The woods were dark. Like, really dark. Tommy Sarino had no idea Jersey could even get that dark. He wished he had his phone. He'd finally convinced Emily to start going out with him (and hot damn, was she hot, for thirteen at least) but his dad decided to drag him on a hunting trip the entire weekend. For "bonding." Because shooting and skinning defenseless dear was supposed to bring him closer to his father. So here he was, trudging through a pitch black pine forest, trying not to drop his rifle and following his dad back to their tent in the middle of grand fucking nowhere.

Hunting was boring as hell.

Tommy tripped on a root and fell flat on his face. Perfect. He spit out pine needles and glared at his father.

Vincent Sarino laughed uproariously before helping his son up. He lifted the electric lantern up, quickly checking Tommy for any serious wounds. Tommy just pouted and shot him an evil look.

Kids these days. When Vincent was younger (and thinner; years of hearty Italian cooking had expanded his stomach), he used to live for hunting trips with his father. The exhilaration of the hunt, carefully spending hours tracking a buck through the wilderness, cooking fresh meat over a roaring fire—those were the days. Now, Tommy was more attached to that newfangled piece of plastic and his girlfriend—like thirteen-year-olds could have a real girlfriend.

Something on the ground caught his eye. Vincent bent over to peer at the ground, ignoring his son's moans and grumblings. The earth was covered in wet leaves and moss, but what…ah. He held the lamp closer to the mud.

"Is that a hoof print?" Tommy frowned over his father's shoulder. He poked at the mark with the tip of his rifle. "What's someone doing with a horse around here? Woods are too thick for riding, aren't they?"

Vincent shrugged and shook his head. "Maybe someone got lost." He said lightly. "Let's get back to camp." He tried to ignore the sense of foreboding suddenly washing over him.

Back at the camp, Tommy was still moping about no internet access. His father groaned at him and told his son to quit whining. Tommy watched Vincent march out into the woods for a bathroom break. He sat next to the fire they'd managed to coax into being and moodily stared at the flames.

Only one more day and they would be back in civilization. Thank God. Tommy thought sourly. He had had just about enough of the blood, sweat and mosquitoes. Why there were mosquitoes out in November, who knew. Mother Nature was a bitch.

A branch snapped. Tommy glanced up into the dark woods. After a few seconds, the forest remained quiet and still. Goosebumps erupted on Tommy's skin. Where did all the bugs go? And the birds? Nothing stirred. No crickets chirped, no owls hooted. Tommy decided he didn't like the woods.

"Dad?" He called out nervously, ignoring his pounding heart. No answer. Alarm bells were ringing in his head as he thought about all the local legends and stories surrounding these woods—the stories his dad had laughed at. Under the cover of darkness and a full moon, though, the stories seemed all too plausible.

"Dad!" Tommy yelled louder than before. The bushes on the other side of the fire rustled.

Out stepped the strangest creature he had ever seen.

It was about five feet high with the head of a horse, great fangs, large bat wings, a devil's forked tail and hooves, although it walked on its hind legs. Tommy gaped at it, and it glared right back, black eyes glowing madly. It appeared to study him for a minute before slinking back into the shadows. Tommy remained frozen to the spot, staring at the place it had vanished.

He hadn't moved when he heard his father screaming moments later.

-I-90, Montana-

Lord I was born a ramblin' man,

Tryin' to make a livin'

And doin' the best I can

And when it's time for leavin',

I hope you'll understand

That I was born a ramblin' man

Blaine watched Kurt out of the corner of his eyes as Richard Betts sang about his father down in Georgia. Kurt was looking out the Mustang's window, fingers drumming in time to the old radio. Faintly, Blaine could tell Kurt was humming along.

"Hey," Blaine finally said. Kurt turned his head, but didn't say anything. He kept tapping his fingers on his knee though. "What are you thinking about?"

Kurt shrugged and looked back at the passing landscape. Montana was gorgeous today: clear blue sky, open road, mountains in the distance.

"Nothing. Just thinking. My life is so different and it's only been a little more than a month. It's just weird." He sighed and leaned back against the seat. "I don't even cringe when I get into a motel shower anymore." Kurt shuddered at how far his standards had fallen.

Blaine laughed. The first week had been stressful, what with trying to convince Kurt to willingly step into a room with a cockroach in plain sight. Kurt slept in the car for three whole nights before finally accepting that car seats; while possibly more sanitary than a $50-a-night motel room, were simply not comfortable. How Kurt managed to retain dignity throughout that whole debacle, Blaine had no idea. The showers were a completely different story and Blaine was not eager to relive that experience any time soon.

"Where are we going anyway?" Kurt interrupted Blaine's reminiscing. He had his arms crossed and watched Blaine with interest. They'd been driving since dawn that morning, but Blaine didn't mention a destination. He'd wanted it to be a surprise, but they were almost there.

Might as well tell him now.

"We're going to the roadhouse." Blaine grinned. Honestly, he loved the place. He didn't visit nearly as often as he should, and he knew he was going to get an earful from Quinn about staying away. Not to mention how intensely Mercedes would quiz him about Kurt. But the real home-cooked food and cold beer would feel like heaven.

Kurt, meanwhile, gave Blaine a look of confusion. "What's the 'Roadhouse'?"

Instead of giving a straight answer, Blaine decided to be mysterious. "You'll see," he said teasingly.

Kurt frowned, but didn't question further. The radio station switched to "American Woman" and Blaine began singing along at the top of his lungs.

After a few lines, Kurt joined in.

The roadhouse, it turned out, was a decrepit old wooden building in the middle of Nowhere, Montana. Seriously, Kurt was pretty sure they had passed maybe two towns on the way and one of them had six houses and a farm. Strangely enough, though, the dirt parking lot had a few cars lounging in it. Each was more dusty and ancient than the last. Kurt eyed the sagging stoop and hanging wooden sign above the door that said "New Directions Roadhouse."

"Weird name…" Kurt muttered, stepping around a hole in the porch. Blaine seemed unfazed though, and swung open the door, pushing Kurt in first.

And oh. Talk about appearances being deceiving.

While the outside made the building look ready to fall in at the slightest gust, inside, the floors were polished and the bar well-lit. A few pool tables and card tables were scattered among the dining tables, and the walls were covered with classic rock memorabilia. Movie and concert posters, mostly. An old jukebox belted out the Beatles"Come Together," and about ten people were dispersed around the place in small groups. All of them glanced up at the newcomers, but relaxed at the sight of Blaine. More than a few lingered their eyes on Kurt, included a huge man with short brown hair built like a wall that was smoking a cigarette and playing pool with his equally large buddy, who in contrast had dark skin and no hair at all. His intense stare creeped Kurt out, but he stared back until the man looked away and muttered something to his friend. The friend sniggered.

