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

[deansfangirl]

link back to chapter eight part a | or start over at chapter one

Saturday (continued)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was late afternoon when the Impala returned to their motel, with Sam and Tony both thrilled to walk in the door and find cold beers waiting in the minifridge.
"Where's Gibbs?" asked Tony cautiously, trying not to jump to conclusions about his boss' award-winning ability to piss people off.
"In his room," Dean shrugged.  "I'd say 'napping,' but there's no way that's possible at his present caffeine level.  Hold on, I'll call him."
The television was on some stupid talk show, but Sam and Tony still sat down to watch it while Dean pulled out his phone.  Some girl was whining about how her boyfriend had cheated on her, but she still wanted him to pay half the rent and drive her kid to soccer practice.  With his mind so quickly numbed, Tony didn't realize until the commercial break that Dean had stayed silent.
"Hey, you forgot to call Gibbs," he pointed out.
"I sent him a text."
Tony sighed.  "He probably can't figure out why his phone beeped.  If there's not a specific, physical button for it-- like on, off, and numbers-- Gibbs can't be bothered to learn it.  Better just make a real call."
"Dean's not much different," Sam said with a smirk.
"That's because little toys are your forte, geek boy.  Mine is weapons and fast engines."
"Whatever you say, old man."
"Older and wiser," Dean nodded, putting his phone to his ear.  After a short wait for it to ring, he announced, "The kids are home from school," and hung up.
"Very funny."  Sam rolled his eyes.
Tony got up to hunt for the remote when the commercial break finished.  Even if he had to watch more of himself on the news, it would be better than this Springer-wannabe crap.  Fortunately the motel had cable, and ESPN was running a college women's basketball game, which was two of Tony's favorite things at one time.
When Gibbs knocked and Sam let him in a minute later, Tony muted the volume, turning his attention back to the case.  "You missed a fun-filled outing, boss.  Did you have any trouble finding the kid's grave?"
Gibbs just shook his head, so Dean elaborated.  "It's off the road and well-lit, but Mister Government Agent here figured we can just cut the power line," he said with a proud smile.
"Works for me," Sam nodded.  "You can do that while I'm setting up the séance."
"Find all the parts?" Dean asked.  Sam gave him a flat stare and didn't deign to answer.
"So what now?" Gibbs asked.
"Clothes?" Sam asked Tony.
"Nah.  Let's do something less depressing than wading through cast-offs from people who shop at J.C. Penney."
"Got a couple hours of daylight left," Dean suggested.  "Let's go shoot stuff.  I wanna see what you got, Gunny."
Tony started laughing and couldn't stop.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Damn it!" Sam hollered as he got a face full of spider web.
"Don't be such a princess!"  Dean's voice could barely be heard at that distance.  Muttering under his breath, Sam resumed forging a path to the tree Gibbs had chosen.
"I told you we should have found a gun range," Tony muttered as he tagged along behind.
"Really not a place you want to be identified by some off-duty cop, dude.  And some of those joints run your I.D. before they let you in the door.  Our fakes are top-notch, but they'll never stand up to a real-time database search."
"Quit being so reasonable, Winchester.  It still would have been better than playing ball boy for Gibbs and your delusional brother."
"You could have told us he used to be a sniper *before* they got started," Sam complained.
"But then we would have missed the look on Dean's face when he got epically taken down."
Sam stopped and turned around to grin wildly at Tony.  "Yeah, that was awesome."
"So *why* is he still even trying?"  It was facetious and whiny-- not a real question he expected an answer to.
A small laugh followed Sam as he went back to trailblazing.  "Dean's trying to learn more without asking outright for pointers.  Observing, copying, and hoping to get any unsolicited tips for improvement."
"Really?" asked Tony, surprised.  "You sure he's not just a desperately sore loser?"
Sam didn't need long to consider it.  "Dean isn't actually competitive about *anything*.  School didn't matter to him, he never played sports outside of P.E. class, and I doubt he could still name a single friend from childhood except a few girls.  Me and Dad were the only ones around to compare himself to, and I was too much younger to be a challenge."
They finally reached the tree that hadn't looked so far when it was designated.  Sam had gotten some printouts from a previous case out of the trunk, along with some old nails, and they used a greasy wrench to hammer the makeshift targets to the trunk.
"There has to be an easier way back," Tony said.  "I'll take point this time," he offered, picking a different angle to attempt.
"Damn straight, it's your turn," Sam agreed.
"So . . . ."  Tony struggled for a minute to find the dangling conversational thread.  "Dean doesn't fight over women or race to see who can find the best lead on a hunt?"
"He's strangely gracious at the oddest times.  But for the most part, we have different taste in girls.  Or pretty much everything.  And we've always been a good team.  Us against the world, you know?"
