SPN x CM

The air in the morgue doesn't just get cold; it turns brittle, the kind of deep, unnatural chill that aches in the bone marrow. Hotch doesn't flinch. His weapon remains leveled at Dean’s chest, his stance a textbook display of tactical discipline. "Morgan, cuff the younger one. Reid, stay behind me." "Hotch, wait," Reid says, his voice hitting a higher, rapid-fire frequency as he stares at a beaker of water on a nearby tray. The surface is flash-freezing into jagged crystals. "The Second Law of Thermodynamics states that heat transfer occurs from a hotter body to a colder one, but this… this is localized entropy. The energy is being sucked out of the room at a rate of roughly 400 BTUs per second. There’s no ventilation source that could—" Morgan ignores the science, stepping toward Sam with his cuffs out. "I don’t care if they brought a portable freezer. Kid, hands behind your back, or I’m putting you on the floor." Sam holds up his palms, his expression a mix of genuine pity and frantic urgency. "Agent Morgan, please. You’ve seen the files on the Blackwood murders. The victims didn't just die; they were aged sixty years in seconds. That’s not a 'signature,' and it’s not a delusional disorder. That’s a Chronos-variant or a high-level Vengeful Spirit. If you don't let us burn those remains, none of us are walking out of this basement." Dean flickers the Zippo, the flame dancing wildly in an invisible wind. "Listen to the giant, pal. He’s the smart one. I’m just the guy with the matches and the bad attitude." Suddenly, the heavy metal morgue drawers begin to rattle. It starts as a low vibration, a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, before escalating into a violent, metallic cacophony. Hotch’s eyes cut toward the drawers, his brow furrowing for the first time. "Morgan, status." "I see it, Hotch," Morgan growls, shifting his aim toward the rattling wall of stainless steel. "Winchesters, what did you do? You rig this place with hydraulics?" "Yeah, sure," Dean snaps, his eyes darting to the ceiling as the fluorescent bulbs overhead begin to bleed a thick, black fluid. "We spent our afternoon installing stage magic in a county morgue. It’s a ghost, you idiots! A 'Class A' Pissed-Off Spirit!" In the BAU's earpieces, Garcia’s voice crackles in, high-pitched and panicked. "Uhm, Boss? Sirs? I just did a deep-dive on the history of this morgue. It was built on the site of the old Blackwood Sanitarium, and oh boy, the head coroner back in the 70s? He wasn't just 'tagging and bagging.' He was 'collecting.' And I don't mean stamps. He’s buried in the floorboards of the basement storage. Right... beneath... you." The lights shatter simultaneously, plunging the room into a suffocating darkness lit only by the tiny, flickering orange flame of Dean’s lighter. A raspy, wet wheeze echoes from the corner of the room, not from a person, but from the very air itself. A shadowy, distorted figure begins to pull itself out of the floor, its limbs elongated and clicking like dry branches. Reid is frozen, his brain frantically trying to categorize the visual input. "It’s... it's a visual hallucination caused by atmospheric pressure... it has to be..."