Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the typos.
Title: I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts
Summary: Tim and Tony set out to arrest a pair of notorious serial killers, but the Winchesters have other plans. To make things even more interesting, throw one pissed off demon into the mix.
Rating: Strong Teen
Spoilers/Warnings: General spoilers for NCIS. Possibly Supernatural?.
Author's Note: I am dipping my toes in, oh-so-cautiously, into a new fandom with a crossover. I've seen the first two seasons of Supernatural, so I have a fair grasp on the Winchesters. But it's not nearly as good as the one I have on NCIS. So I apologize for any inconsistencies or OOC moments.
I'm shooting for 4, maybe 5 chapters, in total.
Here goes.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
From the passenger seat, Tim McGee tries for a better view of where their suspects are supposedly hiding. Even Tony DiNozzo seems too apprehensive to drive up the long, circuitous driveway to the eerie house high on the hill.
Against a sky dripping with the inky purples and angry blues of an early night, the imposing Victorian mansion looms like a feral animal. Broken windows, highlighted by the setting sun, glint like crooked, rotten teeth. The roof on one of the turrets collapses in on itself, unable to bear the weight of the world any longer. In a past life, it might have been a symbol of its owners impossible wealth. Now, it has fallen from grace, doomed to be a hideout for a pair of serial killers.
Tim hazards a glance at Tony, who has his eyes locked on the building. His cheeks are pale, his mouth set in a deep line. He drums his fingers against the wheel, makes a whistling noise through his teeth.
"Why does it have to look like the house from House on Haunted Hill?" Tony whispers, more to himself than Tim.
Tim's brow furrows.
"It's a classic horror movie, McGee."
"I haven't seen it," Tim says, looking back at the house.
"It's not really your genre anyway, McNerd. There aren't any goblins or fairies." When Tim scowls at him, Tony half-laughs. "It's a great film though. Vincent Price invites a bunch of people to stay at his mansion in return for ten grand. Except instead of getting the money, they get dead."
"Interesting." Tim's tone betrays his words.
Tony looks up at the house. "Damn, I feel like I'm really in the movie right now."
"It's just a house, Tony." When he looks back at it, Tim makes a face. "Okay, it's a really creepy one, but it's just a house." A moment later, he adds: "And besides, there is no such thing as ghosts."
Tony nods, unconvinced. "Of course not."
Sighing, Tim reaches for his phone. "Should I call Gibbs?"
After considering their predicament for a long moment, Tony shakes his head. "If we call the boss for nothing, he'll turn us into ghosts. Anyway, we can handle a pair of crazy brothers on our own."
To Tim, calling their suspects—Sam and Dean Winchester— crazy was like saying Gibbs had minor anger problems. The younger one, Sam, had dropped out Stanford to follow join his older brother on a cross-country spree in America' Heartland that amassed warrants in six states, twelve suspected murders, and an untold number of crimes attributed to the duo.
They popped up on NCIS' radar a few days ago, when the team was called to investigate the murder of a Marine—at least, they suspected there was a murder. Ducky had only been able to determine that the pile of black ash left behind had been human, at one point…maybe.
Of course, in the middle of it all, Gibbs was taking a few personal days for the first time since Tim joined the team. Desperate to prove himself, Tony would be damned before he called the boss back in from his quality bourbon, boat, and basement time. And Tim really doesn't want to be the one to wreck Gibbs' bender either. Not for something like this.
Tony glances to Tim for support. "Right, McGee?"
Springing to life, Tim nods like a wind-up toy with a nervous laugh. "Yeah, sure. We can handle the Winchesters. You and me. No problem."
With that vote of confidence, Tony points to Charger towards the house and guns the engine. They pass through an old iron gate, rusted and sunbaked to death, that clings to a fence, twisted and gnarled as it bends back to earth. The trek up the steep hill feels like they're climbing to the heavens.
Right beside the house, Tony pulls the Charger right up on the bumper of a black, vintage Impala. Since the Winchester's getaway car is here, the killers can't be far behind. If they have any plans of a quick escape, they'll have to go through the Navy car. And if rumors are to be believed, Dean would never risk the damage to his beloved car.
He'd probably kill me and Tony for the keys to the Charger.
Swallowing audibly, Tim fumbles with the collar of his shirt.
From the road, the house looked eerie and run-down. Up close, it is even worse. The siding, once a deep and rich blue, has offered up its color to the sun over the years. The intricate scroll work on the wraparound porch is broken and missing sections, the other bits ravaged by termites and the weather. The broken bits of glass in the windows wink with the oranges and yellows of the dying sun.
