Disclaimer: The Vampire Diaries does not belong to me. If it did, Damon and Alaric would be all over each other on tv every week, instead of in my filthy imagination.

Special request: This is a rare (possibly first time) pairing and hard to get the word out. If you like it, rec it; and if you know a comm that would accept it, please let me know!

Comments are love, and I appreciate being told places I can post this.

Mystic Falls, VA

Damon stands by the fireplace, a glass of bourbon in his hand, swirling the drink slowly. The blood bag diet makes the cravings worse, but it's worth it to keep Alaric around. Of course, more cravings means more booze to keep the cravings in check and damned if he isn't becoming a total lush.

The blood bag diet is… tolerable. He's not interested in even trying animal blood, eugh, fur in your teeth, he doesn't know how Stefan can stand it. But the bagged stuff is tolerable, so long as Alaric keeps giving him those heady little tastes of himself and besides, Damon knows very well that if he starts snacking on the townsfolk, Alaric will make that holier-than-thou expression and then leave him. Possibly for good.

Damon quite likes that expression, but Alaric leaving him would be… unacceptable.

Alaric is upstairs taking a very long shower, and Damon is fighting the temptation to go up and join him. But Alaric suggested a day or two ago that they try this 'boundaries' thing, and it means that if Alaric says he wants to take a long shower without being molested (although really, who would want that?) then for now, at least, that's what Alaric gets.

There's someone in the house.

Damon sniffs the air, listens carefully, and then dismisses it. Probably, Elena and Stefan are upstairs playing Pictionary, or Caroline's raiding the downstairs fridge for blood bags. It's cute how she thinks he doesn't know she does it.

Perhaps it's the blood bag diet, or perhaps Damon's getting mellow, but somehow, when three big guys burst into the library a moment later, it's actually a shock. Not so much of a shock that he doesn't get time to dodge the arrow aimed at his heart, though it does pierce his shoulder, which is very annoying; this is one of his favourite shirts. It also hurts.

In one tenth of a second, he has one of the guys in a headlock, positioned like a shield. Damon feels the capillaries in his face fill with blood, his fangs descend, before he even hears the bottles on the table hit the ground.

Damon has no idea what the guy he's holding looks like, but he has funny hair and a really nice jacket. The second guy is about eight feet tall with big doe eyes and a crossbow which he can probably handle – or could, if he didn't have to point it at the struggling bundle in Damon's arms, which is no doubt someone he values. A quick sniff confirms it; he can smell them all over each other.

Speaking of the struggling – it's getting annoying. Damon shifts his arms to increase the pressure on the man's rotator cuff, and after a muffled curse, the struggling stops.

"Another quarter-inch and your shoulder is dislocated," Damon murmurs into his ear. "So don't. Move. A muscle."

"Son of a bitch," the body mutters.

"Actually, my mother was a very sweet woman. And also, you broke into my house, so fuck you."

The third guy is older – maybe sixty, greying, thick, gnarled stubble, and a vicious scar across his face. He looks as if he might be blind in one eye.

(Chillingly, he looks like Alaric could in thirty years, and mentally, Damon pushes 'convince Ric to let me turn him into a vampire' up a few notches on his to-do list. Because, no thank you.)

Really, it would take Damon a minute or two to drain all three of them dry, but if Alaric catches him, he'll be pissed. Although, self defence. Maybe not.

"You three are so lucky I'm on good behaviour," he growls. "Though if I change my mind about that you'll all be dead so fast you won't have time to grieve for each other. Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?"

The throat below his teeth is almost buzzing, the pulse is so rapid. Damon debates biting down, just a little, just enough for a taste, so they know the threat is real, when the library door flies open.

Damon actually has to fight a boner, watching Alaric throw himself through the doors, crossbow already in hand, to aim a vicious kick at the hand of the old man. His gun (and really? Gun?) hits the ground, and the stranger barely gets a moment to find his balance again, when he says, in a small voice: "Saltzman?"

For a second, Alaric looks shocked. Then merely surprised.

Then pissed.

And oh, pissed is Alaric's very best expression. Once they've despatched the three Stooges (or, knowing Alaric, politely asked them to leave), Damon is going to do all sorts of wonderful things to Alaric's naked body.

Right after Alaric explains how he and the three Stooges know each other. Because they clearly do; quite aside from the fact that the old man knows Alaric by name, Damon can see Alaric is looking around the room, assessing; choosing a strategy, and that he looks more betrayed than surprised.

