I do not own NCIS or Supernatural, nor any characters affiliated with them. I do own some trail mix, though. Could use more M&Ms, but whatever.

Gibbs was close to shooting someone. He could feel it. Every time the suspect had opened his mouth to utter more of that damned nonsense language, his hand twitched towards the gun he, unfortunately, could not take with him into the interrogation room.

"English, god dammit, english," he snarled, and the handsome young suspect's smirk that screamed that he knew exactly what he was doing and could choose to lapse into fluent english at any given moment flitted across his face, before the man uttered another sentence Gibbs couldn't understand.

Abruptly, Gibbs reared up and stalked out of the room, leaving the suspect to chatter at nothing in a language understood by no one. He needed coffee. Immediately. Quickly, he made his way to the break room, where he set about making the strongest cup of coffee possible. Several minutes later, his anger somewhat diminished through the feeding of his addiction, GIbbs went to the bullpen to drag Ziva to interrogation. Maybe she could make sense of the suspect's words.

"Ziva. Interrogation. Now." His voice left no room for arguments, and his agent trailed after him as he steamed back to interrogation. He stood back to let her enter first, then steered her by the shoulders into the seat facing the suspect and plopped her down.

"Translate," he growled out, then stood back with his arms crossed and glowered. The suspect watched all of this with amusement, laughter threatening to break from his lips.

The suspect trilled off something else, and Ziva turned around to face Gibbs, shaking her head.

"I am sorry, but I cannot make skulls or tails of this. It sounds closer to Spanish than anything else I know. Maybe Italian." She shrugged. "I do not know. Ask Tony, maybe." With that, she rose and escaped from the room where Gibbs' face was nearing a level red only seen on the most controversial of fruits: the tomato.

Tony himself was in the hallway as Ziva made her getaway. She shuffled past him with wide, slightly worried eyes, and Tony eyed the door with more trepidation. Slowly, he pushed it open and poked his head in, and indeed, the sight inside was worrisome. GIbbs looked closer to conniptions than Tony had ever gotten him, which actually made Tony somewhat resentful of the suspect with the woeful fashion sense. If he hadn't been wearing leather, plaid, boots, and jeans, he would have been someone handsome enough to whom Tony would relinquish the crown of Hottest Man to without too much complaint. The title was totally a thing. And, obviously, such an honour couldn't go to someone like McGeek. The Probie wouldn't know what to do with that type of power. And then Tony would have to duel him for it, Western style.

"I could beat Probie in a duel. The only way he'd win is if I was late for High Noon," he mused aloud, earning him a snort from the suspect and a silent promise of death from Gibbs. Tony shook himself out from that train of thought, and moved to stand next to Gibbs, not quite approaching the man cuffed to the table yet.

"Boss, my Spidey-Sense was tingling. You need me for anything?"

Gibbs stared at him for a moment before saying "Ziva thinks he might be speaking Italian."

Tony nodded, his eyes serious. "Got it. Your friendly neighborhood Italian is here to help." Gibbs snarled, no words needed for his command to get across, and Tony sat.

"Come ti chiami?" Tony asked.

"Da mihi sis crustum. Da mihi sis crustum. Crustum. Crustum. Crustum. No ? Quam de aqua . Fui ibi for-" the suspect rambled for a bit before Tony shook his head. Not Italian. Thus, not currently translatable. Even worse, no answers. Gibbs was stopped from exploding and taking out the entire NCIS building (that orange had to go, but explosion by Gibbs wasn't the best way) by Ducky, who appeared in the doorway, followed by a nervous Ziva.

"Oh my, Jethro. Ziva had initially gathered me to make sure you didn't have a stroke, but I must say, this is much more interesting. This young man appears to be speaking Latin. Why, this reminds me of a young man from West Germany in the 1980's. He had absolutely no interest in school, but his Latin was simply beautiful. He was fluent, too, and actually managed to save us from some quite serious trouble with the border police. We had been-"

"Ducky. Can you tell us what the hell he is saying." Gibbs' harsh bark quashed the fantastic tangent Ducky had been about to go off on.

Ducky pursed his lips. "I am afraid not, Jethro. My latin is confined to what I learned from medical school many years ago."

The suspect had been watching with avid interest, and finally, he deigned to grace them with a common language.

"Okay, I'll tell you some stuff. But first, the good doctor here has to finish that story. Show of goodwill, I'll even give you my name. Winchester, like the rifle, Dean, like the James," Dean said, his eyes now fixed upon Ducky with avid curiosity, any thoughts of the ramifications of talking pushed to the side.

Gibbs growled wordlessly, then spun and strode out from interrogation, the population of which tracked him entering the viewing room by the slamming of various doors.

"I'd be only too happy to comply, my boy. This particular instance was quite nerve-rattling. It was the dead of night, and it was the fire that alerted the authorities to our presence in the first place."

Dean crossed his arms and sank into his chair, settling down the most interesting story he'd heard in a long time.