last month when we were in Buttonwood—"

"Stop!" Peter ordered hastily. "Close the door."

Neal didn't attempt to hide his smile as he followed Peter's instructions. Buttonwood was clearly still a sore subject. And understandably so. If Neal had acted like Peter, he'd be sensitive too. It wasn't only Peter who'd been victimized by a dork curse. Mozzie and Dean Winchester had been affected as well. But knowing he wasn't singled out brought Peter little comfort.

When Neal showed El the photos that Mozzie's girlfriend Janet had taken of that unforgettable weekend in South Jersey, he'd never seen her laugh so hard. Neal's assurance that he'd never ever show the photos at work did little to calm Peter's completely unfounded suspicions.

"You shouldn't feel embarrassed," Neal said. "Most of the men in Buttonwood were acting the same way, although I admit the three of you were among the most entertaining. Luckily, Sam and I were smart enough not to let ourselves be infected by malevolent will-o'-wisps."

Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I wouldn't act so smug. Who had to be rescued from blood-sucking vampires?"

Neal shook his head. "That's beside the point. When Sam and I were on stakeout in the swamp—two courageous hunters determined to rescue the men of Buttonwood by dispatching the swamp spirit to the dark regions from whence it came—"

"Your point, mighty demon-hunter?" Peter said, barely stifling his sigh.

"Sam helped pass the time by giving me a few pointers in demon lore. Supposedly powdered sulfur is a sign that a demon was present."

Peter sat in stony silence for a moment. "You want me to believe a demon was involved with Hagen's disappearance?"

"You'd rather stick to the Invisible Man theory?"

The same day at a roadside motel in Fishkill, New York.

Dean emerged from the shower, grabbed a towel to dry himself off, and strolled into the bedroom. "Hey, Sam—"

He stopped. Sam was still asleep, sprawled face down on the bed. Dean checked his watch. It was still technically morning but he'd thought Sam would be awake by now, especially since Dean had been singing "Eye of the Tiger" at the top of his lungs in the shower.

They'd gotten back from burning the bones over ten hours ago. That was the freakiest ghost Dean had seen in a long time. And the smelliest. Just because the man was killed in a fishing accident was no excuse for his ghost to smell like a fish kill. A fish kill in Fishkill . . . Dean smiled. He should call Chloe and suggest that for a story. He hadn't talked with her in a while. That was a come-on line she probably hadn't heard.

After that first promising encounter in Buttonwood, he and Chloe had gone nowhere fast. They'd talked a few times on the phone. She was struggling to find time to research witch lore for her novel. The technical writing assignment she had was giving her fits. The last time they talked, she had to cut it short for a business call. Just as well. He and Sam had been on one job after another with little downtime.

Dean frowned as he watched his brother. He'd hoped Sam's sleep issues were a thing of the past. After seeing his girlfriend Jessica go up in flames, nightmares and flashbacks had been a routine occurrence for quite a while. Granted, not an easy thing to get over, but Sam did it. Then he had the vision vibe going on with the Yellow-Eyed Demon, but that was also over. So what was up with the dude now?

Fat chance of Sam telling him. He'd much rather deny anything was wrong. Didn't he realize how transparent he was? Avoiding sleep till he was so wrecked he had no choice?

If he didn't snap out of it soon, Dean would involve their friend Bobby. In some respects, Bobby seemed more like a father to Sam than their own dad had been. Maybe he could get Sammy to open up.

It simply wasn't natural to wake up after sleeping for ten hours looking more exhausted than before. Or was it? Those moans didn't sound like moans of pain. Dean smiled. Maybe all Sam needed was to resume dating.

Sam's phone rang on the bedside table, waking up Sleeping Beauty. Letting out a huge yawn, he rolled over and sat up, blinking his eyes. "Yeah?" he mumbled into the phone. "Sure, I remember . . . How's the art scene? . . . Oh, really?" As Sam listened, he grabbed a pencil and started scribbling notes. "Yeah, you did right. Tomorrow morning okay?"

Dean tried to piece together what was going on from his comments. Who did they know from the art world? Only one person that he could recall—Neal Caffrey. They'd met during the job in Buttonwood. Being turned into a dork was not the most uplifting moment of Dean's life, but it had led to him meeting Chloe, or Cecilia Hepburn as she was known to her urban fantasy fans. The dude Neal worked for—Peter Burke. Mr. Law and Order. He'd turned out okay in the end, too. Surprisingly open-minded when it came to vamps and a connoisseur of classic cars and classic rock.

Plus, Neal's friend Mozzie had been so grateful for their help, he'd supplied them with several professional-grade IDs and credit cards. Given that the only reward they usually got from saving someone's ass was a grudging promise not to prosecute, Dean had chalked up the experience as one of their better moments.

"What did Neal want?" he asked when Sam hung up.

"A prisoner disappeared from a detention facility."

"So? It's called a prison escape. Happens all the time. We've done our share."

"Not when the dude walks straight past the guards without them even noticing him. He was accompanied by a masked woman dressed in black."

"Catwoman? Have they been staying up late, watching Batman reruns?"

"Neal swears not," Sam said with a grin. "This woman must have looked like someone out of The Wild, Wild West. She wore a long military coat and a fancy silver mask. Neal found sulfur in the cell."

"Sulfur, huh?"

"He's promised free food, beer, as well as a place to stay. We don't have another case at the moment."

"No mention of rotting fish, I hope?"

"Not a word."

Dean shrugged. "Free food, no rotten fish? Let's do it."

#

"They're late," Mozzie grumbled.

"I don't think Dean's ever driven in Manhattan," Neal said, checking his watch. "He may have taken the wrong turn off FDR Drive." They were standing on the east side of the correctional center next to the entrance to the fenced-off parking lot for prison officials. Peter was already inside. Neal suspected Peter knew what was going on but was staying clear of it so he could plead ignorance.

