Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for language and violence.
Author's Note : Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited and followed so far. And many thanks to those of you who've left reviews. I'm glad to hear there was some interest in this story. Sorry if my description of Dean detracted from the story, but he looks short next to Sam.
Violence in this chapter. If it's not your thing, you might want to skip it.
-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-
As soon as they realize the door won't budge, Tim and Tony set off in different directions on very different tasks. After grabbing a steak knife off the table, Tim crouches to pry the door open. He jimmies the blade between the frame and wood, attempting to force them apart. All he manages to do is repeatedly slip off the hilt and slice his palm open. He curses under his breath. Blood drips on the floor.
Across the room, Tony pokes around the fireplace mantle. The huge, dark wood piece juts out of the paneling like a leviathan trying to escape an ocean of built-ins and bookcases. Extending from the hearth to the ceiling, it takes up most of the available space on that side of the dining room. Tony carefully runs his fingers over the accent details—little cornucopias and grape bunches connected by tree branches carved as a relief in the wood.
Of course, Tony would be admiring the décor instead of helping Tim escape from the serial killers that were probably out there setting up for their murder.
"What are you doing, Tony?" Tim's tone is far less annoyed than he intends.
"Trying to get us out of here," Tony says as though it explains everything.
Tim climbs to his feet. "By touching with the wall?"
"By trying to find the way to open the secret passage."
Tim blinks. Cocks his head. Makes a face. "The what?"
"The secret passage," Tony repeats slowly. Like Tim didn't hear it the first time.
Tim rolls his eyes inwardly. "And what makes you think there is one of those here?"
Leaning against the fireplace, Tony places his hand against the seam on the mantle and the wall. "There's a slight draft coming from here and – " he gestures to towards the floor " –there's a wear track that could only be made if the mantle opened." His eyes glint with excitement in the low light. "Plus, there are always secret tunnels in houses like this. All I need to do is find the button that opens the fireplace and we're be home free. No Winchesters involved."
"Where'd you learn that?" Tim quirks an eyebrow. "From the movies?"
Tony's eyes dart this way and that. Anywhere to avoid Tim's deepening scowl. "It's how the killer moved around in Thirteen Ghosts and Ten Little Indians and – "
"Do you really think that since we're trapped in a house with a pair of killers that there should be a secret passage to help us escape?" Tim surmises, unable to believe what he heard.
Tony just half-shrugs. "Why not? It makes sense."
At that moment, Tim is pretty sure that Tony has gone completely insane. Maybe the senior agent hit his head harder on the parquet floor than Tim originally thought. Or perhaps, the air isn't thick with dust, but with toxic mold that causes hallucinations and delusions. But then again, Tony always did live just on the edge where films blurred into reality. Maybe now, the thin thread that connected the two finally snapped, pitching Tony straight into a Hollywood fantasy world.
I bet Gibbs' head slaps finally scrambled his brain. Now, I'm going to have to listen to Tony quote a movie while the Winchesters sacrifice us to their car. Knowing my luck, it'll be something crappy like Gigli.
Tim's eyelid twitches.
This is so not how I wanted to die.
Tony points to a tarnished brass wall sconce. Holding his hand out like a game show host, Tony uses it to frame the light fixture. He grins broadly as though something exciting is about to happen.
Tim crosses his arms, nods to tell him to get on with it.
"Watch this, McSkeptic," Tony says with a flourish.
Then he gives the sconce a pull.
Tim tries so freaking had to give Tony the benefit of the doubt. He uncrosses his arms, puts one hand on his hip. Shifts his weight from side to side. Works his jaw while he grinds his teeth. He goes for a deep, calming breath, but it comes as a pissed and agitated huff.
"Maybe it's just jammed," Tony offers.
With his smile never wavering, Tony yanks on the light fixture again. He puts one foot up on the wall, throws his weight behind the movement. He pulls so hard his grip slips and he stumbles back a step.
