Armistice, Part 4
PART THREE
They’re arguing. Again. Blaine doesn’t know what about. It had started, probably, this morning when Blaine had gotten Kurt’s coffee order wrong, putting the taller man into a bad mood to begin with. Then it had just gone downhill from there - snapping at each other for no reason, yelling matches in car parks and the silent treatment in the car. Then a song that one of them hates but the other likes will come on the radio and somebody will turn it up, and then the yelling will go on in the car itself for a while.
And then they’ll just spend the entirety of the rest of the day bitching and griping and insulting each other. “You don’t even have a clue how painful it is for me to spend every second of the day with you,” Kurt snaps, and Blaine curls in on himself, arms folded, glaring at the road that’s disappearing fast under the wheels. “I don’t even get to sleep in a bed by myself. No, I have to deal with you - sweaty and hairy and snoring; it’s disgusting. Who wants to be pressed up against that all the damn time?”
“I don’t hear you complaining when we fuck,” Blaine spits back bluntly, then glances at the speedometer and says, “Would it kill you to slow down? I should drive.”
“You don’t get to fucking drive my car.” Kurt shakes his head and spitefully hits the gas harder, driving faster.
“No, but I fucking drive your car every time you’re too fucking tired,” Blaine growls. “Every time you want to eat or touch up your moisturiser or bum phone networks so you can get the latest fucking bid on your next Alexander McQueen corset, you fucking prissy bitch!”
Kurt goes on a tirade at that, screaming himself hoarse and gesturing wildly, “And what do you do with your time? You fucking eat and sleep and - and fart, and you can’t even fucking fight! I don’t know why I have you around, Blaine! I don’t even fucking - “
“Kurt!” Blaine bellows and grabs the steering wheel, steering the car onto the right side of the road where it had been veering off. Kurt yells and immediately yanks the car over more, pulling it onto the side of the road and screeching to a halt.
He rests his head on the steering wheel and Blaine slumps back with a relieved sigh. The tension ebbs out of the car, and they sit in silence; not talking, but no longer so angry. Blaine breaks the silence after a few minutes. “That would’ve been an awful way for a pair of hunters to die.”
Kurt laughs weakly and sits up, running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t look at Blaine when he speaks, looking down at his lap instead as he says, “We’ve been fighting like that a lot lately, Blaine.”
He nods. They really have. They’re both twenty-one now, and they’ve never fought as badly as they have in the past six months. “It’s okay,” Blaine murmurs. “It’s the stress of the road. Close quarters and all that. We’ll be fine.”
Kurt glances to him then. “Will we really?”
Blaine frowns. “Do you not want us to be?”
Kurt averts his eyes. “No, of course I want us to be fine. Just ignore me.” He looks up again and slips a hand around the back of Blaine’s neck, resting comfortably there before he leans in and steals a soft kiss. Blaine barely gets to taste Kurt before it’s over, and the car is being pulled back out onto the road.
“I love you,” Kurt says, lips curling up in a just-convincing half-smile.
~***~
Blaine is driving aimlessly, solely to calm down, when his phone finally buzzes and he answers carelessly to hear Karofsky say, “Um - hey? It’s Karofsky, I - “
“Hey, hey,” Blaine interjects, swallowing and cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he finds a place to pull over. “Did you get the trap done okay? You got Sam into it?”
“Yeah - I managed. He’s - he’s really pissed, though. Can you get over here as fast as possible...?”
“I’m on my way,” Blaine promises, and hangs up, throwing his cellphone into the seat and pulling away, hitting the gas. He gets lost once or twice on the way back to Karofsky’s house, but he hopes it hasn’t taken him too long. He pulls up outside of it this time, instead of parking way down the street, and as he’s jogging up to the door (bag with a gun, holy water, salt, and the knife in hand), it opens, and Karofsky appears, looking nervous as hell.
“Hey,” he greets him, and Karofsky simply stands back to let him in. He asks, “How’d it go?” as he then follows the man down the hallway, running through the exorcism incantation in his mind.
Karofsky wrings his hands. “Dude, he’s really pissed. I just told him to go get something that was on the other side of that room, and he got stuck in the trap, and - yeah. I don’t know.” He shrugs and then nervously opens a door, and a mobile phone is hurled outwards. The pair dodges out of the way as it shatters and rebounds off the opposing wall, and then hesitantly leans in and peers at the sight of the room.
Sam’s standing in the center of the trap, eyes filled with that shiny, demonic black and his chest heaving, his entire body shaking with visible rage. “You traitor,” he howls at Karofsky, “I gave you everything you’ve ever wanted! I gave you - everything!”
“You’ve stolen someone’s life,” Blaine says quietly, stepping into the room, gathering a cool demeanour when he glances over at Karofsky and senses that his is far from cool. “That’s evil.”
Sam rolls his eyes, a gesture that’s somehow discernible even without a visible iris. “I’m a demon, idiot. Did you ever hear of a nice demon?” He pauses, then says, “Actually, I’m about as nice as they come. I don’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t. I just want to live here nicely. He,” Sam glances at Karofsky, flirty and playful, “is a bonus.”
Blaine makes a noise of wonderment. “You’ve changed your tune from the ‘pathetic, closeted thing’ you had claimed he was when we had that chat outside the café, you know, and how you only can’t kill him because you’re bound to him...?”
“Sam...” Karofsky seems surprised, hurt even, by the revelation. Blaine is sympathetic. Karofsky is stupid, but not unkind, and even with it like this, he probably loves the demon to an extent. There’s an extended pause and Blaine is about to speak when Karofsky says, “Wait, bound to me?”
