Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s always been an understanding between the three of them.

Neal’s the artist, the fast talker with a light touch. He charming and confident and people never notice when he’s lifting their wallets because they’re too busy staring into his eyes.

Dean’s the muscle. He’s a little moody and even more childish, but he’s solid and dependable and not afraid to use his fists when Neal’s words don’t work as well as they should.

Adam’s the planner. He’s smart and quick on his feet and has been known to knock a few head when he has too, but he’ll just as soon let Dean do the dirty work.

They each have their role to play, and it works for them. Most of the time.

*

Neal doesn’t talk much about where he’s been, but he can never shut up about where he’s going. Where they’re going.

Dean doesn't talk about anything of substance. It's all shallow, meaningless things. No chick flick moments. No life moments. Just... nothing.

Adam loves talking. Or, singing, really. He'll sing about what he's feeling, what he's doing, where's he's going. Where they're going. Where's he's come from.

It makes for an interesting living arrangement, but they manage. Most of the time.

*

Adam loves to sing. He's always said he was singing before he could talk, and his first word was probably something highly musically technical. His parents, well, they weren't thrilled with it, but it was harmless. While he was young, that is. When he was older, and Dad wanted him to start working toward taking over the family company, but all Adam could think about was being on stage, under the lights, in front of the adoring audience, it stopped being so "harmless". When Adam wanted to dress up and entertain, it wasn't harmless. They couldn't understand it, and they couldn't allow it. Adam couldn't allow *that*. The friction grew, and Adam just... he had to live his life. And it wasn't in an office. It wasn't the family business. It wasn't normal, boring, and acceptable. So he left.

*

Dean grew up far too young. Mom died in a fire, Dad went over the deep end, baby Sammy needed someone to take care of him. Well, he did until social services took him away. Dean hated to leave him there, but the last time he saw him, Sam was happy. Content. Perfectly at home in that normal, suburban house with those normal, suburban people whom... who loved him. Took care of him. That was good. What Sam needed. But Dean couldn't stand it. He needed someone to take care of. Someone who needed him. Somewhere he could live a life outside of the normal, suburban life where he could always see the smoke just beneath the surface. So he left.

*

Neal can't remember anything before his tenth "birthday". He knows there was a life because there has to be, right? He knows there were people, because where would he have come from otherwise? But for all he can *remember*, he woke up one day, ten years old and could pickpockets like a pro. It's muscle memory. It's not something he KNOWS. It's something he is. He's a thief. He can lift anything he puts his mind to. He's good at it. He's good at talking his way out of things, too. Or into things. He's good. A smile here, a wink there, a single tear sliding down a smooth cheek and he's got people eating out of his hand. He can't remember anything else. He has nothing to leave.

*

Adam met Neal when the kid tried to pickpocket him. Adam was very aware of his personal space. He was a performer, knew how to move, how to hover just close enough without touching, and Neal was good. However, Adam was not stupid. Never was, no matter what some people thought. He grabbed Neal's wrist, just as fingers brushed the inner lining of his pocket, and squeezed hard. Pressure points. Got to know where those are. Neal winced and tried to pull away, but Adam just held tighter.

Dean met Adam when he tried saving him from a greedy john. Not that Adam needed saving. Adam could take care of himself. Didn't mean he wanted to, though. He always thought it would be nice having someone to take care of him for once. Dean could work with that.

Chapter Text

Adam loves the spotlight. Maybe a little too much sometimes, if you asked Dean. Not that anyone ever did. Adam loves to get dressed up, made-up and strut his stuff all over any stage that'll have him. Or, her stuff. Damn good thing he, she, has people to watch her back, because otherwise, she'd be fucked up a thousand times over. Dean tries too hard not to think that it wouldn't be the first time. Adam can take care of himself. He just... doesn't, usually.

Neal slinks onto the stool next to him. Another kid who likes the attention a little too much for Dean's comfort. Luckily, Neal's good getting himself outta trouble. Just as good as getting himself into it.

"What's she singing tonight?" Neal asks, as he motions to the bartender.

Dean shrugs. He doesn't really know. Adam will sing pretty much anything, depending on her mood. And she's in a mood tonight, slinking around the stage, drawing attention to the sleek black dress hugging her hips. Everyone is mesmerized. Probably a good thing, otherwise they'd be noticing details they're too star-struck to notice right now. Like the broadness of Adam's shoulders, barely holding up the straps of the dress. Or the hands. Long and slender fingers, gracing broad palms.

Neal laughs, pressing subtly into Dean's side. "Try to contain your enthusiasm, man. People would think you want to be here."

Shoving him back a step, Dean turns to face Neal. "He's gonna get himself hurt one of these days. Can't he just tone it down a bit for once?"

Neal shakes his head. "'She' has never been the type to tone it down. You know that," he says. "And if you try saying that to her face, she'll show you just how well she can take care of herself."

Truth, maybe. But still. "I just don't want to see 'her' get hurt. Or killed. Or worse," Dean snaps. "You know what some people will do if they find out."

Scoffing, Neal throws back the rest of his drink. "You think these people don't already know, Dean? If they don't, it's because they don't want to know. Everyone else doesn't care. The people in here aren't the ones you need to be afraid of."

"No, it's the people out there. The cops and stupid, ignorant people like his parents."

Neal sighs. "I know. But try telling her that. She needs this, Dean, like you need someone to take care of. Like I need something shiny to steal. This is her world. If we can give her that, even for a few minutes, then what will it hurt?" He pats Dean lightly on the shoulder. "We've got her back."

Dean nods lightly. Neal's right. So is Dean, but Neal's right. Adam will never leave the stage for long. It's a part of him.

Adam winds down, smile beaming out over the audience, and Dean sighs. It's the truth, but he doesn't have to like it.

Chapter Text

The first time Dean meet Adam, he was in an alley with his pants around his ankles. The john was clutching his balls, and groaning and Adam was yelling something Dean couldn't quite make out.

His shoes hit a rock as he takes a step forward, and Adam whirls on him, eyes flashing.

"Whoa, dude, calm down," Dean says, raising his hands up slowly. "I heard someone scream, thought they might need help. Obviously, I was mistaken."

Adam glares, bending down to hike his jeans back up. "Obviously," he snaps.

The john is still groaning, and Adam kicks at his ankle viciously. "The fuck you still doing standing here, asshole? Obviously, you're not up for business, and I sure as fuck don't give out rainchecks."

Dean snickers as the guy steps quickly away from Adam. "Dude, I don't know what he did to you, but I think you should be going while you can still sort of walk."

The guy bolts and Adam straightens out his clothes, scowl fixed firmly on his face.

*

Neal looks down at the bruises ringing his wrist and shakes his head. Wouldn't have thought that Adam's grip was that strong.

The booth squeaks as Adam slides into the other side. "So, figure out what you want yet, kid?" he asks, giving Neal a glance from under long eyelashes.

Neal huffs, pulling his sleeve back down over his wrist. "It's Neal, not kid. Geez, you're not that much older than me anyway."

Adam laughs, the sound clear and bright. "I didn't mean anything by it, but trust me. You're a kid. Stay that way."

"You don't know me well enough to talk to me about being a kid, okay?" Neal snaps.

*

Dean follows Adam through the shadows, watching how the kid was constantly looking over his shoulder. Constantly on alert. He knows how that feels. It's tiring, but not something that's easy to break. Especially when you have someone else to look after.

He can't really figure how he knows that Adam has someone waiting at home, wherever home is, for him. Instinct, maybe. The same instinct that made him want to follow Adam home. Make sure he was okay. Safe. Far too pretty to be walking alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

The kiss was unexpected. Not that Dean hadn't thought about it before. Shit, Adam was gorgeous, and a bit of a flirt and did he mention gorgeous? The eyes, the legs, the tendency to strut around their crappy little house in woman's clothing? Yeah, Dean had thought about it.

He just never thought that Adam had thought about it.

He'd also never thought Adam would be so... malleable.

When messing around with Neal, Adam tended to be very pushy. Hands on, bruised wrists, pushing and pulling, arms wrapped around shoulders and neck. And they weren't even fucking.

As far as Dean knew, anyway. Which he would know. He would.

Adam's arms drape lightly over his shoulders, body soft and pliant against Dean's. His mouth is soft, parting easily for Dean's tongue. His fingers card gently through Dean's hair while Dean's own grip Adam's hips hard.

Adam bruises as easy as Neal does. Make Dean want to grip even harder.

*

Neal doesn't really understand it. He likes it, but he doesn't understand why Adam's always touching him. Grabbing him. Tangling long fingers in his hair, and tugging. He doesn't understand.

Adam doesn't answer when he asks. He just smiles and traces black fingernails over the bruises on Neal's wrist.

*

Adam thinks it funny.

Dean obviously knows that Adam knows what he does to him. Adam's not stupid, after all. If he knows anything, it's being the center of attention. He lives for the eyes that follow him. The hands the itch to touch, but are frozen fear that maybe, maybe he won't be there when they reach out. He knows want. Desire. Lust.

Dean wants him.

Adam knows it.

Neal, though... Neal's sweet. Neal's trusting, but wary. Get under his skin and he'd do anything for you. Anything. That worries Adam sometimes. He knows it worries Dean, too.

Dean watches them together. His eyes find the marks that Adam leaves on Neal's skin. He sees into Adam's eyes. He knows that Adam knows what he does to Neal, too. He knows what that shiver means. The tremble in his pretty, ink-stained artist hands. He knows that soft sigh.

Neal doesn't know. Adam's not sure he wants him to.

*

Adam's the planner.

Adam plans for months how to approach Dean without making him shut down, pull away.

Adam plans for months how to explain to Neal what those butterflies in his stomach are saying.

Adam plans, but he's not much for execution.

That's more Neal and Dean's area.

*

Adam's skin is soft. Smooth. Pale.

The finger-shaped bruises stand out like ink.

Dean wonders if Neal could paint them on permanently.

*

Neal traces those faded bruises and wonders why he wishes they wouldn’t disappear.

Chapter Text

They all have their weaknesses. Their imperfections. Those little faults and chips in the armor.

Adam's is anything pretty and shiny. Not like Neal's pretty and shiny, though. Neal likes gold, silver, and the feel of cold, hard cash in his hands. He likes the fragileness of decades-old artwork. Rubbing away the tarnish on something old and beautiful.

