Introduction:

Transylvania, Winter of 1893

The man - if he even is one - should have killed her instead of marrying her. At least that's the feeling that's lodged in his gut at the moment. It's unfortunate that he can never make up his mind. He'd certainly loved her at some point, he just needs to remember that and maybe this wife won't end up like the last one.

Hope. That's the word I'm looking for.

"You're lucky I haven't murdered you," he says to her, deciding that she should know. Communication is key in any relationship, after all.

Right now she's lying next to him as they both face the arched, cobwebbed ceiling with their heads together and her hand over his. She turns her head to look at him, the darkness of the room shadowing her face. He can see one of her eyebrows quirk as she says, "Same to you, darling."

He exhales, raising a hand and reaching out for something invisible in the air above him, "Sometimes I just want to reach out, grab your neck, and snap it." His hand makes a violent squeezing motion.

The young woman lifts her free hand and smacks his out of the air, sending it back to his side. There is a soft thump as it hits the side of their wooden coffin. "Is it because of what I said this morning?"

He frowns, "I don't like it when you tell me what to do."

"I was far from it," she says, defensive.

"And in my own house, no less."

"It's hundreds of years old, it could use some change."

"It's been this way for hundreds of years because I like it the way it is."

"Dark, dreary, and empty?"

"Go light a candle if it bothers you so much."

"And you have no maids. You're incredibly wealthy but you have no maids. No help. Nothing."

"I apologize, I presumed you accepted my proposal based on love, not my fortune."

"There's nothing wrong with having a maid or two handy."

"Yes, there is and you know why, dammit!" he turns his face to glare at her. "What is it you want that I haven't already given you? Look at yourself! Look, at the dress on your body. I gave that to you. I gave you a home. I give you money. I give you an escape from that idiot. I give you freedom to do what you want in the mornings, and the only thing I ask in return is that you return to me at night. What more do you want?"

She just stares at the ceiling in response. He can see her eyes thinking. After a while she says with a subtle whine, "I don't know how you did it before me. It's lonely."

He watches her face, the beauty of which he had by now grown immune to. He knows she is different than most girls, that's why he'd chosen her. She's outspoken and opinionated, and most definitely isn't nice like many of the other wives that he'd had. Before she knew that he was a monster, she took pride and joy in stringing him along like all of the other suitors constantly trailing behind her. And when she'd found out what he was she was afraid at first . . . until she'd realized the rewards. Immortality, excitement, and wealth all are highly appealing to a girl like her.

"Before you I had another wife," he says. "I actually had several, though not one of them was very satisfying."

"So you killed them?"

He pauses. "They knew my secret."

"What about me? Would you let me die once you grew bored of me?"

Damon Salvatore keeps his eyes on the ceiling. "Yes. I would."

Part One: Enter The Hunter

Chapter One:

Paris, Winter of 1893

Dean clutches his stake firmly, eyes moving from the man standing in front of him to what Dean is much more interested in - the door he's blocking. The gap beneath that door flashes a blinding light, on and off, illuminating the dim hallway. There is a triumphant, crazed laughter coming from behind it - a sure sign that Dean needs to hurry.

The man standing in front of him is not quite a man. He is, as Dean had discovered just moments ago, a man-made man.

He'd received a case about three days ago from a Parisian woman, Halette, whose two brothers were taken and forced to work for some deranged scientist. Knowing that, Dean had originally turned the case down, thinking it a rather mediocre case for his style. But that was before Halette had informed him that both her brothers were supposedly dead and buried.

Standing in front of Dean now is one of Halette's undead brothers, Thomas. He'd already gotten rid of Halette's other undead brother upon arrival. Thomas had appeared just minutes after. To describe him as alive would be technically true, but his appearance suggests dead and nothing else. His skin is a dull grey and there is not a hint of running blood in him. No pink flush of the cheeks, no change in breath when active, and he doesn't even blink. Not that he'd need to anyway, since his eyes had proved to be very nearly blind.

Let's just say that the scientist's project hadn't been a stirring success. Until now.