Blaine glances sharply between them. Admittedly he isn’t sure why Sam is bound to Karofsky, but he has an inkling that it’s because Karofsky summoned him as a sex demon. Sam then helpfully elaborates and spits, “You raised me from Hell, not simply as a demon but a demon that walks the mortal plane solely to serve you and your body.” Sam’s eyes flicker up and down said body disdainfully. “I can’t kill you because if I did, I would be sent right back to the pit.” His eyes narrow and land on Blaine. “Although, it’s tempting right now.”
Blaine rolls his eyes and reaches into his bag and says, “Enough.” He unscrews the lid of a flask, then casts holy water over Sam’s face. The demon screeches and yowls in pain, writhing as smoke rises and his flesh sizzles.
“So this bond,” Blaine clears his throat, cocking an eyebrow at the demon. “It have anything to do with that little mark on your arm, or is that just for decoration?”
Sam shrugs and sighs, clearly aware that the game is up as he gestures with one hand and answers, “Insurance. I couldn’t have him -“ an angry glance is shot at Karofsky “ - changing his mind, or any old hunter getting rid of me.”
Karofsky interjects in a stage whisper to Blaine, “Is Sam, uhm, the real Sam, going to remember...?”
Before he can answer, the demon Sam smiles wickedly and drawls, “I hope so.”
Blaine raises the holy water but Sam just steps to the furthest edge of the trap and continues, “All those memories! His body forced to do all those things...” His voice turns whimsical, teasing, as he eyes Karofsky and baits him, “Why, it’s tantamount to rape...”
Karofsky lunges and Blaine drops the flash, grabbing at the larger man and yelling “No!” at him. He yanks Karofsky by the arms and hisses, “It’s what he’s after. If you got into that trap, he could kill you. Don’t play into his hands.”
It’s time to end this, fast, Blaine then decides, and he produces the demon killing knife. Sam’s eyes widen a little then his face goes slack, unreadable as Blaine steps over the lines of the trap with the blade raised.
“You gonna stick me with that?” Sam starts to talk, “Going to kill an innocent person? And me?”
Blaine smirks, just to torture Sam that little bit, but then shakes his head and says, “I’d like to, believe me. But I won’t kill you.”
Before Sam can register what he’s saying, Blaine grabs his arm and pulls it outward, slashing through the binding mark. Sam curses and lashes out, hooking Blaine’s jaw with a sickening crunch of his fist, but Blaine just swiftly steps out of the trap.
“I promise you, Sam, I’ll kill you if you ever come after me,” Blaine promises softly, looking the demon directly in his black eyes. “Stay in hell. You’re much safer there.”
He takes in a sharp breath. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Blaine starts, reciting from memory. Sam chokes, his body jerking. His convulsions become more violent, lurching and gagging as Blaine speaks the incantation. He glances briefly to Karofsky and feels a tug of sadness at the blatant worry in his eyes.
Fallen for a demon, despite his cruelties. Well, he’s only human, Blaine supposes, and love is the most human emotion of them all. The sort of thing built in from birth when you’re loved and love in return.
Almost reluctantly, Blaine speaks the final words. He watches Karofsky’s eyes shut, a tear fall as he turns from the sight of Sam’s head throwing back as the demon is ejected in thick black smoke that soon vanishes through all the available cracks in the room.
The body, the real Sam’s eyes turn their brilliant green and then shut as he crumples to the floor.
Blaine wants to go over and gather the unconscious man up but Karofsky beats him to it, stepping up and collecting the limp frame and exiting the room with him. Blaine gathers his things and trails behind as he watches Karofsky lay Sam on a bed, pillowing his head and lovingly, carefully manipulating him into the recovery position.
“He’s unhurt,” Blaine assesses from a distance. He gets a confused look in return. “It’s not always the case. Demons can possess anyone, living or dead,” he explains, “and as such they don’t always take care of their living... meat suits.”
Karofsky’s eyes narrow and he looks down on Sam. “Don’t call him that.”
“Sorry,” Blaine murmurs. “He should wake soon. His body is probably exhausted right now.” He gestures to the knife wound on Sam’s arm. “Need me to wrap that?”
“No, I got it,” Karofsky brushes him off, moving and opening a drawer and pulling out bandages and cleaning wipes. He looks Blaine over. “How’s your jaw?”
The mention of it makes the throbbing more noticeable. “Worse has happened,” Blaine shrugs.
“You’ve been doing this a long time, huh,” he states, looking down as he cleans the wound then awkwardly wraps it. He nervously wipes hair from Sam’s forehead.
“Too long,” Blaine answers, unable to resist smiling as he recalls his affections in tending to Kurt in Karofsky’s actions now.
“This guy you’re looking for?”
“Him too,” Blaine confirms. “Even longer than I have,” he says, watching as Sam stirs on the bed. He sniffs and says quickly, “I’m gonna go, now.”
“Already?” Karofsky turns his head then his face softens in understanding. “Yeah, alright. Find your friend. Take care.”
“Thanks. You too. Take care, that is,” Blaine tells him, “and I mean that.”
He leaves before Sam’s eyes open, but he waits outside the door to listen in for a moment. A voice similar yet way different to the demon’s, with a different accent, comes out weakly and says, “Who are you?”
There’s a pause and Blaine shuts his eyes, waiting. “I - I’m Dave,” comes the unsteady reply. “I found you. I’m gonna take you to the hospital in a bit. You’re - kind of hurt and stuff, and...yeah.”