But a blond waitress by the bar let out a loud shriek of joy and ran at Blaine before Kurt could say anything.

"Blaine!" she squealed happily throwing her arms around him. Kurt watched the reunion with amusement, though he still had no idea who the short, skinny girl was. Up close, she was gorgeous, though there were some lines around her eyes that suggested a harder life than a woman like her should have lived.

"Hey, Quinn!" Blaine lifted her up. She batted at his arms after a few seconds and he released her, grinning. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"And it's entirely your fault." Quinn glared, brown eyes steely. "Months, Blaine! A call or text now and again would have been nice." She rolled her eyes at Blaine's fumbled apologies and excuses. "Hey, Mercedes! Mr. Schue! Blaine's back! And he brought a friend!" Quinn finally took notice of Kurt, who had stayed quiet and out of the way. Upon being singled out, he waved nervously.

From behind the bar, a curvy black woman about their age walked over. She was followed by a short man with curlier hair than Blaine and an ugly sweater vest. Mercedes (Kurt guessed) gave Blaine a hug before turning around and studying Kurt.

"Oh hell to the no, you did NOT pick up a boyfriend and not call me immediately, white boy?" She glared at Blaine, but gave Kurt a wink.

Time for the story. "I'm not Blaine's boyfriend. Just a friend." Kurt said reluctantly. Like anyone would believe him. And yep, he heard snorts from all over the bar. "But I must say, Mercedes, I love your scarf! Where on earth did you find a Gucci scarf out here?" He knew he said the right thing when Mercedes blushed and launched into a discussion about scarves and high fashion how Montana was just terrible for a woman of her fashion standards. It had been so long since Kurt had had any sort of "girl talk" that he found himself smitten with Mercedes from the start. Call him stereotypical, but Kurt missed his clothes.

Blaine finally interrupted their bonding to introduce the roadhouse's owner, William Schuester. "Most people just call me Mr. Schue. But Will is fine as well," he said warmly, shaking Kurt's hand. "I hope this little dump is somewhat enjoyable for you. It's just a little place for hunters to gather and relax without all the secrecy they'd have to deal with at other bars and taverns."

Kurt gaped. "Wait. You guys are all hunters?" He glanced back around the building. A few people waved or held up beers in his directions. They did look tough, actually. All of them had a melancholy aura, like they knew too much of the world, and there were more than a few pistols in visible holsters.

Mr. Schue just smiled. "Most of us. I never got into it. My father ran this place, and I just took it over when he died. I was never much for guns. Quinn and Mercedes joined me later when things got busier. But the customers," Mr. Schue gestured around the roadhouse. "The customers are usually hunters. They use this place to regroup, team up, and find jobs."

Blaine put his hands on Kurt's shoulders and guided him to a chair. "We're just taking a break from the road for a few hours. I thought we could find a job here and you can meet some more hunters." Blaine said. "Quinn," he called out over his shoulder. "Can we get some food and drinks here?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Manners, Mr. Anderson!"

"Please?"

She pretended to think. "For you, no. But the cutie next to you, sure." She blew a kiss at Kurt as she sauntered into the kitchen. Mercedes caught Kurt's eyes and winked again.

This place was crazy, Kurt decided.

But had good food, Kurt conceded later after devouring a sandwich. He wasn't entirely certain what kind it was, other than the fact it had lettuce, tomatoes, some kind of meat and a delicious spread that might have been some form of spicy mayonnaise. Kurt ignored the calories as he finished off the crust. At least he had more manners than Blaine, who had crumbs all over his mouth and mayonnaise on his nose.

He was about to say something about Blaine's lack of table etiquette when a tall shadow fell over him and a large, meaty hand yanked him up by his shoulder. Kurt gasped in surprise and anger, and saw Blaine stand up threateningly.

"What's a little fairy like you doing in a place like this?" It was the big man from earlier. Sure enough, his buddy was grinning over his shoulder. "This is a place for real men." He growled.

Kurt raised an eyebrow glanced over at the bar where a tall woman with short blonde hair sat, tossing back a stiff drink. The man's face darkened and he looked ready to use his fists on Kurt's face. Instinctively, Kurt braced himself for the hit, but still stood tall.

He'd had a lot of practice while growing up in Lima.

"Lay off, Karofsky." Blaine snapped. He truly looked angry. Kurt tried to remember seeing that expression before. It was worse than the time in California. Blaine actually moved his hands near his waist, where Kurt knew for a fact a knife was hidden.

Karofsky smirked. "Thought you were into men, Anderson. What's this then?" he waved his arm towards Kurt while the friend howled. Blaine's face darkened dangerously.

Ok. Kurt had had enough. Fuck chivalry and manners, this piece of shit was going down. Also, his boots had steel toes. Hesitating for a second, Kurt kicked Karofsky's shins and kneed his groin in two fluid moments. Blaine was a good teacher.

Karofsky doubled over in pain, wheezing. His eyes said it all though. Kurt was fairly certain he'd just made an enemy for life.

"Don't touch me again." He said, looking down on Karofsky. The bar was silent, as if no one could quite believe Karofsky had just been beaten by a kid probably half his weight and several inches shorter. Only Blaine had a hand over his mouth as if to hide a smile.

Karofsky finally stood. "This isn't over, fag." he spat out, leaning close to Kurt's ear. A large hand shoved Kurt hard into the table before Karofsky stormed out with the other man close behind him.

Kurt watched them leave, breathing unsteadily. The word had hurt, yes, but he was so much more than three stupid letters. Years of bullying taught Kurt many lessons: picking your battles was one of them. "Leave it," he murmured to Blaine. The other hunter looked ready to personally skin Karofsky with a dull blade.

"He called you Blaine began heatedly.

"It's fine." Kurt shrugged, trying for nonchalance. He didn't want Blaine to notice how shaken he really was. "I'm used to it." All too true.

The words didn't satisfy Blaine, who just narrowed his eyes and frowned. Quinn huffed from the bar.

"That's the last straw." She glared at the door while she swiped the counter with a wet rag. "He better not be welcome back." She directed the last sentence to Mr. Schue, who frowned.

"No, he's not coming back. I don't need him treating customers like that." Mr. Schue said firmly.

Mercedes came out from the kitchen with two large slices of apple pie. "Boy, you just took down the biggest asshole west of the Mississippi." She scolded when Kurt protested. "Shut up and eat the pie. He's never coming back here, and let me just say that it's such a relief especially since he's been acting weirder lately. Right Quinn?" Quinn scowled from her place at another group's table and nodded grimly. "He kept trying to feel us up. It was weird." Mercedes shivered. "I tell you, that boy is bad news." Several hunters raised their glasses in the affirmative. Though a few others shot Kurt dark glances.

