Gilmore Girls/Supernatural fic: I'm Not Ifrit of the Dark
A long time ago, in a galaxy sorry, wrong story. A long time ago I (a) wrote a Rory the Vampire Slayer drabble, and (b) promised to write kellifer_fic a story (it was a Dean/Rory exchange - she wrote the wonderful Cover It In Chocolate and a Miracle or Two for me). I married (a) and (b) and finally produced this.
Title: I'm Not Ifrit of the Dark (1/2)
Fandoms: Gilmore Girls/Supernatural (and much borrowing from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Universe)
Characters: Sam & Dean, plus almost everyone from Stars Hollow
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word count: 14,500 words
Betas: Thanks to the wonderful girlmostlikely and marciaelena, and to pheebs1 for audiencing/enabling.
Notes: For kellifer_fic. An AU crossover, in which I blithely ignore timelines and any other inconveniences. ETA: Now with a fantastic cover by bisclaveret.
part 1 | part 2
"My mother thinks you're evil," Lane says. She's half in, half out of Rory's window. She drops to the floor with a grunt and brushes snow off her mittens. "Roughly on a par with Britney Spears, but not quite as bad as Satan."
"I'll take that as a compliment. I think," Rory says. "The not as bad as Satan part, anyway."
Lane nods. "I think you've actually gone up in her estimation lately, with the whole saving people thing going on, even though you date boys-"
"A boy," Rory interjects. "Just Dean. That's one boy. Singular."
"Yeah, well, you know Mama. You see one boy, she sees sex and drugs and babies and the complete moral decline of America."
"It's a shame you can't get glasses to fix that."
"That'd be really cool. She could put them on, and suddenly chips would be tasty snacks instead of death in a bag, and rock music would be harmless entertainment for the masses instead of one of the evil schemes of the devil."
"A scheme of the devil? Really?"
"Yeah. Her words. Well, strictly speaking, they're Paul's words in the Bible, but I don't think he was specifically talking about rock music."
"Probably not," Rory agrees.
"So, how do you make this stuff look easy?" Lane says, falling back onto the bed and pulling off several layers of clothing.
Rory looks at her homework. "Trig?" she asks, puzzled.
"No. Breaking and entering. Is it one of the special Slayer powers?"
"I think, technically, you were just entering. There was no breaking going on. Was there?"
Lane pats herself down. "No, no breaking. But it was close."
"I don't think it's a special Slayer power. More of an inherited trait, from Mom. Although I think her special skill was breaking out, not breaking in. Anyway, why the stealthy entry? Was there a problem with the door?"
"No, no problem. Just thought I'd get in some practice. You never know when it might come in useful."
Rory closes her notebook. "Done," she says. "So, why does Mrs. Kim think I'm evil this time? Anything new, or just the usual?"
"The usual, plus there's something funky going on at Chilton, so she's convinced you're behind it."
"Mrs. Kim used the word funky?"
"No. She said unsavory and unchristian and various other un-things. I just summed them all up as funky. I thought you might prefer the short version."
"Good summary," Rory says approvingly. "But what sort of funky? Demon funky and I need to put my Slayer boots on, or just Tristin up to no good?"
"I don't know. Might be nothing - Mom was talking about evil and boys and sex and boys and evil, so I tuned out a bit - but there was something weird I noticed earlier. I was scrying for my This is the Voice CD - I didn't lend it to you, did I?"
Rory thinks about it for a moment. "No."
"So, well, anyway, when I hung the pendant over the map, it went all crazy over Chilton."
"Maybe it's all the hormones there - they can do crazy things."
"Or maybe there's something demon funky going on." Lane sounds hopeful.
Rory thinks of her plans for the evening. "Wouldn't you like a quiet evening, nothing demon or funky about it? Just you and me, enough junk food to make us mildly nauseous, some CDs and a strawberry scented face pack?"
"Actually, it's kinda cool, now, you being a Slayer and all. Besides, strawberry scented anything is guaranteed to get me in trouble with Mom - she'd be convinced it was a boy magnet."
"Your mother thinks everything is a boy magnet."
"True."
*
"Dean."
Sam sits up in bed, still faintly disoriented from his dream. Dean's fast asleep - which means Sam wasn't actually screaming in his sleep - and for a moment Sam feels bad about waking him. Not so bad he doesn't try again, louder. "Dean!"
"Nnngh?" Dean shakes his head and stuffs his face further into the pillow.
Sam leans over the side of his bed and picks up a sneaker. His aim's good. It hits the back of Dean's head.
"What the fucking fuck? It's-" Dean looks across at the huge digital display on the alarm clock, and if Sam were more awake he'd have thought to turn that around. "It's three fucking a.m., Sam."
"I had a vision."
Dean sighs. "Was anyone being killed in it?"
"No, but-"
"Then tell me in the morning," Dean interrupts, but Sam carries on talking.
"There was a boy. He couldn't have been out of his teens. He was stripped half-" Sam doesn't get to finish the sentence before Dean's doubled over in bed, laughing so hard his bed's shaking. "It isn't funny, Dean."
"Dude, you're killing me here! Got a wet patch in your bed? Because that's not a vision, it's your gay wet dream."
Sam glares, gets up and grabs Dean by the shoulders, pushing him up against the headboard. "It. Was. Not. A wet dream. I had a vision, Dean, and we're going to do something about it. The boy was tied up and he'd been beaten - there were bruises all over him, and he was scared shitless, okay? And no, I don't get my rocks off on stuff like that."
"Stop glaring at me like a pissy little bitch. Any clues as to where he was to start with?"
Sam closes his eyes and tries to picture the scene. "He was wearing a tie; looked like a school uniform tie. With a crest. I can draw it, I think. And he was wearing a medallion."
"What else?" Dean asks, and he's all business now, sitting up, switching a lamp on, and reaching for a notebook.
"He was in a library. Could have been a school library. It was empty though, apart from him and whoever had taken him."
"Closed for the day empty, or abandoned?"
"Just after closing time. The shelves were full of books still, and there was an envelope on the table." Sam can almost see it; tries to remember what it said.
"Can you see a name?"
Sam shakes his head. "No, but it said Stars Hollow."
"Okay, that's a start. How about who took him?"
"I don't know. I-I didn't get that. Just shock and fear. And fire."
"Fire? Like, the building burning down?"
"No, more like-creatures made of fire? Maybe?"
"Want to be any more vague?"
"I'm doing my best, okay?!" Sam's tired too, and barely awake, and he's not in the mood for dealing with Dean bitching at him.
"So, you gonna start drawing that crest now?" Dean asks, handing over his notebook.
Sam takes it and nods. He's halfway through the sketch when he remembers something. "There was a day calendar on a desk. It said January 8th."
"Sunday. So we've got two days."
Sam nods again.
"In other words, you woke me up for nothing."
Sam ducks a fraction too late to avoid the shoe Dean throws his way.
*
"Hi, Rory," Luke says without turning around.
"It's freaky, the way you do that," she replies, perching on a stool at the counter. Lane sits down beside her.
"You've got your Slayer powers, I have my Watcher powers," Luke replies. He puts a large blue and white spotted mug of coffee in front of Rory, and raises an eyebrow in question at Lane.
"Better make it a glass of water," she says. "Never know when Mom might show up. She's got this sixth sense about me consuming anything that's not organic and tasteless. It's her super power."
"Some super powers are suckier than others," Rory says sympathetically. "You can share my muffin - that way we can pretend it was just me eating it."
"Is that your incredibly subtle way of ordering a muffin?" Luke asks.
"Shouldn't you already know I want one? Or is your power limited to caffeinated beverages?"
Luke sets a plate with a large blueberry muffin, neatly cut in two, in front of them. "You know there's something strange going on at Chilton, right?"
"Lane said something of the sort, though her description was funky. And apparently Mrs. Kim thinks I'm behind it."
"Are you?"
"Luke!"
"You're a teenage girl. Teenage girls are strange creatures. Ergo, my question."
Rory can always tell when Luke's been at the books too much. He starts using words like ergo. "Mom says I'm a forty year old teenager, and I haven't been up to anything funky. At least," Rory corrects herself, "nothing more than my usual, Watcher approved funkiness. Patrolling, staking, researching and yet more patrolling. So, what exactly is going on at Chilton?"
"I'm not sure yet. Taylor's been looking nervous, though, so it's not something he's behind for once."
"You think Taylor's behind all the evil in Stars Hollow."
"He usually is," Luke replies gloomily.
"Not that I want to interrupt this thrilling conversation," Lane says, "but I'm going to have to get home sometime soon, or my mom will be sending a search party out after me."
Rory fishes in her pocket and pulls out a packet of gum. Cinnamon flavored - it must be Dean's. "Here," she says, handing a piece over. "It'll disguise the shocking carbohydrates you've been eating."
"Thanks!"
"Shoo, run. Remember what happened last time you missed curfew."
Lane pulls a face, but grabs her bag and rushes out.
Rory turns back to Luke. "So, it's not one of Taylor's tricks then. Something new in town?"
Luke shrugs noncommittally. He never likes admitting anything might not be Taylor's fault. "How about you scope the place out tomorrow?"
"It's Saturday tomorrow," Rory says, and she can't help it if she sounds whiny. She has plans. More to the point, she and Dean have plans, plans that involve just the two of them, somewhere quiet. Alone.
"Exactly. So the school will be empty, and you'll be free to look around."
Rory sighs. There's no point arguing - Luke will only pull the Watcher card if she does. "Okay. I'll call Dean and get him to drive me there in the morning."
Luke points to the sign behind the diner, and when Rory pulls her cell phone out, he taps the sign. "No cell phones applies to you, too. Especially you," he adds, and narrows his eyes.
Rory ignores him as usual.
The door jingles as she dials Dean's number. It's only Kirk. She starts to smile at him, then remembers that he won't notice, so she turns her back to the diner and talks to Dean.
