swordage: Dean Winchester biting his lip thoughtfully (x lipbite)
[personal profile] swordage
WHOOPS I forgot to post yesterday! I will post again later today. And then I believe that's the end~ I'm down to 10 active stories after this, which is still a LOT but also a huge relief. I think a couple of them are almost done, too...

WIP: NCIS/Supernatural Dean/Gibbs. You read that right.

This is ROUGH. It is the very, very beginnings of an idea. You can tell because I changed tenses between scenes, and also there are some INSERT NAME/RANK HERE bits because I hadn't finished plotting out the case they're working on. Also it's missing 99% of the story: I have the two opening scenes and then, wtf, the end of a sex scene right at the end of the story.

That's right. Dean/Gibbs. I was serious.

***

Gibbs is in the basement, sleeping. He's been sanding. His knuckles are roughed up, grit under the nails. He wakes up to the trill of his phone and the murmur of the television. He must have rolled over and turned off the spotlight or kicked the cord out of the wall, because the TV is the only light. He answers the phone. It doesn't feel like morning, but Tony says it is, so he shuts the phone before Tony's voice can give him even more of a headache and sits up to look for some coffee.

There's a man drinking from his mug, watching the TV silently. Even in the muted, flickering light of the TV, Gibbs can see it's the other Winchester. He can also see the dim shape of a gun held almost casually, finger easy on the trigger. It's pointed right at Gibbs, follows his movement as he slowly gets up, stretches. Dean's eyes stay on the TV.

"Well?" Gibbs says finally. He's only got so much patience for this sort of thing.

"I'm thinking," Dean answers. He sounds a little annoyed himself. He takes another sip from Gibbs' mug. Must be the whiskey, because Gibbs would have smelled the coffee.

"A little early for that," Gibbs says, disapproval heavy in his voice even when it's rough from sleep. He didn't peg the Winchesters for alcoholics.

"I said I'm thinking," Dean mutters into the mug, but he sets it aside without another sip.

"You'd better hurry up," Gibbs tells him, glancing at his watch. "And pour that out. I want coffee if you're not going to shoot me."

"Who said I wasn't going to shoot you?" They can both already tell that the time for shooting is long past, though. Dean gets up, the gun going into the back of his jeans. He dumps the rest of the mug down the tiny sink (not much in the cup, Gibbs notes) and rinses it out. His back is to Gibbs the entire time. "How long before you're missed at work?"

"Half an hour," Gibbs says. It's roughly true. By now it's more like twenty minutes, though.

"Well," Dean says, turning back to offer the clean cup, "we'd better get going, then."

***

Gibbs stepped out of the elevator with Dean half a step behind him, everything about the kid screaming discomfort. Smile too wide, movement too loose and easy, hand too ready to go for the gun Gibbs hadn't yet taken off him. So of course no one noticed him until he sat on the edge of Gibbs' desk, his back to Gibbs and his eyes picking out exits.

"Boss," Tony said slowly, hand hovering near his drawer, "isn't that..."

"Yep." Gibbs sat down, already reaching for the file Ziva had left on his desk. "McGee. Bring Winchester down for questioning."

"Um." McGee hesitated by his desk, eyes flicking between Dean and Gibbs. "Which Winchester, boss?"

Dean leaned over to sneak an entirely unsubtle look at the file, whistling low at the crime scene photos. Gibbs ended that with a sharp look, then turned it on McGee. "This one, McGee. Now."

***

When Gibbs opened the door to the observation room, the three of them were practically pressing their noses against the glass. Dean wasn't even doing anything interesting, just picking the cuffs. Gibbs sighed. They all jumped.

"Boss!" Tony was the first to hiss urgently, jabbing a finger at the glass. "He's getting out of the cuffs!"

"I see that," Gibbs said. Tony flinched back. Good. "Now. Be quiet."

He opened the door of the interrogation room to find Dean standing by the one-way mirror, preening. Gibbs could almost hear Kate's muttered profiling: narcissistic, egotistic, putting on a front. From the back of the room, of course - none of them would stand that close to the glass with a loose suspect.

The door clicked shut. Dean turned around, leaning back against the mirror with that damn shit-eating smirk on his face. Gibbs just waited until it fell away and Dean's back straightened, chin up and waiting. Better. He took his seat, waited for Dean to come back to his own chair. It only took a moment, slow and loud steps working wide around Gibbs. There was still a slouch when Dean sat, but there was no helping that.

"So," Gibbs said, voice soft. "Shovels in a graveyard the night after one of my Marines was dug up and lit on fire."

"Don't forget the salt," Dean said, but his eyes were steady on Gibbs'. Looking for the next move. "I put salt on everything fried."

Gibbs waited, full eye contact. Dean looked away first, jaw clenched a little. One finger began to tap out a beat. Nervous.

"You dug up Staff Sergeant Nichols, poured rock salt on him, covered his body in lighter fluid, and lit him on fire," Gibbs said. He didn't have to pretend at anger or disgust. "Does that sound about right, Winchester?"

A beat too long, and then Dean leaned forward on one elbow, teeth rubbing across his lip into a wide smile. "You can call me Dean."

Gibbs held his eyes again. Dean didn't look away, grin stretching wider. It made him look his age, gave his face a softer look.

"Dean," Gibbs agreed. "Are you going to tell me why you desecrated the grave of a good soldier, Dean?"

"Sure," Dean said easily, leaning back. Sprawling wide, really, an elbow hooked back over the chair, knees splayed out under the table. One of them brushed against Gibbs' knee, just lightly enough to feel. "You won't believe me, though. Apparently it's one of those things you have to see to believe."