But still, nothing happens.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tim mutters a curse into the palm of his hand. He counts to ten—and then, to twenty—but he still can't grasp that elusive peace that escapes him. He is being held hostage by a pair of serial killers. With a delusional partner, who seems to think that a secret passage is their only way out of here. Instead of the locked door that lead them in here.
The lights flicker, dipping the world around them into pitch darkness for a split-second.
Tim's heart twists into his throat.
And I don't even want to think about the ghosts.
Tim shakes his head at himself. He really needs to stop listening to Tony about these freaking movies.
There is no such thing as ghosts.
Of course, Tony's hare-brained scheme wasn't—isn't—going to work. As though he just can't abandon the thought of a secret passage, Tony moves onto the bookshelves. He begins tossing the books, picture frames, and knick-knacks on the floor in hopes of finding the way out.
Rolling his eyes, Tim turns around. "When you feel like joining me in the real world, Tony, I'll be getting us out over here. You know, through the door that leads back to the house."
When Tony doesn't reply, Tim makes a face. He works the steak knife back into the door jamb again. Just as he starts to twist it, a wisp of black smoke slithers through the space. He takes a deep breath, surprised by the sulfuric burn of rotten eggs on his tongue.
Instantly, Tim is on his feet, backpedaling.
"Tony, there's a fire!" Tim yelps.
When Tony rushes to join him, they pause by the table to contemplate their fate. Locked in a room with no windows in a house that's burning down. If this doesn't get Tony to help Tim, nothing will.
The smoke moves strangely, undulating and dancing on the air. Like ripples in still water broken by a thrown rock. It almost seems to pause by the door as though examining the small pool of blood on the floor from Tim's earlier attempts at freedom. Then it slowly billows, spreading out, as it grows closer.
There is no such thing as ghosts.
Tony chokes out a gurgle. "I don't think that's smoke."
Tim just stands there, completely frozen. His heart races in his chest, leaving his head to pound in time with that whoosh whoosh in his ears. Every part of him wants to run, to get the hell out of here. To tell Tony that something is wrong, really freaking wrong. Hell, he would even take panic or a scream.
But underneath the fear, an odd calm drags him down until he feels like he is underwater. He can't move, can't find his voice. And now, he can't even drum up the care to try and escape.
He is a spectator in his own body. Watching this thing sweep towards him.
Right by his feet, the smoke begins to gradually take form. The head of a snake, complete with blood red eyes and wispy grey-underbelly, rises in front of Tim. It opens his mouth, display its fangs.
Tim's blood turns to ice. Why can't he fucking move?
Ghost aren't –
"McGee! Get out of the way!" Tony yells.
At that moment, Tony barrels, full-force, into Tim. The hit sends him stumbling, arms and legs flailing until he lands with a thud. Pain rockets up his right shoulder. He rolls to his side, just in time to see the man-sized, transparent smoke-snake rear back before it lunges at Tony. While it is seemingly absorbed into the senior agent, Tony curls into himself, clutching his chest.
Tim's stomach drops.
"Tony? Are you okay?" Tim asks, not caring how hysterical he sounds right now.
Tony doesn't reply.
"What the hell was that? Where did it go?" Tim's hand curls around the steak knife by his side.
With his back to Tim, Tony slowly straightens up. He stares intently at the back of his hands, flexing his fingers as though seeing them for the first time. Then he rubs the lapels of his jacket before mussing up his already windswept hair. He hisses through his teeth.
Tim cautiously climbs to his feet. "Tony…"
When Tony glances over his shoulder, his motions are jerky and erratic like someone not quite accustomed to their body anymore. At the sight of Tim, his face contorts into a cruel smile that is all teeth. Much like a shark before it feasts. His hazel eyes have gone black with night.
"Tony?" Tim swallows audibly. "What's – "
"Ah, Timothy." Tony's voice is deeper and coarser that usual. "You were the one I meant to inhabit, but old Anthony here had to play the hero like usual." That smile grows nastier. "It might not be what I had intended, but it will suffice."
