Disclaimer : I own nothing, but the typos.
Warnings : Rated T for language and violence.
Author's Note :Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story. Thanks to everyone who nudged and PM'd after the fact. The initial interest wasn't strong, but it means a lot to know it's still there. No real excuses in the delay other than other projects and other stories distracted me. I returned when I was ready and I sincerely hope that it was worth the wait.
There's one more chapter. The next update shouldn't take a year.
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Tim runs. Of course, he fucking runs.
Dean's exasperated voice carries behind him. "Why do they always run?"
Tim bolts out of the dining room, tripping and stumbling over his own feet. He heads straight for the front door, slamming bodily into it. All he manages to do is rattle the hinges. He turns the knob, throws his shoulder against it, but the door doesn't budge. It's barricaded from the outside.
Tim slowly turns around. He leans against the door, hands pressed flat against the rough wood. His heart races, his strident breaths catch in his throat.
Tony—or whatever the hell that is—isn't anywhere to be seen, but it won't be long until he catches up.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches movement. He doesn't stick around to see what it is. He cuts to the right, delving into a part of the house he and Tony's didn't investigate earlier. Old furniture covered in grey-white sheets and spotted silver mirrors in gilded gold frames whip past him in the near dark. The only source of light is the faded sunlight trickling through the grimy windows.
Tim's foot catches on something. He staggers, barely regaining his balance. He barrels into a set of double doors that lead into the parlor where they found Sam earlier. Since they left, the fire has dipped to nothing but smoldering embers. The logs are gone to ash.
In the low light, Tim notices something he and Tony hadn't before. There are strange markings made with colored chalk cover the floor and the walls. Heck, there's even a bright pink one on the ceiling. Sigils made of bizarre shapes and intricate designs.
What the hell are those for?
Tim's heart drops into his stomach. He doesn't want to know what the Winchester psychos were—are—planning to do with those. Maybe they are using this voodoo magic to control Tony. Wait, that can't be it. There is no such thing as magic. Or maybe these are what brought that ghost currently inhabiting his friend's body. Tim bristles.
There are no such thing as ghosts.
On the far wall are a pair of French doors. They lead out to what appears to be a hedge maze, but it is the closest thing to safety Tim has seen since they arrived. He picks his away across the room, careful to avoid touching any of those creepy-ass chalk outlines. He tries the door handle, but of course it's locked. He uses his elbow, once, twice to shatter a pane of glass. The wind billowing inside is fresh and cool, comforting. Even though he reaches for the handle outside, it still doesn't work. When he pulls his hand back in, he slices his left palm on a piece of glass.
"Shit," Tim murmurs. "Shit."
He sucks at the excess blood, wincing at the hot, metallic taste. While his entire body throbs from the ten rounds with the dining room table, the cut hurts worse than that. It pulses with its own heartbeat.
I don't have time for this. I need to get the heck out of here.
Accepting he found his way into a dead end, Tim starts to double back. Maybe he'll head upstairs and try his luck with the bedrooms. Or he could always try to help the Winchesters. Who is he kidding? Then, it would just be waiting to see who finishes him off first. The psycho serial killers or his hazing-movie-quoting-turned-homicidal partner. He doesn't like the sound of running into either one.
Tim only makes it halfway across the room before a shadow darkens the doorway. Dreads bubbles up inside him as he recognizes Tony's outline. The cut of his suit and the puff of his hair is right, but his gait is all wrong as are his motions. Tony holds his head high. The sunlight glints off his broad grin as though he is ready to rip Tim apart with his bare hands. He moves into the room, his black eyes surveying the room's markings with derision. He curls his lip back, bares his teeth.
Tim doesn't dare to move. He doesn't dare to breathe.
"Can you believe the Winchesters thought this would work, Timothy?" Tony's laugh is deep and throaty. "That these could contain me." There's that chuckle again. It makes Tim's skin crawl.
Tim doesn't know what the hell he is talking about. Whatever is on the walls looks like something kids scribble on the blacktop during recess. For all he knows, it could be gobble-dee-gook that is some sort of freaky, serial killer hopscotch.