Kurt suddenly wanted to get the hell out of there. He began shoveling the pie into his mouth, barely swallowing. Blaine was watching him with concern, Kurt knew, but he really didn't care at the moment.

A hand came down on his shoulder. Although it was thinner than Karofsky's and not nearly as menacing, Kurt still jumped about a mile and nearly tipped his plate over. When he looked up, he was staring into the eyes of the older, short-haired blonde from the bar. She was wearing a bright red tracksuit for some reason, but still was one of the most intimidating people Kurt had ever met.

She appeared to be studying him. Kurt glanced at Blaine, who just shrugged. Go with it, he mouthed. Well that was unhelpful.

"Porcelain." The woman barked. Kurt was utterly confused. "You're Porcelain. And Frodo Blaine waved to show he was listening. "You look out for him. Call me if the Cavemen tries anything." With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and marched out of the roadhouse without another word. Kurt stared after her.

"That was Sue Sylvester." Blaine explained. "She's one of the best hunters ever. You should be happy. She likes you."

Kurt felt a headache coming on. "She called me 'Porcelain.'"

"Better than 'Frodo. Blaine sighed.

True. "Touch�."

Mr. Schue walked over carrying a manila folder. Kurt thought he saw a map poking out of one of the sides. He handed it to Blaine. "Quinn's been putting together this case. It's a little thin, but Karofsky is heading towards Washington State, and I think it would be better if you guys avoid each other for a little while. Yesterday, a man vanished on a hunting trip with his son and the son's story has the local cops very confused. It's not the first time someone's gone missing in that area."

"Jersey?" Blaine was scanning the folder. He turned away when Kurt tried to look. Jerk.

"Could be fun." Mr. Schue smiled at Kurt.

"Maybe we'll see Snooki." Blaine wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Hilarious." Kurt snatched the folder out of Blaine's hands. He flipped it open to the first page, which had a sketch of the strangest creature he had ever seen. "What the hell is this?" He held it up.

"Snooki." Blaine said with a straight face. He dodged Kurt's apple chunk, giggling madly.

"You have the maturity of a five-year-old." Kurt informed him. But he smiled so Blaine would know he was kidding. Mostly.

Later, while Kurt and Mercedes were deep in conversation about that winter's new styles—Kurt was predicting the long-overdue death of Ugg boots while Mercedes insisted they were here to stay—Kurt noticed Mr. Schue and Blaine talking off to the side. They both looked worried, and Blaine kept glancing at Kurt before answering. But when Kurt asked later, Blaine said it was nothing and changed the subject.

-Ashpark, New Jersey-

"It was the Jersey Devil, I'm tellin' you!"

Kurt and Blaine exchanged glances. They were currently dressed like state troopers (Kurt had insisted on the hat) and trying to question the thirteen-year-old boy who had been with his father until the older man disappeared. The boy was short with dark hair and wide eyes that insisted they listen to him. He crossed him arms and sulked back in the kitchen chair, texting madly on his phone.

Blaine tried a new approach. "Mrs. Sarino, can you think of any enemies your husband might have had? Anyone who would want to cause him harm?"

The slight brunette shook her head slowly. Blaine thought she was still in shock.

"Vinny went hunting all the time. He loved it. The woods were his home more than this house was." She waved her arm around vaguely. "But everyone loved him. Half the town came to him for deer meat in the winters. It's leaner than beef, you know."

Blaine nodded faintly, feeling a little queasy. His one encounter with venison left him doubled over the toilet for a full day. His father hadn't cooked the meat properly.

"He knew the woods so well. But I guess anyone can get lost at night right? He might turn up?" Sandra Sarino asked hopefully.

"It's possible." Kurt said with a strained smile.

The son rolled his eyes and snorted loudly. Missing father or not, this kid was getting on Blaine's nerves. He was still texting!

"Right, well I think we've got everything we need." Blaine stood up smiling warmly. "If you think of anything else, please call us." He shook Sandra's hand, handing her a business card with his cell number on it. Kurt waved as he followed Blaine out of the small house.

"The Jersey Devil?" Kurt said incredulously as soon as they were outside and out of earshot of the family. "We're going to hunt for the Jersey Devil? The Jersey Devil?" He shook his head as he got into the car.

Blaine shrugged. "Maybe." He said, sliding into the driver's side.

"You know," Kurt began as Blaine began driving. "I knew someone at school that swore up and down he saw the Devil once. It ate his chickens." Blaine snorted. "It was apparently very traumatizing for him." Kurt said seriously, obviously fighting to keep a straight face. "Just seeing a live chicken makes him break down in tears now." He sighed dramatically.

"You are a horrible person. Stop teasing me."

"No way. It's too much fun."

"Quinn did a really good job compiling this file."Blaine said later that night in a nameless bar in town. No really. It was actually nameless. The sign outside said "Bar." It was tiny, dirty, and Kurt was fairly certain he was getting cancer from the amount of smoke the locals kept belching out. The pool tables were jammed up next the dining tables, leaving almost no room for the players. Kurt refused to eat the grease-drenched burger Blaine ordered for him, instead glaring scathingly at Blaine and hissing that they would be stopping at a 7-11 on the way home for a day-old wrap.

That, at least, would not be covered in who knew how many germs.

So Kurt was nursing a beer (He made the bartender give it to him unopened and Kurt wiped it down with a hand wipe before it touched his lips because he wasn't taking any chances) and shooting angry glares at Blaine for daring to bring him to this dump.

To be fair, the only other bar in Ashpark looked even more unappealing and Blaine was planning on hustling some money later (their hard funds were getting low), probably by using the pool tables and very drunk patrons. So he needed to create the illusion he was drinking even though he dumped the alcohol into a thermos every so often when no one was looking.

"I mean it," Blaine was saying. Kurt forced himself to listen. Blaine was going over the inch-thick file Mr. Schue had given them earlier. "She's included everything. The local legends; missing persons dating back to the 1800s; police reports; eyewitness descriptions; everything."

Kurt dodged an errant pool stick before answering, fixing its owner with a fierce glare. "We're still looking for a creature that had eluded hunters for nearly 270 years. How on earth are we going to find it? And sir," Kurt finally snapped, twisting around in his chair to glare at the skinny pool player. "If you hit me with that stick one more time, I will shove it up your ass. And don't think I can't."He delivered his threat with enough force that the young man just swallowed hard and stammered out an apology. Kurt turned back to find Blaine snickering.

