SPN/NCIS gen fic: Out for Blood 8/9
Apr. 29th, 2007 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
superbadgirlTitle: Out for Blood
Author: SBG
Rating: R, for language
Category: H/C, Angst, A/A, Crossover with NCIS
Season/spoilers: Sometime in S2 for Supernatural (big reference to DMB), S4 for NCIS
Word count: Yeah, uhm, pretty much 40,000
Summary: Someone from Dean and Sam Winchester’s past comes back to haunt them…and they also take a member of the NCIS team.
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke Enterprises and The CW. All things NCIS belong to Bellisarius Productions and CBS.
Previous parts
Part one
Part two
Part three
Part four
Part five
Part six
Part seven
The image of DiNozzo lying on the sidewalk was one Gibbs couldn’t get out of his mind, even as he stood outside the hospital room. Bandages now covered the alarming, mouth-shaped wounds, blankets wrapped around Tony instead of blood-laden jackets. Tony still looked like crap, but it wasn’t his overall terrible condition at the fire scene or now that stuck in Gibbs’ head. It was the way he was lying. When he’d arrived to find the building burning, Tony had been carefully placed in recovery position, with two disposable heating packs tucked beneath the dirty jackets in a commendable attempt to stave off shock until the paramedics arrived. That wasn’t something a kidnapper and would-be murderer would concern himself with.
Gibbs was left feeling conflicted and confused. Sadly, neither was a new sensation.
“DiNutso wake up yet?”
He recognized Fornell’s voice and derogatory reference, and so didn’t bother turning around. Gibbs didn’t bother with an answer either, just shook his head. The doctors had told them it might be a couple of days before Tony was really back with them, and had also expressed concern at the level of psychological trauma that might have happened. He wondered if Tony would be the same person when he finally did awaken. Torture had a tendency to change people’s perspective on so many things.
“When he does, I’m going to want to talk to him.”
That wasn’t Fornell. Gibbs turned around. Beside his FBI counterpart slash pain in the ass stood another agent. A second’s appraisal was all it took for him to dislike the guy, for no discernable reason. His posture, maybe, or the bulldoggish determination in his eyes; both things he usually admired in a person. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Fornell, who shrugged.
“Special Agent Henricksen has this case, Gibbs. I’m just here to make sure things transition smoothly from NCIS to the Bureau.”
“I’ll call you,” Gibbs said, thinking the first face Tony saw when he finally recovered consciousness was not going to be an FBI interrogator’s, “the moment he wakes up.”
“Do that, Agent Gibbs. I know who did this to your man, and I want to see justice served for it, and for the multitude of other crimes committed by these people,” Henricksen said. “Any information he has is vital.”
“The people who did this to DiNozzo are all dead. I think that’s justice enough.”
“That’s what they’d like you to believe.” Henricksen took a step forward, looking earnest and almost obsessed. Gibbs frowned. There was a fine line between determination and obsession. He’d walked that line himself. “I’m not sure you realize who you’re dealing with. Actually, I know you don’t realize. Dean Winchester is someone you do not want to mess with. He’s a dangerous, cold-blooded monster, trained in the art of killing from the time he was about five years old. By his own father. Sam’s less of a threat, but he’s proven he’ll do just about anything for his brother.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of them, probably Sam, broke into your facility and compromised your case, Agent Gibbs. Surely you consider that a problem.”
Gibbs bristled at the reminder, and also figured out whom Henricksen was talking about. So his mystery man had a name, and a brother. Where Henricksen drew negative conclusions, Gibbs started piecing things together in his head a little bit differently. He thought he finally understood what had motivated the guy to cause him so much grief. While the actual break-in and theft would always chafe, he knew what familial bonds could make people do. That included barbarism, so Henricksen might have a valid point. Still, though, he thought of Tony out on that sidewalk, and the phone call leading NCIS directly to his side. This Sam Winchester fellow had also called for an ambulance. He had more reason to dislike that guy more than the FBI agent in front of him, and yet he didn’t.
“Sam distracted you so he and his brother could kill again,” Henricksen said. “Had you running all over the place. I’m telling you, if we hadn’t been held off for as long as we had, the Winchester brothers would be in custody right now.”
Sam Winchester had openly admitted to him that he’d sent them on a fool’s errand, and at the time Gibbs had been angry. After seeing the blaze at the funeral home, Gibbs realized maybe the guy had thought he was somehow protecting them. From his brother? Maybe, but something felt wrong about that assumption as well.
“Yes, clearly your expertise has gone a long way in catching them so far. They left a bloody trail across the US for you to follow, and according to you they’ve been doing similar for years. You couldn’t catch them, and you knew who you were looking for,” Gibbs said. He enjoyed the apoplexy his words caused Henricksen a little too much. He looked at Fornell. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to check on my agent. You can…deal with Director Shepard if you need any more than we’ve already given you. I’m sure you don’t want to waste precious time sitting around waiting for DiNozzo to wake up.”
“There is a possibility his life could still be in danger. They might want to eliminate him as a witness.”
Gibbs raised his eyebrows.
“Is that in their MO?”
“No, but you can never be too safe,” Henricksen said. “I’ll say it again, Agent Gibbs: these Winchesters should not be underestimated.”
Clearly he didn’t have the scope of information Henricksen did, and none of the background. All Gibbs had was his gut, and his gut told him someone who took the care to extract a prisoner and offer rudimentary aid before calling for professional help wasn’t someone who was going to come back and then kill that person while he was in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses and his highly trained friends. His gut was rarely wrong.
“Fine, but if anyone’s going to guard DiNozzo it’s going to be NCIS. I don’t think you have to worry about his safety. He won’t be alone at any time. We’ve got him covered.” He nodded down the corridor, where Ziva and McGee approached. Gibbs glanced at Fornell, and said, “Tobias. Agent Henricksen, I expect you’ll keep me updated on your progress.”
“Jethro.”
Fornell smirked at him and then “transitioned” Henricksen away from him. Gibbs stayed where he was until he saw them get into an elevator. He doubted Tony was going to have much useable information. If he had known anything, he feared it had been tortured right out of him. He frowned. Henricksen had to know that, which made him think the FBI agent’s evidence against these apparently infamous Winchester brothers wasn’t as conclusive as he blustered. He nodded at McGee and Ziva, who looked back toward the elevators.
“Guy thinks he knows who did that to DiNozzo.”
“You don’t agree?”
“He thinks one of the people responsible was the kid who broke in and compromised NCIS,” Gibbs said.
“I don’t believe he is right about that,” Ziva said. “That individual was certainly a pain in the ass, but he exhibited no physical threat. In fact, the 80-year-old vampire impersonator was a better lead.”
“It doesn’t seem to fit,” McGee agreed. “Why would he tell us where to find Tony? For that matter, he wouldn’t have actually helped Tony if he were behind the whole plan.”
“Apparently he’s got a lunatic brother Agent Henricksen’s hot to pin the actual murders on, and our guy is just the clean up crew.”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Ziva said with a thoughtful lilt in her voice.