Adam's not quite so picky. He likes chunky jewelry and anything that sparkles. Glitter and nail polish and heel that make Dean wince just looking at them. Adam's shallow in all the ways he's not. He likes pretty things. Things he can touch and use and look into the mirror and feel some of that pretty wash over to him.

Neal's weakness is the rush of a con. The adrenaline of running away from someone who was a little too aware for Neal's own good. The game of breaking and entering without ever breaking a thing. The knowledge that he left a mark somewhere, sometime, even if no one knows it. Even if he can't remember it.

Dean's is trying to be stronger than the others. He gets up early and runs. He does push ups, shirtless and sweating in the living room while Adam lounges nonchalantly on the couch and doesn't even try to pretend he's not watching. Neal tries to emulate, sometimes. Adam laughs as if it's the cutest thing ever, and Neal's hand immediately goes to the skin of his wrist.

No bruises today. Adam's behaving himself.

*

Adam likes to leave little gifts for the others. He'll find a gaudy pair of old cuff links at a thrift store and tuck them away in Neal's art supplies. He'll find an old knife, what's left of the small gems in the hilt sparkling madly when he tilts it into the light. That one he tucks under Dean's pillow, with the one Dean always keeps there.

*

Neal likes to give gifts too. His are smaller and less extravagant, though. He'll hold Adam's arm steady as he carefully paints an abstract pattern over the sea of freckles. Adam stares, mesmerized, as his body becomes Neal's work of art.

He takes the knife that Adam gave Dean and painstakingly resets the hilt with gems matching Adam's eyes. His own eyes. Dean doesn't say anything, but he never leaves home without that knife strapped securely to his leg.

*

Dean doesn't do gifts. He does everything else. He chases away the persistent johns who won't leave Adam alone. He shadows Neal when he goes out pickpocketing, distracting the marks from the pretty kid slipping away into the crowd and takes the heat himself. He fixes up the old car Neal brings home and seals up Adam's bedroom window when he starts complaining about the cold. He teaches Neal self-defense and lets Adam cuddle up to him on the couch while he cleans his guns without complaining.

He does everything else.

*

Somehow, they work. It's disjointed and a bit jarring at first, but when they smooth out and start to flow, it's good.

It's so good.

Chapter Text

Some days are worse than others.

Some days, Adam's snippy and cold and prone to outbursts over the littlest things

Some days, Dean is violent and moody and refuses to utter a single word.

Some days, Neal disappears.

*

The first time Neal disappeared, Dean didn't handle it too well. He's used to people up and leaving, but that doesn't mean he ever actually gets used to it. Doesn't mean it stops feeling like someone stabbed him in the heart when he wakes up and realizes that Neal isn't where he should be.

Adam's asleep in his tiny hole of a room made smaller by all the clutter he has. Nail polish and random piles of clothes and Dean swears there's a feather boa in the corner, but it could just as easily be a dead animal and he really doesn't want to find out for sure. Adam's sleeping, peaceful, for once not constantly moving and looking and seeing far too much with those big blue eyes of his.

The slight edge of panic that Dean feels at seeing Neal's empty couch-turned-bed screams at him to shake Adam awake and demand answers. But Neal's sneaky and slippery and the last thing you do when you're trying to get away with something is telling Adam. Adam isn't great with secrets.

He doesn't wake Adam. Because Adam doesn't need to deal with this. It's not his job.

*

When Adam wakes up, sunlight trying to weasel it's way around the thick, but holey blanket Adam had re-purposed as curtains, he's immediately struck by how quiet it is.

With three boys, men (whatever they choose to act like or call themselves that day) in the house, it's never quiet.

It's never this still. Like no one is even breathing.

Usually, when Adam wakes up, typically after the other two (because despite all of them being night owls, Adam's apparently the only one who doesn't wake up at dawn), the house is alive.

Dean is usually cooking something, filling the air with scents that promise a delicious breakfast and an afternoon filled with cursing Dean out for letting him go for seconds.

Neal likes to paint first thing in the morning, favoring his oils. The sharp scent of paint is always apparent, and it's something of a comfort to Adam when he curls up on the couch with his notebook, doodling and jotting down the odd lyric the pops into his head.

Dean usually turns the radio on, and sings along. Granted, he's not great at it, but at least he tries. Neal gives a running commentary of insults whenever Dean mangles a song beyond whatever limit Neal can handle that day.

Today, there's nothing.

*

Dean knows it's stupid, knows he should just calm down and think things through and maybe he really should've left a note for Adam, letting him know he went out or at least woken him up and told him face to face, but he didn't. He didn't. And now, two hours after he left the house in a panic, it's way too late to fix it.

Because while Dean isn't great with people leaving, it's Adam that's the heart of their home. He's the glue or whatever poetic metaphor fit best for the whirlwind, wildfire that is Adam Lambert.

See, while Dean was itching to find someone to take care of, he can almost guarantee that Neal would not have been it. Not that Neal doesn't need someone to have his back, because god knows, the kid can get into more trouble in one morning then most people will in a month. But Neal is independent. Self-sufficient. Hard headed and stubborn and if Dean had to try dealing with him on his own, things would get downright messy. Fast. And Neal would've run for good.

Adam blunted down their edges, at least for each other. They're both there for Adam and they both know it, but the longer this goes on, the more Dean realizes that... well, Neal is family. For better or worse.

Today is definitely worse.

*

Neal can play the bumbling idiot teen to a T. People fall for it as often as the fall for his wide-eyed, hurt child who just needs a pat on the head and a nice hug from the mothering type act. Dean likes to say it's because he's not actually acting. Adam usually tells Dean to shut up, but never actually denies the truth of it.

Which is fine. Because Adam hugs are better then the mothering type hugs any day.

And there lies the problem.

Neal isn't a child. He isn't an idiot. He can see what's going on here even if Adam tries his damnest to keep him in the dark about it. Neal can *see* the tangled web he's walking straight into. He knows that if he doesn't turn around and cut ties soon that he never will.

Neal Caffrey doesn't do ties.

Neal Caffrey is a brilliant wild child thief with free wings and no ties or chains or restrictions to hold him back and tell him no.

Neal is a solo artist.

Neal doesn't do team work. Unless the con requires a few more people, in which case it's known on all sides that it's a temporary deal and once it's finished, it's goodbye. No ifs, ands, or buts.

It terrifies him that he really cannot see himself saying goodbye this time.

*

Last night, there was no forewarning of the mess the next morning would be.

Last night was like another other night.

Neal went out pick pocketing and thieving and whatever else he does that he and Dean have heated whispered conversations about that they refuse to tell Adam about.

Adam went to the club, slutted up in the most classy way possible and tried to ignore Dean's brooding presence at his back.

For as long as Dean has known Adam, he has known what he does. He still doesn't accept it, but he also knows Adam isn't afraid to turn those stiletto heels of his on Dean if he tries to make him stop.

Johns come and Johns go (and Dean always has to choke back a laugh when Adam says that, eyebrow quirked and a smirk on his lips), and really, it's what Adam knows. And he's not just going to sit back and let Dean and Neal bring in the money while Adam stays at home playing housewife.

Dean's just glad that he's there to watch Adam's back for him.

*

Last night, after they all made their way back to their crappy little hole in the wall, was kind of perfect.

Dean settled into the lumpy, ugly armchair (that Adam refuses to touch with a ten-foot pole), and settles his weapons in front of him.

Neal sprawls out on the couch, eyes half shut, hair a mess and a slight tremor of adrenaline in his hands.

Adam drags an armful of blankets out of his room and proceeds to build a nest around him and Neal.

No words but the silence was peaceful.

*

And that there is when it started going wrong.

Neal enjoyed the adrenaline rush. The knowledge that tonight could've so easily gone wrong, but it didn't and it just made him want to go out and challenge himself even more next time. Bigger, better, riskier and god, it would be so good.

And as he sat there, watching the confident, rhythmic motions of Dean disassembling and cleaning his guns, he felt it start to slip a bit. It slowed down. It stretched out and yeah, he still felt good. Still felt strong and invincible, but there was this sliver of awareness that started to creep in.

Dean is strong, too.

Dean isn't cleaning those guns for the hell of it. He knows those guns, inside and out and he knows how to use them.

More than that, he'd be willing to use them.

For Neal.

To protect Neal.

Suddenly, Dean is a safety net.

And Neal really didn't know what to do with that.

He also didn't know what to do with the feeling of warmth and comfort that washed over him as Adam plopped down onto the couch next to him, dragging the mess of blankets up over the both of them and cuddling in without any hesitation or awkwardness.

Like he had every right to tangle his legs up with Neal and rest his head on Neal's shoulder and look up at him with a smile, eyeliner and shadow smeared around his eyes.

His beautiful, laughing, knowing eyes.

Eyes that Neal could easily lose himself in. Because he'd never felt more real and alive and wanted then when Adam looks at him.

He'd never felt more at home.

He'd never felt more scared.

*

They all have their favorite places. Their go-to spots.

Adam's is a little quaint diner on the edge of town, where everything is tacky and shiny and the waitress always smiles and calls him "honey" even when he's all dolled up and covered in a layer of glitter.

Dean's isn't a physical spot so much as a memory. He typically finds shadows of it in rundown bars with sticky counters and old, stained pool tables with clientele that has yet to realize that he just hustled them for their latest paycheck.

Neal's is this old, half overgrown, forgotten bridge about a mile outside of town. It sits over a shallow creek, the rocks along the edge covered with algae. Neal enjoys going there with his sketch book. He says it has it's own charm to it. Dean doesn't see it, but wherever Neal brings Adam, he always comes back with a smile on his face, eyes bright and happy.

Dean thinks it has more to do with the fact that Neal brought Adam to his "special place" then the place itself, but Neal takes it as confirmation that his bridge is beautiful.

*

This morning is bright and sunny and the birds out are in full force.

Dean thinks it's a crappy mood setting for the murder that is about to take place.

The sun glints off the shallow creek, sending rainbows glittering over the algae covered rocks and Neal sits on the side of the bridge, feet dangling over the edge.

Were Dean not ready to kill Neal himself, he'd be yelling at him to get his ass down before he fell.

"The hell were you thinking, leaving like that?"

Neal doesn't even look up.

