Hell's Belles - Supernatural/The Vampire Diaries - Part 2/4
Title: Hell's Belles
Fandoms: Supernatural/The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Rating: R
Type: Some Het, but mostly Gen
Warning: Violence, gore, language, slight sensual imagery-all that you'd expect from a Salvatore-Winchester Zombie-Fest.
Summary: New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Elena and the Salvatores are looking to spend some time away from Mystic Falls. Meanwhile, the Winchesters are looking for sightings of the walking dead. Both groups crash the same elegant costume party, so it should really be no surprise when the mansion ends up surrounded by a horde of flesh eating zombies.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Vampire Diaries or Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.
Wordcount: ~16k
Artist: caitriona_3
Link to Art: Masterpost
Link to Story Masterpost: Here
Part 2 - Carnival Season
NOW
The zombie was fresher than some of the others, but plenty past his expiration date. Whatever magic left him roaming the earth didn't do much to keep him preserved. Evidence of his earlier meal, a line of crimson, ran down his purple, swollen face, past chewed lips and the split, oozing skin of his double chin. But the eyes, those were still intact, foggy as the lenses appeared, and Dean took a moment to consider what kind of sicko zombie summoner took the time to repair those. Probably the same kind of sicko zombie summoner who had led the hunters into this trap in the first place.
Fuckin' bokor. 'Serves the loa with both hands' my ass. Total friggin' lefty-Dean narrowed the gaze on that one pathetic specimen in front of him, ignoring the next four to fall through the now open doors to the parlor, and focused his rage at that pot-bellied dead guy, picturing the sorcerer's face over his. Not that he could do much with that rage, what with holding back the doors keeping him busy, but that didn't stop his palm from itching for the handgun tucked at the back of his pants.
Dead-guy seemed to realize Dean's predicament and lunged forward in a mad rush to claim the fresh meat.
The zombie's skull shattered, raining gray matter over Dean's polished dress shoes. Dean only barely managed to hide his momentary surprise, pretending that, yeah, sure, he'd noticed his brother standing behind the dead newcomers with an antique rifle raised to his shoulder, and no way he had thought, for a split second, that he'd blown the guy's head off with the power of positive thinking alone. Nope, hadn't happened.
Dean shot Sam a shit-eating grin, and quickly scanned his brother's form. No blood, no limping, all limbs accounted for. The monk-like white robe he'd been wearing earlier was gone though, leaving him in the black dress slacks and white button-up he'd had on beneath. "What took you so long? You raid the gun cabinet while you were up there?"
Sam must have heard him over the roar of the other four zombies, because he rolled his eyes. "Yes, actually," he replied, before setting his sights on something past the doors and firing another thunderous round. "It was rather lacking, considering the museum Belle has down here."
Dean's face fell when the door at his back buckled against the hinges, reminding him that he couldn't let go, couldn't be his brother's back-up, without opening the floodgates. But, he sucked in a breath of relief when Damon's brother leaped down the last few steps, swinging a four-foot wooden beam. It hit a zombie, one of the invited party-goers still in their lobster costume, with enough force to shatter the plaster molding at the weapon's tip. The white suit hanging from the young man's lanky body wasn't looking quite so white anymore.
Stefan swung the beam backward, shattering the display cabinet and giving Sam a curt nod of thanks for paving the way. Dean watched his brother lower the gun, reach out for the same Calvary Saber that Damon had been drooling over, and bring it down on the fallen zombie. Never leave the job unfinished, Dean urged, watching the fight continue.
"Get the doors already!" Damon snapped.
Stefan and Sam pushed the next three zombies back past the open doors, then slammed them shut. The display cabinet must have been lighter than it appeared, because Stefan all but slid it in front of the doorway on his own before bringing the wooden beam to his brother.
"We send you after one little board," Damon chided, before snatching it up and leveraging it under the handles, at the crack between the double doors. He stepped back, checking that it would hold. When it did, Dean pushed off of the door, the muscles in his back screaming in thanks.
"I wouldn't want to leave you waiting," Stefan replied, without bite. "After all, keeping innocent people safe comes second to insuring you don't grow bored."
"Where'd you find it?" Dean raised a brow when he got a better look at their makeshift barricade. The support beam was solid and square cut on one end, where the decorative molding had broken away, but splintered on the side against the door handles. "Looks like you ripped it out of the damn wall or something."
In reply, Stefan glanced over his shoulder at Sam. Sam didn't meet his brother's eye when he shrugged, and if that wasn't more suspicious than the beam's sudden appearance, Dean didn't know what was. Morning, he reminded himself. Deal with the zombies first, the possibly supernatural brothers with super-strength later.