"Not really, but I see where that came from.  I'm also guessing this is another way y'all are opposites.  Something tells me kids don't do well at *Stanford* if competition doesn't motivate them."
"Not denying it.  *I* am competitive about everything."
"You don't seem to be."  Tony was skeptical.
"It's just all in my head," Sam grinned.  "Can't help keeping score.  But it wouldn't be polite to tell everyone else how often they lose."
Tony laughed along with his new half-geek friend, glad to find out they had more in common than he'd thought.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was well after sunset before Dean conceded that it was too dark to continue shooting.  On the plus side, there had been ample time and space for Tony to practice throwing the Winchesters' silver knives and do some more sparring with Sam.  It had been educational, and even fun in that cooped-up-all-day way.
They drove straight back to the motel in order to avoid getting thrown out of a restaurant.  Sam's hair was like a magpie's nest, and Gibbs' jeans were all bloody below the knee on his left side after he'd knelt down on a sharp rock.
When Dean gleefully started disassembling and cleaning his long range rifle with the scope newly-adjusted by Gibbs, it fell to Tony to call out for dinner.  Without preamble, he located the local phonebook and had put in a pizza delivery order within sixty seconds.
Gibbs let himself in a minute later, having changed clothes in his and Tony's separate room.  "Time to eat," he barked in his boss voice.
"Pizza's on its way," Tony smiled satisfactorily.
In return, Gibbs pulled out his most longsuffering sigh (which was still miniscule by most standards) and sat down at the table to drum his fingers.
When Sam emerged from the shower ten minutes later, he found everyone frozen in communion with the TV.  "What's on?" he asked, baffled at the intensity.
"Shhh!" Dean hissed.
"The Walking Dead," Tony whispered.
Sam's condescension was clear while he pulled clothes out of his bag.  "Zombies are so much dumber in Hollywood."
"Shhh!"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Three hours until midnight, and they all got restless when the AMC marathon ended.
"Bar?" Tony suggested.
Sam shook his head.
"Shouldn't be seen together," Gibbs reminded his friend.
"Screw that," announced Dean.  "We'll just drive to the next county over."  He got up and swung on his jacket.  "What are you waiting for?  Let's go."  And he walked out the door.
Sam and Tony both looked at Gibbs, having at least the courtesy to find out if he was even interested before making decisions for everyone.  When he shrugged, they all got up and headed out to the Impala.
"What happened to rule number one?" Tony asked Dean as he started the engine.
"I'm trusting you to pace yourself."
Sam looked confused.  "What rule was that?"
"No hunting while drunk," Tony reminded them.
"*You* are seriously keeping *that* as a rule?" laughed Sam.
"I didn't say *no* drinking," Dean replied defensively.
"So how many pulls can you take from that flask in your pocket before it counts as drunk?" his brother snarked.
"One per half hour," was the immediate answer.
"Mm-hmm," Sam agreed patronizingly.
Dean turned on the radio.  Loud.
The others endured it without protest, and Dean quickly found a road going out of town opposite the way they came in.  The sign said 4 miles to the next exit, but a McDonald's billboard proved the next sizable city was in 17.
"Pool?" Tony asked a minute later when he could be heard between songs.
"Just for fun," Dean replied, guessing at what Tony really meant.  But he turned the volume lower to allow a conversation.
"When was the last time you lost a game?" Gibbs asked, just to fill the air.
"You mean not intentionally?  I dunno.  Not since before Sam went to college.  But I usually avoid anyone who looks like a real pro," he admitted.
"Your dad taught you to play?"
"Just the fundamentals.  But we spent so many hours in practically-empty bars after school when we were teenagers.  It was a good place for Dad to find locals willing to talk about anything weird going on in a town, and it kept me and Sammy from being stuck in a small motel room all day.  So I had lots of time to practice."
Sam snorted.  "Funny how you didn't use our afternoons at libraries so productively."
Dean snorted.  "Reading lore books and local papers doesn't need much practice, dude."
"What?  Of course it does!" Sam sputtered.  "You think I'm just better at it because our genes are slightly different?"
"Fuck that.  I'm as competent at research as you are!  You're just a genetic freak because you *enjoy* it."
"If practice is irrelevant, then how do you explain Bobby?"  Sam had really raised his voice, and the silence that immediately followed was extremely uncomfortable.
Finally, after a very long minute, Dean nodded.  "Okay, you may have a point."
Sam couldn't ignore the careful quiet from their passengers for long.  "Bobby was our . . . mentor," he finished at the same time Dean jumped in to help.
"Friend."
