I do not own Supernatural. Or Jensen and Jared. Because human possession is wrong. Plus if I don't know how to handle children, I certainly wouldn't know how to handle those two ragamuffins.

There is no defined time frame for this story, so you can pretty much envision the bros any age you like.

Enjoy!

~1~ Something New

Nick Chambers, property manager of Sunvale Resort, drowned in an elevator.

Well, authorities said he hadn't drowned in the elevator – that would be preposterous – but he had drowned and he had been found in the elevator, which was sopping when it dinged and opened its doors to a surprised group of tourists in the foyer. The bellboy had fainted. Everyone else had pulled out their cell phones. Not to call the cops, but to film and snap pictures. They gasped and cried out in horror, repulsed and unable to look away.

Naturally, these details were glazed over, or else omitted altogether, from the newspaper Sam Winchester pinned to the hood of the Impala with one hand, his other preoccupied with a cup of joe. The pages flapped helplessly in the wind. To further thwart his efforts to read the vague article and drink liquid caffiene, his hair blustered into his face, no matter which way he turned. But Sam eventually got the gist of what the article was trying to say and stuffed the paper in through the window of the car. He used his now free hand to pull hair out of his mouth as he watched the highway, leaning against the Impala. He sipped his coffee. The harsh bitterness and burnt aftertaste suggested it had been sitting in the pot for over an hour.

"Please tell me you at least found doughnuts."

Sam turned his head. Dean was shambling over from the motel room door, blinking and squinting as though he hadn't seen the sun in months. His clothes were rumpled, shirt only half tucked into his pants and already sticking to his chest with sweat. The night had spent trying to cope without a working A/C and, by the looks of things, Dean hadn't caught a wink, which meant Sam was to spend the next several hours trapped in the Impala with a pregnant bear.

He winced and smeared sweat from his forehead. "Sorry. There were some bran muffins..."

Dean looked like he'd been told to try compost. "Where's my stuff?" he growled.

"Already packed. We've got a job...I think."

Dean rubbed his face. "Is it somewhere with ice?"

"I should think so. A resort south of here. A man was found in an elevator, his lungs full of water."

"Drowned?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "Looks like it."

"How do we know someone didn't hold him down in a bathtub and then toss him in the elevator to cause a distraction? You know, so they could get away."

He scoffed. "I know what a distraction is, Dean. But it's worth looking into, isn't it? It's been a while. The last time you went this long without shooting something I thought you were ready to take a swing at me."

"I'm always ready to take a swing at you."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean grumbled. "Just gimme the damn keys." He held out his hand. Sam glowered, but the wind continued to bluster his hair into his face, ruining the attempt of intimidation. He sighed and pushed away from the Impala, tossing Dean the keys.

"And we're stopping for doughnuts first."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Two days of driving brought them within sights of Sunvale, Nevada, but it might as well have been two years. It had taken the brothers' combined willpower to restrain from strangling each other with shoelaces as they endured blistering hot afternoons in a black car, and nights in shady hotels with "broken" air conditioners.

Of all the times for this evil entity to strike, it had to be in the middle of a drought, during the hottest month of the year.

"God dammit."

Dean banged on the radio as it sputtered and frizzed, barely catching the station. Had it not been doing that for several miles, Sam would have thought a demon or spirit had appeared in the back seat.

"Just turn it off," he grumbled, half dozing with his head against the door. He was sprawled over his seat, arm dangling over the backrest, trying to expel as much heat as he could. The windows were only cracked open in efforts to keep the car from getting filled with Mojave dust, and they were doing little to suck out the stuffiness. Triangles of sweat darkened the collar and armpits of his T-shirt, strands of hair plastered to his forehead.

Dean, on the other hand, was crunched over the steering wheel, a line between his brows, trying to fight fire with the fire from his eyes. By his mumbled curses and threats, it wasn't working.

And he continued to hit the radio.

"Stupid, goddamn—work!" He smacked it again. It hissed in return.

"Turn it off, Dean."

Bang! "Turn your face off!" Bang!

