Summary: The Winchesters never existed. John, Mary, Dean, and Sam Winchester all died in the house fire that suddenly started some twenty years ago. Two brothers, Bryce Larkin and Neal Caffrey, never wanted to be hunters. But, after their father was taken away and they were put into Witness Protection, their mother found it necessary to teach them the things that the Larkin couple had known their whole lives. Now, as Bryce and Neal are separated and managing their own lives, they are brought back together by something stronger than anything they have ever hunted. But, coming back together as a family may be harder than they thought, with the past, the present, and the future bearing down on them. Lies will be exposed, Spies will go undercover, and the Supernatural will follow them all the way through.
Disclaimer: I own Supernatural. And White Collar. And Chuck. Yes. All three. At the same time. This is true.
(I wish.)
Here we go, first chapter, newly revised! Hope you like! R&R!
Peter Burke knew something was up the moment that Neal's personal landline started ringing off the hook, as Neal seemed rather intensely reluctant to pay attention to it, never mind pick it up.
Not only was it odd that he wouldn't even look at it, but he never got calls, with the exception of from his team. Noting the stiffness in the man's jaw and the slight shaking of his fingers as he finished his paperwork from their last case, Peter pursed his lips in thought, suddenly struck with a thought and left hoping with all of his being that this wasn't related to Kate. God knows the last thing Neal would need right now is a frustrated insurance worker trying to cover the legalities of Kate's death badgering Neal to the ends of the earth.
But if it wasn't … if it wasn't related to Kate, that meant he could do something. Meaning he had to something about it. Standing from his office chair where he had been brooding in worry - not that he'd ever admit it - Peter made his way out of his office and on the way down to Neal's desk, passing Diana on the way. She raised her eyebrows pointedly and handed him a manilla folder case file with a wistful glance over at Neal.
"If he needs a distraction, this is definitely the case to go for. But Peter, if you're wrong, and what he needs is more time … "
"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it."
"Yeah, well. Let's just hope he's not standing on that bridge when we get there. We both know he was never good at swimming in the kind of waters he's drowning in now."
Peter didn't reply with but a frustrated nod, obviously choosing to exercise his right to remain silent while he pushed past her, beginning to descend the stairs.
"You gonna take that?" he called to Neal, stopping in front of his consultant's desk, the manila folder in hand. Neal glanced up, reaching for the folder with tightly-drawn lips and avoiding, steely eyes.
"Ah, ah, ah, Neal. I asked you a question," Peter said, lifting the folder just slightly out of Neal's reach. However, he greatly underestimated Neal's vehemence to preserve his silence, and stumbled a bit when Neal dived forward with speed unbeknownst to Peter at that time, and the folder was stolen from his unprepared fingers. Neal reclined backwards, flipping open the case file, his blue eyes scanning the pages with an analytical intensity Peter had only seen on him when he was meeting someone new and judging their character to the best of his abilities. He was using all he got on what he was focusing on.
Meanwhile, the con answered Peter's question with a stiff, "No."
Peter's eyebrows narrowed dangerously. "Neal…"
"Supposed forgery of the world's largest diamond ring, belonging to a rather prominent U.S. official … And then it was stolen. Wow. Bet that put a damper on the engagement," Neal remarked, effectively changing the subject with a knowing smirk that was a far length from his regular enthusiastic self.
Peter sighed, resisting the urge to scrub a hand down his face as he reluctantly acquiesced to the subject change - after all, the case was originally meant as a distraction. At least Peter gained just a little relief that the case was doing its job correctly. Now if only Neal could be mentally well enough to do the same.
"Wife-to-be says it was stolen overnight, and the boyfriend believes her; surprise, surprise. Unfortunately for them, their insurance company doesn't believe them," Peter says, and peers over the top of the folder, glancing momentarily at the landline - still screaming - before returning his gaze. "List of suspects are in there, as well as alibis for that night, including the ones for each other."
He watched Neal carefully graze his green eyes over the contents of the folder whilst the phone took a breath from its constant ringing and then started again.
Neal stopped his reading with a sigh and a flutter of exhausted, closing eyes, put the folder down, turned, and ripped the telephone cord straight out of the wall with one hand, muttering something along the lines of, "alone," and "overbearing." Peter cleared his throat, only a moment away from reprimanding the younger man, as the con man pinched two fingers on the bridge of his nose. However, he took one glance at the crease on Neal's face smoothen in relief, making him look five years younger and Peter found he didn't have the voice to berate him.
Picking the folder up from Neal's desk before he could open it again and ignoring Neal's attempt to grab it back, Peter gestured with it toward the elevator, giving a small tilt to encourage Neal to move. "You can read on the way there. C'mon."