Blaine sighs sadly and opens his eyes, leaving for good, climbing back into his car where he sits behind the wheel contemplatively, looking back up at the house. It’s best for Sam not to remember, it really is, but at the same time - Blaine really feels for Karofsky. The man made a stupid mistake in summoning a demon in the first place, but it wasn’t an act born from evil. He just wanted to be wanted.
Blaine swallows, turns on the engine and pulls away from the house.
~***~
“You are never going to be good at this,” Kurt laments, staring as Blaine focuses hard on closing a deep wound across his arm. “Your stitching’s all skewed, Blaine.”
Blaine raises an eyebrow at him. “Kurt. It’s not fashion. I’m not going to try a - double stitch in the shape of hearts or something, I don’t know. As long as the scar isn’t too horrendous, you have no room to complain.”
Kurt sighs and presses the bag of ice to his forehead with his spare hand. “I’ll remember that next time you’re crying because a claw broke off in your leg and I have to dig it out.”
“It was in my leg, Kurt,” Blaine protests, frowning, tugging the stitch a little too hard as retaliation. Kurt hisses and sticks his tongue out at Blaine. He makes a face right back, then smiles as he finishes the stitches and bandages up Kurt’s arm. “All better,” he whispers, kissing the fabric.
Kurt blushes a little and swings his feet off the edge of the table, then slides off and leans down to kiss Blaine properly.
~***~
Blaine shacks up that night in a considerably cleaner motel than the last; a dark looking place where his room lays up on the third floor.
When he walks in and flicks the light on, he stares at his feet, and when he does look up to see where he’s going, he startles and jumps at the sight of the blonde-haired angel sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Quinn,” he breathes, relieved that it’s at least someone he knows even if they are still almost literally a total stranger, “How’d you know I’d be here?” Blaine asks a little warily, looking behind him as he shuts the door.
“You know that phrase, ‘angels are watching over you’?” Quinn looks at him with a tired smile. He nods and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It’s true.”
“That’s a lot less comforting than I’d like it to be,” Blaine muses, scratching the back of his head. He watches Quinn carefully as he approaches. She looks worn, her hands touching her stomach almost protectively. Even her hair is lackluster compared to their first meeting. “Are you alright?” He questions hesitantly.
“Hm?” Quinn blinks then folds her hands consciously in her lap, smoothing out imaginary creases in her skirt as she does. “Yes, I’m fine.” She brushes her dress off and stands up, taking on a far more official demeanour as she presents him a piece of paper with a Missouri address scrawled neatly on it.
“This is where two hunters named Rachel and Jesse St James - they’re married - are staying.” Quinn presses the paper into Blaine’s palm. “They’re experienced trackers. They’re after omens in St Louis. I believe they can help you. They can be trusted. Rachel knew Kurt years ago, and Jesse has at least met him.”
“Thanks,” Blaine murmurs, folding over the paper and stowing it in his pocket. He glances towards Quinn. She seems off, on edge, much colder than the last time they met. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Quinn affords him a half-smile. “I’m sure,” she says, then looks away and says, “The St James’ are expecting you.” With a blink of his eyes and a gust of air around the room, Quinn is suddenly gone. Blaine sighs in frustration and reluctantly turns in for the night.
When he wakes, it’s with an odd sense of refreshment. He showers, musters up the energy to shave the thickly growing layer of stubble adorning his jaw, cleans his teeth, and is chewing an obviously hearty and healthy breakfast of two sticks of spearmint gum when everything crashes down on him - from the reason why he’s traveling in the first place to the revelation on the farm - and suddenly his shoulders sag, and it’s like he’s had no sleep at all.
“Fuck,” Blaine says bluntly as he stands in the center of the room, towel wrapped around his hips, and he stares down at the clothes he’s laid out on the bed.
He sighs and drops the towel and climbs, half wet, into the clean garments. His boxers cling to his thighs and his shirt sticks to his stomach; it’s uncomfortable but Blaine can’t bring himself to care. He finds the St James’ address and is down to the car before it even turns 8am, pouring over maps and getting his bearings before he roars the Impala to life and leaves Cheyenne, Wyoming in the dust.
He takes the drive in two large chunks, pulling into a service station car park somewhere in Nebraska and sleeping for a solid five hours, so it’s totally dark when he wakes. He inhales coffee and a burger like it’s his life force - which to be fair, it’s slowly becoming just that - before he embarks on the rest of the drive, stopping at midnight for another few hours of sleep before he completes the journey.
It leads him to a small house in St Louis with boarded up windows. If he were in any other line of work, he would swear down that he had the wrong house, but squatting is far from the unordinary as a hunter. It’s not exactly a well-paid profession. As Blaine approaches, ignoring the boarded over front door and heading down the side instead, he actually hopes they’ll let him stay tonight. Funds are getting lower all the time.
He cautiously sticks a head around and slips one hand into his jacket, wrapping his fingers loosely around the handle of the gun holstered there. “Hello?” he calls out, stepping through overgrown grass towards the back door. It looks as though it too was boarded over once, but said boards have since been torn down - there are large splinters of wood around, and nails sticking haphazardly out of the brick wall surrounding the door frame.
Someone definitely is or was here, Blaine thinks, and he pulls his gun out, keeping it low as he opens the door with the intention of stepping into the house.
There’s the low click of a gun behind him and Blaine freezes, raising his hands. He goes to look over his shoulder, but a very female voice instructs, “Stay forward.”
Blaine winces and guesses, “Rachel St James?”
