When Worlds Collide

by elfinblue

When a kidnapped Tony DiNozzo is rescued by legendary - and supposedly dead - serial killers Dean and Sam Winchester, the NCIS team takes over the Winchester investigation. What they find is a file filled with contradictions and impossibilities. This is an attempt to cross these shows but keep both in canon. No slash. No pairings.

10. Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

Author's Note: Once again, thank you all so much for your reviews, favorites and follows! A couple of people pointed out that Trent Kort couldn't be a CIA agent if he's a British national and I'm sure they're right. Honestly, I have no idea what the deal with Kort is. He's definitely British (very British) and he's certainly connected with the CIA, but as far as I could find out, NCIS has never laid out exactly how he's connected. Perhaps he's a naturalized American citizen, like Ziva is, or a liaison officer like Ziva was (from MI5 maybe?) or even, possibly, a freelance thug-of-all-trades. I'm hoping to keep his status and nationality from becoming too big an issue, but if anyone has any insights - if you've noticed anything I've missed - please let me know!

Special thanks to SkyHighFan for the help with Supernatural canon in this chapter! Any remaining errors are all mine.

Again, thank you all, and here's the next chapter.

Disclaimer: The Reese's Pieces made me do it.

Chapter 10: Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

"I want to warn you," Vance said, "I was read into this program yesterday evening. Last night, my nightmares had nightmares."

Kort stood before them and pulled a picture up on the wall screen. It showed a modern, glass and steel building framed against a clear blue sky. "Someone tell me what you know about SucroCorp," he demanded.

McGee shrugged a tiny little shrug, made a face and spoke up. "It is, or perhaps I should say was, a subsidiary of Dick Roman Enterprises. An American company involved in the manufacture and distribution of corn syrup and corn syrup derivatives. Last year a gas leak and explosion at their headquarters killed everyone in the building, including Mr. Roman and the entire board of trustees of Dick Roman Enterprises. The leak was traced to an inlet valve controlled by the same computer system that controlled product testing. Because it was unknown how widespread the computer glitch that caused the explosion was, all SucroCorp product already on the market was pulled on quality control issues. The SEC subsequently took over what was left of DRE. The final disposition of the businesses involved is still in litigation and probably will be for years. Apparently there were some questionable accounting issues discovered . . . ?"

"And that's what you all know, is it?" Kort asked.

As a group, they all shrugged and nodded.

"It was all over the news," Abby said.

"So it was. And that, children, is the official version. Now, I'm going to tell you the truth." He clicked a button on a remote and the onscreen picture changed to a shot of the same building but with windows broken and smoke roiling out.

"On May 18, 2012, local emergency responders received a report of an explosion at SucroCorp headquarters, however the call triggered an alert in their system, purportedly from the EPA, stating that SucroCorp stored unspecified toxic chemicals for research purposes. The fire department was instructed to contact Dick Roman Enterprises for information and instructions. They did so, but no one there had any information and they were unable, for what are now obvious reasons, to contact Roman or any of his lieutenants. Finally, someone got the bright idea to call the EPA for information. The EPA knew nothing about it. Because of the oddity involved, they passed it up the line to Homeland Security. A team from Homeland Security finally went in the building nearly five hours after the explosion. They are the ones who immediately put a lid on information coming from the blast site. The blast took out the labs and the IT network, including the security cameras. We estimate 97% of the information in the building was lost. The rest of the building was painted in blood, but there was only one body. Or, rather, only one fresh body."

He clicked the remote again and brought up a picture of the body of a young girl, clad only in underwear, lying on the floor of what looked to be a conference room. There was a garment dropped next to her. The close-up that followed showed dried flecks of foam around her mouth.

"Who was she?" Ducky asked, voice soft. "What did she die from?"

"Her name was Polly Parker, age seventeen. She was a student at the local high school. As to cause of death, we have not been able to determine that. Whatever killed her had already broken down. There was no trace of toxins or biological agents in her blood or tissues. We do, however, have a record of her death. It was on a pad computer that was found under a cabinet in the room she was in. The computer was damaged and the recording is visual only."

Kort pulled up a video and they watched in silence as Dick Roman ushered the girl in and presented her to what appeared to be a board meeting. She stood placidly, chewing gum while they talked, removed her dress on command and without hesitation or apparent fear, then collapsed, foaming at the mouth, after Roman injected something in her arm.

"Oh, God. I'm going to be sick," Abby said.