"We called him 'Uncle' when we were kids," Sam tried to find words to qualify a relationship that was stronger than blood.  "His wife had been possessed by a demon, back when that was extremely rare, and he had made himself an expert on the subject through . . . *obsessive* research.  Dad went to meet him, to learn what he knew, and Bobby sometimes let me and Dean stay at his house while Dad was hunting elsewhere.  They had a falling out over something later, but he still pulled out all the stops to help us a few years ago when we needed it."
"The man was a total hunting genius and badass," Dean proclaimed definitively.  "And he was the best kind of family: the ones there by *choice*."
"He's also the only other person who knew our whole story.  Well, the only human."  That caveat had Tony itching to ask Sam what he meant, but he held his tongue.
"He was a hero, in more ways than one.  Saved our bacon probably two dozen times, and kept us sane when the shit hit the fan."
"Or locked us up when we needed it."
"Not funny, Sam."
"I'm not complaining," he pointed out.
"Anyway," Dean continued," Bobby was the most awesome dude of all time, except for Dad.  Or maybe it's a tie."
The radio fuzzed into static for a couple seconds at that moment, but Sam and Dean carefully stared straight ahead until they were sure it was nothing.  Coincidence.
"Wish I could have met him," Tony offered sincerely.  "When did he die?"
"Only a few months ago," Sam sighed.
"We're still working on the monster that did it.  Haven't figured out how to kill the bastard yet, but I'm hoping it will turn out to be very slow and painful," Dean growled.  "Enough of this crap.  Let's go find a hole in the wall where we can drink to the fallen heroes, then come back and put away that poor punk kid."
The station was playing a live version of "Born to Run" at that point, which was practically begging to be back up at full blast.  Dean obliged, and the last few minutes on the highway coasted by quickly.
The city turned out to be called Springville, and Dean surprised them all by stopping at a gas station just for directions to the best local bar.
"What?" he challenged when he got back in the car.  "We've only got a couple hours.  I don't want to waste one weeding through the wrong type."
"What's the wrong type?" Tony asked as the Impala pulled back onto the highway.
Dean shrugged.  "You know.  Touristy or sporty or anywhere we'd be the only white boys."
"Wait," said Sam.  "I thought you liked being the only white meat.  You go looking for the Hispanic part of town sometimes."
"That's only when I'm hunting senoritas."  He paused briefly.  "Or the good tequila.  Duh."  He took the next exit, which put them in a more residential area.
Sure enough, "Jack's" looked to be a local favorite.  Crowded enough that they wouldn't stand out, but not so packed they couldn't find seats, based on the vacancy left in the parking lot.
"What names are we going by here?" Gibbs checked as they parked.
Sam shrugged.  "Real ones should be fine, except 'DiNozzo.'  Just don't go looking for attention," he directed mostly to Dean, who flipped him off.
They made their way inside, scoping out the people and the exits first, followed by the entertainment possibilities.  The two pool tables were already occupied, but Sam saw a dart board that was available and directed his brother there with a head tilt.  Gibbs went straight to the bartender and ordered a pitcher.
By the time he rejoined the younger men, Tony was egging the Winchesters to play against each other first.
"Come on, guys!  Time to show off what a childhood spent in a bar can amount to."
Sam laughed.  "That's not exactly what we said."
"Little Sammy spent too much time doing homework," Dean smirked.  "His childhood was completely wasted.  I don't think he knew what bars were really for before college."
"And then I got to play pool with the physics grad students," was Sam's smug retort.  "More helpful than a thousand hours of your own trial and error."
"All right, that's it.  You're on!"
Dean went first, putting three darts inside the outer ring of the center circle.
"Ha!  Can't beat that, bro!  Good luck just duplicating it."
Sam took his time, but his first throw landed a hair outside the center for a measly five points.
"You're over-thinking it, dude.  Come on, you've got this," Dean said confidently.
Sam's next dart hit dead center.
Tony whistled, Gibbs clapped, and Dean smacked his brother's back triumphantly.  "Yes!  That's my boy!"  Sam rolled his eyes at them all, getting ready for his last throw.
Which sailed straight into the previous perfect bull's-eye and bounced off the dart in its way.
They cheered for him anyway like he'd won, appreciating the real-life value of an accurate shot more than the score board.
"You two are up," he handed Tony the darts.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that Gibbs can kick my ass, so I want a handicap."
"Winner buys the next round?" Dean suggested.
Tony laughed.  "Or that works, too."  His results were totally respectable, if not impressive.
Gibbs grouped three in the circle like Dean's, but in rapid succession.
"Whoa!" they all oooh-ed and ahh-ed at his skill.
"But can you do that without spilling a full drink in your other hand?" Sam challenged, and the one-upmanship was 'game on.'
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
They moved on when a pool table came open an hour later.
"Eight ball in teams?" Tony assumed.
Dean rubbed his hands together in eagerness.  "How about single-player single-pocket?"
Gibbs nodded.  "You two have to play them in order."