A pause, then, “Who’s asking?”
“Blaine Anderson.”
“Oh!” The voice becomes considerably more cheerful, so Blaine dares to relax. “Lobquin said you’d come. Hi. You can turn around now.”
Blaine does so, slowly lowering his hands, and he blinks as he steps towards the woman, drinking in her appearance. “Lobquin?” he queries off-handedly.
Rachel is a tiny brunette thing, with a prominent nose and big brown eyes, dressed in knee high socks and a short dress, wild gold wedding band glittering next to an elaborate engagement ring on her left hand. Hardly appropriate hunter gear, but if the gun in her hands is anything to go by, she can handle herself just fine. “Oh,” she waves a hand. “Quinn. The angel. Lobquin is her true name. Going by Quinn was my idea, back when I first met her. It’s just much cuter, I think.” Rachel steps forward and extends a hand.
Blaine shakes it firmly. “Do angels appear to people often?” He feels like the only one who isn’t on speaking terms with random angels.
A new voice joins them, male and smooth and superior. “Only to a person of interest. And when that person of interest is in trouble.”
Blaine turns again as a man steps out from within the house. Taller than he or Rachel, with a curly mop of brown hair, and a shining wedding band; this must be Jesse. Blaine tilts his head. “And Kurt is a person of interest?”
“So it seems,” Jesse sighs, “Although Quinn wouldn’t say why.”
“He helped the angels once,” Blaine says, which isn’t terribly helpful, but he doesn’t know the exact circumstances himself. “They say he’s a friend.” Jesse nods as though the information is of no consequence to him and he strides past to wrap an arm around Rachel’s shoulders.
“Quinn said you can help me find Kurt,” Blaine says, watching the couple and feeling a little uncomfortable in the face of just how close they are.
“We’re tracking omens,” Jesse says cryptically.
Blaine swallows. “Have you seen or heard of a barefooted man?”
Jesse throws him a subtle, sly smile and says, “Quid pro quo, Clarice.”
Rachel intervenes, which is good because Blaine hasn’t got the time for references to movies that he hasn’t even seen and he’s a little irritated. “You - you help us, then we can help you.” She looks to Jesse and he nods. “There’s a vampire nest that’s migrated here from Dayton. They’ve been problematic to say the least.”
“Twelve innocent people in the last four days alone,” Jesse chimes in.
Rachel continues, “They need taking care of. Tonight is our best chance to strike.”
Blaine sighs, then nods reluctantly and the pair beam at him.
“It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Anderson,” says Jesse, and he gestures for Blaine to go inside the house.
He wrinkles his nose and smiles stiffly, walking ahead of them, stepping through the door.
The house smells a little of damp upon first entering, and barely any natural light seeps through. It’s all candles, unscented at first, but as Blaine is guided through to what was once the living area - but is now home to a double camp bed and numerous bags and pieces of equipment - the candles turn pink and purple; the not unpleasant, though sickly, scent of vanilla and candy flooding his senses.
It makes him crave fudge somewhat, but he soon forgets about that as he is ushered in and Jesse lays out, languid and smiling, on the bed. Rachel directs him to a stool that she brushes off politely with a smile, then she bundles herself up on the bed in Jesse’s arms.
Blaine perches himself on the short stool - the kind one would camp with, a theme running in all the nonlethal equipment he can see around the room - and stretches his legs out, finding a balance to ensure that he doesn’t topple off. He addresses Rachel, “I’m told that you knew Kurt? Or,” he pauses, mentally chastising himself for referring to Kurt in the past tense, “Know, rather.”
“He rescued me,” Rachel says, nodding firmly, eyes dramatic and wide. She waves a hand then says, “Well, see, he joined our school and then our Glee Club. Well, my school - Jesse was still at another back then. The rival school, actually, and the rival glee club.” She smacks her lips. “Anyway, he comes in and he’s got this amazing voice, beautiful singing voice. As good as mine and I was - “
Jesse interrupts, “Almost as good.”
Rachel smiles down at her lap, then continues, “Almost as good as me and I was the star of that club, let me tell you. Naturally, I hated him. He kept stealing all my solos. However, it turned out that the club director was a ghoul - well, the real club director was dead and the man in his place was a ghoul. The real man had been killed months previously. Anyway, Kurt saved me as the thing was about to kill me!” She stops and looks to her husband and says lovingly, “Jesse helped. He got me out whilst Kurt dealt with it.”
Blaine nods numbly, barely taking in the short story that Rachel had managed to make so longwinded. He didn’t even know Kurt could sing. He wonders what it’s like. He would bet all his worldly goods that it’s a beautiful sound.
Jesse says, “When we left school we realised there was more to life than song and dance and national titles. We wanted to hunt evil the way Kurt did. Does, if he’s really still alive,” he adds, with raised eyebrows.
Blaine glowers. “Of course he’s still alive.”
Jesse nods. “Of course.”
Blaine doesn’t think he likes Jesse all that much. He talks to his wife instead and says, “Tell me about the vampire nest.”
Rachel shifts and nods, becoming much more serious. “They’ve been feeding on a lot of innocents, as Jesse already said, more than normal, and it’s been bodies that have just turned up in the open after a while. We think they’ve taken others to turn because people have gone missing too. We located their nest last night. I counted around a dozen vampires and those were just the ones awake and wandering around the outside of the nest.”
Blaine grimaces. “Great.”
Rachel nods yet again. “Which is why we need your help.”
Jesse clears his throat and says, “Tell me, Blaine, how good are you with a machete?”