"I'd think you're in the wrong business to be squeamish," Kort said, sounding amused. She turned on him, angry.

"I can read lips, Kort." She directed her attention to the rest of the room. "It's biological warfare, and way past the testing stage. He was demonstrating an agent that could be introduced into the food supply that would not only lower people's willpower and lift their inhibitions - like a date rape drug - but also selectively kill people based on genetic markers for certain traits. In this case, he said it would single out people with short stature, low body weight, and high intelligence. Then he drank it to show that it would only work on select people. It was in coffee creamer." She turned to her boss, plaintive. "Gibbs! They were putting that stuff in coffee creamer!"

"How much of it did you get recalled?" Gibbs asked Kort.

"We believe the first shipment of creamer containing this particular agent was still in the warehouse attached to SucroCorp headquarters and that it was all destroyed in the explosion. We got hold of everything we could that SucroCorp had already put out. Confiscated warehouses and ships and railroad cars full, issued a recall, started rumors about salmonella and e. coli to keep people from using anything they'd already bought."

"And then you destroyed it, right?"

"Of course we destroyed it. We mixed it with sodium chloride as a neutralizing agent and then incinerated it."

"Huh," McGee said. "They salted and burned it."

"Seems fitting," Tony observed.

"And that portion of it that you set aside to analyze?" Ducky asked.

"Is carefully guarded, believe me. We did locate a foreign ingredient in the SucroCorp products that were on the market, but it does not seem to have been the genetic 'magic bullet'. It was a drug that acted on the thyroid, slowing metabolism and inhibiting mental acuity."

"Making people fat and stupid," Tony said. "Why?" And then he answered his own question. "To make them more easily controlled. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Control."

"You said one fresh body?" Gibbs prompted.

"Mmm." Kort changed the screen again to display a vast collection of dismembered hands and arms. "These came out of a meat locker in the basement. We've identified a number of them. This one, for example." He manipulated the image, singling out a specific limb. "It belonged to Dick Roman. As I'm sure Dr. Mallard and Mr. Palmer will tell you, it is nearly impossible to give an accurate time of death when the remains are immediately frozen."

"Or even a ballpark figure," Ducky said ruefully. "However, it seems to me that Mr. Roman was a fair-skinned and rather pale individual and a dark-haired one at that. That arm shows signs of a healthy tan and the hair on it is bleached to a light brown. I should determine when Dick Roman last went on holiday and take that as a possible date for his untimely demise."

"October of 2011," Kort said. "He sailed the Caribbean for two weeks on a private yacht. From the time of his return until the destruction of SucroCorp he was never out of the public eye for more than thirty-six hours at a stretch, he was never seen in anything but a traditional, three-piece suit, there is no record of him ever visiting a tanning salon and there were no tanning beds on any of the properties he owned."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy Palmer said. "Let me just see if I'm following this. Are you saying that, for at least seven months, one of America's biggest corporations has been in the hands of a terrorist with access to biological weapons, and has provided him with a way to disseminate them?"

"Oh, it gets worse," Kort said. He began calling their attention to different body parts. "This arm belonged to a high-ranking official with the FDA. This hand is the last known remains of a three-star general. Industrialists, politicians, scientists, military leaders, members of the media. They had infiltrated every level of our society and we. Did. Not. Have. A. Clue."

"Just America?" Ziva said finally, into the stunned silence that followed Kort's pronouncement.

"America, Canada, Britain, Australia, and New Zealand. Centered in America but with tentacles reaching into the homes of all our closest allies. However, SucroCorp was also trying to open markets in Europe, South America, Africa, and the Middle and Far East. We believe they intended to rule the world."

"Why keep their hands and arms?" McGee asked.

Kort shrugged. "Fingerprints? Palm prints? DNA? Trophies? We knew something was going on. There've been . . . oddities. Things we didn't feel the public needed to know about. A mountain town in Oregon where all the inhabitants disappeared overnight. The only survivor was the town doctor, who claimed that the citizens were infected with a virus that caused them to go mad and rip one another apart. She, a retired Marine sergeant and a teenage boy barricaded themselves in her office overnight. The next morning the town was quiet and empty and the bodies were all gone. The Marine and the boy set out to leave while she stayed behind to notify authorities. She survived. Their vehicle was found along the road, empty, covered with blood.

"There was a pharmaceutical company that was destroyed under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind incomplete but . . . unsettling records. A massacre in Carthage, Missouri that was never adequately explained. The food poisoning incident at Biggerson's last year."

