A/N: This story is a tag to Folsum Prison Blues in Supernatural's timeline, takes place after In the Dark in the NCIS universe. Story originally appeared in Rooftop Confessions #4, edited by GriffinSong Press

Federal Express

by Swellison

Dean Winchester followed his brother through the motel room door and closed it behind him. He shifted his hold on the weapons bag as Sam stopped short just inside the room, halting in front of the bed nearest the door. For a moment, Dean thought that Sam was going to throw his duffel on that queen-sized bed, claiming the wrong one. Sam's eyes flicked towards Dean's face, and then he stepped further into the room and dropped his duffel on the farther bed, his usual digs.

Dean dropped his own duffel on the closest bed, and bent over to shove the weapons bag underneath. Instead of the open access he was expecting, the duffel bumped against the hard wood platform that anchored the bed. Dean sighed. That's the problem with better motels, their furniture's built too well, he thought as he moved over to the lowboy along the interior wall opposite the beds. He opened the bottom right drawer and deposited the weapons bag. As he closed the drawer, he noted it slid smoothly shut, closing level with the rest of the drawers on the solid mahogany piece. Dean straightened, his gaze scanning the room from its cream-colored walls, to the dark bedroom suite furniture, desk and chairs. No sticky drawers, missing or mismatched furniture in this fine establishment. The room's theme appeared to be cozy and clean, and it didn't use vibrant colors and over-the-top accessories to carry it out.

"Why are we stopping here, Dean? Does Harpers Ferry have a hunt that I don't know about?" Sam still stood next to his bed, contemplating the colorful, but tasteful red, blue and gold geometric pattern on the bedspread.

Dean knew that Sam was worried, but his brother's tone came across as angry sarcasm. "No, no hunt here."

"Then why are we paying about double what we usually spend on a room that doesn't have a kitchenette, or even a refrigerator?"

Dean smiled. "Technically, we're not paying for the room, Ed Johnston is," he said mildly.

"Not funny, Dean."

"No, I guess not. Did you notice the other cars in the parking lot?"

"The lot's almost full; it's hard to miss them, so?"

"Notice the license plates?" At Sam's uncertain nod, he continued. "Everything from Florida to Wyoming. It's a tourist trap, Sam, they're used to out-of-state plates, and we'll blend right in. Plus we've got our new Ohio plates. We're a thousand miles from Little Rock, staying at a motel above our usual standards. No one would even think of looking for us here."

"Are you sure about that? Henriksen turned up in Little Rock a lot faster than you thought he would."

"Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think." Dean watched as Sam's eyes widened at his words, and he knew that Sam also heard the echo from months ago, when they were chasing that zombie, shortly after Dad's death. Damn, I didn't think being incarcerated threw me that much off my game. Dean had adjusted to their situation in the Green River Detention Center fairly quickly, and discovered that he could not only survive, but actually thrive behind bars. The same couldn't be said for Sammy, who still had a hard time sleeping several days after their escape. Dean ran his hand down his jeans. "Look, we changed the plates on the car; we're holing up in an unexpected location, using a credit card with an ordinary, non-rock star name. We're staying at a higher-class motel than our usual accommodations. I've done everything I can to break our pattern. Henriksen isn't gonna find us here."

Sam stared at Dean and then sighed. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Hey, I'm the big brother, I'm always right." Dean sat down on the bed he'd claimed, bending to unlace his boots. He kicked his shoes off and stretched out, wriggling his socked toes. "And for doubting me, you're gonna go get dinner."

"What?"

"I've been driving all day, and I'm hungry."

"I'm hungry, too. Why don't we just order room service?"

"I don't want over-priced fancy food; I want some nice, juicy diner food."

"What about a pizza?" Sam offered in compromise.

"Diner food, nice juicy diner food," Dean reiterated.

"You mean greasy—nice greasy diner food."

Dean grew tired of looking so far up at Sam, and switched from reclining on the bed to sitting up on it. "And fudge—these kinds of tourist traps always have the best fudge. Get me some fudge."

Sam sighed. "You're incorrigible."

"Damn straight," Dean agreed. "Now, get going." He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them towards Sam, who automatically caught them.

"All right, I'm going," Sam grumbled. He crossed the room to the door, opened it and slipped out.