PART FIVE
They’re arguing. Again. Blaine doesn’t know what about. It had started, probably, this morning when Blaine had gotten Kurt’s coffee order wrong, putting the taller man into a bad mood to begin with. Then it had just gone downhill from there - snapping at each other for no reason, yelling matches in car parks and the silent treatment in the car. Then a song that one of them hates but the other likes will come on the radio and somebody will turn it up, and then the yelling will go on in the car itself for a while.
And then they’ll just spend the entirety of the rest of the day bitching and griping and insulting each other. “You don’t even have a clue how painful it is for me to spend every second of the day with you,” Kurt snaps, and Blaine curls in on himself, arms folded, glaring at the road that’s disappearing fast under the wheels. “I don’t even get to sleep in a bed by myself. No, I have to deal with you - sweaty and hairy and snoring; it’s disgusting. Who wants to be pressed up against that all the damn time?”
“I don’t hear you complaining when we fuck,” Blaine spits back bluntly, then glances at the speedometer and says, “Would it kill you to slow down? I should drive.”
“You don’t get to fucking drive my car.” Kurt shakes his head and spitefully hits the gas harder, driving faster.
“No, but I fucking drive your car every time you’re too fucking tired,” Blaine growls. “Every time you want to eat or touch up your moisturiser or bum phone networks so you can get the latest fucking bid on your next Alexander McQueen corset, you fucking prissy bitch!”
Kurt goes on a tirade at that, screaming himself hoarse and gesturing wildly, “And what do you do with your time? You fucking eat and sleep and - and fart, and you can’t even fucking fight! I don’t know why I have you around, Blaine! I don’t even fucking - “
“Kurt!” Blaine bellows and grabs the steering wheel, steering the car onto the right side of the road where it had been veering off. Kurt yells and immediately yanks the car over more, pulling it onto the side of the road and screeching to a halt.
He rests his head on the steering wheel and Blaine slumps back with a relieved sigh. The tension ebbs out of the car, and they sit in silence; not talking, but no longer so angry. Blaine breaks the silence after a few minutes. “That would’ve been an awful way for a pair of hunters to die.”
Kurt laughs weakly and sits up, running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t look at Blaine when he speaks, looking down at his lap instead as he says, “We’ve been fighting like that a lot lately, Blaine.”
He nods. They really have. They’re both twenty-one now, and they’ve never fought as badly as they have in the past six months. “It’s okay,” Blaine murmurs. “It’s the stress of the road. Close quarters and all that. We’ll be fine.”
Kurt glances to him then. “Will we really?”
Blaine frowns. “Do you not want us to be?”
Kurt averts his eyes. “No, of course I want us to be fine. Just ignore me.” He looks up again and slips a hand around the back of Blaine’s neck, resting comfortably there before he leans in and steals a soft kiss. Blaine barely gets to taste Kurt before it’s over, and the car is being pulled back out onto the road.
“I love you,” Kurt says, lips curling up in a just-convincing half-smile.
~***~
Blaine is driving aimlessly, solely to calm down, when his phone finally buzzes and he answers carelessly to hear Karofsky say, “Um - hey? It’s Karofsky, I - “
“Hey, hey,” Blaine interjects, swallowing and cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he finds a place to pull over. “Did you get the trap done okay? You got Sam into it?”
“Yeah - I managed. He’s - he’s really pissed, though. Can you get over here as fast as possible...?”
“I’m on my way,” Blaine promises, and hangs up, throwing his cellphone into the seat and pulling away, hitting the gas. He gets lost once or twice on the way back to Karofsky’s house, but he hopes it hasn’t taken him too long. He pulls up outside of it this time, instead of parking way down the street, and as he’s jogging up to the door (bag with a gun, holy water, salt, and the knife in hand), it opens, and Karofsky appears, looking nervous as hell.
“Hey,” he greets him, and Karofsky simply stands back to let him in. He asks, “How’d it go?” as he then follows the man down the hallway, running through the exorcism incantation in his mind.
Karofsky wrings his hands. “Dude, he’s really pissed. I just told him to go get something that was on the other side of that room, and he got stuck in the trap, and - yeah. I don’t know.” He shrugs and then nervously opens a door, and a mobile phone is hurled outwards. The pair dodges out of the way as it shatters and rebounds off the opposing wall, and then hesitantly leans in and peers at the sight of the room.
Sam’s standing in the center of the trap, eyes filled with that shiny, demonic black and his chest heaving, his entire body shaking with visible rage. “You traitor,” he howls at Karofsky, “I gave you everything you’ve ever wanted! I gave you - everything!”
“You’ve stolen someone’s life,” Blaine says quietly, stepping into the room, gathering a cool demeanour when he glances over at Karofsky and senses that his is far from cool. “That’s evil.”
Sam rolls his eyes, a gesture that’s somehow discernible even without a visible iris. “I’m a demon, idiot. Did you ever hear of a nice demon?” He pauses, then says, “Actually, I’m about as nice as they come. I don’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t. I just want to live here nicely. He,” Sam glances at Karofsky, flirty and playful, “is a bonus.”
Blaine makes a noise of wonderment. “You’ve changed your tune from the ‘pathetic, closeted thing’ you had claimed he was when we had that chat outside the café, you know, and how you only can’t kill him because you’re bound to him...?”
“Sam...” Karofsky seems surprised, hurt even, by the revelation. Blaine is sympathetic. Karofsky is stupid, but not unkind, and even with it like this, he probably loves the demon to an extent. There’s an extended pause and Blaine is about to speak when Karofsky says, “Wait, bound to me?”