"You're so adorable when you get pissy."

"Oh shut up."

Kurt was still scowling when Blaine began asking around the bar about local legends. They were now reporters doing a story on American stories. Shifting from persona to persona was second nature for Blaine, but Kurt still had trouble remembering who he was supposed to be to certain people. It was exhausting. He mused about how little he got to be Kurt Hummel from Lima, Ohio.

What was up with Blaine anyway? He was so strange; one minute happy and cheerful and the next, when he thought Kurt wasn't looking, nervous and troubled. The idiot was keeping something from hum, Kurt just knew it. Maybe it had something to do with when Mr. Schue pulled him aside…

Deep in thought, it took him a few moments to realize Blaine was waving at him to come over from the corner of the bar. Kurt sighed inwardly at the amount of smoke said corner housed. But he managed to drag himself to Blaine and the old man Blaine was with.

"This is Mr. Matthew Gorman." Blaine said. "This is my partner, Brad." Brad? Blaine was going to get a stern talking to about the names he picked out for Kurt. "Brad, Mr. Gorman's very kindly offered to tell us the story about the Jersey Devil. You have the tape recorder right?" Blaine pulled out a notebook and a pencil at the same time though.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Gorman." Kurt smiled, giving the old man a handshake. He fished around in his jacket before pulling out an old tape recorder Blaine had given him earlier. Whether it actually worked, Kurt had no idea. Nevertheless he hit the record the button as he studied the old-timer in front of him.

Matthew Gorman looked to be in his eighties, with a large nose and white hair. He dressed exactly how Kurt would expect a hunter to dress—a real hunter of animals, that is—clad in an old plaid shirt and jeans and a faded baseball cap squashed on his head. He was holding a large pitcher of beer and Kurt wondered exactly how much he'd drank before Blaine found him.

"Yous are reporters then?" Gorman drawled, his words slightly slurred from the alcohol.

"Yes, sir, from Weekly World News." Blaine said easily. "Can you please tell us about the Jersey devil?" He adopted the air of a reporter so easily, his pencil hovering over the notebook and an intense look of interest on his face.

Gorman eyed the two boys in front of him suspiciously. "Well I supposed. Not many around here listen to me anymore."

"That's 'cause you're a nutjob, fossil!" a drunk patron shouted from the other side of the bar.

"Why don't you shut yer piehole, Dirty Frank! Or I'll tell the missus all about yer nightly meetin's with Cormick's oldest girl?" Gorman yelled right back. Frank ducked his head amid all the jeers but stayed quiet. Gorman glared at Frank before turning back to Blaine and Kurt.

"Right. The Devil. Well, the legend varies a little depending on which county you go to. But most of the stories have the same basic details." Gorman paused for a long sip of beer. Kurt briefly considered telling the old man he had foam in his beard but decided against it. "In the early 1700s, usually around the 1730s or so, there was a family that lived in New Jersey.

"Now, the stories vary on whether the family was called Leeds or the area was called Leeds but that's not important. What is important is that one dark and stormy night, Mother Leeds gave birth to her thirteenth child."

Kurt marveled at how well Gorman told the story. The country twang was almost gone as the old man got into the tale, repeating words he'd heard a thousand times before. Kurt was completely hooked. Blaine wasn't even pretending to take notes.

"Mother Leeds had always frightened the villagers she lived among. She had an aura of evil, the townspeople said. They avoided speaking to her and her brood whenever possible. Most at that time had lost at least one child to childbirth or fever, but not Mother Leeds. All twelve of her children were healthy and strong and a bit cruel." Gorman took another swig, shuddering. "In those times, thirteen was an unlucky number, a number associated with the devil. Many suspected Mother Leeds to have a relationship with the devil, but they dared not investigate the nature. So when Mother Leeds was pregnant with a thirteenth child, the whispers were rampant.

"Who was the father? For she lived alone with her children. Why was she having another baby, a thirteenth baby?

"The townspeople were worried but curious. On the day Mother Leeds went into labor, the town's midwife bravely entered, ready to help deliver the baby and ignoring the rumors. Right before the baby was born, Mother Leeds cried out 'Let it be the devil!' She did not survive the birth, but the child did.

"If you could call it a child. The creature was the size of a baby, but had the body of horse and the wings of a bat. The creature shrieked three times before flying off into the forest.

"Since that night, livestock has gone missing every so often. Occasionally, a man will vanish into the trees, never to be found again. Never enough to spark a panic. Just enough to survive. Many hunting parties and searches have been done, but somehow, the Jersey Devil has eluded capture for nearly 270 years. My grandfather was a part of the searches back in the early 1900s. But aside from a few sightings, the Jersey Devil haunts the forests of New Jersey to this day."

When Gorman stopped, evidently finished, Kurt stole a glance at Blaine. He appeared deep in thought.

"What were the searchers planning to do when they found it?" Blaine asked. Well that was a strange question. A logical one, Kurt thought, but Gorman raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, they thought it was the devil. So did they have a plan for killing it when they caught it?" Blaine stammered, blushing slightly.

Gorman considered the question, swirling his beer around in the mug. "Fire." He finally said. "They were going to burn it."

Their motel (The Brown-Eyed Devil, and Blaine seriously wondered about the names of the places he stayed in; they were invariably bizarre) was a nice one. Kurt hadn't found a single cockroach and the shower didn't even smell this time. Blaine was infinitely thankful for that kind mercy, especially since Kurt was still angry about the bar. Not even their new wad of twenties had placated him. And Blaine worked hard for it too. Playing pool with drunk hicks while your best friend glared daggers into your back was unsettling. Blaine sadly sorted the money, dividing it into a pile to carry around and a pile to keep in the Mustang. He hoped the shower would mellow Kurt out some, because they were going into the woods in the morning. And Blaine had a feeling Kurt would not enjoy hiking through the trees with spiders and ants.

He dragged his "clean clothes" duffel bag out, rooting through it to find a plain white t-shirt. Blaine yanked off his clothes, pulling on the shirt while his thoughts turned to Will Schuester's words from the roadhouse.

"Have you heard anything about my parents?"

Mr. Schue looked pained before he finally answered. "No," the roadhouse owner finally admitted. "Nothing. No one has heard from them. Do you have any idea why…?" he trailed off, looking at Blaine with worry.

Blaine shook his head. "No. No, they just…left. They haven't called me and Dad's phone just goes to voicemail when I try to call them. Just tell me if you hear anything?"

"Absolutely." Mr. Schue hesitated for a second. "Blaine, running this place, we hear a lot of rumors."

