AN: So I had a dream that kind of inspired this… I've never really written anything seriously before. I hope you enjoy! Also, feel free to fact-check or help me out. I'm an avid fan of Supernatural, but I don't think I know every detail. Thanks again for reading!
AU: Dean is an FBI agent that investigates unusual cases. Sam is a recent graduate from Stanford with a doctorate in psychology and now works alongside Dean. (Think Dr. Sweets and Booth in Bones, though this isn't a crossover). Dean's trying to show Sam what he really does for the bureau…if Sam doesn't figure it out first when an unwanted guest decides to tag along.
"Sammy, just—it's hard to explain. Things can just get super… weird." Dean wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel again, finally done gesturing uselessly. Sam adjusted his thin black tie, staring out the window of his brother's signature black Impala. Dean had had the thing since he learned how to drive, which was illegally at the age of ten. Sighing, Sam finally smoothed down the lapel of his suit jacket and turned his gaze to his brother.
"Dean, you're not really making any sense. This job may have some tricky cases, which I've read about in your file, but it's nothing really out of the ordinary for crimes already as heinous as murder," Sam stated calmly. Dean rolled his eyes and slouched back into his seat.
"Aren't you psychology types supposed to be all open-minded liberal types—save the world through brain waves and rainbow auras, or whatever," Dean added casually as he adjusted the volume on the radio. 'Hotel California' floated smoothly from the speakers. Sam ignored the comment, pulling out his laptop from his leather messenger bag. Dean had already called it a manpurse at least twenty times since he started working at the Bureau a few weeks prior, even quoting The Hangover a few times in mock-defense of his younger brother. No, no, guys, it's a satchel. Ya know, Indiana Jones had one. He tried to act serious, keeping his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but it was always his smirk at the end that gave him away. Sam was a rookie after all, even if he was just the psychologist.
A couple hours later, the brothers arrived at an old farmhouse in the-middle-of-nowhere Kansas. Dean shut off the engine and, lifting his clubmaster sunglasses slightly, examined the house before him. It was dirt-washed gray, and the windows were almost black with more dirt and dust. The screen door swayed in the slight breeze that pushed even more dirt across the flat expanse of land the house sat on. Dirt. Everywhere. They had passed fields of tall grasses and random plots of crops, but this place was barren.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. Sam finally unfolded himself from the car, shooting a look at his brother. "What? With all this dirt, I'm gonna have to clean her tires when we get back," he answered as he stooped down, already spotting a thin layer of black on his rims.
"Yeah… So, what are we doing here?" Sam questioned while putting the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. For all accounts, the house looked completely abandoned. Not just recently, either, but for years. Dean broke out of his mental checklist of things the Impala needed cleaned, and turned his attention briefly to the house, then his brother.
"No, leave that in the car. Don't take anything. I'll, uh, explain later." Dean waited while Sam confusedly put his belongings away. "Okay," he started slowly, "just follow me, and don't touch anything." Sam saluted sarcastically. Dean shoved his sunglasses in his suit jacket's inner pocket as he made his way up the front porch steps, each creaking under the pressure of his weight. No sounds were coming from the house, but when he got to the door, pulling it out of the way, he could hear a brief and quiet rustle come from somewhere inside. Best case scenario, it was just an animal. But again, best case scenario. Dean gently pushed against the main door with his fingertips, having yet to cross the threshold. The thin, wooden door swung away easily with only a whisper of noise following it. Sam sighed loudly from somewhere close behind, and Dean started slightly.
"C'mon, man! Don't do that," Dean whispered out harshly, as he looked back over his shoulder. His 6'5 brother looked down at him, noticing how he was hunched over and almost defensive, which was absurd to Sam, at this point.
"Dean, it's an abandoned house. What are you even doing? What are we doing?" Dean straightened up, leaning his head quickly from side to side to relieve some of the already-accumulated tension. He turned to Sam, pointing at his chest.
"You are following my orders, seeing as I'm your superior, and your older brother." Dean smiled widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Now, shut your trap, and follow me." He began to step in the house, but stopped to emphasize. "Quietly." Sam huffed and waited for Dean to continue inside, pausing a moment while he watched as Dean quickly scanned the room.
Dean made his way across a threadbare rug, looking for signs of possible trouble. No sulfur smell, no residue of salt anywhere near the windows or doors. There wasn't even an iron poker by the fireplace, which he could possibly end up needing. His 6'1 frame moved easily in and out of the doorways of the first floor, while Sam stood in the main room, glancing, bored, around his surroundings. Picture frames on the mantel of the fireplace were empty, abandoned, just liked the worn, wooden chairs scattered around the room. A mirror was face-down on the floor, the broken glass a pool around it. Cobwebs dangled across most of the corners and crevices, and there was a strange creaking noise coming from upstairs.