Blaine glances sharply between them. Admittedly he isn’t sure why Sam is bound to Karofsky, but he has an inkling that it’s because Karofsky summoned him as a sex demon. Sam then helpfully elaborates and spits, “You raised me from Hell, not simply as a demon but a demon that walks the mortal plane solely to serve you and your body.” Sam’s eyes flicker up and down said body disdainfully. “I can’t kill you because if I did, I would be sent right back to the pit.” His eyes narrow and land on Blaine. “Although, it’s tempting right now.”
Blaine rolls his eyes and reaches into his bag and says, “Enough.” He unscrews the lid of a flask, then casts holy water over Sam’s face. The demon screeches and yowls in pain, writhing as smoke rises and his flesh sizzles.
“So this bond,” Blaine clears his throat, cocking an eyebrow at the demon. “It have anything to do with that little mark on your arm, or is that just for decoration?”
Sam shrugs and sighs, clearly aware that the game is up as he gestures with one hand and answers, “Insurance. I couldn’t have him -“ an angry glance is shot at Karofsky “ - changing his mind, or any old hunter getting rid of me.”
Karofsky interjects in a stage whisper to Blaine, “Is Sam, uhm, the real Sam, going to remember...?”
Before he can answer, the demon Sam smiles wickedly and drawls, “I hope so.”
Blaine raises the holy water but Sam just steps to the furthest edge of the trap and continues, “All those memories! His body forced to do all those things...” His voice turns whimsical, teasing, as he eyes Karofsky and baits him, “Why, it’s tantamount to rape...”
Karofsky lunges and Blaine drops the flash, grabbing at the larger man and yelling “No!” at him. He yanks Karofsky by the arms and hisses, “It’s what he’s after. If you got into that trap, he could kill you. Don’t play into his hands.”
It’s time to end this, fast, Blaine then decides, and he produces the demon killing knife. Sam’s eyes widen a little then his face goes slack, unreadable as Blaine steps over the lines of the trap with the blade raised.
“You gonna stick me with that?” Sam starts to talk, “Going to kill an innocent person? And me?”
Blaine smirks, just to torture Sam that little bit, but then shakes his head and says, “I’d like to, believe me. But I won’t kill you.”
Before Sam can register what he’s saying, Blaine grabs his arm and pulls it outward, slashing through the binding mark. Sam curses and lashes out, hooking Blaine’s jaw with a sickening crunch of his fist, but Blaine just swiftly steps out of the trap.
“I promise you, Sam, I’ll kill you if you ever come after me,” Blaine promises softly, looking the demon directly in his black eyes. “Stay in hell. You’re much safer there.”
He takes in a sharp breath. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Blaine starts, reciting from memory. Sam chokes, his body jerking. His convulsions become more violent, lurching and gagging as Blaine speaks the incantation. He glances briefly to Karofsky and feels a tug of sadness at the blatant worry in his eyes.
Fallen for a demon, despite his cruelties. Well, he’s only human, Blaine supposes, and love is the most human emotion of them all. The sort of thing built in from birth when you’re loved and love in return.
Almost reluctantly, Blaine speaks the final words. He watches Karofsky’s eyes shut, a tear fall as he turns from the sight of Sam’s head throwing back as the demon is ejected in thick black smoke that soon vanishes through all the available cracks in the room.
The body, the real Sam’s eyes turn their brilliant green and then shut as he crumples to the floor.
Blaine wants to go over and gather the unconscious man up but Karofsky beats him to it, stepping up and collecting the limp frame and exiting the room with him. Blaine gathers his things and trails behind as he watches Karofsky lay Sam on a bed, pillowing his head and lovingly, carefully manipulating him into the recovery position.
“He’s unhurt,” Blaine assesses from a distance. He gets a confused look in return. “It’s not always the case. Demons can possess anyone, living or dead,” he explains, “and as such they don’t always take care of their living... meat suits.”
Karofsky’s eyes narrow and he looks down on Sam. “Don’t call him that.”
“Sorry,” Blaine murmurs. “He should wake soon. His body is probably exhausted right now.” He gestures to the knife wound on Sam’s arm. “Need me to wrap that?”
“No, I got it,” Karofsky brushes him off, moving and opening a drawer and pulling out bandages and cleaning wipes. He looks Blaine over. “How’s your jaw?”
The mention of it makes the throbbing more noticeable. “Worse has happened,” Blaine shrugs.
“You’ve been doing this a long time, huh,” he states, looking down as he cleans the wound then awkwardly wraps it. He nervously wipes hair from Sam’s forehead.
“Too long,” Blaine answers, unable to resist smiling as he recalls his affections in tending to Kurt in Karofsky’s actions now.
“This guy you’re looking for?”
“Him too,” Blaine confirms. “Even longer than I have,” he says, watching as Sam stirs on the bed. He sniffs and says quickly, “I’m gonna go, now.”
“Already?” Karofsky turns his head then his face softens in understanding. “Yeah, alright. Find your friend. Take care.”
“Thanks. You too. Take care, that is,” Blaine tells him, “and I mean that.”
He leaves before Sam’s eyes open, but he waits outside the door to listen in for a moment. A voice similar yet way different to the demon’s, with a different accent, comes out weakly and says, “Who are you?”
There’s a pause and Blaine shuts his eyes, waiting. “I - I’m Dave,” comes the unsteady reply. “I found you. I’m gonna take you to the hospital in a bit. You’re - kind of hurt and stuff, and...yeah.”
