A/N: The idea for this story was given to me by a friend, who said something along the lines of, "Wouldn't it be awesome if Neal and Dean were just hanging out at some bar?" It's become a little more complicated than that, but it was a damn good start. This is my first foray into writing for White Collar, but not my first SPN or crossover fic. Cross-posted at whitecollarfic on LJ and at Archive of Our Own.

The Fires in Their Eyes

Chapter 1

Dean was bored. That morning, Dad had taken one look at the bruising that had developed on Dean's ribs from the other night and called a halt to all strenuous activities for the day. He said that Dean had "to give your body some goddamn rest, for Christ's sake."

Dean had wanted to mutter something about following his own advice sometime. But he didn't. Things were still shaky from Sam leaving a few months back, and Dean decided it was better to not rock the boat.

He'd spent the morning researching a little girl who fell into a well, although she'd probably been pushed. He'd spent the afternoon posing as a grief counselor to get some more information from the bereaved mother. Great idea, Dad. So, he was feeling shitty for making a woman sob uncontrollably for about 20 minutes, still getting barely anything out of her. And now that the hunt was on, Dad was doing it solo.

"Shouldn't be hard, Dean." He'd said on his way out the door. "Regular salt and burn."

If it was going to be so easy, why couldn't Dean just come too? He could drop the lighter in the grave at least.

"Oh no," Dean repeated his father's words, "Not tonight, son." He slammed the door of the Impala and walked into the bar.

It was a little swankier than the places he normally frequented. Dean thought he'd take advantage of the monkey suit he was still wearing, having stormed out of the motel room without changing clothes, not twenty minutes before. The sign read Blue Belle's Lounge.

There was only one seat at the bar and Dean didn't want to sit at a table. That was a sure fire way to get no pussy.

Unfortunately, the seat was next to the only other man in the room who might possibly be more attractive than Dean, which was an even more effective way of getting him no action at all.

He sat at the bar anyway and ordered a beer.

Dean surveyed the room for unattached ladies, and came up with nothing, it was early yet. On his last look around, Dean met the eyes of his new neighbor. They were an intense blue color, so unusual that they kind of just captured your attention involuntarily. He'd noticed it happened to the bartender too. They were like freaking tractor beams.

He looked down quickly and grunted a "hey," to avoid awkwardness.

"Hi," Blue-eyes said, giving him a friendly nod. He looked back towards the door and waved at a man in a dark coat, who was carefully keeping his face hidden as he exited the bar.

"Friend of yours?" Dean couldn't help but ask. A guy like that was interesting. A guy talking to a guy like that was interesting. And he was bored.

His neighbor smiled brilliantly, "Business associate," he answered. "You took his seat."

Dean looked at the empty shot glasses on the bar in front of them. There were six.

Blue-eyes looked at them too and blew out a big breath. "I'm not really much of a drinker…of shots anyway. And…my associate wanted to seal some…agreements with a drink."

Dean shook his head. "What were they?"

"Vodka. Three in about a half hour."

"Shit, man," Dean said. No wonder this guy looked so happy.

"Yeah," He agreed and smiled like he'd been given a shiny new toy. "Shit."

Dean thought about what kind of people would be shooting vodka to seal a deal and he frowned at this guy, who in his drunken state looked like little more than a kid. He couldn't have been much older than Dean.

"Aren't you worried about making deals with the Russian mafia?" He asked quietly.

His eyes practically sparkled. "Ooh, you are sharp," he replied and then shrugged. "My line of work is relatively dirt-free. If I stay on their good side, I'll be fine. I'm really really good at staying on people's good side."

"If you say so," Dean shrugged right back.

Blue-eyes ordered a ginger ale and looked Dean up and down as he sipped it.

"That suit's too big for you," he said matter-of-factly, as only the drunk can deliver a non-sequitor.

Dean shrugged, "It's second-hand." He really hoped this guy wasn't hitting on him.

"It's your dad's, right?" Blue-eyes grinned when Dean nearly tipped his beer over. "It looks okay, actually."

Dean stared at him. "You psychic or something?" He wasn't kidding, but the guy didn't need to know that.

"You've cinched the pants too much. They're maybe a size too big for you. Probably fit a guy about your height, just a little bigger. Same with the jacket, but you wear it open so it's hard to tell."

