Rewriting the Rules, Chapter 8a/? (PG-13, Gen)

[deansfangirl]

link back to chapter seven | or start over at chapter one
You can also find this story at AO3, where it would love a Kudos or two

Chapter Eight
16k words, 58k total
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Saturday
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The map said it was five hours down Highway 95, so they left Gibbs' house at 0600.  Sam dared to suggest they save time by not stopping at the diner for coffee, but Dean correctly interpreted Gibbs' lack of reply to mean the subject wasn't up for debate.  Tony's hair hadn't been dyed in several days, leaving his beard well-grown but badly frosted-- and his mood self-conscious and grumpy-- as they all piled into the Winchesters' Impala.
Dean handed Tony the shoebox of cassette tapes as consolation.  Tony then mulled over the two dozen choices until Gibbs finally handed everyone a tall, steaming cup of caffeine.  He sat the box on the seat between them so both hands were available to pour sugar into his drink until it tasted even better than it smelled.  When that task was finished, he pulled out Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" to dangle over the front seat, where Sam put it into the deck.
Gibbs turned the box around and leisurely rifled through the contents to catalog the choices for later.
"The 'Journey' album is Sam's."
Everyone ignored Dean's attempt at humor, and the car remained pleasantly free of conversation for the next two hours.  The mellow music fit well with the sun rising over the landscape, and for a moment Tony could see that the hunting lifestyle wasn't without a few perks.  He imagined what it must have been like for the boys to have lived this way for so many years: frequently on the road, but with a good feeling of anticipation . . . and a perfect soundtrack.
When they pulled into the ramshackle gas station, Tony cringed and made a note to pick up some hand sanitizer along with the snacks.  He exchanged a questioning-their-sanity look with Gibbs, who just shrugged.  Dean and Sam were already arguing over whose turn it was to fill the tank and who got to go inside and pick the candy.
"I bet everything on these shelves expired ten years ago," Tony muttered as he opened the car door to get out.
"Hey," Dean protested, halting Tony before he stood up.  "You think it's easy to find places without security cameras or that won't ask for I.D. to match a credit card?"  Sam used the distraction to hoof it inside, leaving Dean to pump the gas.
Tony dropped his head in shame, shaking it in exasperation at himself for forgetting.  Even more than the Winchesters, he needed to stay off the radar personally.  Clearly he ought to be taking that threat much more seriously.  Sitting back up straight, he caught Dean's eye and nodded his thanks before heading to find the men's room.  Or out-house, more likely.
It was as disgusting as he'd feared.  Tony didn't bother washing his hands, focusing instead on not touching any surfaces in the first place.  He figured a place like this would have alcohol in some form or another, so he'd sterilize later.
Walking into the small cinderblock building, he was relieved to see that they at least had refrigerated shelves and drinks.  Tony found himself a one-liter plastic bottle of Coke that should provide him with enough sugar for the rest of the day, then he grabbed up a whole box of granola bars and a supersize bag of pretzels.  If no one else was planning to get stocked up for the afternoon, he'd have some left to share.
Gibbs was standing over by the back wall, already sipping another cup of coffee.  Moving to see what had caught the man's attention, Tony smiled to see it was a smattering a cassette tapes for sale next to a much-larger selection of CDs and miscellaneous auto accessories.  "Anything good?" he asked.
"The boys have a decent ear," Gibbs admitted.  "I listened to half of their tapes in high school."
"Pretty sure you listened to albums on vinyl," Tony teased.
"Nope," Gibbs smirked.  "My dad hated anything with an electric guitar.  I had to buy 8-tracks and listen to them out in my truck."
Tony's expression suddenly fell.  "Shit," he exclaimed.  "I can't even get to my music collection anymore.  I spent *hours* ripping all those CDs and even had it all backed up on this external drive McGee gave me a few years ago.  It was all on my phone, too, and that bastard, shifty, lunatic monster couldn't even leave me that!"
Gibbs grabbed his arm tight.  "Calm down before you make a scene."
"Yeah, yeah," Tony waved him off, but back at a normal volume.  "I'm just . . . I keep thinking of more and more things that I'm going to miss.  The list keeps growing," he pouted.
"I'm sure that Sam can download your whole collection illegally," his former boss rolled his eyes and let go of Tony.
"God, I hope so.  You know, we're lucky they have a thing for classic rock.  We could be trapped in their car with a top-40 pop music station for hours."
Gibbs nodded and turned back to the tapes for sale.  "But it wouldn't hurt to help them expand their horizons."
"Hey, I recognize that mischievous look.  I think I've seen it maybe twice times in the last twelve years.  You're not gonna make us listen to Barry White or something just to see them squirm?"
Smiling a full grin, Gibbs reached out and pulled a tape off the shelf and handed it to Tony.
By now, Dean was at the register paying, not more than thirty feet away, so Tony had to struggle not to laugh out loud and tip him off.  "Did you see that movie a couple years ago?  Meryl Streep can really sing."
"Huh?"
"Oh, come on!  It broke all kinds of sales records!  You can't possibly have missed it even if you only watched the news."
"What the hell are you talking about, DiNozzo?"
"Nuh-uh, you can't use that name in public.  But, seriously?  You haven't heard of Mamma Mia?"
"It's a movie now?"
"A *musical*, Gibbs."
"About ABBA?"
"No, it's about a daughter getting married and three guys who--"
"What?  Then why did you even bring it up?"  Gibbs was about to move past 'exasperated' and into 'pissed.'
"Be*cause* they sing ABBA's songs in it!  That's what makes it a musical," Tony laughed.
"With Meryl Streep singing?"