Neal sighed, giving a small smile and picking up his jacket and hat, flipping both on and recovering within a split moment - or, more likely, Peter reluctantly realized, pretended to recover - replying, "Alright, but I'm driving on the way back."
Peter scoffed, opening the elevator, pushing the ground floor button, and glancing at his watch absentmindedly.
"Keep dreaming, Slick."
The house at which they arrived was anything but a poor person's choice of residence; the walls were whitewashed, as were the fence and shed in the background, the grass was tidily kept, almost symmetrically neat in comparison to the garden blooming around the borders of the porch landing that led up to the soft magenta door. Everything was obviously new, or close to it.
Nodding in appreciation to the nice, suburban house, Neal ducked under the police tape and held it up for Peter to step through after shining his badge to some other FBI Forensics lackeys. They were stopped a moment later by a larger and slightly more intimidating man, despite the casual outfit and identical windbreaker all FBI agents were required to wear.
"Agent Peter Burke, I assume?" the man said, but before they could reply, he continued. "Which means you must be Mr. Neal Caffrey."
Instantly, Neal's demeanor changed from slightly irritated to wary but pridefully smug at being recognized. A smirk found its way onto his face again, and Peter internally sighed. Who knows how long it would take to deflate the man's ego again? The man went on.
"Pleasure to meet both of you. I'm Agent Crowley. Hughes assigned me as head for this case, so I do expect your full cooperation." He glanced between the two of them, assessing their expressions and nods of agreement.
Instead of speaking in a threatening or commanding manner like Peter had expected - though wouldn't have recognized anyway, as the man's British accent was just a tad too full to be completely intelligible - he just spoke it as if he was sure they would do what he said, whether inclined to or not. Peter took a closer look at the man, finding nothing out of the ordinary but stubble on his chin and lint on his suit. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Peter couldn't place it at the time, paying more attention to Crowley's next words.
"I'd also appreciate if you moved rather quickly; the political side of this matter seems to be slowing everyone down. Now, if you'd excuse me for a moment, I must attend to reprimanding the new agents for not doing their jobs," He growled softly, giving them a resolute nod and twisting abruptly, stalking closer to some agents leaning on the FBI van, having pleasant conversation. The intensity of the man's glare combined with the sudden change in vocal tone put both CI and Agent off for a moment, causing both of them to stare momentarily after the newly assigned head.
"'Head for this case'? Him? What on Earth is Hughes thinking?" Peter muttered with a lean closer to Neal, and the CI barely suppressed a laugh as he moved onto the steps of the porch of the house, leaving Peter to catch up to him.
"Don't laugh, he's technically your boss, too, which means he can tell you to do whatever he wants," Peter pointed out, sobering Neal up enough for him to stop laughing, but not enough to scare the smirk off of his face as he politely held the front door open for his boss.
As soon as they got inside the house, they saw Jones trot down the stairs and Diana excuse herself from the conversation she was currently having with the couple, both commandeering casual poses as they organized their thoughts to report their findings to Peter.
"Alright, what've we got?" Peter asked the room in general – everyone seemed to have something, even Neal, who was currently inspecting the doorknob, the windows, and the bottom of the rug. While Jones began to report, Peter kept his eyes trailing Neal, making sure he didn't cause too much trouble or wander off too far.
"Bedroom's ransacked. Whoever came in obviously didn't know exactly where the ring was, but nothing else seemed to be taken. Despite the mess, none of the forensics guys found any DNA or anything," Jones started, flicking off his gloves as Diana picked up the conversation. Peter turned towards her, letting his gaze leave Neal for the moment.
"Couldn't get much out of the couple that they'd already told the rest of our agents. Both of them went out for dinner to a packed restaurant, where he proposed. After that, they walked home together, stopping at the jewelry store to check its authenticity per the wife-to-be's insistence. Guy there said he was about sure it was real, and they went home. Girlfriend put it in its box in her drawer. Next morning, they woke up, and their bedroom was a mess. Nothing else was overturned, and the ring was the only thing gone."
"She wasn't wearing the ring?" Peter asked, and Neal answered, all of the attention suddenly on him.
"'Course not. You just got a priceless ring, you're gonna risk losing it in the bed on the first night?" He paused, standing up and wiping one hand on another. "Especially seeing as it was doubtful they went straight to sleep." Everyone looked up at him, and he just shrugged.
"What? I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want a priceless ring lost somewhere up in - "
"Yes, thank you, Neal, wonderful thought to start the day."
Neal frowned. "I was just going to say I wouldn't want it lost somewhere up in a barely unpacked room. You'd never be able to find it." He gave his caretaker a reproachful look. "You might want to get your mind out of the gutter, Peter. You'll spoil it."
