Supply and Demand 5 - Subject Matter Expert (SPN/NCIS) 1/?
Supply and Demand 5 - Subject Matter Expert (NCIS/SPN)
author: tari_roo
Rating: Gen - PG13
Disclaimer: I own nothing and profit from nothing. But if I did, SGA would still on air and Dean would have super powers.
Summary: Sam's search for Dean leads him to Gibbs in desperation. Somewhat fortuitously he has an opportunity to help Gibbs and his team, and perhaps get some answers on Dean's whereabouts.
Warnings: This is AU for SPN season three onwards and set post season five. No real spoilers for either series but you should really know them both. For NCIS, Ziva is still with the team and it is set in a non-specific timeline. AUness abounds.
Author note: As promised, the parallel story to Supply and Demand 4. Sam's story. So many of you have wanted to know and here you go.
*spn*ncis*sga*ncis*spn*ncis*
Prologue:
The twilight was heavy that evening, the smog thick and the heat of the day still lingering in the air, adding to the miasma of a warm summer night in a large metropolis. Gibbs pulled up to his house and turned off his car, the radio abruptly shutting off, newscaster cut off mid-sentence. The atmosphere of the neighbourhood seemed suppressed as well - the houses squat and sulky in the grey gloom. Or perhaps it was just his mood. Low, foul, anxious. All of the above.
Normally Gibbs didn't care if his mood affected his team, because honestly, they were adults and if they couldn't deal with their own boss, they couldn't hack the job. But today? Today he could feel the bubble. The just there distance everyone kept, even Abby. His very own titanium personal space bubble with neon 'Do not approach' signs plastered all over it. And that, in its own way pissed him off.
Grumbling, Gibbs climbed out of the car and headed towards his house, shoes squashing the semi-dry lawn, the fragile blades crunching under his shoes. The house was dark, as expected but Gibbs slowed as he approached the steps leading up the porch, something in the air giving him pause. An itch at the back of his head. Something all too familiar, setting off his prey instinct. Someone was waiting for him.
Not really in the mood to deal with this, not right now, not ever, Gibbs growled and stomped up the stairs. He was angry enough to open the door kinetically, unbalanced mood be damned, and he wanted to ruin any advantage the T&E agents thought they had. As the door flew open, and he stalked inside, Gibbs instantly spotted the shadow, the man standing in the corner near the fireplace. The door slammed behind him with a crash.
"Just one this time?" he barked, angrily.
"Agent Gibbs?"
Some of the hackles at the back of Gibbs's neck settled, but a whole new set rose in their place. Not T&E. Sam Winchester.
The tall young man was as intimidating as the last time he'd unexpectedly dropped by to pay Gibbs a call and get the low down on his brother. However, some of assured confidence and certainty was gone. Sam seemed … smaller. Less. Like he was diminished, shoulders slumped, long hair flat and a tad unkempt. He was obscured by the shadows, a distant, potential threat.
As Winchester took a hesitant step forward into the fading sunlight from the window, Gibbs revised his impression from uncertain to drug addict going through withdrawal. Sam's face was lined and drawn, his eyes sunken in and dark with bruised skin. He quickly hid his shaking hands in his pockets, but the kid looked ill, spent. Unhealthy. Gibbs sighed internally, his expression unmoved. He knew exactly what Winchester was after.
"Do you know where Dean is?"
Same question, different person, or in T&E's case - goon, same answer.
"No," Gibbs growled, his anger rising.
Just like T&E, Sam did not believe him.
Stepping forward, face earnest and open, he stammered, "Agent Gibbs, you must, you have to! With, with your connections and, and… you have to know!" Sam's voice reeked of desperation, of need and Gibbs was not inclined to give Sam any credit that that need was based on concern for his brother's welfare. Rather it was the plea of an addict looking for a fix.
'Just one more hit, that's all I need.'
Gibbs opened the front door firmly and barked, "Get out. Like I keep telling your friends at T&E, I don't know, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Now, leave!"
Sam flinched both at the words and the kinetic push Gibbs had unconsciously directed at him with his final words. "I…."
"Don't care, don't want to know. Get out, before I make you." Gibbs didn't move an inch, his feet firmly planted in a steady stance, his voice the same tone and register he always used with people he disliked. He was unmoved. Winchester though stubbornly stood there, open pleading face at odds with the clenched fists he was no longer hiding. Long shaggy hair fell in his eyes and he glared, shaking some of the locks from off his forehead.
"Agent Gibbs,…"
"No," Jethro growled. He resisted the urge to reach for his sidearm. He didn't want to escalate the situation and was confident he could take Sam in a fight, if need be.
