Crossover Fic: A Thousand Ways to Hell [Glee/Supernatural] 1/??
Title: A Thousand Ways to Hell
Author: Me (bloodxfuck)
Pairings/Characters: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn, Burt Hummell, Kurt, Mercedes, Sue.
Rating: NC-17.
Type: AU, angst, crossover.
Summary: Two sisters, raised by their father to fight supernatural evil, search for a way to save each other and the people they love from a dark destiny.
Spoilers: None for Glee, pre-series through to season 4 for Supernatural.
A/N: Before you read further, know that I feel literally insane for writing this. I got the idea at 4 AM one morning and couldn't resist. For Supernatural fans, this story has nothing to do with Sam and Dean. I've taken the plot of Supernatural, cut out the characters we love, and replaced them with ones we love equally. Or more, or less. Whatever.
A/N2: I need this special brand of madness to be approved. Comment, please.
A/N3: 30th January 2012: Edited!
Thank you Jack Daniels Old Number Seven
Tennesse Whiskey got me drinking in heaven
Angels start to look good to me
Santana gunned the accelerator hard, trying to stomp the pedal right through the floor of the Chevy with her foot. The engine roared and vibrated, reciprocating her movements with a burst of speed. She was leaving the speed limit behind in the dust, because the 911 call she’d gotten from her sister had sent her mind spinning off its axis. Rachel had learned what an emergency meant when they were kids and had to fend off several gnarly Hungarian demons while their dad fought his way to them. She wouldn’t take that shit lightly.
Rachel was meant to be at Stanford, in California, and Santana was somewhere in Oregon. She’d done a circuitous route around the northeast and was slowly crawling west again when Rachel called. The message she left was enough; her voice clipped and restrained but Santana could hear the undercurrent of panic.
It was like Santana to drop everything for Rachel. Despite not being related by blood, they were thicker than that, closer because they’d grown up in a fucked up situation and had no one but each other. They were sisters from the beginning, and unlike other siblings who had a normal dynamic, they were best friends too.
With one hand gripping the steering wheel, Santana eased off the accelerator and drifted easily around the next close corner. She picked up her rumpled pack of Camels off the passenger’s seat and used her lips to tug a cigarette out. Tonguing it securely into place, she flicked her lighter and hovered the flame by the end of the cigarette until noxious smoke filled her mouth.
She blew out, knowing Rach would give her a disappointed look if she knew she’d started smoking again. Forgive her for not wanting to blow a gasket every time her sister got into trouble neck-deep. If sucking down nicotine could keep her calm, she’d inhale little else.
The wheels of the bulky car thundered over the road, the tread worn from thousands of miles driven over several decades. Her dad had owned the car before Santana was even born, had driven her mother to the hospital in it when she was in labor. That was the only birth her mother would experience; complications arose, Santana was incubated for a few months, and their chances at having another baby were dashed.
Adoption was the next choice for Doctor Lopez and his wife. When Santana was a year old they brought home a baby girl named Rachel and gave her a life. Albeit a shitty one in the end, but Santana reasoned it was better to be in it with her than here alone. She could be the one good thing for Rachel, and she had been up until the girl realized she didn’t have to be stuck in the same rut their dad was.
Their mother died when Rach was six months old, before Santana could even say ‘mommy’ right. A house fire took the woman away from them and left nothing behind but grey dust and enough pain to fill an ocean. Their dad took it the hardest; he had two baby girls to take care of, but he was consumed. Obsessed. Started talking about yellow eyes and burning on the ceiling and crazy fucking mumbo jumbo, but his daughters were too young to take with him on some ridiculous crusade.
He left them with old friends for weeks on end, returning to see his girls and step back into his role as father for a while. Those moments never lasted long. From the ages of one to six, Santana was passed around to aunts and uncles and other unrelated people who quickly became a surrogate family. Rachel was five and didn’t cope well.
They both understood that things were a little different for the Lopez family. But it wasn’t until Santana was ten years old that she actually stumbled upon a huge piece of the puzzle.
