dean winchester x vampire!bambi .⋆♱
— a missing girls case leads sam and dean to millhaven, pennsylvania. sam thinks a human girl is being married off to a higher vampire. he's wrong. the bride isn't some kidnapped girl. she's been waiting at the altar for a long time — and when dean says i do, he realizes he isn't the groom ཐི ྐ❤︎ ཋྀ
Word count :: 11.2k ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ
݁ᛪ༙ Warnings|| gothic romance | dark | sub dean | Interview with the vampire inspired | bride dean | pet/owner | blood | biting | compulsion | crying dean | choking | she calls him love doll pretty | lace blindfold | slow destruction | ambiguous ending | very ooc for the plot | No use of Y/N I hate the name so I use Bambi .⋆♱
Sam finds the newspaper at a gas station between Ohio and nowhere. Thin. Yellowed. Folded next to candy bars and cheap lighters. Local paper from a town in rural Pennsylvania called Millhaven.
GIRL MISSING — THIRD DISAPPEARANCE THIS MONTH
He slides into the passenger seat. Holds it up. Dean barely glances.
"Three girls in one month. All young. All gone."
"People go missing all the time, Sam."
"Not like this. First girl, Karen Mitchum, found two weeks later. Completely drained of blood. 'Here comes the bride' written in blood at the scene."
Dean's hands still on the wheel.
"Second body was different. Man this time. David Yarrow. Local drunk. Found the same way. Same message."
"So we've got vampires with a fixation on weddings."
"That's what I thought. But look—" Sam turns the laptop. "I went back further. Sixty years of records. Every twenty to thirty years, same town, same pattern. Disappearances. Drained bodies. Same message. Always the Whitmore estate."
"Maybe. But the bride thing feels ritualistic. I think they're kidnapping a human girl. Marrying her off to some higher vampire. Like a ceremony."
Millhaven sits in a bowl of trees. One main road. A bar called The Rusty Nail. A diner called Mae's Kitchen. A church with a steeple that leans left like it's tired. The kind of town where everyone knows everyone and three missing girls has the whole place vibrating with a fear no one has words for.
Hawthorne Inn. Room 14. Two beds. Green neon sign buzzing outside the window.
Sam goes to the police station. Dean gets a burger.
At Mae's Kitchen the waitress is fifties. Tired face. Tired hands. She looks around before leaning in.
"Karen was my neighbor's girl. Sweet kid. All the blood gone. Every drop. And that writing. 'Here comes the bride.' It's evil."
Dean asks about anything strange. New people. Lights.
"The Whitmore place. County Road 9. People seeing lights at night. Music. Like a music box."
"I didn't tell you that," she says when another customer walks in.
Dean leaves extra money on the counter.
They drive to the Whitmore estate the next day. Wrought-iron gate. Stone wall eaten by moss. The house beyond — white columns, wraparound porch sagging, windows like closed eyes.
Inside: dust. Cobwebs. Sheets over furniture. A child's room with a cracked doll on the pillow.
Upstairs Sam finds scratches in the hardwood. A circle. Symbols. Fresh.
But no vampires. No bodies. Nothing.
Dean stands at the window. For a flicker — something pale at the tree line. Still. Watching.
Night one. Dean lies down. Closes his eyes.
Soft. Female. Inside his skull. Not his thought. Something sliding through cracks.
Eyes snap open. Heart pounding. Green neon. Sam at the table.
Closer. Lips against his ear.
Night two. The voice is louder.
Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.
A loop. A rhythm. A heartbeat made of words. He twitches in his sleep. Fingers curl. Sweat on his forehead.
Sam watches from the other bed. Sees the flush. The rapid breathing. Turns over.
Dean wakes with a wet pillow and a throat like he spent the night screaming.
Night three. He can't focus. Keeps looking toward the window. Toward the dark line of trees.
"You've said that three times."
Dinner in silence. Sam reads. Dean sits on his bed turning a silver bullet. Everything warm. Something burning under his ribs.
At ten Sam yawns. "Calling it. Estate tomorrow night."
Lamp clicks off. Darkness. Green light. Silence.
