“Now the most wanted model available is not only a CD player, but it also has a docking station for your iPod.”

Tony turned his head as he heard an exasperated sound from the man who was speaking to the sales clerk. “I’m not wanting a damn CD player or iHookup,” the voice ground out. “Just give me a cassette tape deck that works.”

“But cassette tapes are obsolete,” the younger sales clerk said.

Tony chose that moment to step up with an offer, if it would work. “What’d’ya drive?”

Tony watched as calculating eyes turned to size him up. It made him feel like he was a potential suspect being interrogated by Gibbs. Then just abruptly as the threat assessment started, it was gone and he had green eyes giving him a somewhat welcoming look.

“A ’67 Impala,” he said with pride showing through his voice. Then he turned back on the sales clerk, “And I’m not ruining her by putting any of that new crap in her. She’s done just fine with cassettes and I want to keep it that way.”

“But we don’t have anything like that in stock, sir,” the sales clerk said. “We might be able to special order something, but it would take weeks.”

“I don’t have weeks,” the man replied and Tony noticed that he eyes carried an almost pained expression. “Do you know of anybody that has one?”

Before the sales clerk could respond again, Tony butted in once more. “Would the cassette deck you’re taking out of my Mustang fit his Impala?”

Dean turned to him once again. “You drive a Mustang? Must be a sweet ride.”

“It is, or it will be,” Tony clarified. “Just bought it a week ago. My other car-- well, it was in an accident. Figured I would upgrade this one with one of those iPod hookups you turned down.”

“So you actually have one of those? My brother’s always telling me to at least get CDs, but I figured tapes have worked this long, that they’ll do until I don’t need them anymore.”

“Yeah, I friend gave me one,” Tony said. “Works for tuning out the boss sometimes, too.”

“Bet that goes over well,” the man said with a smile.

Tony absently reached up to rub the back of his head. “You have no idea. Tony by the way,” he greeted as he reached out a hand.

“Dean,” the man said as he took the offered hand. “So, you have plans for that cassette deck they’re removing?”

“Not really, was just going to leave it with them. But if it will work,” Tony trailed off as he looked back at the forgotten sales clerk.

“It should work,” he said looking at Dean. “But it will cost extra for us to install it.”

“Don’t need you to install it. I’m the only one that works on my car. I just need the equipment and looks like I can go through Tony here to get that.”

“But--" the sales clerk started to argue, but was cut off by Tony.

“Don’t worry about it, Troy,” Tony said, glancing at the nametag. “Just give me the cassette deck when you’re done and I’ll take care of Dean for you.” He gave the kid a shove towards the counter and then walked to the waiting area with Dean.

“So you do all the work on your car,” Tony said longingly. “Wish I had the time for that. Been a long time since I’ve been able to do some work on one.”

“Had to rebuild her just over a year ago,” Dean said as he leaned back in his chair. “Took forever to find all the parts.”

“I bet. How long you had her?”

Tony watched as Dean’s eyes glazed over in remembrance. “Belonged to my dad. He gave her to me when I turned eighteen. Of course I was working with him on it for years before that, so I already knew what made her tick.”

Tony got a half smile as he listened to Dean talk about his father. He had wondered one too many times what it would be like to have memories like those. “I got my first car when my mother’s uncle passed away. Left me a Corvette.”

“That had to be a sweet ride,” Dean said with a whistle. “What happened to it?”

“Stolen and wrecked in a high speed chase on national television. Let me tell you that insurance doesn’t even begin to cover that the way one would hope.”

“Ouch. That why you got this one?” Dean asked.

“Nah, replaced it with a different Mustang. I just lost it a few months ago. Took this long to find a good replacement.”

“Yeah, they don’t make cars like they used to,” Dean said with a sigh. “Been trying to teach Sammy that, but don’t know if he’ll ever learn.”

“Your brother?” Tony asked, recalling Dean’s earlier comment.

“Yeah. He doesn’t know the fuel pump from the dipstick, but he’s learning.”

Tony continued a lengthy conversation with Dean that ranged from cars to women to Saturday morning cartoons. They were arguing over who the better James Bond was (Tony went with Connery, while Dean was making his argument for Brosnan) when the sales clerk interrupted them.

“Your car will be ready in another thirty minutes Mr. DiNozzo, but here’s the cassette deck we removed.”

“Thanks,” Tony said in dismissal and then he handed the deck over to Dean. “Just hope it works for you, man.”

“What do I owe yah?” Dean asked taking out his wallet.

“Nothing,” Tony said. “Consider it helping a fellow car enthusiast out.”