He grinned at the rest of his company's annoyed, blank looks, and switched topics, with a faltering expression that gave away just how much of a sense of humor he thought everyone else had.
"Lock on the front door's definitely intact, though there was a little wear, so someone probably tried to get in that way, but gave up. Windows are all secure, and so is the basement."
"Basement?" the groom-to-be and U.S. official's fiancé stepped forward with a somewhat bemused expression, still gripping his fiancé's arms in his clammy hands. "We don't have a basement."
Neal's eyebrows shot up, and he replied with nothing but a jump, landing with a resounding thump – a sound that echoed too far under them for there to only be solid concrete. "Hear that? Congratulations, that's your basement. And I would fire my real estate agent if I were you." Neal turned back to Peter. "Seeing as there's no way into the basement via the inside of the house, I'm going to take a wild guess and say that the basement has nothing to do with it."
"So how did the thief get in?" Peter asked, moving around the room and searching for any tells. There was nothing on the floor, the corners were secure, as were all of the side entrances, the walls were fit, the ceiling –
"The ceiling," Peter said, addressing the couple. "Do you have a skylight, or an attic, something that might've been big enough for someone to get in?"
"Er, there's an old timey chimney upstairs in the bedroom across the hall; the old owners used to pay a boy down the street to clean it out for them. Would that work?" The man swallowed, glancing at his fiancé. "W-we never bothered moving in there, because we didn't need the extra space. So we just put everything we didn't find a place for there. You … You're not thinking …"
"I'm thinking exactly that," Peter finished for him, dashing up the steps while his team followed, Neal bounding up in the rear. The couple lead them to the threshold at the end of the hallway, then stepped back for the team to do their job.
They got to the other bedroom, and paused at the entrance. There was no real room, just overflowing boxes stacked on top of each other and various clothes and supplies littering the floor. Standing – or, rather, crumbling – at the opposite side of the room was the previously mentioned chimney.
Neal was the first to go in, stepping over two stacked toolboxes and placing his feet expertly around the different items that he was sure could have been placed in certain places in the house. He finally reached the chimney, looking around for fingerprints, footprints, anything that would suggest someone crawling down through it. After finding nothing and looking up the sooty shaft, he took a risk, rubbed his hand down the aged bricks, and smelled it.
Instantly, his memory surged, and his eyes widened as he recognized the scent and whipped around to Peter, frowning and saying, "Got something."
Rubbing the yellow, soot-like substance on the interior of an offered evidence bag, he internally groaned.
Sulfur was never a good sign at a crime scene.
"Why would the CIA have anything to do with a stolen engagement ring, though?" Peter asked in the elevator, but Neal just gave a half-irritated, half-frustrated shrug, tapping his foot impatiently as he eyed the numbers rising on the digital screen above. Had he not already been on edge these past few months, Neal would have been more willingly communicative. But any passing mention of his past made him extremely uncomfortable and extremely irritable.
"Just trust me with this, Peter. I don't know why they were there. But it's not good," he replied with a dark look to the elevator doors as a ping echoed through the metal container.
Peter spared a glance toward his oddly jittery CI, who was looking down at his shoes with a dismal resemblance of a smile, and shook his head, allowing his train of thought to continue.
On the way back to the department building, Neal had explained that the lack of footprints or fingerprints could only lead to someone way more skilled in stealth than anybody would give credit for – therefore, CIA. Peter knew there was more, knowing that wasn't a logical jump if you only had the evidence the team had been given, but he left it alone when Neal told him to leave it and just trust him. Peter didn't know why Neal was so set on the CIA, but he did trust the con. So he left it.
Neal, however, knew exactly why the CIA was involved. Or, rather, why he was getting the CIA involved.
Many informants had confided in him too many times about the threat of the number of Fulcrum agents expanding in the CIA. And if the CIA was brought into this case, and became involved in the theft of a priceless diamond ring, then Internal Affairs would be brought in.
And as much as he hates Fowler with every fibre of his being, having Internal Affairs sniffing around in the CIA would help everyone as much as possible, and hasten the hunters that Neal knows are undercover in Internal Affairs to solve whatever demon problem is going on so that they can all go back to their regular lives.
It also wouldn't help to have some Internal Affairs agents in the White Collar crime unit, just to scare the Fulcrum agents out of going undercover. Neal just hoped he could keep himself back from shooting Fowler in the face the first time he lay eyes on him.
Letting his mind drift for a moment, he swallowed and wondered what would happen if he did end up ganking Fowler himself. Ganking, yes, not killing, because Garrett Fowler wasn't a man but a monster.
No. No, he wasn't a monster. Kate's death wasn't caused by a monster, which was what made it so significant to Neal. Sans, of course, her death marking the end of everything Neal had ever loved. If Kate was killed by a monster, that would just make her another random victim under the monster's belt and another victim attributed to Neal's past. Her death would be his fault. But Fowler wasn't a monster; he was worse than a monster.