And she would know. Ziva was honorable, though; had shot her own brother because he was a twisted individual. Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know enough (anything) about the Winchesters to really understand if it was a matter of family loyalty or family psychosis. He’d make it a point to learn more before he made up his mind. He had right to partial access to the FBI’s file, and if Hendrickson had a problem with that…
“There’s not much we can do about any of it at this point,” he said. McGee’s eyebrows shot up. “I have a feeling there’s a hell of a lot more to the story than we’ll ever know. And now’s not the time or place, McGee. I’ll see what I can get out of the FBI later. You guys go ahead. I have to make a phone call.”
He knew Abs was probably pacing by the phone as he spoke. Gibbs gave one last glance into Tony’s room, then quickly headed to the floor’s waiting area to use the phone. He sat down for the first time in hours. As he suspected, Abby answered the phone after the first ring, and before he’d had the chance to get comfortable.
“Gibbs, this had better be you and you’d better tell me that Tony’s going to be okay. I have to wrap up a few things here thanks to the FBI, but then I’m coming straight there. Just for a little while, I know I have a lot of work to do. I always have a lot of work to do. I just have to see for myself that he’s okay. I have to, Gibbs.” He smiled into the phone at her nonstop talking. She must have already consumed her third Caf-Pow. She’d barely managed a breath throughout that whole burst. “Gibbs, hello? Are you there?”
“I’m here, I was just making sure you were done.”
“Sorry, Gibbs. You know how stressed out I’ve been, and being stuck here is not helping.”
“It’s okay. The doctors say Tony’s not going to wake up for a while yet.” She’d actually be bored within minutes of arriving if she came right now. “They also say he’ll make a full recovery. Aside from the blood loss and shock, his physical injuries are pretty superficial. A dislocated shoulder, heavy bruising, some deep abrasions (and by that he meant brutal bites, but no sense going into details), a couple of fingernails ripped off, that’s it. He was actually lucky, all things considered.”
It actually helped him to say all of that out loud, because Tony looked worse than the injuries implied. Stating them like they were items on a shopping list was easy enough, but if he were a betting man, he’d say that actually accumulating that list hadn’t been quite that simple. His mind again reverted to his thoughts on just what it was that Sam Winchester had wanted to keep from them. Gibbs thought about the brother Hendrickson mentioned. Odd that nowhere during the whole embarrassing fiasco had there been any indication of Winchester having a partner. Maybe the Desert Eagle and knife found at the Bowman scene and now totally erased from existence as evidence belonged to the brother. It was circumstantial at best. Hendrickson seemed to think he had a solid case. Now he really wanted to get his hands on information about these notorious Winchesters.
“That doesn’t sound superficial.”
“It doesn’t look it, either,” he admitted. “DiNozzo’s going to be out of commission on his whole gigolo routine for a while, though he’ll probably manage to come up with some angle.”
“I know lots of women who’d jump at the chance to nurse him back to health. Some people have a real thing for hot, wounded men.” He heard the laughter in her voice. She paused. He was about to express his disconcertion at the thread the conversation had taken, but then she said more quietly, “At least he’s alive.”
“Yeah,” Gibbs said, just as quietly. From an investigative standpoint, nothing about this case had gone well. He was glad the one thing that mattered the most had. “At least he’s alive. I’ll call you if there’s more news or he wakes up, okay? In the meantime, keep the FBI lackeys on their toes.”
“I will,” Abby said. “And you’d better call.”
“You know you’re at the top of my list. And Abs? If Agent Henricksen asks probing questions about the guy who hacked us and broke into your lab, be as vague as you can.”
“I don’t want to ask why, do I?”
“No.”
“Okay. For you, vague I can do.”
He hung up and just sat there for a minute or two, head leaned against the sofa’s back. Hospitals always had the most uncomfortable furniture, in waiting rooms, in the actual rooms…everything about a hospital spoke of discomfort, as if family and friends of those ailing interned needed more misery. Gibbs stood up, and pulled himself up out of the depressing thoughts. He walked back to Tony’s room, pausing at the coffee vending machine along the way. He could use a cup, but there was no way he was going to waste his money on the garbage they put in dispensers. There was a coffee bar downstairs. He moved briskly down the corridor.
His attention gravitated to two figures speaking with the charge nurse at the central nurse’s station. He stiffened as one of them straightened to full height and they started walking away. The images of a floppy-haired felon might have been removed from NCIS’ records, but they were imprinted on his memory. The taller of the two was none other than Sam Winchester. He must be crazy, showing up here. Gibbs started walking faster, intent on not letting him get away.
Winchester glanced up, then down, then his head snapped back up again, and their eyes locked at a distance. Just like that, Winchester was moving fast, the other guy in tow. They disappeared into a stairwell when Gibbs was still thirty steps away. He didn’t know why he didn’t raise an alarm or alert anyone else. That would have been the smart thing to do. Gibbs pushed the stairwell door open, took one quick look up and then heard footsteps from a flight or two down.
“Hey, stop,” he shouted. They didn’t stop, but they weren’t moving as quickly as people making an escape should. It didn’t take him long to get close enough to see Sam. “Winchester.”
That made the guy halt, and look up warily.
“How did you…” Sam whispered.
“Know your name? You are on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, after all.” Gibbs watched Winchester flinch, and he kind of enjoyed it but not as much as he’d enjoyed digging at Hendrickson before. There was something so wrong about that. “Is that your brother? Dean, right? We’ve been advised to keep someone on guard with DiNozzo at all times, in case you showed up. And here you are.”
“Dean wanted to return something to Agent DiNozzo and make sure he was going to be okay,” Sam said, nervous and agitated. They were effectively trapped. One word from Gibbs and security would be all over them. “That’s all.”
Dean stayed tucked behind Sam, not hiding, exactly. Gibbs noticed he was holding himself carefully. He leaned down so he could see better, and what he saw…Dean Winchester looked as rough as DiNozzo, beat to holy hell; he might actually look worse. A closer perusal showed Sam had a nice shiner, held his left arm close to his body, and he stood stiffly. Gibbs recognized the latter posture as a sign of injury as well. He frowned. If Dean was the kidnapper and killer, Tony might have inflicted some damage during capture. But he couldn’t have inflicted those extensive wounds, or the hidden injuries Sam had. Dean took a wavering step backward, slumping slightly. Sam caught him gently, and they exchanged words he couldn’t hear. He didn’t have to. He recognized the closeness.
“You did everything you did because they, whoever they are, had your brother, too,” he said. “And whoever they are, they’re vicious sons of bitches.”
“Yes.” Sam twitched a little. “But they won’t ever hurt anyone again.”
There had been nothing left in the building. No identifiable human remains anyway, just an inexplicable and ominous cage. But Sam Winchester was telling him the real killers had been in there and were themselves now dead and gone.
“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you’re giving me pretty good reason to bring you in and let the FBI have you.”
