Author's Notes: This work is part of my writer's group project. We're getting ready for a smaller version of NaNoWriMo, and this is to help me get ready. So expect more updates this month. :) Unfortunately, less updates next month. 50k words. Oi.

Yes, this chapter will feel a little disjointed. It'll all make sense later. Also, I'd love to hear more of what you think of the piece!

Chapter Two

The dingy outside of the small home was the first thing Neal Caffrey noticed as Peter pulled his Taurus into an open spot in front. His distaste was clear enough that Peter laughed. "It can't all be five star hotels and art galas, Neal."

"Why not?" He grinned, but did open the passenger door and slid out, his fedora flipping onto his head of raven hair with a flourish.

A smirk and a huff of air Peter tried not to let turn into a laugh were barely noticed. "Let's just get to work. The sooner we find these kids, the sooner we can go back to mortgage fraud." Peter smirked as Neal's face fell when they made their way up the stairs.

"You're no fun, has anyone told you that?"

"Yes, you, on several occasions. I don't pay it any mind." His grin faded just when the door was answered and slid open, at least to the chain lock, to reveal a mid-thirties woman, as a pair of children played behind her by the sounds of it.

"Can I help you gentlemen? Chase, Karen, you two behave," she yelled behind her, before turning back to the FBI Agent and his consultant.

"I'm sorry to bother you ma'am," Peter started, reaching into his jacket pocket for his badge, "But I have a few questions, in regards to a couple of gentleman you spoke with the other day?"

"You mean those nice reporters?" She blinked, and opened the door fully as soon as she saw Peter's badge. "They were nothing but polite, I promise."

Neal's brow furrowed. She was certainly more put together than what sources had led them to believe. He already wasn't liking the feel of this case. It just didn't sit right in his gut, not that he'd ever tell Peter that. Especially not right now.

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry, but they weren't reporters." Even Peter could see how her face fell at that.

"W-what do you mean?"

"What my esteemed colleague here is trying to say is," Neal interrupted, "that the two gentlemen you spoke to the other day, they're not very nice people like you think they are. They're criminals." He poured all the charm he could into the words, his eyes, and facial features that he could.

"Really?" A crashing came from the hallway, and one of the children whined. "Karen! Stop throwing things at your brother!" But then she nodded at the two of them.

Peter bit his lip. "Their names are Sam and Dean Winchester, and currently are on the run from the FBI for a multitude of charges, none of which I can safely discuss. Who did they say they were?"

Mrs. Stone's face went pink, but she dug in a small pile of papers on the entrance table, and grabbed what looked like a very convincing business card. Not something you printed off of a home printer. "They said they were reporters..." She repeated, as if saying the words again would make it true.

Neal took the card at Peter's prompting. "Fortean Times, Reporters Glenn Tipton and Robert Halford." Peter's sudden snort made him hand the card over.

"You've got to be kidding me." At Neal's confused look, Peter continued, "They're original band members from Judas Priest. Henricksen's profile warned us they may use aliases based off of classic rock, but who knew they'd be so blatant..." Peter shook his head.

Neal's grin was bright as he said, "I didn't know you listened to Judas Priest, Peter..." He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. Though a stern look from Peter dampened his smile and outward enthusiasm. "Sorry." Though Neal's face didn't look sorry, it promised further teasing once the two were back at the office later.

"Mrs. Stone, if you can think of any other information, it would be extremely beneficial to us." Peter said as he shifted, and pulled a business card out of the inside of his suit jacket, passing it over to the woman in front of them. "Just give me a call." Then Peter Burke turned to leave.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in for a drink," Mrs. Stone asked, before yelling over her shoulder, "Chase, if you don't get that crayon off of my wall this instant, you won't be able to sit down for a week!"

The intensity of the yell made Peter pause, and just offer a smile. "I'm sure, ma'am. You enjoy your day." Then he turned and went back down the steps, motioning for Neal to follow him. Once Peter heard the door shut, he turned to Neal. "Something isn't sitting right with me on this."

"You mean besides the fact that she actually talked to reporters, but wouldn't open the door until she saw your badge?" Neal asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There's that," Peter started, before he turned back to the house as if the outside of it would reveal everything that made his gut a little uneasy about this case. He shook his head. "Let's get back to the office," he said after a few moments of silence.

"Can we listen to Judas Priest on the way?" Neal's grin was bright, eyes full of teasing as he ducked inside the passenger seat of the Taurus.

Peter's mouth dropped open to say something witty in response, but he shook his head, got into the car himself, and started the engine. "You can listen to it all you want on the way back to prison." Neal's grin dropped off of his face quickly. "That's what I thought." A hand snaked out toward the dash and Peter smacked it. "No touching the buttons."