"The deadly turducken sandwiches?" Tony asked.

"The meat in those sandwiches came from a processing plant owned by another subsidiary of Dick Roman Enterprises."

"But it's all destroyed, so we're safe now, right?" Abby was looking for reassurance.

"We don't know that." Kort leaned on table and looked around, his one eye seeking each of them out for emphasis. "We don't know who was behind this. We don't know how extensive the organization was. We don't know how many of them survived nor where they are now. We don't know who took them down and we don't know if all of their research was destroyed or if it still exists and, if it does exist, we don't know whose hands it is in. We need to catch the Winchesters."

"We don't believe they're the bad guys," she argued.

"That's irrelevant. They are the only link we have."

"You think this is all connected to the terrorist cell that we believe they were tracking," Gibbs said.

"In all of this," Kort said, "in this entire, huge, nightmarish clusterfuck, we had exactly one clue. One tiny little clue that we did not begin to know how to interpret. Until you came along with your walking dead men and your perfect disguises and your oh-so-charming terrorist theories. It's a single frame that survived on the SucroCorp security footage, taken just minutes before the lab was destroyed."

He turned back to the wall screen and brandished the remote with a theatrical flourish. It brought up a screen shot, grainy and slightly distorted but easily made out.

It was a shot of the SucroCorp sign with a black, 1967 Chevy Impala embedded in it.

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"It's the real deal," Abby said. Gibbs and his team had retreated to her lab, Fornell tagging along. Sec Nav and the members of the other alphabet agencies were gone and Ducky and Jimmy had gone back to autopsy to review the autopsy reports on the dead girl and the severed limbs from the SucroCorp building.

"What are you doing?" Fornell asked.

"I'm using a computer program to compare the car in the SucroCorp sign with pictures I took of the Winchesters' car as they were driving away from me."

"You got pictures of the Winchesters?"

"Yeah, on my phone."

"I thought you broke your phone?"

"When I dropped it, it damaged the transmitter so I couldn't make calls with it, but the camera still worked."

"Abby has established that there were definitely two sets of Winchesters," McGee said. "During the shooting spree last year, the Winchesters were spotted and recognized by a convenience store clerk just before one of the murders. The FBI agents noted at the time that they must have moved fast to get from one place to the other. Well, they didn't. By comparing the cars in the security videos from the convenience store and outside the murder scene, we now know that the Winchesters at the store were the real Winchesters and the killers were imposters."

"Now, we just have to figure out how to catch them," Tony said.

McGee sighed. "It's too bad it was Abby who ran into them and not one of us."

"You think it's going to be that simple? Just happen across them and put them under arrest."

"No, of course not. They're not going to come out of hiding that easily. I'm just saying that, well, Abby met them, but she's not an agent and she was unarmed. You met them, Tony, but you were also unarmed, and injured and tied up when they found you. These guys run into an armed, able-bodied agent, and it's all over."

"Don't underestimate them," Gibbs warned. "They've been fighting a terrorist organization we didn't even know existed. And winning from the look of it."

"That must be why the latest round of imposters were just look-a-likes and not disguised," Abby pointed out. "When they blew up SucroCorp, they must have destroyed the SDSSSDM."

"I'm not saying they're not . . . creative. And persistent. And certainly they're very lucky. But, guys, come on! They believe in ghosts and monsters and demons. They're nuts!"

"And if Little Timmy could just have a chance, he'd take them down!" Tony mocked in a rah-rah, cheerleading voice.

McGee turned to him, defiance in his eyes. "Yeah, Tony," he said. "I reckon I would."

Gibbs pressed his lips together, suppressed amusement. "In the meantime," he said, "I want to know everything you can find out about Hunting and the Hunter community. We still tracking that . . . that 'G-Man'?"

"Sure are," Abby said.

"Would you like us to pick him up?" Ziva asked.

"No, I just want to know who he talks to and what they talk about. Get me a tap on his phone. What became of the terrorists who kidnapped Tony?"

"Transferred to Gitmo," Fornell supplied. "The CIA has been questioning them. Two of them claim they were hired by someone outside their organization to deliver an NCIS agent to the old Littlefield house and they don't know who he was or what he wanted with DiNozzo. The third one contradicts everything the other two say. They think he's trying for an insanity defense. I gather last week he insisted he didn't have to go the bathroom and then wet himself."

