AN: This is a re-write of the story Melusine (which I wrote under the username Woomie). Wildfire's Flame asked if I could write the story from Dean's POV instead of the monster's. FYI, the places are real, because when I wrote the original story, I pictured the little town where I've vacationed many times. The ghost I made up, Melusine came from French mythology.

The hunt didn't start well. Because how the hell had he let Sam convince him that they should take a ferry across Lake Michigan? How did saving eight hours of driving justify letting some buck-toothed moron named Brandon drive Baby onto a rust-bucket named The Badger? Could badgers even swim? When Dean voiced the thought out loud, a fellow passenger had freaked him out by saying the other ferry that used to run the same route sank.

It was too late to change his mind, so he had to endure four hours of being trapped on the water and hoping Baby would forgive him. Sam and the mean woman spent the trip discussing some book about a guy who jumped around through time and whether or not his wife was adequately fleshed out as a character in her own right, and not just as a love interest to the main character. Or something. The whole discussion made Dean's brain hurt.

But finally, finally, he was back in his baby and they were leaving the town of Ludington in their rear-view mirror with a bag of subs and two large coffees for human fuel. That and the curving, nearly abandoned tree-lined two-lane roads that led to their destination (the even smaller town of Baldwin), helped erase the way the trip had begun. And it was just a simple salt and burn, after all. They'd already identified their possible culprit – a nature photographer named Jim Franklin who'd disappeared in 1962 right around the area where perfectly healthy people where now showing up dead of heart attacks. The only hard part would be locating the body in the forested area around the bend in the Pere Marquette River.

But at least the weather was wonderful. And the local cops were more than helpful. And there was a likely-looking bar. And Dean picked up a shirt that read I Got Wet in the Pere Marquette and stuck it in the bottom of Sam's bag. And best of all, there was a motel named The Red Moose Lodge, which had the potential for a great deal of brotherly harassment. Things were looking up. This was a great case.

The next day, Dean decided this was a shitty case. The bar was a bust, the bed was too short, and 81 degrees didn't seem so pleasant among the trees where the breeze couldn't reach to brush away the humidity. The mosquitos had it in for him. And Sam wasn't as pissy as he was, no matter how much he complained, which was disappointing. Weirdo was enjoying himself, even as dusk fell and they still hadn't found anything.

"Dean, look." Sam bent and was pulling something made of leather out of the ferns that made up most of the undergrowth.

"Oh, thank – down!" As Sam had started to straighten, Dean had seen a surprisingly solid white form behind his brother.

Sam hit the ground immediately and Dean pulled the shotgun off his back. The ghost flitted closer faster than a human could move, and Dean didn't get the chance to fire before he was shoved backwards. The boom of a shotgun rang out and the ghost disappeared. "Franklin?" asked Sam, who hadn't gotten a good look at the ghost.

"Yup." Dean accepted a hand up. "You find his bones?"

In answer, Sam pulled aside the ferns to show a skeleton still dressed in dusty khakis. A vintage camera bag completed the scene, and had been what had caught Sam attention.

It didn't take long to clear the area enough out to make it safe to burn. And hey, no digging! Dean shot the ghost twice more while they worked, then he was gone. Dean sat, leaning against a tree as he watched the body burn, but Sam was antsy, pacing and staring through the trees in the direction of the river. "Looking for relatives?" Dean asked finally. "Bigfoot, maybe?"

"What? No. Just…maybe we should camp out over night instead of trying to hike out in the dark."

Dean scratched his head. "Seriously? Our motel may not be the Hilton, but I'm pretty sure the beds are softer than the ground, and there aren't as many mosquitos." His eyes narrowed as Sam didn't look at him, but paced a few more times. "What's up? Sam?" No matter how he might make fun of his brother, he trusted his instincts.

"I don't know. I just feel like there's something else out there."

"What, like a grizzly bear maybe?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "There are no grizzly bears in Michigan."

"In that case, can we go back to the motel?" Dean deliberately injected a whine into the question.

"I guess…"

Dean grumbled as he stood and kicked dirt over the smoldering remains. "Fine. Winchesters aren't meant to camp, but fine. We'll stay." He pulled out his sleeping bag, since they'd been prepared to spend the night, if necessary. It really was growing dark quickly, meaning more time had passed than he'd thought. And it would be far easier to hike back out in the morning.

Sam was still distracted while they ate a simple, cold supper, but he couldn't explain why. It put Dean on edge, though, and he was awake a long time after Sam had dropped off.

It was a good thing, because he was only dozing when he heard something. Actually, he heard nothing. The night insects went silent. Then, he heard Sam get up. Normally, he'd ignore it and assume his brother was taking a leak, but the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.

He rolled over, and was about to call Sam's name when he realized his brother had walked almost out of sight already. In a heartbeat, Dean was on his feet. "Hey!" he called, but Sam not only didn't stop, he disappeared from sight. Dean scrambled after his brother, and realized that Sam hadn't fallen, but had descended the riverbank.

Out of the tree cover, the moonlight was bright. Sam had turned slightly, and Dean could see that his face was unnaturally still and blank. Dammit, dammit, dammit! Something was influencing Sam. He followed his brother's gaze and saw her…it. At the edge of the river, standing in the water, was a naked blue woman thing. She had a line of spikes down her back that ranged from six inches to nearly three feet long. Her mouth was open, showcasing long needle-like teeth, and her wide-spread fingers were webbed. Her arms were spread and she looked for all the world like an opera singer belting out an aria, but Dean couldn't hear a thing.

Dean half slid down the bank in his hurry. Fortunately, he was on an angle to Sam's trajectory, on a more direct path to the monster. He pulled his machete and broke into a sprint. Sam wasn't moving fast, but he was still 15 feet beyond Dean. Sam had almost reached the monster, and she reached her hands forward like she'd take hold of his face. Tiny spikes emerged from all over her palms. Dean realized with a rush of fear that he'd never get there in time.

"SAMMY!" There was desperation and more than a little fear in the cry.

Sam jumped as if he were just waking up. In a split second, he took in Dean, the machete, and the monster whose hands were inches from his face. He leaned back, pulled his knife, and stabbed her where a human's heart would be. She looked surprised instead of hurt, and turned to reach for Sam again. By then Dean was nearly there, machete raised. Sam leaned back, giving Dean the space to cut off her head in one slice. The brothers stared at each other across the body for a second.

"What…happened?" asked Sam, sounding a bit dazed.

Dean brushed off the adrenaline and fear that had washed over him just moments before. "You proved yet again that you have terrible taste in women."

Sam punched his bicep hard enough to leave a bruise, but Dean was laughing too hard to care.