"Rumors?"

He nodded.'A storm is coming, he quoted. "A lot of hunters are whispering about it. There are more demonic possessions and supernatural attacks than ever before. Something is brewing. I don't think anyone knows yet, but just be careful. Alright?" Mr. Schue nodded at Kurt. Blaine turned to study the slim man with bright blue eyes currently invested in a heated discussion with Mercedes. He was gesturing wildly, trying to make a point. Blaine felt a faint smile tugging, but it faded at Mr. Schue's look. "Watch out for yourself. And the newbie. It's never a good time to join these ranks, but it's looking to be extremely dangerous right now though.

"A storm is coming, Blaine. Remember that."

Blaine nodded, feeling a sense of foreboding. Mr. Schue was normally oblivious to everything; for him to notice those whispers meant they were probably true. He felt sick. Yet another danger he was putting Kurt in. Blaine watched Kurt laugh at something Mercedes said, watched his eyes scrunch up in mirth as he giggled into his hand.

He wouldn't tell Kurt about Mr. Schue's warning. Not yet. No need to kill that innocence yet.

"Blaine?"

He jumped at the sudden voice, nearly hitting Kurt with his shoulder. "Jesus, Kurt!" Blaine laughed shakily, hoping Kurt wouldn't notice how worried he really was.

No such luck. "You ok? You were just sitting there, staring at my bed." Kurt sat down next to Blaine, tentatively nudging Blaine's shoulder with his own. His hair was still wet from the shower and Blaine had a sudden desire to push back the few strands that hung over Kurt's forehead, but kept his hands at his sides. Kurt always seemed to know when Blaine was hiding something, and Blaine was irrationally annoyed. But it was Kurt.

"I'm fine. Just…tired." Blaine lied easily. "Come on." He gently pushed Kurt towards the other bed. "Get some sleep. We're going to be walking a lot tomorrow."

Kurt, surprisingly didn't protest, just stood up and looked at Blaine. Kurt was so easy to read. You're lying to me and I don't know why, his look said. I'm worried about you. This isn't over.

Without a word though, Kurt slid into his own bed, waited for Blaine to get under his covers, then reached over and turned off the lamp on the table between then. The room went dark, except for the faint blue light from the motel sign drifting in through the window curtains. Blaine could just see Kurt's outline. He lay still, listening to the faint breaths from the other bed.

God, Blaine hoped he could keep Kurt safe.

"You don't have to protect me," the blanket-covered lump said. "I'm not actually made of porcelain, you know. I can defend myself."

How the hell did Kurt manage to do that? To guess at what Blaine was thinking?

"I know." Blaine whispered.

"Whatever it is, I can help." No, you can't. "You don't have to do everything by yourself." Yes, I do.

"Go to sleep, Kurt." Blaine said aloud. He heard Kurt let out an annoyed huff and the blankets rustle as Kurt turned away from him. Kurt wouldn't let up, Blaine knew, but maybe he could distract the guy with the hunt. He could deal with the fallout later.

Kurt tripped on yet another root, but managed to catch himself just before completely falling on his face into the dirt. The forest hated him. Kurt was sure of it.

He glared at the stoic trees, imagining the apple orchard in The Wizard of Oz that threw fruit at poor Dorothy and her friends. They remained silent and unmoving.

Blaine was walking ahead of him, trying to follow the directions they had gotten from the Sarino's the day before to where the father had last been seen. He frowned at the piece of paper, then squinted at the unchanging scenery.

Honestly, if Kurt didn't know any better he'd think Blaine was lost.

"Are we lost?"

"No," Blaine denied hotly.

"Oh my god, we are." Kurt moaned, earning himself an elbow from Blaine.

"We aren't lost." Blaine insisted. "It's right here." He pointed at a clump of bushes. "Do they look like Mount Rushmore to you?"

Kurt wondered if Blaine was insane. He rolled his eyes, stalking over to the bushes while Blaine tried to muse through the directions again. The bushes actually did kind of resemble the famous mountain. Sort of. From certain angles, anyway. Kurt stepped carefully, trying to avoid the muddiest parts of the forest floor. God, but this sucked.

Would you go back to school? To New York? a voice whispered in Kurt's mind.

No. He could handle this. Just as he had the sewers and the motel rooms. Kurt was a Hummel, and Hummels did not run away. Ever.

Stepping to the side of a particularly large puddle, Kurt noticed a deep track in the mud. It was a horseshoe, but it was small. Smaller than the horses in Central Park, anyway. Kurt studied the print for a moment, thinking. He looked up and peered at the trees ahead. Something dark moved among the trunks.

Kurt jumped up, nearly slipping on the mud and falling on his ass. Which would have been tragic, as Kurt was wearing Ralph Lauren jeans. Old habits die hard and all. "Blaine!" he hissed at the hunter, who was still staring at the map like it held the answers to life itself. "Oh for—Blaine!" he motioned for Blaine to get his ass over to the bushes Kurt was crouched behind.

"In the trees," Kurt whispered into Blaine's ear. Blaine gave him an odd look, but watched the trees. There was a flash of movement—was that a wing?—but it faded almost instantly. Kurt gripped Blaine's arm. It was more for balance than anything, but Blaine didn't seem to mind. They crouched patiently.

A few minutes later, the branches rustled and the Jersey Devil flew down from the trees' limbs into the small clearing in front of Kurt and Blaine.

The descriptions were accurate, Kurt saw. It basically was a horse with fangs, wings, and devil's tail. Its back legs, though, were longer than the front and the creature walked on them rather than on all fours. Standing, the Jersey Devil was around five feet tall. It shook out its wings before stretching and yawning, letting out small sounds of pleasure.

The scene was almost pleasant, if not for the blood-stained maw and fangs.

And the cold glittering of the coal-black eyes sent shivers down Kurt's spines and made him think about darkness and the slimy creatures that lived there.

Blaine slowly raised his hand, where he held a can of hairspray. With the other, he fished out an old lighter. Kurt let go of his arm as Blaine crept around the bushes, holding the makeshift flamethrower in front of him. Before he could flick the lighter open, though, voices echoed through the forest.

"It's this way!"

"Not it's not, stupid! We just came from there!"

"Guys are you sure this is a good idea?"

Three voices, Two boys and a girl; young by the sound of it. Kurt groaned inwardly when he recognized one of the boy's. He was going to murder Tommy Sarino. The creature was gone the instant those stupid kids opened their mouths. Kurt growled and stood, marching towards the voices. Blaine followed.

Kurt stopped suddenly, crossing his arms against his chest and glowering at three kids between the tress. The kids hadn't stopped arguing and the two boys were too focused on proving the other wrong to look where they were going.