There had been only one snag when Neal contacted Sam. The problem wasn't with him or Dean. It was Baby. Neal heaved a much put-upon sigh. Until he'd met Dean and Sam, the only one in his life who needed special handling was Mozzie. His friend's conspiracy-wired brain was convinced the feds were under orders to toss him in lockdown at the first opportunity and throw away the key. The fact that Mozzie had amassed a fortune in finder's fees for helping Neal on cases did little to ease his fear of entrapment.

Now, in addition to Mozzie, Neal needed to pamper Dean's prized '67 Impala, Baby. Dean was on the point of rejecting driving to the center until Neal promised Mozzie would watch his car. And, of course, Mozzie couldn't simply babysit a vehicle. He insisted on making a con out of it. So now Mozzie was dressed in the garb of a prison employee, his creative soul assuaged.

"There they are," Mozzie called out triumphantly and motioned for Dean to pull up alongside him. Opening the door for him, he said, "Welcome to Gotham. Never fear, Baby is under my protection for the duration." He added with an unholy look of delight, "This will be a new experience. I've never driven an Impala."

"Hold on a minute," Dean protested. "No newbie's touching my car. You can show me where to park."

Neal and Sam stood aside and let the parties argue it out. When Mozzie played his trump card of threatening to withhold future fake IDs, Dean finally relented.

Peter was waiting for them at the security barrier when they entered the building.

Dean flashed his badge to the guard. "Special Agent Ford, and this is —"

"They're with us," Peter interrupted, stepping up quickly.

"May I?" Neal asked and inspected Sam's badge. "Special Agent Hamill, is it?"

Sam smiled. "Mozzie thought you'd appreciate the reference."

"I didn't hear that," Peter said although the corners of his mouth were twitching.

They entered the building and reviewed the camera feed. "We spoke with the guards who were filmed," Peter said. "They remember the other events shown on the feed but draw a blank on Hagen. They swear he wasn't there and insist the video must have been doctored."

"We were on the scene within five hours of his disappearance," Neal added. "The guards were all tested for drug use and checked out clean. No hallucinogens of any kind."

Dean eyed Sam. "You thinking what I am?"

He nodded. "A spell most likely." He turned to Peter. "Zoom in on that woman. What's that she's wearing around her neck? Some sort of pendant or amulet?"

While they studied the image, Peter retrieved a couple of photos from his briefcase. "We made stills of the woman and the pendant. We've been trying to trace it. Do you recognize it?"

Sam shook his head. "It looks ancient but I haven't seen it before."

They proceeded to search both the cell and the route Hagen and the woman had taken. Peter insisted they wear gloves, something Dean chafed at, grumbling that as long as there was no blood, what was the point.

"What's the connection between sulfur and demons?" Neal asked Sam as they overturned Hagen's bed.

"Do you understand what demons are?"

"Not really. I know they're evil, and that's about it."

"Demons were once human souls, but they've been tortured in Hell by Lucifer and other demons. Since they come from Hell, they secrete sulfur. The stories of Hell being fire and brimstone aren't myths. They're real. Brimstone is another word for sulfur and is formed during volcano eruptions."

"Hell is a deep fryer on a cosmic scale," Dean said. "It's the whole nine yards of torment, suffering, and pestilence."

Neal wasn't convinced there actually was a Hell, but they appeared to know what they were talking about. And how else to explain demons?

Sam ran his finger along the seams of the mattress. "There's a direct relationship between the amount of sulfur residue and the strength of the demon. From the amount of sulfur found in Hagen's cell, the demon who visited here was a powerful one."

"Are witches the same thing as demons?" Peter demanded.

"Not necessarily," Dean said. "Most are human. Some witches—the most powerful ones—become demons by making a deal with one to acquire power in exchange for their souls."

It was hard to take the guy seriously, as he matter-of-factly discussed how a person could become a demon or witch. But Neal never used to believe in vampires either. And the way Hagen had managed to become invisible to a prison full of guards was no laughing matter.

It took an hour, but they finally found what they were looking for. Sam discovered it taped to the bottom of a trash can inside the front door to the prison. He held up the small leather bag for them to see. "This is a hex bag."

Peter strode over to place it in an evidence container. "You believe this is what caused the prison staff not to see them?"

"That's right, and see these scorch marks?" Dean pointed to blackened residue on the painted wall. "I'd lay odds this is where they teleported out of here."

"We'll take the bag back to the lab and have it analyzed," Peter said. He looked at them dubiously. "You want to come along?"

Dean grimaced. "That's a joke, right?" Neal smiled at Dean's reaction. It reminded him of Mozzie. At least Dean didn't seem intimidated by the thought, simply bored.

"You'll need to give us the details if you expect us to help," Sam cautioned.

Peter nodded. "We should be able to obtain preliminary results later today."

Dean pulled Neal aside. "Any ideas on how we could productively spend the next few hours while we're cooling our heels?"

"We're not far from the Bowery. There's a place on Forsyth Street—Sal's Billiards. You can always find a game going on." Neal stopped to check Peter wasn't near. "Poker games are in the back. Mozzie can show you the way. He and Sal are old friends. The food's not bad either. Keep your receipt. Peter can expense it."

"Thanks." Dean turned to Sam. "You coming?"

Sam hesitated. "I thought I'd hang out with Neal. I may be able to help with the analysis and I'd like to learn more about Hagen. How did he become acquainted with such a powerful witch?"

Neal would like to know the answer to that too.

Notes: In 2021, I revisited this story and expanded its content. Please note that some of the comments and reviews no longer match the chapter references.

Introduction to Crossed Lines for new readers: In the pre-canon 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, 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 fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the series.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Visuals and Music: The Witches' Sabbath board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website