"She was hot, Gibbs.  Really.  You'd like it.  Except it's sort of a chick-flick.  But the funny kind."
"Whatever you say, Tony."  Gibbs' patronizing was so insulting, it was genius.  "Let's pick a couple others and spring ABBA on them last."
"They didn't have any Beatles," Tony pointed out.
"Good catch.  Chicago either."  They both set their drinks down and dug through the unordered shelves.
Tony practically crowed in triumph as he picked one up and showed it off.  "I *love* this one!"
They were both grinning like loons when Dean came up behind them.  "You two look like kids in a candy store.  What the hell are you giggling about?"
Handing over his latest find, Tony waited for Dean to join in their enthusiasm and nostalgia.  Sure enough, it made the younger man smile, too.
"I've only heard track six before, but it's awesome, so I guess this'll be okay."
"Oh my God," Tony's jaw dropped.  "How can you not have heard this album?  It's like the number two best selling of all time."
"Well, if it's that great, then what is it doing on a clearance rack?  And why don't they play the other tracks on the radio?" he challenged.
Gibbs and Tony both shrugged their ignorance.  "Maybe because the songs are so long?"
"I'll try anything once," Dean warned, "but if I'm not impressed, then it's going home with Gibbs."
"That's fair," agreed Tony, as Sam walked up to join them.
"So what else you got?" Dean sighed and looked braced for a punch.
"Chicago II and Abbey Road."  Gibbs held them up expecting a sigh of relief or indifference.
He definitely didn't expect Dean's eyes to flare wide in a split-second of speechlessness before he walked away with a "Whatever!" called behind.
They looked to Sam in confusion.  "Um, he's . . . Well . . . ," he sighed.  "Long story short, The Beatles were our mom's favorite band, so Dad would run hot and cold about having them in the car.  Most of the time, he'd change the radio station when one came on, but every few years he'd suddenly buy all their albums and make us listen to nothing else for a month.  Then he'd have a bad night and get drunk and trash the tapes in some dramatic-- or cathartic-- way.  So, yeah . . . .  Dean will probably just find some excuse not to play that if you buy it."
Shaking his head, Gibbs put it back on the shelf.  Tony didn't know what to say either, so they stood there awkwardly shuffling their feet.
Finally Sam shrugged and sort-of smiled before leaving the store.
"Grab your stuff," Gibbs instructed.  "Put it on the counter and I'll bring it out in a minute.  Don't let the cashier get a good look at you."
It wasn't *that* risky, of course.  Tony's chance of being recognized was slim to none with the piercings and scruffy blonde hair, but he appreciated Gibbs giving him an excuse for not drawing attention to his empty pockets.  For not even letting him need to ask for the handout.
Gibbs even raised his eyebrows to pretend surprise when Tony gave him a grateful look.  Because inside that bastard was a real teddy bear, but Tony would take that secret to his grave.
He gathered up his Coke, snacks, and cassette, taking them to the register before hunting down that bottle of hand sanitizer and adding it to the pile before going back to the car.  The brothers had already sat down and were starting to open their drinks and food wrappers.  Tony used the extra time to stretch his muscles before they got back on the road.  He was definitely getting too old for long road trips.
It took Gibbs a little longer than it should have, but soon the Impala was revving up and pulling onto the street.  Digging in the plastic sack that Gibbs had set between them, Tony found his new tape and passed it to Sam.
"Bat Out of Hell?" Sam chuckled, earning a swat from Dean.  He put it in anyway, leaving Tony and Gibbs to wonder what that exchange was all about before the opening clash of piano and guitar started up.
One and a half minutes later, Dean nodded decisively.  "Yeah!" he hollered in approving response to the wailing electric solo.  Of course, when the tempo slowed and the piano was all that was left to back up Meat Loaf's opening verse, he sent a warning glance at Tony in the rearview mirror.
"Turn it up!" Tony insisted.
"Wait a sec," Sam interrupted over the music a heartbeat later when his lightbulb clicked.  "Dean, have you never heard this before?" he asked incredulously.
"Oh great," his brother griped.  "Is this some kind of emo anthem?"
"Dude, trust me, this could be your theme song," Sam shook his head.  "Hold on, let me pull up the lyrics on my phone."
**And down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising, oh I swear I saw a young boy down in the gutter.  He was starting to foam in the heat.**
"Sounds more like it's about Tony," Dean smirked.  "You know, that first impression is very important.  Might ought to work on that--"
"Shut up, Dean.  Here," Sam handed over his phone and put one hand on the wheel while his brother was reading.
"Just pull over," Gibbs sighed in exasperation.  "This song is like twelve minutes long."
"I can read faster than that, old man," Dean argued absently, never easing up on the gas.  Just then the chorus started, and by the time it finished, the phone and wheel had been re-exchanged.
Dean was grinning.  "Why the hell didn't you buy me this before, Sam?  It's like this Meat Loaf guy was my own personal prophet."
"His real name is Michael Aday, but Jim Steinman wrote all the songs," Tony pointed out.
"Too bad you'll never get to show off your pop culture trivia on a game show now, DiNozzo," said Gibbs with a smug tone.
Tony threw a pretzel at his head.
"Hey!" Dean barked indignantly.  "You get crumbs on my baby and you'll get to detail the whole interior tomorrow."  They settled down as the music shifted into the bridge.
**And I know that I'm damned if I never get out, and maybe I'm damned if I do.  But with every other beat I got left in my heart, you know I'd rather be damned with you.  Well if I gotta be damned, you know I wanna be damned dancing through the night with you.**
"I didn't know you hadn't heard this," Sam told his brother quietly, but not hiding his words from the back seat.  "And I erased it off my iPod after . . . after what happened in 2007.  It just . . . hit too close to home."