Tony takes a moment to study a sigil at his feet. "I will so enjoy showing John Winchester and Leroy Gibbs that their juvenile games don't work."
"Why are you after Gibbs anyway?" Tim blurts out.
Tony's head pops up. If his eyes weren't jet black, Tim thinks he might see amusement dancing through them. Even though he is fixed with that stare, Tim struggles to swallow his fear. He raises his chin, but the motion only makes Tony chuckle again.
"Aren't we curious, Timothy?" he asks.
Tim holds his ground. "If you're going to kill me, shouldn't I know why?"
Tony cups his left hand to his chin, silently appraising Tim. When Tim does—or doesn't—do something that he expects, he nods approvingly. Then, he slinks closer. Tim shrinks back, moving his hands instinctively up to protect himself. Tony smirks.
"I am as old as light, Timothy," he says carefully. "My needs change as the generations do. I spent lifetimes searching for what could serve my needs appropriately. Not long ago, I came across the perfect –" he seems to search for the right word before settling on " – vessel to inhabit. I had not used it for long before John Winchester and Leroy Gibbs chose to steal what was rightfully mine. It was Leroy Gibbs who put a bullet into my vessel's head before John Winchester tried to banish me. As for you and Anthony and the Winchester brothers, the sins of the father often sully the lives of the sons."
When I tell Tony that he spent five minutes monologuing, he's going to die.
Tim nearly upchucks at the thought.
If he hasn't already.
"We aren't Gibbs' sons," Tim barely gets out.
"It is not always blood that defines a familial unit, Timothy. You, most of all, should understand that. You refused to harm this vessel before, even at your own expense." Before Tim can speak, Tony holds up a fist. "We have discussed the matter enough."
When he opens his hand, a pulse of energy slams into Tim. It knocks him to ground, sends him sliding across the hardwood floor. It knocks the wind out of him. His chest heaves as he gasps for air. He struggles to his hands and knees. Underneath his fingers, a patch of ground begins to illuminate. The blood from his palm dripped onto one of the chalk-white sigils. The line turns glittering as though someone is drawing it. By the time it's done, the outline gives off a soft, ghostly glow.
Tim bolts his feet. "What the – "
At the same time, Tony rushes at him. Tim makes a last-ditch attempt to stay alive. Hell, it probably won't work, but it's better than nothing. He grabs Tony by the forearms, whirling him around and giving him a good push. Then, Tim is sprinting for the hallway.
Behind him, he hears a blood curdling scream. Tim doesn't turn back.
"McGee!" Tony yells. "Help!"
It's just a ploy to get him to turn around. Tim knows it, but he can't help it.
"Tim! Help me! Please!" Tony sounds like he is being ripped apart from the inside out.
The voice is so much like Tony that it makes Tim stop dead. When he turns back, Tony kneels in the center of the sigil. His head is bowed, hair falling over his eyes.
Tim takes a tentative step forward. "Tony?"
At that moment, someone grabs him from behind. Tim doesn't even get a chance to react before his left arm is hauled his body, pinning his right to his chest. He starts struggling right away, but the hold just tightens. He goes to stamp on the person's foot, but they seem to anticipate the action because they immobilize Tim's leg with theirs. It takes the rest of Tim's concentration to remain upright. The person holding him brings a talisman in front of them. Tim recognizes the grimy arm of Sam's hoodie.
"Help me, McGee!" Tony yells.
"Tony," Tim rasps.
"That's not your friend, Sparky," Dean says, moving into Tim's vision. "You got him, Sam?"
"Yeah." Sam's voice comes from behind Tim. "Just don't do to this one what you did to the last one."
"Don't torch the meat suit." Dean's expression hardens. "Got it."
"Gibbs will kill you."
Dean shoots his brother a dirty look. "I said I got it, Sammy!"
Trying to take advantage of the distraction, Tim resists. Sam just jerks Tim tighter against his body. A deep bruise Tim didn't know was there aches in his chest. He barely manages to pull a breath.
In the middle of the sigil, Tony rises. When he tries to walk out of the marking, he bumps into an invisible wall. He turns to watch the spectacle in front of him. His expression is slightly amused and mildly annoyed. His face is firmly fixed in Dean's direction.