Sam brushed off whatever that shared glance meant, and cleared his throat. "We got the upstairs secure, and the guests are locked up tight. Which is both good news and bad news."
Dean frowned. "Since there's nowhere for the evil undead to go but up." He shot Damon and Stefan a look. "You guys want to join them?"
Damon's eyes widened dramatically. "And let you two have all the fun?"
Stefan elbowed his brother. "We'll stay."
"All of us."
Dean nearly got whiplash following the third voice to the staircase, where a pretty girl in a long green gown was standing with a strange, gun-hilt shaped club in her hands. Dean was pretty sure he remembered the club from the displays in one of the other rooms, a Native American gunstock war club with a diamond-shaped sliver of metal sticking out of its blunt head, heavy head-the better to smash brains in, m'dear. And Sam said he never paid attention to anything educational. Dean grimaced-and of course, he knew he remembered seeing the girl earlier, too.
Hard to forget the Baron's dance partner.
"Elena!" Stefan's face fell when he noticed her.
Damon shot his brother a hot glare, and Dean was suddenly lost as to who was more upset over her appearance. Which one of these guys was dating her anyway?
"Good job getting her to safety, brother," Damon hissed.
Stefan ignored him. "You'll be safer with the others," he said, eyes still glued to the girl.
"I'm not going to hide when I can help." Elena shook her head. "And I'm safest with you. I always will be."
The silence that followed implied there were more behind those words than a simple need to help. Stefan's face lightened slightly, his expression shifting from annoyance to resolve.
Damon rolled his eyes. "Stefan. Next time, do us all a favor and just tie her up."
Sam shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Told him she wouldn't stay put. He didn't listen."
"She never stays put," Damon agreed.
Dean waved a hand between the other set of brothers, glancing over his shoulder at Elena. "The more the merrier, sweetheart," Dean said, not meaning a single word, then turned his attention back to the doors. "Now, these aren't going to hold long. Can we get back on to the whole 'dead things trying to eat us' problem, or are you guys too busy having a moment?"
"Well, since you've brought it up, Dean…" Damon turned on his heel to face the hunter, somehow managing to loom over the man, despite the fact that they were nearly the same height. "Do you have a grand plan for getting us out of here? One that preferably doesn't involve the flamethrower display you've been eyeing all night."
Dean matched his smirk. "I thought you said you wanted to have some fun, dude."
Sam grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him away from the small group. "Excuse us," he hissed, then cornered Dean. "We can make a stand here, Dean, but that's a hell of a lot of zombies. I say we call for back-up-you never know, Cas or Bobby might be able to help…"
"Check your phone," Dean interrupted, looking bored.
Sam pulled the cell free, gave it a glimpse, and grew a fresh frown. "What the hell?"
"Yeah, apparently, that old black magic can block a signal, too. I hate when the bad guys are up-to-date on their tech knowledge. We're going to have to get out of this on our own."
"Speaking of bad guys… This doesn't seem to be Horseman related. I mean, I noticed Stefan and Damon were wearing funky rings, but I'm pretty sure they're clueless, Revelations-wise. And these zombies are definitely a little different from the last ones we ran into."
"Dude, leave it to you to notice another man's jewels."
"Dean. On topic, please." Sam let that hang, giving the trio of curious listeners across the room an apologetic glance before lowering his voice. "I know what Mr. Belle said, but are we really sure it's just a demon? What if it's a loa pretending to be a demon instead of the other way around? We try to go after it the wrong way and-"
"Looks like a demon, smells like a demon, acts like a dick." Dean shrugged, swiping of a drop of blood on the tip of his nose. "Yeah, I'm going with demon. You're just going to have to face it, Sam. This is just one of those easy hunts."
THEN
Six Hours Earlier
The interior had a familiar Southern charm about it. The hotel suite's main room was wide and richly decorated in burgundy and white and shades of gold, but the lamps were left cold, just the light from the setting winter sun shining in past the drawn shades. Soon, it too would be gone, and the room would be completely darkened, but, despite the dim light, Stefan could see his every feature in the standing mirror. He stood in place, pretending to adjust the button of his sleeve as he waited patiently for the front door to the hotel room to open.
Damon didn't sneak. He simply strode in, humming a choppy tune he had no doubt heard during his "walk."