“We’re not bad people, Agent Gibbs, despite what you think or might’ve heard,” Sam said. “We’ve never hurt a person, at least not –”
“Sam… No,” Dean said, finally speaking. He sounded old, tired though he couldn’t have even hit his thirtieth birthday yet. “There’s nothing we can say here that’ll explain it, at least not in a way you’ll believe. Ask Tony.”
“Well, I can’t ask Tony at the moment, can I? He’s lying in a hospital bed after nearly dying,” Gibbs said. Dean said “Tony” like he was a friend of DiNozzo’s. Familiar. Comfortable. “You’re asking me to take your word.”
“Yeah, I guess we are,” Sam said.
Sam glanced at his brother, appearing for all the world like a lost puppy, and then gazed back up at him. If the look on Sam’s face wasn’t a plea for him to look the other way Gibbs didn’t know what was. Gibbs, as strange as it was, found that he believed Sam Winchester. And his brother. He stared for a few more seconds. The only crazy thing about either of them was that Dean was up and walking when he looked like he had one foot in the grave. These kids, and they were just kids to him, weren’t the guilty parties here. The law said he should arrest them right there and then, or at the very least Sam for the felonies he’d committed (not that anything could be proven). He should notify Agent Henricksen.
“You should leave,” Gibbs said, hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Watch your backs. And I don’t want to see you in my city again.”
“Of course,” Sam said softly. “Thank you, Gun…Agent Gibbs.”
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. The kid had almost called him “gunny.” Not sir. That training Hendrickson had alluded to was Corps, which explained a lot and nothing at the same time. He stood where he was as Sam started to usher Dean down the stairs. Dean made a show of resisting the help, but Gibbs saw he let Sam keep a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t made a mistake. He just wished he understood how he knew that.
~~*~~
“That was pretty stupid,” Sam said.
Dean knew that had been coming, he was just surprised it took Sam as long as it did to say it. They were well out of the DC area, and the slight reprimand was really something he had expected before they even exited the hospital. He shifted again, the millionth time he’d done so. No position was comfortable for him, and wouldn’t be for a while. His ribs had taken a major beating and his head hurt like hell. He had no intention of admitting just how sore he was to Sam, though. His brother was already down on him for not letting himself get checked into a hospital. The free clinic doctor had practically gone eye-popping mad when he’d refused, and Sam was right behind him. Dean had fared worse in his day, and not that long ago. At least he hadn’t woken up with a breathing tube down his throat. He twitched a little, and forced himself not to go there.
“Which part?” There’d been much stupidity to choose from, really. Sam darted him a look, which he guessed was supposed to be curious but was filled with the same worried, paranoid expression he’d been on the receiving end for hours now. Like Sam thought he was going to disappear right out of the car. “The part where I got busted by feds and then kidnapped by vampires, the part where you thought it was a good idea to hack a government agency’s computer system, or maybe the little chit chat we had with your good friend whathisname in the stairwell of Bethesda?”
“Well, that last part wasn’t really a choice thing, Dean. What was, was being there in the first place. We wouldn’t have been that close to being taken in if you hadn’t insisted on going. I couldn’t get you to check into a hospital, but you were happy to go to another for visiting hours. Tell me how that makes sense. You could have just mailed the guy his fancy tie, or we could have kept it. It was a nice tie.”
One point to Sam. Actually, about a thousand points to Sam, Dean admitted, for saving his bacon, all the while subverting federal agents. He hadn’t doubted his brother for a minute. Well, if he had to be honest, there were several moments of doubt (and fear and even worry), but his overall faith in Sam remained solid as ever. That was, when he wasn’t preoccupied by the thought of having to save or kill Sam or maybe do both at the same time. Shit, Dean was like the king of disclaimers all of a sudden. He knew it had been dumb to try to make sure DiNozzo really was okay, but it was also something he felt he had to do. Something about sharing a cell and torture with a person made them important enough to check on, and remember.
“It seemed important to him. Besides, it all worked out,” he said, because it wasn’t like he could say any of that other stuff without broaching that excruciating chick flick territory.
“Yeah.” Sam shot him a smile. “It always does.”
So far Dean thought they’d pretty much been lucky more than anything, and that was dangerous. Luck wasn’t like skill. It wasn’t quantifiable and it sure as hell wasn’t reliable. As soon as he could breathe without feeling as though Cossacks were dancing on his chest, he was going to make sure they maintained a more rigorous training schedule. He admitted he could hone up on his research skills, and the same was true for Sam and the more physical aspects of hunting. They both did all right, but all right didn’t always cut it. They could do better.
For now, though, he drifted. The doctor at the free clinic had given him pain meds with slightly more kick than he could get over the counter, and now that Sam had got his slight chastisement out of his system Dean felt himself slipping back into a drowsy haze. Sam ejected the Zepplin tape in favor of the radio, set it to some damned emo station with music that made Dean want to rip his ears off. He attempted to mumble his protest, but it never really happened. He fell asleep instead.
The first sense that came back to him was smell. He smelled blood and sweat and fear and death, which didn’t bode well. Sound was next, though it seemed like he was submerged under water and nothing was clear, no noise intelligible. He thought there were voices, but they sounded far away and hollow. Touch followed. Every bit of him that touched the hard surface beneath his back hurt like hell. Breathing hurt. He tried to remember where he was, where they were, but the specifics of the case eluded him. Something must have happened, something bad.
After what seemed like forever, he managed to open his eyes. The second he blearily saw the ceiling, it all flooded back to him. The cell, the torture, the NCIS agent. The vampires. Sam. The last image Dean had of his brother was Sam pinned by that bitch Kate, seconds from being turned. His heart started racing. He didn’t know what had happened after he’d passed out. He was actually afraid of looking anywhere but at the dull gray ceiling, because if Sam was Sam he’d be right next to Dean, trying to wake him up and that meant Sam was undead or Sam was dead, dead.
Suddenly Sam’s face hovered right above his, then Kate pushed her way into his line of sight. Dean stared in horror, still unable to move, as their faces mutated and transformed vampirically and then distorted further, wobbling as though they were reflections in a fun house mirror.
No. Oh, nonono. It had happened. He’d failed, lost Sam. Sam was a thing, a monster, now. He closed his eyes again, unable or unwilling to see Sam that way. He let himself float in a dark void, let the horrible voice of his not-brother fade behind the dull thrum in his ears. After a few minutes it struck him that he had no choice now but to find a way to kill Sam. He wondered why Sam and Kate hadn’t already ripped him to pieces. He tried to lift an arm, but he couldn’t move. It was as if a thick blanket were on top of him squeezing the air from his lungs and the strength from his muscles. Sam was lost. Gone. Dean had always suspected losing more family would be his undoing, and with Dad gone…and now Sam. He couldn’t.
The pressure on his chest grew. He opened his eyes. Sam’s face was still above his, his gruesome, fanged mouth gaping in a horrific grin. With a deep laugh, Sam descended on him, fangs digging into flesh and ripping.