"Would you just—!" Sam tried to swat his hand away from the hapless radio, but then bunched his legs up as Dean attempted to punch his crotch.

"Hey!"

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his piehole!"

"It's not working, Dean!"

Dean twiddled with the dials, barely watching the road. "She just needs a little love."

Sam shook his head, teeth gritting together. But as they drove into the town limits, a neon sign caught his eye. "There, a motel." Maybe they had an ice machine that actually worked.

Dean pulled off the main drag. A dust cloud plumed up behind the car. He parked haphazardly and Sam got out, door creaking. He pushed it shut, but then Dean shifted into reverse, wheels spitting up gravel as he pulled back out of the parking stall.

"Dean!" Sam lunged for the door handle, forcing his brother to hit the brakes. "Dude—"

"No way I'm spending another night in a crap room with only crap for company."

Sam made an incredulous noise. "What, you expect to get a suite in some five star joint?"

"Nuh uh." Dean wagged a finger. "Four star. But it has a pool."

"...That's where the case is."

"Exactly."

"FBI don't get manicures and massages at the crime scenes they're supposed to be investigating."

"Who said we're going in as FBI?"

"Um, you did, three hours ago?"

"Well it's not three hours ago anymore, Sammy. Live in the present."

"Then what are we going in as?" asked Sam through his teeth.

Dean smirked. "Not we. Me. I'm going in as a maintenance worker. You're going to the coroners."

"Why me?"

"Because you wanted this case to begin with, and because you used the last of the deodorant yesterday and didn't get more like I asked you."

Sam stared, deadpan. "I really hate you right now."

"Yeah, well I really smell you right now and I really think you should shower before suiting up."

"If I'm going to the coroners, I get the car," said Sam.

"Eh, nope." With that, Dean tore away, leaving his brother coughing in the dust.

Dean changed his mind on the way to Sunvale. Not about abandoning Sam to take on the tedious task of poking stiffs, but about who he was going to be at the resort.

He stopped at a gas station, trading his sweaty jeans and T-shirt for a suit and tie in the restroom. That left him with about ten minutes to get to the cool interior of Sunvale Resort before he melted like a popsicle.

The resort soon came into view, an oblong, sandy red building eight stories tall, not far from the shores of Lake Sunvale. When he'd heard about the lake, he imagined a mineral pool unable to support life. Instead, it was a massive oasis, trimmed with greenery and beaches. It seemed so out of place here, but welcoming. Perhaps it was the reason the resort decided to plunk itself down here in hell's sauna.

Dean found a shaded stall in the guest parking lot to leave the Impala, making sure he had his health inspector ID and that he had noted the name printed on it. The last thing he needed was to blow the case because he couldn't remember his own alias.

Straightening his tie and putting a strut in his step, Dean made for the front door of the resort. He smirked at the sight of an old, British-style phone booth near the steps. Something else that seemed out of place.

He somehow made it up the sun-baked steps without suffering a heatstroke and entered the resort, smiling at the doorman and feeling instant relief from the blast of air conditioning. His shoes tapped over chestnut and tan-mottled tiles waxed to shine like marble. Pilasters framed patches of burgundy wall displaying priceless pieces of art – or at least, prints of priceless pieces of art. Pots of ferns and fronds gave life to the expensive room. Dean felt like he was emptying his wallet just by standing in it.

He held his smile as he approached the check-in desk. En route he noticed the yellow strips of police tape barring the way to an elevator on his right. Three people ogled the scene, one with a camera, another with a notepad. The third was a woman in a dress barely long enough to be called decent, ebony hair piled on top of her head. A tattoo of a trio of spirals, connected in the centre by their tails, sat just above the rim of her dress, between her shoulder blades. He was studying the back of her neck so diligently, he nearly walked headlong into the front desk.

The man behind it raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Can I help you?"

"I should think so." Dean gave him his best fake smile. "Shaw, Travis Shaw...I don't think you'll find me on the list."

The clerk checked anyway, perhaps to show off the gilt pages of the registry. "There is no Shaw here."

