AHS: Murder House x Supernatural
It was a day like any other in 2011 when Sam Winchester came across a very interesting headline during his afternoon case-hunting session. Family of Three Dies in Murder House. Again.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean grumbles all the way up to LA, complaining about pretentious jerks and fame-hungry assholes over the music rumbling from the speakers. He only shuts up once Sam promises to sneak them into another movie set so he can play pretend and hookup with another Hollywood star.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Sam is the one to contact Marcy, a pushy, frantic realtor who keeps looking behind her shoulder as she shows them the supposed “Murder House.” She’s reluctant to leave them alone for even a second, babbling about security and standing very firmly on her pointy shoes. But she seems to have a weak spot for Sammy, and with a push from Dean, he ends up flirting with her just enough to convince her to go grab a coffee and hopefully get lost for a while.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. “This house is creepy as fuck,” Dean murmurs as they look through the living room. “I mean, what’s that wallpaper? And why the fuck would anyone choose to live in an old ass house like this?”
“People like vintage stuff.” Sam shrugs, keeping an eye out for any hexbags or sulfur. “Marcy did say they’re real Tiffany lamps.” “Could you be any more gay, dude?”
“Fuck off. Let’s hit the kitchen.”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean understands why people buy this house then.
Moira is bent forward over the sink, slowly rubbing a dish towel up and down the faucet, her short dress barely covering anything as she looks at Dean over her shoulder. “This dumb, big thing won’t stop leaking. Always making such a mess.”
Dean blushes. He never blushes, but even he has a limit. “Uh, yeah. That’s—um, a problem.”
Moira sighs, licking her lips slowly before making her way to the door with swaying hips and hooded eyes. “Good for you, there’s no problem that I can’t fix. No matter how huge it is.”
“I’m sure you can,” Dean regains his footing, his charming, by-now-famous grin making an appearance. “Bet you don’t back up from a challenge, hm, sweetheart? Know how to take care of things?”
“I can take anything you give me, Sir.” She winks at him, and it’s Dean’s time to run his tongue over his teeth. “I’m at your command, after all.” She turns around to leave, pausing right before she crosses the doorway, looking at both of them over her shoulder. “If you decide to buy the house, of course.”
Dean watches her walk away, eyes staying on her shape all the way until she disappears into the shadows of this place. Sam makes a little disbelieving noise from the back of his throat, shaking his head.
“Jesus Christ, dude. I didn’t know you were this desperate.”
“You know what they say about redheads, Sammy.”
“You’re fucking disgusting. I’ll go check the rooms, go jerk off and get back to work.”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean finishes sweeping the first floor—without jerking off, thank you very much—and is about to go down to the basement when someone barges through the back door. His gun is already on his hand when an old, Southern Belle-esque voice reaches his ears. Constance makes her way down the hallway with a raised chin, her eyes turning sultry when she catches sight of Dean—and God what has he gotten into? ࣪ ִֶָ☾. Sam makes his way up the stairs, trying to erase the image of his brother flirting with a sweet, poor and absolutely clueless old lady from his mind. He checks the master bedroom and finds nothing more than magazine-worthy duvets and generic paintings on the wall, all of the previous residents’ stuff already removed.
He’s about to venture into the bathroom when something explodes behind him, two sets of giggles following the sound. He turns around frantically, searching under the bed and behind every door, but there’s no sign of any intruders.
He gets his rocksalt shotgun ready, making his way into some kind of office room. He finds nothing there but an old, empty voice recorder and some abandoned whiskey glasses. He looks out the window only to catch a young girl with a bloody, cut up smile on her face in the reflection of it. But once again, when he looks behind him, he finds nothing but dust in the air.
He finally gets to the last room, which must have belonged to the teenage daughter he read about in the news. Unlike the master bedroom, this one still has all of the girl’s things in it. Her purple bedding and patterned rug, with her Ipod and a few CDs laying around. There’s a shelf full of books, and Sam can’t help his curiosity and decides to check them out.
“That’s a good one.” Sam jumps, almost dropping the book in his hand at the sudden voice behind him, his grip on his gun tight as he quickly spins in his place. Violet doesn’t seem bothered by it, walking up to his side and taking the novel from him. “It’s about a cultish shit, the main character goes insane and all. Pretty cool, I read it all in a day.”
Sam’s jaw is still on the floor, his eyes wide as he stares at the teen. “What—where the hell did you come from?”
Violet just hums, picking a CD from her desk and finally meeting his eyes. She studies him for a moment, gaze scanning him and making Sam shift nervously in his place, before she gives him a smile.