His heart pounding, Dean bolted upright. Or he tried to, anyway. He didn’t get very far, his rib injuries stabbing their irritation at him. Shit, now he was having nightmares, though he supposed he should be grateful they were of things that might have happened but weren’t going to happen instead of actual portents. He shot a look Sam’s way, hoping against hope that his brother hadn’t noticed his rough return to awareness. Those damned puppy dog eyes were aimed in his direction.
“Dream again?” Sam said, all empathy and sincerity, then looked back to the road.
“Yeah.” Dean winced his way into a more upright position, one hand on his ribs. No use lying about it. “Something like that. Same thing, over and over.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“But you know you can, right?”
“Oh, jeez,” Dean groaned. “Please don’t make me go through this shit.”
“Hey, man, I’m just saying.” Thankfully, Sam didn’t push anything else except the gas pedal. He even took a second to nudge the Zepplin tape back in and turn the volume up a hair. “I think I’m going to pull in at the first skeezy motel I see.”
“Okay.”
Now that was something Dean wouldn’t protest, except maybe the skeezy part. He didn’t know that Gibbs guy from Adam, but something told him the agent wasn’t going to run right to put the FBI on their tails; that didn’t mean they could start poshing up their stays. He was positive Sam had brushed over the details of his exploits while he himself had been locked up, but Sam’s instincts on it seemed to match his own. He sat quietly, and tried not to think about his dream or of Sam turning evil in a much different and, he suspected, worse way than becoming a vampire. It wasn’t so easy to stop the thoughts these days. He’d thought telling Sam what Dad told him would help, but it only made it more unbearable. Shit. He pressed a couple of his fingers against his temple, a futile attempt to keep his head from pounding more.
“You going to make this?”
“Yeah, I’ve had worse.” Dean squinted out the window, into the dark. Sam hadn’t really told him where they were going, he just figured the guy had a plan, the way he drove with purpose. “Where the hell are we?”
“Crossed the border into Kentucky while you were sleeping.”
“Shit, Kentucky. It’s as bad as Florida.” Like it wasn’t bad enough that he’d just endured captivity by a bunch of vampire rednecks? “I swear if we hear even the first few chords of Dueling Banjos, we’re leaving.”
“I didn’t want to go north through Ohio because we’re probably wanted for murder there by now, thanks to Kate. There’s nothing wrong with Kentucky, Dean.”
He nodded halfheartedly, and they didn’t speak again for the next several miles. Dean saw a sign that read “Grayson, 3.” That didn’t sound too terrible. He yawned, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He lifted his head back up and somehow the car was stopped and he was alone. Damned meds. Dean rubbed his eyes, and cracked the door open. He eased out of the car. Sam was probably inside getting the room at the…Knight’s Inn. That promised to be all kinds of classy. He opened the rear door and pulled out their duffel bags, ignoring the subsequent pull on his aching body.
One of them must not have been zipped shut all the way. Something popped out of it, hit the ground and rolled. He groaned. Sam and his stupid girly shampoo for that out of control mop of his. Dean debated leaving it for Sam to retrieve from wherever it had got to, but considering his brother had just broken into a vampire’s lair and rescued him, the least he could do was get the frou-frou shampoo. He wandered slowly, leaning with care for his ribs. The bottle wasn’t on the other side of the Impala. He sighed and kept going toward the crappy little rusted out Dodge Omni that was parked a space away from where Sam had pulled up. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if the shampoo bottle were possessed by some kind of demon or sprite or something. He had to warn Sam that the yellow-eyed demon was trying to turn him by his morning lather. He snorted.
Dean finally spotted the bottle between the two rear tires of the Omni. The car was not much more than a tin can on wheels, but in his current health, he’d have trouble getting the bottle from under there. He gave another shallow sigh and got down on his knees. The things he did for his brother…
“Dean?”
The shout was panicked and deep, it came just as he crawled under the bumper, and it startled Dean enough that he jerked up and just might have made him give himself a concussion. Okay, maybe not, but he did end up on the ground with shards of pain stabbing through him. He took short, quick breaths and tried to put the soreness to the back of his mind.
“Dean?”
What the hell was Sam’s problem? Since he was down there anyway, Dean grabbed the bane of the last five minutes of his life, rolled over and scooted out from under the car. Sam was right there, practically glomped right on top of him.
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam said.
From his horizontal point of view, Sam’s forehead looked all veiny and the rest of his face distorted. Dean cringed, not liking what his mind conjured up. Sam helped him ease up. He shoved the bottle of creamy orange wuss shampoo into his brother’s hands.
“Dude, your friggin’ shampoo rolled out of your bag and all the way over here. I was just picking it up. What’s your problem?”
“Damnit.” Sam sat down next to him, right hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I came out and the car doors were open but you were nowhere to be seen and I thought...”
Oh. He hadn’t even considered that, but then he hadn’t considered picking up a bottle would take Herculean time and effort. He shouldn’t feel unnerved by Sam’s unfounded (this time) panic and concern, because Sam tended toward both of those things naturally. It was just disconcerting to actually know that Sam was freaked out about losing him somehow. In a way, it was also kind of cool. Dean didn’t quite know how to react except to clap Sam on the kneecap awkwardly and look away.
“You were worried. That’s so sweet,” he said, keeping his voice semi-mocking and light.
“You scared the shit out of me, Dean,” Sam said intensely, and suddenly Dean realized he wasn’t really talking about the Shampoo Escapade. “Just…don’t go off by yourself for a while, okay?”
“I can do that.”
And it was true that as fucking boring as it was to sit around while Sam researched, and as Bobbsey Twin-y as it felt to always be joined at the hip, they really were stronger as a pair. As a family. That was a lesson they really should have learned long before now. For him, a lot of it was his inherent need to protect, but there was more to it. Sometimes it was just nice to not be alone.
“Help me up?”
“Yeah.”
Sam hauled him gently to his feet. Dean let his brother grab both duffels and lead them toward the room. The pain in his chest subsided to dull throbbing, but it was probably time for another dose of medicine. He was wiped and could use the sleep anyway. The first thing he did was lie down on the lumpy, somehow the most comfortable thing in the world, bed while Sam puttered around the room.
“So, you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” he said sleepily.
“Sure.” Sam moved over to the bed, stood over him, smiling. “Eventually the Grand Canyon, just like you wanted. But first we’ll be making a stop to see Missouri.”
“But I’ve already seen plenty of…” That was when it dawned on him Sam meant Missouri the person, not the state. He groaned. “Shit, Sam, haven’t I been through enough for one week?”
~~*~~
On to the last part
Just one more quick bit, and then the ride's over, kids, and it's time to get off.
Author: SBG
Rating: R, for language
Category: H/C, Angst, A/A, Crossover with NCIS
Season/spoilers: Sometime in S2 for Supernatural (big reference to DMB), S4 for NCIS
Word count: Yeah, uhm, pretty much 40,000
Summary: Someone from Dean and Sam Winchester’s past comes back to haunt them…and they also take a member of the NCIS team.
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke Enterprises and The CW. All things NCIS belong to Bellisarius Productions and CBS.