When Alaric's eyes alight on the crossbow in bigfoot's hand, he flinches, and Damon can see why. It's Alaric's design. You can tell from the launch mechanism.

Damon conceals a grin. Alaric is angrier than he is. One of the main hints to this is the fact that his crossbow is aimed so expertly at the old man's heart that an erratic heartbeat – from Alaric – or a single false twitch – from the old man – would be fatal.

It's the bundle of fear and blood in Damon's arms who breaks the silence. "Just shoot, Sam," he shouts at the giant, commanding, even though he must be in a lot of pain.

"I wouldn't, Sam," Alaric warns. "Put it down. Now."

Sam. Cute name. All pure and stuff.

Sam's torn, swivels his eyes towards the old man.

"What the fuck is going on here, Saltzman?" the old man asks. "We heard about this little backwater town that's been crawling with vamps since the eighteen hundreds, and two of them are living totally unchecked. You know how many people die from 'animal attacks' around here?"

"Less than there would be if Damon and I weren't out killin' them every second weekend, John."

Alaric is steady as a rock and it is just about the hottest thing Damon has ever seen. There is something odd between Alaric and the old man, and Damon can't quite work it out. It's as if Alaric is expected to defer, but won't. John. John. Damon tries to remember if Alaric has ever mentioned the name. He's sure he hasn't.

Ugh. Damon really wants a drink. Grazes his fangs gently over the throat of the body in his arms, careful not to quite pierce the skin, but he feels the man tense, and chuckles against the skin beneath his lips.

John looks like he could burst a blood vessel in his head. "I knew it was him. Damon? Salvatore? The vampire who killed your wife? So, what, you're buddies now? I thought you came here to kill him." His expression, some combination of anger and disgust, would be enough to make a lot of people cringe, but Alaric doesn't move a muscle.

"He didn't kill her, John. You know that. You knew it before I did."

Damon speaks up. "I haven't killed anyone in a very long time. And you should be a lot nicer to me, because I miss it." He almost spits the words out, a hundred and seventy years of venom in his tone, lip twisting cruelly.

Without turning his head, Alaric answers. "Not helping, Damon."

"Who are your friends, Ric?" Damon wants an explanation, but he's prepared to wait for it. He trusts Alaric. He wants these guys to know Alaric trusts him, too.

"John Winchester, and his sons, Sam and Dean."


Damon sniffs at the air again, and then closer to Dean's face, inhaling a complex brew of scents; mainly fear, guilt, and lust. The delicious shame of it. He wonders if daddy knows. "Brothers?" he asks. "They don't smell like -"

"Shut up," Alaric and Sam say, in perfect unison. Damon grins viciously.

Dean makes a strangled noise, and makes a futile attempt to struggle some more. "Sammy. Just shoot."

Alaric interrupts. "You shoot Damon and I shoot John, Sam. Not worth it for one vampire and we all know it. And Damon, put your teeth away. You're scary. They get it."

For some reason, Damon likes it when Alaric tells him what to do. Sometimes he likes it enough to do what he's told. He feels the capillaries an his face drain, feels his fangs recede. Shakes his head a little.

"You'd really shoot me, Saltzman? Over a bloodsucker?" John actually looks sad, cocks his head just slightly to the side. "You'd choose a monster over humans? Over us?"

Alaric smiles lazily. "Try me." His crossbow hasn't shifted an inch.

Sam looks from face to face, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. Finally coming back to settle on Alaric, oscillating between appalled and incredulous. "You… you're with him? You're sleeping with a vampire?"

Oh, but it's rich. Sam fucking his brother – and not occasionally, it's happened in the last few hours – and he's on Alaric's case for sleeping with a vampire. Damon chuckles, and there is very little humour in it. "The pot calling the kettle fucked up, Sammy. I like it." There's a viciousness in his voice that he can almost taste. "I trust Ric's aim with that crossbow a lot better than you trust yours. You're shaking like a leaf and I only have to shift a quarter inch and you shoot your… brother instead."

There is a pause, and then John switches tack. "Saltz- Alaric," he says, gentle as he can manage, which to be fair, isn't very gentle. He sounds pissed off and confused. "Vampires are monsters. You got any idea how many people he's killed?"

"Doesn't matter what he's done, John. Matters what he does now. Seems to me a man like you should understand that." Alaric is still holding steady and still, and it makes Damon's heart skip a beat. Alaric is choosing him over a bunch of humans. Humans who, Damon suspects, are, so far as these things go, the good guys; clearly, they're hunters, and probably friends.