He was human.
And Neal would accept the murder charge with a driven smile and a triumphant letter to his friends on the outside, if he ever finished Fowler off himself. But if Neal were being true to himself, he'd find it better if he could get the bastard alone and confront him about it.
He wanted Fowler to give Neal a chance to let the bastard know of the ache in his chest and behind his eyes that Neal feels with every passing moment, knowing that he'll never look into Kate's matching baby-blue irises for the rest of eternity, never again visually trace her outline with lust as she saunters toward him, never smell the sweet scent of her favorite shampoo combined with her favorite coffee, nor feel her electric touch whether when she's planting a small kiss or something larger in a more intimate setting, nor hear her bubbling laughter that follows as she sways in mirth, the smile on her face more than enough to make him lightheaded even at the mere thought of it, even now, especially now …
He wants Fowler to suffer. To suffer more than Kate did as she died, because he made a tragedy case out of Kate, and she was so much more while he is so much less. And a quick death won't be good enough for him.
Shaking his head, Neal took his mind out of his homicidal fantasy and focused back on his plan.
If the CIA found out you were Fulcrum, or aided them in any way, you were executed. Of course, the incidents were set up as accidents: car accidents, gas leaks, victims of serial killers, etc. Meaning it would be extremely dangerous to be involved in this, and it would put everyone else he cared about in danger, especially if they weren't informed. It was large risk to take, but also one with repercussions that Neal was willing to take on.
He couldn't tell Peter the truth yet, though. He might freak. Neal was only glad Peter had gotten around to trusting him after all this time.
He felt a pang of guilt at that thought. Okay, so maybe there was another reason for telling Peter it was the CIA, but to be fair, he's not even sure if it's an objectively advantageous reason. To him personally, not the case.
If the CIA was called in, he may just get to talk to the real culprit of the crime. He knew precisely who had broken in; there was only one person in this world sans himself that he knew inside and out, all of the moves and thought processes.
And he thought he could just show up at Neal's doorstep? Neal chuckled sourly under his breath.
Neal was right about the CIA getting involved being 'not good', Peter thought. CIA involvement is never a good thing. Usually, when the CIA was required for a case, there was always at least one casualty, which lead to an investigation of the unit, which eventually lead to at least one firing of a good agent. Anything to show the public that they were doing something, even when they weren't doing anything at all. Peter scoffed at the indecency of it all, before turning his mindset back to the problem at hand.
Neal was lying. Chasing a man down for nine years taught you his quirks: when he was telling the truth, when he was lying, and most of the touchy subjects to avoid. The rarity of finding two of three of these to be accurate in this situation, Peter didn't voice anything. He didn't ignore it, but he didn't say anything, for which Neal was grateful.
Yes, Neal was definitely not good.
He barely heard Neal mutter as they stepped out of the elevator, "Especially now." Peter couldn't help but agree, despite the two of them obviously having differing trains of thought.
However, instead of moving to their own desks to do some more research while they waited for Hughes to get back, they were stopped by one of the maintenance ladies from the power division, a woman with skin like leather, a dense layer of makeup worn by someone who knows they have something not-so-beauteous to cover up, and sharpened, painted nails pointedly placed in a confrontational pose on her hips.
"Mr. Caffrey?" she asked in an irritated tone, continuing without any space for breath or response. "I will say this once. Either pick up your calls, or send them all to voicemail. But under no circumstances are you to rip the telephone cords out of the wall." She took a step closer, and Neal leaned backward slightly, but didn't dare take a step away."Whether it's a hooker or an estranged father, do not rip out the phone cords. Do I make myself clear?" She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking over the tops of her glasses to glare at him.
"Er … right. Sorry about that. Won't happen again," he replied rather sheepishly, his tense shoulders an apology in themselves as he cowered under the woman's dark stare. She gave a curt nod before setting off down the hallway, yelling at an irritated man walking in the opposite direction, who quickened his pace to avoid her.
Peter shot Neal a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes in response.
They went back in to find many agents around Neal's desk, listening to something. One of the various agents laughed, and said, "Huh. Kinda always wanted to throw a couple, but never tried. Y'know, with so many people yearning to punch him in the face, it's kind of surprising that Neal still has that straight-edge jawline."
A laugh from a different voice, a few more words that Peter couldn't make out, and the agents laughed as a whole this time. It took Peter a moment to realize it was a voice on the telephone, and another moment to realize he should be gauging Neal's reaction.
His shock was evident, along with things Peter identified as betrayal, anger, and dismay. He marched up to the group, propelling himself forward with his long legs, and shouting, "Hey!"