"Works for me," Sam agreed.  "Who's first?"
"No extra points for trick shots, Sammy.  You play.  I'll get the last round," Dean said, walking off.
The younger Winchester set up nine of the balls in a diamond shape without using the rack, leaving numbers ten through fifteen in the ball-return chamber.  He called the corner pocket nearest to where Gibbs and Tony had chosen to lean against the wall, so he wouldn't have his back turned away from a conversation.  Just as Sam was lining up to break, Dean tried to sneak up on him from behind.
The pool cue suddenly jabbed backwards, hitting Dean on his hipbone and sloshing beer over his shoes when he tried to control the instinctive flinch a half-second too late.
"You'll never score that way, man."  Dean was grinning, more proud of his brother's awareness than upset about the results.  "Here.  You get the least-full glass now."  He sat down a mug that was filled two inches short of the top.
Sam glared and moved the drink off the table, putting it on the rim by his corner pocket after a quick sip.  Then he lined back up and broke the rack with no hesitation.  None of the balls went in a pocket, and they were well spread out to give him an easy start.
The other three men watched as Sam played.  "So," said Tony to kick start a new discussion.  He floundered for a moment, trying to find a topic that was safe for other patrons to overhear.  "Um, you said something before about when your dad met Bobby.  How do hunters know each other?  Is there a clubhouse or mailing list or head honcho?"
"Nothing organized," Dean started.
"Which has pros and cons," added Sam.
"Sometimes you'd bump into another one who found the same case, trade notes, work it together."
"After a lot of posturing and pissing contests first," mocked Sam.
"So a lot of it is knowing a guy who knows a guy.  There's a few places that lots of hunters trust, where you could go looking for someone who might know a good hoodoo source or remember some obscure piece of lore you hadn't found on your own.  Our favorite was this roadhouse in Nebraska owned by a hunter's widow.  Man, her daughter was a real spitfire!"
"Dean!" objected Sam.
Dean grinned unrepentant, until Gibbs asked, "What happened to her?"  Solemnly, because it obviously wasn't good if she was described in the past tense.
Both Winchesters faces went carefully blank.  Sam never stopped sinking balls, though, and Dean cleared his throat to answer after only a few stalled seconds.
"Jo and her mom, Ellen . . . .  They sacrificed themselves to give Sam and me a chance against the worst supernatural mofo of them all."  He paused a moment.  "We told you about Samuel Colt's gun that could kill anything, right?"
Tony and Gibbs nodded.
"Well, it turns out that there are five things immune to it.  And this guy was one of them.  We didn't know that at the time, of course."  Dean lowered his voice to their ears only.  "A demon bitch underling had brought a whole pack of hell hounds to keep us away.  Those things are demonically strong, and invisible to boot.  Makes 'em nearly impossible to fight.  We barricaded ourselves inside a building, but not before Jo got hurt-- badly.  The girls stayed to set off an explosion that took out God-knows how many hounds and distracted the rest long enough for us to get away.  And we got our shot, right in that son of a bitch's face, but fat lot of good it did."  Dean ended his recitation by draining half of his beer in two chugs.
Tony frowned in commiseration, but Gibbs started shaking his head in dissatisfaction.
"Heroes shouldn't go unsung."
Dean shrugged.  "Maybe not.  But in my experience, they usually do."
"True that," sighed Tony.
"You know," Sam said absently as he angled a difficult shot, "If Chuck's last books were ever published, I'm sure Ellen and Jo are in it.  That's something, at least."
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but only caught flies for a few seconds.  Then he seemed to drop the subject before suddenly stabbing a threatening finger in Sam's direction.  "I told him *not* to print any more!"
"Huh?" his brother finally looked up from the pool table.  "Oh.  Well, his bill collectors probably gave him different advice."
"I'm gonna shoot him," Dean seethed.
"He's MIA, remember?"
"We just didn't look hard enough."
"No, Becky looked for him for months.  Actually . . . ."  Sam froze, a lightbulb clearly coming on.  "I think she knew everything up to what happened at Stull.  She only asked about what I had been doing in the past couple years.  I think.  God, all those conversations are hazy."
Dean grimaced.  "More like, '*thank* God.'  But she was friends with the guy-- probably he just let her read the drafts."
Sam gave him a Look.  It was one of the many that translated roughly to 'why are you so slow?'  Then he followed it with his most patronizing tone, just to be sure the message got through.  "Do you really think that *Becky* would be content if those books were never shared with the fans?  If the publisher didn't get them from Chuck, then she would have posted them on the internet herself.  Oh crap," he realized, throwing Dean a deer-in-the-headlights impression.
"What?" demanded his brother, alarmed.
"Dean, what if she . . . added her own stuff in there?"
Dean's jaw dropped yet again.  "Oh, God.  Please, please tell me she's not a . . . slasher."