Dean lies on his back. Every nerve humming. Not tiredness. Anticipation with nothing to anticipate. Hunger but not for food.
Clear. Crisp. Beautiful. A voice like an old song in a language he doesn't speak. Low. Melodic. So gentle it makes his chest ache.
Hand moves to the edge of the bed. Feet on the floor. Not deciding. Body operating on instructions that bypass his brain.
Stands. Looks at Sam. Asleep.
Jacket. Keys. Door. Night air hits him and something in his chest unclenches.
Impala. Engine. No headlights.
The voice guides him. Left. Straight three miles. County Road 9. Trees close in. Moonlight silver on the road.
Not fire. Warmer. Softer. A vast glow of gold rising from beyond the tree line like a sunrise in the wrong direction.
Brake. Sits behind the wheel. Brain says turn around. Hands don't move.
Opens the door. Gets out.
Air warm. Wrong for October. Sweet — white flowers. Underneath, metallic. Blood. His hunter's brain catalogs it even as his feet carry him forward.
Pushes through the tree line.
The grounds have been transformed.
White candles — hundreds in glass holders — arranged in long lines forming an aisle from the trees to the house. White cloth on the ground. White rose petals scattered along it.
The house is lit. Every window glowing gold. The porch whole. Fixed. Like the house dressed itself for something.
Between the candles on both sides — figures. Still. Pale. Eyes catching candlelight. Vampires. Dean's hand goes to his waistband. No gun. Left it at the motel.
They don't move. Some smile. Some stare. A woman in dark velvet laughs softly, delighted. Another claps once. Gentle. The beginning of applause.
The voice in his head is silent. His feet move.
He walks the aisle. The vampires turn to follow. Candlelight on their skin. Someone whispers. Someone giggles. Someone exhales finally.
Dean's heart beats in his teeth. Brain screaming run. Legs don't care.
Reaches the porch. Climbs the steps. Each one like deeper water. Air thickens.
White marble. White fabric. White flowers in cascading bouquets — roses, lilies, peonies. The flowers are drenched in blood. Dark red soaking white petals. Dripping slowly onto white cloth. Drip. Drip. Drip.
And standing behind the altar —
A wedding dress. White. Not modern — another era. High collar. Long sleeves. Fitted bodice. Full skirt pooling on the ground in silk and lace. The dress is immaculate. Pure white. Not a single stain. Not a drop on the fabric. Clean and bright against the dark night.
The only blood is on the flowers she holds. A bouquet of white roses so drenched that red runs down the stems, over her fingers, and falls in single droplets from her fingertips onto the white silk. Tiny dark points on perfect white.
A veil — long, layered, white lace — falls from her hair past her shoulders to her waist. Covers her face completely. Through the lace, the shadow of features. The suggestion of a mouth.
Her skin is deep brown. Rich. Luminous in the candlelight like polished mahogany. Not the pale the other vampires carry — something warmer. Something that holds the gold light differently. She doesn't look dead. She looks like a painting. Like a dark madonna in a church no one visits anymore.
Her hands — stained red at the fingers — are perfectly still. Not a tremor. Not a breath. She doesn't breathe.
Dean stops at the bottom of the steps. Close enough to smell her. Not perfume. Something older. Gardenias and iron and something underneath that makes his mouth water and his hair rise at once.
To her right — another vampire. Tall. Silver-haired. Ancient. Long black coat. Leather-bound book. The pastor.
He smiles. Teeth too sharp.
"We are gathered here to unite our Bambi with her chosen. In the bond of eternal blood. In the covenant of the bride."
Dean's body sways. Mind splintering.
"Do you, chosen one, vow to stand with your bride through darkness and through light? Through the death of your mortal self and the birth of your eternal one? Through hunger and satisfaction? Through every century before you?"
Dean's mouth opens. Tries to say no.
Calm. Sure. Devoted. Someone else speaking through his throat.
"Through sickness and in health?"
"Through the ending of all mortal things?"
"Through the thirst that will never be sated?"
Each easier. Resistance melting. Warmth growing.
"Will you take this woman as your wife? To belong to her wholly? To give her your blood, your body, your very life?"