“You sure?” Dean asked with uncertainty.

“Yeah,” Tony said with a smile. “Let’s just say some people owed me, so this car and all the fix-me-ups I’m doing are covered.”

Dean looked down at the deck in his hands. “Thanks dude,” he said with sincerity. “I can’t say it’s a lifesaver, but at least the car will be fixed up right,” he added quietly.

“Good luck with that,” Tony said as he pulled out one of his cards. “If you find yourself needing an extra hand and you’re in the area, give me a call.”

Dean looked down at the card he had taken and his posture stiffened. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he said through a smile that seemed to be forced. “Catch yah later.”

Before Tony could respond to the abrupt change in behavior, Dean was gone and he was left waiting on his car.

Later that night, Tony sat in the dim lighting of the bullpen going over some miscellaneous paper work. Out of habit, he brought up the FBI’s most wanted page on the computer and was clicking through the mug shots and descriptions as he waited for a case report to print.

He was about to get up from the desk when a picture appeared on the screen that froze him in his chair. Staring back from the screen was the man he met at the shop just hours before. He clicked on the details regarding the man. Apparently his name was Dean Winchester and he was wanted in multiple states on murder charges as well as a lengthy list of crimes ranging from credit card fraud to grave desecration. He learned that the man had a known accomplice in his younger brother Sam Winchester.

Tony’s stomach churned as he brought up more details regarding the wanted man; the man he had chatted amicably with over cars and women. He was having a difficult time picturing the Dean who lovingly talked about his Impala as the murderer the FBI listed him as.

Once he had clicked through all the available information regarding Dean, Tony leaned back in his chair and stared at the mug shot for several minutes. He was duty bound to report the sighting to the FBI. Whether it would help them catch the wanted man or not, Tony didn’t know, but it would give the feebs a place to look.

However, there was a small part of Tony that didn’t want to follow protocol. That little niggling that told him the other man was not what the FBI said he was. Tony knew first hand that evidence could be wrong. Although, he still had the occasional dream about a knife blade sliding against his throat that reminded him that seemingly innocent people could be cold-blooded killers.

“Damn,” he grumbled out loud as he stared at the face on the screen. “There’s got to be more to this.”

The night went by in a haze as Tony read police report after police report. They all came to one conclusion; there really was no conclusion. Hell, the St. Louis report said that Dean Winchester was dead and had the DNA to prove it. The further back Tony looked the more confusing it became.

He finally reached what he considered the beginning for the Winchester family with the report on the house fire that killed Mary Winchester, Dean’s mother. The kid was only four and his younger brother just six months when the fire took their mom away. Tony did a double take when he realized the dates of the fire that killed Mary and Jessica Moore, Sam Winchester’s girlfriend, were identical save the twenty-two year gap. As Abby would say, there was definitely something hinky with the Winchester case, but Tony couldn’t put his finger on what the answer was.

On a whim, he pulled up John Winchester’s service records. He was surprised to find a record that could match Gibbs’; right down to the Silver Star and Purple Heart. Nothing in the man’s record gave any indication of what the FBI thought of the man. If anything, Tony could draw some striking similarities between him and Gibbs.

Then an idea dawned on Tony. He brought up the records from the original fire and looked at any statements that were made by John Winchester. In all the early reports, Winchester mentioned a man being in the house just before the fire. The man was never identified and it was later noted that Winchester withdrew his claim stating that he was under the stress of losing his wife at the time.

Perhaps there was something greater at work in the whole tangled mess. If someone had targeted the family, why had they waited twenty-two years before targeting them again? Tony knew that if Winchester was anything like Gibbs, as the service record indicated, then he wouldn’t rest until the man who attacked his family was taken down. Could all the cases involving the Winchester family be tied to that one event in 1983?

Sitting back in his chair with a sigh, Tony glanced at the clock on his computer and rubbed a hand over his face. It was 5am and Gibbs would be arriving soon. Most of the time he didn’t mind Gibbs finding him sitting in his chair going over files. That morning however, he didn’t really want to be seen. Gibbs knew that there were no open cases and Tony didn’t want his boss prying into what he had obviously been researching all night long. Just telling him it was a cold case wouldn’t satisfy Gibbs when he was looking for an answer.

He began closing search windows, careful to clear his history. As the pointer hovered over the last window containing the mug shot of Dean Winchester and the number for the tip hotline, Tony allowed himself one thought: ‘What would Gibbs do?’

Moments later there was an audible mouse click in the otherwise silent bullpen as Tony closed the window. Then he leaned back in his chair with a small smile, “Just hope they can’t trace that cassette player back to me if they catch you man.”