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In the Dark	By : jensencat Category: Supernatural > Crossovers Views: 1622 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or The Vampire Diaries. I am making no profit from this story, nor will I ever. The characters of Supernatural and The Vampire Diaries do not belong to me. Only my story and plot belong to me.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
Dean peered into the small, dark room in the cellar of the Salvatore boardinghouse. The door was barred and locked from the outside, a prison built to hold vicious monsters. He stepped inside, grinning excitedly as he plucked some vervain from the stash and shoved it into his pocket. The presence of the cell wasn’t all that surprising, really. He’d skimmed through enough of the journals upstairs to know that vampire hunters dominated the Salvatore bloodline.
He’d been able to deduce fairly easily from his online research that vampires ran rampant in the town. There were too many cases of “animal attacks” involving a bite to the neck that left the victims drained of blood to be mere coincidence. Coupled with that, Damon’s comment about his “snack” directly implicated him as the culprit.
But Dean’s mind had been completely blown once he found the journals. It was one thing for a single vampire to be inhabiting a town and passing as a human. But an entire town full of supernatural beings? That was incredible. Witches, vampires, werewolves, and even hybrids, all in the same town. The thought made him clench his muscles and grit his teeth in anticipation. It was like Christmas come early.
A freezer in the corner of Dean’s eye caught his attention, and he approached it cautiously. He opened the lid, and what he saw made his breath hitch in his throat. He gulped, trying to suppress the bile rising from his stomach. The freezer was full of hospital blood bags, straining with the thick red liquid they contained, and he instantly knew it was all human blood. It wasn’t the presence or even the quantity that had him feeling queasy; with his lifestyle, blood was part of his daily existence. It was the way the blood was lying in the fridge, neatly packaged in plastic like juice boxes, that made him want to be sick.
Dean’s head snapped suddenly towards a noise in the stairs. He remained completely still except for his hand slowly moving for his stake. Just as he felt the uneven wood under his hand, his ultimate opponent came into view. He was prey that had morphed suddenly into a predator.
“Just when I thought my bad day had reached its peak,” Damon said with only mild interest as he draped himself in the entranceway. His gaze fell on the open freezer, and he narrowed his eyes, realizing that the man holding out a very poorly whittled stake, in a stance advertising that he was ready to pounce, had found him out.
“Come for a snack?” Dean asked, contempt seeping into his voice.
“Are you offering?” Damon asked, enjoying the disgust in Dean’s face. He slammed Dean up against the wall at vampire speed and grabbed the stake from his hands. He examined it and scoffed a bit. “You were planning to attack me with this?”
“It was the best I could do on short notice,” Dean defended himself.
“Who are you?” Damon growled assertively.
“I could ask you the same question,” Dean struggled to speak though he was being pressed up against the wall by his chest.
“I’m the one with the upper hand at the moment,” Damon pointed out, vaguely amused that this punk would assume he was in a bargaining position.
“Damon Salvatore, I presume,” Dean said, answering his own question. “The murderous vampire turned in 1864.” Damon’s grip loosened a bit, and Dean didn’t waste a moment in taking advantage. He slipped out from the tight grasp of the vampire and came around behind him, shoving him into the wall and holding him there. He snatched back the stake and plunged it into Damon’s side just under his ribcage, penetrating his diaphragm.
Damon groaned, collapsing against the wall. “How do you know who I am?” he wheezed.
“I know everything,” Dean leaned on Damon’s muscular back, pressing him painfully into the wall as he snarled in his ear. “I know about all the people you killed, all the innocent victims who you drank dry. I know about Elena.”
“You don’t know anything about her,” Damon hissed angrily, straightening up a little despite the immense pain.
“I know enough,” Dean said. He pushed on the stake, moving it slowly upward until it scraped ever so slightly against his heart, bringing out a moan. “You feel that? One little motion will turn the lights out on you for good. He took his hand off the stake to reach for the knife at his belt. He smiled grimly, grabbing Damon’s hand and pulling it up where he could see. He stroked his calloused thumb over the soft, pale skin of the vampire’s palm, spreading the hand wide so the skin stretched taut over the thin muscles.
With his other hand, the one clutching the knife, he positioned the shiny metal blade by the base of the index finger. Damon tried to fight, but it was futile with a stake jammed through his diaphragm. The knife easily penetrated the taut skin, and Damon clenched his teeth as Dean slid the knife down under the skin, pulling it away until it fell to the floor, leaving the palm bare, unprotected and bloody.