Sam's face reddened, eyes hard and hot, "He's my brother, I deserve…"
Petulant. Whiny. Needy.
Gibbs lost it. The kinetic push was hard and fast, and knocked Winchester into the wall, narrowly missing the fireplace. It had been months since Dean had sat in this same room and asked, let, Gibbs taser him in order to first allow him to connect and finally go back to T&E. Gibbs didn't give one goddamn iota for what Sam Winchester thought he deserved. What Gibbs deserved.
The return kinetic punch that sent Gibbs flying was fast, instant and damn strong. Jethro crashed into the open door, and fell sideways into the doorway, head ringing with the force of the blow. From the ground, Gibbs pushed himself to his feet and sent a staggering Sam backwards with the same kinetic effort. He followed that push with another punch and rapidly closed the distance to Winchester.
Despite his weakened appearance, Sam was hardly out of the fight and before Gibbs could get close enough to lay hands on him, he sent Gibbs flying, actually knocked him off his feet and tossed him across the room. Furious and tapping into decades of military discipline and instinct, raw strength be damned, Gibbs scrambled to his feet, deflected the next couple of blows, mentally shoved Winchester into a corner and closed in fast, laying into him, with physical and mental fists.
Someone had trained the kid well.
Sam blocked the worst of the blows, took the body shots like a champ and gave as good as he got. For a while.
The reason most boxing rounds are only 3 minutes is due to the simple fact that it's hard to maintain that sort of punishment, and take it, for very long.
The series of blows the pair exchanged were hard, sharp and over quickly. Winchester was flagging, clearly not up to strength as he let more and more the Gibb's punches in. Jethro who should have just moved in and finished the fight, was in pounding mode and after a brutal jab, hook combination, connected a solid, shattering kinetic punch to Sam's temple and the kid was out.
It happened so fast, Gibbs nearly punched him even as he was falling, but pulled the punch as the guy slumped down the wall, K.O.
The exchange had taken seconds. They'd barely even had time to move beyond the immediate corner he'd shoved the guy into. No time for fancy footwork, kicks, throws. Just an all out slug fest. Strung out desperate brother vs hardened, guilt ridden Marine.
Breathing hard, Gibbs stepped back, a spike of shame crawling up his spine. He'd lost control for a second there, and more than any other aspect of his telekinesis, he hated that on occasion he lost his focus and could hurt people. As a Marine, that was unacceptable. Whaling on a young man just because he'd pushed Gibb's buttons was not right. Damnit!
Gibbs stared at the unconscious form of Sam Winchester, hair falling over his face, body boneless in repose, one long leg trapped awkwardly under a side table. Just a goddamn kid.
He sighed and lent down to check on Sam. His pulse was steady and fortunately the fight hadn't been long enough for the blows to leave more than bruises. The worst was probably the bloody nose, and the KO shot. Gibbs would have to watch for signs of concussion. Great. Maybe he should call an ambulance?
Sam groaned and struggled towards consciousness, and Gibbs gently helped him stand and guided him to the self-same couch Dean had sat on months ago. Sam held his head in his hands, arms pressed into his knees as he leant forward. The tremble in his limbs was back, if it had ever gone, and Gibbs seriously considered the ambulance again.
"No ambulance. I'll go, just…."
Perhaps Sam bordered on telepathic as he voiced Gibbs's thought, but in any event Gibbs dropped to his knees and said firmly, "What changed? Why are you so strung out now? Dean's been with T&E for years." He needed to know if this condition was kinetic related or actual drugs. Assumptions were dangerous.
Winchester didn't even bother to hide the flinch the questions evoked and he didn't look up to meet Gibbs' interrogative gaze. Never mind that Jethro wanted Sam gone, he wanted some answers first. The last thing he needed was Sam hovering around, following him. Gibbs didn't dare admit, even to himself, that his lingering guilt about Dean was bulked up now by having hit his brother.
Without looking up, Sam mumbled, "I found…. Before I had … someone. A g… girl. She's gone, we fought and I…"
Not drugs then. Kinetic crap.
Gibbs let the heaviness of his regard settle on Winchester, the steady gaze of a patient experienced interrogator. He waited, wanting Sam to talk and the silence stretched and sure enough, Sam looked up, his red eyes, and bloody nose wet. "That's not the only reason I'm looking for Dean. I'm also worried. I don't …. I don't feel him anymore."