Previous parts
Part one
Part two
Part three
Part four
Part five
Part six
Part seven
The image of DiNozzo lying on the sidewalk was one Gibbs couldn’t get out of his mind, even as he stood outside the hospital room. Bandages now covered the alarming, mouth-shaped wounds, blankets wrapped around Tony instead of blood-laden jackets. Tony still looked like crap, but it wasn’t his overall terrible condition at the fire scene or now that stuck in Gibbs’ head. It was the way he was lying. When he’d arrived to find the building burning, Tony had been carefully placed in recovery position, with two disposable heating packs tucked beneath the dirty jackets in a commendable attempt to stave off shock until the paramedics arrived. That wasn’t something a kidnapper and would-be murderer would concern himself with.
Gibbs was left feeling conflicted and confused. Sadly, neither was a new sensation.
“DiNutso wake up yet?”
He recognized Fornell’s voice and derogatory reference, and so didn’t bother turning around. Gibbs didn’t bother with an answer either, just shook his head. The doctors had told them it might be a couple of days before Tony was really back with them, and had also expressed concern at the level of psychological trauma that might have happened. He wondered if Tony would be the same person when he finally did awaken. Torture had a tendency to change people’s perspective on so many things.
“When he does, I’m going to want to talk to him.”
That wasn’t Fornell. Gibbs turned around. Beside his FBI counterpart slash pain in the ass stood another agent. A second’s appraisal was all it took for him to dislike the guy, for no discernable reason. His posture, maybe, or the bulldoggish determination in his eyes; both things he usually admired in a person. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Fornell, who shrugged.
“Special Agent Henricksen has this case, Gibbs. I’m just here to make sure things transition smoothly from NCIS to the Bureau.”
“I’ll call you,” Gibbs said, thinking the first face Tony saw when he finally recovered consciousness was not going to be an FBI interrogator’s, “the moment he wakes up.”
“Do that, Agent Gibbs. I know who did this to your man, and I want to see justice served for it, and for the multitude of other crimes committed by these people,” Henricksen said. “Any information he has is vital.”
“The people who did this to DiNozzo are all dead. I think that’s justice enough.”
“That’s what they’d like you to believe.” Henricksen took a step forward, looking earnest and almost obsessed. Gibbs frowned. There was a fine line between determination and obsession. He’d walked that line himself. “I’m not sure you realize who you’re dealing with. Actually, I know you don’t realize. Dean Winchester is someone you do not want to mess with. He’s a dangerous, cold-blooded monster, trained in the art of killing from the time he was about five years old. By his own father. Sam’s less of a threat, but he’s proven he’ll do just about anything for his brother.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of them, probably Sam, broke into your facility and compromised your case, Agent Gibbs. Surely you consider that a problem.”
Gibbs bristled at the reminder, and also figured out whom Henricksen was talking about. So his mystery man had a name, and a brother. Where Henricksen drew negative conclusions, Gibbs started piecing things together in his head a little bit differently. He thought he finally understood what had motivated the guy to cause him so much grief. While the actual break-in and theft would always chafe, he knew what familial bonds could make people do. That included barbarism, so Henricksen might have a valid point. Still, though, he thought of Tony out on that sidewalk, and the phone call leading NCIS directly to his side. This Sam Winchester fellow had also called for an ambulance. He had more reason to dislike that guy more than the FBI agent in front of him, and yet he didn’t.
“Sam distracted you so he and his brother could kill again,” Henricksen said. “Had you running all over the place. I’m telling you, if we hadn’t been held off for as long as we had, the Winchester brothers would be in custody right now.”
Sam Winchester had openly admitted to him that he’d sent them on a fool’s errand, and at the time Gibbs had been angry. After seeing the blaze at the funeral home, Gibbs realized maybe the guy had thought he was somehow protecting them. From his brother? Maybe, but something felt wrong about that assumption as well.
“Yes, clearly your expertise has gone a long way in catching them so far. They left a bloody trail across the US for you to follow, and according to you they’ve been doing similar for years. You couldn’t catch them, and you knew who you were looking for,” Gibbs said. He enjoyed the apoplexy his words caused Henricksen a little too much. He looked at Fornell. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to check on my agent. You can…deal with Director Shepard if you need any more than we’ve already given you. I’m sure you don’t want to waste precious time sitting around waiting for DiNozzo to wake up.”
“There is a possibility his life could still be in danger. They might want to eliminate him as a witness.”
Gibbs raised his eyebrows.
“Is that in their MO?”
“No, but you can never be too safe,” Henricksen said. “I’ll say it again, Agent Gibbs: these Winchesters should not be underestimated.”
Clearly he didn’t have the scope of information Henricksen did, and none of the background. All Gibbs had was his gut, and his gut told him someone who took the care to extract a prisoner and offer rudimentary aid before calling for professional help wasn’t someone who was going to come back and then kill that person while he was in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses and his highly trained friends. His gut was rarely wrong.
“Fine, but if anyone’s going to guard DiNozzo it’s going to be NCIS. I don’t think you have to worry about his safety. He won’t be alone at any time. We’ve got him covered.” He nodded down the corridor, where Ziva and McGee approached. Gibbs glanced at Fornell, and said, “Tobias. Agent Henricksen, I expect you’ll keep me updated on your progress.”
“Jethro.”
Fornell smirked at him and then “transitioned” Henricksen away from him. Gibbs stayed where he was until he saw them get into an elevator. He doubted Tony was going to have much useable information. If he had known anything, he feared it had been tortured right out of him. He frowned. Henricksen had to know that, which made him think the FBI agent’s evidence against these apparently infamous Winchester brothers wasn’t as conclusive as he blustered. He nodded at McGee and Ziva, who looked back toward the elevators.
“Guy thinks he knows who did that to DiNozzo.”
“You don’t agree?”
“He thinks one of the people responsible was the kid who broke in and compromised NCIS,” Gibbs said.
“I don’t believe he is right about that,” Ziva said. “That individual was certainly a pain in the ass, but he exhibited no physical threat. In fact, the 80-year-old vampire impersonator was a better lead.”
“It doesn’t seem to fit,” McGee agreed. “Why would he tell us where to find Tony? For that matter, he wouldn’t have actually helped Tony if he were behind the whole plan.”
“Apparently he’s got a lunatic brother Agent Henricksen’s hot to pin the actual murders on, and our guy is just the clean up crew.”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Ziva said with a thoughtful lilt in her voice.
And she would know. Ziva was honorable, though; had shot her own brother because he was a twisted individual. Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know enough (anything) about the Winchesters to really understand if it was a matter of family loyalty or family psychosis. He’d make it a point to learn more before he made up his mind. He had right to partial access to the FBI’s file, and if Hendrickson had a problem with that…
“There’s not much we can do about any of it at this point,” he said. McGee’s eyebrows shot up. “I have a feeling there’s a hell of a lot more to the story than we’ll ever know. And now’s not the time or place, McGee. I’ll see what I can get out of the FBI later. You guys go ahead. I have to make a phone call.”