Somehow, Tim's heart beats even harder. Raw terror gnaws deep within his chest. Cold sweat blossoms at the small of his back, working its way through this shirt. Suddenly, the room is too hot to bear. The air grows too thick with dust and century-old ash and death for Tim to even take a breath. He can't inhale because his lungs don't seem to want the oxygen.
What's wrong with Tony?
In his shaking hands, Tim still clutches the steak knife. He raises it for a half-second before he thinks better of it. What the hell is he doing threatening his partner—his friend—with a weapon?
Tony chuckles. It's throaty and vicious, a sound unlike anything Tony has ever made before.
That is still Tony. Right?
Tim's lips curl in fear. His knuckles go white against the knife.
There is no such thing as ghosts.
Tony laughs.
And suddenly, the knife flies out of Tim's hand as if under its own energy. It ends up across the room, buried to the hilt in one of the cornucopias on the fireplace. Tim's wide eyes bounce from the weapon to Tony, and back again.
"I didn't…" He fumbles. "I didn't do that."
Tony half-smiles. "You still do not understand, Timothy?"
Before Tim has a chance to respond, he feels himself rise off the ground as though he is suspended from the ceiling. It feels as though a pair of hands clutch the front of his shirt. He barely manages to whisper, "oh shit," before an unseen energy tosses him through the air like a piece of trash in a hurricane. He slams onto the dinner table, sending plates and flatware and decorations flying as he is drug across the surface. He claws and writhes at the invisible hands, but it doesn't help. He ends up pinned against the wall by the fireplace, his feet a few inches off the floor.
Tim barely breathes.
Smirking that horrid smile again, Tony slinks towards him. His movements are easy now. Gliding and slithering as though he doesn't even use his feet at all.
Tony stops to evaluate Tim. "While you are correct about the existence of specters, Timothy. Perhaps you should consider that there are other beings beyond your human understanding."
"Like?" Tim rasps.
Tony shrugs. "Me."
Tim's gaze drifts upwards towards a crystal chandelier hangs with winking candle lights and mirrored gems. In their swaying reflection, Tim only notices himself. It's as if Tony isn't even there.
Fuck, he's a vampire.
"Really? You think they exist?" Tony chortles, low and deadly. "Nice try, Timothy. I guess even a skeptic such as yourself can't come to believe in a demon when he is about to kill you."
Tim can't find his voice.
He wants to beg Tony to knock off the charade. He wants to tell Tony that he is scared out of his damned mind. That Tony is the master of all pranks, king of the office, and the boss when Gibbs is nowhere to be found. That he'll kowtow to Tony's ridiculous movie theories if he just stops, if he just lets everything go back to fucking normal.
When he looks down into Tony's soulless eyes, Tim doesn't think anything will ever be normal again.
Tony smirks. "Now, you understand."
Tim thrashes against the energy holding him against the wall. And at that moment, the weight lifts and he drops to the floor like a stone. He collapses to his knees, hands around his throat and gasping. The air feels good and cool as it fills his lungs.
He doesn't get a chance to catch his breath when Tony tilts his head. That unseen energy seizes Tim by the neck and once again, he is flung across the room. His back slams into the bookshelves, crushing them under his body. He falls to the floor, aching in more places than he knew possible. His head pounds with its own heartbeat. After he gingerly checks the area, his fingers are slick with blood.
Shit.
Tony draws closer.
Tim tries to run, but he just goes flying face first into the wall. This time, the impact rattles his teeth, his bones, his brain. He crumples to the ground, groaning. When he starts to push himself up, his hands find a large carving knife in the debris. As he stands up, he clutches the weapon. He holds his ground on unsteady legs while the world begins to dip and twirl before his eyes.
Keeping his distance, Tony displays that feral smirk. "So, Timothy, you are ready to turn on your friend. Perhaps our time together will be more interesting than I had originally thought."
At the thought of attacking his partner—Tony—Tim wavers. The knife clatters to the floor.
Tony frowns deeply. "It seems I was mistaken."