"Don't forget the fudge!" Dean reminded him as the door closed solidly. Dean stared at the silent TV for several seconds, and then reached for the remote on the nightstand between the two beds. He scrolled through the current offerings, decided there was nothing on that he couldn't live without seeing and clicked off the set. Then he stared at the door for a good long minute before rising from the bed and retrieving the weapons bag from the lowboy. He unzipped the bag and dug out his throwaway pre-paidcell phone. Returning to the bed, he flipped it open. He tapped the back of the case a few times before punching in a number from memory.

SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS

Leroy Jethro Gibbs finished smoothing the bow of the wooden boat he was currently constructing in his basement. The top frame was now completely assembled and the next step would be to attach the dozen or so pre-cut pieces that would make up the boat's roof. He eyed the stack of assorted wood pieces and wondered if he really wanted to tackle the exacting and time-consuming job of assembling themtonight. Each piece had to be painstakingly hammered to its proper place on the frame, and any necessary adjustments in width and length of the unique pieces had to be made, too. Working on his first boat had taught him that corrections and adjustments were the norm for self-measured wood pieces, not the exception.

Deciding that a beer wouldn't be amiss, Gibbs walked towards his mini-fridge and extracted a longneck. Before he could even pop the cap, his cell phone rang. Gibbs shot a mildly annoyed look at the phone, but walked over to the worktable and grabbed it. He placed his beer on the tabletop and glanced idly at the display, reading Unknown Caller as he snapped the phone open. "Hello."

"Is this Gibbs?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

A pause, then, "My dad says you're the only Fed he trusts. Says I can trust you, too."

Gibbs' eyebrows rose. "Your dad's right, son," he replied, soothingly, although he knew by the timber of the caller's voice that he was talking to a man, not a boy. "Who is he, by the way?"

Another pause. "You call him Buster."

Buster? Gibbs mentally searched his friends and contacts, and then figuratively snapped his fingers as the connection was made. John Winchester, the Ghostbuster. His mind's eye produced the image of the grizzled, rugged face of a man about his age, with penetrating hazel eyes that had seen too much. Arrogantbastard, had been Gibbs' first impression, three and a half years ago. Definitely a Marine. "Good old Buster. How is he, by the way?"

"You know Dad, always flying under the radar." His caller cleared his throat. "He's keeping a low profile, these days."

"So, what can I do for you?" Gibbs asked, noting that his caller had refrained from giving him any real names.

"I need the case file on me and my brother, Sam." The voice was flat. "FBI Special Agent Victor Henriksen is the agent of record."

Well. When the kid decided to drop a name, he picked a doozie. "It'll take me a day or so to get that. Why don't you drop by my house Saturday morning? You know the address, right?"

"Yes, but that won't work. You can see the Capitol Building from your driveway, and that's too close for comfort. Pick another location."

For someone asking for help, the kid was on the demanding side, Gibbs mused. Like father, like son.

"Tippy's Taco House, on the Lee Highway in Fairfax," Gibbs said, after a half-minute spent considering other options. "You'll love it--best Tex-Mex in the DC area. Meet me there at 11:15 Saturday morning. Place opens at 11, so it won't be packed, yet." A sudden thought struck him. "D'you know what I look like?"

His caller barked a laugh. "Oh, yeah, Dad's described you a time or two. You still tall and skinny with a grown-out military haircut? Don't worry, I'll find you. Tippy's Taco House, Fairfax, 11:15 Saturday. Got it." He echoed back the information, hesitated one last time. "Thanks, Gibbs."

The call disconnected and Gibbs snapped his cell closed, placing it back on the worktable and exchanging it for his still-unopened beer bottle. He popped the cap and walked over to the stairway, plunking down on the third step. Reflectively, he took a swig of beer.

He'd met John Winchester on his most unusual case to date, three and a half years ago. Gibbs had been trying to solve a multiple murder. Three people killed by a dead man; a soldier who'd recently returned from Iraq in a government-issued black coffin. He'd found that hard to swallow, yet he had two completely credible witnesses who swore that they'd seen Ensign Fred Oliver leaving the crime scenes. Stumped, Gibbs had sought a second opinion from Davidson, a colleague of his at NCIS who was also a former Marine. Davidson had let Gibbs talk, and then said he could arrange a meeting between Gibbs and a specialist, but Gibbs had to keep an open mind. Intrigued, Gibbs had agreed and Davidson set up a meet, in a slightly unsavory bar in Manassas, where the victims and the dead man had all lived.

tbc