*
Sam leans on the Impala and looks out over the square, bare trees softened with snow and fairy lights. The shops around the square - bookstores and antique shops and bakeries - are all lit up and welcoming, and even the air smells sweet, like syrup. There's a huge banner over the road, announcing the coming Spirit of Stars Hollow Festival.
On the corner, there's a guy with a guitar, like some old fashioned troubadour.
"Wow," Dean says, eyebrow raised. "Bet the burgers will be a rip off here."
Sam just nods. For a moment he imagines living somewhere like this, walking across the square with Jess' mittened hand in his, laughing at some secret joke. He'd buy her a crepe and then steal bites from it as they walked home, and she'd pelt him with snowballs in retaliation.
Dean's voice cuts in. "You still with me?"
"Yeah, just-" Sam shrugs. They're here to find a kid and rescue him, not indulge his stupid, white picket fence fantasies. "Let's go eat."
"Or not."
"Huh?"
Dean nods his head towards the road. "Looks like we've got some work to do first," he says gleefully.
There's a creature ambling blindly across the road in front of them. Arms out, vacant look. There's only one thing it can be.
They race to the trunk. Dean pulls out a machete and runs his fingers along the blade, as though he doesn't already know it's honed to perfect sharpness. "Ah, you beauty, you've been wanting some action," he says to it, like Sam's not standing right there listening to him talk to his knife.
"You might want to get a move on," Sam warns. "Your zombie's heading towards that coffee shop."
"Fuck. It's moving fast for a zombie."
Dean slams the trunk shut, and they race after it.
They're too late. The tinkle of the bell above the coffee shop door hangs mockingly in the air as the door closes behind the creature.
"Fuck," Dean repeats.
Sam expects screams and a stampede, but there's nothing. No one rushing out, no sign at all that anything's wrong.
Dean motions Sam to the side of the coffee shop, and peers in.
"You're never going to believe this," he says slowly.
Sam peers over his shoulder.
The coffee shop is about half full. There's a kid at the counter chatting on her cell, a surly-looking guy in a backwards baseball cap behind the counter, and a group of middle-aged women clustered together at the best table to catch all the gossip. All perfectly normal. And, at a table near the counter, the zombie. He's sitting quietly at the table, looking expectantly at the counter, and the guy behind it is looking for all the world as if he's about to come take the zombie's order.
"What the-?"
Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know. I mean, that definitely is a zombie, right? There's no way I mistook something else for a zombie." Dean sounds horrified at the possibility.
"No, no doubt about it. It's a zombie, all right."
"So-what-?" Dean gives up. "Looks like we're going in."
"Dean, you're holding a machete. You can't walk into a diner with that in your hand."
"I'm not going up against a zombie unarmed," Dean says belligerently.
"I'll wait here, keep an eye on things. You go back and get us some more discreet weapons. And Dean-"
"Yeah?"
"You know what discreet means, right?"
Dean flips him the finger, but heads back to the Impala at a fast jog. He's back again in under a minute with a couple of sheathed blades in his hand, and an odd shaped bulge under his jacket. Sam secretes one of the blades under his jacket and pretends not to see the bulge.
"Ready?" Dean asks, and Sam hides a smile. Dean's like a kid at Christmas over the promise of some zombie action.
"Yes," Sam says, then holds Dean back a moment. "We can't go in there swinging, you know."
"I'm not an idiot, Sam. I know that."
"Just, I know how you get with zombies. We're gonna have to get it outside before we can do anything."
Dean gives him the stink eye. Sam just stares back, because it's true, Dean does go all gung ho around zombies. And this isn't the sort of town where you can just act like there aren't zombie parts all over the floor, and even if there are, you had nothing to do with it.
Inside, it's warm and smells of coffee and cinnamon and chocolate. Dean's stomach rumbles loudly.
"Might as well fill up while we're here," he says, and heads for the counter, skirting the table with the zombie warily.
They take seats at the counter, Sam slantwise to keep an eye on the zombie, Dean next to a plate of donuts, all attention on them.
"Be with you in a minute," the guy in the baseball cap says. He's carrying a bowl of something Sam can't quite see, and he's heading back to the zombie. Sam reaches under his jacket, hand on the hilt of his knife. Dean's in the same pose, donuts forgotten for a moment.
And then.
"Here you go, Kirk," the guy says, and puts a bowl in front of the zombie. A bowl of-steaming hot cauliflower?
What the fuck? Sam mouths to Dean, and Dean just shrugs his shoulders.
The zombie, Kirk, digs in, hands full of cauliflower, and stuffs it in his mouth, making little appreciative noises. He actually sounds not unlike Dean with a particularly good slice of pie.
Sam saves that thought for a later date.
"Okay, what can I get you guys?"
Sam swings around and tries to act like he's not just been staring at a zombie eating vegetables. "Um, we'll have, um-" he says, still stuck on the vegetable-eating zombie.
"What my learning disabled brother is trying to say, is that we'll have two coffees, and four donuts to go, thanks."
"You related to the Foresters?" the guy asks out of the blue, and the girl at the counter turns around at that, still on her cell. She stares at Sam like she doesn't even know she's doing so. "I'll call you back," she says into her phone, and closes it, not taking her eyes off him.
"What?" Sam asks. This place just gets weirder and weirder. Now he's got a girl - an incredibly pretty brunette - staring at him like he's a ghost, a bunch of women exclaiming and muttering to each other (and he's sure that's about him too), and the guy behind the counter has an eyebrow raised in query. Sam rubs his hand over his chin, just in case he's got something on his face, and checks - his fly's done up, and there's no blood on his hoodie or jacket.
"Come again?" he asks this time, still waiting for an answer.
"The Foresters? Dean Forester? You any relation?"
"No," Sam says warily. And maybe he shouldn't ask, but the looks are freaking him out, so he has to. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing," the guy says, though he's still staring. "You just look like him, that's all. Uncanny, really." He puts the coffees and a bag of donuts on the counter.
"And there you thought you were unique, huh, Sammy," Dean says, patting him on the shoulder as he gets up and nudges his stool out of the way. "Come on, time to head out."
"But-" Sam says, and tries to point discreetly at the zombie with his elbow.
Dean ignores him.
"If you're looking for a room for the night, you should head over to Lorelai's place. The Dragonfly Inn. She does special rates for hunters."
Sam swallows. Obviously he didn't hear right. Or there's some logical explanation. "We're not hunters," he says. "We're, um, traveling salesmen," he adds lamely, and winces as Dean glares at him.
They elbow each other getting out of the door, then stand on the sidewalk and look at each other.
"Was that-?"
"Did it-?"
Sam takes a deep breath. Zombies don't eat vegetables. Zombies don't sit quietly in cafes in civilized small towns in Connecticut and wait to be served. But-
"We need to rethink this one."
"Really? You think?"
*
Rory turns to Luke.
"That was freaky, right?" she whispers. She knows without looking around that Miss Patty and Babette are listening in - their table is far too quiet.
"There was a certain resemblance," Luke says dismissively.
"A certain resemblance? Seriously? Where are your glasses? You just told him the resemblance was uncanny. He was the image of Dean, just-older. And that doesn't strike you as weird? Like," and she drops her voice even lower, even though trying to keep anything secret in this town is a losing battle, "supernatural shape shifting dopplegänger monster I need to kill kind of weird?"
Luke mutters something that sounds like never any peace when a Gilmore's around (which Rory thinks is a bit hypocritical considering he was the one who told her she was a Slayer) and starts fiddling with the coffee machine.
Rory talks to his back instead. "What I can't work out is why a creature would shape shift to look like Dean's older brother, especially if he then insists he isn't related."
"Shape shifters always copy people exactly," Luke mumbles into his coffee pot.
"And if he were a dopplegänger, he'd be a perfect match. So, not a dopplegänger either." The only logical explanation is the simplest one - there's a guy who looks like her boyfriend, and he's just driven into town. "Occam's Razor," she mutters. "But it's still freaky."
*
The troubadour's standing on the sidewalk by the Impala, like he's waiting for them. He launches into Carry on My Wayward Son when he sees them.
"Man, this place is freaky," Dean says, and pulls out sharply.
Five minutes later, they're pulling up in front of the Dragonfly Inn. The inn is a beautiful old building with a long porch, and under its coat of snow it looks like a Christmas card illustration.
They look at each other.
"There's gotta be somewhere else," Dean says.
"If there is, it's probably five star, Michelin guide, black tie for dinner, and would drain a credit card in one night. So it's the Inn or the car. Your call."
Dean looks as though he's seriously considering choosing the car option. Sam silently prays he picks the Inn - he doesn't care if it's full of froufrou knickknacks, or if the owner thinks they're gay antiquers, or even if there's a compulsory communal sing-song in the evening followed by cocoa. Tomorrow they can find the captured kid, and work out what the hell's going on with a vegetable-eating zombie, but right now he just wants a bed with a mattress, and if it's long enough for him he'll count it a bonus.
"Come on, Sammy, move your ass," Dean says eventually. Sam sends up a wordless thank you.
It's pretty much as bad as Sam expected inside. Tasteful and comfortable, complete with a snooty concierge in a dark suit hovering behind the counter. The concierge looks tempted to take a brush and sweep the two of them straight back out the door.
Dean doesn't notice - he's instantly distracted. "MILF, ten o'clock," he stage whispers to Sam, and nudges him for good measure.
Dean's MILF is a tall woman in her early thirties. She's in a business suit but there's something about her that says she's more comfortable in jeans. And she has a knockout smile. She must be the Lorelai the guy in the diner mentioned.
"May I help you?" she asks.
"I sure hope so," Dean replies, oozing charm so thick you could cut it with a knife. Sam winces. "We're looking for a room for a couple of days, maybe longer."
"You must be the hunters in town. Luke called and told me to expect you," she says, ushering them towards the counter as she talks. She seems equally unperturbed by Dean's flirting or the fact that they're hunters.
Sam winces again, and Dean splutters. He's never great with off-the-cuff lying. And okay, Sam's not much better - traveling salesmen wasn't the sell of the century - but at least he doesn't look like a deer in the headlights.
