Author's note: Well, my high-speed WI-fi connection is turning out not to be as entirely high-speed as I'd like it to be, especially on overcast days like today. Sometimes when I click on a link it loads immediately and sometimes it takes it a few minutes. I discovered this when I started trying to reply to reviews and it quickly became obvious that if I reply individually to each lovely person who has left me a review, it's going to be a very long process and it's going to have to come out of my writing time. Since I figured you'd all rather have another chapter than a PM, I'm going to take the quicker option and thank everyone at once, here. I do hope you each know how very much I appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think of my story!
My thanks to: dnachemlia, .angel, The OMG Cat, deathnoteno1fan-codegeasslover, mouse8, lilykep, 81, celestial-vail, Endgame65, psychee, Evergreen, NCISxSPM4TW, Lawsy89, DLillith21, aloha94, Vampirecat1191, DellaVie, BranchSuper, magamom2, Niweeg, The Archivist613, DinaLori, Katerbell, FinalndNative, emebalia, silmarlfan1, Jouaint, SkyHighFan, Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands, Artemis's best Huntress, Tango Dancer,psylocke23, remerkaba, M, MissiYoung, won't be the Victim, TygerC, TanyaUchiha, Dorothy4, The Blasphemous Contessa, The Slightly Demented, HerDrakness, antra, Victoria Wolf, Zephyria-Lunae, AliceRoseWillson, Squirl, 123me321you, Shining Sunny, Garrus, Firadraco, angelcat70, peppymint, Colleen, ParkerAlexis88, essebes, The Sweetest Words, JinxedCobra, pottyandweezlebe89, kingdommast, guerrero, g, winka, ToffifeeKat, usukfan555, Can'tStopSmilingAllDay, sg2009, Ophite68, Allyanna, ash, Kittenseal, Samtastic, Midnight Muse, Shamangrrl, Hinn-Raven, me, Fialisen, Valkier, Spike847, mwjen, liliaeth, BondWoman007, ndmzero, smlg29, amby-air, ashwingsmokefeather, busigt-81, kiryn, ManicTater, Cosmic Egg, elidear, JapaneseAnimeFreak16, zabani-chan, Windstorm124, and WinJennster
Also, a special thanks to DellaVie, for pointing out that I got the name of McQueen's character in The Great Escape wrong. When I re-watched The Usual Suspects I thought the note said "Hilty" but it should have been "Hilts". I also misunderstood the name of the business where Claire's body was hidden. I thought it was "Ashland Supermarket" but it should have been "Ashland Supplies". Thanks to SkyHighFan for calling that to my attention. I've fixed both those errors in the last chapter. I hope that didn't prompt ffnet to send out spurious alerts! Sorry if it did.
Finally, in my first chapter author's note I said that eventually we would come to a point where POV started going back and forth between the NCIS characters and the Supernatural characters in the same chapters. Well, here we are. Thanks again, everyone, for sticking with me thus far. I hope you continue to enjoy the ride.
Disclaimer: I have no control over my cats.
Chapter 8: The Big Bang Theory
"I'm ready to share my theory now," Tony said.
"We're all ears," Gibbs replied laconically.
Tony glanced around, taking stock of his audience. Ziva had come in just behind Gibbs and Ducky and McGee was still at his desk, surrounded by file folders.
"It's pretty complicated. I'd like to get Abby up here first, to answer any technical questions as they arise."
McGee looked up. "Uh, Abby's not here. She went to lunch," he checked his watch, "almost an hour ago. She should be back pretty soon, though."
"Call her up," Gibbs said. "Find out when to expect her."
McGee reached over to his desk phone, hit the button to put it on speaker and used speed dial to call Abby.
She answered on the first ring, voice tense.
"McGee! I'm in a vacant lot off Business Loop 12 near the Industrial Parkway. You guys need to get here. Bring the crime scene van. And a bomb squad."
"Bomb squad?" Gibbs crossed over to McGee's desk and leaned into the phone, voice urgent. "Abby, what -?"
Before he could finish his sentence there was a sudden commotion at the other end of the line, a sound of running, a muffled shout, a gasp from Abby and then a massive explosion.
The phone line went dead.
NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . .
