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.

Two vampires 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. I can still smell her."

"Just as well," his companion snarled. "You know our orders. C'mon. Doc's waiting. The others will have arrived. He warned us not to be late."

"So? What's he gonna do? Not let us feed?" He started back down the dark path and 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."

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 ended the call and turned to look at Peter. "I'm not sure if this is a true emergency, 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. "Has something happened to Mozzie?"

Neal 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 mentioned them to me," Neal admitted. "He told me that spring peepers are small woodland frogs. They're calling right now—it's their mating season. 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," Peter suggested. "She should 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. Janet's asked me to come down to help."

"Where exactly is Black Ash Swamp?"

"It's part of 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 who deserved a break. Peter's wife Elizabeth was away visiting her parents. The chores he'd planned for the weekend could easily wait. "Would you like some company? I haven't been down to the Pinelands in quite a while. I've got wheels. You won't have 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 after the morning briefing as long as nothing urgent comes up. A 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."

Neal frowned. "That one will 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."

The same day at a roadside diner in East Pennsylvania.

"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 their pies. 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 cherry pie, all bought with proceeds from a round of pool. If Dean wanted to flirt with Belinda, he wouldn't stand in the way.

After taking down the 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 Sam had spent the past hour researching unusual sightings 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 found something.

Sam tapped the display. "Here's something interesting."

Dean was still giving a dopey smile to the goddess of the moment. "More interesting than Belinda?"

"Possibly. 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. 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 change overnight. And get this, 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 the dude to focus. "It sounds suspicious to me. 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, 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 was convinced 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 reeking 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."

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. What could cause a plague of dorks?

#

Neal had talked with Janet several times before they left and the reports weren't reassuring. 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 left the office at eleven o'clock. 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 Bugs Bunny."

"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. He 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. It gets worse. When he got the drink, he blew through the straw into the shake 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 him."

"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," Peter replied, flexing his hands 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."

"Yep, 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 turned into Mario Andretti when he was behind the wheel. 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 lanes, 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."

"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. He hadn't been born yet, but at least Peter was getting closer.

For the past several miles they'd skirted a forest. Neal could see the sheen of standing water through the trees. Perhaps the home of the spring peepers?

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 smiled. "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 headed for the front door, Peter paused at one of the vehicles, running his hand on the hood. "Now this is something you don't get to see very often."

Neal paused to look at it. An old black gas-guzzler. Muddy wheels. Not very impressive. "I guess if you're into clunkers, it's all right."

Peter gave an exasperated snort. "For one of the smartest guys I know, your ignorance in certain areas is appalling. This is a classic muscle car—an Impala. mid to late '60s."

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 had an uncanny 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 that appeared to have been purchased at a garage sale.

When Janet saw them enter, she waved them over. The men stood 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, placed a warning hand on Peter's arm. He intended to have some fun before Peter slammed them.

"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?" Neal asked. 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?" Peter demanded, not able to restrain himself any longer. "X-Files? 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 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. He decided to remain behind to supervise them. "Unlike you two bozos, my gun's legal issue."

Sam appeared to be 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 a guy about Neal's age 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 Yosemite Sam.

"Hey, Mozz, you feeling okay?" Neal asked, trying to pry his attention away from the cartoon.

"Of course. You wanna watch? There's plenty of room." Mozzie patted the cushion on the couch next to him and drew Neal down. He didn't seem 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."

Neal nodded. "Something's definitely loony, and I'm not referring to 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 grilling the two imposters.

"We arrived here this morning," Dean said. "Read a news report about several women complaining that the men in their lives were turning into dorks overnight. 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?"

"What kind of phenomenon are we talking about?" Neal asked. "What makes a goofball out of a person who is a trifle eccentric but nonetheless brilliant?"

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.

"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," Sam said.

Peter snorted. "Demonic possession? Let me write that down. You're right, you are nuts."

Neal sighed, taking a moment to gaze around the parlor. Sunlight was streaming in through the bay window. Not the right ambiance for ghost stories.

The situation started to get 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.

"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 affected so many simultaneously," Dean added.

"How many demonic possessions have you dealt with?" Peter challenged.

Sam shrugged. "Let's just say, many more than you have. We've been interviewing the townspeople, hoping to find a common denominator. For your friend's sake, you should 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 visiting 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 tall cedars shimmer in the moonlight . . ." Janet's words trailed off as 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?"

She looked up guiltily. "As I said, evenings we spent at the swamp. We brought folding chairs. Mozzie had an ample supply of wine." Janet gave a small sigh. "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 went back to our room. 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 watch a cartoon. 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.

Janet winced. "The worst part was when he found a magic decoder ring in the box. In his excitement, he spilled cereal all over the table."

"That's not so idiotic," Dean said. "I had one of those decoder rings myself. It was awesome."

"And how old were you?" Sam asked pointedly. "Six, maybe?"

"Mozzie 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.

Notes: Whispers in the Night is the first story in Crossed Lines, a fusion series of the Caffrey Conversation AU with Supernatural. Peter Burke crossed the line once already to recruit con artist Neal Caffrey. 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. Many thanks to the awesome Penna Nomen for providing outstanding beta services. She introduced me to Supernatural, and I'm dedicating this series to her.

You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and Crossed Lines on our blog. We also have summaries for all the Caffrey Conversation stories. This week I wrote about the dynamic between Neal, Peter, and the Winchester brothers in a post called "Crossing Lines."

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

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
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