Warning: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery—all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Vampire Diaries or Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.
Author's Notes: This is the final part of Hell's Belles. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy it. Additional notes at the end.
Part 4 – Mask of the Purple Death
Loud. Their breathing was loud, intrusive, as if it were trying to block out the moans of the dead from the foyer. Stefan could usually control his preternatural senses, ensure that the scent of fresh blood, the rhythm of a close heartbeat, didn't bring out the worst in him, but he was having a hard time keeping himself together at the moment. The beast inside him wanted to come out and play, rip a path through the decaying crowd past the doors and carry his girl out of the mess. But, that would mean leaving those people upstairs and hoping the two men they'd met could fend off the undead by themselves.
Surrendering would also mean letting his inner monster win this round. Unacceptable. So, instead, he concentrated on that loud breathing coming from the two humans still in the room.
Elena, as if sensing his rattled state, smoothed her hands down his shoulders to comfort him. Despite the sympathetic squint at her smiling eyes, he knew she was just as off balanced by the plan of action they'd agreed on, and with good reason; out of the five of them, she was the one most as risk… Stefan hated this idea. Another reason his monster was trying to dig its way to surface.
But, Elena was a woman of action, concentrating on the task presented her, despite her own reservations. Stefan loved and hated that about her. It was a quality that always seemed to get her into trouble.
"Do you think they've made it outside?" she asked, softly.
Stefan wanted to smile down at her, return the comfort she'd given him, but he stared across the display room, at the side doors to the parlor, where Sam was standing, listening for trouble outside. The two men shared a glance. Stefan already knew the answer, but he let Sam reply for him.
"We would have heard it if they'd run into serious trouble. Dean would have made sure we knew…" He tightened his grip on the re-loaded rifle in his hands. "They'll be ready to make their move soon."
Stefan nodded and wrapped his arms around Elena, pulling her into a final hug. "You don't have to do this," he said, not for the first time, into her hair. "We can come up with another plan. Destroy every one of these things on our own. You don't have to do a thing, Elena."
She reached up, cupping his cheek so that he was forced to meet her eye. "You heard what Sam and Dean said… Killing the zombies isn't going to stop what's causing this, and those two seem to know what they're talking about. If that thing doesn't want us to leave, then it'll just send more to take their place." She took a steadying breath and put on a brave smile. "I can do this, Stefan. It's a good plan. And, if something goes wrong, I know you'll be there for me."
He frowned. "The Baron can stop me in my tracks. Damon, too. This demon's powerful."
"We won't let anything happen to her."
The declaration came from the other side of the room, where Sam was standing. Where the hunter was standing… Stefan had noticed, almost as soon as the violence had broken out, how this other pair of brothers moved, how they took the sudden appearance of the walking undead in stride. Like it was another day on the job. And, Stefan knew these two weren't stupid. He had no doubt that they were already aware there was something off about Damon and himself, even if they hadn't worked out what they were quite yet.
But, the hunters also seemed aware that Elena wasn't like her companions. That she was human. Or else, their plan for the demon wouldn't work.
"I know you will," Stefan said, but he edged the words with a warning, too. If this falls apart, I'm blaming you two. You'll meet my monster.
Even Stefan barely heard the shift in attention outside, as if the zombies had found something else more interesting than a pair of closed doors, but Sam stood a bit straighter, preparing himself. It was as if the young man had mentally timed out how long it would take Dean and Damon to get into position. He stepped away from the parlor doors, lining himself closer to the couple and facing the foyer entry.
"It's time," the hunter announced. "You ready?"
Stefan listened closely. There was the signal. Past the roar of the crowd of corpses, he heard his brother's voice. Cocky, arrogant, and teasing the dead. Sam was right. It was time.
Elena stepped between the two men, battle club raised. "I am," she announced, even though her voice shook. "Open the doors."
Ten seconds. Ten.
"Shit," he whispered.
It was a good idea, in theory. Really, it was. But Damon was right. His plan was going to fail. Epically. But, if they were lucky enough, it would give Sam, Stefan, and Elena the time they needed to pull off the next part.
Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth, not wanting to take that stench of decay in through his nostrils, and let his fingers skim across the fat hose of the flamethrower. The canvas straps across his stomach and shoulders bit into him, rubbing his skin raw, but he could barely feel it. Adrenaline had taken over. He could probably burn off his pinky finger and not notice at this point. Zombies just had that kind of effect on people.
Before he could think about it further, talk himself out of the move, his eyes caught sight of Damon in the shadows. The man had dropped down, almost silently, off the side of the second-level porch and moved toward the shrubbery. Now, he was raising his arm. The sign that he was about do his job.
Dean gave him a curt nod. No light, a hundred yards off, and Dean was still damn sure Damon caught the gesture, because the cocky asshole gave him the bird in exchange. There was something definitely off about the guy. Too fast, too good at killing… Dean bit his lip, pushing the theory back down, despite the flashing red warning lights going off behind his eyelids. They, weird guy included, had a shitload of zombies to deal with at the moment. Better to use whatever the hell Damon was to his advantage then get everyone killed trying to half-ass two hunts at once.
Even though convincing myself he's not human would make dealing with the guilt of sending a civilian out to herd a zombie horde a little easier… Dean cut that thought off, not for the first time, and rolled his weighted shoulders in preparation for movement. Message received, Dean took a step away from the wall, weapon ready. It required two hands behind the nozzle. One for the firing safety and the firing trigger, the other for the ignition safety and the ignition trigger. And, once he committed to the act… He had only ten seconds. The river of fire would last ten seconds. More would be stretching it. Twenty would be a miracle.
That's if it worked at all. If it didn't blow up in his face and send him back to Heaven. Who keeps a fully loaded antique flamethrower anyway? Apparently the same jackwad who throws parties for demons.
"Everyone slow and stupid, this way! Dinner is served!"
The shout stirred Dean from his musings. Damon was in the driveway now—too friggin' fast—and waving his arms lazily. The zombies froze. It was almost comical, how the crowd turned its attention away from the manor, as if it were one body. No, these corpses weren't geniuses. They staggered down the steps with new fervor, as if seeing Damon translated into "our food escaped." That or zombie logic dictated one brain in the hand was tastier than two in the bush.
Whateverthehell—shit's working. Dean chewed his bottom lip. Keep going you sons of bitches… Come on, go eat the dumbass…
Dean held his ground, waiting for the moment. His eyes darted from the porch to the man. Only, they didn't. Because the guy was already around the bend in the drive. The zombies shuffled after, even though they couldn't see their prey anymore.
All of them didn't follow, he knew. He'd never expected all of them to shuffle out of the house, but this dead crowd was just big enough to make a dent in their numbers.
A scream echoed from inside, and a shockwave ran up Dean's spine, strong enough to force him to move. It was feminine, the sound. Distinctly so.
Dean moved into action but didn't make for the house's entrance. Part of the plan was not responding to screams. Fire first; help second.
It felt like it only took two big steps to reach the center of the porch, right above the stone steps leading up from the walkway. "Hey!"
Again the dead paused. Christ, cadavers have the attention span of goldfish. Dean thought it was funny, and gave the crowd his best grin.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, more for his own sake.
The closest zombie on the yard was only five feet away. Its skull practically melted away when the stream of fire arched over its head.
The fuelstream was longer than he'd imagined. Dean swayed with the weight of the tank, sweeping the wide, open garden and catching the rose bush aflame.
They didn't feel it, the dead. Didn't seem to notice the danger.
Then they danced, and sung along to a song, their cries not pitched enough to be caused by pain.
The music was in Dean's head. Metallica. Calming him. Maybe. He couldn't tell if it was working. His heart was on his tongue.
Dean didn't like fire. It had taken everything from him. And, yet, it was a savior, the flames. It saved people from themselves. Saved them from becoming monsters. So, it couldn't be entirely bad. Couldn't be. Even though the heat of it made him want to vomit.
Salt and burns always left him hungry. Jesus, he was never going to admit that the smell—
The flames ate the scent of dead. Gone. There was only fuel and scorched air burning the hair out of his nostrils.