The girl saw them, though, and grabbed her friends.

"Ow, Em, what the…oh." Tommy caught sight of Kurt's murderous glare and straightened up. "Hi, Officers!" he said too brightly. His friend stood silently behind him, eyes wide. Kurt just stood there. "Um, this is Emily, my girlfriend," Tommy gestured to the small blonde-haired girl. She looked nervous. "And that's Sean." The buzz-cut lanky kid waved.

"You three are idiots." Kurt said flatly

Blaine glanced at his friend sideways as if questioning the yelling. Kurt ignored him in favor of ripping the children a new one for letting the creature get away.

Tommy tried to recover. "We had to come out here because no one would believe me! The Jersey Devil took my dad and I'm going to get him back. By myself if I have to!" He stuck out his chin stubbornly.

Huh. Maybe Kurt's initial assessment of the kid being an asshole was inaccurate. Dammit, now he felt guilty for scaring the kids. Next to him, Blaine sighed.

"Coming into the woods so soon after your father goes missing was not smart." He said gently. Sean and Emily kicked at the ground and avoided Blaine's eye. "We know what we're doing. I think you three should go home and let my partner and I handle this."

Tommy guiltily dropped his eyes. Oh sweet Lord, thought Kurt, dismayed when he realized what that look was for. His suspicions were confirmed in the next minute.

"We're, um, kinda lost," Tommy admitted, nervously giggling.

Blaine blinked. "What do you mean 'kinda lost'?" he asked tightly. Blaine was annoyed that they would have to get the kids home before they could look for the Jersey Devil, Kurt knew. Which meant a lost day of hunting. And every day meant the monster could get even farther away. It had eluded capture for more than two hundred years, if they lost it now, they might never find it again. And in the meantime, more people might die.

God, but this job was stressful at times.

Also, Kurt had no idea where they were either so he hoped like hell Blaine did. But Blaine was looking at him helplessly. Oh. Fuck.

"You're shitting me." Kurt glared at Blaine, not even caring about cursing in front of the kids. "I told you we were lost earlier. I told you. And now we have three charges." Blaine didn't offer a word in his defense; just let Kurt mutter curses under his breath. The three children stood around awkwardly until Sean decided to interrupt.

"Hey, why're you holding hairspray anyway?" he demanded.

Kurt and Blaine looked at him for a moment before locking eyes. Kurt honestly could not believe how quickly the day had gone to shit. Well, gotten shittier. Because any day that began with Kurt Hummel hiking through a forest was not a good day anyway.

"You don't look like state troopers…" Tommy said, narrowing his eyes.

"Where's your uniforms? Are policemen allowed to wear pants that tight?" the girl spoke for the first time. Kurt blushed deeply.

And Blaine was snickering. Kurt stared at him incredulously. Kurt had just been embarrassed by a thirteen-year-old and Blaine was laughing. Kurt crossed his arms, eyes flashing dangerously.

It had the desired effect. Blaine stopped smiling and swallowed nervously. "You're right, we aren't law enforcement." Blaine said brightly, focusing on the kids and not pissed-off Kurt. "We're hunters. We hunt monsters and ghosts."

The kids stared at him. Blaine tried to look trustworthy and solemn.

Sean was not convinced. "No way. Even if monsters exist, which they don't Tommy shot an angry look at his friend. "He hunts monsters?" Sean raised his eyebrows at Kurt. God for such a little thing, he had attitude. Kurt could just feel his bitch claws coming out. "He looks like a mud stain would give him fits!"

"I'll have you know, you snot-nosed little Kurt began heatedly. Blaine put his hand on his arm though and motion for Kurt to calm down.

"Kurt has actually saved my life before." Blaine said, and what? Kurt distinctly remembered it being the other way around multiple times, but Blaine refused to catch his eye. Tonight was going to be fun. If they made it out alive.

Tommy studied Blaine. "So you believe me? About the Devil taking Dad?" He seemed almost hopeful.

"Yeah. We believe you." Blaine smiled. Sean scoffed behind Tommy, but Emily slipped her hand in his.

Young love, Kurt thought.

"Come on. Let's get you all home." Blaine said. "And no, we're not lost, Kurt. Um, let's go that direction." He started off into the trees, the kids following reluctantly. Kurt sighed, but gave in.

An hour later, Blaine was starting to worry.

His direction was not right, and he could feel Kurt's anger pouring out in waves. He was scary when mad. Also, the three kids looked tired and Sean was beginning to complain. Loudly. About how cold it was, how it was getting dark, and how much of an idiot Blaine was for getting them even more lost. Blaine was ready to crack and punch the little brat when Sean's whining was suddenly cut off. Blaine turned around to find Sean face down in the mud.

"Whoops, my bad," Kurt smiled innocently, winking at Blaine and walking calmly around the muddied figure.

Kurt really confused him sometimes.

Up ahead, Emily called out. "Guys! There's a house over here!" She beckoned them over frantically.

She was right. In a large clearing lay a small, dilapidated wooden house. It looked to be a few hundred years old, with half the roof collapsed and the sides covered in ivy. The boards were weather-beaten and rotted. Kurt made to step out from behind the bushes, but Blaine held him back, thinking.

Not a moment too soon, actually. From the hole in the roof, a loud cry echoed. A dark shaped flew out, and for an instant, against the darkening sky, Blaine saw the outline of huge bat wings and a long, forked tail.

"We found it," Kurt muttered in his ear. Blaine nodded, trying to think of a plan.

Too late he saw Tommy run to the house. His friends followed. Blaine cursed to himself and sighed. "He's worse than you." Blaine said to Kurt.

Inside, the house was filled with the remnants of decades; maybe centuries. Abandoned typewriters lay haphazardly across the room; a broken cradle sat on a threadbare couch; wooden chairs had been reduced to kindling with age; newspapers stacked several feet high. Kurt pulled one out from the bottom, showing Blaine the date: August 17th, 1826.

"It must have taken over the house when the original owner died. Or just killed the owner." Blaine said. It certainly smelled like it. The whole house reeked of decay and must.

Tommy wasn't concerned with understanding the creature. He just wanted his dad back, and so crashed through the house with little thought to his surroundings. He found the basement door and bounded down the rickety steps. Emily followed him, with Sean tagging along reluctantly.

"You go with them," Kurt said. "I'll check this floor first." Blaine hesitated, but it was the only course of action. He didn't want to be trapped in the basement if there was something else here. Too many times had he been caught in an ambush. Letting Kurt go without a weapon was stupid though, so he handed over the small handgun he had been hiding in his waistband. Kurt raised an eyebrow, but took it.