When Dean moves closer, he holds his shotgun at the ready. When appears to deem Tony no longer a threat, he drops it to the ground. Then, he pulls the book from earlier out of his jacket. The loose pages have been stuffed back into the bindings haphazardly. The back pockets of his jeans bulge as though he might have stashed some of his papers in there. After seeming to find what he is looking for, he opens his mouth. From nowhere, a sudden wind kicks up. It tousles Tim's hair, whips at Sam's sweatshirt, sends the pages of Dean's book flipping. He riffles through them again, trying to find a specific page.
"Damn it!" Dean growls.
"Come on, Dean," Sam snaps. "Get to it already."
"I'm working on it, Sammy!"
The wind grows even more violent. A loud whoosh echoes from the fireplace as the embers burst to life. The fire roars into the chimney. Sam drags Tim back towards the doorway. The talisman never falters.
"Anytime now would be great, Dean!" he yells.
"Give me a second!" he shouts back.
"We don't have a second!"
The fire starts to billow into the room like a flame thrower. The temperature climbs and it makes sweat pour down Tim's back. Thick smoke slowly fills the room. Behind him, Sam coughs raggedly.
Tony merely stands in the center of the sigil, smirking.
Dean finds the page he is looking for. Holding the book open, he hurriedly recites: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,
omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te.
Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."
The wind grows even greater. The windows rattle in their panes as though they're trying to escape. In the sigil, Tony drops to his knees, writhing and groaning.
"Stop! You're hurting him!" Tim yells.
He bucks against Sam's hold, but it's too tight to break. Tim helplessly watch whatever the hell these two are doing to his friend. His stomach churns. The air grows thicker and it's hard for him to breathe.
We're so dead. We're so dead.
Overhead, the ceiling twists with what appears to be angry storm clouds. The chandelier whips dangerously back and forth, its little crystals jumping and dancing. The fire licks at the mantle.
Dean keeps going: "Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis.
Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine,
quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos."
On his hands and knees, Tony is curling into himself. When Dean takes a breath, Tony manages to raise his head. His grin is savage and pain-filled. What looks like blood is slicked across his teeth.
"I'll be seeing you, Dean," he says hoarsely.
Dean pauses for a moment.
The fire grows even larger and with it, the smoke makes it difficult to even what's happening. One of the glass panes explodes. Splinters of glass fly across the room. Tim turns his head away, shielding his face as best he can. Several more erupt, one after the other, in rapid-fire.
"Tony!" Tim bellows.
"Finish it, Dean!" Sam yells.
And that snaps Dean back into action. "Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri."
At that moment, Tony throws his head back. His body freezes, arms out and back rigid. A thick black cloud explodes from his mouth, circling around him before funneling into the sky. As he lands limply on the floor, the fire extinguishes itself and the room grows dark.
Dean laughs with relief. "See? I toldja I wouldn't torch the meat suit, Sammy."
Sam doesn't seem amused. "How did the shedim know your name, Dean?"
Before Dean responds, Tim manages to process what happened just enough to react. He fights against Sam with everything he has. Sam tucks away the talisman and doubles down on his grip.
"Tony?! Tony! What did you do to him?" Tim yelps.
"I kicked out the thing who tried to turn your friend into a meat suit, Sparky," Dean says as though it explains everything. "We helped him."
"You call that – " Tim jerks his chin at Tony's prone figure "— helping him!?"
When Tim bucks again, Sam grunts. "We need to get them out of here."
"Right." Moving into the sigil, Dean crouches next to Tony. He places his hand on Tony's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey Chief. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."
Instead of rousing quietly, Tony comes up swinging. He kicks his legs out, catching Dean in the back. Both men tumble to the ground. With the element of surprise on his side, Tony has his cuffs out as he scrambles for Dean. But it doesn't take much for Dean to maneuver so Tony's wrestling move sends him onto his stomach. Dean makes overpowering Tony and cuffing his hands behind his back look easy.