Dean hates that. Sammy used to do it when he was in a mood. Silent treatment, no eye contact. Pissed Dean off to no end.

"Seriously, man, what the fuck?" he asks harshly. "No note, no warning, just an empty couch."

The sigh Neal lets out deflates his anger a little. It's heavy and tired and Dean knows the feeling that comes with it, but he can't understand why. What made Neal feels so lost and helpless and alone that he couldn't fucking come to one of them?

"I'm fine, Dean, thanks so much for asking," Neal says, finally lifting his head. Dark circles under his eyes, and his hair a mess and it's obvious that he didn't sleep last night. Probably took off as soon as he knew that the others were asleep. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I just needed to get out for a bit."

"So you sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"Yes," Neal says. "I needed to get out and think for awhile. On my own. Why is that such a big deal?"

"What is it you needed to think that was so important that you had to sneak out in the middle of the night without telling someone?" Dean fires back. "I mean, really, dude. What would you do if you woke up and Adam wasn't there?"

"This isn't about Adam," Neal snaps.

Dean wasn't expecting the venom there, but maybe he's not as surprised as he should be. There's something between the two of them. Has been from the start. Maybe Adam finally pushed a little too far.

"Okay, somehow the tone is making me think that it is," Dean says in reply. "Did something happen? I mean, did Adam do something..."

"No! No, Adam didn't DO anything," Neal says quickly. "He didn't do anything besides the shit he always does, and really, that's fine. It's Adam."

Dean quirks his eyebrow. "If it's so fine, what's got your panties in a twist?"

Neal swings his legs around and jumps off the edge to stand in front of Dean. "It's exactly what I just said. It's Adam."

"And?" Dean waves his hand in a 'go on' motion. "I mean, that could mean just about anything."

Neal huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, well. That's the thing about Adam. He's just everything and everywhere and you look up one day and you're sitting in a blanket nest, cuddling with him and you have no idea how you got there."

"Hate to break it to you, dude, but it's not the first time you've cuddled with him."

"I know! And it's not the cuddling I have a problem with." Neal says. "It's just that, ya know, not too long ago, I was on my own, and on the go, constantly and now suddenly, I've got a... a family and a life and I'm expected to be in my bed in the morning and it's completely normal for Adam to demand cuddles from me whenever he wants and it's all of that and it's none of that and I can't actually work out why it's all freaking me out, but it is. It is and I don't know what to do with that."

Right.

"Well, can you maybe figure it out back at the house. I kind of left Adam there by himself and who knows what we're going to be dealing with if he wakes up before we get back."

Neal gaps at him. "Really? That's all you have to say?"

"In my defense, I'm not great with the feelings thing, and frankly, I'm still of half a mind to strangle you for freaking ME out this morning, and maybe hashing this shit out with Adam might be more beneficial for you. He'll probably just cuddle you to death."

*

Adam's sitting quiet and demure on the couch when they get home.

Neither of those is a good thing.

*

Once Adam finishes tearing Dean a new one for not waking him up when he discovered Neal was missing, and then yelling at Neal for GOING missing in the first place, he sits Neal down and forces him to, as Dean said, "hash this shit out".

Neal's still terrified.

Turns out, Adam is too.

(Adam's sure Dean is too, but digging that outta him is another project for another day.)

This is new to all of them.

Doesn't mean Adam's going to let any of them punk out of it.

Neal is free to try to run whenever he wants, but Adam is free to send Dean after him to drag him back.

Adam's the glue. Or whatever poetic metaphor best fits the force of nature Adam Lambert can be when he sets his mind to something.

Adam keeps them all together.

That's his job.

Chapter Text

The message simply said 'very clever'.

That was the beginning.

*

Neal loved being challenged.

He loved the rush, the thrill, and the chase.

Too often, he pushed the line to see how far he could make it before he started to hit the wall. Too often, he found that there was no wall there.

The chase isn’t much of a chase if no one is behind you.

It just made him push harder.

*

Peter Burke was a bit of a disappointment.

Standard face, off the rack suit, typical run of the mill Agent as produced by the FBI.

Neal had hoped for more, but he was bored.

(Dean really should’ve headed that off before it got to that point. His bad.)

*

The first time, he zigged left.

Peter zagged right.

He wasn’t impressed.

*

He didn’t stick around long enough to see Peter circle back around to where Neal left off.

*

The next time, he bobbed.

He was expecting Peter to weave.

It wasn’t close enough to be labeled as anything other than slightly interesting, but it caught Neal’s attention for a moment.

Agents always weave.

Always.

Fluke.

Maybe.

*

Peter circled back again.

*

The next time Neal made a move, Peter didn’t.

Peter completely missed the distraction designed to distract him.

Peter was focused.

Neal was caught slightly off guard.

*

This time, Neal kept a little closer eye.

He noticed that Peter did, too.

Shit.

Fed has smarts.

*

The first time they actually collide was an accident.

Neal was only at this particular bank because it was one of Adam’s, and Adam needed a favor, and when Adam asks for a favor, Neal has a really hard time saying no.

Adam’s pretty eyes get him every single time.

So he was there to drop off Adam’s latest “paycheck”. It wasn’t even illegal (any more than anything they did was illegal, anyway). Just a regular guy at a bank, dropping off a check, like every other person there.

Except for the fact that apparently one of those “regular guys” had done something at some point to draw the FBI’s attention.

And Peter Burke’s.

Neal’s bored and restless (Adam had been a little tease while asking for his “favor” before he left), and can’t help himself.

He offers Agent Burke a sucker.

Neal’s officially intrigued.

*

(Dean really should’ve headed this off before it started.)

Chapter Text

Since getting into the mafia business (something Adam still feels ridiculous even thinking, and Dean and Neal get a giant kick out of), there’s been plenty of weird shit going on in their home.

Typically, Adam doesn’t ask questions when Dean comes home with bruised knuckles, a split lip, and glitter in his hair, or when Neal drags two giant suitcases into the guestroom’s closet and locks the door. Sure, he knows they’d tell him what’s going on if he asked, but really, that’s the issue.

Adam’s got his hands full with his girls. He’s got schedules to manage and background checks to run and far too many drama queen fights to intervene in. He doesn’t need to be getting into whatever schemes Dean and Neal have running.

He trusts that they’ll come to him if they need him.

But it’s not every day that he comes home to find Neal out in the backyard, vintage suit covered in dirt, something very clearly just buried in the garden.

He also thought they were smart enough not to bury bodies in his backyard.

Chapter Text

It was just for one night.

It was just a thing he had to do. One night, get it out of his system. Do it, forget it, never think about it or talk about it again. Ever.

Kris Allen was many things, but he wasn't a cheat. Which is why this was honestly the only time this could be done. That bizarre in-between time between what once was and what was going to be, come morning.

Kris Allen was many things. A boy, a man, a son, a brother, soon to be a fiancé. He was a liar, mostly. He was a hell of an actor. He was a child born into a world of money and security and rules and social guidelines.

He was told it hadn't always been like that, but he wasn't entirely sure that was the truth.

Even in simplistic religion there were rules and laws and judgment around every corner.

Politics were anything but simplistic.

*

One thing Kris Allen was…

He was gay.

Not that anyone was ever going to know that.

*

It had been a long time coming. He knew and accepted it. One day, he would be engaged to the daughter of his parent’s friends.

His childhood friend, Katy.

(she might've known at one point that he thought he was… but that was before he realized that wasn't something he could be, so it was a moot point now.)

They’d get married, they’d have a family, and he’d go into law or politics or something worthwhile and practical (and not a waste of time, like his music and his guitar. It’s a hobby, Kristopher, not a living).

He knew what his life was.

He accepted it.

*

Except that he wondered.

He wondered what it’d be like to touch, to hold, to taste, to let go and be himself for once.

This bizarre world in-between Single Man and Soon To Be Married made it easier to make the leap from wondering to doing.

*

WLC was something of a curse word in the Allen house. See, they were supposed to be the bad guys. They were supposed to be the ones causing the trouble and making them messes and doing things that made people gasp in shock.

Not that they didn't, but somehow it was doing something besides what it was supposed it.

Crime in the WLC territory dropped.

Too many cops took every opportunity they could to look the other way.

Less money leaking through the cracks.

No one could explain it, but no one liked it.

Kris heard the complaints, but what really stuck with him was any mention of the famed whore house (the men half giddy, the women with disgusted fascination), and its Mistress.

He heard she was beautiful.

(he’d also heard she was actually he.)

*

The information he needed was surprisingly easy to get.

It was even easier to let himself take that final step.

Really, that should've been a warning.

Chapter Text

They all have their own business venues. Things they’re better suited for, things that they enjoy, things they are actually willing to do. They all have a place where they fit, and it’s like a perfectly calibrated engine.

They run nice and smooth.

Most of the time.

Adam likes to call Dean The Mechanic. He keeps the bad things out and the good things going smooth, and when shit starts getting messy, he’s the one up to the elbows in sweat and blood and grease.

Granted, the blood typically isn’t his.

Neal is The Thief. Neal always complains that it’s a little too on the head, and “c’mon, Adam, put that pretty brain of yours to use.” Adam just rolls his eyes and silences him with a kiss whenever he can.

It may be obvious, but it’s true. Neal’s all smooth charm and graceful moves and he’s the best there is. Art, jewels, money stolen from bad guys who stole it from people who couldn’t afford to lose it. If it can be stolen, Neal has probably already stolen it.

If it can’t be stolen, well… that’s just because Neal hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

Neal in return names Adam The Mistress. Of course, every time he does call Adam that to his face, Adam gets that smirk on his face, and Neal still can’t help the way he flushes. Adam is the Mistress. Of the house, of the girls, of every single person who steps foot into their home. Everyone knows Adam’s in charge there.

Except when he’s not.

They all have the things they’re good at, things they do to keep the house and business running, and when one of them falls out of place, then shit gets messed up.

As the Mechanic, Dean’s the one assigned to fix it.

But he really can’t make heads or tails of half the shit Adam breezes through on a daily basis.

*

When Adam gets sick, he gets sick hard.

And of course, being Adam, he has to get sick at the absolute worst possible time.

*

Tommy Joe had been hired on pretty early in their run. If Dean was going to sit back and let Adam run a fucking brothel of all things, then yeah, he was going to have a bodyguard. Adam argued, of course. Argued hard, and the memory of the outcome of that particular fight still sends sparks down Dean’s spine.

