Disclaimer; I don't own a thing. AU, reworking of an incredibly old fic, "When The Path Diverts". Will contain slash, dark themes, blood and violence. You've been warned. Title taken from a Robert Frost poem.

The Road Less Traveled By

Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Four;

"Children. Santa Carla is protected by children."

"Hey... we do the best we can."

"I'm sure you do. And that is why wherever I look, I see filth scurrying under my feet. Do you think this nothing more than a game?"

The utter disdain on Gabriel's face is apparent, jaw tight as he appraises his contacts with a suspicious eye. These two are nothing more than children in his eyes, blind and oblivious to the dark desires of the vampires that exist within Santa Carla. Hell, these boys wouldn't know a Master if it stared them in the face.

Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.

Gabriel pivots; surveying the surroundings of what could only be the base of operations. Holy water. Wooden stakes. A useless arsenal against those that are strong enough to snap your neck in a split second. How the brothers have survived on nothing but information from comic books and Hollywood... it's mindboggling.

"The lore on vampires is extensive. Some say that silver and holy water are its folly; quite possibly stemming from the roots of religion. Some say that it is sunlight, or beheading, whilst others say that the blood of a dead man is enough to poison it," Gabriel utters, drawing his trusted blade out of his sheath to gently trace the Latin engraved on the hilt, "Trust me when I say that this is not like the ravings of Stoker. When endangered, they will not play games. They will tear out your throat before you can even scream, to protect themselves and their pack."

The thought that perhaps he's talking to the brothers like they're idiots briefly crosses his mind.

But then, that's what they are. Idiots.

"I don't want either of you to be a part of this," Gabriel slips his dagger back into his sheath, turning to eye one brother, and then the other. So young, their faces still rounded with the softness of boyhood. "You're a liability."

In an ideal world, these boys would not need to know of the darkness, or of the creatures that inhabit it.

In an ideal world, Gabriel wouldn't be scarred with the loss of his family.

But then, the world is a pretty damn cruel place.

The eldest – Edgar – scowls, lips downturned and posture stiff in an attempt to appear mature. How endearing. "Now wait a minute old man... we called you for backup. If you think we're gonna sit this one out—"

"—Oh, but you are." Interrupting Edgar's tirade, Gabriel merely leans in close and smiles crookedly, one full of confidence. "You're going to sit here, on your ass, and be good. Or else you'll be bait, wriggling on a hook." As he smirks, the stark scar on Gabriels face twists, and becomes deformed. It's funny how he feels just as twisted on the inside, dark and vengeful and full of sin.

In a way, Gabriel is slowly becoming the very thing he hates most.

A monster.

Edgar's mouth shuts with a resounding click, though the anger in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw belies the fact that he isn't comfortable with allowing a veteran Hunter do all of the dirty work. That, in fact, he and his brother are just as capable. The boys' fists tighten into balls, knuckles white, pointedly diverting his attention to some other medium. Edgar's anger is palpable. So palpable, in fact, that Alan narrows his eyes and steps to the fore to answer for him.

"Fine. But as for the final showdown, we want some of the spoils." His voice, though lacking inflection, just screams that he wont take no for an answer in this. That this is their compromise.

Gabriel nods his head, satisfied. "You've got yourself a deal there, kid. I'll rid you of this particular little problem for free of charge too," lips twist into an expression that's decidedly twisted, broken, "just as an introductory offer, of course."

No more needs to be said.

And if Gabriel ignores the fact that he's being silently dismissed by two children, then he doesn't comment on it. There are, after all, much more important things to do.

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With Laddie's hand grasped in her own, Star roams the Boardwalk without a sense of purpose. Indeed, she's almost frantic in the way that she drags the poor boy behind her, the pulse and thrum of blood, the stuttering sweetness of heartbeat surrounding her and tempting her in a way that has her very mouth watering with hunger.

She doesn't know if she can hold off for much longer.

The hunger pangs are awful, great and powerful stabs in the gut that leave Star reeling, tears dripping down her cheeks and clouding her sight. She ignores the questions thrown at her by Laddie – who is naught but a worried little boy, now – trying to focus on one thing and one thing alone, in a poor attempt to distract her from the hunger coursing through her veins.

For once, Star doesn't have anyone to save her.

David and Michael. They wouldn't save her from this, would only encourage her to give in and join the Boys in companionship. The Boys are the only family she has left now, and the urge to give in and be welcomed finally with open arms...

Seeing them together had almost been too much.

Star had burned with jealousy, jealousy which tapered off into anger, resentment... and then sadness. For a moment she'd thought that she could love Michael, the boy so full of naiveté and innocence and yet still touched by darkness. Still touched by abuse. And it was then that she'd come to realise that Michael, sweet Michael, doesn't need someone like her. He needs strength, and that strength is something only David can give him.

Fallen angels; the both of them.

Doubling over in pain, Star loses her grip on Laddie's hand... and then her grip on reality. It all falls apart at the seams, as if her child-friend had been the only thing keeping her together. It roars – the hunger – great and terrible and all encompassing, until all she can see is red. All she can smell is blood.

All she can feel, is the phantom softness of flesh between her teeth, and the nirvana.

The boy, her age and beautiful with his dark hair greased up into a Mohawk, barely has time to protest before she's on him, blunt teeth struggling to break the skin. It takes time, it takes chewing, it takes too long until a hot splash of copper hits her tongue... and that's all she needs. Blood is bliss as it slides down her throat, the struggles of her beautiful prey growing weaker and weaker with every mouthful, her soft moans lost beneath the pounding of the waves.

And when his bloodless carcass falls onto the wet sand, all Star can do is stare at her blood-soaked hands in horror, her pure and white blouse dripping gore. Her soul is stained, sinful.

Is it any wonder that a part of her longs for death?