(again, no ownage, no money made, no insult intended. hunter!dean goes partying.)


last night you spoke of a dream where forests stretched to the east

It is Midsummer's Eve. The woods are filled with exuberant birds so caught up in singing that they refuse to go to sleep, the air is crystal clear and honey sweet, and he has a party to attend.

The sky is backlit, glowing petroleum blue.

He lets the dogs out of the backseat, runs his hand slowly over the sun-warmed roof of the Impala, apologetic. She is still a car; he's taken her as far as he can on old logging routes and deer trails, but from here on the terrain is beyond her. This is old forest - generously dotted with huge blocks of stone, forgotten playthings of giants; embroidered with silver-ribbon streams tangling in roots thick as his arm.

"Wait here, baby," he tells her. "I'll be back after dawn, okay?"


He doesn't need the music and laughter to guide him. None of her subjects do. When her Court is called, they simply know. She is a bright beacon. Nevertheless, the sounds make him speed up.

His dogs run alongside, more and more of them flickering into Here around him the further he goes. Occasionally they break off to play, but they always return. Always.

He laughs as he runs, faster and faster with the wind in his face, and then he's there.

Temptresses and tricksters, muses and nuisances, poets and nightmares and thieves, tiny and tall, beautiful beyond imagination and impossibly twisted, they are all here, all dancing. The moon is caught in the dark pool in the center of the clearing, brought down to join in the celebrations.

Tousled and exhilarated and wildly grinning, he watches lithe undines break the surface, silver goblets in their slim hands. On land, they still sway as if they're rocked by waves and currents, weaving through the crowd. One of them heads straight for him, pearls and blue iris artfully knotted into her long pale hair, dark eyes unabashed and full of promises.

She smiles, offers him the cup with a murmured "Hunter..." and the word has stopped being a job description, stopped being a title; it is his name.

"Cheers, darlin'," he says, drinking deeply of spring water more intoxicating than any wine. "Wanna dance?"

She smirks, pretending to consider it for a moment, then takes his hand and pulls him towards the water.


Much later, at his Queen's feet, hair still wet and body still languid, Dean lounges on the soft moss. Nicnivin's hands are butterflies, whisper-soft as they absently play over his face and chest. Almost asleep, then:

"They are looking for you." There is something in her voice, something...if he didn't know better, he'd almost say it was uncertainty.

For a long second, he doesn't know who she is talking about, then he realizes - Dad. Sam. He waits for the expected pang of hurt at the thought of them, but it doesn't come. Looking for me. Huh. Never thought I'd see the day.

"They been having much luck with that, then?" he asks dryly, without feeling guilty, without wishing himself any different to please them.

She laughs, low and sweet...relieved? "Not much, no."

"Didn't think so." In one smooth movement, he's on his feet, bowing over her hand. "Dance with me, Lady?"

She laughs again. "You are insatiable."

"Well," he defends, "it is Midsummer."