Deja Vu All Over Again
Chapter Six

He was working sloppy and he knew it. Bobby would have his hide. So would Sam, eventually, once they started being good again. Once Dean found him, alive. He had punted his intention of extreme stealth and invisibility out the window when he realized how many cameras the NCIS office had. That he'd made it in at all with fake ID was a miracle – he'd had no idea Devereaux had really manufactured ID for every known governmental agency until he found his in their new streamlined fake identity shoebox in the trunk. It was five grand well spent, even if shelling over that kind of cash still stung to think about. After he made it in, he did his best to not look like anyone should recognize him as a recently deceased mass murderer. Sometimes looking like he belonged somewhere he didn't was easy, sometimes it was difficult.

At this point, his goals were to not raise suspicion, leave the building unnoticed, find Sam, kill a monster and get out of Dodge. The most difficult thing on the list would be finding Sam.

"So, you can't say for sure the cause or date of death?" Dean asked.

"With cases of bodies submerged in water, salt or fresh, for an extended period, forensic pathology is not easy," the short little British man told him. Doctor Mallard. "Ensign Yee disappeared a little over a month ago, yet I cannot be altogether certain he died at that time. His body would have seen greater decomposition."

"The water's cold, it might have slowed things down."

Mallard gave a long-suffering look to the kid in the glasses, as if to say "why is everyone but me a moron?" The kid shrugged back.

"Or he died somewhere else and was dumped in the water," Dean said.

Dean suspected that last one wasn't true. This poor eyeless bastard had gone into the water and stayed there, somewhere, but he didn't know how it was possible yet, if the doctor was right about him not dying a month ago. Monsters always did the humanly impossible. With the supposition, though, he had hope that Sam was still okay wherever he was.

"It seems most likely." Mallard narrowed his eyes again. "When did you say you transferred here? I don't recall seeing you before even in passing."

That was his cue to leave. Dean took backwards steps toward the door. If the ensign here had showed up on land, then chances were good additional bodies were going to start showing up somewhere he'd have better access and more trusting fools to con.

"Monday, actually. I'm a newbie," he said. "You've been a big help. I'll check in with you later. Thanks."

He beat a hasty retreat before the medical examiner or his twitchy assistant could say anything. Dean was cutting it too close here, like he had with raspy-voiced forensics woman. He suspected she was older than she looked, but was something he would have liked to investigate further, given different circumstances.

He'd learned a lot, though. He was definitely looking for a water creature that liked to nibble on eyes, fingers and toes but had no interest in the meaty bits. He wasn't the walking encyclopedia of weird Sam still managed to be after everything, so he'd have to hunker down for a while, maybe call Bobby to make sure he was on the right track. He could do the legwork himself. Time, though, wasn't on his side. Who wouldn't take easy answers over boring research? Sam from six years ago. Dean frowned as he stepped onto the elevator. When he turned to punch the button for exit level, Dean regretted not sliding out the back stairs. There were always back stairs and they should always be taken. He knew this.

"Hi."

That was all the familiar-looking guy said, all rumpled jacket and silvery hair and face that demonstrated he had seen and done things, as he pushed the elevator button four, waited a moment and then pulled the emergency stop. The elevator cab jerked to a halt and went dim, quiet, and Dean knew who he was. It was on the tip of his tongue, like that other guy he and Sam had saved.

"Whoa," Dean said, pretending he was far less bothered than he was. "What's the idea, pal?"

"I'm not your pal any more than you're an NCIS Special Agent. I'm not sure how you're alive – last I checked, you're supposed to be dead, Agent … Smith. Twice. You and that brother of yours."

The guy knew him better than he knew the guy. Dean hated it when the scale was tipped, or more specifically when it was tipped against him. He also hated it when he was trapped in a five by six box with a law enforcement officer who was on to him.

"Surprise, not dead. Also not a mass murderer, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

Dean didn't know how to take that. In their line of work, some profiling skills were necessary. He wasn't as good at snapping to a quick, accurate judgment of people as some, but he wasn't terrible at it. It was life or death, and a hunter didn't reach their thirties if they sucked at figuring out who they were dealing with – monsters and humans alike. But this guy, Dean couldn't get a good bead on him. He resorted to an age-old wisdom: when in doubt and over a proverbial barrel, ask.

"Look, ah. I'm sorry, I don't …"

"Gibbs." Gibbs crossed his arms, glared at him. "You and your brother helped one of my agents a few years back."

"Okay, there it is. I remembered the damn vamps, I just couldn't remember your name," Dean said, voice light, bordering on flip. "And how's that other guy doing, anyway?"

Gibbs' gaze, already cool, turned to ice. He lunged, pressing his right forearm against Dean's throat. The move immobilized Dean, as much from surprise at the guy's strength and agility as from being caught off guard. He was getting soft in his old age.

"Agent DiNozzo disappeared from a crime scene a few hours ago," Gibbs said. "But you knew that."

"I didn't, actually," Dean choked out. "I swear."

Gibbs stared him down for what felt like a full minute, then gradually eased the pressure on Dean's trachea.

"What are you doing here, if you don't have anything to do with DiNozzo?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. Gibbs had to know. If he remembered them from all those years ago, when he'd let them walk away, then he'd know what might bring them back into this area. He probably didn't want to remember those details. Some civilians they encountered reacted to their supernatural experiences with an uptick of paranoia, some educated themselves and some pretended nothing had happened. Gibbs had had no direct contact, only that DiNozzo had, so maybe he never knew.

"My brother," Dean said.

"The guy who attacked DiNozzo twice last year, you mean. That brother?"