Half an hour earlier:
The restaurant was called Nutzen Boltz and it was owned and operated by members of a now-defunct Death Metal band Abby had known since they first started trying to make a go of their music in D.C.-area clubs and leather bars. She hadn't been surprised when the band went under - it's hard for even vast amounts of enthusiasm to make up for a lack of talent. Fortunately, they were better cooks than they had been musicians. Nutzen Boltz was a vegan cafe that sourced all their produce locally and was heavy on environmental themes. It was located in an old warehouse in a run-down industrial park that was slowly being re-claimed by artists, writers, crafters, and musicians. Abby tried to make their weekly poetry luncheon at least once a month.
She was on her way back to NCIS headquarters, traveling along a wide thoroughfare that had once seen heavy traffic but was now nearly deserted, when she spotted the Chevy Impala on her tail.
Later, when those few passers-by who witnessed the incident were questioned, every last one of them would swear it was a black, 1967 Chevy Impala and that Dean Winchester was driving and Sam Winchester was on the passenger side. Abby, though, knew cars better than most mechanics. She also knew exactly what the Winchesters looked like. And she had a better view than anyone of the Impala's occupants, as it roared up alongside her on a straight stretch. The passenger gave her an evil smile and pointed a gun at her head.
She hit the brake and flinched away as a gunshot rang out, but no bullet entered her car. Instead, the gun flew out of the gunman's hand and he recoiled in shock. As Abby's roadster fell back a second Impala passed her, hot on the first one's tail. This was a '67. Sam Winchester was behind the wheel while Dean leaned out the passenger window, face grim, handgun trained on the car ahead of them.
Wind from the slipstream ruffled through his short, blond hair and the sleeve of his flannel over-shirt rippled and snapped like a flag caught in a gale, but his gaze was steady. Abby had only a glimpse of him as she braked and Sam accelerated, but in that instant she was struck by a sudden sense of security. There was a resoluteness of purpose about him, a sureness of action that reminded her of Gibbs.
As the Winchesters pulled up next to the imposters, Abby grabbed her cell and dialed 911. She put it to her ear, but there was nothing - no ring, no dial tone, no reassuring voice of the emergency operator. A quick glance showed that she had no signal, which was crazy. Someone must have been blocking cell phone reception. Dropping it on the seat beside her, she followed after the speeding black cars.
Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . .
Dean put the safety on his gun and dropped it on the floorboard. He opened the glove box and grabbed a can of spray paint.
"See if you can get up next to him."
"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, giving the spray paint a doubtful glance.
"Just get up next to him and watch."
Obediently, Sam increased his speed, pulling up until Dean's window was even with the other car's trunk.
"Don't let him hit my baby," Dean said. With a sudden movement, he pulled his feet up into the seat and launched himself head-first out the window and onto the trunk of the other Impala.
Sam swore vehemently and swerved away, dropping back and hoping Cas was available and that he had the mojo to bring Dean back from the dead.
Twice. Because after the first time, Sam was damn well going to kill him again!
NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . .
Pacing the two Impalas at speeds she didn't dare look at, Abby swallowed the lump in her throat that she was sure was her heart and grabbed her cell again. Again she dialed 911, but her phone was still dead. Frustrated, she started just hitting re-dial. She was hoping they were going to need an ambulance. She was pretty sure they were going to need a body bag instead.
The phony Dean Winchester, driving the lead Impala, was swerving and fishtailing wildly, trying to dislodge the real Dean Winchester from his precarious perch on the car's trunk. Dean (the real one) had gotten a purchase on the chrome across the top of the back window with his left hand and braced his feet in the corners of the window. He was waving his right hand in circles over the roof of the car. Abby caught the glint of sunlight on silver and realized he was wielding a can of spray paint.
Oh, my God! He's insane!
He tossed the can away and got a better grip on the window. She could see his mouth moving, but she was too far away to read his lips.
The road twisted and curved, winding down to go under a tangle of overpasses and railroad bridges. In the alternating patches of deep shadow and bright sunlight, the black cars seemed to flicker like images on an old film reel.
They came out from under the last overpass and the road stretched straight, level and empty ahead of them. Dean let loose with his left hand and waved his brother forward. Sam obediently pulled up next to the trunk of the lead Impala and Dean again threw himself from one car to the other. He rolled across the hood of his own vehicle and Sam, driving masterfully, compensated for his momentum by pulling to the left and speeding up. Dean, his slide towards the pavement on the car's driver's side halted, rolled back up and came to rest against the windshield.
Only then did Sam brake, and gently, pulling the car off the road into a vacant lot and rolling to a stop. Abby followed them, letting the other Impala with the imposters disappear into the distance.