Dean reached into his pocket for the vervain and quickly rubbed it into the wound without allowing time for a new layer of skin to grow, grinding it against the blood and exposed muscle. It sizzled and burned, and Dean reveled in it, allowing himself a sick smile before continuing his verbal assault. “She was innocent,” he hissed. “She was good. You corrupted her.”
Damon ground his teeth together, trying to suppress a whimper. “She fucking loves me, you sick, demented psychopath.”
“Oh, you think so?” Dean asked, feigning sweetness in his voice before unexpectedly plunging his knife deep into the muscle of Damon’s shoulder. “Then why has she been lying to you about me?”
Damon groaned loudly. It was a groan of pain and sorrow, irreparable suffering. His diaphragm had healed around the stake, making it almost impossible for him to produce a sound at all, but it served to make it more horrific than a person should ever sound.
“Lying about what?” he tried to talk, but it came out more like a whisper or a vicious hiss. He squeezed his eyes shut, angry and upset that he couldn’t move to defend himself without risking the stake actually penetrating his beating heart and stopping it forever. As it was, he could feel the splintery wood rubbing up against his vital organ with every shallow breath he took.
“Did Elena ever tell you where she was, the night you and Stefan and all your precious little leeches were all supposed to die because Klaus was supposedly dead?” Dean asked, genuinely curious.
“What do you mean, ‘supposedly’ dead?” Damon asked, momentarily lifting his forehead from the cool stone wall.
Dean chuckled darkly, circling around to Damon’s other side. “I see Elena isn’t the only one lying to you,” he teased. “But Klaus isn’t your concern at the moment. Right now, you should be more worried about me, and I’m asking you a question.” He yanked the knife from Damon’s shoulder, and blood spurted forth as if from a fountain. “Did she ever tell you what happened that night?”
“How do you even know about any of that?” Damon asked.
“Your brother’s journals were quite informative,” Dean said. “Now. Answer. The. Question.” He punctuated each word with a prod to Damon’s chest with the tip of his knife.
Damon looked up at the ceiling, cursing his brother and his journals. “She was terrified,” Damon finally answered, his wheezing voice soft and low. “She was grieving because she thought we were dead. What does it matter? We’re all fine.”
“You really believe that,” Dean commented, amazed by the revelation. “It’s sweet, your trust in her. Misplaced, but sweet.”
“Elena wouldn’t lie to me,” Damon insisted. “Not now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Dean smiled. “You see, Elena was with me that night. She said that she had a heavy conscience. She felt responsible. She wanted to get away.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Damon growled.
“Her words, not mine,” Dean said, holding up his hands in a display of innocence that was completely outweighed by the bloody knife in one of them. “But you still don’t know the full story. After that, she came back to my motel room. We had one hell of a night.”
“Shut up,” Damon said, closing his eyes, as if that would block out what Dean was telling him.
“It’s just the truth,” Dean said. “And that wasn’t the only time.”
“Elena wouldn’t,” Damon said. “She couldn’t.”
“Oh, she would,” Dean chuckled. “She most definitely would.”
Damon groaned, pressing his forehead deep into the cool stone and pressing his eyes shut. This man, whoever he was—his strange new persecutor—spoke lies. There was no way that Elena would do the things he said she did. That wasn’t her. It never had been, and he loved that about her. He loved everything about her. Every little detail, even the imperfections—her snarky comments, her persistent yet unintentional suicidal tendencies, the slight increase in her heartbeat when he touched her—he loved all of her.
He knew she loved him, too. But what if it was a lie? He recalled the night of Klaus’s supposed death. The last time he heard from her that night, she was halfway between Mystic Falls and the warehouse where he’d awaited death. The warehouse where he’d awaited her arrival, but she never showed. Could she have abandoned him in his time of dying for this abhorrent, sadistic creature?
No. It was impossible. She was Elena. Good, loving, the very opposite of her doppelganger. But now, he wasn’t so sure anymore of who she was. That same sweet, perfect face had abandoned him once before, and history had a tendency to repeat itself.
He heard the creak of the front door. “Damon?” Elena’s sweet voice drifted through the walls.
Even in the pathetic condition that he was, half dead with a stake against his heart and vervain rubbed into the raw palm of his hand, Damon recognized her voice instantly, and his eyes flew open. “Looks like you’re wrong,” he rasped, a crooked smile forming weakly in his lips.
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked, holding his knife up in front of Damon’s eyes. The blood on it was beginning to dry, and it was flaking a little on the hard metal.
Stefan appeared in the entranceway, drawn to the cellar by the hushed voices. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded, eyeing Dean suspiciously.