"No, we're-"
"Oh, it's okay," she says, interrupting. "We're perfectly open-minded here, aren't we, Michel?" she adds, and there's an intriguing bite to her words as she turns to Snooty Guy.
"I will give them the discounted rate," Michel says in heavily accented English, looking as though he'd rather swallow a nest of wasps than do so.
"They don't think we're a gay couple, do they?" Dean whispers. "You know, with the whole open-minded thing?"
"I think that's just the hunter issue. Apparently they don't have problems with us being hunters," Sam says, and shrugs, then gives Michel a huge fake smile as he takes the keys off him.
"Have a nice stay," Michel says through his teeth.
*
The text message is short and simple. Rescue me.
Rory smiles. Not a 911, but she puts on speed across the square anyway, crunching through the snow and avoiding the icy patches as best she can in the dark. Dean's at Miss Patty's, picking up some curtain fabric for Lorelai to transform into Spirit of Stars Hollow Festival costumes, so it's not hard to guess the reason for the plea.
When Rory walks in, Dean is sidling awkwardly away from Miss Patty, clutching a bag of drapes, face pink and flustered. Trying to move away, at any rate, though with Miss Patty's arm lovingly around his waist (and hand slipping lower) he's having a hard time.
Rory calls out to catch their attention. "Sorry, Miss Patty," she says, "but I'm going to have to steal Dean away from you."
His look of relief is so pathetic Rory nearly laughs out loud. Miss Patty just looks disappointed, and pats Dean firmly on the ass. Her hand lingers, and Dean looks more scared than he did the first time he came face to face with a vampire. Rory probably shouldn't be enjoying this so much.
"Come back soon, you gorgeous boy," Miss Patty croons, and Rory would swear he blushes on top of his blush. "And you, Rory, I hope you appreciate this tall drink of water."
"Oh, I do, Miss Patty. I promise," Rory says, and takes Dean's arm.
"She's evil, isn't she?" he asks as soon as they're safely out of hearing range. "What is she? A succubus? Something worse?"
Rory just laughs.
"She pinched my butt," Dean says indignantly, and elbows her when she simply laughs louder.
*
There are maple syrup snowflakes on the pillows, potpourri bowls with protective sigils on the side, and the hugest, softest towels Sam has ever seen.
There's also only one bed, which does add weight to Dean's theory about them being taken for a gay couple again.
"Dibs on first shower," Dean calls, which is unfair as they only ever do that after a hunt, so Sam didn't even get a chance to call dibs.
When he lies down on the bed and sinks into layers of softness, he forgets about the shower and forgets to care about having to share the bed. He's not moving for the rest of the night.
*
They drop Miss Patty's fabric off in the kitchen, tramping in snow on their boots, and shaking it off their jackets.
"Shouldn't we brush this out or something?" Dean asks, pointing to the snow trail.
"Definitely 'or something'."
"Something being?"
"Nothing." Rory beams. "The snow will melt, and then it'll evaporate, and then it'll be as though it was never there."
"I brought my daughter up well," Lorelai says approvingly from the doorway. "Is that from Miss Patty?"
"Gained at great cost to Dean's dignity."
"Will pop tarts and cocoa be sufficient repayment for the loss of dignity?"
"Did I mention she pinched my butt? Repeatedly."
"Marshmallows in the cocoa?"
"You won't get a better offer," Rory points out. She opens the cupboard. "And we even have chocolate pop tarts left."
"Dignity comes cheap these days," Dean says sadly.
"Cheap, but tasty," Lorelai says.
"Mom!"
"That came out wrong," Lorelai says, not looking particularly repentant.
"I'll be in the living room," Dean says, and retreats, blushing again.
Rory tries not to smile - it only encourages her mom.
"You go and make it up to Dean for being molested."
"Are you authorizing making out on the sofa?" Rory asks hopefully.
"G-rated making out. Nothing Donna Reed's daughters wouldn't do."
Rory wrinkles her nose. "That's fairly limiting."
"Exactly."
"You're no fun."
"That's what the mom label says."
Dean's sprawled out on the sofa, his legs taking up three-quarters of it. He's shot up again this winter, broadened out at the shoulders, and just looking at him makes Rory's stomach do somersaults. She curls up into him and slips one hand under his sweater. He smiles fondly at her, even though her hand's cold against his waist.
"What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?" he asks, holding her face up to his so he can kiss her. He runs his fingers through her hair and kisses her slowly, like they have all night for this. Rory could do this forever, just melt into him.
"Tomorrow?" she asks hazily. She's never good at thinking when Dean's kissing her.
Dean pulls back a moment and smiles. "You wanted to go to Chilton tomorrow. Check out something for Luke."
Rory sighs. "Yeah."
"Ten o'clock okay?" Dean suggests, and Rory nods.
She's half asleep when Lorelai brings in the cocoa and pop tarts, but sits up and takes her mug anyway.
"So, Dean, do you have a relative in town? Sam Shaw?"
Dean looks puzzled. "No. I don't have any relatives called Shaw, as far as I know. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Just, a customer at the Inn, and his partner. One of them was the image of you, just a bit taller, a bit-" Lorelai mimes broad shoulders.
Dean shakes his head. "All my family are back in Chicago," he says.
"Taller than Dean?" Rory asks.
"Yeah, Dad's height, easily."
"I saw him earlier," Rory says. "In the diner. Both of them. They were staring at Kirk. It was freaky, how much the taller one-"
"Sam," Lorelai interjects.
"How much Sam looks like Dean. Luke thought they were hunters. And they went all stuttery and awkward and denied it, but they were totally lying."
"In that case, definitely not my family," Dean says. "We're all boringly normal."
*
Dean's singing.
Sam hates waking up to Dean singing. It's always earworms, and Sam always ends up humming it for the rest of the day.
This morning it's Wake Up, It's a Beautiful Morning. Not a song Sam would have expected Dean to know all the lyrics to. Even with a pillow (an incredibly thick and soft pillow) over his head, Sam's not going to get back to sleep.
"Rise and shine," Dean says, breaking off from his song long enough to bounce on the bed. He's got his boots on already.
Sam sits up. "What's the plan?" he asks.
"Breakfast, Sammy. That's the plan."
"I meant the plan for the hunt? Demons, boy in danger, that hunt. You remember?"
"Can't hunt on an empty belly, you should know that by now. Priorities. And Mr. Roth is treating us to breakfast."
A few mouthfuls into breakfast, and Sam has to admit Dean's made the right choice. The bacon is maple smoked and just the right amount of crispy, the bread so fresh it's still steaming, and he's never tasted better eggs.
"D'you think we've died and gone to heaven?" Dean asks, mouth full, a slice of bacon hanging out of the side. There's a blob of butter on his chin. Sam resists the urge to wipe it off. Dean tends to get cranky when he does things like that.
"I think they probably expect table manners in heaven," Sam says. "There's no way they'd let you in."
Dean just chomps his food even more noisily, and steals a slice of Sam's bacon when he makes the mistake of looking away for less than a second. He doesn't get the chance to steal it back, not unless he wants it half chewed. He doesn't.
"Can I get you anything more, gentlemen?" The waitress holds a pencil poised over her notepad.
Sam has a horrid moment when he's sure Dean's about to belch, but he just rubs his stomach and looks regretful. "All good here, thank you, darlin'. My compliments to the chef, though. This was manna, ambrosia, food of the gods."
The waitress smiles at Dean as though she's charmed by him. Sam hopes she's simply doing her job, not that stupid. "I'll pass on the compliments to Sookie. She's our chef," she says, and heads back to the kitchen.
Two slices of toast later, a cheery-faced woman in a chef's jacket appears. "I hear you're enjoying your breakfast," she says, and positively beams at them.
"You must be the chef," Dean says, and Sam knows this worshipful look.
"Yes. I'm Sookie," she says and picks up one of the napkins on the table. She folds it, unfolds it, folds it again, and then seems to realize what she's doing and puts it down again.
"I'm Dean. And now the introductions are over, will you marry me, Sookie?" Dean asks.
There's a guy with a box of groceries in his arms, glaring at them across the room. Sam nudges Dean. "Dean. I think Sookie's already spoken for."
"Ah, well," Dean says, and smiles at Sookie. "If you ever want to trade him in for a new model-"
Sam would hit him for that. Sookie just winks at him. Then giggles. Actually giggles.
"You'll be the first to know, Dean," she says. "I always like to cook for a man who appreciates good food."
"Oh, I do," Dean says, and his leer says he appreciates more than that. Sam rolls his eyes.
The guy across the room is turning a dangerous shade of beet red.
"Breakfast's over," Sam says. He gets up, grabs Dean by the arm, and practically drags him out of the dining room. As they go out the door, he catches what sounds like you can't go killing customers, Jackson. Sam sighs. He's lost count of how many of those arguments Dean's started.
*
Rory isn't awake yet. Walking, yes, but not awake. She needs coffee, a large quantity, but first she needs a shower.
She stumbles into the bathroom, tripping over her pajama bottoms, landing face first into-Luke?
"Oh my God, no! Boundaries!" she shrieks, and if her voice is too high pitched for the time of day, that's totally not her fault, not when there's a half-naked Watcher in the bathroom. Her Watcher. Half-naked.
"Oh, sorry," he says, as calmly as if this happens to him every day.
"Rory, don't go in the bathroom," Lorelai shouts from the landing. Too late.
Rory closes her eyes and backs out, and then realizes it would have been easier to have turned around and kept her eyes open. "Mom! You couldn't have warned me a minute ago? Before I learned just how hairy Luke is?" Rory says plaintively.
"I'll get Luke to fix the lock later," Lorelai promises.
"I bet other Slayers don't have to deal with their mother dating their Watcher. It's probably unethical, you know," she says, following her mom into the kitchen.
"Luke made coffee," Lorelai says, handing her a steaming mug. "And muffins. Double chocolate chip muffins."
The muffins are still warm - Rory can smell them, sweet and chocolaty.