They exchanged glances that made Tony wonder how much more of their history he still didn't know, if they weren't even up to 2007.
Dean shot his arm over at Sam like always, but instead of a hit, it was a manly "buck up" pat on the shoulder.
"Well, it's still a cool song," Dean smiled before the chorus restarted, when he tried to join in on the first line despite not getting any of the notes right.  "Like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes!"  At the top of his lungs.
Tony threw a few handfuls of pretzels at the source of the noise, but they didn't deter Dean, who just picked them up off his lap and ate them.
When the music segued into a motorcycle engine over the drum solo, Dean upped their speed and let out a whoop.
Gibbs nudged Tony and leaned in to say, "Think he'll like my tape this much?"  They laughed.
Sam eyed them suspiciously.  "You didn't buy the second album too, did you?"
"Second what album?" Gibbs asked.
Tony rolled his eyes.  "Bat Out of Hell 2.  It came out in the early nineties."
"Is it any good?"
"Yeah, but not *this* good," Tony lamented.
The opening saxophone on track 2 made Dean wrinkle his nose.  "What year is this from?" he asked.
"Seventy-seven," Gibbs answered promptly.  "Shannon gave it to me on my first shore leave with her."
Tony had known his boss for several years before he even heard her name, so he was very surprised to hear it now.  But also pleased.  Maybe that wound was finally healing.
Dean snickered.  "She must have been a real firecracker if she gave you some 'paradise by the dashboard light'."  He grinned at his own pun.
Wincing, Tony quickly looked at Gibbs to see the reaction.  Before he could wrap his brain around how bad it would probably be, Gibbs laughed.  Laughed!
"She was a redhead," Gibbs agreed.  "Firecracker is a good description."
They listened without further commentary through the rest of that song and into the next.
About halfway through "Heaven Can Wait," Sam's head thunked gently against his window, drawing Tony's attention back inside the car.  He couldn't see Sam's face, but Dean's was frowning.  Then Tony noticed how his hands were gripping the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
He waited until the second verse finished before speaking up.  **I got a taste of paradise.  That's all I really need to make me stay.  I got a taste of paradise, if I had it any sooner you know, you know I never would have run away from my home.**  "We can listen to something else, guys."
Dean looked at Sam as if to make the same offer.  "It's okay," said a flat, emotionless voice slightly muffled by the glass.
The chorus started again, and Dean sighed.  "This just reminds us of a friend," he explained.
As the music repeated a minute later, Sam added, "We thought he had died about a year ago, but last month he turned up . . . .  And now he's in a mental institution because . . . well, he sort of went crazy.  So it's . . . all a real mess.  We didn't want to leave him there, but . . . ."
"There was no other choice," Dean told Sam, for what sounded like the hundredth time.
"Yeah," Sam agreed sadly.
Fortunately the next song was upbeat and free of depressing reminders.  When it finished and the tape popped out, Dean gave a little "Hell, yeah!" as he turned it over to the B side.
A minute later he was shaking his head again.  "Too many ballads.  An album should only have one or two, tops."
Tony frowned as he listened to the words he hadn't heard in years.  **I can't lie, I can't tell you that I'm somethin' I'm not.  No matter how I try, I'll never be able to give you somethin', somethin' that I just haven't got.  I want you, I need you, but there ain't no way I'm ever gonna love you.  Now don't be sad, 'cause two out of three ain't bad.**
Well that sucks, he thought.  Now the boys have got me trying to mix music with real life, and this one is too much like that last conversation with Jeanne.  Probably also exactly like Gibbs' divorce conversations went with all three ex-wives.  Maybe we should just talk shop instead.
But before he could think of a way to bring it up without being too obvious, the track was over.
And "Paradise" started up.
Who in their right mind would want to turn *that* off?
Everyone was finally smiling.  Tony did a double take when he glanced over at Gibbs and saw his lips twitched up in a way he'd never seen before.
He continued to sneak surreptitious peeks as the music went on.  It got to the baseball segment before Tony was sure.
"You did *not*?!" he burst out before his brain could snatch the words back.
Dean and Sam looked back extremely curiously.
Now *this* face, Tony knew.  It was Gibbs' I'm-trying-not-to-laugh expression.  "Wouldn't you like to know," his ex-boss taunted.
"Oh my God!  That's a 'yes', Gibbs!"  Tony positively giggled with awe and glee.
"Was there a question?" Dean asked Sam in confusion.
His brother had a better view of the back seat, and the slight blush on Gibbs' face was the clue.  "I think Tony asked if, uh, if Gibbs scored a home run during that shore leave."
Tony shook his head that Sam didn't get it.  "Their *first* home run," he corrected with a stage whisper.
The headslap didn't even make him blink.
The Winchesters laughed, but more at Tony than at Gibbs.  They had no idea how amazing it was to learn something personal about the gruff NCIS agent.  How completely private and closed-off Gibbs was with everyone after his last divorce.  But there was no Tim or Ziva to brag to anymore, no Abby to share his enthusiasm for all things Gibbs-related.  The thought was like a bucket of water on his joy, and he stayed silent while the song finished.
"You know," said Dean before the next song started, "that was Dad's best contribution to my sex education."
"What?" scoffed Sam.