"I don't know!" wailed Sam, beginning to breathe hard now.
Nothing could calm Dean down quite like his little brother starting to panic.  "Well then, get on your fancy smartphone and find out right the hell now."
Sam nodded, a bit shaky, before handing Dean the cue stick and looking around for the nearest unused  chair, which he drug over to the wall near their thoroughly confused audience.  Dean tried to hand him his beer, but Sam shook his head.  "I need both thumbs," he muttered, already typing.
Finally, Dean looked over at Tony and Gibbs, both watching patiently, but with eyebrows practically up to the ceiling.
"Crap," Dean sighed.  "Okay, long story short: this guy wrote some books about us.  Kind of like McGee, I guess, but without changing any names.  And he had the help of some magic mojo to make sure everything was true.  We didn't know anything about him until after twenty books featuring *us* were already on the not-bestsellers list.  But we thought that was all, and now we're not sure.  The ones we knew of ended before the worst stuff happened.  So let's . . . just forget about it for now.  Sam forfeited, so I'm gonna play next."  He put his cocky grin back on, only slightly crooked.  "Twenty bucks says I only need ten shots."
No one wanted to take that bet as he reset the table and started in with the same pocket his brother had used.  Dean was clearly good at compartmentalizing a problem to focus on the task at hand.  Getting the seven ball in one shot used an impressive topspin move that required more concentration than Dean should have been capable of so shortly after inhaling most of a whole pint.
Tony decided it was safe to ask, "So why didn't your books come up when I googled your names?"
"Huh.  Well, that's good to know," Dean said, surprised he hadn't thought to worry about that before.  "Chuck never used our last name.  In fact-- funny story-- when we met the guy, he thought we were pretending to be his characters.  Poor dude had no idea he was writing about real people.  Anyway, it wasn't till we said something about being Winchesters that he believed us.  And then nearly had a heart attack."
Gibbs frowned.  "How could he *not* know he wasn't being creative?"
"He'd drink too much, then have psychic visions about us.  Chuck thought his subconscious was brilliant, or something."
"Huh."
"Yeah.  It's seriously creepy.  Obviously, we've tried to repress all of it.  The fans are whacked, but fortunately few and far between."
"You have fans," Tony laughed incredulously.  "But they think you're imaginary."
"Right back at you, Agent Tommy, was it?"
Gibbs laughed harder than Tony had heard in years, drawing attention briefly from most of the room.
Even Sam's head was pulled away from his screen by the unexpected sound.  He glanced tightly at Dean before retreating again, and his brother visibly gulped at that body language.  'Bad news,' it telegraphed.
"Okay," he rallied.  "Let's put this game to shame."  Then he proceeded to quickly sink the five remaining balls easily.
Lightly elbowing Tony's ribs, Gibbs said, "Why don't you and I play a straight game.  Let them sort this out without any rubberneckers in the way."
"Works for me, boss.  But I'll have you know, *my* neck is more like a linebacker."  
"Sure it is, Tony," Gibbs smiled.  They racked all the balls back on the table and got another cue stick.
Sam and Dean had their heads together, with Sam sitting hunched over in his chair, and his brother looming above like a protective barrier against the world.
"God," said Tony.  "Can you imagine if McGeek had used our real names?"
"They'd have never found the body," Gibbs agreed.
The Winchesters drained their beers, though Dean's was nearly empty already.  He flashed his keys at them and pointed to the exit.  Tony nodded, knowing they needed some space.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sam and Dean sat inside the Impala, even though the weather was nice enough that they'd prefer its hood.  It wasn't a conversation they wanted overheard, however, so Dean idled the engine and turned on the air vents.
"All right," Dean sighed.  "Read me the titles."
"The last one used to be 'No Rest for the Wicked.'"  No need to remind them of its gruesome contents.  "Next is 'Lazarus Rising,' obviously your resurrection.  Then 'In the Beginning,' about your trip to 1974.  'It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam,' which I think is the seal where we stopped Samhain too late.  'I Know What You Did Last Summer.'  That's about Ruby when you were in hell," Sam gritted out.
"Isn't that title copyrighted or something?"
Sam ignored the tangent.  "'On the Head of a Pin' is you and Alastair."
"What the fuck?" Dean swore tiredly.
"'The Monster at the End of this Book' is what he was writing when we met him."
"Heh, that's actually a good title.  That was your favorite book when you were like, four.  God, I was sick of it."
"Dean, focus.  'Jump the Shark' is when we found out about Adam."
"How do you figure that?"
"There are summaries on Amazon.  'When the Levee Breaks' is Cas rebelling and me killing Lilith."
"Great.  I'm never going to enjoy that song again."