"Just don't shoot me," Blaine said, eying the gun warily.

"I'm better now!" Kurt glared, affronted. "Go find the kids before they explode the place or something."

Blaine, however, could tell Kurt was glad he was being trusted with a gun. He just smiled and headed down the stairs, trying to avoid the rotted sections.

Tommy had found his dad. Blaine's stomach dropped at the sight of all the blood, but Tommy was cradling his father's head and the man was moving. Slowly, but he looked alive at least. The other two children stood off to the side.

"He can't move," Tommy said when Blaine crouched down to feel Vincent's pulse. It was faint, but there. "He's bleeding from his shoulder or neck; I can't tell where."

"I need something to stop the bleeding." Blaine said. His leather jacket would be useless, and he looked around the basement, hoping for some kind of cloth. No such luck. On the other hand, the basement had more junk and cans of ancient food. One wall had rusty tools that must have been there for the past hundred years. Only half of the saw was still hanging.

Tommy pulled off his sweatshirt and thrust it at Blaine. Blaine wiped the blood away as best he could, revealing two large puncture marks in Vincent's shoulder that still oozed. Vincent groaned softly, but otherwise was quiet. Blaine poked at the wound again, and a little bit of green dribbled out with the red. He covered the wound with the sweatshirt and tied the sleeves together to hold the fabric in place.

"Hey, Blaine?" Kurt called from the stairs. "There's nothing upstairs and the second floor is completely blocked off so He stopped talking when he caught sight of Vincent. "Oh my God, is he still alive?"

"Yeah, barely. C'mere, help me get him outside. Remember the fangs on the picture we saw?" Blaine said, hoisting Vincent upright and putting the man's arm around his shoulder. Kurt got the other arm, and they supported the lifeless body to the stairs. "I think it feeds on blood. And it must poison its victims. He wasn't tied down or anything."

"The perfect snackfood," Kurt grunted.

After a short struggle, they finally got Vincent upstairs and hidden in one of the many rooms. Tommy stayed by his father's side, flanked by his friends. Vincent breathed shallowly on the mattress that had more springs than fabric.

Blaine drew Kurt aside. "We have to stop that thing now."

"I'm not arguing." Kurt shrugged. He caught sight of Blaine's expression. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"I've got a plan."

"This is the worst plan ever."

"No it's not, Kurt. You'll be fine. I'll be right here the whole time."

"Why do I have to be bait? You be bait."

"I have better aim than you. And I've used a flamethrower before and you haven't. And we can't ask any of the kids to do this because that would be immoral."

Kurt glared at Blaine from his place on the floor of the basement. "If I die, I swear I'll haunt your ass."

Blaine tried not to chuckle. "I don't doubt that for a second."

They were silent. Blaine picked at the underneath of the wooden stairs. To be truthful, his hiding spot kind of sucked, but it offered the easiest access to Kurt if something went wrong and was reasonably out of sight.

As long as the creature didn't look down.

"Blaine, there are too many 'ifs' in this plan." Kurt fiddled with the handgun in his lap. "We're banking on it coming straight down here and not wandering the rest of the house." Where the kids and an injured man are hiding went unsaid.

It wasn't a great plan. But it was all they had. And Blaine had to hope the creature would be hungry after a long night of terrorizing the surrounding counties. "It'll work." he said more confidently than he felt. He double checked the hairspray, making sure that it was still spraying. He had an extra sitting at his feet. The lighter produced a steady flame. The netting hidden on the ceiling in front of the steps hadn't moved, and the end was within easy distance for Kurt to reach. They'd found the net in one of the many boxes and wooden cabinets strewn around the room. The basement appeared as messy and abandoned as the rest of the house.

The plan had to work. It just had to.

"Next time, you get to be bait." Kurt grumbled. "And I call radio control for the next hundred miles."

"No Gaga. Or Britney."

"This isn't a negotiation, Blaine!"

A muffled thump came from upstairs. Blaine saw Kurt pale.

"Just relax. I won't let anything happen to you." Blaine said quietly. Kurt rolled his eyes, but still looked scared.

Steps echoed above them. They were heavier than footsteps, but weren't quite the clop-clop of horseshoes. Kurt followed the progress with his eyes, his knees drawn up tight and the gun in one hand. The other was behind him, fingering the rope that would release the net.

Blaine flipped the lighter open as the basement door swung open. He held his breath, trying not to tip off the creature to the ambush. The stairs creaked and rained fine dust on his face with each step the Devil took, and oh god NO he did NOT have to sneeze.

Oh my God walked faster! he silently pleaded, fighting the sneeze. He almost cried in relief when the creature stopped at the bottom of the stairs. It froze when it caught sight of Kurt in the place of its previous meal.

Kurt stared at the Jersey Devil. It stood on all four legs, its wings folded against it body and tail flickering, eyes narrowed in anger. A growl rose in its throat and it bared its teeth.

"NOW KURT!"

At Blaine's command, Kurt yanked his rope and released the net. He backed away, watching the monster howl and tear at the net, its wings tangled and useless. Blaine nearly tripped over a box, but managed to straighten up in time to see the creature run at Kurt. Kurt fired off two shots reflexively, hitting the creature in the body and neck.

It didn't slow down. Instead, the Devil screeched horribly, and headbutted Kurt in the stomach. Gasping in shock, Kurt kicked the thing in the face. He readied the gun again.

Blaine held the lighter and hairspray ready, but he was afraid the flame would engulf Kurt too. He needed Kurt to move but the creature was right in front of him and still fighting the netting.

A distraction is what he needed.

From upstairs, there was a loud thump and then a cry of pain, followed by yelling. Oh, Blaine was going to murder those kids. But the Devil was looking up at the wooden ceiling and Kurt had scooted away…

Blaine flicked the lighter, willing it to catch the flame. "Oh, come on, you bastard!" he growled at it. Finally, finally it lit and with a cry of triumph he held the can behind the flame and pressed down.

A roar of fire engulfed the beast's head, turning blue when it hit the creature's flesh. Blaine tried to hit every inch of the thrashing creature. It was reduced to a blue fireball in second, still screaming. He stopped spraying; figuring to save some ammo in case this wasn't enough.

With a long cry of pain, the creature collapsed.

It was over. Two-hundred and seventy plus years of terror and death throughout New Jersey and south-eastern Pennsylvania was over. Kurt stood at his side breathing heavily.

"You ok?" Blaine looked at Kurt's chest where he was rubbing painfully.

"Fine." Kurt replied breathlessly, still watching the creature burn in blue flames. His eyes widened. "Oh shit. Blaine." He tugged on Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine. Blaine. Blaine."