"When I was thirteen, the school had a whole special assembly for our grade and the health teacher did his damnedest to make sex boring.   Went over all the risks and safe sex, blah blah blah, and concluded with how great abstinence was.  You know?"  They nodded at having been through similar experiences.  "So Dad had signed some permission slip first and actually remembered the date.  When we got home, he sent you off to do some chore."  Dean was talking over the last track, but no one seemed to mind.  "He turned on the radio, told me to sit down, then called the station and asked the D.J. to play this song.  Even told the guy that it was because his son had sat through sex ed that afternoon at school.  I was praying that they wouldn't air the whole call and that no one would recognize Dad's voice if they did.  Anyway, he quizzed me a little while we waited, to find out if I'd payed attention, I guess.  Then the song came on.  I'd never heard it before, and it was damn awkward sitting next to my dad!" he laughed.
"Then when it was over, he told me that sex was *exactly* like that song.  Fun and exciting . . . and with a catch.  That girls didn't want sex, they wanted love.  And then he went on and on about how Winchesters weren't perfect, but we damn well keep our promises, and if I ever told some girl that I would stay with her, then he would just leave me behind and never take me hunting again."
Sam burst out laughing.  "Now *that* was effective!  No wonder you have a commitment phobia!"
"Hey!" Dean protested.  "I'm committed to my job."
"And that finally explains it.  I'd always wondered."
"Huh?  Wondered what?"
"Why you didn't hit *your* first home run until you were eighteen!" Sam announced triumphantly, loving the opportunity to legitimately tease his brother.
"That *you* knew of," Dean countered angrily.  "I didn't think that you could handle the truth when you were eleven."
"Yeah, right," Sam smiled, still sure of himself.
"Apparently my reputation at -- what? half a dozen? -- high schools in this country never trickled down to your middle school hallways."
"What, that James Dean had been reincarnated and just got out of juvie and carried a gun in his backpack?  Because the rest of your rap was so accurate?"
Tony laughed at the idea of Dean Winchester sitting in high school like a regular kid . . . who killed monsters and ghosts on the weekends.  Dean glared at him in the mirror, and Tony put up his hands in protest.  "Hey, don't look at me.  I went to military school.  We didn't even get to *look* at a girl for months at a time.  But *college*!  God, I *loved* college.  My frat gave me the *best* nickname," he trailed off dreamily.
That seemed to calm Dean down, making his virginity age less of an affront to his perceived masculinity.
"For Cryin' Out Loud" ended dramatically, and the tape kept going for a while.  Tony had nearly forgotten what it was like to hear an album that wasn't evenly divided in two.  His Corvette had a tape deck when he first bought it, but he'd upgraded that to a CD player within a few months.
Gibbs found the Chicago II cassette and tossed it into Sam's lap, who remembered to fast-forward to the end before taking Meat Loaf out.  "Movin' In" fired up and the jazz-rock sounds took over the car.
Three tracks later, Dean got bored with "Poem for the People" and cleared his throat.  "So . . . who wants to hear the awesome story of the first time we met Loki?"
"You have *good* stories, too?" Tony asked cheekily.
"Well, there's also the one about the time we saved a federal agent from death by starvation in a sewer."
And that earned Dean a *real* headslap.  The kind that could actually make your ears ring.  It sent the Impala into a rough shake, but she stayed in their lane.  "Son of a bitch!" the driver complained, although he was astute enough not to argue that the reprimand wasn't deserved.
Sam was scowling at Dean too, in disapproval of his brother's bad taste.  When Dean didn't have anything to say, Sam filled the gap.  "Loki was the Norse god of mischief.  We didn't have a clue what it was we were hunting, but we found the case when a college professor was pushed from his third-story office with no clues.  Turned out, the guy had been a real sleaze, and the janitor who saw him last said he was taking a pretty co-ed upstairs late at night.  There was a campus legend about the building being haunted, but that turned out to be fake.  So when we came up empty, we were ready to leave town.  Then--"
"But friggin' *aliens* abducted a kid right off the lawn!" Dean interrupted, chuckling.  Sam started to protest, but changed his mind and waved it off.  "Left a crop circle and everything."
"It wasn't a crop circle!  That's when actual *crops* get flattened, not freshly mown grass.  It was like, like . . . an energy blast radius or something.  A big circle where the grass was just *gone.*"
"Glad you can give us all the correct scientific terms, college boy."
Surprisingly, that made Sam laugh.  "So then we interviewed the boy who said he'd been abducted, and he was *so* freaked."
"How is that funny?" Gibbs frowned.
"Because the aliens didn't *hurt* him," Dean grinned.  "They just *humiliated* him.  Started with the always-popular anal probe and then moved on to-- get this!-- slow dancing."
Tony blinked, sure he must have misheard.  "Slow dancing?"
"Complete with disco ball and corny music!"
"I assume the aliens weren't real?" Gibbs put in dryly.
"We didn't think so," Sam explained, "but we weren't sure *what* was going on.  The kid sure wasn't faking it."
"But then we talked to one of his frat brothers who told us that the guy had been in charge of pledge week that year.  Apparently he really got off on putting them through hell."
"So they were getting some payback?" Tony guessed.
"Someone was, but it wasn't them."
"Loki," Tony figured.
"Wait, wait, wait," Dean smiled.  "Don't get ahead.  Me and Sam were really scratching our heads.  And driving each other up the walls.  First he let the air out of my baby's tires and wouldn't 'fess up."
"So Dean hid my laptop and wouldn't give it back."  Instead of trading punches, they were eyeing each other with amusement.  "But then some other guy got dragged down in the sewer and half-eaten alive.  Right next to the same building on campus."
"Kid you not: it was an alligator in the sewer!  *And* it turned out that the vic was a scientist who tested crap on animals.  Now we were coming up totally blank on a supernatural creature or spirit who could be an alligator, aliens, and a pretty girl.  So we called our friend Bobby-- who was a hunter genius-- and he knew right away that it was a trickster.  Who was also messing with *us* through the car and computer."