"How about 'Sympathy for the Devil'?  Guess what's in that book," Sam growled.  "'The End' is your vacation in 2014, and I may actually read that one since you clearly left some parts out."
"Dude, cut me some slack.  It was traumatic and irrelevant," Dean protested, irritated.
"'The Real Ghostbusters' is Gabriel's TV Land and the Supernatural convention where we learned about Crowley having the Colt.  'Abandon All Hope' is shooting Lucifer.  'The Song Remains the Same' is when we--"
"No!  Just, no!  That loser is *not* allowed to keep tainting Zeppelin like that!"
"Chill.  That's 1978.  'Dark Side of the Moon' is still a great song and also our wasted trip to heaven.  'Point of No Return' is when Zachariah resurrected Adam and you almost said 'yes.'  And 'Swan Song' is the last book."
"Peter Grant is rolling over in his grave, I swear."
"Wait, what?"
"Swan Song, Sam!  Led Zeppelin's record label."
"Dean, it means the last work by a writer or performer.  As in, the final chapter or a last hurrah."
"Well . . . duh.  Yeah.  But it's more sacrilege."
"Right.  Because that's the important part here."
Dean sighed.  "What do you want me to say?  I'm pissed, but there's no one left to shoot.  Chuck did a swan *dive* off the grid."
"Just . . . whatever.  Yes, tell me you're pissed, but don't blow me off.  I'm the one who'll be infamous for starting the apocalypse."
"Hey!  Screw that.  First of all, you're only famous among the losers who read books instead of living in the real world, and second, you're the big hero in the end, man!  I'm the one who was just a spectator at the big showdown.  And who cares?  It's in the past, and if we weren't trying to give Tony the play-by-play, we'd probably never have heard of those damn books ever again."
They were silent for a while, still feeling the betrayal at having their most intimate failures on public display.  Furious, but with no outlet for lashing out.  Hurt that God didn't care about the world's problems even while He had plenty of energy to send visions to prophets.  The sense of impotence was crushing.
"I'm sure there's still tons of girls on 'team Sam,'" Dean offered eventually.  "Becky sure wasn't put off by your road paved with good intentions."
Sam hit his head against the window a few times.  "Why didn't I find out all this while I was drugged?  That stupid potion made everything feel easy."
Dean couldn't help teasing.  "Would you like to go back?  I'm sure she'd take you with--  Ouch!"
"You suck."
"Chuck sucks," Dean countered, then snickered.
"Yeah," Sam agreed morosely.  "He really does."
Dean gave his little bro a 'buck up' pat on the shoulder before they got out of the car.  Back inside, they found Gibbs and Tony on their second game, which looked about even.
"Everything okay?" Gibbs asked when the Winchesters were silent.
Sam nodded.
"Situation normal: all fucked up," chimed Dean with a forced smile.
Tony sank one striped ball before the cue landed in a bad spot for his next shot.  He made a good attempt, but Gibbs stepped up for the next turn.  "So I just got to explain to my boss all about slash fan fiction.  Thanks for that."
The brothers' jaws fell in sync as they stood aghast.  Tony smirked openly at their speechlessness before he continued.  "You know I'm a film buff.  I'm also a big fan of James Spader.  Back in '94 he did this cool action-adventure slash sci-fi film called Stargate.  Did pretty well at the box office.  You've seen it?"  They nodded hesitantly.  "Then a few years later MGM turned it into a TV series for Showtime.  No Spader, but it wasn't half bad.  Also starred MacGyver.  I got bored one day and googled the hot chick, which let me to an eye-opening education to the world of over-the-top fans.  Turned out that many of them saw a whole lot more going on between the Colonel and the nerd than I did.  Kind of ruined the series for me after that.  But then years later I went out with this girl who talked too much.  She was hard core into some other show I'd never heard of, but she explained slash fiction to me . . . at great length.  That it was basically porn for chicks.  Like the way that men watch lesbians going at it, but reversed.  And then suddenly it all made sense," he finished with a filthy grin.
Sam's face got even more pinched, while Dean spluttered.
"But-- but-- but . . . .  We're *real.*  And-- especially *and*-- we're *related*.  It's too . . . eww!"
"Fantasies don't have to make sense," laughed Tony.  "I've got a couple myself that aren't realistic."
Sam stuck his fingers in his ears, squeezed his eyes shut tight, and loudly changed the subject.  "I really think the Dallas Cowboys have a shot at the playoffs this year, if the draft really helps the defensive side; particularly the secondary.  What do you guys think?"
Dean was already nodding eagerly at the new topic, and he jumped right in to make sure it kept going.  "I think their O-line is the real question.  Is Romo going to get the protection he needs to have at least a whole second to read who's open.  That center better be practicing making accurate snaps right now, too.  What's his name?"