Maybe not completely unethical, she decides.
*
Luke doesn't stay for breakfast, which is a relief. It isn't that Rory doesn't like him - she does - it's just, well, weird. He's been Luke at the diner forever, a grumpy face behind the counter begrudgingly serving her coffee. And she's getting used to him being her Watcher, a grumpy face behind a pile of books. But finding him in the bathroom in the morning, having him around so much, it's taking some getting used to. Which she will. It's just going to take a while.
In the meantime, she can't help wishing he'd sneak out the window in the morning, like Dean does when they've stayed up late researching and fallen asleep on top of her bed and she doesn't want to have to explain to her mom why he's still there the next morning.
She's on her third coffee, beginning to feel human, when the phone rings.
"It's for you," Lorelai calls. She holds out the phone like it might bite her. Never a good sign.
Rory takes it. "Hello?" she says warily.
"Oh, Rory, thank God it's you. Not that I want to speak to you of course - let's face it, you're the last person I'd ever want to ask for help - but I have to ask someone. And people talk, you know, and they say stuff about you, like you're maybe into weird stuff, can help out with things that no one else can."
It's Paris. Breathless and talking virtual nonsense. Great. Just the way Rory wants to start the weekend. Three coffees aren't enough to deal with Paris. No beverage created is enough to deal with Paris when she's clearly in full on freak out mode.
"Paris. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. And you can leave out all the bits about not wanting to speak to me because trust me, it's mutual." It's too early in the day for Rory to try to be nice, especially to Paris.
"It's Tristin," Paris says, then swallows and stops talking. It's not entirely silent on the other end of the phone though. There are uncomfortable gulping sounds and little-sobs?
Paris is crying. Paris Gellar, the toughest girl Rory's ever met, and she's crying on the other end of the phone. Rory wishes more than anything that she could just hand the phone back to her mom and say you deal with her, please. But it's clear that Paris is calling Rory as a Slayer - and really, way too many people know, it's getting ridiculous - so Rory the vampire Slayer needs to answer. She steels herself.
"What about Tristin?"
"He's-missing."
"Missing how? Not answering his phone missing, on a date with another girl and didn't go to bed last night missing, or what?" Rory bites her lip. She's not doing too well
"I think a demon took him," Paris says, and now she starts sobbing.
"Oh," is all Rory can manage.
There's a click on the phone line, and after a few seconds of silence broken only by a muffled sob, Lorelai comes back into the room and nudges Rory. "Invite her over," she says.
Rory puts her hand over the phone. "You were listening in?" she whispers.
"It's a good thing I was. Weird goings on at Chilton, and now Tristin's disappeared, possibly taken by a demon. Spot the connection?"
Rory feels like an idiot for not instantly joining the dots. She can't even blame being under-caffeinated, just her dislike of Paris and a lack of interest in Tristin's life. Not forgivable.
"You'd better come over," she tells Paris, trying to sound welcoming. "Where are you?" she asks, an afterthought.
"In my car," Paris says, slowly as though she doesn't want to admit it. "I've spent the night driving around. I didn't know what to do."
"We'll find him," Rory promises, and hopes she can keep the promise.
Paris pulls up outside the house with a screech of brakes ten minutes later, and hammers on the door as though she's trying to wake up the whole street.
Lorelai calls out bye and heads into the kitchen. "Coward," Rory shouts after her, and drags her feet as she heads for the front door. She debates turning tail and running out the back, but takes a deep breath instead and opens the door.
She's barely opened her mouth to say come in before Paris is pushing past her and into the house.
"It is true, isn't it, that you're some sort of-?" Paris trails off, obviously not accustomed to being lost for words.
"Vampire Slayer," Rory fills in for her. "And other demons and monsters as necessary. Yes. It's true."
"Oh." Paris sits down as though her legs won't hold her up any longer. "Oh, okay." She's an unflattering shade of pale, with a distinct greenish tinge. Rory never realized before that people could actually go green. Well, not without some sort of magic or demonic shenanigans being involved. But Paris is definitely looking green.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" Rory offers. She's fairly sure that's what you're supposed to do for shock.
Paris doesn't look impressed by the offer. "I came here for help, not tea. If I'd wanted tea, I'd have gone to that grubby little diner your mother's boyfriend runs. I'm not going to sit here drinking tea while Tristin's tortured by demons."
Rory ignores the insult to Luke's diner (whatever faults it has, it's never grubby) and concentrates on the important issue. "They were torturing Tristin?"
"How would I know? I'm not the demon expert," she snaps, then drops her head as though all the bravado has simply drained out. "Isn't that what demons do? Torture people? Flay their skin off while they're alive, or-" Paris comes to a choking halt.
The one thing Rory's sure of is that Paris wants reassurance. That Tristin's still alive, and that he's not being tortured, and that Rory will be able to get him back safe and sound.
Rory'd like to be certain of that too. She just knows better. So she doesn't offer any false promises, but at least manages to put on her best optimistic tone.
"We need to work out what kind of demon it is first. The more we know, the better chance we've got of rescuing him. So," and Rory's all business now, "what did you see?"
Paris twists the hem of her skirt between her fingers. She's still in uniform. "It came out of nowhere. This thing, it just suddenly appeared."
"What were you doing?"
"We'd stayed behind to start work on our history presentation. Tristin asked to work with me, you know," Paris says. She sounds rather pathetic.
"Yes, Paris, I know." Rory does feel sorry for her, it's just all mingled up with irritation.
"Tristin went to get a drink of water, and I looked over my notes while I was waiting."
Rory gets out her notebook and starts making notes. Luke will expect all the details. "Okay, good," she says encouragingly. "Keep going."
"And I might have looked at an old demonology book. Just for research, of course, nothing else."
Rory groans.
*
"Why don't you chat up the French waiter, see if you can learn anything from him?"
"He's a concierge, Dean, not a waiter."
Dean does that irritable little shake of his head he always gives when Sam picks him up on semantics. "Pffft. Same difference. Anyway, he's had his eye on your ass, so we might as well take advantage of it."
Sam splutters, and Dean's halfway up the stairs before he can come up with a worthy response.
Much as Sam hates to admit it, Dean's idea isn't the worst one he's ever had. The concierge is sure to know the area well, though quite how Sam's going to feign an interest in local schools without looking like a pedophile, he isn't sure.
He decides to go for the direct approach. "What are the schools like in the area?" he asks, and hopes he's projecting a calm and casual curiosity.
"Empty wastelands, dens of vice, pits of monsters. And that is merely the children." Michel manages to imbue the word children with the kind of horror normally reserved for serial killer or rapist.
"Okay-" Sam says. Maybe Michel wasn't the best person to ask.
"If it's demons you are interested in, there are rumors that there is something strange happening at Chilton School." Michel makes a little moue of disgust.
That was scarily easy.
*
"So, Luke, you know how you always say that teenage girls are the worst kind of evil?" Rory's learned not to waste time on pleasantries like hello or how are you when she's phoning Luke.
"What have you done?" Luke sounds like he expects the worst.
"Not me!" Rory's offended. "Why would you think I meant me? I'm offended," she says, just in case her tone hasn't already told him.
"So does this have anything to do with the supposed weird goings on at Chilton?" Luke asks, though he asks as though he knows the answer already. Rory's never sure if that's a handy trait, or a really annoying one.
"Yep," she says. "You remember Paris?"
"Freaky girl, long hair, talks like she's a CEO?"
He left out the bit about hating Rory, but it's a pretty good description otherwise. "That's Paris. Well, she's summoned a demon. Or possibly more than one."
Luke doesn't say anything, but Rory swears she can hear his surprise down the phone. She smiles - catching Luke by surprise is always satisfying, like a mug of cocoa and a large bag of Oreos after a late night's patrol around snowy graveyards.
He recovers quickly. "You want me to find out more about the spell she used, work out what kind of demon it might be?"
Rory nods.
"You know I can't see when you're nodding," Luke says. Rory rolls her eyes. "But I can always tell when you're rolling your eyes at me."
"I'll put the coffee on," Rory says, because she knows that nothing will get Luke here quicker than saving himself from Rory's coffee making skills (which are good enough for everyone apart from Mr. Particular Danes), and hangs up.
She has no intention of going in the kitchen if she can help it. Last time she peeked around the door, her mom was looking pained and Paris was sobbing on her shoulder. Rory's far better at wielding stakes, or her new crossbow, than handkerchiefs.
*
Luke's truck pulls up in less than five minutes, and Luke gets out, laden with books.
Rory meets him on the front stoop and takes the top two books off the pile. "Paris is in the kitchen, the coffee pot is empty, and you'll earn major points with Mom if you can make coffee and interrogate Paris at the same time."
Luke grunts something under his breath and heads inside, just as Dean pulls up.
She gives him the Cliff Notes version.
"Why can't we just be glad Tristin's gone, and leave it at that?" Dean asks hopefully.
"Because-" Rory wrinkles her nose, and has to admit that the idea is tempting.
Dean sighs, and answers for her. "Because it's what you do. Because you're Rory the Vampire Slayer, protector of the innocent and pains in the neck. And I wouldn't have you any other way."
"So you'll help?"
"You know I will," he says and kisses her on the forehead. "Now, what do you need me to do?" he asks.
"Research," she says, and tries to give the sort of smile that'll convince Dean that she's just proposed something exciting.
The look on his face tells her she's failed.
*
"You know, sometimes I can't help but miss the days when a date meant a movie and popcorn and a kiss goodnight on the front porch. Or curling up on the sofa watching cartoons. That's good too," Dean says as he closes the first book she handed him. A waft of dust floats into the air.
"You've got to admit, this is a whole lot more exciting," Rory says.
"The demon slaying bit, yes. The reading up about demons in extremely old books, not so much. I mean, what language is this even in?" he asks, pointing at the next book on the pile.
Rory peers at it and sighs. "No idea," she says. She flicks through it. "It's got pictures," she says, a forlorn attempt at seeing the bright side.