Dean blinked. The fire was gone. When had the fire run out? Shit.
He swallowed a heated breath as if it were water, and then went to work removing the weapon, careful not to touch the nozzle as he reached up with one hand, trying to unfasten the metal clip over his stomach. The shoulder strap came next. This wasn't a job for one person, and the tank, even empty, was heavy. It swung, and his pants singed. The strip of skin on his thigh tightened with a fresh burn.
Dean cursed and tossed the flamethrower down. He'd moved his gun to the front of his belt. It felt comfortable in his hand. He swiveled on one boot and fired. The bullet caught the zombie who'd silently slipped past the foyer doors behind him right between the eyes.
It fell. Wasn't enough to take it down permanently, though. Dean didn't care at the moment.
He ignored the clawing fingers of the corpse and stepped around the twitching arm, eyes focused on the brightly lit room. The foyer opened straight through the manor, and his gaze found what it had been looking for: the main doors to the display room. They were open. And, the dead were inside.
Dean raised his weapon. "I love it when a plan comes together."
The zombies had overtaken them so quickly that Elena hadn't been able to hold back the scream building in her throat. It erupted out of her at the first touch of slimy, decaying hands against her wrist, yanking her club away and leaving a trail of sloughed-off skin in its wake. For a split second, Elena had panicked, her mind not wrapping around the fact that Stefan and Sam were no longer nearby, that they were slowly retreating towards the staircase.
"Just don't let them bite you—we don't know what type of revenants they are…"
Elena could hear Sam's words echoing in her ears, and she pulled her arm out of reach just as a jaw filled with broken teeth snapped open air. God. God, what the hell had she gotten herself into? There were types. There were types? Her mind sloshed that warning around like it was mouthwash that couldn't be spit out any time soon.
She collapsed to the bloody floor when one of the things tugged at the long skirt of her dress, ripping a higher slit into the gown. Her hand had moved to her thigh, as if to protect the weapon she'd tied there; the touch of the metal on her fingertips suddenly brought her back to earth, reminding her of her job.
The panic was quickly buried by purpose. If she didn't do this now, then Stefan would swoop down in seconds and rescue her. That was not what needed to happen.
Just as the crowd loomed over her, just as their snarled faces drew in close, Elena collected herself. "I want to make a deal!" she shouted.
Their moans still echoed over the rounded walls of the display room, but the zombies closest to her, the ones ready to tear into her flesh, stilled, their glazed eyes rolling in their heads as if they were hearing something but couldn't find the source. As one beast, they stepped back, just far enough to form a tight circle around her. Elena pushed herself up off the floor, ignoring the way the fabric of her dress clung to the dark, sticky mess beneath.
She raised her head, more confident, and repeated the words. "I want to make a deal."
Wood groaned to her left, and she turned just in time to see the shelves they'd propped against the double doors to the dining area slide away of their own accord. Her eyes widened, but she took the hint, stepping closer. The locked doors creaked open, welcoming her, and the zombies parted, leaving her a path through the gore.
It was now or never.
Charred black in spots, the yard looked like a post-Apocalyptic wasteland. Bodies, some of them still groaning in hunger, were scattered about, plumes of smoke billowing up from a few, others still in engulfed in flames. One tree had caught light as well. Damon stepped on a smoldering leg, feeling it twitch beneath his shoe as the flesh peeled off.
"Aren't we the firebug, Dean?" He cocked a brow, somewhat impressed with the display of carnage. "Not bad for a human and a half century old flamethrower."
Without a second thought, he ran at supernatural speed, over the zombie remains and up the littered steps to the front door, his blurred figure coming to a sudden stop at the entrance. He peaked inside and found more bodies, as well as his new-found partner in crime.
Dean hadn't seen him arrive; the man was standing between the open doors leading into the display room, sending a bullet flying through a corpse's temple. Beyond him, at least twenty or more revenants remained, packed into the room, their attention divided between the man, who was currently blocking their way back into the foyer, and the staircase, where another hail of gunfire rang out from the second floor.