Gibbs took a deep breath. Almost as bad as dealing with Tony. "Dean. Why did you desecrate my Marine."

"We got his grave mixed up with Staff Sergeant Ryans' grave, sir." Dean was still smiling almost absently, watching Gibbs carefully. Checking his reaction. His knee pressed a little harder against Gibbs', moving a little farther along his inseam as Dean settled in his seat. "Sam lost count on the cemetery map. Could have saved us a lot of trouble if he'd just admitted it, the big sissy."

"What kind of trouble?" He let the information about SSgt Ryans slide, knowing his team would already be looking it up.

"Well," Dean said slowly, a slight frown drawing his face into seriousness, "that's the part that people tend not to believe."

"What kind of trouble, Dean?" Gibbs let his impatience into his tone, let his voice drop just that little bit. Dean's pupils widened, and he straightened almost imperceptibly. His foot shifted out, knee pressing a little higher.

"The trouble," Dean said softly, "is that I didn't finish up the case before checking out your boat, sir."

"What case, Dean?" Gibbs asked, just as soft. He held eye contact, not shifting towards or away from Dean. Looking neutral, but condoning the contact. Dean bit his lip, rolling it under his teeth.

"Staff Sergeant Ryans," he said carefully, enunciating slowly and clearly, "is haunting his wife. He kills every man that sets foot inside her house. Corporal Matthew is next. If he follows pattern, Matthews will die tonight."

Gibbs sat back, moving his leg away. Dean's response was instantaneous, groaning and dropping his head back against the chair.

"Told you," Dean grumbled. "I said you wouldn't believe it."

Gibbs smiled. "I didn't say you were lying."

Dean snuck a look at him, still limp in mock defeat. "You didn't say you believed me either."

"I don't." Gibbs ignored Dean's muttered curses. "What's your SOP for that kind of case, Dean?"

"Salt and burn, you must have figured that out already," Dean said, a hint of that cocksureness back in his voice.

"Only you got the wrong grave."

"Only we got the wrong grave." Dean smiled. "Gonna fix that, sir?"

"I might," Gibbs said, and he touched his knee to Dean's before he left.

Tony was already sticking his head into the hall, his face all indignation. "Checking out your boat, boss?"

"Yeah, Dinozzo, checking out my boat." Gibbs walked past briskly, calling over his shoulder, "It's not a euphemism."

***

"As you can see," Ducky said, "the {victim #3}'s body is not in the best condition."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at the charred corpse. It was flaking onto the autopsy table. "So what have you got for me?"

"Well, that's the intriguing thing," Ducky said, drawing him over to the lit wall of radiographs. "This young man's skull was severely fractured, as you can see. I would say he took quite a beating, quite likely from a hammer. There were multiple strikes concentrated in a very small area."

"He wasn't moving when he was beaten." Gibbs turned back to the body. "Got a cause of death yet, Ducky?"

"No," Ducky sighed, "unfortunately the condition of the body is, well..."

Gibbs was already on his way out, calling over his shoulder, "Tell me when you've got something, Ducky!"

***



***

Dean's breath was hot and damp, forehead still pressed against Gibbs' stomach. Their breathing matched, slowing, and Dean shifted slightly. Not to get comfortable, but to press a terrifyingly gentle kiss to the soft skin between thigh and groin.

"Feel better?" Gibbs asked, and even as he said it he knew it didn't come out quite right. Too honest, too true, too bitter, too... too much. Dean's shoulders drew in, tension showing in the back of his neck, and then deliberately released. Not as open as he'd been. Damnit.

"Yeah," Dean said. Had to stop and clear his throat, voice gone raspy. "Yeah, thanks."

"Hey." Gibbs touched his shoulder, wanted to scream when all he got was a flinch. Instead he steeled himself, ordered: "Get up."

Dean stood, automatic, eyes darting to the side briefly before his shoulders went back, chin up, eyes front. Not defiant, but submissive. Gibbs wondered if anyone else had ever realized the difference. He reached out, cupped the back of Dean's head, and drew him in. Dean was still stiff, confusion in the tension of his spine. Then he got it, all in a rush, his hands going up to clutch at Gibbs' shirt, face turning against his throat, body pressing close and breath rushing out in something like a sob. Gibbs just held on as he shook. He didn't make another noise, just trembled as he tried to climb into Gibbs' skin.

They stood like that for a long time. Then Gibbs stepped out of the tangle of his pants and brought Dean to the bedroom. He watched Dean sleep until it took him as well.

(no subject)

Date: 2010-10-28 06:53 pm (UTC)
lostcloud: (Default)
From: [personal profile] lostcloud
For some reason, recently, I've been hunting down all the Supernatural crossovers that I could get my hands on. There are surprisingly a lot of decent ones in the NCIS category, but unsurprisingly a lot that are terrible enough that they make me hate some of the characters.

This is interesting. I haven't actually come across any Gibbs/Dean besides this one (even if it is just chunks of a fic that is yet to be completed?). Most of them usually write them more in a father/son relationship, or respect/respect, commander/soldier-ish sort.

(no subject)

Date: 2010-10-29 01:17 am (UTC)
lostcloud: (Default)
From: [personal profile] lostcloud
Oh geez, is that ever true or what. There are so many badly written crossovers...I think some of the times that they've burned my brain. Unfortunately, crossovers are also totally evil in that sometimes they're so badly written but they're the only on in the fandom that you wanted crossed that you read it anyways. Or at least that's how it is for me. That should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. Am I right or am I right?

Really? That sucks, but I get where you're coming from. At least you posted it! It made my day. ;D *laughs* You so totally should have slipped in that scene with Tony! *smirks at imagination* Thanks for giving my imagination for wood.

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