"We need to track down this Angus character," Gibbs said.

"Who the hell's Angus?"

"He's the one who sent the Carvers to the Winchesters in the first place, which is what led the Winchesters to the old Littlefield house just in time to find Tony tied up like a calf at a calf roping contest. Most likely, that makes him one of the surviving bad guys."

"I asked the Winchesters if they knew an Angus," Abby offered. "Don't touch that!"

Fornell had noticed her purple, stuffed hippo and reached for it, a puzzled look on his face.

Tony, grinning, reached around the FBI agent and squeezed the hippo, causing it to make a farting noise. Abby smiled happily.

"How come he gets to touch it and I don't?" Fornell grumped.

"No is allowed to touch Burt without my permission," she explained. "Tony and Ziva have standing permission. Gibbs has permanent permission. McGee's permission has been revoked until he admits that there might be ghosts."

"I don't want to touch your farting hippo anyway," McGee said loftily.

"Angus?" Gibbs prompted.

Abby shrugged. "They said the name didn't mean anything to them. They were talking about a man named Crowley who they claimed is the king of hell and I asked if his first name was Angus."

"I thought Lucifer was the king of hell," Tony put in, looking confused.

"That's what I thought, but they said Lucifer's locked in a cage in the pit and this Crowley person took over in his absence. They did say, though, that Crowley was Scottish and might have chosen a name like Angus for an alias. They said his name was Fergus MacLeod," she did finger quotes, "'when he was alive'."

Ziva perked up, staring off into the distance.

"When he was alive?" McGee echoed skeptically.

"I ran Fergus MacLeod through every database I could think of, and Crowley too, but I didn't find anything. The name Crowley pops up associated with demons in literature and popular culture from time to time - have you ever read Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman? And there are lots of Fergus MacLeods in the world, but none I can find that seem like candidates for king of hell."

"I know that name!" Ziva said suddenly.

"Fergus MacLeod?" Gibbs asked.

"Fergus . . . no, I don't think so. But MacLeod, yes. I have seen it . . . ooh!" she screwed her face up, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth in frustration. "Somewhere! Ah, it's no use. I will have to look. But I will find it.

"I know you will. Come on, people, let's get to work. It's time to catch ourselves a couple of real-life ghostbusters."

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"Well, I talked to Charlie. She says we're in the clear - NCIS took the 'stinky kid' bait, apparently."

Dean closed the magazine he was reading and gave Sam his full attention. "Can she get us back inside?"

Sam shook his head. "Too risky. She did manage to get us a copy of the autopsy report on the guys in the '68 Impala. The injuries from the car wreck were all post-mortem. They died of broken necks."

"Both of them?"

"Yeah. Ducky thinks they didn't realize the road curved and were watching behind them for pursuit."

"Demons snap necks," Dean said. "If they're powerful enough. Crowley could do it. But why would he? What would he have to gain?"

"Are you sure your exorcism worked? It had to be hard to draw a devil's trap on a moving car, with the wind in your face. Maybe they just drove away, got to the curve and smoked out. Guys could have already been dead."

"Eh, maybe. I thought they went while we were going under the overpasses, but it was hard to tell with the whole sun-and-shadow disco effect."

"So what do we do now?" Sam asked.

"I been thinking about that. Y'know, I was wondering if maybe we were done here. The hit on Abby failed, NCIS knows it wasn't us who were after her. They know someone was trying to frame us for killing her and if anything happened to one of Gibbs' people now, he'd go after them instead of us. Crowley must have figured that out, so it wouldn't be worth his time to keep chasing his tail here."

"Mmhm. You said you were wondering."

"Uh, yeah. Had another visitor in my dreams last night. Don't know why these people are crawling around in my head instead of yours."

"Probably more room in there."

Dean grinned. "Are you admitting that my brain is bigger than yours?"

"No. Just emptier. Paula Cassidy again? Or Agent Todd?"

"Neither," Dean said, scowling at him. "Old guy, cowboy type. Long, droopy mustache. Missing his right index finger."

"Was he wearing a bustier?" Sam grinned and ducked the musty sofa cushion his brother pitched at his head.

Dean made a face and shuddered. "Gah!"

"So what did Mike Franks have to say?"

"Not much. Just, 'don't leave yet, boys. This rodeo's a long way from bein' over.'"

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"Gavin MacLeod!" Ziva said triumphantly.

"Captain Stubing?" Tony asked.

