Local Smut Peddler

--

Neal is unconscious for another two days. None of his wounds are deep enough to need more than a few stitches, thankfully, but the whip Keller used cracked two of Neal’s ribs. But that's just the physical toll Peter can see. There’s no telling what kind of psychological Hell Neal’s been through. 

There’s… other marks too. Ones the doctor brought to Peter’s attention, that made him violently ill to think about again. A set of matching bite marks, angry and dark purple in color, on both Neal’s throat and inner thigh. Peter didn't see those in any of the live streams, so they must have happened after Keller cut the camera. 

‘You practically hand-delivered him to me, Burke…’ Keller's sadistic voice echoes through his ears hauntingly, only fueled on by his guilt. ‘He was ready to do anything to atone for hurting the ‘Great Peter Burke.’

Including giving himself over in exchange. 

Every muscle in Peter’s body is tight. He has to mentally remind himself to unclench his jaw so his teeth don't crack. 

Looking at the broken version of his partner, Peter makes a vow right now. He will burn Keller, and every son of a bitch in his network down, even if it's the last thing he does. 

--

Neal finally wakes on the fourth day in the hospital. 

“Peter? Is that, you?”

“Neal! Oh my god.”

“Am I dead,” the forger blinks, eyes still swollen but able to open almost all the way now. 

“No, you’re not,” Peter exhales, grateful to hear his voice. See him moving. “Touch and go there for a while. But the doctor said you should make a full physical recovery-” 

“Shit!” Neal shouts suddenly, sitting up and looking anxiously at Peter’s face. “Keller. I- Elizabeth. Peter, I swear, I don’t know where he is, but I will do anything-”

“Hey, hey, whoa, hang on,” Peter soothes gently, holding up one hand, “El is safe. She’s home, Diana’s with her.”

Neal swallows hard, looking at Peter’s face like maybe he isn’t sure he’s telling the truth or not. 

“S-She is?”

“Yes,” Peter nods. “I promise.” 

“Were you,” Neal starts, before obviously editing whatever he initially wanted to ask and following with, “um, the one who found me?

“Yeah,” Peter mutters quietly. Shaking off that horrible visual that has already taken up too much time in his nightmares. “With Mozzie’s help actually.” 

Neal nods. 

“Look… Peter. I don’t know where Keller is. I spent most of the time blindfolded. I won’t be useful to you.”

“What?”

“If you let him take the treasure, he won’t have any more use for me. You won’t be able to use me to get it back.” 

“Neal,” Peter gasps, a little exasperated, “I don’t fucking care about Keller right now, I care about you!”

Now it's time for Neal to mirror his exasperation. 

“Are you sure about that?”

And here it is. The make-or-break moment. Peter can either admit what they are, what they’ve been doing for months in stolen moments in the dark, or he can bail, like Neal obviously expects him to. 

“Neal...”

“It's fine Peter, I get it,” he scoffs, voice tight and full of resent. “But I don’t need you here, watching me. They got staff for that. Besides,” he pulls his leg out, where a new monitor has already been installed while he was unconscious. “Not like you won’t be able to find me.”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“Is there any legitimate reason for you to stay?”

“I have- a few follow-up questions.”

“As my friend or as a cop?”

“Both.”

“Fine,” Neal grumps, “Such as?”

“Did he…” Peter trails off, looking sick. 

“Did he what Peter!” Neal snaps. All patience eroded. 

“Sexually assault you?”

Neal scoffs. 

“No. But right now I kinda wish he did.”

“What!” Peter’s eyes double in size. “Why- why would you say something like that?”

“Because then you wouldn’t be looking at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like exactly how you’re looking at me!”

“I just, help me understand.”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Peter don’t you get it? I was with Keller. For years, before our paths even crossed!”

“Together like?”

“You know like how Peter.”

An uncomfortable moment passes as Peter puts together all the pieces. He feels sick. 

“...”

“...I needed him to let go of Elizabeth.” 

“So you offered yourself up in exchange!”

Neal shrugs. 

“Worked, didn't it?”

“Look what it cost Neal!”

“Yeah, so?”

“What?!”

“I should be asking you that! I mean, why do you even care, Peter? Your right hook sure sent a clear message! I mean I ‘stole’ the treasure right? I'm the reason El got taken! Only right I bear the consequences of that!

“I thought you didn't steal it.” 

“Of course I didn't fucking steal it Peter! Mozz did! So we could leave, as soon as you figured out why it will never work between us!”

“Don’t, don’t do this.”

“I’m right, Peter. And you know it.”

“Neal.”

“I need you to leave.”

“Don’t, please don’t kick me out.”

“Go home Peter. To your wife.” 

--

Against all better judgment and the knots in his stomach, Peter leaves. Reassured by the hospital staff if there are any changes to Neal's discharge date, they will let him know. 