Tucked into her father’s coat, Santana found a tattered old journal. Leather bound, pages stiff like something had been spilled on it, leaving a smell that Santana realized was beer in later years. Her dad had come to rely on alcohol for those times when his focus was like a broken compass needle.
Flipping through the book out of curiosity, listening to her sister humming under her breath at the kitchen table, Santana felt a painful thrill of fear as she saw the grim pictures sketched on many of the pages. Monster faces, chilling symbols, things the girl only saw in horror movies. Looking up at her dad and seeing that the man was half-asleep on the lumpy motel couch, Santana sat down at the table with Rachel and started to read.
“What’s that, San?” Rachel asked, trying to lean over to see the journal. Santana silently moved it out of her line of sight and read the first pages, her brain ticking and whirring. Something clicked into place. A realization. Terror. Whatever its name was, she didn’t like it.
The earliest journal entry was dated shortly after Santana’s mother died. There were gaps between several entries stretching for months, and there were a lot of names in the journal, but Santana coasted over all of them as she read her dad’s handwriting, detailing dark thoughts and doubts and sadness and loss.
Santana confronted her dad about it when Rachel was at dance class the next day, taking the lessons she always insisted on when in a new place. She was a determined girl, freakishly ambitious. And she could still be shielded from everything their dad had been digging up.
The truth came out burbled and broken from her dad’s lips, and Santana made a promise to protect her family. She was young, but that didn’t matter anymore. Her dad could hardly think straight, too caught up following trails of blood across the country. At ten years old Santana shouldered the responsibility for her father and sister and never broke her promise to keep them safe.
***
Palo Alto was familiar, and Santana navigated the roads easily. The first time she’d been there was to drop Rachel off at Stanford, her new school and new home. The drive there had been tense and silent, miles of distance between the two of them in the cramped interior of the car, worn duffel bags in the backseat the only things Rachel seemed to be taking with her into her brand new life.
Ever since then Santana made regular trips back just to check up on her sister, usually without her knowing. She’d hang out around the campus and in the neighborhood where Rachel lived, and once she broke into her apartment while her sister was at work to make sure the girl had warded the place properly.
She’d found tiny sigils scratched into windowsills and doorframes and knew Rach was no fool. She could take a step back, but they’d both received the same tutelage, and they were both very aware that ignorance was a stone’s throw from dead. Santana had forced her dad to teach her everything he’d learned over the years, because she’d decided that the devil you knew was safer. And then Rachel had pried the truth from her sister with sad looks and dewy eyes and too much feeling for Santana to withstand.
Their dad had fallen into despair when his girls joined him in the same pit he’d been excavating since losing his wife. He tried to separate them from what he’d done wrong, but those mistakes just kept coming back. Their lives became an echo of his: black eyes, gore-stained teeth, and the few precious precautions they had against the demons that tried to haul them into the dark unknown.
Salt, silver, iron. It ran a continuous path in Santana’s head when she was on the job. Shoot, run, stand, fight. Little chants she’d grown to trust because it was all muscle memory at this point. She was twenty-four and Rachel was twenty-three and they were both equally fucked up. But only one of them had gotten out, had changed up the actions and demands in her mind.
That was why Santana felt like she was intruding when she turned the nose of her car into the driveway outside Rachel’s apartment. She lived in 1B, while her downstairs neighbors were in 1A. The rent was college-friendly and it was close to the campus, but it was still lonely and quiet in a way that would’ve seemed pleasant to anyone else. Santana was more accustomed to motel rooms, with walls so thin that she always knew what was happening in the rooms to her right and left.
Cutting the engine, the car started cooling in the driveway, the headlights still on and casting twin circles of light on the apartment wall. Eventually Santana flicked the lights off and got out of the car, the creak of the door hinges like a fucking fanfare announcing her arrival. She was almost expecting Rach to poke her head out the door and wave, but she didn’t.