There’s only one way he’s found to actually make Adam submit, really. (not that he’s complaining.)

In the end, Adam was the one who chose Tommy Joe. Dean never would’ve because when he thinks bodyguard, he thinks someone like himself. Strong and big and able to manhandle Adam down and out of the way of a threat if needed.

Tommy was a tiny little slip of a thing, which he suspects is why Adam was so interested. But his looks ended up being extremely deceptive. He’s vicious and loyal, doubles as a great PA, and is half in love with Adam.

Dean’s not entirely sure what to think of that.

*

Adam’s out sick and Dean has taken on the mantel of “Mistress” for the duration.

Of course, he threatened physical harm to anyone who actually called him that.

Tommy’s a little shit, though, and refuses to let it go. And if he hurts Tommy, then Dean has to deal with a pissed off Adam, and no one wants that.

“So, Mistress, have you decided how we’re supposed to proceed tonight?”

Dean glares harder at the pages of hand written notes he’s supposed to be deciphering. Neal has recently gotten Adam started on ciphers and codes and Adam’s been obnoxious about it. As is clear in his notes that Dean can barely even understand.

“I’ve told you to stop calling me that,” Dean does not growl in frustration (despite what Adam says). “And I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tommy sighs, flipping his hair out of his face as he does, and god, does Dean really want to hit something. “The meeting tonight. Adam’s been networking with a few other houses in the areas around the WLC territory,” he explains, grabbing the papers out of Dean’s hands and reshuffling them into order with ease. “There have been rumors of some shifty shit happening, but no one is naming names or what house it’s happening at, so we’ve been trying to get close enough to get a lead there. It’s taken months, and if the meeting gets rescheduled, we might end up losing our advantage.”

Dean still can’t understand the damn papers Tommy hands back. “Why exactly would we lose the advantage?”

“Because the WLC is pretty well known at this point, and people tend to get a little nervous when we start getting involved outside the territory. Right now, Adam has them convinced he just wants to talk, form a bit of a “you scratch my back, I scratch yours” kind of partnership, what with the increase of interest from certain local law enforcement. Pimps stick together, I guess.” Tommy says with a shrug. “However, seeing as Adam has yet to actually make a face to face connection with them, I think they might get spooked if we suddenly back out of the meeting. After all, Mistress A has been known to nab a girl or two from other houses.”

Dean drops the papers on the desk and rubs a hand over his face. “Well, seeing as Adam’s sick enough that the doctor confined him to bed for the next week, I see no other choice but to push the meeting back. Just tell them he’s sick.”

Tommy quirks an eyebrow at him. “You want us to tell competitors that the Mistress of one of the biggest, nearly untouchable mafia run brothels is sick? I thought you were smarter than that, dude.”

Dean really has to resist hitting something.

*

Tommy’s a conniving little bastard, which Adam loves about him. Dean hates it. He’s also not going to let Tommy talk him into this stupid fucking plan of his, but to make damn sure of that, he needs backup.

He really shouldn’t have called Neal for that.

“Oh, I think you’d look just lovely in one of Adam’s dresses!” Neal says with a wide grin. “You’re almost the same size; I think it would work perfectly.”

Dean groans.

*
Neal might be a little shit, but he’s not stupid. He knows that even as pretty as Dean is, dressing him in drag isn’t going to be a good idea. See, he could probably pull it off, look wise, but Adam has developed something of a reputation.

A reputation Dean-in-drag would completely shatter to pieces in about ten seconds flat.

They need someone who can pretend to be Mistress A with enough skill that no one who hasn’t actually met Adam face to face will ever tell the difference.

That leaves Neal.

It makes Dean’s day.

Chapter Text

*

In Adam's defense, he never intended to start a brothel.

It started off as something of a joke, really. After spending years working the streets himself, he knew what went down in the dark corners and alleyways. He knew what measures a person had to go to in order to feel safe while still doing what they had to do to survive. It wasn't until Dean and Neal that he ever understood what "safe" really felt like.

So the first time he and Dean stumble across a john getting aggressive with a working girl, there was no way he couldn't step up. Or at least, no way he couldn't send Dean in. He'd just gotten his nails done, after all. Besides, Dean typically intimidates people easier than Adam does. (Dean thinks people who aren't intimidated by Adam are idiots, but that's another story.)

The girl is fine, overall, but Adam doesn't like the reminder that he's safe and warm and cared for and these people who he spent years working just blocks away from are still out here in danger each night.

It sparks an idea.

(Neal laughs when that happens. Dean groans and resigns himself to the chaos that is sure to follow.)

*

They've finally been able to upgrade from their tiny little hole in the wall to a nice two bedroom apartment, but for some reason, they kept the lease going in the old place. Memories, Adam figures. It's where everything started after all.

It's easy enough to set it up to be a crash pad, a safe-ish place for any of the pros to escape to if they need it. They keep it stocked with canned goods and other things needed for basic survival.

Dean doesn't quite understand why they're now taking care of every hooker on the street, but he's learned not to question the things that make Adam happy.

*

It grows from there. Word starts getting around that there's a man on the street, willing to step in if a john starts getting out of hand, and that there's a safe house set up.

The girls become a bit bolder.

It's the end of street life as Adam once knew it.

*

Adam starts popping into the old apartment whenever he's got the time, bringing snacks and makeup and thrift store clothing.

The girls who are there tend to be a bit more closed off around Dean and Neal, but when Adam's there, it becomes easier to open up. He's one of them. He knows why they do what they do and he knows how heavy the weight of it can get in the dark, long hours of the night.

He's sweet and funny and always is open for long talks or silent cuddles.

He's safe, and that's something new.

That spark of an idea grows.

*

In Adam's defense, he never intended to start a brothel.

He never intended to become the calm in the middle of the storm that can be life on the streets. He never thought the day would come when he's looked up to as the strong one.

But now there are people who depend on him. Look to him for strength and safety and comfort. They know he won't judge them for doing what it is they need to do to ensure their survival. He'll stand up next to them and fight for their right to survive.

He's been there.

And he's got his own backup, his own points of stability and home and comfort.

He never planned on this, but now that he's here?

He's not giving it up for anything.

Chapter Text

After Neal's first encounter with Peter Burke, he comes home with a huge grin on his face.

He spends most of dinner talking about how close of a call it was, how smart this fed is, how no one has ever read him as so well.

He pretends he doesn't notice Dean's pinched expression or Adam's sour glare whenever the name Peter Burke comes out of Neal's mouth.

*

Of course, his first actual brush with Peter Burke had been disappointing and he was completely ready to brush him off as another lack-luster FBI agent.

He'd never been happier to be proven wrong.

The challenge, the chase, the overwhelming sense that every near miss with his pet agent was just another form of foreplay was intoxicating.

And that was a problem. (or so Dean kept trying to tell him.)

*

Both Neal and Adam love nothing more than having an audience. It's one of the biggest things they have in common and something that never fails to give Dean a headache.

Dean prefers to keep a low profile. Dean prefers not to call attention to himself or his personal business as it tends to create more issues than anything else he's dealt with.

Adam's up on stage, performing his shiny little heart out ever chance he gets. Dean doesn't like it, watching everyone else watch Adam like he's a pretty jewel they'd like to get their grubby little hands on.

But he's gotten used to it.

Adam's home is on stage. Dean will never deny him that.

*

Neal, though, performs on an entirely different platform.

He wears his personas like a second skin and there's moments when Dean has no idea who the man currently wearing the face of someone he considers family even is.

Neal's a con man through and through and he revels in it.

He can't stop it any more than Adam can stop singing.

Dean wishes he could deny him that.

*

See, most of the time, Neal is miles beyond whatever local law enforcement has been stuck on his tail could ever hope to be.

He's smart, in more than just the obvious. He reads people like books and knows instinctively how to turn a derailing train of a conversation into whatever it is that's going to get him what he wants.

He knows every exit, every loophole and has three backup plans for every situation he can possibly concieve of. It's natural to him. He doesn't have to think about it.

And anything he doesn't have planned out, he's perfectly able to wing the fuck out of it. Improv is always tricky, but there's nothing more exhilarating than flying by the seat of his pants when everything is about to crumble to ash around him.

He's never worried about getting caught.

*

He'd never been worried about getting caught.

Before.

Not that he's worried now, but that latest brush with Agent Burke has him ready to vibrate right out of his skin. Whatever skin it is he's wearing right now.

He's half in love already and he just knows Dean's going to take one look at him when he gets home and know.

And then he's going to kick his ass.

*

Up until Adam crashed into his carefully constructed world, Neal didn't cater to the idea of reckless love.

Love was cold and slow and planning and being prepared to drop it all and run as soon as things got too hot.

Love was gold and gems, all sparkle and shine, but no warmth.

Adam was passion and fear and laughter and bruises from holding on too tight.

Up until Adam, Neal was sure he'd never feel that kind of love. The fall-head-first-into-insanity kind of love. The risk it all to feel the heat of the flame just for a moment kind of love.

Love became downright possessive.

And it was just as intoxicating as this chase was turning out to be.

*

The first moment of face-to-face with Peter cemented his fate.

He finally found someone who was playing on the same level he was. Someone played from the opposite side of the board. Someone who somehow knew his every move and was always right there.

One step behind, and getting closer every moment.

Yup, Neal was screwed.

*

Peter Burke twirls that lime green sucker between his fingers and smiles.

It's only a matter of time, now.

Neal Caffrey is his.

Chapter Text

Dean has long since accepted the fact that he isn't a part of his little brother's life anymore. He's come to terms with the fact that Sammy grew up and became his own person without Dean there to take care of him.

He never stopped trying, though.

He was there for Sammy's high school graduation, all the way in the back and so damn proud he could've burst. Or cried.

He's there when Sammy moves into his new college dorm room. Lurking across the street so he wasn't seen, sure, but he was there.

He was there when Sammy graduated college and got accepted into law school.

So it was never any surprise that Sammy became a lawyer.

What's surprising is that he's now the defense lawyer for one of their associates.

This could get messy.

*

Dean would like it on the record that he didn't abandon Sammy.

He didn't. Anyone who says otherwise will quickly have an appointment with his fist to their face.