At 3:42 AM the next morning, Peter gets the phone call. 

Neal cut his tracker and ran away. 

All my AITCM & whumptober fics * AITCM Event * Sinful Sunday

Which is the only reason Dean is allowing this, and he will stick to that story in court. 

He doesn’t even remember the rationale Sam gave to convince him to take off his shirt, but he did, and while it wasn't necessarily warm in the room, Sam’s perceptive, albeit a little glassy eyes raking all over his body while he casually sips his beer, is certainly making Dean sweat. 

“You have more scars than you used to.” 

No shit. Dean thinks bitterly. 

“Almost all monsters have claws of some kind,” Dean evades. Selectively leaving out the fact that only one of the last eight was from an actual monster. Was that the reason why he took his shirt off? Was Sam checking for bleeding wounds? 

“I have a few new ones too,” Sam offers.  

“I saw,” Dean nods. Because yeah, when Sam was naked and on him, he made sure to get a good look. 

Sammy smirks before pulling his own shirt off.  

“I got this one falling off a beer pong table,” he says, pointing to a quarter-sized, irregularly shaped scar on his shoulder. “These, uh,” Sam chuckles, pointing to three circular scars on his chest, “hot wax play gone wrong, turns out the type of wax you use does matter.” 

“Really,” Dean swallows tightly, imagining it and regretting it because without his shirt it's going to be difficult to hide his hard on. 

“Yeah,” Sam smirks, before pointing to another, curved one lower on his forearm. “This one was dumb. Forgot I left a burner on and branded myself.” 

“And you still got into Stanford?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sam laughs. 

Dean laughs too, relaxing easily onto his mattress. He assumes that’s the end of their little show and tell. But when he looks back at Sammy, he’s still looking at his torso, almost expectantly.

“Sam…”

“I showed you mine!”

“I didn't ask you to!”

Sam looks crestfallen. And fuck, cut out his heart with a spoon, why don’t ya? Sam’s big, brown, sad eyes have always been and always will be his downfall.  

“You used to tell me everything De…”

Dean swallows the painful lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. He wants to tell him everything. It’s not about trust, fear, or even about Sam. He just, doesn't want to relive them. Not even for a moment. 

Plus, he’s drunk. It's going to be a lot harder to coordinate which monster could realistically make each mark, and for Sam to believe it. Because Sam’s not stupid. He's easily twice, if not three times, smarter than Dean. He’s going to have to play this carefully. 

He closes his eyes.

“Okay Sam.”

When he opens them, Sam is practically in his lap. “Whoa.” He’s so close Dean can feel his breath on his bare skin.  

“What’s this one from?” Sam whispers, running his pointer finger over the long, pencil-thick scar that dissects his pec. 

Dean’s jaw clenches. His brain inadvertently flashes back to that night. Two days after his Nineteenth birthday. A few weeks after John tracked them down at Bobby’s and dragged them back practically by their throats. 

John was in even shitter state than he was two years ago. Manic. Angry. Broke. The kind that makes a man lose track of his soul. Dean knows in an instant what the next chapter of his life is going to look like. 

At least John didn't hurt Sammy. It wasn’t his fault after all; it was Dean’s. Dean’s the one who took him to Bobby’s. Dean’s the one who disobeyed John’s direct order. Dean’s the one who should bear the consequences. And John made sure to find a creative way to get the punishment to stick. On one of the coldest nights of the fucking year, he kicked Dean out of their motel room. Took the Impala's keys and left him with the option to fend for himself if he was so ‘goddamn grown up.’ 

Dean did. With the first trucker who picked him up.

In both of his lines of work, he’s come across only a few true psychopaths. Most of the men who bought his services were just lonely, overworked, closested dicks ready to forget the whole thing by the time they finished. Efficient and quick. Dean preferred those types of customers actually. But every so often, Dean crosses paths with a real sicko. He’d take every single one of those Lovecraft-like monsters in John’s journal at once over 5 minutes with a real predator. 

“...De?”

“Uh,” Dean shakes off the memory before it can get its hooks in any deeper. “Wraith. Caught me, tried for my heart. Missed.”

Sam hums not commitally but seems convinced enough despite Dean’s momentary dissociation. He’s still staring at the mark, rubbing his thumb over it. 

Dean’s heart is pounding. He’s sure Sam can feel it. His hand is right there. In fact Sam still hasn't taken his eyes off it, and Dean is starting to worry he’s not buying it. 

Before his eyes can process what’s happening, Sam is leaning down, pressing a searing kiss to the raised scar tissue.  

Dean’s breath comes out in a rushed gasp. He feels like someone just kicked him in his chest. “Sammy…” 

“Does it hurt?”

Dean shakes his head.  

“N-No.”

Note: I added these as images so that they can be saved and shared more easily; full transcript of each image in its alt.

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