Shaking her head, Santana took her pistol from the glovebox and slipped the clip halfway out to ensure it was full before pushing it back in. She switched the safety on as she was scaling the stairs and tucked the gun into the back of her jeans, pulling her shirt down to cover the engraved butt.
She paused in front of Rachel’s door, staring at the house number in big, gold letters screwed into the wood. She almost knocked. Instead she slid her pickpocket kit from the inside of her jacket and opened it up, kneeling in front of the door and starting on the lock. She swiftly bypassed the tumblers with a series of quiet clicks.
Opening the door, Santana stepped into the apartment. It smelled like her sister inside. It was comfortable, but nothing fancy. Rachel had been working herself to the bone to pay off student loans and rent and whatever was left over went to paying bills. Every now and again Santana would scrape up enough money through hustling and stealing and she’d send it all to Rachel hoping she knew her big sister was always looking out for her.
Sweeping her gaze around, Santana was desperately wishing she’d find her sister safe and sound and not needing her help, but S.O.S was a pretty clear message. She braced herself for the worst as the worn soles of her boots scuffed the carpet.
In the living room there were several textbooks spread out, most on a bookshelf but some open and splayed on the coffee table. Santana flipped one shut and frowned at the front cover: Advanced Economics. Rachel was doing her Bachelor of Arts, majoring in drama.
Santana looked around for more clues, like she’d managed to break into someone else’s apartment, like maybe Rachel had moved. But on the fridge, held in place by a magnet, was a photo of the petite brunette with her arm slung around someone who was only just out of frame. Rachel was grinning at the camera and holding up a bottle of light beer, and at least Santana hadn’t lost track of her sister so completely.
She walked down the hallway towards the bedroom, reaching back and resting her hand on her gun still tucked into the waistband of her jeans, though she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She heard a quiet thump to her side and was pulling her gun when something hit her wrists and sent the weapon flying. Santana was laid out flat on her back seconds later, the air rushing out of her lungs with a breathless grunt.
Panting, the face hovering above hers spread in a bewildered smile. “Sanna?” Rachel said, getting off the Latina. She held her hand out and Santana took it with a grimace, being pulled up off the ground by the surprisingly strong girl.
Her breath still hadn’t returned, but she patted Rachel on the back and shook her head. “Good form,” she wheezed, rubbing her aching lower back. She bent and picked up her gun, tucking it out of sight again.
“Did you break in?” Rachel asked in a near-whisper. Santana dropped her voice immediately to mimic her.
“Well, yeah, when was the last time I actually knocked?” she asked with a grin. Rachel looked good. Healthy. Not dead, which was a relief. Her brown hair was tied up in a lazy ponytail and held back by a white headband. She was wearing pajamas; pink ones, completely belying how easy it would be for her to tie a grown man into knots.
“Come on,” Rachel said, casting a look over her shoulder. The bedroom door was closed; she’d come flying out of the bathroom, probably roused by Santana poking around the apartment. Rachel pulled her back down the hallway and into the living room, shutting the door behind her.
“Is there someone else here?” Santana asked, voicing her suspicions. It wasn’t like Rachel was a sexual hermit, and she was aware of her sister’s preferences. Rachel didn’t really see orientation as a big deal and had come out in the middle of a completely ordinary dinner, eating pizza, as though she was commenting on the weather.
Rachel nodded her head. “You can meet her in the morning,” she said, sitting down on the couch and looking pointedly at Santana for a long moment until she sat down, too. Across from her in a comfortable yet squeaky armchair. She flopped down and turned boneless, legs splayed and elbows cocked on the arms of the chair.
“What’s her name?” Santana asked rakishly.
With a smile, Rachel expertly deflected. “I assume you got my message,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here, San.”
Santana sat up and leaned forwards at the hips, a frown denting her brow. “What’s going on, Rach?”
Rachel paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve been having these dreams lately.” She started worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth and got this distant look in her eyes as they slid right off Santana’s face and stared without seeing at a corner of the coffee table. Finally she looked up again and continued, “Sanna, I think something really bad is going to happen.