Knees buckle. Drops to stone. Barely feels it.
On his knees. Looking up. Bouquet dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She reaches up. Lifts the veil.
Underneath — a face that stops his breath.
Deep brown skin. High cheekbones. Full lips stained darker. Eyes that aren't dark at all in the candlelight — deep amber, almost gold, with vertical pupils. Her hair is black. Long. Pulled back but falling in loose pieces around her jaw. Small white flowers woven in.
She looks like a gothic portrait. Like something hung in a gallery you're not allowed to touch. Morticia in white. Death made beautiful and feminine and calm.
A second layer of lace remains over her eyes. Thin white lace directly across. She doesn't need to see him.
She sets the bouquet on the altar. Bloodied roses on white marble. Red pooling.
Reaches to the side. Gold cup. Ornate. Ancient.
Holds it in her left hand. Raises her right wrist. Lips part. Fangs — long, curved, white as bone against her brown skin — sink into her own flesh.
Dark blood wells. Almost black. Runs down her forearm. Drips into the cup. Fills it nearly to the brim. The wound closes. Skin knitting smooth.
The vampires go silent. Leaning forward. Trembling. Sacred.
She holds the cup out. His body leans toward it. Every cell reaching.
She pulls back. Sets it down.
She steps around the altar. Dress trailing — white except for those few dark drops where the bouquet bled. Stops in front of him.
He's on his knees. She's standing. Looking up at her and something cracks in his chest.
Cold fingers — stained red at the tips — touch his neck. Tilt his head left. Exposing the long line of his throat. Pulse hammering under her palm.
Eyes close. Can't keep them open. Body goes slack. Not compulsion. Her. Cold touch. The smell. The certainty that something enormous is about to happen and some broken part doesn't want to stop it.
She leans down. Lips brush his throat. Not a kiss. A placement. Finding the spot above his collarbone.
First second — sharp. Two points. Precise. Deep.
Then the sharpness dissolves into something that is absolutely not pain. Warmth floods from the wound through his neck, chest, spine, fingers, toes. Pleasure. Immediate. Overwhelming. Involuntary.
And Dean Winchester knows — hunter's brain screaming — that she's draining him. Feels his blood leaving in long slow pulls. Heartbeat stuttering. Being emptied.
But his body doesn't care. Drowning in sensation. Every nerve lit. A groan starts deep in his chest and comes out broken and wet.
Hands find her hips. Tells himself he's going to push away. Fingers dig into white silk and hold. Pulling closer. Groan becomes a whimper.
She drinks. Long. Deep. Throat working against his skin. Small sounds — soft, wet, satisfied — vibrate through his flesh. He can feel her swallowing. His blood moving from him to her. Lighter. Colder. Weaker.
Another whimper. Louder. Voice cracks. Grip on her hips tightens, loosens, tightens. Can't control his hands. Knees spread wider on stone. No balance.
Tears. Doesn't know when they start. Hot. Fast. Can't stop. Body betraying him — pleasure from a vampire's bite, clinging instead of fighting, crying while she drains him in front of an audience.
He can feel them watching. The weight of their eyes. The silence of the aisle. Someone shifts. No one speaks. Staring at the man on his knees, tears on his face, whimpering like something wounded while their bride drinks him down.
She takes more. Heartbeat fragile. Fluttering. Vision blurs. Candles smear to gold streaks. Sounds fade.
A sound he's never made. Not in Hell. Not anywhere. A whimper that breaks into a groan that breaks into something almost a sob. Animal. Helpless. Pathetic. The hunter in him knows it's pathetic. Can't stop. Can't stop his hands gripping her dress. His knees spreading. His throat making those sounds.
Arms give out. Falls sideways. She follows — hand on his neck, hand on his shoulder — holding him upright. Fingers in his hair. Cold. Gentle. Cradling.
Forehead drops against her stomach. White silk. Corset underneath. Absolute stillness. No heartbeat. No breath. Cold perfect stillness while he falls apart.
Cold air hits the wound. Gasps — wet, choking. Whole body jerks. On his knees. Swaying. World tilting.