Stefan shot his brother's spotless black suit a look before glimpsing down at his own white pants and jacket, stark against the red silk shirt beneath. Then he glowered at the mask box beside him before lifting it. Damon had brought them their costumes before he'd left, but Stefan hadn't dared look at them. He knew better than to expect something subtle from his brother.
The half-face inside was glossy, each white, crimson, and black diamond pattern shining against the strip of adhered gold molding separating them. The long, more hooked than bulbous, nose was familiar to him. Pulcinella.
"Damon," Stefan groaned.
Damon paused, brows raised innocently. "Problem?"
Stefan pulled the mask up, holding it over his face a moment before dropping it back down into the box with a flick of his wrist. "Are you serious?"
Damon smiled. "Oh, Stefan, always left looking like the clown. I'd say that was the only mask they had left, but then I'd just be lying." He seemed decidedly pleased with himself and plopped down into the single chair across from the sofa, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Where's the rest of your costume, brother? Or didn't the fool's uniform fit?"
Stefan sat the mask back down into its box in answer. He hadn't bothered asking Damon what he was wearing to the party.
"I'm not putting a clown suit on, Damon. Even if you did pay for it." He dropped down onto the sofa, twisting to face the other vampire. "You've been gone for hours. Where were you?"
"Out for a snack-oh, don't give me that look. I didn't kill anyone. And, I even picked up a few praline cookies for Elena. See, I can behave." His devilish grin countered the statement. "Relax, Stefan. We're on vacation, remember? Time to enjoy ourselves."
"I don't buy it. Why are we really here, Damon?" Stefan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We spent a day running from one tourist attraction to the next, you disappearing between each one, and, on top of that, you insist that we can't leave for home this morning, despite the fact that Elena's going to be late getting back to school. Then you suddenly appear after breakfast with invitations to an exclusive masquerade party? What's really going on here?"
Damon frowned. "Well, I assumed you and Elena would enjoy dressing up and going to a nice party that wasn't related to the Founders of Mystic Falls. Frankly, I'm not having the best of months and could use the break-and New Orleans is ever so kind to vampires. People practically trip over themselves, begging to be bitten. It's a smorgasbord-you'd do well to partake in a balanced diet while we're here, little brother."
Stefan stiffened. "I'm not like you, Damon," he reminded. "I'm not willing to hurt people to have a good time."
"Yeah, sure. Preach on if it makes you feel better." Damon waved him off. "But if you do decide to nibble, just remember, what happens in Nawlins, stays in Nawlins."
"Whatever your real reason is for bringing us here, Damon, you should hope it doesn't put Elena in danger."
Damon stared back, jaw tight in anger, but his voice was suppressed, teasing. "You know, Stefan, you really aren't any fun. It's so very sad."
A door creaked softly and the two vampires stood to their feet without thought. Elena stepped out of the entryway to her room, her long green gown brushing the door as she moved. The half-mask Damon had chosen for her, painted purple and green and accented with golden stripes above her brow, was already pinned in place. The massive peacock fan at the right side, fixed with an assortment of fake gold coins, held back her cascading brown curls. A blush crept its way over her cheeks when she noticed the two men standing in attention.
"See," Damon breathed, taking her in with a sweep of his blue gaze, "I am good at picking out costumes."
Stefan ignored him. "You look beautiful, Elena."
She smiled as if she'd just been handed the world. "Why thank you," she said, politely, and gave a short curtsy. She ditched the grace a moment later, and strode into the main room, excited. "Now when do I get to see yours?"
Stefan hesitated before holding the Pulcinella mask over his face. "I'm…Punch." At Elena's raised brow, he went on. "It's a famous clown character who..." He gave up. "Damon picked it out."
"Of course he did."
Damon was more than happy to oblige her. He quickly crossed the room and whipped out a stiff black leather mask, planting it over his head and tying it into place. His eyes smiled out from two wide, almond-shaped holes. The leather was delicately carved with swirling symbols and lines of purple and cut high over his cheekbones and across his nose. Two twisted horns sculpted from the leather spiraled out above his eyes and curved down to touch his ears.
"What do you think?"
Elena blinked. "You're what, the devil?"
"No, I'm Pan, of course."
"Who?"
Damon huffed. "I'm Pan. The god of the wild. Hung out with nymphs. Am I ringing any bells?"
Stefan bit his lip to hide his grin at Damon's disappointment. But, he had to let it free when Elena frowned. "Aren't you supposed to wear fur leggings or something?"
"I never wear fur," Damon snapped, as if disgusted with the pair of them. He shook his head. "No imagination, either of you… Let's go already."