They look at each other. "Rock, paper, scissors for it," Dean suggests. "Loser gets it, winner gets a book in English."
Dean picks rock, Rory picks scissors.
It's going to be a long day.
part 1 | part 2
Title: I'm Not Ifrit of the Dark (1/2)
Fandoms: Gilmore Girls/Supernatural (and much borrowing from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Universe)
Characters: Sam & Dean, plus almost everyone from Stars Hollow
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word count: 14,500 words
Betas: Thanks to the wonderful girlmostlikely and marciaelena, and to pheebs1 for audiencing/enabling.
Notes: For kellifer_fic. An AU crossover, in which I blithely ignore timelines and any other inconveniences. ETA: Now with a fantastic cover by bisclaveret.
part 1 | part 2
"My mother thinks you're evil," Lane says. She's half in, half out of Rory's window. She drops to the floor with a grunt and brushes snow off her mittens. "Roughly on a par with Britney Spears, but not quite as bad as Satan."
"I'll take that as a compliment. I think," Rory says. "The not as bad as Satan part, anyway."
Lane nods. "I think you've actually gone up in her estimation lately, with the whole saving people thing going on, even though you date boys-"
"A boy," Rory interjects. "Just Dean. That's one boy. Singular."
"Yeah, well, you know Mama. You see one boy, she sees sex and drugs and babies and the complete moral decline of America."
"It's a shame you can't get glasses to fix that."
"That'd be really cool. She could put them on, and suddenly chips would be tasty snacks instead of death in a bag, and rock music would be harmless entertainment for the masses instead of one of the evil schemes of the devil."
"A scheme of the devil? Really?"
"Yeah. Her words. Well, strictly speaking, they're Paul's words in the Bible, but I don't think he was specifically talking about rock music."
"Probably not," Rory agrees.
"So, how do you make this stuff look easy?" Lane says, falling back onto the bed and pulling off several layers of clothing.
Rory looks at her homework. "Trig?" she asks, puzzled.
"No. Breaking and entering. Is it one of the special Slayer powers?"
"I think, technically, you were just entering. There was no breaking going on. Was there?"
Lane pats herself down. "No, no breaking. But it was close."
"I don't think it's a special Slayer power. More of an inherited trait, from Mom. Although I think her special skill was breaking out, not breaking in. Anyway, why the stealthy entry? Was there a problem with the door?"
"No, no problem. Just thought I'd get in some practice. You never know when it might come in useful."
Rory closes her notebook. "Done," she says. "So, why does Mrs. Kim think I'm evil this time? Anything new, or just the usual?"
"The usual, plus there's something funky going on at Chilton, so she's convinced you're behind it."
"Mrs. Kim used the word funky?"
"No. She said unsavory and unchristian and various other un-things. I just summed them all up as funky. I thought you might prefer the short version."
"Good summary," Rory says approvingly. "But what sort of funky? Demon funky and I need to put my Slayer boots on, or just Tristin up to no good?"
"I don't know. Might be nothing - Mom was talking about evil and boys and sex and boys and evil, so I tuned out a bit - but there was something weird I noticed earlier. I was scrying for my This is the Voice CD - I didn't lend it to you, did I?"
Rory thinks about it for a moment. "No."
"So, well, anyway, when I hung the pendant over the map, it went all crazy over Chilton."
"Maybe it's all the hormones there - they can do crazy things."
"Or maybe there's something demon funky going on." Lane sounds hopeful.
Rory thinks of her plans for the evening. "Wouldn't you like a quiet evening, nothing demon or funky about it? Just you and me, enough junk food to make us mildly nauseous, some CDs and a strawberry scented face pack?"
"Actually, it's kinda cool, now, you being a Slayer and all. Besides, strawberry scented anything is guaranteed to get me in trouble with Mom - she'd be convinced it was a boy magnet."
"Your mother thinks everything is a boy magnet."
"True."
*
"Dean."
Sam sits up in bed, still faintly disoriented from his dream. Dean's fast asleep - which means Sam wasn't actually screaming in his sleep - and for a moment Sam feels bad about waking him. Not so bad he doesn't try again, louder. "Dean!"
"Nnngh?" Dean shakes his head and stuffs his face further into the pillow.
Sam leans over the side of his bed and picks up a sneaker. His aim's good. It hits the back of Dean's head.
"What the fucking fuck? It's-" Dean looks across at the huge digital display on the alarm clock, and if Sam were more awake he'd have thought to turn that around. "It's three fucking a.m., Sam."
"I had a vision."
Dean sighs. "Was anyone being killed in it?"
"No, but-"
"Then tell me in the morning," Dean interrupts, but Sam carries on talking.
"There was a boy. He couldn't have been out of his teens. He was stripped half-" Sam doesn't get to finish the sentence before Dean's doubled over in bed, laughing so hard his bed's shaking. "It isn't funny, Dean."
"Dude, you're killing me here! Got a wet patch in your bed? Because that's not a vision, it's your gay wet dream."
Sam glares, gets up and grabs Dean by the shoulders, pushing him up against the headboard. "It. Was. Not. A wet dream. I had a vision, Dean, and we're going to do something about it. The boy was tied up and he'd been beaten - there were bruises all over him, and he was scared shitless, okay? And no, I don't get my rocks off on stuff like that."
"Stop glaring at me like a pissy little bitch. Any clues as to where he was to start with?"
Sam closes his eyes and tries to picture the scene. "He was wearing a tie; looked like a school uniform tie. With a crest. I can draw it, I think. And he was wearing a medallion."
"What else?" Dean asks, and he's all business now, sitting up, switching a lamp on, and reaching for a notebook.
"He was in a library. Could have been a school library. It was empty though, apart from him and whoever had taken him."
"Closed for the day empty, or abandoned?"
"Just after closing time. The shelves were full of books still, and there was an envelope on the table." Sam can almost see it; tries to remember what it said.
"Can you see a name?"
Sam shakes his head. "No, but it said Stars Hollow."
"Okay, that's a start. How about who took him?"
"I don't know. I-I didn't get that. Just shock and fear. And fire."
"Fire? Like, the building burning down?"
"No, more like-creatures made of fire? Maybe?"
"Want to be any more vague?"
"I'm doing my best, okay?!" Sam's tired too, and barely awake, and he's not in the mood for dealing with Dean bitching at him.
"So, you gonna start drawing that crest now?" Dean asks, handing over his notebook.
Sam takes it and nods. He's halfway through the sketch when he remembers something. "There was a day calendar on a desk. It said January 8th."
"Sunday. So we've got two days."
Sam nods again.
"In other words, you woke me up for nothing."
Sam ducks a fraction too late to avoid the shoe Dean throws his way.
*
"Hi, Rory," Luke says without turning around.
"It's freaky, the way you do that," she replies, perching on a stool at the counter. Lane sits down beside her.
"You've got your Slayer powers, I have my Watcher powers," Luke replies. He puts a large blue and white spotted mug of coffee in front of Rory, and raises an eyebrow in question at Lane.
"Better make it a glass of water," she says. "Never know when Mom might show up. She's got this sixth sense about me consuming anything that's not organic and tasteless. It's her super power."
"Some super powers are suckier than others," Rory says sympathetically. "You can share my muffin - that way we can pretend it was just me eating it."
"Is that your incredibly subtle way of ordering a muffin?" Luke asks.
"Shouldn't you already know I want one? Or is your power limited to caffeinated beverages?"
Luke sets a plate with a large blueberry muffin, neatly cut in two, in front of them. "You know there's something strange going on at Chilton, right?"
"Lane said something of the sort, though her description was funky. And apparently Mrs. Kim thinks I'm behind it."
"Are you?"
"Luke!"
"You're a teenage girl. Teenage girls are strange creatures. Ergo, my question."
Rory can always tell when Luke's been at the books too much. He starts using words like ergo. "Mom says I'm a forty year old teenager, and I haven't been up to anything funky. At least," Rory corrects herself, "nothing more than my usual, Watcher approved funkiness. Patrolling, staking, researching and yet more patrolling. So, what exactly is going on at Chilton?"
"I'm not sure yet. Taylor's been looking nervous, though, so it's not something he's behind for once."
"You think Taylor's behind all the evil in Stars Hollow."
"He usually is," Luke replies gloomily.
"Not that I want to interrupt this thrilling conversation," Lane says, "but I'm going to have to get home sometime soon, or my mom will be sending a search party out after me."
Rory fishes in her pocket and pulls out a packet of gum. Cinnamon flavored - it must be Dean's. "Here," she says, handing a piece over. "It'll disguise the shocking carbohydrates you've been eating."
"Thanks!"
"Shoo, run. Remember what happened last time you missed curfew."
Lane pulls a face, but grabs her bag and rushes out.
Rory turns back to Luke. "So, it's not one of Taylor's tricks then. Something new in town?"
Luke shrugs noncommittally. He never likes admitting anything might not be Taylor's fault. "How about you scope the place out tomorrow?"
"It's Saturday tomorrow," Rory says, and she can't help it if she sounds whiny. She has plans. More to the point, she and Dean have plans, plans that involve just the two of them, somewhere quiet. Alone.
"Exactly. So the school will be empty, and you'll be free to look around."
Rory sighs. There's no point arguing - Luke will only pull the Watcher card if she does. "Okay. I'll call Dean and get him to drive me there in the morning."
Luke points to the sign behind the diner, and when Rory pulls her cell phone out, he taps the sign. "No cell phones applies to you, too. Especially you," he adds, and narrows his eyes.
Rory ignores him as usual.
The door jingles as she dials Dean's number. It's only Kirk. She starts to smile at him, then remembers that he won't notice, so she turns her back to the diner and talks to Dean.
*
Sam leans on the Impala and looks out over the square, bare trees softened with snow and fairy lights. The shops around the square - bookstores and antique shops and bakeries - are all lit up and welcoming, and even the air smells sweet, like syrup. There's a huge banner over the road, announcing the coming Spirit of Stars Hollow Festival.