She steps back. Lips red. Chin red. Teeth red. Two small points of color on the pristine white bodice where his blood soaked through from her mouth. Just that. Small stains on perfect white.
She licks her lips. Slow. Thorough. Licking his blood off her fingers. Methodical. Not missing a drop. Pink tongue against red stains on brown skin.
Holds it in front of his face. Dark blood. Thick. Calls to something that wasn't there before.
First word. Low. Melodic. Old. Wraps around him.
Presses rim to his lip. Blood touches skin. Entire body seizes. Not revulsion. Need.
Lips part. Blood flows in.
Drinks like drowning. Gulping. Greedy. Hands come up. Hers already there. Swallowing. Copper and honey and electric. Throat working. Eyes closed. Tears still leaking.
Drinks until empty. Keeps going. Tongue against gold. Licking inside. Body arching toward her hands.
She pulls the cup away. Thread of blood connects lip to rim. Breaks.
On his knees. Chest heaving. Blood spreading through him. Replacing. Rewriting.
She cups his face. Cold palms against tear-wet cheeks. Skin burns against hers.
Blood. His on her mouth. Hers on his tongue. Copper and sweetness and electric. Deep and slow. Thorough. Licking into his mouth. Claiming every part the bite and cup didn't reach.
"To our new-found bride."
"To our new-found bride."
Dean — half-conscious, blood-drunk, tears on his face, her kiss on his mouth — hears it.
Sinks through the fog. Slow. Terrible. True.
They're not talking about her.
They're talking about him.
He wakes in a bed that isn't his. Silk sheets. Heavy curtains. Room painted deep red. White roses — fresh and wilting, all clean.
Neck aches. Two raised marks. Scabbed. Healing too fast.
Body feels wrong. Different. Like someone took him apart and reassembled with pieces in wrong order.
She's across the room. High-backed chair. Changed from the wedding dress. Simple white gown. High neck. Long sleeves. Dark hair loose.
And the lace. Still over her eyes. Thin white lace directly across. She keeps it on. Prefers it.
"You said I do. Six times."
"I invited you. The call finds those who are already open. Empty in the right places."
"Safe. Looking for you. He won't find this place."
She tilts her head. The lace shifts over her eyes. A pause.
Not conversation. Not negotiation. Just yelling. Let me go. Let me out. I'm a hunter, do you know who I am, let me GO. Pounding on the door. Kicking the wall. Throwing a lamp that shatters against the far wall and doesn't make a dent in the plaster.
He yells until his voice cracks. Until it's hoarse. Until let me go home becomes a broken loop he can't stop repeating.
Let me go home. Let me go home. Let me go home.
He sits on the floor with his back against the door. Breathing hard. Throat raw. Eyes wet.
The bond is already there. He doesn't know it yet. A warm thread in his chest. It pulls gently toward somewhere deeper in the house. He ignores it.
Second day. He doesn't eat. Doesn't drink. Sits on the bed with his back against the headboard and stares at the door.
She comes in once. Carries a tray. Mug of something dark. Sets it on the nightstand.
"I'm not drinking vampire blood."
She leaves. Takes the tray with her.
He yells more. Let me go home. Over and over until the words lose meaning. Until they're just sounds. Until his voice gives out entirely and he's whispering it. Home. Home. Home.
Night falls. The hunger starts.
Not in his stomach. In his veins. A gnawing emptiness. A dryness. A gravity pulling toward anything warm and breathing and he doesn't understand what's happening to his body but the hunter in him does. The hunter in him knows exactly what this is.
"No," he says out loud. "No no no no—"
Third day. He's on the floor. Can't stand. The hunger is a living thing inside him now. Crawling through his veins. His reflection in the mirror is wrong — faded. Like a photograph left in the sun.
It starts when she's not in the room. A dull ache in his chest. Like something being pulled out. Then it spreads. Arms. Neck. Jaw. Fingers. Toes.
He doesn't understand. He was fine when she was here. The moment she left — pain.
He tries the door. It's not locked. He reaches for the handle and the pain spikes — sharp, a blade in his sternum — and he yanks his hand back.
His own body. Won't let him leave.