As if the move were no more than habit, Dean dodged a lurching revenant, quickly tucked the empty handgun in his pants at the small of his back, and swooped down, picking up a long, slender blade with a swollen, dangerous tip. Apparently the machete had been propped against the inside wall, just out of the way. No doubt one of their younger brothers had anticipated the limited ammo disappearing quickly and had left the weapon in easy reach. How thoughtful of them.
Damon snorted, announcing his presence a moment before he raised up the calvary sword in his hands and brought its curved blade back down on a zombie Dean had smacked out of the way with the handle of his new weapon.
Dean quickly put down another corpse before glimpsing over his shoulder, wide-eyed. For the moment, at least, the zombies seemed to be finding the staircase more interesting, the majority of them shuffling away from the pair of newcomers.
"How the hell did you get back up here so quickly?" Dean snapped.
Damon rolled his eyes. Really? Something is trying to eat your flesh off and you're coherent enough to notice the lack of a time lapse? Damon knew what this meant, of course. It meant that, at some point, after the party, he was going to have to "take care of" the man and his brother—because, it was fairly obvious that monster hunting and weapons were two of their shared passions. Which wasn't good news for Damon. Once the zombie distraction was no longer around to keep them occupied, they'd shift their attention elsewhere…
A pity, really, he thought. He was actually starting to like Dean-o's style. Too bad he'd have to kill him horribly. But c'est la vie.
"Nice machete," he said, changing the subject.
Dean kicked out, knocking a dead guy wearing a long-tailed suit jacket in the gut. His boot sunk in and came away covered in goo. "It's called a bolo, actually," he replied, taking the topic in stride. He sucked in a breath, grunting as an old woman in a formal dress threw herself at his neck. "It was used in…" He shoved his elbow into her eye, bursting it like a grape, and swung the blade in a downward arch, chopping through the top of her head. "…the Philippine-American War…" He pulled the angular tip free with a wet pop. "…'s also used as a farming tool."
Flicking the blood of his own sword, Damon smirked. "Yes. It's a machete. That's what I said." Through the crowd, he could see a glimpse of Stefan's legs on the staircase. "Say, it looks like you've got a handle on this. I'm going to go check on our younger siblings. Keep up the swell work."
"Wait—" Dean did a double take, watching him disappear into the horde. "Shit—you dick!"
Damon heard Dean utter another line, thick with curses, but ignored the man, swiftly making his way through the steadily dwindling crowd. He lost his suit jacket at some point but barely noticed, his focus on reaching the staircase. Sam drew up his rifle when he spotted him and let him pass before taking up the defensive position once again. As far as Damon could tell, the other doorways were holding; between Stefan and Sam at the stairs and Dean at the foyer, the remaining undead were trapped in the display room. Only, the zombies were too stupid to realize they'd been caught, their attention still on trying to nibble their captors.
"How did it go outside?" Stefan asked, throwing his arm out to push a body back down the steps using the head of an old, pitted hand axe. "Did it work?"
His voice was strained and Damon knew why; his brother didn't give a crap about what had happened outside. His worry was reserved for the one person he couldn't currently see past the crowd.
"I owe Dean fifty bucks," Damon replied, frowning in thought. "Note to self: I shouldn't bet against German engineering. Or pyromaniacs."
"According to plan, then?"
He shrugged, glimpsing the back of Sam's head—even from this angle, he could see that the young man's body had lost some its rigidness, as if hearing mention of Dean had taken some of the burden off of his back. Those two brothers were certainly the caring type… Damon couldn't help but feel a touch of bitterness at that observation.
"Dead things are more dead, so, yes, it went according to plan," he replied. He fully planned on elaborating, but a new voice interrupted him.
Henry Belle pushed himself against Stefan, trying to get past him. The old man appeared to be the only guest who had decided to forgo the designated hiding places in the upstairs bedrooms. He swayed on his feet, a lost look on his face; senility at its best. But the tragically confused expression in his eyes was quickly replaced with anger when he stared past the men. "You bastards—you've killed them all… I won't get what's mine." His words trailed off into a mad utterance. "The Baron won't give me what's mine… My legacy… My—"
Damon shoved his brother out of his way and snatched the old man up by the neck of his colorful tunic, drawing him in close. A dangerously cheerful grin curled his lips. It became more of a snarl when he opened them to speak. "Hi, there, Henry. I've been wanting to ask you a question all evening, and, well, I just haven't found the time. Let's say we go ahead and get this part over with."