Tim doesn't get to see much else before Sam hustles him out of the room. They head through the house and despite being held hostage by a serial killer, Tim feels much more at ease now. Even though smoke clings around them, the air seems lighter and cleaner. It's easier to breathe. Finally, Tim feels at peace. Sunlight pours through the old windows. Sam guides Tim through the front door and down the porch steps. The fresh air is cold and refreshing. The sun, almost blinding. They end up next to the Charger.
"Sorry about this." Sam sounds like he actually means it.
"Sorry about what?" Tim chokes out.
He half-expects to be thrown to the ground and shot in the back. But instead, Sam plucks the handcuffs from Tim's belt and releases him just to cuff his hands behind his back in one fluid motion. A half-second later, Tim is tossed face-first into the backseat of the Charger. Of course, Sam got the keys out of his pocket. Or Dean stole them from Tony. Or Zoroaster unlocked the door when they asked because fuck, Tim has no idea where the keys are anymore.
I don't even know what just happened.
Tim barely has time to right himself before Tony lands beside him. The car door slams and they're trapped. Tim is locked in the backseat with Tony. He backpedals as far as he can until he squeezes himself uncomfortably against the door. As though oblivious to Tim, Tony is already trying to open the door. Even though it never works for their suspects, Tony can't accept it won't work for them either.
He groans. "What did they do to me, McGee? I have the headache from hell."
Tim just stares raptly at him. He seems so much like himself, so much like Tony. While his voice is normal, Tim can't stand the thought of his friend not being in there.
"Did I hit my head?" Tony slams his body against the door. "Did they drug me or something?"
Tim falters.
"Shit, McGee. Now is not the time to lose your head. I need a sit-rep, now!"
When Tim still doesn't speak up, Tony stills. When he looks—actually, looks—at Tim, the younger man nearly passes out with relief. Tony's eyes are their normal hazel, complete with whites and pupils. He never thought he would be so happy to see the man responsible for hazing him, torturing him, and super-gluing him to his desk. He never thought he'd be so happy to see Tony again.
At the sight of Tim, Tony's expression darkens further.
"Did they hurt you, McGee?" he growls.
Tim shakes his head. "N-n-no."
"Then what the hell happened to you?"
"I-uh…" He can't bring himself to say, You're the one who nearly beat me to death.
Thankfully, Tim doesn't have to reply because Dean slips into the driver's seat. His expression is nonplussed as he starts the car. Behind them, a black Impala peels down the driveway. Dean huffs.
Tony raises his eyebrows. "This must be pretty important if you let your brother drive your car. You've killed people for less, right?"
"If that's what you want to believe," Dean says flatly.
"You and your brother are a regular Thelma and Louise, huh?"
Dean's eyes meet Tony's in the rearview mirror.
"It didn't end well for them," Tony says gravely. "And it won't end well for you."
"I'd consider it ending well if I got to spend some quality time with Geena Davis." He surveys Tony for a long moment before grinning. "I bet you feel the same way, Chief."
Despite himself, Tony laughs. Tim just wants to know why the hell they're still talking about movies and pretending like nothing really happened. And who the heck is Geena Davis?
"What happened in there?" Tim blurts out. "What in the hell was that?"
Tony shoots him an angry look as though to say Stay quiet and they might forget about you, Probie.
"Already told you, Sparky," Dean says flatly. "Shedim killed a bunch of people on that naval base. Then, it tried to kill you and your friend. We got it before you got dead."
Because that explains everything.
Tim feels just short of cracking up. "Uh, thanks?"
Dean nods. "You're welcome."
His cell phone rings shrilly. After answering it, he listens for a long moment. "Hey, Gibbs. Dean Winchester here."
Tony shoots Tim a shocked glance. Tony mouths, How the hell does he know Gibbs? All Tim can do is half-shrug because their boss being best friends with a serial killer is less weird than an ancient demon who tried to kill him and Tony because of an old grudge against Gibbs. Hell, Gibbs knowing Dean Winchester is the least weird thing that happened today.
"No, I haven't been in touch with my dad for a while," Dean continues. "I'm sure he's fine though. But look, Gibbs, this wasn't really a social call."
A long pause when Dean's eyes slip to the review again. He surveys Tim and Tony while listening to the other end of the phone line. His expression remains unreadable.
"You really need to keep an eye on your people."