"Phil Costa," answered Tony.  "You *do* realize that I'm a Redskins fan?  This is going to be a problem if you plan to cheer for Dallas."  He frowned at them so sternly that Dean cracked up.
"Whatever, man.  But we'll let you jump ship in January with minimal groveling."
"They're turning it around this year.  Just wait and see.  We're going to draft Andrew Luck or RG3, and that will be all the difference.  I'd put real money on it, if I still had any."
"I do," Gibbs spoke up.  "Fifty says we finish the season with a better record than the Cowboys."
"Done," agreed Sam, who shook on it.  "Even a Stanford grad can't win games single-handedly."
"DiNo-- *Tony*, finish this game and let's head out."
"Yes, sir!"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Back at the motel, Gibbs changed into his already-ruined jeans and came in throwing leather gloves at the Winchesters.  They were strong and broken in from various projects in his basement or yard.  Most importantly, they'd hold up through a little grave digging.
He also pulled a tube of superglue from his pocket and got up in Tony's space until hands were offered without further protest than a sigh.
"You know," Tony griped as Gibbs coated every fingertip.  "This could be dangerous if I ever need a good grip on a weapon."
"So practice with it on," his ex-boss shrugged.  "You oughta be covered twenty-four seven anyway.  All it takes is one diligent detective finding just one of your prints to start up another storm about you.  Fornell may not mind, but Abby and Ziva and McGee sure would."
"I hate it when you don't fight fair."  This got good a good chuckle out of Gibbs.
"How long will that last?" Sam asked from curiosity.
Tony shrugged.  "Depends on how rough things get.  Couple days, or only a couple hours if I was shoveling."
"Can you still fight?" was all Dean wanted to know.
"Of course.  Wouldn't want to try tug-of-war, though."  He checked that it was all dried before taking the glue from Gibbs to return the favor.  Tony just drew a quick line down the middle of each finger pad, not bothering to coat them to the edges.  A partial print wasn't much threat to someone who wasn't a legally dead psychopath.
"Okay, we're all packed," Dean announced.  "Sam's got the séance crap; I've got the weapons, bolt cutter, lighter fluid, and salt.  One of you can haul the shovels.  Tony, you and Sam leave five minutes after us and take separate approaches.  Once you're at the main entrance, head two o'clock for three hundred yards.  Gibbs, put that salt line down where we talked about.  I'll cut the power and meet you there.  If opening the coffin doesn't get our ghost to show, Sam will do the ritual with the corpse ready for a match.  Anything goes sideways, you shoot it.  Any questions?"
Sam pulled out matchbooks from his pocket and handed one each to Tony and Gibbs.  "Just in case," he said.
"Sounds simple enough," said Tony.
"That's the idea," Sam nodded.  "Just getting your feet wet."
Gibbs walked out the door with the salt.
"Guess he's ready," Dean smiled.  "See you in a few."  He left the room headed the other direction.  Sam knew Dean would give himself the longest, most convoluted route.
"This is good," Tony commented.  "A little exercise, a little adrenaline.  As long as it's followed up with a few hours' sleep, I can picture more of this in my future."
Sam mildly raised one brow.  "Just don't forget that this is what I was doing in grade school.  We're taking it easy on you-- and Gibbs.  And we're trusting that you can keep up when a wrench gets thrown in."
"Thanks for the buzz kill, man.  I was ready to go after the Devil himself next," Tony pretended to whine.
Sam reacted to that strangely, but it was too small and quick for Tony to pinpoint how.  "Come on, let's head out."
It was mostly deserted outside, save the occasional car on the street that ran beside the cemetery fence.  Sam crossed it almost immediately, while Tony kept to the sidewalk until he was directly across from the front gates.  Apparently those were just for show, since they were still open at this time of night.  Tony rejoined Sam right inside, and they walked wherever there was the most cover in roughly the right direction.
Gibbs must have been watching for them, because he waved to get their attention when they got close.  Then the lights went out.
"Nice timing," Sam granted.
The salt circle was more of a salt oval and already down, barely big enough for two grown men to lie prone.
"Tight quarters, boss," Tony remarked.
"Wasn't sure how much to save for the corpse," he pointed out.
Sam shrugged.  "I've never done any controlled studies on the minimum necessary quantities of purification elements."  Tony snorted.  "A couple handfuls are probably enough."  He started unloading the séance materials onto the grave next to their kid's.  A black square cloth with a pentagram and several other strange symbols chalked onto it, candles, a bowl, and all the plastic baggies of herbs and roots and whatever Tony had watched him collect hours ago.
Dean jogged up then and dropped his bag on the ground and pulled out three sawed-off shotguns.  One got propped against the headstone before he held out the others to Gibbs and Tony.
Tony also got a whole box of shells.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "Are we expecting a ghost stampede?"