Did he move on? Walk away? Hotwire the Impala that was in the police impound lot in the middle of the night while promising her that he was sorry and "it won't ever happen again, but this is an emergency, baby, please don't hate me."

Yes, yes, and as much as it pains him to admit it, yes.

But there was no abandonment.

Sammy told him to go, after all.

*

He'd always knew Sammy was meant for brighter, bigger things. He was supposed to move mountains and change the very foundation of the earth.

His stupid little gummy baby smile told Dean that right off the bat.

Dean's believed in the power of his little brother since he was four years old, and that belief has never wavered.

The distance between them means shit in light of that.

*

When the fire happened, and Dean's whole world went down in a cloud of ash, Sammy was his lifeline. His purpose, his northern star in a sea of never ending darkness.

Damn Neal and his love of poetry. It's infecting Dean's brain.

When Dad tripped over the edge of sanity and started seeing monsters in the shadows, he tended to forget he had two helpless kids with him.

Well, he was partially right.

Sammy was just a baby. He needed love and affection and someone solid to hold onto him and make sure he had everything he needed. Dean might not have been talking at that point, but he could do that.

Dean wasn't helpless.

He did whatever it took to prove that.

*

Years of life on the go, being confined in a car for hours and hours on end, and an endless stream of rundown motels isn't something that's easy to just let go of.

It's life. For Dean, it was all he knew. He was used to it.

Ask him to sit still and he might just start screaming and never stop.

*

Sam was six when their nomadic life comes to an abrupt halt.

It was all normal as far as Dean knew. He'd walked to the store just a few blocks from the hotel, bought the bare necessities and would try to make them stretch as long as he could. Dad said he wouldn't be gone long, but Dean was well aware that Dad's definition of long wasn't set in stone.

He'd already been gone for about a week and a half and it wasn't even close to the longest Dean had been left behind with Sammy. Left behind with the understanding that he'd follow orders. As he always did.

Take care of Sammy.

Look out for Sammy.

"Damn it, Dean. You have one job. One!"

Don't fuck it up.

*

He fucked it up.

He didn't know how it happened, or why it happened, but when he gets back from the store, there were strangers in the room.

They were in the room.

With Sammy.

Dad was going to kill him.

*

As much as he wanted to fly into a rage, grab Sammy and run as fast as his legs can carry them, he knew better.

See, Dad always knew Dean would fuck it up somehow.

It had been drilled into his head how to deal with this situation.

Because these weren't monsters and you can't shoot them or stab them or burn them up if they aren't monsters.

Child Protective Service.

They're only there to help.

Bullshit.

Dean sat down, shut up and made sure no one touched Sammy.

He might've had to bite someone to make that happen.

(that's the first red flag in the brand new folder labeled "Winchester, Dean".)

*

The child psychologist they brought in to talk to Dean made his skin crawl.

He asked questions, soft and gentle, and used light touches to bring Dean's attention back around when it inevitably drifted off.

(Possible ADD was added after the third time Dean's gaze slip slides away in the span of ten minutes. Written right before it is Selective Mutism, as the hotel clerk swore that boy could talk up a storm.)

Dean wasn't used to soft and gentle and light.

He didn't handle it well.

(and there's yet another red flag.)

*

Sammy was all bubbles and sunshine and the ladies at the CPS office were wrapped around his tiny little finger.

Dean just wanted to rip their hair out for touching Sammy.

His shrink didn't think that was healthy.

Ask Dean if he gave a damn.

*

Dean hadn't yet given up on the hope that Dad would sweep in one night and smuggle them out of there. Back to the familiar security of the backseat of the Impala, Sam's stinky tiny feet all over him and the soothing hum of the engine.

He tried calling as often as he could get his hands on a phone, but the last time had been a week ago after he got in trouble for stealing Colby's (the soft, gentle, light creep of a shrink Dean was still being forced to talk to) phone.

The answer to that was to take away his phone privileges completely.

Made complete sense.

But there was always silence on the other end, anyway.

He missed the lullaby of the highway.

It was hard to sleep without it.

*

When Dad finally turned up, he'd just hit the bottom of a bottle and was ranting about demons yet again.

He was covered in blood.

And that was when shit got serious.

*

See, it was drilled into Dean's head that monsters were real. That a sulfur-soaked demon bastard killed his mother. That evil walked among us and you have got to know how to watch your back.

Hit before they have a chance to hit back.

Dad told him that Colby's eyes were black.

Why wouldn't Dean believe his own father?

(strike three, Dean's out. too many red flags in that plain little folder and no one is ever going to stop and ask why. "Winchester, Dean" had officially been categorized as a problem.)

*

Dad no longer had any parental rights to them.

They were officially put into the system.

Dean was scared shitless, but he knew better than to show it. Because it changed nothing. His job was still the same.

More than ever now.

Take care of Sammy.

Look out for Sammy.

You have one job, Dean.

Don't fuck it up.

*

He fucked it up.

Constantly.

He got into fights, couldn't stand the silence, couldn't stand the pity and the softness and damn, he tried. He did.

The smoke just clouded everything.

*

Sammy was only seven. He was bright and sweet and smart and brimmed so full of potential that Dean hated standing next to him.

Dean didn't want to stain him.

He'd fought tooth and nail to keep them together, and that made things difficult.

Sammy was good. People liked Sammy. People wanted Sammy.

Sammy could have a good life, but Dean was always there, casting a shadow over everything the "Winchester, Sam" file promised potential parents.

They were a packaged deal.

No Sam without Dean, sorry.

*

Foster homes blurred one after the other, and Dean grew to hate himself a little more each time they had to pack up and move on.

Because it was always his fault and he knew it.

He was loud and angry and possessive as hell of his little brother.

He got into fights and snuck out at night and brought police back to their door a few too many times.

Sam hated it. But Sam didn't want to let go of Dean any more than Dean wanted to be let go of.

So they moved on.

And the cycle started again.

*

Of course, Sam never could understand why Dean couldn't just stop.

Stop being angry, Dean.

Stop being mean, Dean.

Stop getting in trouble, Dean.

Damn it, Dean.

Dean hated making his brother swear, but he didn't know how to stop.

*

The smoke suffocated him.

It filled the room as he slept and he couldn't move his limbs.

He could see the light of the fire, but it was just cold all around him.

He could hear Sammy screaming for him, but he knew everything would be better if he just let go.

As much as he didn't ever want to.

*

He hated that dream with a passion.

*

He knew for a fact that it was the right thing to do, but he couldn't bring himself to follow through.

To break ties, to walk away, to give Sammy a better chance on his own then he would ever have with Dean dragging him down.

He tried to be good.

That only lasted until the next time the smoke took over his senses.

*

Four years.

That's how long he managed to drag it out until Sam dug his heels in.

Enough, he said.

You're miserable, he said.

You're never going to be happy like this, he said.

All Dean heard was that Sam didn't need him anymore.

"Winchester, Sam" found someone who wanted him.

Only him.

Eleven years old, but he knew what he wanted. And it was a stable home, parents who loved him, friends who he wouldn't have to leave in a month and the opportunity to fulfill that well of potential Dean somehow hadn't managed to snuff out.

He could only have that if he didn't have Dean.

How could Dean deny him that?

*

Dean would like to go on the record that he didn't abandon Sam.

Even if he has to keep convincing himself of that every day.

Dean had needed a purpose and Sam refused to be it.

So Dean moved on, took Baby and drove away, fifteen years young and all alone.

*

Adam turns over in his sleep and his elbow catches Dean's ribs. It's enough to break him out of his past.

Sammy's a big time lawyer now and Dean... well, Dean's got a new purpose.

He fucked up his past something fierce, but somehow he got another shot at it.

He's not going to fuck it up this time.

Chapter Text

Adam hates coloring within the lines.

He always has.

*

Growing up, there were no shades of gray. No in between.

Black or white.

Left or right.

Yes or no.

Up or down.

Male or female.

There was never any reason to settle in the middle.

No meshing or melding or creating. It was all just perfectly ordinary.

Utterly boring.

The same old same old same old.

Adam couldn't handle it.

*

Music was his salvation.

Music had no lines to stay inside.

Music was fluid and living and never ever the same thing twice.

It woke up the creature inside.

The chaos and the wildfire and the hunger for something other than logical colors inside relevant lines done in consistent patterns.

Music set him free.

*

His parents' divorce shook apart his foundations.

Suddenly all the rules about what goes where and when and how stopped making sense.

Nothing in the rulebook covered what happened when the most stable points in his life suddenly crumbled under the weight of their perfectly within-the-lines relationship.

It made him wonder why he was always told to keep within those goddamn lines.

Following that logic, his only path was failure.

*

Adam always knew he was different.

A little off center, a little twisted, a little bit outside the realm of standard male/female lines that he was always told were there for a reason.

He didn't understand why.

But the first time he dared to step outside those lines and painted his nails, it started slowly clicking into place.

It made sense to him.

*

It didn't make sense to anyone else.

He still couldn't understand why.

*

The sparkle called to him, and he couldn't help it.

It was the first time he ever stole something, and it was beyond worth it.

The tiny little pan of glitter eyeshadow was the first piece of his hoarded treasure.

It wasn't his last.

*

Three years, two months and five days after the first time he shoplifted, he finally gets caught.

With a pair of lace panties.

Awkward, but easy enough for a fifteen-year-old boy to explain away.

But Adam was tired of living a lie inside those rigid stupid lines.

So for the first time, he told the truth.

The whole messy, beautiful, outside-the-lines truth.

It was glorious.

*

Until it all came crashing down around him, that is.

*

See, he'd been raised in a world of simple either/or.

It was either black or white.

It was either wrong or right.

It was either male or female.

And in this world, he was male.

That was the end of the story.

Even if sometimes he would swear it "she" fit better.

*

It wasn't all the time.

Most of the time Adam was Adam, and he was perfectly happy as such, even when he had glitter in his hair and polish on his nails.

But every so often, she felt soft and sweet and strong as steel and wanted nothing more than to be acknowledged as such.

No one living inside the lines understood that when s/he tried to explain.

*

His mom tried to understand, but in her mind, Adam was her son and that wasn't something that she could just erase the period on and add on "and sometimes daughter" to.

His dad ignored it all together.

Adam hated being ignored almost as much as he hated toeing those damn lines.

*

The therapist that his mom had heavily requested he talk to thinks he's still acting out because of the divorce.