Wait. There was a strange creaking noise coming from upstairs. He looked toward the staircase.
"Hey, Dean. This might sound odd, but it's also kind of fascinating." Dean said 'what' distractedly, still checking the first floor. "Okay, so, there must be some broken windows and wind problems upstairs causing the house to settle strangely, or maybe a door is moving on its old hinges, or maybe there's a rocking chair by one of the broken windows," he rambled on with the beginnings of a smile, his curiosity getting the better of him, trying to solve another puzzle. Dean turned from what was once the dining room, glaring at his brother. Sam noticed, refocusing. "Well, anyway, it almost sounds like footsteps are coming from upstairs." He shrugged, rocking back on his heels, hands in his pants pockets. Dean's eyes widened and shot towards the direction of the stairs.
"Stay here, Sam." Dean crept up the stairs slowly, hoping to catch whatever it was that was shuffling around. Sam stared at his brother's ascending form, slightly confused, but he just went with it and continued perusing around. He found himself dazedly in the kitchen a moment later, lightly touching the surfaces with his fingers. Oddly, they weren't covered in the film of dust he had been used to. The counters almost gleamed, a white-washed wood reflecting the sunlight that shone through the white-framed windows. He shook his head a little, getting a better look at his surroundings. Nothing in this room seemed like the rest that he'd seen. The room was warm, with a tiled floor checkered black and white. The small table by the window had a linoleum surface with a crinkled metal edge and folding legs. The three chairs surrounding it were metal-framed, with bright red, pseudo-leather cushions. A mint green refrigerator gleamed in the corner, and a bright red radio with chrome knobs sat on the counter next to it, its antenna stretched towards the window over the sink. Sam could almost hear the strains of a bubbly doo wop tune, but figured he was just imagining that. He looked towards the back door across the room, a glint catching his eye. On a single coat hook, sparkling in the warm yellow sunlight, was a locket. It was small, delicate, seeming to swing subtly, like someone had just hung it there. His feet carried him to the locket, and before he realized it, he was standing in the middle of the main room, thumbing the warm metal trinket in his pants pocket.
Sam started at the sound of Dean's heavy footsteps making their way down the stairs. He balled his fist around the locket, not sure why he was suddenly wary of having it.
"Nothing. What a total waste," Dean mumbled as he turned on the landing. He looked over at Sam, still in the same spot. At least he listened, but he looked weird. "What's up with you?" Sam shook his head, like he was waking from a daydream.
"Oh, uh, nothing." He shook his head again. "Nothing." He walked towards the kitchen, though, leaving Dean looking like the confused one. The kitchen was dark, the windows caked in dust, a chair upside down on the floor. Gray cabinets and a muddy green fridge gaped open, revealing empty insides. Shocked, Sam walked further into the room, noting that the back door was missing, with boards and planks of wood nailed down to replace the opening. There was no sunlight. And there wasn't a coat hook.
"What? What are we looking for?" Dean questioned, briefly looking into the room he'd already been through. Nothing had changed. It was still dirty and old. Sam looked back at him, tugging at the collar of his pressed, white shirt.
"Uh, nothing. I just—thought I'd check out the state of this room. Yep, abandoned. The whole house." He scratched the back of his neck and changed the subject. "So, why'd we come here again?" Dean looked anywhere besides Sam.
"Oh, uh, the Bureau wanted us to… uh, you know," he gestured around as he started retreating from the room. He shrugged, his mouth stretching down into a frown, still gesturing lamely, "You know, they wanted us to check this place out, see if it was really abandoned. The government wants to reclaim the land… demolish this house, or something." He chuckled awkwardly, then shrugged again, hands back in his pockets. Finally, turning to walk toward the front door, he called out, "You comin', Sammy?"
Sam stood another moment in the kitchen. He could see through the main room and out the open door. Dean was putting his sunglasses back on and climbing into the Impala. He looked down to where his hand was stilled balled in his pocket. He could almost hear the trill of music again and feel the warmth of sunlight seeping into the back of his suit jacket. He looked up again, and the feeling disappeared, like it was never there to begin with. The corner of his mouth stretched into a dimple as he made his way outside. The memory of the vintage kitchen faded as they started the drive back to the motel they'd rented a room in for the night.
And when Dean said, "Hey pretty boy, you'll have time for hair and makeup later. You're getting dirt on the upholstery," as Sam patted away the dust on his suit, he completely forgot about the locket in his pocket, and laughed.
The little, heart-shaped locket etched elegantly with only one word:
Ruby.