In one of the top floor windows, a blank face stares down at them. From the car, Tim can't make out any features on it. Dirt on the window, he tells himself. Then, it vanishes right before his eyes.
His stomach lurches.
"Last chance, Probie." Tony's tone is soft, forgiving, lenient.
For a moment, Tim half-expects an insult. When it doesn't come, he realizes just how screwed they are. About to go into freaking haunted house after a pair of serial killers. If the Winchesters don't carve them up like Thanksgiving turkeys, the ghosts will rip them limb from limb.
There is no such thing as ghosts.
Unholstering his Sig, Tony gives Tim a poignant look as though to give him an out. As though to say just admit that you're a big, fat chicken so we can get the hell out of here.
Tim pulls out his own weapon. "Ready, Venkman?"
"You with the movie reference, McGhostbuster?" Tony's eyebrows jump with surprise. "Hm. I guess that makes me Bill Murray. Not a bad choice. So you'd probably be Egon or – " he shoots Tim a sideways glance " – the StayPuft Marshmallow Man."
Tim just rolls his eyes.
Without giving Tony a chance to speak, Tim climbs out of the car. A light breeze brushes past him, sweeping across the knee-high grass, making it bend and twist and bow to its will. It flirts with the tails of Tim's trench coat as he stares up at the house again. That face is back in the window. His heart races.
"Earth to McGee," Tony calls, sounding like he's on another planet. "Are you even listening?"
"Yeah, I am." Tim blinks, then points at the house. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"Someone's watching us." When Tim points to the window, Tony shields his eyes for a better look. Of course, it's empty. "Was watching us."
Tony quirks a grin. "And here I thought there was no such thing as ghosts."
"There aren't," Tim says, annoyed. "But the Winchesters – "
"Will know we're coming if we stay out here chit-chatting."
"Okay, fine." Tim throws his free hand up. "I'll head around back."
Over the top of the Charger, Tony's face turns panicked. "And send me in the front door by myself? Oh hell no." Toying with his suit-jacket, he takes a moment to compose himself. "I mean, it makes more sense for us to stick together. You know, with the Winchesters and all."
Tim half-smiles. "Of course, it does."
Tony shrugs. "Unless you want me to go around back."
That hangs between them for a moment until Tim says: "I don't think so."
Tony's grin says Aha, I knew it. Tim just rolls his eyes.
"Alright, McGee, we go in the front door together. Stay close and watch your six."
Tim nods resolutely. "Right."
When Tony dips his head towards the house, Tim leads the way across the footpath that has been worn through the grass. From the looks of things, the Winchesters—or someone else—have been hiding here for quite some time. Tim and Tony head up the porch steps that bow under their weight as though they might fall through the floor.
They pause by the front door. Tim leans against the rotting siding, right hand on the door knob, while Tony stands, weapon-raised. After a quick nod from Tony, Tim pushes open the door. Its moan might as well be loud enough to wake the dead. Tim tries not to consider the irony.
Tony sneaks into the foyer first.
Inside, the house is like a time capsule from the Victorian era. Deep crimson wallpaper, peeling off the walls in sheets, rustle in the wind from the open door. A grand, curved staircase with rich, dark wood pillars reminds Tim of the luxurious home this once was. Some ceiling plaster lands in Tim's hair, but he doesn't bother to chase it away.
The air is thick with the scent of dust, mildew, rotting wood, and damp earth. Tim hold his breath.
Moving on the balls of his feet, Tim stays glued to Tony's six as they move deeper into the house. Through the sitting room with antique settees and chaises, left to rot, and a dining room still set for a dinner service for sixteen that has turned to cobwebs and dust.
It isn't until the parlor that they find the first sign of life.
Sam Winchester stands by a fireplace, poking at the roaring embers. An unnerving glow commands the room as the shadows stretch across the serial killer.
Tim steps forward. "Federal agents. Drop the weapon."
Turning towards them, Sam's smile is easy, non-threatening, bordering on genial. He drops the metal poker and raises his hands.
By all accounts, he looks like a typical college kid. Dark yellow, zip-up hoodie and blue jeans with wispy blonde hair and an honest, wholesome face. Instead of breaking the law, the only thing he should be breaking is hearts.
"Oh, geez, it looks like you two caught me," he says, Midwestern accent dripping from his voice.
Tim reaches for his handcuffs, almost puts his weapon away so he can neutralize the suspect. But Tony is smart enough to know when they're being played.
"Where's your brother?" he growls.
Behind them, there is the click of a shotgun. Then a low, gravelly voice replies, "Right here."
Tim's heart falls straight into his stomach.