She jumped out of her car at the same time Sam got out of theirs, tucked her still-useless phone into her pocket and ran over to them. Up until this point she had been too busy dealing with events as they happened to think about it. Now shock and adrenaline were setting in, leaving her shaking and rattled. A scientist first, always, she fell back on the one thing she knew to be true in all this.
"That was impossible," she said, distracting Sam, who was reaching for his brother with a mixture of concern and murder in his eyes.
Dean, curled against the windshield, rolled over and stretched out spread-eagled across the hood. His face and upper body were speckled with light blue where the wind had tossed the spray paint back at him and he was laughing giddily.
Sam blinked. "What was impossible?"
"That shot. He was in a moving vehicle. You were in a moving vehicle. Your brother shot the gun out of his hand! Do you have any idea what the odds against a shot like that are? It's impossible!"
Dean shrugged and grinned engagingly and now he reminded her of Tony. She remembered, out of nowhere, Ducky remarking how very like Tony, Gibbs at been when they first met.
"What can I say? Doing the impossible is my specialty."
"It is," Sam agreed. "Also doing the unwise, the inadvisable, and the suicidally insane! So help me God, Dean! If you ever jump out of a moving vehicle on me again, I'm going to run over you just on principle!"
"See, Bitch? That's why I never let you drive. Do you have any idea what that'd do to the suspension?"
Sam looked like he was considering throwing a punch. Abby held up a hand to forestall their bickering.
"Excuse me, but I'm freaking out here, so can we please just concentrate on me right now?"
Instantly she had their full attention. Dean pulled himself up to sit on the hood and studied her, gaze serious and concerned. Sam's stare was unnerving in its intensity.
"Those guys just tried to kill me. What just happened? What is going on here?"
The brothers glanced at one another. Sam spoke.
"Dean and I have . . . enemies."
"Enemies who don't like us very much," Dean supplied.
"Yeah, that's kind of the working definition of 'enemy'," she snarked.
Dean smiled at her, a genuine smile, and his green eyes warmed.
"These enemies," Sam elaborated, "they want us dead. But they haven't been able to manage that themselves, so now, we think, they're trying to get your boss to come after us." He raised his eyebrows, questioning. "Gibbs?"
She frowned, still not following. "Gibbs is already after you."
"Right. And what's he planning to do if he catches us?"
"When he catches you? Arrest you, of course."
"And what if he thought we'd murdered you?" Dean asked, husky voice soft and solemn.
"Oh . . . ."
"You're all right now," Dean told her. He jumped off the hood of his car and reached out a hand to steady her as Sam came around to join them. "Are y'a'right? D'ya need to sit down?"
"No. No, I'm . . . I just." She felt like she'd been hit in the stomach. "They could go after anybody. All my friends. Gibbs' dad."
"In Pennsylvania, right? Stillwater? We've got somebody keeping an eye on him. There's been no sign of demonic activity up there."
She stared at him. "Demonic activity."
"Um, yeah." He gave her a weak smile, one that said, I know you don't believe me, but, seriously. Look at this face!
"And just what sort of signs signal demonic activity anyway?"
It was Sam who answered. "Freak electrical storms, power fluctuations and outages, animal mutilations, plagues of insects . . . ."
"Oh . . . kay. And my friends?"
"They're all still at the Navy Yard. They should be safe for now."
"You won't mind if I call just to check on them?"
"Knock yourself out," Dean told her.
She pulled her phone out and growled at the screen. "I still don't have a signal."
"What?" Sam pulled a face. "We're just a few miles from the nation's capitol. You should have a cell phone signal." He checked his own phone. "What the hell? I'm dark too."
Dean pulled his phone out and glanced at it and his face darkened. "This is not good."
"Something's gotta be blocking the signal," Abby said.
"You said you 'still' don't have a signal," Dean reminded her. "When did you discover you didn't have any service?"
"Right after you shot that guy's gun out of his hand. I tried to call 911 but I couldn't get through." She thought about it, ferocious intellect starting to work again after a trying interlude. "Which doesn't make any sense. If there was something alongside the road somewhere set up to block cell phone reception, we should have driven out of range of it by now. Unless it was traveling along with us."
Dean held out one hand to her, like a man trying to coax a skittish animal to come to him. "Abby? Do you mind if I call you Abby? Would you please just step over here with Sam for a minute while I check out your car?"
"Her car?" Sam's voice was skeptical. "They couldn't have gotten to her car, Dean. We warded all their vehicles."
"Warded them against demons," Dean said. "What's to stop Crowley from contracting his business out to humans?"
"Who's Crowley," Abby asked, going to stand beside Sam while Dean began prowling around her beloved, '31 Ford hot rod coupe.