She shot him a puzzled glance. "No. Captain MacLeod."

"Right. Gavin MacLeod. Captain Stubing." At her continuing, uncomprehending stare, he broke into song. "The Looove Boat . . . soon will be making another run! Come aboard for adventure, your mind on a new romance . . . ."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. The Love Boat! Captain Stubing. The friendly bartender - was his name? Isaac? - and Gopher, who later became a congressman from, I dunno, Idaho or Utah or someplace weird, which, I guess, goes without saying, seeing as they elected Gopher to Congress. And Julie! Ah, the lovely Julie with the high heels and the great legs and that big '70's hair. Not the great big '80's hair. Just the moderately big, pre-'80's, '70's hair."

Ziva switched her attention to Gibbs. "Has he be struck in the head?" she asked.

"Not yet."

Tony drooped like a six-year-old in a wallpaper store. "You guys! Come on! Don't you remember The Love Boat? It was a TV show, back in the seventies. About a cruise ship, and every week would be a different cruise, with new passengers coming on board and they'd always fall in love or fall back in love or come down with rare diseases or something."

"What does that have to do with Captain MacLeod?"

"It was Captain Stubing. Gavin MacLeod was the actor who played him."

"Ah, I see. Obviously we are talking about different Gavin MacLeods."

"There's more than one Gavin MacLeod?"

"There must have been. Mine was the captain of a trading vessel who died when his ship went down off the coast of Massachusetts in 1723. The wreck was discovered in 1980 and Captain MacLeod's signet ring was among the artifacts recovered."

Gibbs was watching her, expression shrewd. "And this is relevant how?"

"Two years ago that ring - and only that ring - was stolen from a 'Treasures of the Deep' exhibit at the Maritime Museum in Andover, Massachusetts. The police caught the man they believed was responsible, one Rufus Turner, but he didn't have the ring on him. He was extradited to South Dakota on a murder warrant, but escaped en route and was never recaptured. I dug around a little on some genealogy websites. Gavin MacLeod's father? Was named Fergus."

"Where in South Dakota?" Gibbs asked.

"Sioux Falls."

"Who signed the extradition order?"

Ziva smiled like a cat. "Sheriff Jodi Mills."

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By the third time he had to repeat his order, McGee was beginning to lose his temper. The barista was young, probably a college girl - a freshman or sophomore. She was awkward and coltish, with a gawkish charm that would probably mature into grace and possibly even beauty in a few years. In truth, though she was much too young for him, McGee would have been flattered by her blushing and nervous distraction - had he been the one who was causing it. He glanced over his right shoulder to see who she was trying so hard to flirt with and felt his own heart skip a beat.

Sam Winchester, looking flustered and abashed and trying his six-foot-four best to be unobtrusive, was attempting to slip out the coffee house door. An influx of office workers, rushing for their morning coffee break, pushed him back into the building. He looked up and met McGee's eye and sighed.

"Never mind," McGee said. "Cancel my order." Waving away the girl's stuttering apology, he reached for his gun and headed for the door himself.

Sam was waiting patiently for him in the foyer.

"You didn't run."

"It's a warm day. No sense running around and getting all hot and sweaty. Besides, it's too early in the morning to get shot."

"That's very sensible." McGee cuffed the young giant's hands behind his back and quickly patted him down for weapons. They could search him more thoroughly when they had him back at HQ.

Sam shook his head and sighed. "Busted by Jan Brady," he said, tipping his head back toward the girl at the register. "You know, my brother's never going to let me hear the end of this."

McGee took Sam Winchester firmly by the elbow and led him out of the building, alert for the possibility that Dean was lurking somewhere nearby and might try a rescue. None of the cars on the street were a black Impala. The nearest entrance to NCIS was half a block down and across a green. There was no sign of Dean among the scattered pedestrians and the only place to hide on the green was a single tree, ringed by a wrought iron tree guard and with a bench beneath it. It was too slender to conceal someone behind the trunk and the foliage, in this year of a late spring, was still sparse. The only color among the branches was a single, escaped balloon tangled low down.

"I'm sure Dean will understand," McGee told Sam consolingly. "After all, I'm armed and you're not. And I'm a trained Federal Agent. And you're not. It isn't a fair contest at all."

Sam Winchester hung his head and sighed. "You're right," he said. "It isn't. It really isn't fair at all."

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Gibbs, flanked by Tony and Ziva, strolled slowly across the green. Tony was grinning. Ziva was trying hard not to.