He ignored Stefan's call, tightening his grip on Belle. "There was a girl who came to stay here a very long time ago… You know, back when people still gave a damn about your precious family. Her name was Katherine Pierce, and she would have looked just like the girl who was here with us tonight."
"Of course this is about Katherine…" Stefan's fingers curling into his sleeve, trying to pull him further up the steps and failing. Damon jerked free, so Stefan raised his hands in surrender. "Damon, don't you think this is the wrong time for an interrogation?"
Damon dropped the fake smile from his face, glaring at his brother. "Yes, it's about Katherine. Or did I actually manage to convince you that we were taking a vacation like one big, happy family. She was here, Stefan. She stayed here, and this old man was her host—" His voice broke when he caught sight of Belle struggling to free himself from the vampire's steel grip. Damon sighed. The confusion on Belle's face was unmistakable. "You don't remember her, do you? Katherine erased your memory. One more step in assuring that no one found her." He stopped the true disappointment from showing on his face, giving the old man a playful pout instead. "Damn. That's unfortunate."
"Damon, let him go!" Stefan snapped. "You just admitted he doesn't know anything, and we have other things we need to be worrying about right now."
"You're right. He's absolutely useless," Damon agreed. His lips pulled back in a fresh sneer, and he called over his shoulder, "Hey, Sam, you might want to move out of the way."
With barely a flick of his wrist, Damon sent the old man sailing down the steps. Belle let out a terrified howl before he hit the floor of the display room. He barely managed to pull himself up onto his knees before the remaining undead overtook him, sending up a spray of red before the screams disappeared, along with any sight of Henry Belle.
Sam let out a deep breath from his position, hugging the side of the wall, before his sight trailed back up to Damon and Stefan. "What the hell, man?"
Damon locked eyes with the man, his gaze intense. "Henry tripped," he said, as if it were law.
"Tripped?" Sam blinked, losing the connection. If anything, he looked more pissed. "You seriously expect me to believe he tripped?"
Damon frowned, sharing a look with his brother. "Are they putting vervain in the water these days?"
Sam's nostrils flared in anger, and he pushed himself up off the wall, ignoring the undead crowd down below. "You killed him."
"No, actually, they killed him. I pushed him. He wanted to be with his family so badly, after all…What? Like neither of you were thinking it."
Stefan jumped between the two before Sam had a chance to raise his spent rifle like a club. "It's done, already," he snapped. "The two of you can deal with this at a later time—we need to finish up here so we can get to Elena. Or am I the only one who remembers that she's currently in danger?"
Sam lost his fight, backing down immediately. "We'll get to her, Stefan."
Damon huffed, still aggravated that his mind control hadn't quite worked the way he'd hoped.
"Yes, well, you should hope the rest of your brother's plan works out, or a quick shove down the stairs will be the least of your problems, Sam. If anything happens to one precious little hair on dear Elena's head, Stefan will be a cranky boy. And, you wouldn't like Stefan when he's cranky…" When he realized two sets of eyes were glaring at him, he shrugged off his own statement, gesturing out toward the small horde currently occupied with the meal he'd provided. "That's your cue. Lead on, fearless zombie slayer."
The doors to the display room had slammed shut as soon as she'd passed through them, but Elena could hear the fighting continue, at first with gunshots and now with wet, blunt sounds and absent moans. Her body trembled without permission as she considered what must be happening out there; her imagination, she knew, didn't give the image justice.
While sitting at the end of a long, elegant dining table, all but undisturbed by the chaos that had overtaken the rest of the manor, the minutes seemed to pass slowly. Elena rested her hands on her lap, practicing deep breaths. Focusing on what she was about to do: try to make a deal with a demon.