Blaine sighs sadly and opens his eyes, leaving for good, climbing back into his car where he sits behind the wheel contemplatively, looking back up at the house. It’s best for Sam not to remember, it really is, but at the same time - Blaine really feels for Karofsky. The man made a stupid mistake in summoning a demon in the first place, but it wasn’t an act born from evil. He just wanted to be wanted.
Blaine swallows, turns on the engine and pulls away from the house.
~***~
“You are never going to be good at this,” Kurt laments, staring as Blaine focuses hard on closing a deep wound across his arm. “Your stitching’s all skewed, Blaine.”
Blaine raises an eyebrow at him. “Kurt. It’s not fashion. I’m not going to try a - double stitch in the shape of hearts or something, I don’t know. As long as the scar isn’t too horrendous, you have no room to complain.”
Kurt sighs and presses the bag of ice to his forehead with his spare hand. “I’ll remember that next time you’re crying because a claw broke off in your leg and I have to dig it out.”
“It was in my leg, Kurt,” Blaine protests, frowning, tugging the stitch a little too hard as retaliation. Kurt hisses and sticks his tongue out at Blaine. He makes a face right back, then smiles as he finishes the stitches and bandages up Kurt’s arm. “All better,” he whispers, kissing the fabric.
Kurt blushes a little and swings his feet off the edge of the table, then slides off and leans down to kiss Blaine properly.
~***~
Blaine shacks up that night in a considerably cleaner motel than the last; a dark looking place where his room lays up on the third floor.
When he walks in and flicks the light on, he stares at his feet, and when he does look up to see where he’s going, he startles and jumps at the sight of the blonde-haired angel sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Quinn,” he breathes, relieved that it’s at least someone he knows even if they are still almost literally a total stranger, “How’d you know I’d be here?” Blaine asks a little warily, looking behind him as he shuts the door.
“You know that phrase, ‘angels are watching over you’?” Quinn looks at him with a tired smile. He nods and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It’s true.”
“That’s a lot less comforting than I’d like it to be,” Blaine muses, scratching the back of his head. He watches Quinn carefully as he approaches. She looks worn, her hands touching her stomach almost protectively. Even her hair is lackluster compared to their first meeting. “Are you alright?” He questions hesitantly.
“Hm?” Quinn blinks then folds her hands consciously in her lap, smoothing out imaginary creases in her skirt as she does. “Yes, I’m fine.” She brushes her dress off and stands up, taking on a far more official demeanour as she presents him a piece of paper with a Missouri address scrawled neatly on it.
“This is where two hunters named Rachel and Jesse St James - they’re married - are staying.” Quinn presses the paper into Blaine’s palm. “They’re experienced trackers. They’re after omens in St Louis. I believe they can help you. They can be trusted. Rachel knew Kurt years ago, and Jesse has at least met him.”
“Thanks,” Blaine murmurs, folding over the paper and stowing it in his pocket. He glances towards Quinn. She seems off, on edge, much colder than the last time they met. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Quinn affords him a half-smile. “I’m sure,” she says, then looks away and says, “The St James’ are expecting you.” With a blink of his eyes and a gust of air around the room, Quinn is suddenly gone. Blaine sighs in frustration and reluctantly turns in for the night.
When he wakes, it’s with an odd sense of refreshment. He showers, musters up the energy to shave the thickly growing layer of stubble adorning his jaw, cleans his teeth, and is chewing an obviously hearty and healthy breakfast of two sticks of spearmint gum when everything crashes down on him - from the reason why he’s traveling in the first place to the revelation on the farm - and suddenly his shoulders sag, and it’s like he’s had no sleep at all.
“Fuck,” Blaine says bluntly as he stands in the center of the room, towel wrapped around his hips, and he stares down at the clothes he’s laid out on the bed.
He sighs and drops the towel and climbs, half wet, into the clean garments. His boxers cling to his thighs and his shirt sticks to his stomach; it’s uncomfortable but Blaine can’t bring himself to care. He finds the St James’ address and is down to the car before it even turns 8am, pouring over maps and getting his bearings before he roars the Impala to life and leaves Cheyenne, Wyoming in the dust.
He takes the drive in two large chunks, pulling into a service station car park somewhere in Nebraska and sleeping for a solid five hours, so it’s totally dark when he wakes. He inhales coffee and a burger like it’s his life force - which to be fair, it’s slowly becoming just that - before he embarks on the rest of the drive, stopping at midnight for another few hours of sleep before he completes the journey.
It leads him to a small house in St Louis with boarded up windows. If he were in any other line of work, he would swear down that he had the wrong house, but squatting is far from the unordinary as a hunter. It’s not exactly a well-paid profession. As Blaine approaches, ignoring the boarded over front door and heading down the side instead, he actually hopes they’ll let him stay tonight. Funds are getting lower all the time.
He cautiously sticks a head around and slips one hand into his jacket, wrapping his fingers loosely around the handle of the gun holstered there. “Hello?” he calls out, stepping through overgrown grass towards the back door. It looks as though it too was boarded over once, but said boards have since been torn down - there are large splinters of wood around, and nails sticking haphazardly out of the brick wall surrounding the door frame.
Someone definitely is or was here, Blaine thinks, and he pulls his gun out, keeping it low as he opens the door with the intention of stepping into the house.
There’s the low click of a gun behind him and Blaine freezes, raising his hands. He goes to look over his shoulder, but a very female voice instructs, “Stay forward.”
Blaine winces and guesses, “Rachel St James?”