"Not even the-"

"Not even the map thing."

"Mommy, when's Daddy coming home," Chase asked, now done adorning her wall with what he probably thought were complex and enthralling pictures of his adventures at school. In reality, they were scribbles of squares and more squiggles than anything. But to his seven year old brain, they probably seemed to be on par with Raphael, not that Chase knew who that was.

"Once he's finished with your cousin's Bar Mitzvah, honey," she sighed, headed to the kitchen to grab a scrubber.

"How come we didn't go?" Chase was definitely a bright boy, who needed to know everything.

"Because we're not Jewish, honey. Your Daddy is," she patiently explained. She'd had to go through the same thing with Karen when she had seen Blake put up the Menorah a couple of years ago.

"What's Jewish mean?"

"It just means Daddy worships God a little differently sweetie, that's all," Connie elaborated.

"Oh." That apparently seemed enough to sate Chase's appetite. Connie, however, was absolutely sure that there would be more questions now that he knew his father was different. How he hadn't seen it before baffled her, but she was grateful for the extra time to think of how to formulate her responses. She checked her phone, took note of the message from Blake saying he'd be home around eight, and went to scrub at the crayon on the wall.

The first thing to greet Peter upon his and Neal's return to the office had been "Victim of Changes" playing from Jones' speakers on his desk. The sound of the perpetrator's dark laughter was just barely audible over the music. Peter immediately turned around, looking straight at the con-man who'd been walking behind him. "Very funny Neal."

"You didn't say I couldn't tell anyone..." He just shrugged and his blue eyes sparkled when he let that bright grin cross his face. He wriggled his phone in front of Peter then further entered the White Collar office, headed straight for his desk, intent on finding the two who'd evaded the FBI.

"Nice, real nice." Peter rolled his eyes, and carefully schooled his face against the smile that threatened to break free in response to Neal's.

"Back to work! The Winchesters aren't going to turn themselves in!" In response to Peter's raised voice, Jones turned off the music, and others returned to their work that had been interrupted by the loud rock music.

Behind his glass door, Reese Hughes just shook his head in amusement.

Blake Stone headed towards 2nd Avenue, having safely placed his Yarmulke in the inner pocket of his suit. As comfortable as he felt in New York, he still wasn't going to take any chances someone would make an insult on his religion if they saw him wearing it. The middle aged man shivered and straightened against a gust of wind that blew in his face. The night air chilled a bit, and to hurry his way home, Blake chose to take the shortcut his wife had shown him through St. Mark's, her church.

"When did it get so cold?" He muttered to himself as another chilly wind blew across his shoulders. He may have been wearing a suit, but it wasn't well lined, as he hadn't expected such chilly temperatures. His breath fogged in front of him, and he could swear that he heard wood clack against the stones behind him, like his father's cane, which didn't have a rubber bottom.

Blake looked over his shoulder, seeing nothing, and shook his head. "Connie's crazy stories must be rubbing off on me," he said with a chuckle. "I'm even talking to myself."

It was when he went to turn around to continue his path home that he stopped in his tracks, a hook-nosed man in front of him, an almost evil grin spread across his face. He spoke, but it was so soft, he could barely hear it over the wind. "Deceitful..." The man seemed to sneer at him, growing louder and louder as he took a step toward Mr. Stone.

"Stop," Blake warned until he saw the bright silver blade gleam in the early moonlight. "Hey, look, I don't have much on me, but you can have it okay? I have children. I won't even call the cops." Which was a blatant lie, but he'd have to hope the man in front of him believed it, and just took what he had on him.

The cry came again, "Deceitful!" before the man lunged at him, which caught Blake off guard. Before he could dodge, the blade sank deep into his leg, his cry of pain silenced by his own shock.

Blake scrabbled away as best as he could. He finally found his voice right as the sword came down toward his throat. The sound of blood spattering against the pathway scared what birds there were away into the night.

Dean had slept peacefully through the night, only to be awoken before the crack of dawn by Sam's cell phones shrill ring. He turned his head, only to see Sam blindly reach for the table between his and Dean's bed, hit the accept button, and tuck the phone against his ear. His eyes still weren't open yet. "Hello?" His voice was deep, still half asleep.

A woman's voice pierced the night, making Dean sit up a little further, rubbing at his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Sam's voice was concerned, and he sat himself up. "No, no, it's alright, tell me what happened."

It was a few minutes before Dean had his brother's attention. "Connie's husband was just murdered," Sam said, before he stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes after a jaw-cracking yawn. Then something seemed to hit him. "You know, it was at the same place she got attacked."

"Guess we should head up there then?" Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing at his hair as Sam nodded. "I got dibs on the shower," Dean said with a smirk.

TBC