"King of Hell," Sam said absently, attention on his brother. "Dean, what are you thinking?"
"I thought Lucifer was the king of hell?" Abby persisted.
"I dunno," Dean said. "Plan B, maybe?"
"Not following you," Sam said to Dean and then, to Abby, "Lucifer's locked in a cage in the depths of hell. Most of the senior demons went down trying to bring about the apocalypse. There was a power vacuum."
"Crowley's the scum that rose to the top of the cesspool," Dean said. "And he knows we've been keeping an eye on them, Sam."
"How would he know that?"
Dean gave his brother a meaningful look. "Bluetooth. Holy water. In nomine deus?"
"Right. Of course."
"So he'd have to guess that there was at least a chance we'd throw a wrench into his little hit here."
"And he'd have a plan B."
"Bingo." He transferred his attention to Abby. "You've washed your car recently."
"Yeah, last night. Washed it and waxed it. Why? What do you have?"
"Fingerprints."
Abby, flanked by Sam, approached her car. Four fingerprints marred the vehicle's gleaming finish, fanned out just ahead of the driver's side rear wheel, like someone lying on the ground had reached up and grabbed it.
Dean lowered himself, like a man doing pushups, and peered under the car. His face hardened.
"Sam, get Abby in the Impala and get out of here."
"Why?" Sam demanded.
"There's a bomb under here. I'm going to see if I can disarm it."
"You're going to what? Hell no! You're not a bomb tech, Dean. You come with us."
"There's a bomb under my car?" Abby repeated, stunned.
"I got this, Sam." Dean rolled over to his back and edged under the little hot rod. He gave his brother a cocky smirk. "I'm good with my hands."
"Your brother's right, Dean," Abby said. "Come out from under there. We can go somewhere we have cell reception and call my people. The Navy will send a bomb squad. Professionals. With protective gear."
"No time. It's on a timer."
"How long?" Sam asked. He was taller than Abby, a rarity even among men, and presented a solid bulk at her shoulder. She could feel the tension and frustration rolling off him in waves.
"Just under five minutes. Seriously, Sam. Get back and stop distracting me."
Sam took Abby's arm and drew her around behind the Impala, muttering under his breath the whole time. "I swear to God, my brother is suicidal! I should have him committed."
"Does he do this sort of thing often?"
"All the time. Some day the suspense is going to be too much for me and I'm going to just kill him myself to get it over with."
"Dean?" Abby called. "Dean, please. Just come out from under the car."
"Just stay back," he ordered. Then, more softly, "don't you worry, sweetheart. I'm not going to let anything happen to a classy lady like you."
Abby's lips thinned in disapproval. "That's really sweet," she said drily, "but I'm far enough away to be safe."
Sam cleared his throat and scuffed the gravel lot with the worn toe of his sneaker. When Abby looked over, he was staring at the ground. He raised just his eyes to her face.
"Um, I think he's talking to your car," he said apologetically.
"Oh."
Chewing on her lower lip, she stood next to Sam and watched the side of her car where Dean had disappeared. Sam was so tense his body was practically vibrating with it, like an over-tightened guitar string. He was staring at his watch.
"How long?" she asked.
"Two minutes since he crawled under there."
Across the lot, Dean's left hand reappeared and grasped the car body almost on top of the fingerprints he'd found earlier. Slowly he eased himself out from under the bright red roadster. His right hand he held flat beside him, a roughly rectangular device of boxes and wires resting on his palm. He rose with the lithe grace of a dancer as Abby studied the bomb he held.
"Neon green electrical tape," she said aloud. "Three inches wide by three inches deep by six inches long. The explosive will be C4. There'll be a double charge, each on a separate timer. The first is designed to rupture the gas tank, the second to set off the fumes, to enhance the explosion."
"You can tell all that from here?" Sam asked.
"I recognize the work. I know who made this bomb, or at least I know his alias and his history. We've been chasing this bastard for years."
"The signal jammer is wired in here, too," Dean said, carrying the bomb in a wide arc away from them.
"You've disarmed it."
"The signal jammer, yeah. The bomb, no."
Abby's cell phone rang. She snatched it up and glanced at the readout as she answered it. "McGee! I'm in a vacant lot off Business Loop 12 near the Industrial Parkway. You guys need to get here. Bring the crime scene van. And a bomb squad."
"Bomb squad?" It was Gibbs' voice that answered her. "Abby, what -?"