The shoplifting, the makeup, the attitude, the insistence on proper pronoun use on the more "feminine" days.

It's not healthy to mask your emotions like this, Adam.

It has nothing to do with his family and everything to do with who he is, but no one seems to care about that.

Adam learns just to nod along and smile when prompted.

*

Music is still his lifeline.

It's a beautiful escape into a whole other world where there's no wrong and right and expectations and limitations.

Music is everything.

Shifting and fluid and whatever he needs to it be.

He'd be insane without it.

*

The awkwardness of the whole situation never actually does away, not completely, but it eases a little. Smoothes out until there are very few bumps, and it's easy to brush them aside. Even if every single time she's referred to as "he", as "him", as a boy (when she explicitly told them that she's a girl today, damn it), cuts her to the bone.

Mom's new boyfriend likes making little digs about it, but he's an ass, so she mostly ignores him like everyone tends to ignore her. (quid pro quo, after all.)

Up until the day the day when Mom gets frustrated at the blatant hostility in the air and finally snaps.

Enough.

That's enough.

You're almost sixteen; it's time to grow out of this phase.

*

Music has always been an escape from reality, but Adam had never actually considered that making an escape would become reality.

But the illusion of acceptance and understanding has finally shattered, and the lines are strangling him, and she can't breathe anymore, and maybe Mom is right.

It's enough.

It's time to escape.

*

It's terrifying, but that moment when they step out the door with no intent of returning is also the clearest their head has been in years.

No more lines.

No more either/or.

Adam's going to live, and no one will tell them otherwise.

Black and white and all the shades in-between.

It's a glorious mess, and they can't wait to explore it.

Chapter Text

Neal loves watching the sunrise.

Maybe because it's the first thing he truly remembers.

See, there's a giant blank space in his brain which should hold the memories of the first ten years of his life.

There's nothing.

But he remembers opening his eyes, a lumpy mattress on the floor underneath him, and watching the sunrise over the New York skyline.

He's never forgotten that.

*

He knew things right off the bat.

He knew how to read and write and dance and talk (his fool head off, according to one stranger who seemed to know him before he even knew himself).

He knew how to lift a wallet and read a mark and how to pick a lock in no time flat.

He knew how to draw.

He just knew.

*

He didn't find out his name was Neal until almost a year after that first sunrise.

He was "Kid."

He was "Boy."

He was "That damn pretty boy nuisance of yours, I swear."

The man who knew him before he knew himself handed him a school ID out of the blue.

It had his face on it.

And the name Neal Armstrong.

"Neal" rang true.

He was rather sure Armstrong was a lie, but he wasn't sure why.

*

He could pick a pocket without even thinking about it.

Literally.

He didn't even know he could do that, until one day, a few years down the road, he's walking down the street and next thing he knows, there's a wallet in his hand.

Instinct.

Or training.

But still no explanation.

*

His skills at lock picking were a little less out of the blue.

The man who knew him before he knew himself (who's name he doesn't know, and he's not sure if that's something he's able to ask at this point in the game) grabs his arm, drags him to a dark, windowless room and slams the door shut.

"You have twenty minutes. Find something useful in there and get out," he calls through the door before footsteps signal his exit.

It's dark, but he's not afraid.

It's going to be more difficult in the dark, for sure, considering he doesn't know the lay of the room, but he's not nervous.

The knowledge is there as soon as he sets his mind to it.

Apparently his stupid urge to pick up paper clips would come in handy.

Who knew?

He's got about seventeen minutes left, according to the tiny little clock ticking away in his head.

How soon is too soon to open that door?

It feels like a test he's not going to be able to win.

*

He opened the door with almost a minute and a half to spare.

The backhand to the face he got in return made him think maybe he shouldn't have stalled as long as he did.

Now he knows better.

*

The next time he did it in under ten minutes and somehow managed to save the paperclip from discovery during the patdown that he was subjected to beforehand.

The man who knew him before he knew himself still wasn't happy.

Neal's not sure he's ever going to be happy.

(Neal decides to name him Nathan in return. "He gave." It fits.

He doesn't know how he knows that.)

*

Nathan finally took him out of the house in the middle of the night and brought him to a private school campus.

There was a book in the library, in the Director's office. Neal was going to be going in as a student, and get a look at the security set up on the display case.

Neal is also not to ask questions.

He always has to learn that the hard way, apparently.

*

It's an old book, a first edition of something or other and it's not on display at all.

It's not in the desk or on the bookshelf, and Neal probably shouldn't know where to find the wall safe as easily as he does, but there it is.

He probably shouldn't be able to crack it either.

He really shouldn't take initiative and take the book right then and there.

It's recon only, isn't it?

Taking initiative doesn't seem to bode well for him with Nathan.

*

He tells Nathan that his information was incorrect.

The book wasn't on display, and there's nothing more to report.

Once again, it's a deck stacked against him.

He's getting really tired of being punished for doing his best.

*

(he hides the book he'd smuggled out in his backpack under a loose floorboard and tries to forget about it.)

*

Of course, that comes back to bite him in the ass quickly.

Who could've anticipated that Mr. Coleridge, the Director, was paranoid enough to start a rumor of having a book he actually had, bugged it, and left it in a relatively low-security wall safe to see who would steal it?

And then proceed to track it back to the thief's hideout.

Which happened to be the house that Neal was more and more starting to think of like a prison.

Where said book was hidden under his floorboards.

And Nathan had no clue it was there.

Neal was kind of screwed.

*

Good thing he also turned out to be a pretty damn good escape artist.

*

He doesn't know how he knows the things he knows, but he's pretty sure Nathan and his backhanding ways have more to do with it then he was letting on.

He's also sure that he's more than capable of surviving on his own.

Neal is slipped into storage, and Danny Brooks is born.

*

Danny is a sweet boy with a cute smile and not many brains in that pretty little head of his. He tries hard, though.

It serves him well enough for a few years.

Although, sometimes swears he sees Mr. Coleridge's shiny bald head following him around, but the man has yet to approach him, and Danny isn't going to tip his hand by making the first move.

*

Danny had almost convinced himself he had forgotten about Neal's past. About Nathan and the tests that always ended with punishment.

About the paper clips and the dark room and never being allowed to ask "why?"

Almost.

Until now.

*

It turns out Nathan is actually Dennis Flynn, DC mob, and possibly an ex-associate of a father Danny has no memory of.

Danny only finds out about this thanks to the file slipped anonymously into his PO box four years after the fact.

Right after another random sighting of Coleridge.

Danny doesn't believe in coincidences.

*

Mozzie's reluctantly impressed with this kid. He wanted to hate him, to lump him in with the rest of the swine who thought they could outsmart him.

But the kid knows his stuff. He's clearly new, rough around the edges, but the instincts are there.

A diamond in the rough, and Mozzie does like shiny things.

A little polish and this kid could be a masterpiece.

*

Of course, that's about the time Danny Brooks thoughtlessly pickpockets a pretty boy street walker.

Well, attempts to.

Don't ask why. He wasn't thinking, but maybe it was instinct again.

Those long fingers clamp down around his wrist, hard enough to bruise.

And Neal Caffrey's heart skips a beat.

Chapter Text

[to be your world]

Since falling into this little play of fucked up domesticity, Dean's had to learn to adapt to plenty of new things.

Adam's molted feathers and Neal's paint smears. Things that go missing and shiny things that pop up in their place.

Neal's sticky fingers and Adam's clingy hands.

The knowledge that not only does he have people depending on him, but that they readily put themselves in that position.

They want him there, watching, taking care of things and building his world up around them.

They don't need him, honestly. They're both strong, stubborn, smart, and more than capable of taking care of themselves.

But they want him.

It's something new.

Adapting. That's what Dean Winchester does now.

(it'd be far too easy to let himself fall head first into this new "normal.")

*
[by any other name]

Neal's never quite sure what to make of their situation, but he's fit himself into worse roles.

All he's required to be here is Neal Caffery.

This role feels almost real most of the time.

Neal Armstrong was awkward, like being thrown onstage in the middle of a play with no knowledge of the storyline. He flubbed his lines and stumbled over the props and never got to the end of a scene without criticism.

Danny Brooks never fit right. He was both too loose and too tight, and while he managed well enough for a time, he still fell to pieces the moment Adam Lambert wrapped his fingers around Neal Caffery's wrist.

That scares Neal a little bit, the power that Adam apparently holds over his ability to be whoever he needs to be at the moment.

Because with Adam, he's always just Neal.

(and it's so tempting to think of that as a good thing.)

*
[rip the labels off]

The first time Adam slips from "he" to "she" in front of Dean, it terrifies them.

Because Adam's determined to leave the stranglehold of lines and restrictions behind, but it's been so long since someone looked at them the way that Dean does.

Like he wants to hold onto them.

Like it would hurt to let them go.

Like he would do anything in his power to keep them right there, in his sight, where he can reach out and touch and hold and protect.

Even if Dean still thinks that Adam is always "him."

It's beautiful and tempting and terrifying.

It's that fear that makes her throws herself headfirst into educating Dean on just how amazing the chaos of ignoring lines can be.

Feathers and glitter and eyeliner are just the wrappings, hiding the fact that Adam Lambert goes a lot deeper than masculine singular pronouns and the shockingly shallow label of "gay".

(who needs the labels anyway?)

Chapter Text

[you break. you shatter. you get the fuck up.]

The song goes on, ever on, doesn't end, and if it ever did, well.

That'd be when everything goes wrong.

*

It's not all sunshine and laughter and glitter as they first attempt to fit their pieces together into a cohesive whole.

They're all individuals. Unique, one-of-a-kind, with all the baggage and nightmares and triggers that that entails.

And none of them are particularly subtle.

Dean is engine grease and flannel and a hidden bottle of whiskey at two in the morning.

Neal is cheap clothing trying to be high end, vain and insecure and not afraid to flirt his way out of a fight.

Adam is sweet and hard and enthusiastic and an utter deliberate mess of sparkle and chaos and music wherever they go.

They rub each other in all the wrong ways.

At first, it seems like the only way this could ever end is in flames.

*

Spark.

Catch.

Fire.

*

The first fight starts small.

Of course, it does.

Because Dean's always covered in grease, and who would've thought that Neal, with his messy, ink covered hands would have so much of an issue with one tiny little stain.