"As I said," Dean stressed, fighting to keep impatience from his voice. How he tired of these peacocks. They were all the same. "You won't find me. This is a surprise inspection." He flashed out his ID. The clerk's eyebrow jerked. "I had been assured I would find accommodations here."

The man's face went so cold and still, one would think he was imitating the alabaster bust sitting in an alcove behind the desk. Dean kept his smile despite the strain it was putting on his cheeks.

"Tell you what, I'm going to wander around. I'll just have my people call your people, alright?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Good. Hey," he said, before he left. The clerk's lips twitched in an effort to show polite interest. "What happened over there?" Dean flicked his head towards the taped-off elevator.

"I was sick that day."

Dean nodded slowly, once. "Right." He looked over to see only the woman remained by the elevator, the two reporters having gotten what they needed and departed. But even she was leaving, heading for a corridor. Dean followed. No doubt if he could work his charms, he would get more information out of her than some old curmudgeon of a clerk.

Sam was still fuming after a refreshing shower and a trip to a suit rental shop, perhaps because of his brother's bossiness, perhaps because the wavering sidewalks were trying to leach every drop of moisture from his body. When he finally got to the coroners, he was caked in sweat again and his mouth was like carpet. But discipline and practice moulded his face into the confident, slightly arrogant features of a federal agent, yet with the sympathetic veil that often got him the answers of awkward questions.

After answering the usual inquiry as to why an agent such as he would be interested in a drowning, Sam was led to the body of Nick Chambers, property manager of Sunvale Resort.

"So drowning really was the cause of death," he said, scanning the pallid corpse for clues indicating anything more. Just in case.

The coroner nodded. "The autopsy revealed nothing else except for bruises on his arms and legs, like he'd fallen or been struggling."

"But he was found in an elevator."

"Sopping wet."

"You figure he was drowned in a tub and then dragged there?"

"Well, special agent, unless you think the elevator filled with water and then drained before it reached the foyer, that's exactly what I figure." The coroner looked over Sam's shoulder, seeing someone waving at him from the hall. "Excuse me."

Once the man was gone, Sam's EMF metre emerged and began to buzz, but faintly. Even if a spirit was involved with this, possession was not. And it didn't explain the water.

He hoped Dean was having more luck in finding clues – if there were any to find.

Dean was indeed having more luck. The woman he intended to interrogate was leading him to an open bar, and boy, was he parched.

He followed her around an outdoor pool surrounded by beach chairs and umbrellas, then beneath a maroon awning where it was cool. She had already ordered a mojito by the time Dean slipped onto a bar stool beside her, calling for a beer. As they were both interested, neither said anything for several moments, waiting for their drinks. Dean snacked on peanuts, which somehow tasted better than regular bar peanuts, and when the beverages were placed on coasters before the pair, they both took a sip.

"Yellow tape. Always a good conversation starter," said Dean at last, not looking over but knowing he had the woman's attention. He could hear the smirk in her voice as she spoke.

"Unlike you."

Dean ticked his head to the side to shrug off the jibe. "And yet you answered."

"I take pity on the bottom feeders of the world."

"Don't you at least want my name before you insult me?"

"Don't you at least check for availability before you swing your dick around?"

Dean finally looked at her, then down at her left hand. A very fat diamond was strapped to her finger by a golden band. Oops.

"How presumptuous of you," he countered, taking another sip of beer.

She narrowed her eyes, then sucked her teeth and toyed with the lime in her glass. "Figures. The one stranger who has the balls to talk to me is gay."

"...What? No!" Dean sputtered.

"You should go. My fiancé doesn't like me talking to men in bars."

"But he doesn't mind you wandering around on your own, looking at crime scenes?"

She gave him a heavy-lidded look. "I like a bit of excitement once in a while."

"Funny. So do I." Before he could say more, Dean's cell rang. Perfect timing as always, Sammy, he thought despondently, pulling the device from his pocket. "Excuse me." He stepped away from the bar, phone to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Bad news. No sulphur, EMF ... concrete. If there is witchcraft ... office..."

"Whoa, whoa, buddy, you're breaking up." Dean glanced at his screen. Signal was poor. "What?"