"So how did you stop it, if it could turn into anything?"
"Oh, no.  It was worse.  He didn't change *himself*, he actually created stuff out of thin air.  Real as you or me."
Tony and Gibbs both looked at Dean like he was trying to sell them a bridge in Brooklyn.
Sam tried to back him up.  "Seriously.  He even made some strippers to distract Dean while he escaped, and those girls were really kicking Dean's ass when I--"
"Oh, come on!  You didn't have to tell that part!  Besides, you skipped some stuff.  First, we had to I.D. who was the trickster.  Supposedly they also love candy, and there was only one guy at ground zero who fit.  The janitor."
"Bobby said a stake would kill it, but we had to catch him by surprise.  Tried, but he saw us coming, turned the strippers on Dean, and sicced a huge dude with a chainsaw on me and Bobby."
"But we got him in the end."
"Not really."
"Quit jumping ahead!"
"We thought that we killed him, but even that was just a trick.  Turned out that he was . . . something else.  Could only be killed with a different weapon.  It was probably a year later when we ran into him again."
"Well, I'm hooked," Tony shrugged.  "What happened then?"
"Uh . . . that's a . . . much more complicated mess," Dean stumbled.
"Wouldn't make sense without hearing a lot of other stuff first," Sam muttered.
"Enough fish stories for now, boys."  Gibbs was too nonchalant, and it made Tony worried about what he would say next.  "Why don't you let DiNozzo have a turn?  He can tell you about the time he tried to flirt with a witness and ended up kissing the suspect."
"Woah, woah!  Wait a minute there--"
"Who was a drag queen."
Over the boys' raucous laughter, Tony protested.  "No one else knew she was a he."  It made no difference, and there may or may not have been some pouting going on.
"So tell it your way, DiNozzo," Gibbs smirked.
Tony most certainly did.
Followed up by the challenge for Gibbs to explain himself for "the time I had to kiss *you*, damn it."  He got himself a mild headslap for that, and the Winchesters got to hear a tale void of any humor.
Dean nodded in understanding when it finished.  "Laugh or cry, you gotta deal somehow.  Thank God I've never had to give Sam CPR.  Trauma like that, I'd drink myself to an early grave."
Sam hit him, of course.  "That's not funny."
"Duh, that's my point."
"Maybe I should share a few times you cried instead of laughed."
"If I did, I'm sure it was totally called for, and I looked very manly doing it.  Besides, you know I'd have to get you back, bitch."
"Jerk."  It was like some kind of magic signal that an argument was over.  "Where's the next tape?" Sam asked the back seat.  Chicago had run out in the middle of Gibbs' turn at show and tell.  The man's words were concise, but he seemed compelled to list every single detail relevant to the case.
It was just the opportunity Gibbs and Tony had been waiting for.  The cassette was found and removed from its case before getting passed to Sam, who didn't bother to glance at it before inserting it.
Tony couldn't see Sam's face, so he watched Dean closely as the tape started.  He was frowning slightly, clearly trying to recognize the music but failing.
Then the synthesizer kicked in.
"What the hell *is* this?!" he demanded, expression a mix of pain and indignation.
Gibbs and Tony cracked up, exchanging a high five.  Dean reached over to pop the tape out, but Gibbs stopped him with a quick lunge forward to grab his wrist.
"Nope.  You said you'd try anything once."
Dean looked constipated at swallowing his own words.  "That was when I thought you had decent taste.  Who the hell is *this*?  Is this *disco*?!" he yelled when the vocals started.
"I think it's ABBA," Sam guessed.
"Greatest Hits Volume Two," confirmed Tony.  "They're like the sixth best-selling band of all time, you know."
"Give it a chance," Gibbs insisted.  "They're catchy."
Sam pulled out his phone to google ABBA, while "Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie" made the Impala's speed feel dangerously fast.  Or maybe that was just Dean trying to cover the last hour in half the time.
"Sorry, Tony.  They're actually number eight."
"Hey, I was really close!"
"Beatles, Elvis, Michael Jackson," Sam was reading the list, "Madonna, Elton, Zeppelin, Queen, and then ABBA.  Wow, they're higher than the Stones and U2."
Meanwhile, Dean was listening to the lyrics.  "Okay, I like this chick.  She can have me after midnight.  I assume she's hot-- or *was*?"
"Oh, yeah," the passengers chorused.
Dean got fed up with the next song, and they argued the definition of "classic" to fill the remainder of the journey.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At long last they pulled into the medium-size city of Halifax, North Carolina.  Sam swore he could be in and out of the library in ten minutes max, so Dean dropped him off at the front with a look at his watch and a challenging smirk.  He then slowly moved the Impala across the parking lot to the farthest space with a line of sight to the door . . . nearly a hundred yards away.
Tony shook his head at Dean's not-technically-cheating ploy to make his brother's life harder.  "You know he's going to repay the favor, so why bother?"
"Who says this isn't my revenge for the last trick *he* pulled?"  But Dean's phone started ringing before he could say more.  It was Sam, who of course found his own way to cheat at their current game.
"Good news, I assume?" Dean answered the call.  The reply wasn't loud enough for anyone else to hear, but Dean nodded and restarted the engine.  "Lunchtime!" he declared before he hung up and pulled the car back up to the building.
Sam walked out and reached them the very instant the Impala came to a complete stop, but if the synchronized timing was unusual, he didn't show it.  Instead he announced, "It's here," as he buckled in, clearly not expecting that Dean would have already been courteous enough to share that important information with their guests.
"Which cemetery?" his brother demanded as they pulled back onto the street.
"The main one," Sam sighed.