Tim takes off, feet slapping against the parquet tiles. But there is nowhere to go. The door is still locked. There aren't any windows to jump through. Tony—the real one—never found that freaking secret passage he swore up and down existed. Tim is trapped in a room with something that looks a hell of a lot like Tony that seems intent on beating him to death.
What is going on? What the hell is that thing?
That energy catches him again, turning his body leaden.
There is no such thing as ghosts.
"Again, you assume I am a simple specter," Tony says, more statement than question.
Tim closes his eyes, readying to be thrown into the wall like a discarded toy by a pissed off toddler.
Before that happens, the locked door flings open. It cracks against the wall hard enough to knock an oil painting of a flower pot from the wall. The frame splits in two, the picture flagging from the impact.
And then, the Winchesters rush in.
Great, it looks like we're going to have a party.
Dean holds his shotgun at shoulder level, eyes glaring over the barrel, while Sam clutches a leather-bound book that looks like it's held together by masking tape and prayers. Gone are the affable college kid and his wise-cracking, rough-and-tumble brother. In their place are the hardened and terrifying serial killers that Tim and Tony were hunting.
Tim doesn't move. Can't move. He just stands there, mid-step, body leaned forward like a sprinter on the starting line.
Tony is by the fireplace, arms crossed and grinning.
Sam makes a huffing noise. "That shedim is in here, Dean. I can feel its energy."
"That's what you said in the last room, Sammy," Dean snaps.
"This time, I'm right."
"This time, he is right," Tony retorts sarcastically.
Dean's aim swings for Tony. "Damned demon turned one of the feds into a meatsuit."
Sam's eyes grow wide as he looks to Dean.
With a scowl taking over his face, Dean grits his teeth. "I know, Sammy, I know. We'll try not to destroy it like the last one. But I make no promises."
"If you do, Gibbs will kill you."
"He won't be the only one gunnin' for me." Dean grins like multiple people out to murder him is a badge of honor.
Tim wants to ask them why they called Tony a meatsuit, how they know Gibbs, what is going on. But his voice won't work again. He might as well be a statue, a silent observer of the unfolding scene.
When Dean doubles down on his grip, Sam slips in front of the barrel. Then he carefully opens the book. He flips through the pages, considering and skimming before he settles on one. He pulls himself to his full height as he levels a menacing glare at Tony.
Tony watches them, expectant and interested. The corners of his lips twitch in amusement.
Sam recites, "Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fer – "
"Nice try," Tony says, his voice echoing throughout the house.
And suddenly, Dean and Sam go flying in opposite directions. On his way, Sam drops the book and loose papers flutter out of it like leaves riding an autumn breeze. The brothers end up pinned against the wall like Tim was earlier.
And with that, the energy seems to loosen its hold on Tim. He flexes his hands, moves his toes around his shoes, but that's about it. But now, he has his voice back.
"What's going on?" he shouts.
Dean releases a strangled laugh. "Demon possessed your friend, Sparky. Just like he killed your dead guy before we torched the meatsuit."
Tim gapes. Then a moment later, he asks: "What?"
Dean bucks against the hold as though he'd rather smack some sense into Tim as opposed to fight the demon about to kill them. Then, on second look, it appears that he's working to get at something on the waistband of his belt. Maybe a holster?
"Sammy!" he yells. "We need that book!"
"I'm trying, Dean." He grunts from the effort. "I'm trying."
"Then try harder!"
After seeming to determine that the Winchesters are no threat, Tony turns his attention back to Tim. Almost instantly, the energy holding him still dissipates. Tim stumbles a few steps until he catches his balance. He settles into his stance, looks back at what used to be his friend.
The scraps of light dance in the black of Tony's eyes. His face twists with brutality and malice as though it's the only thing it's ever known. Even though Tony still looks like Tony, it's undeniable that Dean is right. Whatever is in there wears Tony like one of his designer suits.
Tim's pulse ramps up. His eyes skirt towards the open door.
Tony smirks again. "Run, Timothy. Run."