Dean swore suddenly and started running, heading for the scrubby waste ground at the end of the lot. "Geddown! It's gonna blow!"
Abby gasped as Sam pushed her down and covered her with his own body.
The bomb went off.
Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . .
Tony, McGee, and Ziva got the crime scene van and headed for the bomb site as fast as they could go. Ducky and Jimmy followed, praying not to be needed, and the Navy assured them there was a bomb disposal unit already dispatched.
Gibbs took his own personal Dodge Charger and beat them all by a good seven minutes.
He found Abby alone in a vacant lot, sitting on the trunk of her car, cradling a sawed-off double barrel shotgun. He slammed his car to a stop, shut off the engine and got out and stalked over to her without even bothering to close the car door behind him.
She looked up and just silently held out her arms and he wrapped her in a fierce hug.
"Are you all right? Do you need a hospital? Are you hurt at all? Ducky's on his way."
"I'm okay," she mumbled into his ear. "I'm all right. I just really need a hug."
Another vehicle pulled into the lot behind them and Tobias Fornell got out and hurried over. "I heard it on the scanner. I was nearby." He stopped and turned to look at the far end of the lot and Gibbs and Abby followed his gaze. The gavel was cratered, the grass and brush at the end charred. "What the hell happened?"
"Well," Abby said, "first, two guys in a black, 1968 Chevy Impala tried to kill me. Then, there was a bomb under my car."
Fornell made a face. "Still think those were 'protective' sigils?" he asked sardonically.
"If Abby meant that the Winchesters tried to kill her, she'd have said that the Winchesters tried to kill her," Gibbs said. "Keep up, Tobias." He turned back to Abby. "So what did happen?"
By the time she got to the point where the bomb went off, the rest of their team had arrived, followed closely by the bomb squad.
"I got a look at the device before it exploded. I'll have to go over it in the lab to be sure, but it looked like the work of the Loup Vert."
"The green wolf?" Jimmy Palmer asked.
"Freelance munitions expert and arms dealer, specializing in explosives," Tony explained. "That's his code name. We don't know his true identity."
"I dropped my phone and broke it when the bomb went off. I can probably put it back together again when my hands stop shaking."
McGee was hovering protectively close to Abby. "So what happened after the bomb went off?" he asked.
NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . .
The bomb went off.
The ground shook and gravel rained down around them. When the world stilled Sam rose hesitantly and Abby rolled over and sat up, looking fearfully towards the source of the explosion.
Dean lay in a heap on the ground. Even from a distance Abby could see his body shaking. Then he sat up and she realized he was laughing. His nose was bleeding and the backs of his forearms were raw with road rash, but he rose to his feet and held up both fists triumphantly.
"I can fly!" he shouted. "I'm Superman!"
"I'm gonna kill him," Sam muttered.
"How many times a day do you say that?" Abby asked, curious.
"I don't know. I stopped keeping track a long time ago." He turned his attention to his brother. "Dean, come on. We need to go now. Abby was on the phone to her people. They're going to have cops here any minute."
Dean staggered over to them. Sam said nothing but tracked his progress like a hawk.
"This Crowley person," Abby said. "His first name wouldn't happen to be Angus would it?"
The two brothers stilled and looked at one another.
"Fergus," Dean said. "When he was alive. Fergus McLeod. But that was a hell of a long time ago."
"He was Scots," Sam offered. "If he wanted an alias, he might go for something like Angus. Why do you ask?"
Abby shrugged. "Nothing really. Just a hunch."
"You gonna be all right until your friends get here?" Dean asked Abby.
"I should . . . yeah . . . I should be fine, yeah."
"Your car's warded. You'll be safe from demons if you're inside it. Or even sitting on it."
"Should I ask how or when you managed that?"
"Probably not." He popped open the Impala's trunk and took out a sawed-off double barrel shotgun. "You're the head of forensics, which includes ballistics, so I'm guessing you know how to handle one of these?"
She nodded and he handed her the gun.
"What's to stop me from pointing this at you and holding you until Gibbs gets here?"
Sam snarled under his breath and Abby remembered Tony's account of how protective the younger brother had been. Dean just grinned.
"Well, you're loaded for ghosts right now. If you shoot me with it, it'll hurt like a son of a bitch, but it won't take me down." He went around and got behind the wheel of the Impala.
"Dean, you're hurt. You should let me drive."
"I'm not letting you drive. You threated to mess up her suspension."
"No, I threatened to run over you. As long as you stay in the car, you've got nothing to worry about."
"Just get in the car, Bitch."