"Damn it."  Dean sounded resigned rather than angry.
"Why?" asked Tony when no one else seemed curious.
Gibbs already knew this one.  "There could be workers digging there tonight."
"And landscapers a couple hours before dawn," Sam added.
"Midnight is probably still clear," Dean hoped.  He caught sight of some local hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant and pulled in.  "We'll just have to be careful.  Not make too much noise.  Easy as pie with a séance, time restraints, and shotguns for the two novices."
Gibbs shot him a sharp look.  "We're assets in this, not liabilities," he threatened.
"Yeah, yeah," grumbled Dean, shifting into park and turning off the engine.  "Ducks to water, and stuff.  Just don't come cryin' to me when your government training gets you killed."
"Dean!"  That was Sam's cue to smack his brother in exasperation.
They walked inside and stood in line to place their orders.  Nearly everything was fried, and the heavy smell filled the air promisingly.  Only once they were sitting at a far table in relative privacy did Dean pick up the conversational thread again.
"Seriously, Sam.  I'd like to see how they handle it the first time a ghost sticks an arm in their chest and starts pulling on some internal organ."
Sam just shot his brother a look that could believably cause spontaneous human combustion.
"Or not," Dean shrugged.
Tony's eyebrows went up, not sure how serious they were.  "That sounds . . . quickly fatal," he fished.
"Shotguns are no good at close range," Gibbs nodded in understanding.  "So then what?  You keep a salt shaker in your pocket?"
Dean grinned and said, "Improvise, or wait for your brother to bail you out."
"And hope he's not still pissed about the last prank you pulled," Sam tacked on meaningfully.
"Food's here," Tony announced, seeing the employee on her way with a big tray and innocent ears that didn't need to catch any part of the current topic.
They got everyone's baskets and sides sorted out before falling silent for a good ten minutes of tastebud appreciation.
"We should come back here for dinner," Dean said lovingly to his last hushpuppy.  Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree.
"So how are we spending the next twelve hours?" Tony wondered.
"Finding everything for the séance ritual won't be quick," Sam warned.  "There are some herb substitutions if we can't find the best ones, but we've got enough time that I would really prefer to track down the sure thing."
Tony's eyes lit up.  "So it's like Potions class in Harry Potter?"
Sam snorted.  "Not that tedious, thank God.  No boiling or perfectly precise measurements or anything complicated.  Well, maybe *some* spells are like that, but nothing we've ever had to use."
Gibbs was looking at Tony in surprise.  "Since when do you read books in your spare time, DiNozzo?"
Tony's jaw dropped.  "How do you know that Harry Potter is a book and *not* know they made like twenty movies about him?"
"Abby."  Of course.
"Besides, I read all the novels McGee wrote," Tony defended.
Gibbs just snorted at that.
Dean glanced up.  "Agent McGeek?  He's a writer?"
"Bestsellers."  Tony still wasn't sure if he was proud, resentful, or just embarrassed at his friend's success-- at his expense.  "He used our real team and real cases and just changed the names.  It was kind of funny . . . but not really."
"Reading your own press doesn't count as reading books, DiNozzo.  That's just narcissism," Gibbs teased.
Meanwhile, Sam and Dean were exchanging another serious, thoughtful look.  It only ended with Dean's shrug.  "We don't have a copy anyway," he said quietly.
"Of what?" Tony asked, since they weren't whispering like it was secret.
Instead of answering, Sam went for the redirection, pointing at Gibbs.  "You've got to stop calling him that.   Someone could overhear and look too close."
Shaking his head at his lapse, Gibbs didn't defend himself.
"Just call me Agent Tommy," quipped Tony.
"I thought you were set on 'Tony'," said Sam, confused.
"That's what McGee named his fictional copy of me."
"Oh.  Well, that would really be safer to put on your new I.D."
"No, no, no.  We've already been over this.  The news only calls me 'Anthony', so there's no danger.  Besides, I'm already changing my last name."
"You ought to practice using it," Dean advised.  "If you wake up groggy in the E.R. and spill 'Tony DiNozzo' before thinking straight, they're gonna put two and two together and make four."
"Two handcuffs, four calls to the authorities, and more security guards than Dean and I can sneak you past," Sam insisted.
"Okay, okay.  I'm not arguing."
"You're changing your name, not your personality," Gibbs rolled his eyes.  "Denison," he added a second later.
"Pretty sure I *am* changing my personality, my dear L. J. Tibbs.  Have you *seen* my new wardrobe?  Tony DiNo-- or rather, Original Tony would throw a fit.  But Tony Denison can just go with the flow."
"You got something to say about my fashion sense?"
"And both Tonys are so very grateful for your donations," he added quickly, thinking on his feet.  "Such great stuff, too.  Vintage wear is really trendy this year."
"We can see if there's a resale store in this town," Dean spoke up.  "We ought to hit it up, too.  Sam's size is always hit-or-miss, and he ruined a good shirt on our last hunt."
"Dean's just plain picky.  Has to make sure his jeans properly accentuate his ass."  The brothers started smacking each other again.
Gibbs sighed.  "I'm starting to wish it had been harder to find the poor kid's grave."
"Let's go," suggested Sam, getting up and out of range of Dean's final swat.  "With any luck there will be an occult store for one-stop shopping."
"And if not?"  Tony was looking forward to learning everything about hunting so he could stop feeling like such a fresh, ignorant recruit sooner rather than later.
"Gardening nursery first, library to look up acceptable local substitutions, grocery store if all else fails," Dean rattled off on their way to the door.