"I think he bought it in '84," Dean said, thinking of the first year Dad had been on the hunt. "Not the tie," he amended. "I picked that up at Salvation Army."

Blue-eyes looked at it approvingly. "Not bad. But you know, the skinny tie is coming back."

Dean snorted.

"Oh yeah," he said, raising his eyebrows so high Dean decided to believe him. He also decided to order another beer.

After a minute of companionable silence, Blue-eyes turned to him and said, "I'm Neal," clearly incredibly pleased to be introducing himself. Dean thought maybe he just liked making new friends. "Neal Caffrey. I'm an art thief."

Dean's jaw dropped. Not that he was particularly scandalized; it's just that you didn't normally hear such a cavalier confession from a criminal. "Uh. Really?"

"Oh yeah," Neal grinned, spinning his stool a little more in Dean's direction. "And a con-man and a forger." He spoke with an excited tone to his voice, like a kid naming all of Superman's powers.

"No wonder you know so much about suits." Dean tilted his head and took a long drink.

Neal laughed, but sobered quickly. He tilted his head too, a mirror of Dean's action and said carefully, "Actually, speaking of…I was hoping to avoid a friend of mine tonight. I was wondering if you could help me out a little."

"And how could I possibly do that?" Dean asked lightly, hiding his sneaking suspicion that he had just become this guy's new mark.

The con-man smiled reassuringly, "You'd just be delivering a message. You probably wouldn't even have to move from that chair."

"And your friend. Are his favorite accessories a shiny badge and gun?"

Neal's eyes lit up with amusement and he returned easily, "Oh, the badge is his favorite, but he probably won't be wearing it when you see him. He's almost as sneaky as me sometimes."

"He must be, to be right on your tail." Dean was genuinely intrigued by this guy, but he wasn't about to agree to just anything. "Why do you think I'd be willing to help a shady character like you?"

Neal didn't answer right away. Instead he seemed to consider Dean very carefully, and then he reached out with a steady hand, tugged twice on the end of Dean's tie. "A man who wears a suit for a living, wears it like a second skin. You wear that like camouflage, or a costume."

Then he smiled again, a trust-me kind of smile that was so convincing Dean had to remind himself this guy had blatantly admitted he was deep in the business of being dishonest. "I have a feeling that I wouldn't be wrong to assume that you're no stranger to the wrong side of the law," Neal said.

"I walk a fine line," Dean said defensively, feeling like he was being accused of something. "In my work the end justifies the means." He realized he sounded like Dad. Dad's suit, Dad's words. He shut his mouth.

"Huh," Neal seemed genuinely surprised by his answer. "Seems to me, you ride on a high horse. Any petty thief can say something like that."

Any other night, Dean would have been out of there at that. Pissed off and looking for a new place to drink. So what if his horse was high? This Caffrey guy didn't know anything about Dean, or the world he lived in.

But Dean thought about it and realized he was tired of being pissed. He was tired of justifying himself and really tired of arguments. He sighed, thinking he could at least find out what the con-man wanted out of him. "What are you getting at, man?" He asked, and then added, "I'm not going to do anything illegal."

Neal's eyes grew wide, as if shocked at even the suggestion. "A message is just a message here, nothing shady at all. All I want you to do is tell my friend something," he said innocently, then smiled, very sly. "To fuck with him."

"Oh, well, if that's all. No problem."

Neal's sly smile spread to a pleased grin. "What's your name, stranger?"

Dean didn't even think, he just answered, giving Neal the same as he got. "Dean Winchester," he said. "I'm a ghost hunter. And sometimes, I kill monsters too."

"Really?" Neal asked with no trace of sarcasm or disbelief, just wide eyes and that big kid's smile.

Dean grinned. "Oh, yeah."

Five minutes later, Dean had memorized Neal's message to the badge that was chasing him and Neal had fled the scene with only a crooked smile as goodbye.

As he put another dollar down to tip the bartender for s current drink, Dean saw that a napkin had been left on the bar, right in front of Neal's empty stool. It read, "ROYALE – ROOM 220" and was signed with a little heart.

Dean picked up his beer and moved over to sit in the unoccupied seat. He picked up the napkin, with its corners already a little wet, and looked carefully at the writing. It was in precise capital letters, as if drawn instead of written.

He smiled and slipped it into his pocket, preparing to wait for the fed, Agent Peter Burke.

TBC...