"Don't jinx us, dude."
They took their places inside the salt line while the Winchesters donned Gibbs' work gloves and set right to it, first cutting through the thick grass in a nearly perfect rectangle.
"Why the ninety degree angles, guys?" Tony asked.
"So we can conceivably pass as legit employees if we get interrupted.  Now shut your pie hole and keep a look out for those interruptions."
The whole process took a long time.  Tony's body was numb from the cold ground he was lying on.  Gibbs was probably having a ball.
Tony got really, really bored.  At least stake-outs had conversation, passerby to invent funny stories about, or at even a radio playing softly.  This had two sweaty guys digging a hole.  He had read every tombstone in sight twice in the first half hour.
Eventually he started reciting "Chinatown" dialog in his head to see if he could really do it all backwards *and* forwards by heart.  Sadly, that wasn't enough of a challenge to keep his mind occupied.
Tony wondered what the boys would deem him ready for next.  Not all ghosts were this easy, he knew from their father's journal.  Some of the monsters didn't sound too bad, but nearly all of them were labeled "twice as strong as humans."  Or worse.  He wasn't in any hurry to have that proven to him.
Demons were intriguing solely because Sam and Dean had claimed it was their specialty.  He *was* morbidly curious what that looked like.  The very notion of Hell being real freaked Tony out more than a little.  How bad did you have to be to end up there?  It was good to know there was payback ahead for the truly sick criminals he'd helped take down in the past, but only if others weren't there just for jaywalking.  Then again, if it was that easy to be damned, Heaven would be deserted.  Right?
Tony was really itching to know everything the Winchesters knew.  He was floored by what he'd heard already, and they said they had barely started.  Sam used to be *psychic*?!  What did that mean, and how did it start, and why is he not psychic anymore?  It was clearly all very traumatic for them, and he knew he had to be patient with their pace walking down memory lane, but the more he found out, the greater the suspense when they stopped.  He hoped the whole retelling would be days long, rather than weeks.
Finally, *finally*, he heard a shovel hit something solid.  Only the brothers' heads were still visible as they cleared off the coffin.  Sam soon climbed up and got something out of Dean's bag to toss down.
"Lock pick," he explained quietly as he picked up the remaining shotgun and stepped back a few feet to keep watch as Dean opened the casket.
The cemetery remained still and quiet as Dean climbed out and tossed the remaining salt onto the corpse.  Lighter fluid followed.
Sam waited a moment before he handed the shotgun to Dean and lit the candles to start a séance.
"Is this a prank?"
The teenager from the pictures walked out of the shadows on the far side of the grave from Tony and Gibbs.  Dean's gun was immediately pointed at the solid-looking ghost.
"Why are you doing this?"  The kid didn't sound dangerous or mad, just confused.
Sam put his hands out non-threateningly.  "Because you shouldn't still be here.  It's time for you to move on.  This is how we can help you do that."
"But . . . I like it here.  Move on to *where*?"
"Someplace *better*," Sam soothed.
The spirit looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed.  Tony held his breath.  "You're lying!" the kid suddenly snapped.  At the same time, he made a pulling gesture with his arm, and Sam went flying down into the grave.
Bang!  And the ghost was suddenly gone.  Dean was already headed to help his brother climb out.
"Sam!  You okay?"
"Nothing's broken," came the muffled reply.
"Good.  Get your ass in gear, and I'll light him up."  Dean didn't glance down once after the initial confirmation that Sam was conscious.  His focus was getting a 360 degree view to be ready for another shot.
Sam was mostly back above ground when they heard the casket slam closed and Dean's shotgun was knocked off into the dark.
"Damn it," Sam grumbled as he got back into the hole.
Tony got up on his knees for enough leverage to toss his gun to Dean when a second shot rang out.  Gibbs' reflexes were still better than a Chuck E Cheese employee at whack-a-mole.  The ghost hadn't been visible for a full second before it was gone again.
Sam had the lid reopened and himself out in the three heartbeats it took Dean to light an entire matchbook and toss it over the rim.
The kid reappeared at that moment, looking like a charcoal briquette, burning up completely in seconds.  His corpse would take longer.
"Let's go," said Dean.  "South fence."
Tony retrieved all the guns and shoved them back in Dean's bag.  Sam re-packed the ritual paraphernalia.  Dean put the shovels over his shoulder and helped Gibbs scatter the salt line into the grass.  It might even go unnoticed if sprinklers ran before daylight.
They walked quickly to the back of the cemetery, boosted each other over the iron fence, and split up to take separate routes back to the motel.  Tony's watch had quit glowing long ago, but he felt sure it was past oh-three-hundred.
The motel was like home sweet home after the long day.  Foregoing his nightly routine, Tony fell asleep before Gibbs finished brushing his teeth.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~