On the corner, there's a guy with a guitar, like some old fashioned troubadour.
"Wow," Dean says, eyebrow raised. "Bet the burgers will be a rip off here."
Sam just nods. For a moment he imagines living somewhere like this, walking across the square with Jess' mittened hand in his, laughing at some secret joke. He'd buy her a crepe and then steal bites from it as they walked home, and she'd pelt him with snowballs in retaliation.
Dean's voice cuts in. "You still with me?"
"Yeah, just-" Sam shrugs. They're here to find a kid and rescue him, not indulge his stupid, white picket fence fantasies. "Let's go eat."
"Or not."
"Huh?"
Dean nods his head towards the road. "Looks like we've got some work to do first," he says gleefully.
There's a creature ambling blindly across the road in front of them. Arms out, vacant look. There's only one thing it can be.
They race to the trunk. Dean pulls out a machete and runs his fingers along the blade, as though he doesn't already know it's honed to perfect sharpness. "Ah, you beauty, you've been wanting some action," he says to it, like Sam's not standing right there listening to him talk to his knife.
"You might want to get a move on," Sam warns. "Your zombie's heading towards that coffee shop."
"Fuck. It's moving fast for a zombie."
Dean slams the trunk shut, and they race after it.
They're too late. The tinkle of the bell above the coffee shop door hangs mockingly in the air as the door closes behind the creature.
"Fuck," Dean repeats.
Sam expects screams and a stampede, but there's nothing. No one rushing out, no sign at all that anything's wrong.
Dean motions Sam to the side of the coffee shop, and peers in.
"You're never going to believe this," he says slowly.
Sam peers over his shoulder.
The coffee shop is about half full. There's a kid at the counter chatting on her cell, a surly-looking guy in a backwards baseball cap behind the counter, and a group of middle-aged women clustered together at the best table to catch all the gossip. All perfectly normal. And, at a table near the counter, the zombie. He's sitting quietly at the table, looking expectantly at the counter, and the guy behind it is looking for all the world as if he's about to come take the zombie's order.
"What the-?"
Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know. I mean, that definitely is a zombie, right? There's no way I mistook something else for a zombie." Dean sounds horrified at the possibility.
"No, no doubt about it. It's a zombie, all right."
"So-what-?" Dean gives up. "Looks like we're going in."
"Dean, you're holding a machete. You can't walk into a diner with that in your hand."
"I'm not going up against a zombie unarmed," Dean says belligerently.
"I'll wait here, keep an eye on things. You go back and get us some more discreet weapons. And Dean-"
"Yeah?"
"You know what discreet means, right?"
Dean flips him the finger, but heads back to the Impala at a fast jog. He's back again in under a minute with a couple of sheathed blades in his hand, and an odd shaped bulge under his jacket. Sam secretes one of the blades under his jacket and pretends not to see the bulge.
"Ready?" Dean asks, and Sam hides a smile. Dean's like a kid at Christmas over the promise of some zombie action.
"Yes," Sam says, then holds Dean back a moment. "We can't go in there swinging, you know."
"I'm not an idiot, Sam. I know that."
"Just, I know how you get with zombies. We're gonna have to get it outside before we can do anything."
Dean gives him the stink eye. Sam just stares back, because it's true, Dean does go all gung ho around zombies. And this isn't the sort of town where you can just act like there aren't zombie parts all over the floor, and even if there are, you had nothing to do with it.
Inside, it's warm and smells of coffee and cinnamon and chocolate. Dean's stomach rumbles loudly.
"Might as well fill up while we're here," he says, and heads for the counter, skirting the table with the zombie warily.
They take seats at the counter, Sam slantwise to keep an eye on the zombie, Dean next to a plate of donuts, all attention on them.
"Be with you in a minute," the guy in the baseball cap says. He's carrying a bowl of something Sam can't quite see, and he's heading back to the zombie. Sam reaches under his jacket, hand on the hilt of his knife. Dean's in the same pose, donuts forgotten for a moment.
And then.
"Here you go, Kirk," the guy says, and puts a bowl in front of the zombie. A bowl of-steaming hot cauliflower?
What the fuck? Sam mouths to Dean, and Dean just shrugs his shoulders.
The zombie, Kirk, digs in, hands full of cauliflower, and stuffs it in his mouth, making little appreciative noises. He actually sounds not unlike Dean with a particularly good slice of pie.
Sam saves that thought for a later date.
"Okay, what can I get you guys?"
Sam swings around and tries to act like he's not just been staring at a zombie eating vegetables. "Um, we'll have, um-" he says, still stuck on the vegetable-eating zombie.
"What my learning disabled brother is trying to say, is that we'll have two coffees, and four donuts to go, thanks."
"You related to the Foresters?" the guy asks out of the blue, and the girl at the counter turns around at that, still on her cell. She stares at Sam like she doesn't even know she's doing so. "I'll call you back," she says into her phone, and closes it, not taking her eyes off him.
"What?" Sam asks. This place just gets weirder and weirder. Now he's got a girl - an incredibly pretty brunette - staring at him like he's a ghost, a bunch of women exclaiming and muttering to each other (and he's sure that's about him too), and the guy behind the counter has an eyebrow raised in query. Sam rubs his hand over his chin, just in case he's got something on his face, and checks - his fly's done up, and there's no blood on his hoodie or jacket.
"Come again?" he asks this time, still waiting for an answer.
"The Foresters? Dean Forester? You any relation?"
"No," Sam says warily. And maybe he shouldn't ask, but the looks are freaking him out, so he has to. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing," the guy says, though he's still staring. "You just look like him, that's all. Uncanny, really." He puts the coffees and a bag of donuts on the counter.
"And there you thought you were unique, huh, Sammy," Dean says, patting him on the shoulder as he gets up and nudges his stool out of the way. "Come on, time to head out."
"But-" Sam says, and tries to point discreetly at the zombie with his elbow.
Dean ignores him.
"If you're looking for a room for the night, you should head over to Lorelai's place. The Dragonfly Inn. She does special rates for hunters."
Sam swallows. Obviously he didn't hear right. Or there's some logical explanation. "We're not hunters," he says. "We're, um, traveling salesmen," he adds lamely, and winces as Dean glares at him.
They elbow each other getting out of the door, then stand on the sidewalk and look at each other.
"Was that-?"
"Did it-?"
Sam takes a deep breath. Zombies don't eat vegetables. Zombies don't sit quietly in cafes in civilized small towns in Connecticut and wait to be served. But-
"We need to rethink this one."
"Really? You think?"
*
Rory turns to Luke.
"That was freaky, right?" she whispers. She knows without looking around that Miss Patty and Babette are listening in - their table is far too quiet.
"There was a certain resemblance," Luke says dismissively.
"A certain resemblance? Seriously? Where are your glasses? You just told him the resemblance was uncanny. He was the image of Dean, just-older. And that doesn't strike you as weird? Like," and she drops her voice even lower, even though trying to keep anything secret in this town is a losing battle, "supernatural shape shifting dopplegänger monster I need to kill kind of weird?"
Luke mutters something that sounds like never any peace when a Gilmore's around (which Rory thinks is a bit hypocritical considering he was the one who told her she was a Slayer) and starts fiddling with the coffee machine.
Rory talks to his back instead. "What I can't work out is why a creature would shape shift to look like Dean's older brother, especially if he then insists he isn't related."
"Shape shifters always copy people exactly," Luke mumbles into his coffee pot.
"And if he were a dopplegänger, he'd be a perfect match. So, not a dopplegänger either." The only logical explanation is the simplest one - there's a guy who looks like her boyfriend, and he's just driven into town. "Occam's Razor," she mutters. "But it's still freaky."
*
The troubadour's standing on the sidewalk by the Impala, like he's waiting for them. He launches into Carry on My Wayward Son when he sees them.
"Man, this place is freaky," Dean says, and pulls out sharply.
Five minutes later, they're pulling up in front of the Dragonfly Inn. The inn is a beautiful old building with a long porch, and under its coat of snow it looks like a Christmas card illustration.
They look at each other.
"There's gotta be somewhere else," Dean says.
"If there is, it's probably five star, Michelin guide, black tie for dinner, and would drain a credit card in one night. So it's the Inn or the car. Your call."
Dean looks as though he's seriously considering choosing the car option. Sam silently prays he picks the Inn - he doesn't care if it's full of froufrou knickknacks, or if the owner thinks they're gay antiquers, or even if there's a compulsory communal sing-song in the evening followed by cocoa. Tomorrow they can find the captured kid, and work out what the hell's going on with a vegetable-eating zombie, but right now he just wants a bed with a mattress, and if it's long enough for him he'll count it a bonus.
"Come on, Sammy, move your ass," Dean says eventually. Sam sends up a wordless thank you.
It's pretty much as bad as Sam expected inside. Tasteful and comfortable, complete with a snooty concierge in a dark suit hovering behind the counter. The concierge looks tempted to take a brush and sweep the two of them straight back out the door.
Dean doesn't notice - he's instantly distracted. "MILF, ten o'clock," he stage whispers to Sam, and nudges him for good measure.
Dean's MILF is a tall woman in her early thirties. She's in a business suit but there's something about her that says she's more comfortable in jeans. And she has a knockout smile. She must be the Lorelai the guy in the diner mentioned.
"May I help you?" she asks.
"I sure hope so," Dean replies, oozing charm so thick you could cut it with a knife. Sam winces. "We're looking for a room for a couple of days, maybe longer."
"You must be the hunters in town. Luke called and told me to expect you," she says, ushering them towards the counter as she talks. She seems equally unperturbed by Dean's flirting or the fact that they're hunters.
Sam winces again, and Dean splutters. He's never great with off-the-cuff lying. And okay, Sam's not much better - traveling salesmen wasn't the sell of the century - but at least he doesn't look like a deer in the headlights.
"No, we're-"
"Oh, it's okay," she says, interrupting. "We're perfectly open-minded here, aren't we, Michel?" she adds, and there's an intriguing bite to her words as she turns to Snooty Guy.