Nothing happens, nothing changes. "You owe me, John." Alaric flickers his eyes to Sam and Dean as well. "You two do, as well."


No one without enhanced vampire senses would be able to read it from this sort of a distance, but Damon can; John's eyes flicker from the scar above Alaric's eye, to the bump on his nose, to his bottom lip. Exactly how Alaric got hurt, Damon doesn't know, but in a rush, he is sure that every one of the scars on Alaric's face is there because of John Winchester. He feels a growl start low in his throat.

It takes everything Damon has not to just break Dean's neck and throw himself across the room at John, drink him dry. He's the reason Alaric arrived in Mystic Falls almost a robot, Damon's sure of it.

"Do I have to tell Sam to put that crossbow down, again, John, or are you gonna do it?"

John's shoulders slump, just a fraction, and Alaric's smile is just as subtle. Apparently, Alaric is winning the battle of wills, here, and Damon wants him to.

Still, if nothing happens in the next second, Damon will leap across the room and tear John Winchester into cat food. Damon feels Dean's body respond to shifting tension in his arms, and hopes that someone has the sense to do something.

Sam has the deciding vote, which is fortunate for everyone in the room. He throws the crossbow to the ground, a few feet away, and throws his arms up, stepping back. Dean groans in irritation, and Damon grins into his neck for longer than he needs to. Alaric points his own crossbow away from John, who exhales loudly, but flinches when Alaric picks his gun up before John has a chance to. Alaric clears the chamber, pockets the bullets and hands it back, and Damon can't help but smile at the condescension.

When Damon looks up again, Dean is standing by Sam, rubbing his shoulder and shooting daggers at his captor.

Damon pulls the arrow out of his shoulder with a series of muffled curses. "I really liked this shirt," he says, grumpy.

"You alright?" Alaric asks him, as Damon throws the arrow into the fireplace.

"Never been a fan of uninvited guests." He turns and smiles sweetly at the Winchesters. "Which is my way of saying get the fuck out of my house, and never come back." Damon suspects it's the most threatening he's ever looked, especially since he notices that Alaric is stifling a grin.

Sam leads Dean out of the room, but not before pausing in front of Alaric. Damon, of course, hears everything. "You sure you know what you're doing, man?" he asks. "Because this is…"

Alaric nods. "I know what I'm doing."

Damon feels himself harden at the conviction on Alaric's voice.

(Damon's been in love before. He's never been loved back. He's never had this.)

Sam seems to be searching Alaric's face for the trace of doubt Damon knows isn't there, hasn't been there for a while, now. "Good luck, man," Sam says, and heads to the front door to wait for John. Damon can still hear Dean spluttering complaints and recriminations.

John starts to follow them, when Alaric calls him back. "John?"

John looks almost hopeful, until he sees the gravity in Alaric's expression. Damon wants to laugh.

"You hear about vampires in Virginia, keep out of it. Assume we've got it under control. Because we do."

John shakes his head. "This is crazy, Saltzman."

"Actually, leave us North Carolina, too, John. We do like a weekend away," Damon adds, sounding bored.

John narrows his eyes in reply. "What about West Virginia?" he asks, voice dripping sarcasm.

Damon waves his hand. "You can have it. Mountain men. Incest. All very nasty."

After one last glance at Alaric, John follows his sons out the door. Damon and Alaric watch them drive away, John in the Sierra, Sam and Dean in the Impala.

Damon shuts the door, with a little more gusto than necessary. The metaphor is blinding, and he sees Alaric bite back a laugh.

Damon shakes his arm out. It's healed, but it's still sore. "You have weird friends," he says. "Or, you did. Until just now."

Alaric has to chuckle. "I guess so."

"I thought I was going to get fresh blood, for a minute there." Damon is disappointed, and he's not a nice enough… person to pretend he's not, but he stretches the length of his body against Alaric's, snaking his arms around his waist and shoulder. Alaric rubs a hand down Damon's back, and their lips meet.

"Will they stay away? Because if they don't, I plan to be a lot less nice about it, next time." Damon runs his lips across Alaric's jaw.

Alaric shakes his head. "I don't know. I think so."

Cautious, Damon reaches his hand to Alaric's face. He traces a finger over the scar above Alaric's eye, the bridge of his nose, and finally over and below his bottom lip. "I could still catch them, you know," he whispers, his lips barely an inch from Alaric's.

"I know you could. But I have a better idea," Alaric says, grinning slyly.

Damon has him half way up the stairs before he knows what's happening, and the world is as it should be.