Sam's voice waved with the static. "Check Nick's office for clues."

Dean sighed. "Is anything ever simply a ghost or demon anymore?" He glanced at his shoulder and realized the woman at the bar must have overheard him a little, for her face was scrunched in confusion. He smiled and waved to show his jest, then meandered further away.

"What?" asked Sam.

"Nothing."

"Got anything?"

"Oh, I think I'm reeling her in." Dean suddenly remembered the woman's engagement ring and winced.

"Funny. Let me know ... useful."

"Right. Wait, aren't you coming?"

"Going ... library. I want to check ... Get into Nick's office. See if anything nasty is hiding out there. And ... elevator. I'll meet ... the motel."

"Yeah." Miffed, Dean hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He returned to the bar, reaching for his beer.

"Who ya gonna call?" said the woman, smirking.

Dean tried to smile. "Rat infestation at the house."

"Oh, no ghosts or demons?"

"Not this time. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"You should, after I give it to you."

"Humour me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sophia."

"Travis."

"A pleasure, Travis."

"And where's the lucky man?"

"Off getting a massage or manicure or something. I swear, he's more like a girl than I am, sometimes." Sophia finished off her drink. "Well, it's been nice, Travis."

Dean watched her stand up. "Maybe I'll see you around?"

"I doubt it." With a small smile she walked away, moving her hips like she knew Dean was watching. Which she did.

Dean sighed and finished his beer.

Nick Chamber's office was neat. Perhaps too neat. Dean had the urge to knock over the wastebasket as he came in, just to break the robotic neatness.

"Alright, Nick, let's find your dirt."

Like in the elevator where the man was found, the EMF metre barely flickered here. No piles of smelly yellow powder could be found. Although Dean had expected as much, he had hoped for otherwise.

He changed his view and began looking for anything else of interest. He rummaged through the desk and closet, felt around the bookshelf, and even checked the potted plants. No hex bags, no indications that anyone would be gunning for this man. Unless the cops took something for evidence, the man was as clean as the office.

The security footage was next in line for investigation. Perhaps the elevator camera would reveal some clues. Dean made sure everything was back in its place before heading for the exit. But then he stopped, staring at something on the floor, by the doorstop.

"Hello..."

He picked up a small, smooth stone. Carved into its mottled grey face was a symbol – three spirals connected by their tails in the middle. It seemed incongruous here, and not just because it was on the floor.

And he'd seen that symbol already today. Sophia's tattoo.

Did that mean something? Could be a coincidence. This could be one of those dinky wish stone things bought at gift shops and street vendors.

Dean shrugged and slipped it into his pocket. He'd worked with vaguer clues. And with a walking talking encyclopedia for a brother, he might even learn what kind of rock it was before sundown.

He dialed Sam. "Hey. Going to the precinct to watch the security footage. Care to join me?"

To his frustration, the signal was still sketchy. "No ... working on some theories here. I've been cross-referencing ... journal, but nothing's really fitting. What about you? Find anything?"

"...Yeah, I think I have." Dean pulled the stone back out of his pocket and snapped a picture, making sure the triple-spiral was in full view. "What do you make of that?"

There was a pause as Sam uploaded the picture. "Huh. I've seen that symbol before."

"Of course you have."

"Shut up." Another pause. Dean could hear the clicking of a keyboard. "There. It's called a triskelion. Commonly ... Celts, but it's much older."

"Okay. So?"

Sam released a breath. "I can work with this. Give ..."

"...Sam...? Dammit." Dean pocketed his cell. Now he knew why there was a phone booth right outside the resort's front door.

A switch in clothes and demeanour and Dean was a federal agent. That meant he could elbow his way to the fun bits of an investigation – the evidence.

He had the room to himself and so he relaxed in the chair after slipping the disk, copied from the original security cassettes, into the machine and hit play. After watching, he shook his head. These poor cops. No wonder they had let him into the precinct so readily.

The footage showed Nick Chambers leaving and locking his office. He dropped his keys twice doing so. Then he waddled too quickly for the elevator. The film switched to a view inside the car, showing Nick dropping his keys again. He hit the close button and held it as he pressed the ground floor button as well. Nick was using the cop trick. He could go wherever he needed to without the elevator stopping for anybody.