Author: Me (bloodxfuck)
Pairings/Characters: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn, Burt Hummell, Kurt, Mercedes, Sue.
Rating: NC-17.
Type: AU, angst, crossover.
Summary: Two sisters, raised by their father to fight supernatural evil, search for a way to save each other and the people they love from a dark destiny.
Spoilers: None for Glee, pre-series through to season 4 for Supernatural.
A/N: Before you read further, know that I feel literally insane for writing this. I got the idea at 4 AM one morning and couldn't resist. For Supernatural fans, this story has nothing to do with Sam and Dean. I've taken the plot of Supernatural, cut out the characters we love, and replaced them with ones we love equally. Or more, or less. Whatever.
A/N2: I need this special brand of madness to be approved. Comment, please.
A/N3: 30th January 2012: Edited!
Thank you Jack Daniels Old Number Seven
Tennesse Whiskey got me drinking in heaven
Angels start to look good to me
Santana gunned the accelerator hard, trying to stomp the pedal right through the floor of the Chevy with her foot. The engine roared and vibrated, reciprocating her movements with a burst of speed. She was leaving the speed limit behind in the dust, because the 911 call she’d gotten from her sister had sent her mind spinning off its axis. Rachel had learned what an emergency meant when they were kids and had to fend off several gnarly Hungarian demons while their dad fought his way to them. She wouldn’t take that shit lightly.
Rachel was meant to be at Stanford, in California, and Santana was somewhere in Oregon. She’d done a circuitous route around the northeast and was slowly crawling west again when Rachel called. The message she left was enough; her voice clipped and restrained but Santana could hear the undercurrent of panic.
It was like Santana to drop everything for Rachel. Despite not being related by blood, they were thicker than that, closer because they’d grown up in a fucked up situation and had no one but each other. They were sisters from the beginning, and unlike other siblings who had a normal dynamic, they were best friends too.
With one hand gripping the steering wheel, Santana eased off the accelerator and drifted easily around the next close corner. She picked up her rumpled pack of Camels off the passenger’s seat and used her lips to tug a cigarette out. Tonguing it securely into place, she flicked her lighter and hovered the flame by the end of the cigarette until noxious smoke filled her mouth.
She blew out, knowing Rach would give her a disappointed look if she knew she’d started smoking again. Forgive her for not wanting to blow a gasket every time her sister got into trouble neck-deep. If sucking down nicotine could keep her calm, she’d inhale little else.
The wheels of the bulky car thundered over the road, the tread worn from thousands of miles driven over several decades. Her dad had owned the car before Santana was even born, had driven her mother to the hospital in it when she was in labor. That was the only birth her mother would experience; complications arose, Santana was incubated for a few months, and their chances at having another baby were dashed.
Adoption was the next choice for Doctor Lopez and his wife. When Santana was a year old they brought home a baby girl named Rachel and gave her a life. Albeit a shitty one in the end, but Santana reasoned it was better to be in it with her than here alone. She could be the one good thing for Rachel, and she had been up until the girl realized she didn’t have to be stuck in the same rut their dad was.
Their mother died when Rach was six months old, before Santana could even say ‘mommy’ right. A house fire took the woman away from them and left nothing behind but grey dust and enough pain to fill an ocean. Their dad took it the hardest; he had two baby girls to take care of, but he was consumed. Obsessed. Started talking about yellow eyes and burning on the ceiling and crazy fucking mumbo jumbo, but his daughters were too young to take with him on some ridiculous crusade.
He left them with old friends for weeks on end, returning to see his girls and step back into his role as father for a while. Those moments never lasted long. From the ages of one to six, Santana was passed around to aunts and uncles and other unrelated people who quickly became a surrogate family. Rachel was five and didn’t cope well.
They both understood that things were a little different for the Lopez family. But it wasn’t until Santana was ten years old that she actually stumbled upon a huge piece of the puzzle.