Fuck. We're so dead.
When he hazards a glance over his shoulder, Tim is surprised by how different Dean Winchester looks than his brother. Despite only being a few years older, the age gap by looks alone is decades. His face is hard, deep lines set around his mouth and forehead like he spends his life wearing a permanent grimace. And he is short. At least half a head less than Tim and Tony; a full head from Sam.
Tim swallows hard, not quite ready to be sacrificed in one of those ritualistic executions that the Winchesters are known for. While he might not be religious at all—or even know what he believes these days—he sure as shit doesn't want to be offered up to Satan or Zoroaster or a couch cushion or whatever the fuck these two worship.
Beside him, Tony is grinning like the whole thing is absolutely hilarious. Tim wants to remind him that they've just been caught. By a pair of serial killers.
"Drop the guns," Dean orders.
Both Tim and Tony place their weapons on the floor, then kick them away. Sam scoops the guns up, surveying them in the dim light from the fireplace.
"Sig Sauers," Sam says, sounding slightly impressed.
"Ah, G-men." Dean laughs. "Where are you two from? FBI? NSA? FDA?"
"NCIS," Tim says, hoping it doesn't earn him an ass full of buckshot.
"Oh, that's a good one. Navy Cops. I bet no one's ever heard of it."
Sam tilts his head, glances to his brother. "Maybe we should try using that agency next time?"
Dean nods his assent.
Tim swallows hard. Great, now they're planning to use his and Tony's IDs on their cross-country killing spree. Why couldn't they just wait to discuss their plans after he and Tony were dead?
Damn it.
"Now, what brings you two sniffing around us?" Dean asks.
"Staff Sergeant Michael Palin," Tim answers.
Dean wears a stone face as he shrugs with one shoulder.
Tim tries a different tactic. "The guy you turned into a pile of dust."
Dean shrugs again.
"The vessel for the shedim," Sam clarifies. "Before it escaped and came here."
"Oh." One corner of Dean's mouth quirks into a half-smile. "Sorry, I guess. We didn't mean to leave you a mess. Did you need some help cleaning it up?"
Tim gapes at them. When he speaks up, his voice jumps an octave: "You murdered someone, but you didn't mean to – "
"Hey, I've got a question," Tony suddenly interrupts before Tim gets them both killed.
Dean scoffs. "Okay, Chief, shoot."
"Which one of you is the Gatekeeper?" Tony asks, plastering on his best shit-eating grin.
Dean tightens his grip on the gun. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"It's from Ghostbusters." By the looks of things, Sam genuinely smiles. "You know, Dean, that movie I keep telling you about."
Rolling his eyes like he heard it all before, Dean closes his eyes. "Yeah, I know. You've told me all about it. That's the one with the three guys that go around and blast ghosts with their photon – "
"Proton," Tony and Sam correct in unison.
"Whatever," Dean says. "It's nothing like reality. Where I live."
Sam chuckles. "It's a movie, Dean. It's meant to be enjoyable. Fun. Do you remember what that is?"
"Yes, Sammy, I happen to know…"
And when the brothers dissolve into a childish argument, Tony takes advantage of the distraction. He flings his body backwards, using one hand to force the shotgun to the side while ramming his elbow into Dean's gut. Even with has the element of surprise, Tony doesn't stand a chance.
Deal whirls around, using the shotgun's momentum to send Tony stumbling into the dining room. Tony backpedals, arms pinwheeling and eyes wide until he loses his balance. He slams on the floor with a resounding thud.
Just as Dean goes to raise the weapon, Tim throws himself forward. He only makes it a few steps before Sam picks him clean off the ground, hustling him towards the dining room. Tim bucks and twists against the hold, but he only ends up tossed on the floor beside Tony. He lands flat on his face, momentarily stunned. He gets to his knees just in time for the door to slam closed.
The lock clicking in place echoes ominously.
Tim tries to keep his panic in check. Tries to go to his happy place. Tries to stop his mind from racing, his hands from shaking, his heart from galloping. Tries not to let himself think that he and Tony have just been taken hostage by freaking serial killers.
He has his cell phone out in an instant. No service.
"Tony, my phone isn't working," Tim says, sounding as anxious as he feels.
Tony checks his. "Mine isn't either. Damn it!" He yanks and jerks on the door, but it only rattles on the hinges. Then he slams his fist against it. "Son of a bitch. Those dirt bags locked us in here."
Tim meets Tony's earnest eyes. "What do we do now, Tony?"
"Try to find a way out of here." He goes for an easy grin, but fails miserably. "And if not, we hope that Zuul is satisfied."