That might have been what sealed his fate.

The elevator began its descent. After a few moments, Nick jumped, staring at the floor. The grainy footage couldn't pick up what had scared him, and then it fritzed out, a sure sign that something supernatural was present. By the time the footage cleared up again, the elevator was opening to the foyer, and Nick was dead. Drowned.

Dean watched the footage again and again. Drowned in an elevator. If he was a cop, oblivious to what was really out there, he would call the footage tampered. Hell, as a hunter he could call the footage tampered. But something in his gut told him otherwise. Perhaps it had something to do with how quickly Nick had drowned. He had only descended five or six stories. People could survive that long without air.

Dean burned a copy onto a blank disk to bring along and left the precinct, sending Sam a text before driving back to the motel where he'd abandoned him earlier. It was easy enough to pick his way into the room Sam had booked, and there he showered, pulled on fresh clothes and relaxed, content to wait for his brother.

As though he'd been reading Dean's mind, Sam brought food with him. He balanced a large white paper bag, two tall cups with straws and a stack of ancient tomes over the threshold.

"Ah, hello, sweetheart." Dean stood.

"Gee, glad to see you too, honey cakes," said Sam. He rolled his eyes as Dean snatched the bag away.

"Talking to the burger, moron."

"You like it with spinach and artichoke hearts, right?"

Dean looked at him in horror. "You didn't."

Sam just hummed and set the books down on the vanity as the elder Winchester ripped open the wrapping of the burger. He sighed with relief upon finding no spinach or artichokes.

"Good ol' chemical cheese and cow tongue patties." He took a hearty bite. "Whuff you phime?"

"It could be a few things." Sam sat on the bed with his laptop. Countless meals with his brother made him fluent in the language of Dean-talking-with-his-mouth-full. "What little EMF is there definitely suggests some spirit work. But something is dampening its...potency, I guess you can say."

"Never eard ovvat appeming."

"Dude, you're getting crumbs everywhere." Sam tossed him napkins before taping a few keys. "I think we can rule out water wraiths and nymphs. There's no way they could survive this drought, even with man-made systems. And as far as I know, they can't control water to this magnitude. That leaves one thing." Another tap on the enter key, and he turned the laptop around to show Dean a webpage. "Rusalka."

By the look on Dean's face, he was either repulsed or had swallowed his mouthful too soon. He took a sip from his drink. "What the hell's a rusalka?"

"Also known as a vila, it's a type of water spirit. Really rare, especially on this side of the planet. They're like water guardians, in a way. The lore says they're the souls of virgins who had drowned, and they haunt and protect the places they died."

"And they're dangerous?" Dean stuffed his mouth with burger again.

"Some stories say yes, others say no. Ours, I think, is."

"Hmph." Dean chewed properly before swallowing. "What about the triskel-whatsit?"

"Triskelion." Sam grabbed a book from the vanity. "Symbolizes a lot of things. Including water." He flipped to a page he had dog-eared and passed it over. "And rusalki."

Dean studied the drawing of a woman in threadbare clothes, pond water up to her waste. Her hair was long and pale. A pendant with the symbol was around her neck.

"So it's like any spirit? Salt and burn the bones?"

"That would be my guess. Dad has nothing on them in his journal, and the lore doesn't talk about destroying them. Just avoiding. Guys have to be especially cautious."

"Alright. So if this thing is a rusalka, and she's protecting her death place...why is she acting now? I mean, that resort's been there for years."

Sam shrugged. "Who knows. We should look up the local deaths, see if there's any clues there."

"Mm hm. But not until tomorrow."

Sam gave him a look as he chowed down the rest of the burger, but didn't argue. It had been a long, hot day and there was little more to be done for the time being.

I made up Sunvale as well, in case anyone was wondering. Because I could.

And as you might be able to tell, this will be a very simple, cut and dry case. I'm still recovering from a four-year-long fanfic story, so go easy on me! I get to be lazy for a while.