Both the room and the line went equally silent, before a cheerful voice said through the receiver, "Hey! Neal! Been a while, eh! Listen, I need a favor – "
"No," Neal cut him off, taking two fingers to press to his temples in annoyance. "You stop right there, and tell me what the hell you think you're doing." He lowered his voice then, though his voice cut cleanly through the preceding silence. "And don't you dare give me that 'I'm looking for Dad' BS."
He roughly ripped the phone from its base, glaring vehemently at everyone until they scattered with disappointed mutterings, and he collapsed in his chair, looking immensely tired.
And, as the consultant listened on to whoever was on the other side, he seemed to looked even more exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes were sharply accented by his pale complexion, which was also brought on by the contrast between it and his dark hair, now far from slick as Neal ran a hand through it. Peter vaguely wondered when he had lost track of the last time Neal had looked relatively healthy.
He sighed, and then said, "Look, I would love to, but I'm in the middle of a case, and –" he broke off, sinking further into his chair. "Yes, I remember. I know. I'm sorry. But I can't just – what?"
He jerked upright in his chair - with a rather reluctant motion - to lean over his desk with both elbows digging into the metal, and a look of disbelief crossed his face before he schooled his features once more. Another sigh, though this one held an ounce of affection and more exasperation than exhaustion, Peter noticed. Neal closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers against them, as if fighting off a headache.
"Yes, I'm fine. No, nothing happened." He went silent for a moment, gritting his teeth a second later. " … yeah."
Silence. A prolonged, tense silence, in which the redness around Neal's eyes that Peter had come to recognize on his bad days, when his walls were slightly weaker than normal, deepened slowly in color. Neal's face was flushing, and his eyes shined, but he simply pursed his lips and swallowed harshly, refusing to let a single tear fall.
"Just leave it alone, okay? I'm fine." Neal hissed sharply in frustrated exasperation, attracting unwanted attention once more. Slouching deliberately and holding the phone with his shoulder, he put his hands under his desk, fiddling with something underneath. Peter was certain Neal was just trying to keep his hands from shaking.
And then, miraculously, he took one or two breaths, and seemed to deflate, an exasperated, wonder-filled shake of his head the only indication that he was recovering from whatever had just set him off. Then, the lines on his face weakened, he blinked once, twice, and seemed to consider something.
Peter blinked, feeling rather whiplashed; he had never seen Neal … change like that. It was always gradual, whenever he put up a mask, insomuch that an outsider would never notice any difference until a few hours after they had parted ways. The abruptness of this change was startling.
"As much as I hate to admit it, I think you're right … Ha! Yeah, right. Yeah, I know which one you're talking about. Okay. See you later." Neal cut the line with a definite click of phone on receiver, relaxing back into his chair and breathing in deeply, closing his eyes and exhaling as soon as his back hit the chair. There was a pause, in which Peter struggled to think of what to say.
"Family troubles?" Peter he finally asked, sidling up to Neal in the nearest rolling chair he could find. Neal cracked one eye open to look at Peter.
"Yeah. How'd you know?" he responded with heavy sarcasm. He didn't even look surprised, Peter reflected. More resigned. He replied bluntly, "Well, the 'looking for Dad' part gave most of it away."
Neal sighed, shaking his head. "It's complicated. Shouldn't you be talking to Hughes?"
Peter raised his eyebrows and said, "He's not in yet." He was about to continue with, "You don't have any family on file," but was interrupted by Neal's sudden change in expression.
His eyebrows raised in slight amusement and his eyes much brighter than earlier, a smirk found its way onto Neal's face again as he looked at a point just above his shoulder. Peter just sighed, turning in his chair to face Hughes and standing with an attempt to look more professional. "Ah. Do you mind having a conference?"
Hughes raised an eyebrow and gave a quick nod. He glanced over at Neal - still with rather red rimmed eyes - and his resting frown deepened slightly.
"I suppose. Caffrey, stay." Hughes ordered, turning his back on the pair and walking up the stairs. Neal immediately sent Peter an offended expression, to which Peter responded with a small, mocking smile and a condescending, "Good dog."
He made a bold attempt to ruffle Neal's hair, but a frenzied swipe with both of Neal's' hands prevented it.
Hughes paused at the top of the stairs and raised an eyebrow. Peter nodded, and began to follow him up the stairs. Neal turned away, visibly swallowing, and Peter suddenly felt the need to send Neal a concerned glance. He got an eye roll in response to the gesture, so he figured Neal was okay.
For the moment.