He sits against the wall. Knees up. Breathes through it. In and out. He's been tortured by professionals. He can handle—
This isn't torture. This is absence. And absence is worse.
An hour. Two. Three. The pain doesn't stop. Doesn't spike. Just stays. A constant low hum of wrongness. Like a limb falling asleep except it's his whole chest.
Four hours. He's on his hands and knees on the floor. Forehead against the wood. Sweat dripping. Making sounds he doesn't want to make.
Please, he thinks. He doesn't know who he's thinking it at.
Opens the door. Stands in the doorway.
The relief is instantaneous. Pain dissolves. Warmth floods his chest. Muscles unclench. He gasps like he's been underwater.
She looks down at him. The lace over her eyes. The white gown. The slight tilt of her head.
"Having a difficult time, pet?"
He's on his hands and knees on the floor looking up at her and something in him cracks because his body just reacted to her presence like she was oxygen and he was drowning and he hates it, he hates it so much his eyes burn.
"I'm a hunter. I've killed hundreds of things like you."
"Then why are you on your knees?"
He has no answer. Because he doesn't know why he's on his knees. His body put him there. His body keeps putting him there.
She sets a tray on the floor in front of him. Mug of dark blood. A plate with actual food — bread, cheese, fruit. Real food. She brought him real food.
"Your body wants. Listen to it."
He stares at the mug. The hunger screams. His hand reaches out. Stops. Pulls back.
The word hits him sideways. Love. She said it like it's nothing. Like it's his name.
"What should I call you?"
"Dean." She says it slowly. Tasting it. "I'll call you what I like. You're mine. I name my things."
He should be furious. He is furious. But the hunger is so loud and the bond is so warm and she said loveand something in his chest went soft in a way that makes him want to scream.
He grabs the mug. Drinks. The relief makes him moan. He hates that too.
She watches. The lace hides her eyes but he can feel her smile.
"Good doll," she says softly.
He keeps yelling. Every day. For days.
Let me go home. Let me go home. Let me go home.
He pounds the walls. Throws things. Breaks a chair. Finds that nothing in this house breaks easily — the furniture is old and solid and his new strength is already more than he knows.
She doesn't listen. Doesn't react. Comes in with food and blood and those names. Love. Doll. Pretty.
Such a pretty thing when you cry.
Each one lands like a slap and a kiss at the same time. He hates them. His body responds to them. The warmth in his chest flares every time she says one. He can't hide it and she can feel it through the bond and they both know.
On the fifth day he yells for six hours straight.
She's somewhere else in the house. He can feel her — a warm direction in his chest — but she's far enough that the ache is constant. He yells anyway. Until his voice is gone. Until let me go home is just a breath. Until he's sitting on the floor with his back against the bed and tears running down his face and he can't make a sound.
He looks up at her. Can't speak. Throat destroyed.
She crouches in front of him. Studies him. The lace over her eyes. The slight tilt of her head. Like she's examining something small and interesting.
"You're tired," she says.
He doesn't respond. Can't.
She raises one hand. Cold fingers touch his temple.
The voice. Her voice. Not out loud — inside his skull. Soft. Gentle. The same voice that pulled him out of the motel and down County Road 9 and to his knees at an altar.
But this time it's not pulling him anywhere. It's just... filling him. Warmth flooding the spaces where the pain lives. Drowning the ache. Smoothing the edges of everything sharp.
His eyes go heavy. His shoulders drop. The tension he's been holding for five days — the rage, the fear, the fight — dissolves like sugar in water.
There you are, the voice says inside his head. Quiet now. That's it.
His head tilts forward. Almost touches her hand. His breathing slows. The tears stop. His whole body goes loose and heavy and warm.
"There you are," she says out loud. Her actual voice. Soft. Almost tender.
She guides him to the bed. He goes. Can't not go. His body is liquid. His mind is cotton. The voice is still there — not speaking, just present — keeping him drowsy and soft and quiet.
He lies down. She pulls a silk sheet over him.
She does it every time he gets too loud.
Not as punishment. Not even as control. She just... quiets him. When the yelling goes on too long, when the fighting becomes exhausting for both of them, she touches his temple and the voice fills him up and he goes soft and still and quiet.