Blaine saw it. The fire on the creature's corpse was no longer contained to the creature's corpse. It jumped to one of the wooden boxes, engulfing the dried wood in seconds. More boxes followed. "Move." Blaine pushed Kurt towards the stairs. "Faster, Kurt!"

Kurt decided not to waste any more breath by snapping at Blaine, but he did shoot him a scathing look. They bolted up the stairs.

Sean was clutching a bloodied nose and the dresser was knocked over when Kurt and Blaine found the room with the kids and Vincent. He looked miserable.

"He tried to open the top drawer and it fell on him," Emily said by way of explanation. So that was the thump. Tommy was sitting with his father, who was still mostly unconscious.

"Right, well, we gotta go." Blaine said hurriedly. He and Kurt dragged Tommy's father outside, narrowly avoiding an explosion of flames from the basement door. Thankfully, most of the wood was still fairly dry so there was minimal smoke.

Once a safe distance into the woods, Blaine carefully lowered Vincent, muscles screaming. He collapsed to the cool ground. Kurt fell next to him, face grimy with soot. They watched the house slowly burn, the smoke trailing into the darkened sky.

"Two hundred miles." Kurt said.

"Deal." Blaine laughed. God, but it was good to be alive.

Their possessions mostly packed and shoved into several duffel bags or in the Mustang, Kurt flopped backwards onto the bed. While most of this trip sucked, the beds were nice.

And they did manage to stop a monster that had been killing for over two hundred and seventy years. And a young boy got to keep his father for many more years. Kurt smiled faintly at that thought.

Sure, there was the whole almost-starting-a-forest-fire incident, but the firefighters got it put out in time. That's what matters, right?

He closed his eyes.

"Kurt! Ready to go?" Kurt's eyes flew open when Blaine's hoagie smacked his stomach.

"You could always hand my sandwich to me like a normal human being." Kurt said, sitting up and making room for Blaine.

"Too much fun surprising you." Blaine grinned. He took a huge bite of his own hoagie, spilling lettuce and onions all over his lap. Sometimes, Blaine was just such a guy.

Kurt rolled his eyes and unwrapped his own- a turkey hoagie with a little mayo (guilty pleasure). It wasn't bad, actually. The bread was delicious. He took smaller bites than Blaine, who scoffed.

Their banter, however, was cut short by the tones of David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" coming from Blaine's pocket. Still chewing, Blaine answered one handed.

"Hello?" He put the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could throw an onion slice at Kurt. Not to be out done, Kurt hit him in the ear with a tomato piece. The fun ended when Blaine's face suddenly went pale. "Dad?"

Dad? Kurt had never seen Blaine looked so angry, scared, and betrayed at once. It was a weird mix, considering Blaine was usually so happy. Kurt watched his friend carefully, slowly eating the hoagie so he looked busy.

"Dad, where are you? Are you and mom ok?" Blaine suddenly straightened up and his voice lost its worried tone. "Yes sir." He said tonelessly.

Ok, now Kurt was worried. Blaine's parents had left him months ago, why were they calling now? And why was Blaine suddenly acting like a robot?

"Yes sir. Um," Blaine began looking around the room and in his pockets. "Hey, Kurt, do you have a pen and paper or something?" Kurt got the requested supplies out of the dresser drawer and handed them to Blaine wordlessly. "Thanks." Blaine wrote quickly, listing names and addresses and only pausing to ask about spelling.

Kurt watched the whole process, more than a little unsettled. Blaine's father sounded scary, and he hadn't even met the man yet. He wondered why Blaine was listening to the man who had left him several months ago. Hell, he wondered where the fuck his best friend had gone, because Blaine suddenly had a "soldier" attitude and Kurt didn't like it.

"I got it all." Blaine scanned the list. "Dad? When are you He stopped talking, listening to the man on the other end. "Yes sir." He said quietly. Blaine hung up a few seconds later.

After a minute of Blaine staring at the floor, Kurt decided to jump in. "Are they alright?" he asked. It seemed a harmless enough question.

Blaine took a deep breath before answering. "Yeah. They're fine. Alive." Blaine threw his phone at the other bed. "Bastard." He spat out bitterly, glaring at the paper he'd written on. "I'm his son, right?" Blaine stood up and began pacing angrily. Kurt decided it would be best to just let Blaine get this off his chest. "You know, you'd think, as his son, I'd be thought about every once in a while right? A phone call here, a text there—just something to let me know they aren't dead in a ditch somewhere in the boondocks! And then when the bastard finally calls—nothing. Not a 'Hey Blaine, hope you're doing well,'Hope you haven't been horribly maimed or anything yet!' No. Just 'Blaine, shut up and take down these names.'Blaine, go to this town right now.'Blaine, go risk your life for strangers, but don't ask questions or anything because I am your father and you will obey me like the stupid fucking dog you are!'"

Kurt jumped when Blaine ended that last sentence with a swift kick to one of the duffel bags.

"I mean," Blaine slumped back down next to Kurt. "Your dad cared about you, right? Like, he wanted you to be happy and healthy?" he leaned on Kurt's shoulder sadly.

"My dad wasn't in the same situation as your family." Kurt said diplomatically. Privately, he thought Blaine's father was an asshole but that was a comment that was going to be reserved for another time.

Blaine shook his head. "No, he was like that before he started hunting." He sighed.

For once, Kurt had nothing to say. Mr. Anderson sounded like an awful father, and his mother seemed just as bad. He let Blaine use his shoulder as a headrest for a few minutes. Mostly to make Blaine feel better, but Kurt would be lying if he said he minded…

"Ok, Blaine, that's enough self pity for you." Kurt poked his side and pushed Blaine off. "Eat your lunch and let's go. I'm driving. No buts," Kurt snagged Blaine's keys from his pockets and smiled triumphantly, standing up and out of reach.

Blaine sulked but dutifully finished the hoagie in three bites.

With all the bags finally in the Mustang and the room key returned, Blaine stood at the passenger door looking lost.

"I can drive you know," He shifted awkwardly, like he was uncomfortable.

"No, Blaine, I want to drive." Kurt smiled from the driver's side. "Also, remember I get the radio for the next two hundred miles.

Blaine groaned as he heard his beloved speakers begin blaring "Bad Romance." It was going to be a long car ride. Hopefully Kurt would take mercy on his ears a few miles in.

Kurt winked as if to say No chance in hell.

But he was with a friend. Someone who cared about him. Blaine could handle some Gaga if it kept Kurt happy.

But if Kurt thought he was tainting the Mustang with Miley Cyrus, Blaine was going to have a few choice words.