Tucked into her father’s coat, Santana found a tattered old journal. Leather bound, pages stiff like something had been spilled on it, leaving a smell that Santana realized was beer in later years. Her dad had come to rely on alcohol for those times when his focus was like a broken compass needle.
Flipping through the book out of curiosity, listening to her sister humming under her breath at the kitchen table, Santana felt a painful thrill of fear as she saw the grim pictures sketched on many of the pages. Monster faces, chilling symbols, things the girl only saw in horror movies. Looking up at her dad and seeing that the man was half-asleep on the lumpy motel couch, Santana sat down at the table with Rachel and started to read.
“What’s that, San?” Rachel asked, trying to lean over to see the journal. Santana silently moved it out of her line of sight and read the first pages, her brain ticking and whirring. Something clicked into place. A realization. Terror. Whatever its name was, she didn’t like it.
The earliest journal entry was dated shortly after Santana’s mother died. There were gaps between several entries stretching for months, and there were a lot of names in the journal, but Santana coasted over all of them as she read her dad’s handwriting, detailing dark thoughts and doubts and sadness and loss.
Santana confronted her dad about it when Rachel was at dance class the next day, taking the lessons she always insisted on when in a new place. She was a determined girl, freakishly ambitious. And she could still be shielded from everything their dad had been digging up.
The truth came out burbled and broken from her dad’s lips, and Santana made a promise to protect her family. She was young, but that didn’t matter anymore. Her dad could hardly think straight, too caught up following trails of blood across the country. At ten years old Santana shouldered the responsibility for her father and sister and never broke her promise to keep them safe.
***
Palo Alto was familiar, and Santana navigated the roads easily. The first time she’d been there was to drop Rachel off at Stanford, her new school and new home. The drive there had been tense and silent, miles of distance between the two of them in the cramped interior of the car, worn duffel bags in the backseat the only things Rachel seemed to be taking with her into her brand new life.
Ever since then Santana made regular trips back just to check up on her sister, usually without her knowing. She’d hang out around the campus and in the neighborhood where Rachel lived, and once she broke into her apartment while her sister was at work to make sure the girl had warded the place properly.
She’d found tiny sigils scratched into windowsills and doorframes and knew Rach was no fool. She could take a step back, but they’d both received the same tutelage, and they were both very aware that ignorance was a stone’s throw from dead. Santana had forced her dad to teach her everything he’d learned over the years, because she’d decided that the devil you knew was safer. And then Rachel had pried the truth from her sister with sad looks and dewy eyes and too much feeling for Santana to withstand.
Their dad had fallen into despair when his girls joined him in the same pit he’d been excavating since losing his wife. He tried to separate them from what he’d done wrong, but those mistakes just kept coming back. Their lives became an echo of his: black eyes, gore-stained teeth, and the few precious precautions they had against the demons that tried to haul them into the dark unknown.
Salt, silver, iron. It ran a continuous path in Santana’s head when she was on the job. Shoot, run, stand, fight. Little chants she’d grown to trust because it was all muscle memory at this point. She was twenty-four and Rachel was twenty-three and they were both equally fucked up. But only one of them had gotten out, had changed up the actions and demands in her mind.
That was why Santana felt like she was intruding when she turned the nose of her car into the driveway outside Rachel’s apartment. She lived in 1B, while her downstairs neighbors were in 1A. The rent was college-friendly and it was close to the campus, but it was still lonely and quiet in a way that would’ve seemed pleasant to anyone else. Santana was more accustomed to motel rooms, with walls so thin that she always knew what was happening in the rooms to her right and left.
Cutting the engine, the car started cooling in the driveway, the headlights still on and casting twin circles of light on the apartment wall. Eventually Santana flicked the lights off and got out of the car, the creak of the door hinges like a fucking fanfare announcing her arrival. She was almost expecting Rach to poke her head out the door and wave, but she didn’t.