"You really are good at choosing costumes," Stefan noted, easing a shawl over Elena's shoulders. "It's a talent."
"Shut up, brother."
"You're never picking out the costumes again," Dean announced, opening his car door for the second time in an attempt to free the black cape around his neck.
Sam sighed, a loud, whistling sound from beneath the mask he'd just slid into place. "Trust me, if there had been anything else available that would have worked for this…venue…I would have bought it."
"Yeah, well, you managed to burn through our credit card in that little shopping spree of yours, Francis-oh, and you look terrifying, by the way."
Dean groaned when he realized he needed to put the rest of his costume on. His own mask was decidedly more human than Sam's, with a wide, flared nose and an angular, mouthless jaw that jutted out far past his chin. Sam had called it a bauta or something and rattled on about historical Venetian disguises. Whatever the hell. He'd told his brother to get something that would blend in with the ritzy more-money-than-sense crowd and disguise their faces completely. Next time they had to infiltrate a masquerade, he was buying the guises.
He took in a final deep breath of New Orleans's nature perfume of dead moss, brine, and beer, and then tied the mask behind his head.
"And what's up with these stupid hats?"
"Trust me, I didn't want to be a plague doctor, but it's the only full costume that was long enough on me." Sam cocked his head, looking for sympathy, but the long, beaked mask only made his expression all the more comical, and Dean chuckled. "Put on your tricorne, jackass," Sam grumbled.
Dean figured Sam was talking about the triangular hat that looked like it belonged on a pirate. Which would have been a much cooler costume than the 18th century military uniform disaster he was wearing beneath his flamboyant cape. It made him feel only slightly better when he looked up and saw Sam slapping down the almost flat, short-brimmed black hat that came with his costume-hell, if plague patients had to see that coming near them, he was pretty certain they would have up and died from a stroke before the disease could finish them off.
"Terrifying and ridiculous. You're like some creepy-ass bird-shifter," Dean finally amended. "You have the invitations in your… dress?"
"For a Mr. Benard Boudreaux and his 'dear friend' Mr. Fontenot." Sam snorted, the sound muffled in his beak. "Got 'em. Let's just hope neither of those guys can work their way out of those knots you tied. If they call the cops, it'll be fairly obvious where we took their stolen car-"
"Hey, it's not like this is my first kidnapping and impersonation, Sam." Dean paused, giving Heaven a bitter glance before stepping away from the borrowed Buick. "Jesus, we have weird lives. Let's just get in here, get the info from old man Belle, and get the hell back out again."
"I don't know what we're expecting to learn in here."
Dean shrugged at his brother's comment, his feet slapping against the gravel driveway. Above him, oaks shook out their Spanish moss beards, and the chill breeze was just enough to take the edge off the overbearing costume and stop him from complaining about working up a sweat. "The bokor said the undead troubles throughout the city were all centered here, with the wealthy Belle family. And, Mr. Belle is too damned elusive for us to get in touch with any other time. Let's just hope he's not already drunk off his ass by the time we grab him."
"And that he's not senile," Sam muttered.
"That too."
When Dean looked up, he came to a full stop beside Sam, staring up at the mansion in awe. They hadn't been to a place quite this… the words "friggin' huge" came to mind… since they'd broken in to Crowley's.
The driveway had been dark, twisting away from civilization to lead them to the estate property hidden by a line of greenery and iron fences. While they couldn't see much of the rest of the land, gardens circled around the side of the mansion as they approached, clay stone walks leading around to the front entry. Stark white, even by moonlight, the level was flush with the earth but forgotten behind the rise of the imposing steps leading to the main floor, where the porch wrapped around the central building, lined with massive columns and a short, ornamented fence. Windows climbed high before the roof jutted out, so tall and angled that Dean knew there had to be a final, smaller floor above as well, even if he could barely see where the vaulted lines of the roof tapered upward from this angle.
Hearing the trumping jazz that had followed them around the city like a rain cloud, Dean whistled in admiration. "Look who's putting all the other plantation manors to shame."
"And, it widens in the back, too. Into an L shape. You know what this means, right?" Sam hunched his shoulders in resignation. "If Belle tries to avoid us tonight…"
"He's hosting the party, Sam. He's gonna show. Don't worry so much. This is the easy part. Try to enjoy yourself, Dr. Plague. The world's not ending tonight."
Sam tilted his hat forward. "No. Not tonight," he assured himself and took a breath, standing taller as he slipped into his I-belong-here persona and pulled the invitations free from the pocket of his robes. "Let's do this."
Read PART 3