A pause, then, “Who’s asking?”
“Blaine Anderson.”
“Oh!” The voice becomes considerably more cheerful, so Blaine dares to relax. “Lobquin said you’d come. Hi. You can turn around now.”
Blaine does so, slowly lowering his hands, and he blinks as he steps towards the woman, drinking in her appearance. “Lobquin?” he queries off-handedly.
Rachel is a tiny brunette thing, with a prominent nose and big brown eyes, dressed in knee high socks and a short dress, wild gold wedding band glittering next to an elaborate engagement ring on her left hand. Hardly appropriate hunter gear, but if the gun in her hands is anything to go by, she can handle herself just fine. “Oh,” she waves a hand. “Quinn. The angel. Lobquin is her true name. Going by Quinn was my idea, back when I first met her. It’s just much cuter, I think.” Rachel steps forward and extends a hand.
Blaine shakes it firmly. “Do angels appear to people often?” He feels like the only one who isn’t on speaking terms with random angels.
A new voice joins them, male and smooth and superior. “Only to a person of interest. And when that person of interest is in trouble.”
Blaine turns again as a man steps out from within the house. Taller than he or Rachel, with a curly mop of brown hair, and a shining wedding band; this must be Jesse. Blaine tilts his head. “And Kurt is a person of interest?”
“So it seems,” Jesse sighs, “Although Quinn wouldn’t say why.”
“He helped the angels once,” Blaine says, which isn’t terribly helpful, but he doesn’t know the exact circumstances himself. “They say he’s a friend.” Jesse nods as though the information is of no consequence to him and he strides past to wrap an arm around Rachel’s shoulders.
“Quinn said you can help me find Kurt,” Blaine says, watching the couple and feeling a little uncomfortable in the face of just how close they are.
“We’re tracking omens,” Jesse says cryptically.
Blaine swallows. “Have you seen or heard of a barefooted man?”
Jesse throws him a subtle, sly smile and says, “Quid pro quo, Clarice.”
Rachel intervenes, which is good because Blaine hasn’t got the time for references to movies that he hasn’t even seen and he’s a little irritated. “You - you help us, then we can help you.” She looks to Jesse and he nods. “There’s a vampire nest that’s migrated here from Dayton. They’ve been problematic to say the least.”
“Twelve innocent people in the last four days alone,” Jesse chimes in.
Rachel continues, “They need taking care of. Tonight is our best chance to strike.”
Blaine sighs, then nods reluctantly and the pair beam at him.
“It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Anderson,” says Jesse, and he gestures for Blaine to go inside the house.
He wrinkles his nose and smiles stiffly, walking ahead of them, stepping through the door.
The house smells a little of damp upon first entering, and barely any natural light seeps through. It’s all candles, unscented at first, but as Blaine is guided through to what was once the living area - but is now home to a double camp bed and numerous bags and pieces of equipment - the candles turn pink and purple; the not unpleasant, though sickly, scent of vanilla and candy flooding his senses.
It makes him crave fudge somewhat, but he soon forgets about that as he is ushered in and Jesse lays out, languid and smiling, on the bed. Rachel directs him to a stool that she brushes off politely with a smile, then she bundles herself up on the bed in Jesse’s arms.
Blaine perches himself on the short stool - the kind one would camp with, a theme running in all the nonlethal equipment he can see around the room - and stretches his legs out, finding a balance to ensure that he doesn’t topple off. He addresses Rachel, “I’m told that you knew Kurt? Or,” he pauses, mentally chastising himself for referring to Kurt in the past tense, “Know, rather.”
“He rescued me,” Rachel says, nodding firmly, eyes dramatic and wide. She waves a hand then says, “Well, see, he joined our school and then our Glee Club. Well, my school - Jesse was still at another back then. The rival school, actually, and the rival glee club.” She smacks her lips. “Anyway, he comes in and he’s got this amazing voice, beautiful singing voice. As good as mine and I was - “
Jesse interrupts, “Almost as good.”
Rachel smiles down at her lap, then continues, “Almost as good as me and I was the star of that club, let me tell you. Naturally, I hated him. He kept stealing all my solos. However, it turned out that the club director was a ghoul - well, the real club director was dead and the man in his place was a ghoul. The real man had been killed months previously. Anyway, Kurt saved me as the thing was about to kill me!” She stops and looks to her husband and says lovingly, “Jesse helped. He got me out whilst Kurt dealt with it.”
Blaine nods numbly, barely taking in the short story that Rachel had managed to make so longwinded. He didn’t even know Kurt could sing. He wonders what it’s like. He would bet all his worldly goods that it’s a beautiful sound.
Jesse says, “When we left school we realised there was more to life than song and dance and national titles. We wanted to hunt evil the way Kurt did. Does, if he’s really still alive,” he adds, with raised eyebrows.
Blaine glowers. “Of course he’s still alive.”
Jesse nods. “Of course.”
Blaine doesn’t think he likes Jesse all that much. He talks to his wife instead and says, “Tell me about the vampire nest.”
Rachel shifts and nods, becoming much more serious. “They’ve been feeding on a lot of innocents, as Jesse already said, more than normal, and it’s been bodies that have just turned up in the open after a while. We think they’ve taken others to turn because people have gone missing too. We located their nest last night. I counted around a dozen vampires and those were just the ones awake and wandering around the outside of the nest.”
Blaine grimaces. “Great.”
Rachel nods yet again. “Which is why we need your help.”
Jesse clears his throat and says, “Tell me, Blaine, how good are you with a machete?”
PART FIVE