"I will give them the discounted rate," Michel says in heavily accented English, looking as though he'd rather swallow a nest of wasps than do so.
"They don't think we're a gay couple, do they?" Dean whispers. "You know, with the whole open-minded thing?"
"I think that's just the hunter issue. Apparently they don't have problems with us being hunters," Sam says, and shrugs, then gives Michel a huge fake smile as he takes the keys off him.
"Have a nice stay," Michel says through his teeth.
*
The text message is short and simple. Rescue me.
Rory smiles. Not a 911, but she puts on speed across the square anyway, crunching through the snow and avoiding the icy patches as best she can in the dark. Dean's at Miss Patty's, picking up some curtain fabric for Lorelai to transform into Spirit of Stars Hollow Festival costumes, so it's not hard to guess the reason for the plea.
When Rory walks in, Dean is sidling awkwardly away from Miss Patty, clutching a bag of drapes, face pink and flustered. Trying to move away, at any rate, though with Miss Patty's arm lovingly around his waist (and hand slipping lower) he's having a hard time.
Rory calls out to catch their attention. "Sorry, Miss Patty," she says, "but I'm going to have to steal Dean away from you."
His look of relief is so pathetic Rory nearly laughs out loud. Miss Patty just looks disappointed, and pats Dean firmly on the ass. Her hand lingers, and Dean looks more scared than he did the first time he came face to face with a vampire. Rory probably shouldn't be enjoying this so much.
"Come back soon, you gorgeous boy," Miss Patty croons, and Rory would swear he blushes on top of his blush. "And you, Rory, I hope you appreciate this tall drink of water."
"Oh, I do, Miss Patty. I promise," Rory says, and takes Dean's arm.
"She's evil, isn't she?" he asks as soon as they're safely out of hearing range. "What is she? A succubus? Something worse?"
Rory just laughs.
"She pinched my butt," Dean says indignantly, and elbows her when she simply laughs louder.
*
There are maple syrup snowflakes on the pillows, potpourri bowls with protective sigils on the side, and the hugest, softest towels Sam has ever seen.
There's also only one bed, which does add weight to Dean's theory about them being taken for a gay couple again.
"Dibs on first shower," Dean calls, which is unfair as they only ever do that after a hunt, so Sam didn't even get a chance to call dibs.
When he lies down on the bed and sinks into layers of softness, he forgets about the shower and forgets to care about having to share the bed. He's not moving for the rest of the night.
*
They drop Miss Patty's fabric off in the kitchen, tramping in snow on their boots, and shaking it off their jackets.
"Shouldn't we brush this out or something?" Dean asks, pointing to the snow trail.
"Definitely 'or something'."
"Something being?"
"Nothing." Rory beams. "The snow will melt, and then it'll evaporate, and then it'll be as though it was never there."
"I brought my daughter up well," Lorelai says approvingly from the doorway. "Is that from Miss Patty?"
"Gained at great cost to Dean's dignity."
"Will pop tarts and cocoa be sufficient repayment for the loss of dignity?"
"Did I mention she pinched my butt? Repeatedly."
"Marshmallows in the cocoa?"
"You won't get a better offer," Rory points out. She opens the cupboard. "And we even have chocolate pop tarts left."
"Dignity comes cheap these days," Dean says sadly.
"Cheap, but tasty," Lorelai says.
"Mom!"
"That came out wrong," Lorelai says, not looking particularly repentant.
"I'll be in the living room," Dean says, and retreats, blushing again.
Rory tries not to smile - it only encourages her mom.
"You go and make it up to Dean for being molested."
"Are you authorizing making out on the sofa?" Rory asks hopefully.
"G-rated making out. Nothing Donna Reed's daughters wouldn't do."
Rory wrinkles her nose. "That's fairly limiting."
"Exactly."
"You're no fun."
"That's what the mom label says."
Dean's sprawled out on the sofa, his legs taking up three-quarters of it. He's shot up again this winter, broadened out at the shoulders, and just looking at him makes Rory's stomach do somersaults. She curls up into him and slips one hand under his sweater. He smiles fondly at her, even though her hand's cold against his waist.
"What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?" he asks, holding her face up to his so he can kiss her. He runs his fingers through her hair and kisses her slowly, like they have all night for this. Rory could do this forever, just melt into him.
"Tomorrow?" she asks hazily. She's never good at thinking when Dean's kissing her.
Dean pulls back a moment and smiles. "You wanted to go to Chilton tomorrow. Check out something for Luke."
Rory sighs. "Yeah."
"Ten o'clock okay?" Dean suggests, and Rory nods.
She's half asleep when Lorelai brings in the cocoa and pop tarts, but sits up and takes her mug anyway.
"So, Dean, do you have a relative in town? Sam Shaw?"
Dean looks puzzled. "No. I don't have any relatives called Shaw, as far as I know. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Just, a customer at the Inn, and his partner. One of them was the image of you, just a bit taller, a bit-" Lorelai mimes broad shoulders.
Dean shakes his head. "All my family are back in Chicago," he says.
"Taller than Dean?" Rory asks.
"Yeah, Dad's height, easily."
"I saw him earlier," Rory says. "In the diner. Both of them. They were staring at Kirk. It was freaky, how much the taller one-"
"Sam," Lorelai interjects.
"How much Sam looks like Dean. Luke thought they were hunters. And they went all stuttery and awkward and denied it, but they were totally lying."
"In that case, definitely not my family," Dean says. "We're all boringly normal."
*
Dean's singing.
Sam hates waking up to Dean singing. It's always earworms, and Sam always ends up humming it for the rest of the day.
This morning it's Wake Up, It's a Beautiful Morning. Not a song Sam would have expected Dean to know all the lyrics to. Even with a pillow (an incredibly thick and soft pillow) over his head, Sam's not going to get back to sleep.
"Rise and shine," Dean says, breaking off from his song long enough to bounce on the bed. He's got his boots on already.
Sam sits up. "What's the plan?" he asks.
"Breakfast, Sammy. That's the plan."
"I meant the plan for the hunt? Demons, boy in danger, that hunt. You remember?"
"Can't hunt on an empty belly, you should know that by now. Priorities. And Mr. Roth is treating us to breakfast."
A few mouthfuls into breakfast, and Sam has to admit Dean's made the right choice. The bacon is maple smoked and just the right amount of crispy, the bread so fresh it's still steaming, and he's never tasted better eggs.
"D'you think we've died and gone to heaven?" Dean asks, mouth full, a slice of bacon hanging out of the side. There's a blob of butter on his chin. Sam resists the urge to wipe it off. Dean tends to get cranky when he does things like that.
"I think they probably expect table manners in heaven," Sam says. "There's no way they'd let you in."
Dean just chomps his food even more noisily, and steals a slice of Sam's bacon when he makes the mistake of looking away for less than a second. He doesn't get the chance to steal it back, not unless he wants it half chewed. He doesn't.
"Can I get you anything more, gentlemen?" The waitress holds a pencil poised over her notepad.
Sam has a horrid moment when he's sure Dean's about to belch, but he just rubs his stomach and looks regretful. "All good here, thank you, darlin'. My compliments to the chef, though. This was manna, ambrosia, food of the gods."
The waitress smiles at Dean as though she's charmed by him. Sam hopes she's simply doing her job, not that stupid. "I'll pass on the compliments to Sookie. She's our chef," she says, and heads back to the kitchen.
Two slices of toast later, a cheery-faced woman in a chef's jacket appears. "I hear you're enjoying your breakfast," she says, and positively beams at them.
"You must be the chef," Dean says, and Sam knows this worshipful look.
"Yes. I'm Sookie," she says and picks up one of the napkins on the table. She folds it, unfolds it, folds it again, and then seems to realize what she's doing and puts it down again.
"I'm Dean. And now the introductions are over, will you marry me, Sookie?" Dean asks.
There's a guy with a box of groceries in his arms, glaring at them across the room. Sam nudges Dean. "Dean. I think Sookie's already spoken for."
"Ah, well," Dean says, and smiles at Sookie. "If you ever want to trade him in for a new model-"
Sam would hit him for that. Sookie just winks at him. Then giggles. Actually giggles.
"You'll be the first to know, Dean," she says. "I always like to cook for a man who appreciates good food."
"Oh, I do," Dean says, and his leer says he appreciates more than that. Sam rolls his eyes.
The guy across the room is turning a dangerous shade of beet red.
"Breakfast's over," Sam says. He gets up, grabs Dean by the arm, and practically drags him out of the dining room. As they go out the door, he catches what sounds like you can't go killing customers, Jackson. Sam sighs. He's lost count of how many of those arguments Dean's started.
*
Rory isn't awake yet. Walking, yes, but not awake. She needs coffee, a large quantity, but first she needs a shower.
She stumbles into the bathroom, tripping over her pajama bottoms, landing face first into-Luke?
"Oh my God, no! Boundaries!" she shrieks, and if her voice is too high pitched for the time of day, that's totally not her fault, not when there's a half-naked Watcher in the bathroom. Her Watcher. Half-naked.
"Oh, sorry," he says, as calmly as if this happens to him every day.
"Rory, don't go in the bathroom," Lorelai shouts from the landing. Too late.
Rory closes her eyes and backs out, and then realizes it would have been easier to have turned around and kept her eyes open. "Mom! You couldn't have warned me a minute ago? Before I learned just how hairy Luke is?" Rory says plaintively.
"I'll get Luke to fix the lock later," Lorelai promises.
"I bet other Slayers don't have to deal with their mother dating their Watcher. It's probably unethical, you know," she says, following her mom into the kitchen.
"Luke made coffee," Lorelai says, handing her a steaming mug. "And muffins. Double chocolate chip muffins."
The muffins are still warm - Rory can smell them, sweet and chocolaty.
Maybe not completely unethical, she decides.