He knew Abs was probably pacing by the phone as he spoke. Gibbs gave one last glance into Tony’s room, then quickly headed to the floor’s waiting area to use the phone. He sat down for the first time in hours. As he suspected, Abby answered the phone after the first ring, and before he’d had the chance to get comfortable.
“Gibbs, this had better be you and you’d better tell me that Tony’s going to be okay. I have to wrap up a few things here thanks to the FBI, but then I’m coming straight there. Just for a little while, I know I have a lot of work to do. I always have a lot of work to do. I just have to see for myself that he’s okay. I have to, Gibbs.” He smiled into the phone at her nonstop talking. She must have already consumed her third Caf-Pow. She’d barely managed a breath throughout that whole burst. “Gibbs, hello? Are you there?”
“I’m here, I was just making sure you were done.”
“Sorry, Gibbs. You know how stressed out I’ve been, and being stuck here is not helping.”
“It’s okay. The doctors say Tony’s not going to wake up for a while yet.” She’d actually be bored within minutes of arriving if she came right now. “They also say he’ll make a full recovery. Aside from the blood loss and shock, his physical injuries are pretty superficial. A dislocated shoulder, heavy bruising, some deep abrasions (and by that he meant brutal bites, but no sense going into details), a couple of fingernails ripped off, that’s it. He was actually lucky, all things considered.”
It actually helped him to say all of that out loud, because Tony looked worse than the injuries implied. Stating them like they were items on a shopping list was easy enough, but if he were a betting man, he’d say that actually accumulating that list hadn’t been quite that simple. His mind again reverted to his thoughts on just what it was that Sam Winchester had wanted to keep from them. Gibbs thought about the brother Hendrickson mentioned. Odd that nowhere during the whole embarrassing fiasco had there been any indication of Winchester having a partner. Maybe the Desert Eagle and knife found at the Bowman scene and now totally erased from existence as evidence belonged to the brother. It was circumstantial at best. Hendrickson seemed to think he had a solid case. Now he really wanted to get his hands on information about these notorious Winchesters.
“That doesn’t sound superficial.”
“It doesn’t look it, either,” he admitted. “DiNozzo’s going to be out of commission on his whole gigolo routine for a while, though he’ll probably manage to come up with some angle.”
“I know lots of women who’d jump at the chance to nurse him back to health. Some people have a real thing for hot, wounded men.” He heard the laughter in her voice. She paused. He was about to express his disconcertion at the thread the conversation had taken, but then she said more quietly, “At least he’s alive.”
“Yeah,” Gibbs said, just as quietly. From an investigative standpoint, nothing about this case had gone well. He was glad the one thing that mattered the most had. “At least he’s alive. I’ll call you if there’s more news or he wakes up, okay? In the meantime, keep the FBI lackeys on their toes.”
“I will,” Abby said. “And you’d better call.”
“You know you’re at the top of my list. And Abs? If Agent Henricksen asks probing questions about the guy who hacked us and broke into your lab, be as vague as you can.”
“I don’t want to ask why, do I?”
“No.”
“Okay. For you, vague I can do.”
He hung up and just sat there for a minute or two, head leaned against the sofa’s back. Hospitals always had the most uncomfortable furniture, in waiting rooms, in the actual rooms…everything about a hospital spoke of discomfort, as if family and friends of those ailing interned needed more misery. Gibbs stood up, and pulled himself up out of the depressing thoughts. He walked back to Tony’s room, pausing at the coffee vending machine along the way. He could use a cup, but there was no way he was going to waste his money on the garbage they put in dispensers. There was a coffee bar downstairs. He moved briskly down the corridor.
His attention gravitated to two figures speaking with the charge nurse at the central nurse’s station. He stiffened as one of them straightened to full height and they started walking away. The images of a floppy-haired felon might have been removed from NCIS’ records, but they were imprinted on his memory. The taller of the two was none other than Sam Winchester. He must be crazy, showing up here. Gibbs started walking faster, intent on not letting him get away.
Winchester glanced up, then down, then his head snapped back up again, and their eyes locked at a distance. Just like that, Winchester was moving fast, the other guy in tow. They disappeared into a stairwell when Gibbs was still thirty steps away. He didn’t know why he didn’t raise an alarm or alert anyone else. That would have been the smart thing to do. Gibbs pushed the stairwell door open, took one quick look up and then heard footsteps from a flight or two down.
“Hey, stop,” he shouted. They didn’t stop, but they weren’t moving as quickly as people making an escape should. It didn’t take him long to get close enough to see Sam. “Winchester.”
That made the guy halt, and look up warily.
“How did you…” Sam whispered.
“Know your name? You are on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, after all.” Gibbs watched Winchester flinch, and he kind of enjoyed it but not as much as he’d enjoyed digging at Hendrickson before. There was something so wrong about that. “Is that your brother? Dean, right? We’ve been advised to keep someone on guard with DiNozzo at all times, in case you showed up. And here you are.”
“Dean wanted to return something to Agent DiNozzo and make sure he was going to be okay,” Sam said, nervous and agitated. They were effectively trapped. One word from Gibbs and security would be all over them. “That’s all.”
Dean stayed tucked behind Sam, not hiding, exactly. Gibbs noticed he was holding himself carefully. He leaned down so he could see better, and what he saw…Dean Winchester looked as rough as DiNozzo, beat to holy hell; he might actually look worse. A closer perusal showed Sam had a nice shiner, held his left arm close to his body, and he stood stiffly. Gibbs recognized the latter posture as a sign of injury as well. He frowned. If Dean was the kidnapper and killer, Tony might have inflicted some damage during capture. But he couldn’t have inflicted those extensive wounds, or the hidden injuries Sam had. Dean took a wavering step backward, slumping slightly. Sam caught him gently, and they exchanged words he couldn’t hear. He didn’t have to. He recognized the closeness.
“You did everything you did because they, whoever they are, had your brother, too,” he said. “And whoever they are, they’re vicious sons of bitches.”
“Yes.” Sam twitched a little. “But they won’t ever hurt anyone again.”
There had been nothing left in the building. No identifiable human remains anyway, just an inexplicable and ominous cage. But Sam Winchester was telling him the real killers had been in there and were themselves now dead and gone.
“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you’re giving me pretty good reason to bring you in and let the FBI have you.”
“We’re not bad people, Agent Gibbs, despite what you think or might’ve heard,” Sam said. “We’ve never hurt a person, at least not –”
“Sam… No,” Dean said, finally speaking. He sounded old, tired though he couldn’t have even hit his thirtieth birthday yet. “There’s nothing we can say here that’ll explain it, at least not in a way you’ll believe. Ask Tony.”
“Well, I can’t ask Tony at the moment, can I? He’s lying in a hospital bed after nearly dying,” Gibbs said. Dean said “Tony” like he was a friend of DiNozzo’s. Familiar. Comfortable. “You’re asking me to take your word.”
“Yeah, I guess we are,” Sam said.