Dean didn’t waste a second before dropping his knife and pouncing on Stefan. Taken by surprise, Stefan crashed into the stone wall. The skilled hunter anticipated his next move and ducked out of the way of an assault to his shoulder by the heel of Stefan’s hand. As the vampire faltered, his hand connecting only with air, Dean pummeled his back repeatedly before sending him back into the stone with a hard knee to the face.
“Damon!” Elena rushed to kneel by his side and put her hand on his shoulder, looking him over to assess his condition. He had slid down the wall to sit on the floor and was resting his head against the hard stone. “Oh my god,” she muttered, looking wide eyed at the stake in the side of his chest.
“Elena,” he muttered.
“Don’t try to talk,” she instructed him, a pained look on her face. She put her hands gently on the stake, not sure how to proceed. She wanted to help but didn’t know how. Damon placed his good hand over hers and helped her guide the stake away from his heart.
“Now yank,” he whispered, looking trustfully into her brown eyes. She looked hesitantly at him, nervous that she might hurt him further, and he encouraged her with a nod. She clenched her teeth and yanked on the stake with all her might, pulling it out of him. He groaned, trying desperately not to scream. The pain was horrible. The so called “torture sessions” he’d endured in the past at the hands of various enemies were nothing compared to this.
“Are you okay?” Elena asked, studying his face with concern. He gave a forced nod as blood rushed out of the gaping hole below his heart. He tried to suck in a breath, willing his shredded diaphragm to speed up the healing process
Elena ran her hand over his cheek. Her heart felt like it was being twisted; she couldn’t endure seeing Damon in so much pain. She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how.
Stefan collapsed back into the wall, and Dean kneeled down before him, but before he could take action Stefan sprang up and sent him crashing onto the floor, holding him down with his hand clamped around his neck.
Dean sputtered, trying to breathe, one hand clawing at the hands around his neck. His other hand was reaching and feeling around for his knife. Finally, he felt it and plunged it deep into Stefan’s side. He gasped, going rigid, and Dean waited a moment, his mouth in a grim line, before pushing Stefan off of him. He let out a tiny noise through his open mouth, into which Dean shoved the vervain that remained in his pocket, before collapsing onto the dirty, hard floor.
Dean grunted as he pushed himself up. He looked around and saw Elena sitting in the corner, gingerly stroking Damon’s cheek. Fiery rage filled him. It wasn’t only jealousy, although he was certainly quite jealous. He was also just angry. These creatures didn’t deserve Elena. They were murderous monsters. Stefan was proof that, no matter how hard a vampire tried, they could never be good. But Elena was, and they had corrupted her. They had come into her life for no reason other than their love for her doppelganger. They never had the intention of loving Elena, only of reigniting their feelings towards Katherine.
Dean grabbed the stake from where Elena had dropped it on the floor approached Stefan again. He groaned, still trying desperately to spit out the vervain from his burning mouth. Dean knelt down and pushed Stefan’s head into the wall with his hand.
“You should have stayed away from her,” he growled, his upper lip twitching slightly with the contempt he was feeling. He then plunged the stake hard into Stefan’s body, under his ribcage and up into his heart.
Stefan groaned a little, and some of the now soggy vervain in his mouth spilled out onto his chin. Elena’s head snapped up, and she jumped up away from Damon in shock.
“No, no, no,” Elena muttered, trying to hold up Stefan’s lolling head. The color and life drained from his skin, and he sank further into the floor. His eyes were fluttering closed, and his body was sagging and slipping down.
Hot tears spilled down Elena’s face. “Stefan,” she whimpered, hugging his head close to her body. “Why?” she wailed, looking up at Dean. She was barely able to form the word. She felt like the inside of her body was exploding, and she was shaking, clutching Stefan’s head. It felt like the worst possible moment, like everything was falling down. But at the same time, there was a part of her that just felt relief. She hated herself for it, and she tried to suppress it, but it was there. Stefan was dead, and she felt relief.
Dean stood above her, looking down at the beautiful object of his desire as she desperately pulled the stake from his victim’s chest, and the hatred overwhelming him faded a bit. His features softened, and he realized just what he had done to her, the pain he had caused. He wanted to get down beside her and hold her to his chest to comfort her, but he had a feeling that would only make it worse.
He tried to loosen his tight arms and exhale smoothly, attempting to dispel his own rage. It was bad enough that he had killed Stefan; he couldn’t put Damon to the same fate. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; every bit of him was aching to grab back the stake from the floor and send it right back into Damon’s gut, but he held himself back. He couldn’t hurt her further. She just might break, and that would leave Dean alone once again, guilty and regretful with nowhere to turn. So he sighed and relaxed his muscles, turning his face away from the tragic scene before him.
- 14
- 15
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In the Dark