It starts small.

Because while Dean is covered in grease, it doesn't change the fact that he grew up on the move. Always ready to get up and go at a moment's notice. And that's hard to do if everything you own is scattered to the four corners of the world.

Or the tiny little apartment they've all crammed themselves into.

Whatever.

Dean's a neat freak, in about as many ways as he's not.

And he's told Neal every single day this week to hang his damn jacket up on the damn hook behind the damn door.

If he had just put it away, Dean wouldn't have had to touch it.

There wouldn't be a grease stain on it.

And Neal wouldn't be throwing a goddamn tantrum about it.

End of story.

*

Not really, though, because Dean tends to forget that for all that Neal's an artist with his hands and his paints and his words and his stupid cocky little smiles, he's also a teenager.

A moody stupid little teenager who isn't going to just accept a logical argument about why he is, in fact, wrong.

And will most likely try to find the closest sympathetic ear to complain to.

Too bad Adam's not in the damn mood for this.

*

Adam is under no illusions as to who he is and what he does.

Unlike some people he could name, he tries to make it a point not to lie to himself.

He's a prostitute, yes. He doesn't sugarcoat it or try to spin it out to sound more romantic than it is. When you're down that low, you do whatever it is you have to to survive.

And survive he did.

He's proud of that.

Doesn't mean he needs it rubbed in his damn face.

Especially not by a former customer. Especially not when Adam's doing his best to get himself into a better job setting.

Adam can sing his ass off.

He'll back up that claim in a heartbeat. Music is his life, his lifeline, his salvation and the only thing that keeps him sane.

Not that he'll be able to at this particular club again.

Because the damn idiot employer just happened to be a former client of his.

Difficult to see past the whore to the singer, apparently.

Lovely. Just fucking lovely.

*

Dean's tired and sore and so damn over Neal being a little prick over his stupid jacket.

Work was long and hot and of course, he couldn't fix the last car he got his hands on, and it's always delightful to be cursed out by entitled customers because they can't accept that he doesn't do miracles.

He's just done.

*

Neal's furious and hurt and frustrated and can't understand why Dean can't realize that things are about more than they seem sometimes.

He worked hard for the money to buy that jacket. Actually worked. On the just-this-side of legal of the under-the-table type of work, but worked nonetheless.

He was proud of that.

And Dean went and ruined it.

*

Adam's pissed off at the world and ready to scream, but he's determined to keep this under control. It's not Dean or Neal's fault, and they don't need his drama.

His choices, his consequences.

He'll deal.

*

The screaming match he walks into makes sure that doesn't last long.

*

Anger catches and spreads like wildfire, and there's no slowing it down.

It has to burn out on its own.

*

Hours later, after the screaming and the shoving and the splintered door from Dean slamming his way out before things got completely, irreparably out of control, the destruction seems bad.

Neal's gone, having slipped out in silence while Dean and Adam spat insults at each other.

He doesn't handle the anger well; it freezes him up as it burns and all he could think once the initial surge of irritation died down was that he needed to get away.

Because while he froze, Dean and Adam sparked off against each other, hot and dangerous.

His anger was a shallow well, quickly lit and quick to burn out.

Dean's was, too, he could tell that much.

It was fire to fire, and nothing to feed it besides itself and they would've probably subsided on their own if not for Adam's gasoline.

*

Dean's always been first to throw himself on the altar of sacrifice for the ones he loves.

His childhood, his innocence, his faith, his anchor, all given in the name of Sammy's safety, his father's war, his mother's memory.

Adam's drowning in an ocean of fire and Dean's willing to take it all if it means getting that shame clouding Adam's eyes to disappear.

*

Adam would always be described as the sweet one.

And it wouldn't be wrong.

But the best descriptor of him is patient.

He's slow to burn, embers smoldering under the ash.

But once he ignites, the sweetness becomes a weapon.

His tongue is sharp and vicious.

His eyes are blazing and sparking and utterly breathtaking.

(sugar sweet and just brittle enough to crack your teeth.)

As Dean bleeds and burns and gives back just as good, he thinks this was when he started to fall in love.

(just the way you like it, baby.)

*

In the aftermath, Adam's alone in the apartment.

His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from crying after the door slammed closed behind Dean, but he feels calm.

Fire caught, fire blazed, fire burned, and now the embers are banked again.

It didn't solve anything, but it felt good to let it go.

*

The ice thawed out slowly, leaving behind a frostbitten tingle, but things are different now, and Neal can't stop thinking about it.

Oh, he's not as naive as some might think. He knows this thing between him and Adam is sexual, is sensual, is strange and dirty and always leaves him feeling flustered and just this side of giddy.

He didn't realize it was there between Adam and Dean as well.

The same, but not. Where Adam was all hands and wrists and bruises and slow, slow build up with no release with Neal, he was so different with Dean.

A bottle of Dean's favorite whiskey, just waiting for a match to be lit.

Neal really wasn't sure what to do with that.

*

Dean wasn't either.

Neal reminded Dean too much of Sammy for there to be any sexual love there, but he knew Adam's fascination with Neal.

And Neal's utter worship of Adam's fascination.

It was weird, and should completely put him off, but deep down, the satisfaction sits thick and warm.

It was an intricately knotted web that wove them all together and made it that much harder to escape.

Dean loved that idea of that.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

*

The aftermath leaves them all a bit burned, singed hair, and wary eyes.

Eggshells and the deliberate acts of neatness and respect.

Of course, that only lasts until the next fight.

And the next knot tangled into their chaotic web.

*

And the song goes on and on and on.

(Adam's got it on repeat again.)

Chapter Text

Dean would like nothing more than to pretend he's an easy book to read. Not too deep, no hidden meanings, what you see is what you get.

Unfortunately, he's got two people who know differently and won't let him forget it.

Adam's good at weaseling information out of him that he'd rather stay forgotten. He's good at making it easy to open up. He feels safe and comfortable with Adam's warmth pressed against his side. Blue eyes wide and sweet and always watching him.

Anything Adam can't claw out of his brain, Neal will go digging up elsewhere.

And that's where it gets annoying.

*

See, Dean's been around a few times. Orphanages, foster homes, halfway houses, homeless shelters. He's more than familiar with them all.

He's not stupid enough to think he's never left a mark on anyone else.

Oh, he wishes it wasn't true, but he's not going to cheapen it by pretending it never happened.

He knows how much being left behind hurts. He knows this hurt was unavoidable, but he still regrets it.

But he's done his best to put it behind him.

Never worked too well for him.

*

Adam knows every inch of Dean's body by this point.

He knows where he's most sensitive, where he's ticklish. Where he's been bruised and scarred and where to press his fingers and lips to make Dean melt.

He's made it his mission to know him inside and out.

Dean's been pretty willing to give him that, for the most part.

Yet, even trailing a light finger over the tattoo on his left arm is enough to make him shut down.

Adam does his best to respect the fact that Dean doesn't want to talk about it.

But it nags at him.

He doesn't like that there's a part of Dean that he can't claim as his own.

(he's possessive of his boys, sue him.)

*

Neal doesn't like seeing Adam sulk.

Adam's supposed to be bright and smiling and larger than life. But lately, he's been off. Too quiet, watching more, laughing less.

He's distant from Dean.

That's the weirdest part.

And that's the part that drives Neal to dig into a problem Dean would say has nothing to do with him.

(it's what Neal did best, and he's not going to apologize for it.)

*

The more Neal learns (or doesn't learn) about one Dante Haversham, the more impressed he is.

The man is weird, but also weirdly brilliant.

He seems to think the same of Neal.

It's an odd relationship, but thus far, it's been beneficial on both sides.

Haversham seems to adhere closely to the thieves' honor code, so Neal feels pretty comfortable coming to him with this request.

He wouldn't trust just anyone to dig into Dean's past, but given how comprehensive the file on Flynn had been, he was willing to risk it.

Adam needed to know.

Neal would do whatever it took to make that happen.

*

It was pretty well known that Dean's favorite color was blue.

One would think it'd be easy enough to deduce why, considering his companions.

But they'd be wrong.

(mostly.)

*

Back in the day, back before Sammy decided he didn't need Dean anymore, they'd been in quite a few foster homes.

Most of them weren't great places, some were dumps. But every so often there'd be a nice family, in a nice house, who wanted to feel good about themselves.

At first glance, Dean and Sammy Winchester were perfect. Oh, sure, Dean's file had a few marks. He was said to be extremely protective of his brother, but that was expected. Poor babies had been through a lot.

Just a little tender love and care and they'd be fine in no time.

Dean wishes that had ever been the case.

He'd tried, most of the time, to be good. He'd tried to rein in his fear and terror anytime someone tried to separate them, even if it was only by giving them their own bedrooms.

He'd tried to keep himself calm and courteous, to bite his tongue and not talk back when the women tried to mother him and the men tried to call him "son".

He'd tried to be a good brother and a good child and hoped that it'd be enough to make them want to keep Sammy and him.

For Sammy's sake.

He failed, every. single. time.

*

There was one time when he was hopeful it would work.

They were a sweet middle aged couple, in a decent house in a decent neighborhood. Nothing over the top or too shiny. Nothing that made Dean feel gross and dirty and want to shatter something to make himself feel more at home.

It was almost easy.

Sammy loved it. The backyard had a swing set. The driveway had a basketball hoop. And even though he was too short to sink too many shots, Dean was still willing to play with him.

They went to school and even though Dean hated it, it wasn't the worst place in the world they'd been too. The teachers were nice, there hadn't been any major instances of bullying. The food wasn't terrible, either.

Dean was able to keep his head above the smoke for longer than he thought.

*

Adam traces the outline of the tattoo when Dean's deeply asleep and wonders at the story behind it.

Who put it there?

Who was so important that they were able to mark Dean's body before he'd ever gotten to?

He wanted to hate them for it. But the pain in Dean's eyes whenever his attention caught on those black and blue wings made it hard.

This person gave Dean wings.

How could he hate them for that?

*

For that brief moment in time, Dean could breathe clean air. His mind was clear, he felt a sense of peace. Maybe this could be it.

Maybe they could have a permanent place.

Maybe Sammy would finally have a place and people who could love him as much as Dean did.

For that brief moment in time, Dean was able to ease up on the reins, a little bit. Let someone else step up and accept responsibility.

