AN: For the Story in a Word Challenge (pluviophile), Pocket Morty Competition (Hippie Morty: Write about someone who is different), Social Media Competition (Snap Streak: Write about your OTP), and the Variety Drabble Challenge (1/50, DeanLuna)
Dean blinks awake slowly, groggy. In the haze, he hears the rain and the soft laughter and sloshing footfalls outside. His watch tells him that it is three in the morning, and, confused, he climbs to his feet.
All of Shell Cottage is quiet, the other occupants long since lost in their dreams. But the laughter sounds again, soft and sweet, and he knows that he is not the only one awake.
Outside, he finds Luna, soaked with rain, hair plastered against her face, arms outstretched toward the sky, dancing.
"You're going to get sick," he says.
Luna stops and turns, staring at him with her wide, dreamy eyes. She doesn't look embarrassed at being caught in childlike behavior. She only smiles. "Daddy says the rain has healing properties," she says with a small nod. "Particularly rain at night."
Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Luna is a strange girl, a fact that is well known at Hogwarts. But the more time he spends with her, the less strange she seems, and the more endearing her quirks become.
"And I've always loved the rain," she adds before dancing again.
He watches her, the moonlight and shadows dancing across her pale skin. The carefree movement of her body. He realizes that she is, in fact, quite beautiful.
"Dance with me!" she calls, twirling and laughing.
"There isn't any music."
"Listen, Dean. The rain, the wind. It's nature's music."
She's right. There's a distinct rhythm to the sounds, a rhythm his clumsy feet cannot match. But he joins her anyway, laughing along with her.
Luna seems pleasantly surprised. Dean wonders if anyone has ever cared enough about her to humor her in a little adventures. He supposes not. To everyone else, she is just Loony Lovegood, that daft little Ravenclaw with a head full of impossibilities.
When had she become something more to him? When had she become something so beautiful, so precious that his heart warms at the sight of her?
"Relax," she says, placing her hands on his sides. "You're thinking too much. You have to feel it."
Dean inhales sharply at his touch. It's hard to relax when her hands send chills through his body.
She moves away, dancing. He tries to mimic her movements, but he knows that he is a poor mirror.
"You're beautiful when you're dancing," he says.
She smiles, a content twist of her lips. "So are you."