"Actually, I have one of Bobby's books in the trunk that contains a catalog of spells with regional variations.  I can use it to cross-reference our séance ingredients--"
"Holy crap, you are *such* a nerd sometimes."
"Or I could just send you to the library instead."
"Hell, no.  You know I only love you for your giant brain.  Gotta let you earn your keep."
Sam scoffed as they got into the car.
"Let's find a motel first," Dean said while turning the engine over.  "Borrow their phone book, unload our bags.  In fact, let's check in separately; let everything fall on the Winchesters if the shit hits the fan.  Gibbs, you can get a second room after we round everything up.  You brought cash, right?"  A withering glance answered that question.  "We shouldn't all hit the occult shop together, either.  Sam, you can drop me and Gibbs off at the cemetery.  We'll find the spot and see how public we're gonna be tonight.  Maybe find an employee and get the scoop on after-dark activities.  You two can get Tony some clothes if the herbs don't take long.  We've still got an alter cloth and enough candles, right?"
"We should, but I'll double check."
Dean was driving them to the cemetery first, hoping to find a place to stay within walking distance.  His baby was just too beautiful and conspicuous to park nearby when they needed to be covert.  Fortunately, the city graveyard was in an older part of town, and there were two non-chain motels within sight of its entrance gates.  One of them looked more like the hourly type, so Dean steered toward the alternative.
He parked just out of sight from the office, and went in alone.  It only took a couple minutes before he returned with a key and the yellow pages to toss in Sam's lap.  They drove around to the backside and stopped in front of the door numbered eleven.
"With a little luck, we can be done in time to take a nap!" Dean joked.
Sam ignored him.  "Everyone take a potty break," he suggested as they all pulled bags out of the trunk.  Dean handed his own off to Tony and started digging through the other gear stored above the false bottom, probably getting the candles and stuff.  He wasn't long behind them in entering the small room.  Sam had already found what he was looking for the in the phone book and had just started jotting down an address.
"Got one?" asked Dean.
"Probably.  'Potions and Portents' sounds likely.  Couple thrift stores, too."
"Good.  I love easy cases."
"Thanks, dude.  Now it will *definitely* go south."
"Come on.  It's just one fourteen year old.  Could be a lot worse."
"He could be a little punk, like you at that age."
"Yeah, I'd have been a total badass spirit if I'd died back then.  More likely, he was a sensitive emo type like you."
"Maybe I should tell Tony about the summer you were fourteen with the big crush on--"
"You want to go down that road," Dean interrupted, "Then you better watch your back.  I've got way more dirt on you than you have on me."
They stared themselves into a suspicious truce-- or a temporary cease-fire.
"Can we go now?" said Gibbs scathingly.
The Winchesters shrugged, and Dean tossed Sam the keys on the way out the door.  Sam took the driver's seat, and Tony got wordlessly redirected to shotgun by Dean's manhandling.
They drove into the cemetery, letting Gibbs and Dean out just inside the gate.  Finding the right grave could take a while, since there were easily a few thousand plots to cover.  Stopping at the small office to ask would only be a last resort, knowing it would make them easy suspects tomorrow when the grave turned up disturbed.
"I'll go east, you take west," Dean suggested.  "Hopefully there's a chronological layout, so call my cell if you find a group from the right year.  Or it might be alphabetical, but most likely it's totally random, and we're gonna have to get lucky."
Tony grimaced as he watched them take off in opposite directions. "So tell me we got the less mind-numbing half of the stick?"
"Definitely," nodded Sam as they drove away.  "We get to talk to the hippies at the mystical healing crystals store.  That's always a little jolt of adrenaline."
"I should warn you: I'm not very good with crazy people."
"Just nod and smile at everything they say."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At 3:09 pm, Dean's phone finally rang.  "*Please* tell me you found it," he answered.
"Approximately 300 yards north-northwest of the gate.  Look for the mausoleum with the copper cross on top; it's just south of me."
"Be there in ten."  Hanging up, he thought briefly about how good it would feel to sprint and stretch his muscles, but waved it off.  They hadn't needed to be this cautious about drawing attention since Victor Henrickson was still alive, but taking on Tony-- and his over-protective boss-- would hopefully be more than worth the trouble.
The grounds were covered with natural dips and rises and a few ancient trees had been left scattered, so Dean didn't see Gibbs until he was almost on top of him.  Looking around the immediate vicinity, Dean frowned and exhaled, "Crap."
Gibbs nodded.  "I assume those lights will be an issue."
"Yeah.  Taking out all three might get us an immediate repair call."
"Well, it's not completely out in the open here, but we could cut the main power line up by the front."
"Wow, look at you-- thinking like a real criminal."
"It'd be hard to catch them if I couldn't."
Dean didn't respond, but kept scanning the area.  "We should put you and Tony there," he pointed towards a section where the tombstones were all low, about twenty yards away.
"I'd rather have my back against that tree," Gibbs countered, nodding the opposite direction.
"Rock salt doesn't fly that far," Dean shook his head.  "It's just not heavy enough for that much distance.  And a tree has limbs a spirit can easily drop on your head.  Most of 'em ain't that smart, but I don't think you want to chance it."
"Okay, but surely some cover is better than none."
"It's not gonna be shooting back at you, remember?  Besides, Sam and I will have all its attention.  You're only staying in range as backup.  Best of all, it can't throw you hard if you're low to the ground."
"Damn," Gibbs shook his head at all the ways this was different from planning for a human suspect.
"We'll put down a salt ring about ten feet in diameter; give you both a little wiggle room."
Gibbs nodded.  "I don't see many bare plots around.  Shouldn't run into anyone else digging tonight."
"They'll still hear us all the way at the front gate if we need to use the shotguns.  We're lucky there's no residences too close."