"What? No, I …"

Dean fell silent. There was a full year of Sam neither of them had a good record of. Bobby helped piece some of it together, but Sam was Lucifer and then Sam was without a soul, playing Rambo for Samuel and the distant cousins. An entire year. It seemed a stretch, but not impossible, that Sam had run into DiNozzo once. Twice was more improbable. Improbable didn't seem like a word in the Winchester dictionary.

"It's a very long story," Dean said, bone weary and unwilling to rehash the Winchester Family History with a stranger. "One I doubt you would believe, but if my brother did what you said, it wasn't him."

All the while his brain raced, Gibbs eyeballed him. He released Dean fully and stepped back. He appeared pissed as hell, tightly wound and ready to offload any second. He paced a few steps, never once removed his eyes from Dean. He didn't say anything, which was a great technique for making people nervous.

Even Dean. Something about Gibbs commanded attention and respect. In a lot of ways, Dean realized, Gibbs reminded him of Dad, and with that memory came a long-dormant pang of regret he did not have time for. He had to stick to the present. He remembered all of a sudden that Sam had pegged Gibbs as Marine. Made sense, and also made him realize he was never going to get a full read on the guy in the three minutes he had before he was hauled off in cuffs.

"I don't know what that means," Gibbs said at last. "If it was him, it was him. Now my agent's gone and you're here. It's hard not to connect those dots."

"Sometimes dots are misleading." Dean moved his arms with the intention of scrubbing his hands down his face, but Gibbs bristled like a damned watchdog looking to sink its teeth in his leg. He raised his hands in a classic surrender gesture, and said, "It really is a long story. How long you think this elevator can be stopped before someone notices and interrupts our happy good times chat here?"

Mini-interrogation, more like. Gibbs pursed his lips, still giving him a thorough stink-eye.

"This is a weird thing, like before. Isn't it?"

There seemed no point in lying, or in withholding information Gibbs looked like he'd bodily yank from his mouth if given the chance. Dean couldn't blame the guy for being on edge, if his missing agent had gone missing, especially if now he knew a weird thing was involved.

"Yes, it's a weird thing. Look, our jobs are exactly the same as yours, except the perps we, ah, apprehend have claws, sharp teeth and usually a taste for human flesh."

That answer didn't make Gibbs look any happier, not that Dean expected it to. He was starting to wonder, though, why this decisive, tough-as-nails, angry agent of the law had chosen to have a sidebar conversation with a dead mass murderer, presumed in both cases, instead of busting him immediately.

"Do you know what it is?" Gibbs asked.

Dean scowled. "No, not yet. That's what I'm trying to do here. Sam was … Sam's better at research."

"I did get the sense he was the smart one. He never let himself get caught."

Dean clenched his jaw. Sam was smart. Sam was fucking brilliant. Sam was also four fries short of a Happy Meal, and, Dean was sure, caught now. Maybe not caught red-handed breaking into a government facility, but caught nonetheless. Meanwhile, Dean was stuck in an elevator.

"Do you know where they're being kept?"

"Somewhere, beyond the sea," Dean muttered too quietly for Gibbs to hear. Then he shook his head. "Not sure. I need to do a little more legwork, but there's time. I think there's time."

"How much time?"

"Hours, uninjured, maybe. Days, but I can't guarantee condition."

Gibbs stared at him, unblinking. He took a business card and a pen out of his jacket's interior pocket, scribbled on it and handed it to Dean.

"You were right before. Here isn't the place for this discussion." He frowned. "That address. Eight o'clock. I'm going to want your whole story, unabridged version."

Gibbs released the emergency stop lever and the elevator jerked back to life. It rolled upward, with Dean watching Gibbs warily and Gibbs not blinking from his resolute stare either. Dean would say it was like a shootout at high noon in the old west, except he'd been there, done that. Gibbs stepped off the elevator when it stopped and strode down the corridor without a backwards glance.

"Hey," Dean called, "what makes you think I'm going to show up?"

"My gut," Gibbs said. "And I'll make it my number one priority to hunt you down if you don't."

Call him crazy, but Dean didn't find the threat idle. His own gut was unsettled by the whole elevator conversation, a distraction he hadn't needed and couldn't let get to him. He should have tossed the business card aside and forgotten about Gibbs, because even if the man was as dogged and determined as anything, he'd never find them. But Dean didn't. He pocketed the card and headed for the door. Now that he was alone again, all he could think about was Sam's phone in his pocket, the blurred images he'd seen in the forensics lab, the corpse on a slab in the autopsy room. And water. Miles and miles of water.

When he got to the car, he pulled Sam's phone out, looked at it for a while. He didn't know why he'd taken it. He had a bag full of Sam's stuff at the motel, but somehow this stupid thing, a disposable phone, felt like the closest link he had to his brother. He switched it on and found it empty of all data. He didn't much like the thought that popped into his head after that, and wondered how he could feel like this when Sam was still prickly and quiet around him. He hated the doubt he had that Sam would be sitting there with a lump in his belly if he were the one to be missing.

He shook his head. Stupid. Things hadn't gotten that bad between them. They were patching things up, again.

Dean shoved the phone back into his pocket and withdrew his own. He hadn't wanted to impede an investigation for his own selfish gains, though he could have just as easily swiped the salvaged camera the hot forensics tech and her dweeby friend were looking at. He did capture the images they trustingly flashed on the screen with his phone. He thumbed through his received texts, read the garbled ones that were his last contact with Sam and then pulled up the pictures. He thought he got what Sam had been trying to tell him, now. He didn't much like where it was going, but it made sense considering the submersion of the bodies.

With a few flicks of his fingers, the pictures were on the way to Bobby for confirmation. Dean hoped he was wrong, because he had no idea how he was going to find Sam or the missing agent he'd apparently been recruited to help with if he was right.