Sam growled and gave Abby a complex look she couldn't entirely decipher. She returned it with a bright, hopeful smile.
"I didn't actually point the gun at him," she pointed out. "I just asked him why I shouldn't."
He rolled his eyes and got in the car. Dean drove around so that his window was next to her and offered her a pair of shotgun shells.
"One's silver. The other's consecrated iron. Between the two of them, they'll take down almost anything. Anything comes at you, give it both barrels."
She took the shells. His palm was rough and callused, two of his fingers crooked from being broken and poorly set.
"Right. Got it. Both barrels. Thanks."
"Don't mention it. And, by the way," he waited until she met his eyes and gave her a killer grin. "I really like your car."
She blushed and ducked her head, then looked up and gave him a reluctant but sincere smile in return. "Thanks. I really like your car too," she admitted.
His eyes warmed and his smile widened into something that made her toes curl and the tips of her ears get hot. He winked and tossed her a mock salute and then they were gone.
Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . .
"So what kind of ammunition do you use to shoot a ghost?" McGee asked drily.
Abby picked up one of the shells she'd taken out of the shotgun when she loaded the silver and iron rounds. She prised the cap off and dumped the contents out into her hand.
"Rock salt, apparently."
Gibbs took the gun from her, broke it open and peered down the barrels. "Yeah, I'd say they shoot that a lot. These barrels are scarred all to hell. Not gonna have much accuracy over any distance."
"Don't fire until you see the whites of their sheets," Tony offered.
Fornell was standing off to one side, talking on his cell. He came over now.
"Cops found your phony Winchesters."
Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
Fornell nodded towards the highway, indicating the direction they'd disappeared. "This straight stretch runs for almost two miles and then the road makes a sharp curve to the right. Your gunmen missed the curve and slammed into a tree doing about ninety."
"They dead?"
"Oh, yeah."
"On our way," Ducky said. He nodded to Jimmy Palmer and the two of them headed for the M.E. van.
"McGee," Gibbs said, "you take Abby back to headquarters. Take the bomb fragments with you. She can start working on them if she feels up to it. We'll be along after we process the car accident."
"Right, Boss," McGee said. "And what do you want me to do?"
Gibbs gave him a look that said he shouldn't have to ask a question like that. "I want you to try to find the real Winchesters."
NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . . NCIS . . . Supernatural . . .
It wasn't until the next morning that they met in the bullpen again to go over the Winchester case. Abby and the M.E.'s came up to join them. Fornell arrived, invited by Gibbs, partly because he understood that his old friend was still interested in the case and partly to show off the fact that his people weren't being made to look like 'a buncha baboons'. Even Leon Vance came down for an update on their progress.
"We've finished the autopsies on the Winchester imposters - or, should I say, the latest round of Winchester imposters? One slightly odd detail there. All the injuries that they each sustained in the car crash were post-mortem. They died, both of them, of broken necks."
"Could Dean Winchester have done that somehow while he was on top of their car?" Gibbs asked Abby.
She snorted. "Not unless he was able to reach through solid metal."
"It wasn't done manually," Ducky said. "There was no bruising. My best guess would be that they didn't realize the road turned. They were looking behind them to see if they were being followed and drove full-speed into that tree. The G-force killed them."
"Do we know who they were?"
"We do," McGee answered. "Lance Devereaux and Martin Goodhouse. Both ex-military, both dishonorably discharged, both working as freelance mercenaries. Devereaux's last known location was Istanbul and Goodhouse was involved in a bar fight in Chile ten days ago."
"They were picked out specifically for their resemblance to the Winchester brothers. Whoever's after those two has deep pockets and a web of connections in the international terrorist community."
"But," McGee protested, "if the Winchesters really aren't serial killers, then they're just petty criminals. Penniless drifters who wander around the country hunting ghosts. Why would terrorists be after them?"
Gibbs wandered up to stand in front of him. "Good questions, McGee. Got a good answer . . ."
McGee opened his mouth to stammer out an apologetic no, but his boss was turning away, addressing his question to another.
". . . DiNozzo?"
Tony was standing off to one side, staring at the Winchesters' mug shots on the plasma with a distant expression in his eyes. He pulled a face, worried his upper lip with his bottom teeth for a minute, then turned resolutely to face his fellow agents.
"Maybe, Boss. It's not complete. There are pieces missing and it doesn't answer everything. But I think, yeah. I think maybe I do."
Author's Note part 2: Next chapter we'll get to Tony's theory for real. ;)