Sam glanced at his brother, appearing for all the world like a lost puppy, and then gazed back up at him. If the look on Sam’s face wasn’t a plea for him to look the other way Gibbs didn’t know what was. Gibbs, as strange as it was, found that he believed Sam Winchester. And his brother. He stared for a few more seconds. The only crazy thing about either of them was that Dean was up and walking when he looked like he had one foot in the grave. These kids, and they were just kids to him, weren’t the guilty parties here. The law said he should arrest them right there and then, or at the very least Sam for the felonies he’d committed (not that anything could be proven). He should notify Agent Henricksen.
“You should leave,” Gibbs said, hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Watch your backs. And I don’t want to see you in my city again.”
“Of course,” Sam said softly. “Thank you, Gun…Agent Gibbs.”
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. The kid had almost called him “gunny.” Not sir. That training Hendrickson had alluded to was Corps, which explained a lot and nothing at the same time. He stood where he was as Sam started to usher Dean down the stairs. Dean made a show of resisting the help, but Gibbs saw he let Sam keep a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t made a mistake. He just wished he understood how he knew that.
~~*~~
“That was pretty stupid,” Sam said.
Dean knew that had been coming, he was just surprised it took Sam as long as it did to say it. They were well out of the DC area, and the slight reprimand was really something he had expected before they even exited the hospital. He shifted again, the millionth time he’d done so. No position was comfortable for him, and wouldn’t be for a while. His ribs had taken a major beating and his head hurt like hell. He had no intention of admitting just how sore he was to Sam, though. His brother was already down on him for not letting himself get checked into a hospital. The free clinic doctor had practically gone eye-popping mad when he’d refused, and Sam was right behind him. Dean had fared worse in his day, and not that long ago. At least he hadn’t woken up with a breathing tube down his throat. He twitched a little, and forced himself not to go there.
“Which part?” There’d been much stupidity to choose from, really. Sam darted him a look, which he guessed was supposed to be curious but was filled with the same worried, paranoid expression he’d been on the receiving end for hours now. Like Sam thought he was going to disappear right out of the car. “The part where I got busted by feds and then kidnapped by vampires, the part where you thought it was a good idea to hack a government agency’s computer system, or maybe the little chit chat we had with your good friend whathisname in the stairwell of Bethesda?”
“Well, that last part wasn’t really a choice thing, Dean. What was, was being there in the first place. We wouldn’t have been that close to being taken in if you hadn’t insisted on going. I couldn’t get you to check into a hospital, but you were happy to go to another for visiting hours. Tell me how that makes sense. You could have just mailed the guy his fancy tie, or we could have kept it. It was a nice tie.”
One point to Sam. Actually, about a thousand points to Sam, Dean admitted, for saving his bacon, all the while subverting federal agents. He hadn’t doubted his brother for a minute. Well, if he had to be honest, there were several moments of doubt (and fear and even worry), but his overall faith in Sam remained solid as ever. That was, when he wasn’t preoccupied by the thought of having to save or kill Sam or maybe do both at the same time. Shit, Dean was like the king of disclaimers all of a sudden. He knew it had been dumb to try to make sure DiNozzo really was okay, but it was also something he felt he had to do. Something about sharing a cell and torture with a person made them important enough to check on, and remember.
“It seemed important to him. Besides, it all worked out,” he said, because it wasn’t like he could say any of that other stuff without broaching that excruciating chick flick territory.
“Yeah.” Sam shot him a smile. “It always does.”
So far Dean thought they’d pretty much been lucky more than anything, and that was dangerous. Luck wasn’t like skill. It wasn’t quantifiable and it sure as hell wasn’t reliable. As soon as he could breathe without feeling as though Cossacks were dancing on his chest, he was going to make sure they maintained a more rigorous training schedule. He admitted he could hone up on his research skills, and the same was true for Sam and the more physical aspects of hunting. They both did all right, but all right didn’t always cut it. They could do better.
For now, though, he drifted. The doctor at the free clinic had given him pain meds with slightly more kick than he could get over the counter, and now that Sam had got his slight chastisement out of his system Dean felt himself slipping back into a drowsy haze. Sam ejected the Zepplin tape in favor of the radio, set it to some damned emo station with music that made Dean want to rip his ears off. He attempted to mumble his protest, but it never really happened. He fell asleep instead.
The first sense that came back to him was smell. He smelled blood and sweat and fear and death, which didn’t bode well. Sound was next, though it seemed like he was submerged under water and nothing was clear, no noise intelligible. He thought there were voices, but they sounded far away and hollow. Touch followed. Every bit of him that touched the hard surface beneath his back hurt like hell. Breathing hurt. He tried to remember where he was, where they were, but the specifics of the case eluded him. Something must have happened, something bad.
After what seemed like forever, he managed to open his eyes. The second he blearily saw the ceiling, it all flooded back to him. The cell, the torture, the NCIS agent. The vampires. Sam. The last image Dean had of his brother was Sam pinned by that bitch Kate, seconds from being turned. His heart started racing. He didn’t know what had happened after he’d passed out. He was actually afraid of looking anywhere but at the dull gray ceiling, because if Sam was Sam he’d be right next to Dean, trying to wake him up and that meant Sam was undead or Sam was dead, dead.
Suddenly Sam’s face hovered right above his, then Kate pushed her way into his line of sight. Dean stared in horror, still unable to move, as their faces mutated and transformed vampirically and then distorted further, wobbling as though they were reflections in a fun house mirror.
No. Oh, nonono. It had happened. He’d failed, lost Sam. Sam was a thing, a monster, now. He closed his eyes again, unable or unwilling to see Sam that way. He let himself float in a dark void, let the horrible voice of his not-brother fade behind the dull thrum in his ears. After a few minutes it struck him that he had no choice now but to find a way to kill Sam. He wondered why Sam and Kate hadn’t already ripped him to pieces. He tried to lift an arm, but he couldn’t move. It was as if a thick blanket were on top of him squeezing the air from his lungs and the strength from his muscles. Sam was lost. Gone. Dean had always suspected losing more family would be his undoing, and with Dad gone…and now Sam. He couldn’t.
The pressure on his chest grew. He opened his eyes. Sam’s face was still above his, his gruesome, fanged mouth gaping in a horrific grin. With a deep laugh, Sam descended on him, fangs digging into flesh and ripping.
His heart pounding, Dean bolted upright. Or he tried to, anyway. He didn’t get very far, his rib injuries stabbing their irritation at him. Shit, now he was having nightmares, though he supposed he should be grateful they were of things that might have happened but weren’t going to happen instead of actual portents. He shot a look Sam’s way, hoping against hope that his brother hadn’t noticed his rough return to awareness. Those damned puppy dog eyes were aimed in his direction.
“Dream again?” Sam said, all empathy and sincerity, then looked back to the road.
“Yeah.” Dean winced his way into a more upright position, one hand on his ribs. No use lying about it. “Something like that. Same thing, over and over.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“But you know you can, right?”
“Oh, jeez,” Dean groaned. “Please don’t make me go through this shit.”
“Hey, man, I’m just saying.” Thankfully, Sam didn’t push anything else except the gas pedal. He even took a second to nudge the Zepplin tape back in and turn the volume up a hair. “I think I’m going to pull in at the first skeezy motel I see.”