Bryce Larkin was frustrated. The CIA was adamantly pestering him about bailing on his last mission, something or other, the Wendigo he had salted and burned a couple of hours ago had left behind a nasty scar and some head trauma that he would have had to visit medical for (not that he minded having another encounter with Jenny, the head nurse, a fabulous blonde who looked even more fabulous in a nurse outfit), he almost caught a lead on his father and ended up losing it because he couldn't keep his aliases straight in his head after the possible concussion, and his brother wasn't returning his 50-some phone calls.
You'd at least expect your brother to pick up the phone when you're being ambushed by Fulcrum agents in your own office building. But whatever. Bryce studiously ignored the fact that Neal couldn't possibly know that Bryce was being ambushed, and instead decided to chock up his brother's ignorance to his apparent inability to call Bryce, not even once.
I mean, it's not like Bryce wasn't going to kick Neal's ass the next time he saw him anyway, for not bothering to let him know that he got out of prison in a deal with the FBI. But the point still stands.
Roundhouse kicking an agent in the face, he cursed and hung up on yet another failed attempt at a call, and speed-dialed the same number, forcibly pushing both the call button and the actual phone backwards into someone's face. Hearing a satisfying crack as he probably shattered the man's nose with his knuckles, Bryce smirked momentarily before growling in frustration as the call went straight to voicemail, again.
Deciding that pent up anger was best put to use – especially in a situation that he was in – he smiled in a sadistic manner, taking a deep breath and relaxing his mind. Various memories of training flashed through his mind, and soon the rest of reality drifted out of his reach until he only held the mental presence to recognize himself and his enemy. His hands grew limp and the phone dropped from his grip as if nothing had been holding it in midair.
A feral growl tore from his mouth as an agent dove for his throat, and the primal instinct to protect the weaknesses of his body chimed in his mind. He launched into battle, unsheathing his trademark double khopeshes from his waist belt, each blade held in two soft yet experienced grips, Bryce's hands trembling only with sweet anticipation.
The CIA had prevented him from using his preferred weapons with every request he had put in; each and every entry had been denied. Not that he didn't bring them every once in awhile regardless, leaving them with any other undercover agent that stayed in the car. Its handle kept friction against a grip even with lax fingers, and its blade curved to form a hook-like feature, the edge sharp enough to slice through limbs smoothly, while the flat portion was dull enough to knock a grown man unconscious with little effort. Bryce bore them with angled, experienced precision, slicing them through the air in a silent presentation of a threat, which the agents surrounding him mocked with twinkling eyes and taunting smirks.
With a huff of a man confident that he was being underestimated, he leaped forward, every stomach-twisting thing that came to mind fueling his fire and building it as he ducked, blocked, swung, swiped, hit, punched, kicked, scratched, cracked, broke, and killed. Mercy had no meaning, it was nothing but a word made of letters made of meanings that held no meaning at the moment, and repercussions, reprimands, consequences - they meant just as little. It was like taking a breath of cool air after lying in a stuffy container for years.
He didn't stop until every agent in the room, in the hall, on the floor, in the building was dead or paralyzed in some way. Cracking his neck to relieve tension, he kicked a man's limp arm off of his shoe and stepped around the corpses and mutilated bodies. The high receding, he felt his limbs grow heavier and heavier as he walked through the corpse fields on each building floor.
He was just grateful the demons had already killed the agents before possessing them.
It wasn't until later, when Bryce was finished cleaning out the crime scene, and his khopeshes were safe in the recesses of his emergency bag did he call his brother again.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
We're sorry, the number you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time –
He shut the phone with a frustrated scoff, shoving it heatedly in the seat next to him before taking out another cell from his glove box, and dialing the same number.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
A pause – then a hesitant, "Hello?"
"Oh, thank God. I thought no one was going to pick up. Who is this?" he grunted into the receiver, shifting the phone to his shoulder and holding it there by his ear. He took a glance at his watch as he fiddled with the wires beside and under the wheel, flinching slightly at a short spark, then felt the engine hum beneath him with triumph.
"… Agent Kyle Desson. Who is this?" a hesitant voice responded, and Bryce sighed. He was late.
"No one of importance to you. Where's Neal? He's not in jail again, is he?"
"No. And if you want me to give him a message, I'm going to need a name."
"Look, just give the phone to him the next time you see him, will you?" he responded, about to shut the phone with as much vehemence as last time. "Or tell him to pick up the damn phone."
"He won't pick it up unless he knows who's on the other line." Bryce bit back an irritated response along the lines of, "He'll refuse to pick up even harder if he knew who was on the other line." Nevertheless, the agent did have a point.
Bryce sighed. "Tell him his douche-bag brother wants to know if he's dead yet," Bryce replied, the smart-ass part of him not quite able to douse his heated anger. His knuckles clenched the wheel less tightly as he backed out of the parking space and out of the lot, onto the main road.