The thought made her want to vomit. This was what her life had turned into now, excusing one evil so long as the end justified the means. Was this, this requirement to forgo what's right to keep what she cared for whole, just the inevitable conclusion now that she had vampires and witches and the supernatural in her life? Elena couldn't consider that possibility, not right now.
Between the space of a blink, he appeared at the other end of the table, lounging back as if he were settling in for a meal. Elena jerked to attention, her shoulder blades hitting the chair painfully, but if the Baron noticed, he didn't say a word.
"My, my, the Crescent City is busy tonight… So much fun to be had, especially here at Belle Manor." He gave a self-satisfied sigh. Then he let his gaze fall fully on Elena. His eyes flashed to crimson. "Hey, baby. Where y'at?" he said with a touch of deep, Yat dialect. The confusion across her face amused him, and he chuckled. "You enjoyin' this fine Ball, or what?"
Elena swallowed hard.
He smiled back at her, breaking the tease with a wink. "Now, where'd the two of us leave off our conversation? If I recall, last we spoke, I believe you might have called me a few hurtful names. Seems you've had a change of heart—is that right, Elena?"
Elena straightened. "I don't want to die."
The Baron cocked his head. "That'll do it for most folks." He smirked. "I can help with the the not-dying, 'course, but I'll need something from you in return."
Elena winced and went back to studying the top of the table. "I..." Her voice was low. "I know." She shook her head. "You said I had power, my bloodline…What did you mean by that?"
The demon pulled himself to his feet, casually stepping around the table. "Oh, boo, power is as power does. You've got it, deep down. In your blood. But, if you don't know how to use it, doesn't do you much good, now does it?" He chuckled again. "The Baron knows how to use it, though. Take real good care of it for you. All you've got to do is offer it up."
Elena stood, feeling breathless, and eased herself around the opposite side of the table, as if to get further away from him. "Is…Are you talking about my soul?"
"I think you already know the answer to that question." The Baron disappeared, then, just as quickly, reappeared beside her, grabbing her above her elbow to keep her in place. "Or didn't the hunters tell you what I do?"
Elena's eyes widened. She froze in place, trying to cover up her sudden nervousness. "If I give you my soul, I can get out of here alive? With my friends?"
He tsked, his grip tightening. The demon leaned in close, his thick lips pushing a hot, sulfurous breath against her ear. "Elena, we both know you're not sharing a kiss with me tonight. What were you planning to do? Play coy one step at a time until you led me to that Devil's Trap beneath the rug?"
Elena felt her heart stop, and when it started again, it was at a full gallop against her sternum. She tried to pull away, but he pushed her against the side of the table, holding her in place.
"Did you think I didn't notice Sam-boy sneaking about the house while the big brothers were trying to distract my babies?" La Croix asked. He settled against her, raising his cane to rest behind her neck. "Oh, the Baron don't miss much, sweet. But, I'm not mad. You had to try. But, you failed, and now you should just admit what it is you need from me…" He pressed his lips against the corner of her mouth, ignoring the way she jerked her head to the side. "Make me an offer, Elena."
The doors to the dining hall burst open with an explosion of splinters, silencing whatever reply was on the tip of her tongue. Dean charged in, dragging a zombie with him. He pulled the machete out of the corpse, before turning his wrathful glare on the demon holding Elena down.
"Miss me, jackass?" he hissed. He raised his chin in preparation, words sliding out of him as quick and sharp as a blade through flesh. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…"
The demon released Elena's arm and threw up his hand. Dean flew back, slamming against a China cabinet. Ceramic shards rained down over him, and the Latin was cut off as he gasped to catch his breath.
The Baron snarled at the man. "I'm in the middle of a transaction, boy. If you honestly think an exorcism is going to stop me, you're dumber than you look."
Dean's grimace curled into a grin. "Nah," he breathed, "didn't think it would. Wasn't part of the plan. And my plan is awesome."
Elena's hand moved of its own accord, jerking Sam's knife free from the makeshift sheath against her thigh and slamming it upward with a quick thrust. It slid in below the Baron's ribcage, angled up. Over the sound of her own thundering pulse, Elena couldn't hear whatever the demon was trying to tell her. He sputtered, his dark skin lighting with bursts of red energy that seemed to rattle his whole body and showed the haunting shape of the skull beneath his flesh.