That surprised Gibbs. He stood up and then sat on the small coffee table even as he righted it kinetically. "You were still connected all this time?" This seemed highly likely given the number of times Dean would have been 'cleared' of any kinetic connection, let alone the initial break, but nothing was outside the realm of possibility with this weird ass crap.
Sam shook his head and wiped his nose, grimacing at the smart and blood. "No, not like that." He sniffed a little, seemingly trying to gather himself, shake off the effects of the fight. He glowered at Gibbs though and said, "Even though we weren't connected, you know, able to feed off each other's abilities, I could still feel him… ah, know where he was, roughly."
Gibbs nodded slowly but said nothing and Sam continued with a sigh. "Look, we grew up in such close quarters, we spent more time trying to find our own space than spend time together, but we always knew where the other one was. Hell, even when I went to Stanford and Dean stayed behind with … with Dad, I knew where he was, sometimes how he was. We weren't always connected but we were in a way, I suppose."
"And even when Dean was with T&E, you knew where he was." Gibbs voice was soft, encouraging even.
Sam did not meet his eyes, and looked away, guilt colouring his cheeks. "Yeah. I knew. It was weaker, barely there, but I knew the general area - East Coast, Chicago, New York, wherever. I could 'feel' it." Winchester wiped his nose again, hand shaking, knee bobbing up and down with nerves.
Studying Sam's turned head, his shaking hands and hunched over shoulders, Gibbs half contemplated not following through with the sucker punch question, but whether it was to answer his own curiosity or dig the knife in deeper, he asked it anyway. "Could you 'feel' what they were doing to him?" Sam stiffened, shoulders tight with emotion, shock, anger. He turned back to Gibbs, his eyes blazing.
"No." The word was growled, rippling with fury. Not shouted, not exclaimed with great protests. Just a flat, furious 'No.'
Slowly, deliberately, Sam caught Gibbs's eyes and snarled, "Do you seriously think if I knew what they were doing, had done, I would have just … let them?"
Fully owning and accepting his own stab of guilt, and pain, Gibbs tilted his head and replied, "I did."
The seconds ticked by at glacial speed, the shadows in the room deepening as evening turned into night. A car drove down the road, its headlights briefly illuminating the room and in the dip of darkness after it passed, Sam said slowly, "Dean, he… we thought T&E would easier than prison, that's why we didn't fight more when…."
"You were arrested."
Sam nodded. "He was convinced he could handle it. It was just humans, er, people afterall. Nothing he couldn't handle for seven years. I… I… he would or could have gone to prison for far longer so I didn't… I didn't argue, and then… I didn't know. No one really knows, do they?"
Gibbs shrugged, his anger dissipated, gone under the wave of guilt that haunted him constantly these days. "T&E contracted telekinetics do. I do." Sam's gaze bored into him, the earnestness, the hope so readily apparent. He leant forward a little but didn't quite dare to touch Gibbs.
His words chipped away at Jethro. "I know why you have to say you don't know where he is, I know that it's to protect him, Agent Gibbs. But if you did, maybe, help him escape and … and … get away from them, that's great. It is. I just need to know that he's ok, please?"
And there was the rub. The perfectly reasonable assumption that a 'good and decent' man like him, Agent Jethro Gibbs, would have seen the injustice of the T&E system and would, of course, have found a way to liberate Dean. Naturally he would have. Of course. This was why T&E Agents continued to dog both his and Agent Hotchner's steps, randomly appearing out of the woodwork hoping to surprise the truth out of them. The location that they had secreted Dean Winchester away to.
The truth was a far harder pill for Jethro to swallow, and one that T&E refused to believe.
Uncaring of who or what might be listening, Gibbs said slowly and clearly, regret colouring every word. "Sam, I wish to God that I had found a way, that I had tried something, anything to help Dean. But I didn't. I let them take him. I am just as much a party to the trauma and horror of that place as they are. As you are."
Sam groaned, folded down on to his lap, hands on his head, fingers tight and white in his hair.
Gibbs continued. "I don't know where he is. I hope he is safe, that he managed to escape on his own. But I don't know where he is."
Half expecting another punch or blow, Gibbs braced himself, welcomed it. More than half of the anger and guilt he was toting around these days was wrapped up in that very secret. He'd let them. He'd stayed silent, even if his intention had been to find a way. Somehow.
"Shit, shit, shit! What am I doing to do, what am I going to do!" Sam rocked on the couch, huddled over in his misery, his own guilt and need eating away at him. "Shit."