He hates it. He can't fight it. And the worst part — the part that makes him want to claw his own skin off — is that it feels good. The silence feels good. The warmth feels good. Being quiet feels good after days of screaming himself raw.
She's not breaking him. She's melting him. Slowly. Heat applied to ice until there's nothing sharp left.
By the end of the first week he stops yelling.
Not because he's accepted it. Because his voice won't work anymore and the hunger is so loud it drowns out everything else and the bond-pain is constant when she's not near and he can't sleep and he can't think and he's so tired.
He stays in the room. Hours. Half a day. Doesn't come out.
The hunger builds. The bond-pain builds. They layer on top of each other until he's curled on the bed shaking. Not from cold. From need. His body screaming two things at once: blood and her.
He stays in the room until he must.
Gets to his feet. Legs barely hold him. Staggers to the door. The bond pulls him — a warm thread in his chest leading down the hallway, down the stairs, to somewhere in the house where she waits.
He follows it. Can't not.
Downstairs. A dining room. Long table. Candles. She's sitting at the head.
She's set a place for him. Actual dinner. Bread. Meat. Cheese. Wine that he knows isn't wine. A cup of blood. The good stuff — not animal. He can smell the difference now. Richer. Darker. Hers.
He stops in the doorway. She looks up. The lace over her eyes. The white gown. The slight tilt of her head.
The word hits him. Pretty. She called him pretty. Like he's something decorative. Something to look at. Something hers.
His legs almost buckle. Not from weakness. From the way the bond flares at the word. Warm and bright and horrible.
"I'm not—" His voice is wrecked. Hoarse from days of yelling. "I'm not pretty."
He eats. The food tastes like nothing. The blood tastes like everything. He drinks the cup and his whole body sighs and she watches him with the lace over her eyes and he can't see her expression but he can feel her satisfaction through the bond.
He puts the cup down. His hands are shaking.
"Why are you doing this."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Because you like them."
"Your bond responds to them. Every time I call you love, doll, pretty — you flare. Like a candle. I can feel it." She tilts her head. "You can feel it too."
He can. That's the problem. He can feel it and he can't deny it and it makes him fucking useless. She says a word and he goes warm and soft and his anger dissolves and he hates her for knowing it and hates himself for feeling it.
"It's the bond," he says. "It's not—"
"It's you. The bond just shows me what's already there."
He stares at the table. His reflection in the dark surface of the wine — faded. Almost gone.
"You're a monster," he says quietly.
"Pet. Bride. Pretty thing. Whatever I want to call you."
He should fight. He should throw the table. He should—
She refills the cup. Her fingers brush his when she sets it down. Cold. He shivers.
He drinks. And doesn't fight. And hates himself less than he did yesterday.
It's not one moment. It's a thousand small ones.
She touches his hair when she passes him in the hallway. Casual. Absent. Fingers trailing through the short strands. He freezes the first time. By the tenth time he leans into it without thinking.
She leaves cups of blood by his bed when she knows he won't ask. He drinks them in the dark and doesn't acknowledge it.
She sits with him when the bond-pain gets bad. Lets him press his forehead against her knee. Rests her cold hand on the back of his neck. Doesn't speak. Just stays until the ache settles.
She calls him love in the morning and doll in the afternoon and pretty at night and each one lands softer than the last. Like rain wearing down stone.
Not a surrender. An erosion. The old Dean — the hunter, the brother, the man who would have put a machete through her heart — getting smaller every day. And something else getting bigger.
Two weeks in. Transformation nearly complete. Senses sharp. Sees in darkness. Hears a heartbeat from a quarter mile. Smells emotions. Reflection almost gone. Just a shape. A suggestion.
The hunger has evolved. Animal blood isn't enough. What he needs is her. Direct from the source. His body craves it the way lungs crave air.
She comes to his room at dusk. White nightgown. Thin. Floor-length. Dark hair loose. Lace still over her eyes.
He's on the edge of the bed. She stands in the doorway.