*
Luke doesn't stay for breakfast, which is a relief. It isn't that Rory doesn't like him - she does - it's just, well, weird. He's been Luke at the diner forever, a grumpy face behind the counter begrudgingly serving her coffee. And she's getting used to him being her Watcher, a grumpy face behind a pile of books. But finding him in the bathroom in the morning, having him around so much, it's taking some getting used to. Which she will. It's just going to take a while.
In the meantime, she can't help wishing he'd sneak out the window in the morning, like Dean does when they've stayed up late researching and fallen asleep on top of her bed and she doesn't want to have to explain to her mom why he's still there the next morning.
She's on her third coffee, beginning to feel human, when the phone rings.
"It's for you," Lorelai calls. She holds out the phone like it might bite her. Never a good sign.
Rory takes it. "Hello?" she says warily.
"Oh, Rory, thank God it's you. Not that I want to speak to you of course - let's face it, you're the last person I'd ever want to ask for help - but I have to ask someone. And people talk, you know, and they say stuff about you, like you're maybe into weird stuff, can help out with things that no one else can."
It's Paris. Breathless and talking virtual nonsense. Great. Just the way Rory wants to start the weekend. Three coffees aren't enough to deal with Paris. No beverage created is enough to deal with Paris when she's clearly in full on freak out mode.
"Paris. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning. And you can leave out all the bits about not wanting to speak to me because trust me, it's mutual." It's too early in the day for Rory to try to be nice, especially to Paris.
"It's Tristin," Paris says, then swallows and stops talking. It's not entirely silent on the other end of the phone though. There are uncomfortable gulping sounds and little-sobs?
Paris is crying. Paris Gellar, the toughest girl Rory's ever met, and she's crying on the other end of the phone. Rory wishes more than anything that she could just hand the phone back to her mom and say you deal with her, please. But it's clear that Paris is calling Rory as a Slayer - and really, way too many people know, it's getting ridiculous - so Rory the vampire Slayer needs to answer. She steels herself.
"What about Tristin?"
"He's-missing."
"Missing how? Not answering his phone missing, on a date with another girl and didn't go to bed last night missing, or what?" Rory bites her lip. She's not doing too well
"I think a demon took him," Paris says, and now she starts sobbing.
"Oh," is all Rory can manage.
There's a click on the phone line, and after a few seconds of silence broken only by a muffled sob, Lorelai comes back into the room and nudges Rory. "Invite her over," she says.
Rory puts her hand over the phone. "You were listening in?" she whispers.
"It's a good thing I was. Weird goings on at Chilton, and now Tristin's disappeared, possibly taken by a demon. Spot the connection?"
Rory feels like an idiot for not instantly joining the dots. She can't even blame being under-caffeinated, just her dislike of Paris and a lack of interest in Tristin's life. Not forgivable.
"You'd better come over," she tells Paris, trying to sound welcoming. "Where are you?" she asks, an afterthought.
"In my car," Paris says, slowly as though she doesn't want to admit it. "I've spent the night driving around. I didn't know what to do."
"We'll find him," Rory promises, and hopes she can keep the promise.
Paris pulls up outside the house with a screech of brakes ten minutes later, and hammers on the door as though she's trying to wake up the whole street.
Lorelai calls out bye and heads into the kitchen. "Coward," Rory shouts after her, and drags her feet as she heads for the front door. She debates turning tail and running out the back, but takes a deep breath instead and opens the door.
She's barely opened her mouth to say come in before Paris is pushing past her and into the house.
"It is true, isn't it, that you're some sort of-?" Paris trails off, obviously not accustomed to being lost for words.
"Vampire Slayer," Rory fills in for her. "And other demons and monsters as necessary. Yes. It's true."
"Oh." Paris sits down as though her legs won't hold her up any longer. "Oh, okay." She's an unflattering shade of pale, with a distinct greenish tinge. Rory never realized before that people could actually go green. Well, not without some sort of magic or demonic shenanigans being involved. But Paris is definitely looking green.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" Rory offers. She's fairly sure that's what you're supposed to do for shock.
Paris doesn't look impressed by the offer. "I came here for help, not tea. If I'd wanted tea, I'd have gone to that grubby little diner your mother's boyfriend runs. I'm not going to sit here drinking tea while Tristin's tortured by demons."
Rory ignores the insult to Luke's diner (whatever faults it has, it's never grubby) and concentrates on the important issue. "They were torturing Tristin?"
"How would I know? I'm not the demon expert," she snaps, then drops her head as though all the bravado has simply drained out. "Isn't that what demons do? Torture people? Flay their skin off while they're alive, or-" Paris comes to a choking halt.
The one thing Rory's sure of is that Paris wants reassurance. That Tristin's still alive, and that he's not being tortured, and that Rory will be able to get him back safe and sound.
Rory'd like to be certain of that too. She just knows better. So she doesn't offer any false promises, but at least manages to put on her best optimistic tone.
"We need to work out what kind of demon it is first. The more we know, the better chance we've got of rescuing him. So," and Rory's all business now, "what did you see?"
Paris twists the hem of her skirt between her fingers. She's still in uniform. "It came out of nowhere. This thing, it just suddenly appeared."
"What were you doing?"
"We'd stayed behind to start work on our history presentation. Tristin asked to work with me, you know," Paris says. She sounds rather pathetic.
"Yes, Paris, I know." Rory does feel sorry for her, it's just all mingled up with irritation.
"Tristin went to get a drink of water, and I looked over my notes while I was waiting."
Rory gets out her notebook and starts making notes. Luke will expect all the details. "Okay, good," she says encouragingly. "Keep going."
"And I might have looked at an old demonology book. Just for research, of course, nothing else."
Rory groans.
*
"Why don't you chat up the French waiter, see if you can learn anything from him?"
"He's a concierge, Dean, not a waiter."
Dean does that irritable little shake of his head he always gives when Sam picks him up on semantics. "Pffft. Same difference. Anyway, he's had his eye on your ass, so we might as well take advantage of it."
Sam splutters, and Dean's halfway up the stairs before he can come up with a worthy response.
Much as Sam hates to admit it, Dean's idea isn't the worst one he's ever had. The concierge is sure to know the area well, though quite how Sam's going to feign an interest in local schools without looking like a pedophile, he isn't sure.
He decides to go for the direct approach. "What are the schools like in the area?" he asks, and hopes he's projecting a calm and casual curiosity.
"Empty wastelands, dens of vice, pits of monsters. And that is merely the children." Michel manages to imbue the word children with the kind of horror normally reserved for serial killer or rapist.
"Okay-" Sam says. Maybe Michel wasn't the best person to ask.
"If it's demons you are interested in, there are rumors that there is something strange happening at Chilton School." Michel makes a little moue of disgust.
That was scarily easy.
*
"So, Luke, you know how you always say that teenage girls are the worst kind of evil?" Rory's learned not to waste time on pleasantries like hello or how are you when she's phoning Luke.
"What have you done?" Luke sounds like he expects the worst.
"Not me!" Rory's offended. "Why would you think I meant me? I'm offended," she says, just in case her tone hasn't already told him.
"So does this have anything to do with the supposed weird goings on at Chilton?" Luke asks, though he asks as though he knows the answer already. Rory's never sure if that's a handy trait, or a really annoying one.
"Yep," she says. "You remember Paris?"
"Freaky girl, long hair, talks like she's a CEO?"
He left out the bit about hating Rory, but it's a pretty good description otherwise. "That's Paris. Well, she's summoned a demon. Or possibly more than one."
Luke doesn't say anything, but Rory swears she can hear his surprise down the phone. She smiles - catching Luke by surprise is always satisfying, like a mug of cocoa and a large bag of Oreos after a late night's patrol around snowy graveyards.
He recovers quickly. "You want me to find out more about the spell she used, work out what kind of demon it might be?"
Rory nods.
"You know I can't see when you're nodding," Luke says. Rory rolls her eyes. "But I can always tell when you're rolling your eyes at me."
"I'll put the coffee on," Rory says, because she knows that nothing will get Luke here quicker than saving himself from Rory's coffee making skills (which are good enough for everyone apart from Mr. Particular Danes), and hangs up.
She has no intention of going in the kitchen if she can help it. Last time she peeked around the door, her mom was looking pained and Paris was sobbing on her shoulder. Rory's far better at wielding stakes, or her new crossbow, than handkerchiefs.
*
Luke's truck pulls up in less than five minutes, and Luke gets out, laden with books.
Rory meets him on the front stoop and takes the top two books off the pile. "Paris is in the kitchen, the coffee pot is empty, and you'll earn major points with Mom if you can make coffee and interrogate Paris at the same time."
Luke grunts something under his breath and heads inside, just as Dean pulls up.
She gives him the Cliff Notes version.
"Why can't we just be glad Tristin's gone, and leave it at that?" Dean asks hopefully.
"Because-" Rory wrinkles her nose, and has to admit that the idea is tempting.
Dean sighs, and answers for her. "Because it's what you do. Because you're Rory the Vampire Slayer, protector of the innocent and pains in the neck. And I wouldn't have you any other way."
"So you'll help?"
"You know I will," he says and kisses her on the forehead. "Now, what do you need me to do?" he asks.
"Research," she says, and tries to give the sort of smile that'll convince Dean that she's just proposed something exciting.
The look on his face tells her she's failed.
*
"You know, sometimes I can't help but miss the days when a date meant a movie and popcorn and a kiss goodnight on the front porch. Or curling up on the sofa watching cartoons. That's good too," Dean says as he closes the first book she handed him. A waft of dust floats into the air.
"You've got to admit, this is a whole lot more exciting," Rory says.
"The demon slaying bit, yes. The reading up about demons in extremely old books, not so much. I mean, what language is this even in?" he asks, pointing at the next book on the pile.
Rory peers at it and sighs. "No idea," she says. She flicks through it. "It's got pictures," she says, a forlorn attempt at seeing the bright side.
They look at each other. "Rock, paper, scissors for it," Dean suggests. "Loser gets it, winner gets a book in English."
Dean picks rock, Rory picks scissors.
It's going to be a long day.
part 1 | part 2