Behind the blocked door is Dr. Fergus MacLeod, who refers to himself as Crowley now that he'd been exiled from the scientific community. He started as a relatively well-respected doctor and is a true genius. Dean figured that perhaps he's too intelligent for his own good because he sought more than what the world had to offer. Something beyond death.

"You're going to want to let me pass," Dean says, tapping the stake between his fingers. He doesn't know what good it'll do against a dead man, but he's eager to find out.

If Thomas understands at all, he makes no sign of it. Instead he steps forward unevenly, as if one leg functions and the other is just dead weight. This only makes it easier for Dean to predict his movements. The fact is immediately demonstrated as Thomas bends his leg as if bracing to lunge at him. His arms flail and his teeth bare.

Dean seizes one arm and yanks him out of the way. Thomas grunts, and pounces with surprising strength and accuracy atop Dean's back.

"Argh!" Thomas gurgles, locking his arms in an impressive chokehold around Dean's neck. He jerks an elbow back, nailing the creature in the stomach. Unphased, Thomas rakes his nails down Dean's coat sleeve, ripping the material to shreds. Strips of the leather slap to the ground as he claws away at him.

Really? Dean thinks to himself. This is my best coat. He aims a rough jab with his stake to Thomas' head and hears an instant screech. He tosses the surprised creature off of him and turns to see that he'd taken a good slice out of its throat instead.

Then, without hesitation, he charges and stabs the undead thing right in the chest. He pushes the stake in, feeling the decaying flesh give way beneath his fingers. With a grimace, he lets go and steps back.

The creature lets out a moaning cry of horror, and just for a moment Dean sees a flicker of awareness in his eyes before he wheezes and collapses to the ground.

Without further ado, Dean shoves through the closed door into a blinding light. Squinting, he places a hand on his Colt revolver.

"We both know that thing's useless, Hunter." Crowley's says through the light. His voice contains a crackle of excitement. "I saw you through the window. You used up all of your bullets on dear Thomas' brother outside. What was his name?" He waves a hand in dismissal, "Oh, well, he wasn't my best work anyway. Thomas was only a little better . . . but you killed him too so I suppose he wasn't all that great."

"I've still one bullet left," Dean says.

"And you're saving it for me?" he says in exaggerated flattery. "Now I feel special."

Dean raises the Colt and points it in the direction of his voice.

Then there is an abrupt thud, followed by a series of clanking noises and the light dies down.

The first thing Dean sees is an operating table. With a body on it.

Shit, Dean thinks. Not another one.

He lifts his eyes to meet Crowley, a man with medium build and bright, wild eyes whose uneven beard frames a toothy grin.

"Face to face at last, Hunter," he says, his mouth stretching further into a mischievous smile. "I'm a big fan. A true fan."

Dean keeps the Colt pointed at him, eyes shifting bracingly from him to the limp body. He notes that it's a man around his age. In that brief glance he spots the subtlest of smiles on the man's face as if he were merely asleep, having a good dream.

"A handsome one, right?" Crowley says, picking up a white rag and running it over both of his hands. The rag turns red from the blood. He looks at Dean, "You're wondering if he's alive?"

Dean moves a few steps closer, "No. I think I'll just kill you now. I've a train to catch."

"Well, then, if you did that you couldn't very well know how to deal with my newest creation," he gazes down at the unconscious body with pure awe and admiration.

"I can learn."

"Oh, but you'll be missing out!" Crowley croons joyfully. "This is it. This is the reason I'm alive- to create him! He's beautiful."

"You two can spend some alone time in hell," he clicks his gun, his finger moving to squeeze the trigger, when a loud and sharp gasp cuts through the room.

He's alive. That thing is alive.

Dean and Crowley just watch, frozen, as the creature blinks his blue eyes about the room in confusion. Then, as if suddenly aware of his nightmarish situation, he jerks to sit up, smashing his head on a low hanging oil lamp.

He lets out a cry, clutching his head. His lips protrude in a pout, almost like a child, as the lamp swings back and forth in front of him.