The bond sings. Thread goes warm and tight. His body responds — shoulders dropping, chin tilting, hands opening on his knees. Not conscious. Deeper. His body does this on its own now.
She crosses the room. Stops in front of him. He looks up at her and the angle cracks him open.
Cold fingers on his jaw. Tilts his head up.
Doesn't answer. Fangs descended. Didn't tell them to.
"You need to feed from me."
The word. Not cruel. Precise. She wants him to say it. To be vulnerable in a way Dean Winchester has never been.
"That's begging. Try again."
Eyes burn. Not the change. Her. Calm. Patient. Willing to wait all night.
"I need to feed. From you. Please."
Sits next to him. Pulls hair to one side. Exposes her neck. Deep brown skin. He can hear blood moving beneath — slow, thick, without a heartbeat.
Leans in. Lips touch her skin. Cold. Mouth opens. Fangs press against her throat and sink in.
Taste overwhelms. Her. Direct. Immediate. Electric. Floods his mouth and body lights up. Groans against her neck. Hands find her waist. Grip white fabric.
She lets him drink. Hand in his hair. Hand on his back.
When she pushes him away he whimpers. Loss of her blood a physical ache.
Panting. Lips red. Eyes glassy. She wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. Looks at it. Looks at him.
She pushes him back. He goes. No resistance. Body opening under her. She climbs over him. Straddles him. Nightgown pools.
Kisses deeper. Tongue in his mouth. Tasting his hunger.
He's hard. Has been since she walked in. Body isn't his. Hers. The bond's. The blood's.
She sits up. Looks down. Lace over her eyes. Can't see her expression but can feel it through the bond. Satisfaction. Warmth. Something that might be tenderness.
"You're beautiful like this," she says.
No one has called him beautiful. No one has seen him like this — on his back, chest heaving, eyes wet, willing.
Reaches down. Undoes his jeans. He lifts his hips. No shame. Shame requires a self separate from her.
Pulls the nightgown over her head. Deep brown skin. Cool to the touch. Full breasts. Dark nipples. The curve of her waist. Dark hair between her thighs.
Breath catches. Hands reach for her. She lets him. Waist. Hips. Soft cool skin of her stomach. Warm hands on cold skin. Both shiver.
The sound he makes is obscene. Broken moan from deep in his chest. Head falls back. Eyes shut. Fingers dig into her hips.
Tight and cold and perfect and inside her and the bond screams — not pain. Fulfillment. Key in a lock. Missing piece clicking place.
She moves. Slow. Deliberate. Rising and falling. Hands on his chest. Head tilted like she's listening to his heartbeat. The only one in the room.
Opens his eyes. Lace over hers. Can't see her eyes. Can feel them. Seeing everything.
She rides him. Not fast. Not slow. Rhythm older than music. Hips roll. His body responds — arching up. Chasing. Trying deeper. Hands slide from hips to waist to ribs. Thumbs brush undersides of her breasts and she makes a sound — small, soft, the first uncontrolled sound — and it nearly breaks him.
Leans forward. Changes angle. Gasps. Eyes flutter. She hits something that turns his spine liquid.
She smiles. The lace shifts. Not the controlled smile. Real. Warm. Transforms what he can see of her face. For a moment she doesn't look like a monster. Looks like a woman who is happy.
Sits up. Hand moves to his throat. Rests there. Light. Fingers curve around his neck. Doesn't squeeze. Not yet. Just holds.
Pulse jumps under her palm. Breath faster. Eyes wide — not fear. Want. The desperate need to be claimed in every possible way.
Squeezes. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Enough to own. He feels the strength in her fingers. The easy power. She could crush his windpipe without effort. She's choosing not to.
Whole body goes rigid. Then shudders. Then melts. Every muscle releasing. Hands fall to sheets. Palms open. Head tips back. Throat pressing into her grip. Exposing further.
Surrendering. Not because she forces him. Because his body finally has permission to do what it's wanted since the altar.
A sound he'll never admit to. Whimper breaking into moan. Eyes wet. Tears sliding into his hair. Not pain. Release. Overwhelming relief of stopping the fight.
Squeezes a little harder. He whimpers her name. "Bambi." Over and over. Loop. Mantra. Only word left.