A second later, he was on the ground, the body he'd been inside still and stone cold.
Elena felt arms wrap around her, holding her tight, and she breathed in Stefan's scent. When he and the others had barged into the room, she wasn't sure; what she did know was that his presence meant this night was at an end.
She felt him shudder against her and realized that he was laughing, silently. "So, did you enjoy your vacation from the crazy?"
Smiling against his shoulder, she shook her head. "Let's just go home."
The winter dawn lit the horizon with gray, pushing back the night. Dean stepped out of the manor, watching the trio in front of him quickly make their way through the maze of burned and decapitated corpses in the garden without giving a single goodbye to the hunters. His brow wrinkled in thought, but Sam elbowed him in the side, drawing his attention from the retreating group.
"Are you seriously keeping that?"
Dean stared down at his hand. In their retreat, he'd absentmindedly picked up his mask, still miraculously in one piece, if not exactly where he'd left it. He frowned at it before tossing it back over his shoulder. "Hell no."
The manor behind them was surprisingly quiet, the remaining, living guests still huddled safely upstairs. He had briefly considered giving the lot of them the all clear, but, jeeze, clean-up was going to be impossible as it was, and he figured they'd notice when their cell phones started working…Which also meant they had little to no time to hit the road before the police were alerted. Dean would bet good money the Feds would be called in to figure this mess out.
The sound of tires throwing gravel brought him out of those lingering concerns, and he looked up to see Elena, Stefan, and Damon driving off. He could make out their shadowed figures through the rear window. One of them was waving back… Nope, nevermind. One of them was shooting the hunters the bird.
"Dick." Dean snorted.
Sam shook his head. "You're memorizing their plate numbers, aren't you?"
"Yup. Virginia is for lovers." He raised a brow. "There was definitely something up with those guys. You figure out what they were?"
"I was kind of busy at the time. You know, with zombies." Sam frowned, then took off down the steps, Dean falling in behind him. "We're not just going to let them go, are we?"
Even from behind, Dean knew what expression was on his brother's face because he was pretty sure it was on his own, too. He paused, chewing his bottom lip. After a second, he shrugged, catching up. Ah, Hell. "I figure they'll keep until after the Apocalypse. We live through this whole end-of-the-world thing, then we can hunt their asses down."
Sam turned, trying and failing to bite back his smile. "Sounds like a plan."
"Want to grab some grub on the way out?"
Sam shook his head. "My appetite has pretty much left the building. Hey, Dean—what about the bokor who sent us here?"
Dean smirked, propping himself against the side of their stolen Buick. "Apparently the same guy was the reason our new buddies were here, too. Damon said he'd have a chat with him before he left town. Something tells me he's not going to be partnering up with any demons any time soon."
With one hand on his door handle, Sam paused. "Oh. Uh, Dean, did I tell you what happened to Mr. Belle?"
Title – Yes. It is based on the AC/DC song "Hell's Bells." Those lyrics just fit too well, right?
Vodou (the Voodoo religion) Knowledge – Mine is limited. In much the tradition of SPN episodes, I tossed mythos into a bag and pulled out what sounded like fun. Loa, Baron La Croix, Bokors—these are all real things. I apologize in advance to any one of the Manimyzame or lwa/loa followers who might take my Baron offensively, but he's not "the" Baron, just a no-good demon taking on his persona. Basically, take what I said above and apply it to my knowledge of weaponry, too—sure, I've fired guns in my life, but weaponry is not my hobby of choice. And, yes, the flamethrower was requested by the girl who original gave me this prompt, and yes, I had to seek the advice of a guy in the military when it came to writing about one. :)
I hope you enjoyed the story. Feel free to leave a comment or a suggestion. I might write a sequel or a story from this universe in the future, but it'll be a while-I've got way too many WIP stories going for me to start another right now, but this definitely inspired me to try out TVD/SPN crossovers...and maybe next time I'll even get to write for my favorite TVD characters, Caroline or Alaric.