"Wait. Caffrey's got a brother?" Bryce blinked, mentally stumbled for a second, slightly put off by the mention of his mother's maiden name. In response, he chuckled softly.
"Twin. He hasn't mentioned me?" That's not hurtful at all. "Ooh, Neal, you're in for it now. And after everything I've taught you as well. Rule number three. Secrets can only be kept between two people when one of them's dead."
There was a slight pause, an exasperated sigh, and then a suspicious tone crept into the man's voice, "A twin? Great. There's two of him. Why aren't you on file?"
"Two of him? Two of me, more like. Only difference is, I actually know how to fight."
There was laughter from the other end, and Bryce frowned, taking a sharp turn that was most definitely not legal in this state.
"You're right about that. Dude can barely handle a slap. Though if you ask me, his ego's much more fragile." There was laughter on the other line, and a slight movement, as if that last part hadn't been directed at Bryce.
Bryce chuckled along, replying with a light, "Don't have to tell me that. Actually, now that you mention it, he always was kind of weak in the face. Should've known, with the number of times Kate slapped him."
An astonished silence, then, " … She would hit him?" Surprise, rolling off of his voice in waves.
"Hard. After finding out the reasons, even threw in a few suckers of my own. Both his face and my hand bruised pretty bad first time around."
"Huh. Kinda always wanted to throw a couple, but never tried. With so many people yearning to punch him in the face, it's kind of surprising that Neal still has that straight-edge jawline."
"Mm, you should've seen him at fourteen. Geeky, gangly, and all disproportionate 'round the face. Took him more than a couple of years to grow into that jawline."
There was laughter on the other line, and Bryce put in a few chuckles himself. He remembered that day. Neal had actually just met Kate, and made his attempt at 'smooth flirting'. Bryce didn't actually hit him, but instead offered the ice pack when Kate landed quite a few on him.
"Hey!" A shout flew from the other line, and Bryce flinched, pulling the phone away from his ear for a second. He put it back and smiled at the familiar voice, taking a smooth turn and pulling up at his destination, leaving the engine to idle as he reclined in the seat, needing all of his attention for the conversation.
"Hey! Neal! Been a while, eh! Listen, I need a favor – " he started happily, fully intending to rant on all of their issues outside of Neal's work, but his brother cut him off.
"No, you stop right there, and tell me what the hell you think you're doing. And don't you dare give me that 'I'm looking for Dad' BS." He could almost hear his brother's glare over the phone. He paused to wait until the shuffling that clearly indicated the phone being picked up privately ended. He took a deep breath and started again, his voice much more somber and serious.
"Alright, alright, chill. I'm on a hunt. Well, was on a hunt. Demons took over entire building, had to wipe it. And … I was wondering, since you're in New York, and I'm in New York, and you're out of jail, you might want to – " He was cut off once again by a drawn out sigh and a few beats of silence following it. His face falling despite knowing Neal couldn't see it, Bryce almost heaved a sigh of his own.
"Look, I would love to, but I'm in the middle of a case, and –"
Bryce cut in this time, his anger twitching as he was reminded of a similar argument a few months back.
"C'mon, dude. We can't always play by your schedule. Besides, you owe me one. I'm entitled to my end of our deal," Bryce said, getting slightly irritated at his brother. It's not every day you hear from your brother when he travels all across the country. It had absolutely nothing to do with the stinging scar from that particular past event. The argument and subsequent separation had been exactly that – an argument. And a parting of the ways. No hard feelings, except for, well, all of them.
"Yes, I remember. I know. I'm sorry. But I can't just – what?"
Bryce sighed, repeating what he had been saying as he had spoken over his younger brother. "I said, you can just do anything. It's all a matter of what you want to do." There was a moment of silence, which Bryce immediately filled with, " … No, it's not just the case, is it? Something's wrong, isn't it? You're okay, right?" He suddenly berated himself for not asking that first, wondering where the caring older brother had gone from his persona. His spine turned ramrod straight, and he tensed up, ready to hurry back to wherever the fuck his brother was, because if he was trouble it was all his fault, because he didn't look over his little brother, he broke his promise to his now estranged father –
"Yes, I'm fine. No, nothing happened," Neal replied, though the unusual hitch in his voice and the shuffle as the phone moved suggested otherwise. His heart wrenched as he imagined his little brother resisting the urge to hang up if not to avoid a stressed situation then to annoy his brother out of his plan anyway. The anger buried inside of him reared, and Bryce couldn't help the protective fury that blurted from his lips in his frustration.
"Neal, I told you over and over to call me if something went wrong. Tell me now: what is it?" There was a moment of silence, and Bryce cringed, wondering if he had just ended up pushing his brother further away. He softened his voice, hoping for a more compromising side of the conversation. "Look, Neal. I know, you probably don't want to talk about it, but I'm your brother. I'm here to be here for you. … right?"