As Gibbs stared at the bundle of misery, he contemplated sharing the very long term, long shot plan he was heading up with Agent Hotchner and a few key other individuals in the federal government. If he was completely rational and honest with himself, the plan which was already underway and in progress was the only real way to give Dean and every other Empath true freedom. Not just the handful of shattered Empaths in T&E's custody but all of the others who were successfully hiding their abilities. Helping Dean would have destroyed any chance for Gibbs to be involved in the plan, let alone formulate it, but it was a cold comfort late at night when he lay awake regretting the handful of days he spent with Dean Winchester and allowing T&E to take him afterwards.
Right or wrong, long term or short term, every option weighed heavily on Jethro and in the end, he had to trust, had to hope for a permanent, legal solution. It was just a goddamn tragedy that it had taken this long to happen, and for that, Jethro fully intended on carrying the blame right up until every single T&E agent was in prison.
"Come on, you look like you could do with a good meal." Jethro was a little startled at his own words. Maybe the memories of how he had failed Winchester was prompting this compassion towards his brother.
Gibbs stood, his hand outstretched and Sam looked up, his eyes wet, face a misery. It was like reading one of DiNozzo's reports - as clear and concise as minimum word count required. Sam was angry and extremely reluctant to accept the help, but he clearly hoped that somehow Gibbs was lying, and maybe, just maybe, he'd still find some clue about Dean's whereabouts. Subtly was hardly this kid's strong point. Or DiNozzo's come to think of it.
Without accepting his hand, Sam stood, wiped his nose again and said, "I could use a shower, if you're offering."
Gibbs nodded. A shower, a meal and a place to sleep. That, at least, he could do right now.
As Sam closed the bathroom door behind him, and turned the key in the lock, his knees shook with the relief of being out of Gibbs' sight and presence. Mechanically he stripped, stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He barely reacted to the torrent of ice cold water and stoically stood under it until it warmed and rapidly grew too hot for comfort. Under the heavy spray Sam leant his forehead on the wet tile and let the water wash over him. Maybe it would drown him and this torment of endless, aching need and guilt would be gone.
The moment he closed his eyes he saw Ruby, her wicked smile and oh so tempting flesh. So Sam tried not to close his eyes, tried not to think about thick, hot blood or the mind-blowing sex or the rush of crushing a demon with his mind. Tried and failed. Tried and failed right the hell now, because he was thinking about it!
Frustrated and furious with himself, Sam punched the wall and kept on punching, protecting his hand with a kinetic cushion. Stupid, goddamn idiot. How in God's green earth was he going to find Dean when even those who might be inclined to help, who might even know where he was, thought that he didn't deserve to know, didn't need to know. Sam didn't need to be empathic to know how Gibbs felt about it, him. It was written as clear as day on his face. He'd seen that look of disappointment enough on his father's face and from one Marine to the next, they shared that careful expression designed to send the slowest recruit running.
That and a verbal lashing so profound in profanity and abuse that it could peel paint off the walls.
Sam stopped punching the wall when he heard the second tile shatter. 'Oops´
He figured he owed Gibbs for the fist fight anyway. The guy sure packed a punch. As if awoken by the memory of the fight, the newest collection of soon to be bruises protested as Sam reached for the soap and lathered away two days worth of grime and travel. Absorbed in the simple routine Sam focused on getting clean and planning his next immediate steps.
Gibbs had been his last real option. He'd already exhausted all avenues in solving Dean's disappearance himself. The BAU and Agent Hotcher had been a very dead end. The FBI was not interested in discussing Dean Winchester or his disappearance with Sam Winchester. He had scoured the scene where Dean had last been seen, but nothing. No trace, no evidence, no clue. It was like Dean had disappeared into thin air.
No demon, no spirit guide, no supernatural being had the answer either. More than a few had tried to bargain for answers, but after Sam had crushed one too many demons, no one answered his summons anymore. Only Ruby did and Sam didn't want to talk to her. The temptation that was her. Now, he was down to his last credit card, the Impala sounded like it was about to give up the ghost and Bobby wasn't taking his calls either. And now Gibbs had firmly closed this door.
No.
No, we don't know where he is.
Why are you only looking now?
I don't know.
No.
Sam tried desperately not to think about Ruby, her blood, her smile. He clung to the memory of his brother. Dean. Stupid, smartalec grin. Ridiculous music. Cock-sure attitude. Dean could help him. Sam knew it. He knew it with every bone in his body, no matter how badly he was hurt about Sam leaving him with T&E.
Dean would help.
If he could just find him.
Sam let the tear fall, hot and guilty. Washed away from the ice cold water.
Where in the hell are you?
*spn*ncis*sga*ncis*spn*ncis*
TBC