A/N: So for anyone who is just signing on to this story, this is a sequel of another Supernatural/Vampire Diaries crossover called A Million Ways to Send Me to Hell. So, if you haven't read it yet, read it first. Because it's really more fun that way, Although I'll try to write this in a way that give you plenty insight so that you won't have to. Okay, now this story deals with something that has recently happened in the sixth season of Supernatural (although I write it in a way that is totally different from the real episode so as not to give any spoilers away). It was just too hot for me to resist, and ironically, it fit the precontrived synopsis to this story perfectly.

Disclaimer: TVD and Supernatural are the works of L.J. Smith, Kevin Williamson, and Eric Kripke. Sadly, I had nothing to do with that (nor was I allowed into the trailers of any of the male actors, yet, lol). But the interwevings of this plot belong to me. Now, let's get on with it shall we?

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster..."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

BAD ROMANCE

Bonnie's POV

Mornings in Mystic Falls never really felt like morning. Even before finding out that it could no longer protect against vampires—or that there were vampires to begin with—I could never be considered a fan of daylight. To me, it always felt like an intrusion jilting me away from dreams of freedom with its blinding rays and promise to resume yesterday's worries. Sure, I would plaster on a fake smile as I followed the rest of the world in its daily routine of breakfast preparation, showering, and dental hygiene, but I was just doing what I had to, going through the motions expected of me when I all I really wanted was to be somewhere else. Mainly asleep. However, for nearly a decade, dawn had taken on more of an "Ain't No Sunshine" type of feel that made me glad for the room's black walls and equally opaque curtains.

That morning I rolled over onto the silk black sheets that lay stuck to my slick, soaking wet skin and forced myself not to make a sound despite the fact that my lungs were about to burst. Because I knew that he was watching me. Always watching. Ironically, the scene wasn't that much different from the first time that I lay in his bed soaked to the core in a cold mixture of bathwater, blood, and sweat, devoid of action and words, albeit his inconsiderate attempts to rouse an insult from me.

-THEN-

"Mind telling me why I found you lying underwater last night, trying to kill yourself? Especially given how yesterday's deadly intervention ended with me covered in my slutty conniving bitch of an ex-girlfriend's blood, thereby entitling me with the pleasure of causing your untimely death. You know, since it was at your hands, and all." The part of me that hadn't drowned the previous night wanted to remind him that he didn't have girlfriends, just meals and obsessions, but it was silenced by the sight of him staggering in front of an open window with his black shirt hanging open. He sneered at the empty tumbler rattling with ice in his shaky hands and threw it to the far corner, finding solace at the bottom of a golden bottle before turning back to stare at the sunrise. That's right! The sun was just starting to rise, and Damon already reeked of alcohol and sarcasm.

I slowly turned my head and became hypnotized by the glowing fireplace where embers shot up like firecrackers. Truth be told, I had no intentions of ignoring Damon, who grew more and more agitated as the clock ticked away my silence. I was just stuck in my own thoughts of nothing and finding them much more interesting than him at that moment. I sank back onto the damp sheets, not even bothering to pull up the blankets. The air around me felt plenty warm and I wasted no time burrowing inside of myself, liking the quiet solitude.

"Cat got your tongue?" he belligerently hiccupped to the window, "I said. Why. Were. You. Trying. To. Kill. Yourself?" His words echoed in my head, making it pound despite their hushed tone. He thought he knew. Damon always thought he had me figured out, but in reality, I hadn't been trying to drown myself. I had simply succumb to the weight of a depression that seduced me into fiending for the bloody water's soft ripples. It was only when fully covered, did the idea of never coming up for air occur. Is it even humanly possible to drown oneself? I had asked in passing. Who cares? Another voice—male—answered, You're not human anyway. You're evil. The two voices cut through the dead air in my head that morning while Damon questioned me, battling each other again on whether one could smother herself with a pillow.

"Dammit, Witch!" Damon landed on top of me and snatched the pillow away from my face, "What the—Bonnie! You're—"

"Damon, I told you to stay away from her!" The younger Salvatore ripped his brother away from me, causing the two to slam against the corner wall littered with melting ice and broken glass. Neither brother felt the piercing shards as Damon forcefully shoved Stefan away, only to be pushed backward again.

"She's burning up, Stefan!" I lay there in a scalding state of paralysis; their noise that was hard to tune out, amplified to near deafening decibels that made my already aching limps hurt worse. Had the circumstances been different, the turn of events might have been funny: two vampires unknowingly causing more pain to someone by arguing about the cause of said pain.