“I like you, you’re cute.” She turns the CD on her hands, showing it to him. “You listen to Hole?”
“I’m more of a Nirvana guy myself,” Sam lets go of the shotgun, smiling back. “But I know a few of their songs, yes.”
“Nice,” the girl grins, sliding the CD inside the speaker before hitting play. “You like to read too, or you can’t be that perfect?”
Sam snorts lowly, shaking his head. “I do. Are you gonna tell me how you got into the house?”
Once again, Violet ignores his question, instead sitting by the window and lighting a cigarette that she pulls from thin air.
“This is my house.” She takes a drag of her cig with her eyes on the horizon, bobbing her head to Love’s voice.
“You’re Violet Harmon.” Sam bites back the urge to smack himself on the head. “Of course. But you don’t look… typically ghostly.”
“Do you smoke, smart guy?” She promptly gets up, dropping the book still on her hand to the carpet as she makes her way up to him. “Or should I teach you how to?”
“Wow, kid.” Sam takes a step back, hands raised up to his sides. “No—”
“No, you don’t smoke? Or no, I don’t have to teach you?” She takes another step closer, and Sam’s eyes widen with panic as he stumbles back, his back hitting something.
Not something, someone.
Violet’s grin grows, something macabre and satisfied glinting in her eyes as a new voice hits Sam’s ear.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean has been trying to get rid of Constance for thirty minutes, giving curt answers to her reminiscing of her better years and trying to call for Sammy multiple times. The kid won’t fucking answer. By the third time the woman tries to grab his bicep, he lurches for the stairs.
࣪࣪ ִֶָ☾. Sam is running. A blonde kid with skull makeup is chasing him and Sam is sprinting down the hallway, shotgun long forgotten in Violet's room. He somehow manages to reach the office room just in time to close the door before the little psycho gets him, and just when he’s regaining his breath and starting to believe he’s safe, there’s sobbing behind him.
He turns around just to find a naked man, jerking off and crying as he stares down the window. Sam swings the door open and darts back out.
What the fuck is going on in this house?
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Dean gets to the second floor, and he’s about to start screaming his brother’s name when he doesn’t immediately find him. He walks into a room that seems to be some kind of nursery, seemingly desolated for a while. He gets distracted by the terrible color scheme for all of five seconds before he’s already being pinned against a wall.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” A blonde, tall man smirks at him. “Want me to suck you off?”
Dean is quick to push him away, already reaching for the door. “Sorry, man. I don’t swing that way.”
“You sure about that?”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. “I love her!” Sam is still running, now down the stairs. “She’s all I want! She’s all I have!”
Sam twists his head to look at the kid, and finally recognizes him from his research on this house. Tate Langdon. “Good for you, man! I have nothing to do with—”
Tate swings the candlestick on his hands toward Sam’s head again, and his attempt to evade the blow sends him stumbling his way down to the first floor. Dean is already there, eyes frantic as he helps his brother up. They’ve both lost their shotguns, stolen and scattered somewhere in this godforsaken house. But there’s something else in Dean’s hand—an EMF meter.
The brothers share a look before Dean turns it on.
The needle jolts to the DANGER end of the scale before the machine short-circuits.
“Stop it, Tate. Please.” Violet materializes next to Sam, and he immediately takes two long strides away from her. Bad idea.
“Violet, I just—”
“Where’s my baby?!” A blonde woman grabs Sam’s arms, shaking him with a strength her withering body shouldn’t have. Tears stream down her face as she yells inconsolably. “Where’s—Charles! Where’s my baby?!”
“Lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Two little girls suddenly run out of the basement, their faces and dresses half-burned, giggling as they rush between everyone’s legs and up the stairs.
“What the fuck—” Dean feels teeth sink into his ankle. He hisses, quickly kicking away whatever—demon baby that is.
“My baby!” The blonde woman wails, and it’s only once she’s let go of Sam that Tate lunges for him again.
“I’m really sorry for this,” the kid sobs, and this time he’s got a knife. Sam just barely dodges a stab to the gut, but he ends up smacking one of the Tiffany lamps down to the floor.
“Tate!” Violet screams. “Don’t do this.”
“Is he who you want?” The boy runs a hand through his hair, tears blooming in his eyes. “He’s too old, Violet. But I don’t want you to be alone. If he’s the one you want…”
“Do I get a vote in this?” Sam gets ignored.
“I wanted you, no one else,” the girl whispers, and Tate’s attention completely shifts to her. “I wanted nothing but you.”
“But you told me to go away.”
