(preseries. no ownage, no money made, no insult intended. enjoy.)


Her name is Nicnivin.

She is beautiful. Dark and lush like an over-ripe plum, black tangles twisting down her back, slanting storm gray eyes all too knowing. Yes, she is very beautiful, but there is something slightly wrong with that beauty, something sinister and wicked, and her skin is like jasmine petals in the moonlight, flickering and shimmering pale as bone, and sometimes he thinks her nails are claws.

Her name is Nicnivin, but knowing that hasn't helped Dean at all.

"Such a pretty boy," she whispers, running long fingers lightly over his face, soft and dry like the wings of moths. Dean isn't sure he'd move away from that touch even if he could. Which he can't. Drowsy and dreamy and dazed and disjointed and distracted and disconnected and probably a dozen other things starting with dis, and yeah, that's alliteration and wouldn't Sammy be surprised to find out Dean knows what that is? Damn dust. Bobby warned him about it. Watch out for the faery-dust, Dean! Don't inhale any of it!

Yeah, well. Hell of a lot easier said than done, wasn't it?

The clearing is dim, only a few moonbeams managing to fight their way down through the wild branches, and it's sheltered enough that he doesn't much mind laying shirtless on the damp moss, even though it's only early may and still chilly after sunset. His head is in her lap, and she looks down at him covetously, like he used to eye the Impala before Dad let him drive her.

All around them her court weave in and out of the trees.

He doesn't actually know what usually happens when someone is taken by the faeries. The ones who come back tend to be...not all there, and their memories evaporate like ether, which Dean now has decided must be due to dust overdose. The ones who don't come back...who knows?

He has an advantage over her usual prey. He thought he had two, but knowing her name turned out to be a bust. She just smiled, and told him she was flattered he'd heard of her. What he does have is the knowledge of what she is, and because he knows that, he also knows not to eat her food, or drink her wine, or give his consent in even the vaguest of ways, and so he does nothing, just waits and watches with blurry eyes. Dad and Sammy will come for him. They will.

If they manage to get their heads out of their asses and stop yelling at each other for five minutes.

"Don't you want to ride with me, Dean?"

And that's the problem, isn't it? Part of him does want to.

It's because of the dust, he tells himself. Because he's drugged up to his eyeballs and she's glamouring him for all she's worth, it's what they do. But the part of him that's tired of picking up other people's slack and cleaning other people's messes; the part that's sick to death of being stuck in the middle, unable to please anyone, least of all himself no matter what he does; the part that hates being taken for granted all the damned time; the part that gets hurt, over and over and over and over – to that part, oblivion in faeryland sounds pretty damn good, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

"They don't care," she tells him, voice low and intimate, hypnotic. "They don't care that they hurt you, Dean. Not enough to stop. They use you. They will keep using you until they don't need you anymore, and then they will leave you. You know this."

And he does, has thought it many times and buried those thoughts in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, and it's not fair that she can get into his head so easily and use them against him.

She's not supposed to drop the subtle faery trickery and ambush him with truth, because how can he defend against that?

"Forget them, Dean," she says. "Ride with me."

"No," he says, but it comes out as 'Nuh', because his lips are numb and uncooperative, and he's not sure that he means it. Why does she want him so badly anyway? Must be plenty of more pliable mortals out there for her to play with.

She laughs, like tinkling crystal and pearls spilling down a staircase. "Oh, Dean...of course there is. But you glow. For those of us who can see it, those of us clever enough to appreciate it, it's irresistible."

He wishes she'd stop listening to what he's thinking.

"Don' glow," he says, very reasonably. "Tha's you an' your posse. Like...damn rave party, you lot."

She looks perplexed for a second, then smiles at him patiently as if he is a small and not particularly bright child. "That's a different kind of glow altogether. Dean...they're never satisfied, are they? You fight for them and you sacrifice for them and you give and you give, and it's never ever enough, is it?" She traces his lips with those moth-wing fingers, and he shivers. "Ride with me, Dean. I'll show you things beyond your wildest dreams. I'll make you my Master of the Hunt. I can give you anything you want, Dean. Anything."

"No," Dean whispers, and he's talking way too much now, rambling, dangerous and stupid, but he can't stop himself and it's not fucking fair... Loose lips sink ships. "You can't. You can't give me them." He swallows hard. "You can't make them stop fighting. You can't-"

She smiles, then, a strange and unsettling smile. "Maybe I can, Dean. Maybe even that. If they love you enough, I can. But I won't do it for free."

Faeries lie. They trick you and confuse you and laugh behind your back, and everything they say has at least two meanings. They can turn you upside down and inside out, and if they make your wishes come true, it's rarely in the way you'd thought it would be. Careful what you wish for. Yet...

"No," he repeats, but his tongue tripped over yes in the fog in his head.

"I can wait," she says. "For a glow like yours, I can wait. What is time to me, after all? Give me your word, Dean, tell me yes, and I'll do everything in my power to give you what you want."

"And then what?" he asks, and he's sleepy and dizzy and he just wants to be left the hell alone too tired to play the mind games of a faery queen, too tired for the blame-game Dad and Sam will play when (if) they find him, too tired for any fucking games at all.

"And then? You know what I want, Dean."


Was that...?

"Let go of him, you bitch!"

Oh. It was. The cavalry's here.

Shotgun blasts scatter her court to the four winds, but Nicnivin looks only a little bit annoyed, even when a round of consecrated iron pellets tear through the air dangerously close to her head. She's still talking to him, low and coaxing, and Sammy's shouting and Dad's barking orders and he can't make sense of any of it, it's too much and he wants them all to just shut the fuck up!

And then, through the blur comes a single clear sentence, inserting itself into his mind without passing through his ears.

'Do you want them to stop fighting, Dean?'

"Yes!" he says, the word out of his mouth before he can even think. Her eyes flash in wild triumph, and damn her faery trickery!

"Done!" she laughs gleefully and bends her graceful neck to place a kiss over his heart. "As in mind, so in body," Nicnivin says against his skin. There's a flash of almost-pain and his head is swimming, vision going gray at the edges. When he can see again she is gone, and Sammy's dropping his shotgun and falling to his knees beside him, all worried frown and hovering hands.

"Dean? Dean! Hey, man, you okay?"

No. He blinks slowly. His body feels very far away, but the taste of plums is strong in his mouth and there's sweet jasmine on the breeze.

"Come on, Dean, say something!" Sammy pleads, shaking him.

"Sam," he breathes, just to get the shaking to stop, because it's making him sick and he doesn't think he has the muscle control to roll over. Choking to death on his own puke has never been a dream of his.

Two worn and dirty hiking boots stop right by his head, and from this angle his father looks as tall as the trees, the mighty warrior with his eyes in the distance.

"He hurt?"

"There's no blood," Sam says, concerned, "but he's completely out of it. Dad-"

"Yeah. Let's get him out of here, see what we can do. Grab the gear, Sam."


"Now, Samuel," Dad cuts him off, grabbing Dean's arm and hoisting him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Sam glowers, and Dean tenses, waiting for the inevitable round of bitching, but to his amazement Sammy lets it go. Nicnivin?

Her laughter twines seductively around his sluggish thoughts, fades only when he finally sleeps, tucked safely into the back seat of the Impala.


to be continued.