"And you had to sit on top of her to take her temperature?" Stefan cocked one eyebrow at Damon while momentarily uncrossing his arms in order to gesture to me. "Bonnie used up a lot of magic saving your life; therefore, she's a bit overheated. And if anyone needs to cool off, Damon, it's you. There are two women in this house who need to be nursed back to health, so none of us have time for whatever tantrum you're planning on throwing." Damon, who had obviously been mixing blood into his scotch ever since the Katherine ordeal, was back to being the self-proclaimed "stronger brother," using this new-found strength to push past Stefan and lean against a mahogany post on the tall and gothic four poster canopy.

"And her being all mopey is my fault how?"

"She lost the love of her life saving us. Saving you! And if you weren't so selfish, perhaps it would do you well to thank her, instead of mocking."

"Right," Damon's clearer speech signified a type of soberness that he didn't seem to be content with, if the bitterness in his voice was any indication, "I forgot. Saint Stefan is the only one who can feel concern. The witch needed me, and I saved her life last night! She should be thanking me. " The younger vampire shook his head in disbelief, walking toward the door in search of Elena's voice drifting through the intercom—Stefan had installed the intercoms the night before, once it was determined that Elena and I would be recuperating at the boarding house—connecting Damon's room to his room in the manor's east wing. The elder Salvatore followed closely behind, "And you should be happy, Stefan, because my new goal in life," he stopped in the doorway to look back in my direction, "is to make her admit it."

-NOW-

It was coming. The throaty, tired question always came about a moment after we did, "Are you ready to admit that you need me now, Bon Bon?" My ears cringed at the nickname—one that I had repeatedly asked him not to call me—but I hated his question even more.

"There's nothing to admit, Damon. Can't you just be grateful with what you have?" He rolled on top of me, holding himself up with hands placed at each of my sides.

"Funny of you to bring up my lack of frugality. Weren't you the one, just minutes ago, screaming," he strategically slid one of his hands up my thigh, resting painfully close to the place where my femoral artery would be while his mouth planted itself onto my jaw line in order to emphasize each of his words with a tiny nip, "More. More. Oh. God. Damon. More!" The last word coincidently landed him on my neck's pulse point.

"Bite me!" The realization of what I had just said dawned on me a beat after the half insult/half moan was uttered. As well as the realization that he would take it as an invitation and not what it truly was: a verbal attack. Statements like this held an unfortunate irony in our relationship that, after seven years, I still wasn't going to rectify.

He and I had a complicated arrangement to say the least. One that was constantly evolving from a mutual understanding: I couldn't trust him to be alone, and he couldn't function being that way, to a stress reliever that kept us going. Everywhere we looked, eyes crossed in disapproval, and I had greatly understood their contempt, Caroline's especially.

"You can do so much better than Demon," she spat at me over manicures with Elena during our senior prom pamper session six years ago, "You letting that…thing…abuse you is not like you. What would your hottie ex think?" Elena silently stared between us. She'd never met Dean, but it didn't take long for me to catch her up on how he had stormed into town and my life, swept me up in a haze, and then broke my blackened heart to pieces once he'd seen the real me. It also didn't take her long to realize that I am…was…was still…well that's a story best kept in the past.

But I had taken Caroline's fury, because I silently felt the same way. I did deserve more than just a life wasted on babysitting a vampire. I deserved a life unmarred by the supernatural period. Only, she had gotten it all wrong. We may have grown closer than I'd expected, but the one thing that I hadn't—and still refuse to—let him do was abuse, better referred to as feeding off of, me.

Not that he hadn't tried every chance he got. Sometimes he tried by force. Other times he tried by seduction. But he always tried, and I always denied. See, a witch's blood, Stefan and I had found out seven years ago, carries her powers over to her drinker. For instance, after feeding Stefan, he not only had my powers of perception and telepathy, we were also mentally linked. For weeks, he'd maintained a vampire-witch combined state that no amount of spell binding could cure. There are times even now, when I could feel him in my thoughts. We shared "A bond that can only be broken by letting the 'kindred spirit' feed," the grimoire had read. There was no telling what or whom it had meant, still, whatever it meant, I sure wasn't willing to let Damon anywhere near my blood to find out.

"I thought you'd never ask," Damon slurred around a set of razor sharp fangs. Hearing those words must have been heaven to him, but it was as close as I imagined he'd ever get to it, for in the next instant, I cut my eyes and sent him flying across the room.

"I may have gotten accustomed to excusing a lot of things where vampires are concerned: living with them and sleeping with them, to name a few, but the one thing that I will never do," I walked over to the naked, seething vampire and roughly grabbed his chin, "is let one of you bloodsucking leaches feed from me."

Once again, it was a promise I thought that I could keep. Just like the vows I'd made to discontinue the use of my powers and stay as hateful toward Damon as possible. That was before though. Before I knew of the curse. Before they asked me to be the cure. Before Damon sought redemption. I'd made those promises: to keep both my veins and heart closed, before the storm blew back in and made the chances of keeping them a million to one.