With the kids now distracted and the demon baby being taken care of by the young blonde woman, Dean tries to sneak past everyone and get to the front door. He just needs to get to Baby, and he’ll light this fucking house on fire.
He barely makes it halfway down the hallway when a kid, his face deformed and teeth sharp, drops from the ceiling and starts to growl at him. “Holy shit!”
Both Sam and Dean end up backed up in the middle of the living room, all the crazy people screaming and crying and howling all around them like a shark tank. They don’t attack them again, but their sobbing and screeching is enough to drive anyone crazy.
Neither of them really knows what to do, and just when Dean is seriously considering throwing punches at some of these kids, a voice echoes through the place.
“Everyone!” A woman with honeyed hair—and the most sane-looking face Sam’s seen so far—stands by the kitchen, hands on her hips like a mother scolding her children. “Stop this right now! You’re gonna scare the boys.”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Vivian gets to dissipate all the ghost traffic, sending them all to God-knows-where and sitting with Sam and Dean on the couch to explain everything to them—the whole story, from the Montgomerys to the Harmons.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. “So you’re telling me everyone in here’s a fucking ghost?” Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Even the hot housekeeper?”
“Dude,” Sam scolds him, a horrified grimace on his face. “She’s an old lady, don’t be gross.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Like, she could be someone’s grandma.” Sam shudders, sending Vivian an apologetic look. “At least have some respect for her.”
“She’s not a grandma.” Dean stares at his brother, frozen in place. “She’s like–twenty-five at the max.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Vivian’s laughter interrupts them. “Oh, we have a long way to go.”
࣪ ִֶָ☾. After getting the whole scoop of the story, the brothers decide to still work on the case. Most of these souls deserve some rest—even if they’re all fucking psychotic.
Some of them are easy. Moira’s and Hayden’s bones under the gazebo make for a quick salt-and-burn that the old woman profoundly thanks Sam for, mostly ignoring Dean—who now can see her real form and can’t help but stare in pure shock. The burned girls and the twins are also pretty quick to locate, their bodies decaying somewhere in the basement. Dean dares Sam to take a sip out of one of Charles Montgomery’s jars, Sam threatens to go find Constance—who at some point in all this chaos had disappeared somewhere—and bring her over to keep him some company. Dean shuts up after that.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Some bodies are harder to find, like Tate’s. They have to interview the kid—now out of the skull makeup—to try and get any information out of him. The boy spends half of the time babbling about Violet taking him back, the other half asking them about “making a girl feel good,” and “Did you know she was a virgin? Do you think that counts as a blood oath?”
Dean is about to lose his mind and try shooting Tate when Sam intervenes, sitting next to the kid and holding a conversation that soon enough melts Tate’s exterior, leading him to finally tell them where Constance hid his and his siblings’ bodies, only under the condition that they’d burn him along with Violet.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Violet is an easy one. She leads them directly to her body, hidden somewhere inside the walls of the basement. She tells them about the pills she took, about Tate trying to protect her from finding out. Her eyes get all glassy and soft, and Dean curses teenage love under his breath.
“He wants us to burn you together.” Sam watches her carefully as she nod. “You’re okay with that?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I went with him the first time. I wanna go with him again.”
Then she vanishes, and they never see her again.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Vivian’s and Ben’s bodies were buried in the backyard garden, along with Charles’ and Nora’s. Sam and Dean spend the rest of the day digging until they find the bones, throwing the rest of the remains inside the giant hole, along with any belongings they can get their hands on. They’re not taking any chances.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. By the time the moon is high in the sky, they’ve gone through three bags of salt, four cans of gasoline, and at least six packs of matches. But it’s done. They drive away before someone notices the sea of flames rising from the backyard of the suburban home, ignoring Constance’s gaze from the house next door and praying that once and for all, this is the end of Murder House.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. “Dude, next time find us a fucking werewolf case or something,” Dean grunts, his foot heavy on the pedal with his desperation to get away from that place. “I don’t think I wanna see a ghost again for fifty years.”
Sam hums mindlessly, flipping the page of the newspaper he’d grabbed from the house’s mail pile before leaving. “How do you feel about witches instead?”
He tilts the paper so that Dean can read the headline, as extravagant and calling as the previous one.
A Teen W(B)itch School? (Frat)kenstein’s Creature? (Racist)sucitation? Read Some of New Orleans Newest, Spookiest Gossip.
NOTES: i need you to know that I wrote this in an hour and edited it in another one. it might not be as good as my other stuff but I wanted to keep you fed while we wait for the new secret admirer!reader update.
i've been obsessed with this idea for ages, so here it is. I love you all, and see you again next week!
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