Gibbs stopped in front of McGee, crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Didja at least get my coffee?"

McGee made a sad face and shook his head no. He sat on the bench, under the tree. His hands were cuffed behind his back, fastened to the wrought iron tree guard. His gun and phone sat on the bench next to him and a deflated balloon lay on the ground at his feet.

"You wanna let me go?" he asked.

"In a minute," Tony said, pulling out a camera. "I've gotta get pictures first. For, you know, evidence."

"Tony!"

"Okay, blackmail."

"McGee," Ziva said, "I thought you were going to catch us a Winchester. What happened? And what was with all the weird phone calls?"

"I did catch a Winchester. I just . . . didn't keep him very long is all. And I don't know why you think they were weird phone calls. I was just trying to get one of you to come help me. All you wanted to do was laugh."

"Yes, because you were talking like Mickey Mouse."

"When he called me, he sounded like Marvin the Martian," Tony offered.

"A Conehead," Gibbs supplied. "Abby said Darth Vader. What happened?"

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McGee didn't even realize Sam had slipped the cuffs until one of his big hands closed over the gun and twisted it away. He pushed McGee face-first up against the brick wall of the last building before the green and pulled his arms back, cuffing them behind his back. A few people gasped and shied away and Sam held up a leather folder and flipped it open, flashing a badge.

"Federal agent. It's okay. Federal agent. Everybody just move along."

The passers-by did as instructed, detouring in a wide circle around the two men.

Prudence and the gun in his ribs kept McGee from shouting for help, but he couldn't resist protesting in a furious whisper. "You're not a federal agent. You're not! That badge is a fake!"

"Is it?" Sam asked, feigning surprise. "Really?" Looming in close over McGee's left shoulder (the gun barrel jabbed McGee in the back) he held the badge up so they both could look at it. "It looks real to me."

"That's . . . that's . . ."

"Your badge?" Sam finished, sounding amused.

"How did you -"

"Get your badge? Gosh, I don't know." Sam made a show of thinking about it. "Maybe . . . I picked your pocket?"

McGee scowled at him and Sam returned it with a boyish grin that brought out his dimples. He led McGee on towards the NCIS building, stopping at the tree, just out of sight of the guards at the building's door. Pushing him down to sit on the bench, he made short work of cuffing him to the tree guard. Staying behind him and out of his line of sight, he patted him down, finding his cell and lifting it from the agent's front breast pocket.

"Wow. Nice phone."

"It's got a very good gps tracking system that can be used to locate it if anything happens to it," McGee pointed out, hoping to deter its theft.

"Yeah, I know. I had one like it once. Until it, uh, well, it got eaten by something you don't believe in." McGee could hear the phone beeping as Sam pushed its buttons. He tried to remember what was on his phone that the Winchesters really shouldn't know.

"I've activated the voice dialer," Sam said, setting the phone down on the bench next to him. "After I walk away and when you can talk again, you can call for help.

McGee felt a tendril of fear shiver through him. "What do you mean, 'when I can talk again?'"

"Don't feel bad," Sam said, instead of answering. "It really wasn't a fair contest. You were trained by FLETC. I was trained by John and Dean Winchester."

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"I didn't know it, but while he was standing behind me, Sam had gotten the stray balloon down and untied the knot at the neck. He laid the gun down just out of my reach and, when I opened my mouth to shout for help, he held my nose, stuck the balloon in my mouth and let go. Instead of oxygen, I got a lung full of helium. Then he walked away laughing while I . . . ."

"Squawked after him like Donald Duck?" Tony guessed.

McGee sighed and nodded.

Ziva had picked up his phone. "Here is your problem, McGee. Sam downloaded and activated an app that changes your voice to make you sound funny when you call someone."

"Let him loose," Gibbs said. He skewered the younger agent with a glare. "Who did you call besides us and Abby?"

"No one." McGee sighed. "Ducky and Jimmy don't have handcuff keys."

"Good. This stays between the five of us. No one else needs to know about it."

McGee perked up. "Thanks, boss!"

"Don't thank me. I just don't want Tobias to know the Winchesters made one of my agents look like a baboon. And pack your bags, McGee. You and Ziva are going to South Dakota."

"Uh, South Dakota?"

"You're going to check out what's left of Singer Salvage."

McGee nodded his understanding, then paled as Gibbs added, "and I want you to interview Sheriff Mills. In person."