“Okay.”
Now that was something Dean wouldn’t protest, except maybe the skeezy part. He didn’t know that Gibbs guy from Adam, but something told him the agent wasn’t going to run right to put the FBI on their tails; that didn’t mean they could start poshing up their stays. He was positive Sam had brushed over the details of his exploits while he himself had been locked up, but Sam’s instincts on it seemed to match his own. He sat quietly, and tried not to think about his dream or of Sam turning evil in a much different and, he suspected, worse way than becoming a vampire. It wasn’t so easy to stop the thoughts these days. He’d thought telling Sam what Dad told him would help, but it only made it more unbearable. Shit. He pressed a couple of his fingers against his temple, a futile attempt to keep his head from pounding more.
“You going to make this?”
“Yeah, I’ve had worse.” Dean squinted out the window, into the dark. Sam hadn’t really told him where they were going, he just figured the guy had a plan, the way he drove with purpose. “Where the hell are we?”
“Crossed the border into Kentucky while you were sleeping.”
“Shit, Kentucky. It’s as bad as Florida.” Like it wasn’t bad enough that he’d just endured captivity by a bunch of vampire rednecks? “I swear if we hear even the first few chords of Dueling Banjos, we’re leaving.”
“I didn’t want to go north through Ohio because we’re probably wanted for murder there by now, thanks to Kate. There’s nothing wrong with Kentucky, Dean.”
He nodded halfheartedly, and they didn’t speak again for the next several miles. Dean saw a sign that read “Grayson, 3.” That didn’t sound too terrible. He yawned, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He lifted his head back up and somehow the car was stopped and he was alone. Damned meds. Dean rubbed his eyes, and cracked the door open. He eased out of the car. Sam was probably inside getting the room at the…Knight’s Inn. That promised to be all kinds of classy. He opened the rear door and pulled out their duffel bags, ignoring the subsequent pull on his aching body.
One of them must not have been zipped shut all the way. Something popped out of it, hit the ground and rolled. He groaned. Sam and his stupid girly shampoo for that out of control mop of his. Dean debated leaving it for Sam to retrieve from wherever it had got to, but considering his brother had just broken into a vampire’s lair and rescued him, the least he could do was get the frou-frou shampoo. He wandered slowly, leaning with care for his ribs. The bottle wasn’t on the other side of the Impala. He sighed and kept going toward the crappy little rusted out Dodge Omni that was parked a space away from where Sam had pulled up. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if the shampoo bottle were possessed by some kind of demon or sprite or something. He had to warn Sam that the yellow-eyed demon was trying to turn him by his morning lather. He snorted.
Dean finally spotted the bottle between the two rear tires of the Omni. The car was not much more than a tin can on wheels, but in his current health, he’d have trouble getting the bottle from under there. He gave another shallow sigh and got down on his knees. The things he did for his brother…
“Dean?”
The shout was panicked and deep, it came just as he crawled under the bumper, and it startled Dean enough that he jerked up and just might have made him give himself a concussion. Okay, maybe not, but he did end up on the ground with shards of pain stabbing through him. He took short, quick breaths and tried to put the soreness to the back of his mind.
“Dean?”
What the hell was Sam’s problem? Since he was down there anyway, Dean grabbed the bane of the last five minutes of his life, rolled over and scooted out from under the car. Sam was right there, practically glomped right on top of him.
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam said.
From his horizontal point of view, Sam’s forehead looked all veiny and the rest of his face distorted. Dean cringed, not liking what his mind conjured up. Sam helped him ease up. He shoved the bottle of creamy orange wuss shampoo into his brother’s hands.
“Dude, your friggin’ shampoo rolled out of your bag and all the way over here. I was just picking it up. What’s your problem?”
“Damnit.” Sam sat down next to him, right hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I came out and the car doors were open but you were nowhere to be seen and I thought...”
Oh. He hadn’t even considered that, but then he hadn’t considered picking up a bottle would take Herculean time and effort. He shouldn’t feel unnerved by Sam’s unfounded (this time) panic and concern, because Sam tended toward both of those things naturally. It was just disconcerting to actually know that Sam was freaked out about losing him somehow. In a way, it was also kind of cool. Dean didn’t quite know how to react except to clap Sam on the kneecap awkwardly and look away.
“You were worried. That’s so sweet,” he said, keeping his voice semi-mocking and light.
“You scared the shit out of me, Dean,” Sam said intensely, and suddenly Dean realized he wasn’t really talking about the Shampoo Escapade. “Just…don’t go off by yourself for a while, okay?”
“I can do that.”
And it was true that as fucking boring as it was to sit around while Sam researched, and as Bobbsey Twin-y as it felt to always be joined at the hip, they really were stronger as a pair. As a family. That was a lesson they really should have learned long before now. For him, a lot of it was his inherent need to protect, but there was more to it. Sometimes it was just nice to not be alone.
“Help me up?”
“Yeah.”
Sam hauled him gently to his feet. Dean let his brother grab both duffels and lead them toward the room. The pain in his chest subsided to dull throbbing, but it was probably time for another dose of medicine. He was wiped and could use the sleep anyway. The first thing he did was lie down on the lumpy, somehow the most comfortable thing in the world, bed while Sam puttered around the room.
“So, you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” he said sleepily.
“Sure.” Sam moved over to the bed, stood over him, smiling. “Eventually the Grand Canyon, just like you wanted. But first we’ll be making a stop to see Missouri.”
“But I’ve already seen plenty of…” That was when it dawned on him Sam meant Missouri the person, not the state. He groaned. “Shit, Sam, haven’t I been through enough for one week?”
~~*~~
On to the last part
Just one more quick bit, and then the ride's over, kids, and it's time to get off.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-04-30 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:26 pm (UTC)I figured Gibbs has, in the past, made exceptions, and though that kind of makes me uncomfortable I just had to figure he'd do the same for Sam and Dean. Despite Sam being a terrific pain in his rear end. Hee hee.
Thank you!
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Date: 2007-04-30 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 02:57 am (UTC)Whew, thank goodness! What a ride this has been! Even though I don't know the NCIS fandom, you made the characters real enough that I really cared about them and enjoyed their relationships, and you scared hell outta me regarding both Tony and Dean, a few times! LOL!
Well, as we coast into the final chapter, I'll just be over here peeling my fingernails out of the upholstery and learning to breathe evently again ... ;-) Great job, fun story!
Cheers ~
Erin
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Date: 2007-04-30 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:29 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you stuck with it - major kudos to you. LOL, most of the reason I was nervous about this story is that I don't generally read crossovers myself...
Hugs!
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Date: 2007-04-30 01:47 pm (UTC)Only one more chapter :-(
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Date: 2007-04-30 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-30 03:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 04:31 pm (UTC)Thank you for your support throughout the whole tale!
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Date: 2009-02-12 01:10 pm (UTC)Love the monumental Shampoo Rescue. Poor Dean!
:)