Rides him faster. Grip steady. Body rocks under her. Bed creaks. Headboard taps wall. Fingers twist sheets. Knuckles white.
Close. She can tell — body tensing, whimpers higher, blood through the bond.
"Please — let me — Bambi, please—"
Broken and wet and true. Undoes him. Comes apart — sound half sob half moan. Back arching. Hands grabbing and releasing. Eyes shut. Tears down temples into hair.
She doesn't stop. Rides him through it. Drawing out every tremor. Hand loosens. Thumb strokes his Adam's apple. Gasping. Shaking. Done.
Leans down. Forehead to forehead. Lips brush his. Cold against warm.
"Good pet. My good bride."
One more sound. Small. Wrecked. A man taken apart with no idea how to reassemble.
Kisses his tears. One cheek. Other. Cold lips gentle on wet skin. He closes his eyes. Lets her.
Wants to give her his soul. Hold it out and say here, it's yours, it was always yours.
Had it since the first night she whispered in the dark.
Soul on a leash. Leash in her hand.
Dean Winchester has never felt more at peace.
Fifteen days. Barely sleeps. Cas can't find Dean. Something blocking him. Rowena sends a passage:
"The bride does not choose with her eyes but with her blood. She sends her call into the world and it finds the one whose emptiness matches her own. The chosen comes willingly though he believes he does not. Her blood in his veins makes him hers. He becomes the bride — not in name but in nature. The bond is unbreakable by any force short of death."
Sam reads it fourteen times.
On the fifteenth night he drives County Road 9. Trees pull back. Break in the wall. Gate open.
Drives through. House lit. Warm.
Gets out. Machete. Angel blade.
Dean looks different. Paler. Still. Eyes catch light wrong — amber flash. Dark clothes. Old-fashioned. Something in him stilled.
Smoother. Rough edges gone.
Sam looks past him. Hallway shadows. White. Dark hair.
"What did she do to you."
"Dean, you're a vampire."
"I can fix this. Cas can—"
"No. Her blood runs through me. Cut it out, I die. For real."
Dean glances back. Silent exchange.
Walks off the porch. Sits on the Impala's hood. Sam leans against the car.
"I can hear your heartbeat," Dean says. "Steady. Scared but steady. That's always been you."
"Not coming back. Not the way I was."
"She put the bond there."
"Yes. And I walked down the aisle. Said I do. Drank from the cup." Pause. "Some part of me wanted it. Been empty a long time, Sam."
"I don't know if happy is the word. But I'm not in pain." Almost a smile. "And for me that's something."
Sam's eyes wet. "I'm going to find a way to break it."
"I'm going to try, Dean."
Sam drives away. Impala stays.
Dean stands at the porch. Watches taillights disappear. Trees swallow them.
Stands a long time. Night cool. Sounds only he can hear. Mice. Owl three miles north. Blood moving slowly in the bodies inside.
Bond hums. Warm. Insistent. Come back. Come inside. Come to me.
Turns. Walks through the door. Closes it.
She's at the end of the hallway. White gown. Dark hair. Lace over her eyes. Waiting. Patient. Eternal.
He walks toward her. Shoulders drop. Chin tilts. Hands open.
Sinks to his knees. Not because she told him. Because his body does it on its own. Meets her and lowers. Offers. Flowers toward sun. Tides toward moon.
She looks down at him. Raises one hand. Rests it on his head. Fingers through his hair.
She smiles. Real. The lace shifts with it.
He closes his eyes. Presses forehead against her stomach. Silk against his skin. No heartbeat beneath. Bond in his chest like a cat finally home.
Doesn't know what he is anymore. Not hunter. Not brother. Not man.
Hers. Pet. Bride. Nothing more.
And for the first time in his life nothing more is enough.
The house glows behind the trees. Candles gold in every window. A music box plays something that sounds like a wedding march.
And Dean Winchester is home.
𝒜/𝒩 :: “This came to me in a dream, said write an interview with the vampire inspired Dean x reader and make him submissive as shit feed your fans after a month, and I listened trust, ur goat is back castiel is next”