"… yeah." Neal replied sullenly, and Bryce could hear the exhaustion in his voice. A wave of guilt threatened to crash into him, but Bryce pushed it down expertly.
He sighed. "Alright. Thank you. What happened?" There was another of those beats of silence, and Bryce was itching to say something to cover it, now. "Neal, I swear, you don't have to keep anything from me. I'm here for you. Please." Still only hearing silence, Bryce took to desperately grasping at straws to try and find it so Neal didn't have to say it out loud.
"Okay. You wanna play a guessing game. Fine, then. I can do that. It wasn't Moz, right?" Finding no answer once more, he continued his blind guessing. "Peter's okay … Jones is good, and Diana's fine. Which only leaves … Kate. Neal?" Feeling the dread creep up and settle in his stomach like a lead ball at the deep hitch in his brother's breathing, Bryce choked out, "Kate … Kate's okay, right?"
He heard a sharp inhale coming hand in hand with a distinct, pointed lack of response, and the dread that was slowly crawling upward threatened to swallow Bryce, consume him until there was just a black hole of grief. He couldn't imagine how Neal was feeling, as he was the one who was in love with her.
Bryce had had Chuck as a friend at Stanford, and Sarah at his time in the CIA. He was never really alone, unless you included missions, but Sarah was alone on her own missions, too. So that didn't count. Bryce and Neal had separated when Bryce had retreated to Stanford, and Neal pursued his excellent skills in the scams their father had taught them before they had been whisked into WitSec. It had eventually built until he was a full con man, breaking out hundreds and sometimes thousands in cash doing scams and missions not unlike Bryce's in the CIA. All Bryce knew was that Neal was flying completely solo for a few years before finally meeting Moz, and, eventually, Kate.
Kate had been the one connection between the brothers through the CIA and her own cons with Neal. She was assigned by the CIA to keep an eye on him, but eventually she fell in love, just as he had, and she had refused to leave her post next to him. He was pretty angry when he found that she had been lying about the CIA, but warmed up to the idea after hearing an apology of Bryce's through Kate.
And now, something was wrong with Kate. And anything that went wrong with Kate, Bryce knew Neal would be breaking apart at the seams – Kate had been the one to pull all of his pieces back together and hold them there before he could do it himself. And he had done the same for her spy life. Whatever had happened to her, it was bad. Neal wouldn't be shutting down like this if it wasn't disastrous.
Feeling his heart rate and his breathing accelerate, Bryce called a futile attempt to calm himself down before a sharp, "Just leave it alone, okay? I'm fine." was heard over the phone.
Refusing to go anywhere near the stages of grieving himself, Bryce heard the phone shuffle, and knew automatically that Neal was finding something to do with his hands so they wouldn't shake. His heart twisted at the implications – Neal's hands only vibrated when a dire situation was resolved, when someone he knew was in danger, or something very, very bad had happened. It was an action that put Bryce off his game and worried him more than he would like to admit. He quickly changed the subject, getting an idea and proposing it to the best of his abilities.
"Okay, look. I'm in New York, you're in New York. How about this. Instead of you and me hunting together, we … switch places? Huh? I've got a demon ring to keep an eye on, but I've also got a ghost hunt not too far from here. I'm assuming you've got something demonic over there, seeing as it is New York. So … we just switch places for a while. I could use the break, and you could use the hunt as … stress relief. It can work. It will work."
He pushed a note of assurance into his tone, and he knew before he even heard the laugh from the other side, that he had convinced his brother. "You can't just try to compartmentalize things like this, Neal, no matter how good you are at it. I'm not saying you need to get pissed, but don't bottle everything up inside. Got it?"
Silence.
"Neal?"
" … As much as I hate to admit it, I think you're right …"
"Aw, you know my plans are the best. They always work out great," Bryce said with a knowing smile he knew that Neal would sense over the phone.
"Ha! You wish."
"Alright. Meet me tomorrow at 0400 by that old motel just 'round the corner - y'know the one with the - "
He could hear Neal's restrained sigh as he replied, "Yeah, I know which one you're talking about. Okay. Sure. See you later." The line clicked, and Bryce heaved an exasperated sigh.
Honestly, did Neal think Bryce wouldn't have checked up on his brother the moment he came back onto the radar? And also when he was off of the radar, for that matter?
Feeling a small smile creep up on his face, Bryce Larkin turned the engine off and opened the car door, looking up at the motel he was going to be staying in for the foreseeable future.
This was going to be an interesting week.
Hope you enjoyed, reviews would be much appreciated, and feel free to PM me about questions, notes, etc.
~IsomorphicTARDIS
Revised 10/10/15