Startled and somewhat unsure of how to handle him, Dean moves his gun towards the creature. Crowley loudly protests as the man just turns to stare at Dean curiously.

"Who is he?" Dean asks Crowley, interrupting his shouts. "Huh? Is he-"

"Alive?" Crowley grins giddily. "Yes." He places a hand gently on the creature's shoulder and says to it, "Castiel?"

The creature turns his face away from Dean and looks at his creator.

"My God, he's magnificent," Crowley declares, not even trying to reel in his excitement.

Dean almost laughs. Magnificent? The man is buck naked on an operating table looking more puzzled than a two year old attempting collegiate arithmetic.

Finally making up his mind, Dean aims the gun at Crowley, deciding that he's too dangerous to keep alive. Unfortunately, the creature doesn't appreciate this and lunges off the table and at Dean. Crowley just looks on with pride as Dean is knocked down. He feels the hard floor meet his back with a painful thud and braces his arms in front of him, ready to block further attack.

But when Dean blinks and looks up, he finds that he is not moving. The creature just stands there looking at his own hands in surprise. His stare turns to Dean in what almost looks like guilt. Strange, inarticulate sounds rise from the thing's throat, his mouth struggling. Dean watches in astonishment as the man finally gets out, "Do not . . . kill."

Dean stands slowly and cautiously, glaring between the two men opposite him. His gun is kept low in attempt to appear non-threatening. This . . . thing seems very sensitive to threats. Crowley is practically giggling.

"He's protecting me," he says, eyes twinkling. "My dear boy."

"Or maybe he doesn't appreciate violence," Dean says. No, this creature isn't a killer. At least not yet.

"Yet he holds so much potential," Crowley says, moving around to look at his work. The creature just stands motionless with an expression of discomfort. Crowley points to one long scar that runs along his torso, "He was an interesting man before he died, you know. Quite impressive really."

"You don't have the right to do this," Dean says, stepping to the side, gun carefully kept behind him. "Dead things should stay dead."

"How very closed-minded of you."

"Well, I'm speaking from experience."

Crowley smiles, "I can't wait until you die. You'd be excellent undead. Strong."

"How flattering," Dean says, fingers twitching impatiently on his gun. Alright, I have one shot.

He swings his arm around, pointing the gun directly at Crowley's face, and fires. The creature responds with inhuman speed, shoving the doctor out of the way. The bullet enters his bare chest and Crowley is on the floor, knocked out.

Blood drips down the creation's body. A strangled sound erupts from its mouth, black brows angled together in pain. Dean falls backward and the creature's body jerks violently. The hunter's eyes widen and he tries to back away as much as possible, kicking his legs in front of him. The thing screams, his deep voice echoing agonizingly throughout the house.

He flings himself against the window in pain. The second its arms hit the glass, it shatters, the entire window in pieces. Cold air flies in.

Dean glances at Crowley, who is still passed out. He returns his gaze to the creature, whose bare back tenses, creating sharp angles where his bone meets skin. Scratches from the glass are sliced along his body

Then, without further warning, two enormous wings rip through the skin of his back and extend. Dean isn't prepared for the sight. He can do nothing but gape, in awe of the sheer greatness of it. Now Dean isn't one to stop and appreciate beauty often, but this takes him by surprise.

They resemble feathers. White and soft and clean. He watches as they stretch, brushing the high ceiling and flapping tentatively. A slight breeze washes onto Dean's face as the wings sweep past him slowly.

The creature seems to have stopped experiencing pain because his face has smoothed. Blood still covers his chest, but the wound is missing. Has it healed already?

Dean blinks, "What . . . are you?"

The creature meets his eyes. His wings stretch and for a moment Dean thinks he's going to kill him, but instead the creature bends both his knees and wings before taking flight. He floats gracefully through the open window and goes, his figure getting smaller and smaller as he gets farther and farther.

"Damn," Dean says after a few moments of shock, watching the retreating figure. "He made me miss my train."

Note: I don't own Supernatural or Vampire Diaries! Also thanks so much to my supercool beta Emie16!

Thoughts are appreciated 3