For a moment in time, Dean was a fourteen-year-old boy, looking at the world and realizing how much he'd missed.

It was that moment in time that he fell in love with the color blue.

*

Castiel Novak.

Dean might've tripped over his feet when he first saw him.

He never realized that the whole "butterflies in your stomach" cliche were actually true.

Until then.

*

Dean was a fourteen-year-old boy, realizing a crush for the first time.

Oh, sure, he'd noticed girls before. They were cute. Pretty. Soft and sweet and utterly out of his reach.

He had more important things to worry about, anyway.

He'd never stopped long enough to realize that his eyes caught just as easily on boys with dark hair. On long eyelashes, blue eyes, and awkward fingers caught up in backpack straps.

Once he noticed, he couldn't stop.

*

Castiel Novak was quiet and awkward. He was weird and abrupt and the most amazing thing Dean ever laid eyes on.

It took a week to work up the courage to actually talk to him, but once he finally did, he was hooked.

Cas was perfect.

*

Cas didn't think he was perfect. Cas thought Dean was weird. Also, kind of funny, even if some of his jokes were stupid and didn't make sense.

But he liked the way Dean's face lit up whenever Cas laughed.

Sometimes he laughed even if he didn't get it.

Dean was so bright when he smiled.

*

Cas was the youngest of five, and not really overly close to any of his siblings. He didn't understand Dean's connection to Sam, but he knew it was important to him. He knew it was as much a part of Dean as his freckles and his smile and his green eyes.

He knew his feelings for Dean weren't right.

Or, at least, his parents wouldn't think so.

But it was hard to care.

*

Cas had the bluest eyes, and they became something that Dean clung to whenever the smoke threatened to overtake him.

He couldn't have Cas if the smoke burned everything down.

For once, he had something more to lose.

He clung to Sammy and blue blue blue...

and managed to keep his head above the smoke a little longer each time.

*

Cas kissed him on the eve of Dean's fifteenth birthday.

For the first time in a long time, Dean didn't taste smoke on the back of his tongue.

*

Three days shy of almost nine months in one place, with Sammy's happy smile and Cas' blue eyes and Dean let himself think it.

This is home.

*

He can't help but blame himself for jinxing it.

Dean Winchester doesn't get home.

He doesn't get safe.

He doesn't get love.

He gets smoke.

*

He still doesn't know where it went wrong. Cas was always careful, as he knew his parents wouldn't approve and Dean was always careful because Cas was careful and Dean wouldn't do anything to jeopardize what they had.

But somehow, they found out.

They blamed Dean for corrupting their son. They blamed Dean for leading him astray. Dean, the troubled young orphan who wasn't fit to be friends with their son.

No matter how much he fought, Cas wasn't allowed to see him anymore.

*

The smoke choked him up again, but he fought as hard as he could against it. It sucked, he wanted Cas, he wanted his blue eyes and soft fingers and his messy hair, but he couldn't have it.

Fine. Fine. He could deal with it.

For Sammy. Because Sammy had a home.

He could do it.

*

He thought he could do it, but seeing Cas every day at school was torture. Having to watch his older sister firmly steer him in the opposite direction killed him.

He thought he could do it, but suddenly, he was a target. He was the weird gay kid. He was open season. And he wasn't good at holding it back when he was provoked.

It burned.

But he had tried.

*

He's never been good.

The blood on his knuckles and the look in every single adult eye in the room just reinforce that.

He's damaged.

He's broken.

He's trouble.

He's red flags in a file.

He can't stem the tide.

*

Sammy won't even look at him when he's taken back to the house.

Not a home.

Not his home.

Not anymore.

*

Their foster parents had been contemplating adoption. They'd thought about it but never said anything about it. Because... well, it's just complicated.

They loved Sammy. He was bright and sweet and had potential. He deserved a family and a home.

Dean adored Sam, that was obvious. But how healthy was it? How would his overprotective obsession impact Sam's future?

How did they go about telling a boy who was clearly hurting that they couldn't take him on full time?

How could they tell him they wanted his little brother forever?

*

Dean wasn't an idiot.

He knew. But he just wasn't going to walk away just because someone told him to.

Only Sammy had the power to do that.

And he wouldn't.

Sam needed Dean.

*

Only Sam still wouldn't look at him.

Wouldn't talk to him.

Would turn any walk away and it hurt every single time.

He was trying.

He was always trying.

When would it be enough?

*

Castiel Novak was his first kiss.

His first love.

His first painful blow in love.

But he wasn't the first boy to break his heart.

That distinction belonged to Sam Winchester.

*

Sam sat in front of him, hands clasped loosely in his lap, and calmly told him to leave.

It was for the best.

I can be happy here, Dean.

You can't be.

Don't hang around.

Don't make yourself a nuisance.

They won't let you stay around.

It's better if you go.

*

Anything for Sam Winchester.

Even if it meant leaving behind Cas' blue eyes.

Dean wasn't good enough.

It was for the best.

*

Castiel, Angel of Thursday.

Dean always teased him about his name.

But he never forgot.

*

He was eighteen when he got the tattoo. Three years and one day since his angel had kissed him the first time. The memory hurt, but it still helped keep the smoke at bay.

Not always.

But sometimes is better than never.

*

Now, he's got double the blue eyes, but sometimes he wonders what Cas is doing these days.

If he missed him when he found out he was gone.

If he was mad that he left without saying goodbye.

If he still thought about him.

It's bittersweet to think about, and sometimes he gets caught up in the memory of it, fingers stroking the outline of feathers.

*

Sometimes Neal wishes he had the impulse control Dean always tries to beat into his head.

He found Dean's Wings.

Dark hair, blue eyes and he can just see the pieces falling into place.

Adam's going to hate the competition.

Neal hates the fact that he may have just inadvertently invited yet more attention from law enforcement.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Castiel Novak has always been a little too easily... well, "focused" is the word polite company would use.

Most normal people would say obsessive.

He hadn't meant to be, but it was easy to let himself get caught up in the thrill of having. He tried to not think about it too much growing up, as the shame of wanting to own so much wasn't ever fun to dwell on.

Too many memories of disappointment and disgust directed his way when he made the mistake of letting his current focus take over his world.

Brightside? It made his life as an FBI agent that much easier.

Focus got him this far.

Worth it.

*******

He was hooked the moment he locked on to bright green eyes.

Up until that moment, his focus was innocent. Weird but innocent.

He focused on learning mostly. Reading, digging into history and meaning and the whys and hows. Castiel Novak was a self-accepted outsider, and he was, for the most part, okay with that.

He was awkward and quiet, but only because no one wanted to talk to him on account of the awkwardness. Whatever. He didn't need friends.

Books were better anyway.

*********

Dean Winchester was strange.

He was brighter than Cas thought someone could be, but he carried shadows in his eyes. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight, but his smile made the butterflies in Cas' stomach go wild.

(he was also the first to ever call him Cas. It was weird, but Cas was beginning to think he could come to like Dean's weird.)

***********

The more Cas was around Dean, the more the focus grew. His stupid jokes that Cas only sometimes understood, his stupid freckles all over his stupidly pretty face.

The way said face lit up the first time he managed to make Cas laugh.

His focus was a hundred percent on Dean Winchester in no time at all.

*********

He clues in hard the day he realizes that the weird urge he had to reach out and touch suddenly wasn't just an urge anymore.

It was action and he couldn't remember when it went from imagining what it would be like to lay his hand on Dean's shoulder or hand or the bare skin of his knee peaking through the rip in his worn out jeans, to actually doing it.

Dean never said anything about it, never pulled away, but Cas could see the shy pleased smile every time his fingers met skin.

*******

Their first kiss just cemented it.

Cas was in over his head, and wouldn't change it for the world.

Dean was just as focused on him in return, and it was bliss.

Maybe explains why they weren't as careful as they should have been.

*******

Gabe was the last person Cas would've expected this from. Gabe never cared about what was proper and polite, so he couldn't understand why Gabe of all people sold him out.

**********

Anna, he understood.

Anna, with the heart of a rebel but buried underneath years of fear and heavy-handed conditioning. He understood Anna because he was the same.

Once, he was the same.

Before Dean caught his focus.

Before Dean set him free.

********

Anna was clever and ruthless when she wanted to be, and she was able to pull the secret of soft touches and tender kisses witnessed in secret out of Gabriel easy enough.

There's a reason she always hated Gabriel's drinking. It made him weak.

She'd use it against him if it meant protecting Castiel.

********

Castiel brimmed with potential and that potential terrified Anna to the core. Her mother was right. Left unleashed, Castiel would destroy himself and everything their family stood for.

And all for a broken dirty little orphan boy.

She couldn't let that happen.

********

She threw Gabriel under the bus with no hesitation, because it was so much harder to protect Castiel from himself if he lashed out and pushed her away like he does to Gabriel.

A part of her feels a little bad because, despite the age difference between the two, they'd always been pretty close.

As close as Castiel ever got to anyone, anyway.

But the bigger, vicious part of her that was nurtured and encouraged by her mother thought it was what Gabriel deserved.

That he would actively cover for him, stand back and let Castiel ruin himself like that was appalling.

It was unacceptable.

No, this was the way it had to be.

*******

After Dean disappeared, leaving behind a brother that Cas knew, beyond question, was his entire world, Cas lost it a little bit.

Before Dean, Castiel Novak was as close to the perfect son as he could be. Quiet, courteous, strong in character and family loyalty. His focus was an asset as long as it was properly channeled into a worthy cause.

After Dean, there was a moment when all that sweet focus, once given so freely, turned to fire.

Castiel shut down for months, letting the flames quietly consume him.

******

Slowly the innocence of his focus burned away. His restraint turned to ash, and out of the forge came a spine of steel and an unshakeable, unmistakable obsession.

Dean Winchester was his, and there was no force in the world that would stop him from finding him again.

One day.

********

He was known for his focus, his determination and drive to reach his goal, solve the case, catch the bad guy.

He rose through the ranks quickly.

He never let go of his true purpose.

His one obsession.

******

Which is what lead him here, standing in the office of one Agent Peter Burke, of the New York White Collar division.

Seeing a kindred spirit in the determination burning in the other man's eyes, Castiel Novak smiles and reaches out to shake his hand.

"I have a feeling this is going to be quite the productive partnership, Agent Burke."