Shaking her head, Santana took her pistol from the glovebox and slipped the clip halfway out to ensure it was full before pushing it back in. She switched the safety on as she was scaling the stairs and tucked the gun into the back of her jeans, pulling her shirt down to cover the engraved butt.
She paused in front of Rachel’s door, staring at the house number in big, gold letters screwed into the wood. She almost knocked. Instead she slid her pickpocket kit from the inside of her jacket and opened it up, kneeling in front of the door and starting on the lock. She swiftly bypassed the tumblers with a series of quiet clicks.
Opening the door, Santana stepped into the apartment. It smelled like her sister inside. It was comfortable, but nothing fancy. Rachel had been working herself to the bone to pay off student loans and rent and whatever was left over went to paying bills. Every now and again Santana would scrape up enough money through hustling and stealing and she’d send it all to Rachel hoping she knew her big sister was always looking out for her.
Sweeping her gaze around, Santana was desperately wishing she’d find her sister safe and sound and not needing her help, but S.O.S was a pretty clear message. She braced herself for the worst as the worn soles of her boots scuffed the carpet.
In the living room there were several textbooks spread out, most on a bookshelf but some open and splayed on the coffee table. Santana flipped one shut and frowned at the front cover: Advanced Economics. Rachel was doing her Bachelor of Arts, majoring in drama.
Santana looked around for more clues, like she’d managed to break into someone else’s apartment, like maybe Rachel had moved. But on the fridge, held in place by a magnet, was a photo of the petite brunette with her arm slung around someone who was only just out of frame. Rachel was grinning at the camera and holding up a bottle of light beer, and at least Santana hadn’t lost track of her sister so completely.
She walked down the hallway towards the bedroom, reaching back and resting her hand on her gun still tucked into the waistband of her jeans, though she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She heard a quiet thump to her side and was pulling her gun when something hit her wrists and sent the weapon flying. Santana was laid out flat on her back seconds later, the air rushing out of her lungs with a breathless grunt.
Panting, the face hovering above hers spread in a bewildered smile. “Sanna?” Rachel said, getting off the Latina. She held her hand out and Santana took it with a grimace, being pulled up off the ground by the surprisingly strong girl.
Her breath still hadn’t returned, but she patted Rachel on the back and shook her head. “Good form,” she wheezed, rubbing her aching lower back. She bent and picked up her gun, tucking it out of sight again.
“Did you break in?” Rachel asked in a near-whisper. Santana dropped her voice immediately to mimic her.
“Well, yeah, when was the last time I actually knocked?” she asked with a grin. Rachel looked good. Healthy. Not dead, which was a relief. Her brown hair was tied up in a lazy ponytail and held back by a white headband. She was wearing pajamas; pink ones, completely belying how easy it would be for her to tie a grown man into knots.
“Come on,” Rachel said, casting a look over her shoulder. The bedroom door was closed; she’d come flying out of the bathroom, probably roused by Santana poking around the apartment. Rachel pulled her back down the hallway and into the living room, shutting the door behind her.
“Is there someone else here?” Santana asked, voicing her suspicions. It wasn’t like Rachel was a sexual hermit, and she was aware of her sister’s preferences. Rachel didn’t really see orientation as a big deal and had come out in the middle of a completely ordinary dinner, eating pizza, as though she was commenting on the weather.
Rachel nodded her head. “You can meet her in the morning,” she said, sitting down on the couch and looking pointedly at Santana for a long moment until she sat down, too. Across from her in a comfortable yet squeaky armchair. She flopped down and turned boneless, legs splayed and elbows cocked on the arms of the chair.
“What’s her name?” Santana asked rakishly.
With a smile, Rachel expertly deflected. “I assume you got my message,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here, San.”
Santana sat up and leaned forwards at the hips, a frown denting her brow. “What’s going on, Rach?”
Rachel paused for a moment before saying, “I’ve been having these dreams lately.” She started worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth and got this distant look in her eyes as they slid right off Santana’s face and stared without seeing at a corner of the coffee table. Finally she looked up again and continued, “Sanna, I think something really bad is going to happen.