"So we're still on for midnight."
"Yeah.  Come on, I've seen enough."  They started the walk back to the motel.  "I've sure you need coffee, and I want a drink."
"Didn't you make a rule about drinking on a hunt?"
"The spirit's in another state, and we've got nine hours to wait.  Pretty sure the only danger now is spilling more of our sob story to Tony with actual sobs involved."
"Why are you doing that, anyway?"
Dean sighed.  "Because we've made too many enemies who love to monologue like a bad villain, and I don't want him distracted at a critical moment.  But even other hunters have plenty of rumors to tell about the Winchesters that are half true and half crazy.  If we don't tell him the whole truth first, it would be harder for him to trust us."
"Gotta trust the members of your team," Gibbs agreed.
"Exactly."
The conversation ran out, and they walked for several more minutes in comfortable silence.  Gibbs was never talkative, and Dean was really only that way when trying to charm someone into giving him something.
So they were both a little surprised when Dean cleared his throat as they finally reached the motel property.  "We'll share it with you, too, if you really want to know.  I get that you and Tony are sort of a package deal, even if you're not going on the road with us."
Gibbs shook his head after a few seconds' thought.  "It's not any of my business.  If DiNozzo still thinks you're solid, that's all I need to know."
"Okay.  Well, good.  Because in your world of normal, ignorance is bliss.  Or so I've been told."
Once around the building, they could see that the Impala wasn't back yet.
"Why don't you go book that second room now, and ask where the closest convenience store is?"
"On it," Gibbs replied, veering left.
Dean went on to their room and looked wistfully at the nearest bed before hitting the bathroom.
One minutes later, Gibbs knocked on the door, so Dean was glad he hadn't bothered to lie down yet.
When he opened up, it was to the sight of a man very impatient for his caffeine.  "Two blocks south.  Let's go."  Without waiting, Gibbs turned and walked off, leaving Dean to catch up when he finished laughing.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Also at 3:30, Tony was using that "nod and smile" advice on Sam himself.  The first store of new-age craziness they'd been to only had two of the ingredients for the séance spell, but had helpfully pointed them to an alternative medicine shop that carried a wider selection.  And they had indeed gotten all of the remaining herbs there, save one.  Naturally, this last item on the list had turned into the most boring scavenger hunt of all time.
Currently, Sam was arguing with a Wiccan who was clearly high on more than one substance at the moment.  The size of his garden and greenhouse gave him a little more credence as an expert, but Tony deducted points from anyone with troll dolls lining their windowsills.
"I'm telling you, man, cassava is the same thing.  Just a different name."
"No, I've seen cassia before, and it had rounder leaves."
"But you don't need the leaves anyway.  Just the bark."
"Yeah, and it still has to be the *right* bark.  From the right species!"
Tony wandered back to the car, and picked up one of Sam's books from the trunk out of boredom.  As he flipped through the pages, some parts were worth a laugh.  At least half of the spells were so vague that they had to be bogus, and nearly all of them promised unspecified prosperity and/or romance.  He wouldn't mind trying out that recipe for 'youthful hair', though.
It wasn't long before Sam joined him, rolling his eyes at Weeds-guy and getting in the car empty-handed.  Tony got in beside him, but didn't bother asking for details.  The car had taken them a mile or two before Sam visibly shook off his irritated state of mind and looked over to appraise his passenger.
"Bored?" he smirked.
Tony shrugged.  "It's probably better than reading headstones until my eyes bleed."
"'Sokay.  I'm bored, too," Sam confessed.
"I thought all this nerdy stuff was right up your alley?"
"You've been listening to Dean too much.  I *do* like finding all the details on a hunt and putting those pieces together to solve the puzzle.  I'm sure you know what I mean.  You must have done plenty of tedious fact-finding as a detective and agent."
"Yes, but I usually bribed my partners to do the worst of it," Tony admitted with an unrepentant chuckle.
"Well, anyway, just because I don't mind research, it doesn't mean that shopping and botany are ever fun."
"Fair enough," allowed Tony, grinning at Sam's annoyed tone.  "In case I haven't mentioned it, thanks for going to all this trouble just to help me convince my ex-boss that my new career path isn't completely insane.  Now granted, the salary and benefits packages aren't my favorite part."
"But the perks are awesome."
"Yeah, I'm kind of stoked about not setting an oh-five-thirty alarm every day."
"No reports to write up," Sam nodded.
"Oh my God, yes!  Freedom from paperwork!"  He threw his arms up in celebration, only to hiss in pain when they hit the roof.  After checking his knuckles for blood, Tony asked, "So where to now?"
"Back to that alternative shot.  I'm ninety percent sure we can substitute cinnamon for cassia without a problem."
"Ninety percent wasn't good enough for you a couple hours ago?"
"Not usually, no.  But then I remembered that this is hardly a do-or-die situation.  Worst case scenario of that other ten percent is dragging Gibbs along on another hunt."
"Most people wouldn't take ever a ten percent chance of pissing Gibbs off," Tony shuddered.
Sam was amused.  "Would you prefer it if me and Dean acted scared of him?"
"Probably, yeah.  I get a lot of entertainment value out of Gibbs intimidating people.  Kind of makes up for all the times I've been terrified of him."
"Okay, seriously?  He just hasn't seemed *that* scary."
"You've only seen him at his home, being overly protective of me, and dealing with traumatized, grieving people at work all day.  Trust me, when he's not walking on eggshells, he is one terrifying son of a bitch.  Besides, your perspective is all skewed from meeting evil monsters."
"That, or having been raised by another Marine."  They both grinned at the truth in that observation.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chapter 8b