AN: I couldn't let this go having shown Melusine's POV (in the one-shot called Melusine) and Dean's, but not Sam's. So...here it is from Sam's perspective, if anyone cares. *wink*

ETA: Wildfire, I am so glad this little story makes you happy! I'm grinning like an idiot myself after reading your comment!

As much as he knew Dean hated it, Sam enjoyed the ferry crossing Lake Michigan. It was surprisingly comfortable, and a woman had approached him and struck up a conversation about the book he was reading. There was nothing in the way of romantic interest, but she was friendly and intelligent and he found the time flew.

Ludington, Michigan was a charming town and the coffee they bought was truly delicious. And as they drove through the old growth forest of northern lower Michigan, Dean was in a great mood too. Sam only rolled his eyes when Dean checked them into a motel called The Red Moose Lodge, letting his brother's ribbing simply roll off. It was nice that he was in such a good mood.

There was something just a little bit odd about the case. Photographer Jim Franklin, if he had indeed died near the spot where people were now inexplicably having heart attacks, had been dead long enough for his ghost to go feral, even if he hadn't died a violent death. But there were incidents of people -- all men -- disappearing from the area for far longer than Franklin. They were too far apart, 10 to 12 years, to give much of a pattern. But then Sam found an article about the Sioux tribe that had inhabited the area even longer back. They avoided a certain bend in the river, even disembarking to carry their canoes around it.

There was nothing that explained why they avoided one spot, so it could just be that it was shallow or rocky. And there was no way to know for sure if it was even the same spot. Still, Sam kept the information in the back of his mind.

The next day, they hiked to the area, which Sam enjoyed but Dean did not. The boys' tshirts clung to their backs with sweat, but Sam didn't care. It was a beautiful area. The only thing that marred the day was the occasional prickle like someone was watching them.

No, something was watching him. Dean, whose hunter instincts were nearly perfect, obviously noticed nothing.

Sam stayed alert but put it from his mind when he saw something out of place on the forest floor. He called out to Dean.

A waft of cold air touched Sam's neck and Dean yelled for him to drop. He obeyed without thought and a white form rushed past him to shove Dean down. A quick shot of rock salt dispelled it, and luckily Dean wasn't hurt. He'd also gotten a good enough look to confirm that yes, it was Franklin.

It didn't take long to clear the area enough for a good salt and burn, and Dean covered him unerringly. But when the ghost was gone, the sense of being watched -- more than that, keenly observed -- came back stronger than ever. Sam didn't want to leave without figuring it out, didn't want to go if there was still danger.

Dean picked up on his unease immediately. And he even agreed to spend the night in the woods, which he hated. The trust eased a lot of Sam's tension.

He stared pensively into the trees as he mechanically ate a protein bar. "Sammy, talk to me," insisted Dean finally. "What's up?"

Instead of sounding irritated, his voice was quiet, and Sam's stomach unclenched. This partnership, this was what he'd missed at Stanford. And actually, this was more a partnership of equals than they had ever been before. "I'm sorry, Dean. I don't know why I'm on edge. Just something tells me we're not done. I wish I could explain."

Dean must have heard his frustration, because all he said was, "Okay. We'll keep an ear out."

Sam nodded his thanks. An hour later, as he laid down, Dean muttered up at the rustling trees, "If any of those birds shit on me while I'm sleeping, I'm so blaming you."

Sam snorted out a laugh. "I think you're hearing flying squirrels, Rocky."

"And if they shit on me, you're on laundry duty for a month, Ranger Rick, since it's your fault we're out here."

So Sam fell asleep with a smile on his face.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

A Sound slid sinuously into Sam's mind, tugging effortlessly at his walls of self and will. He clutched at them desperately, but it had come while he slept and his defenses were down, and they slipped away.

"Come," whispered the voice, and he had no choice. "I am not Lucifer to take without giving."

"What will you give me?" he asked, moving toward the Sound because he had no other desire or thought in his mind. He only asked so she would speak again.

"Bonne nuit. Mort douce. Paix ultime."

Sam knew enough French to translate, "Sweet sleep. Soft death. Ultimate peace." And he wanted those things so desperately he could weep. He wanted her. Everything else disappeared. He wasn't aware of moving, only of longing.

Then something pierced the soft but unyielding cocoon around his mind.

"Sammy!" There was no mistaking that voice, or the message it conveyed: danger! Pay attention!

Sam couldn't ignore that voice any more than he could ignore the song that had called him earlier.

He blinked in confusion. He was face to face with a blue-skinned monster with far too many teeth, and she was reaching for him. He knew instantly that he couldn't let her touch him. Dean was running in from Sam's left, machete drawn, but the monster would reach Sam first.

Acting on instinct, Sam pulled his knife and stabbed her. She shuddered but reached for him again.

Then Dean was there, the machete whistling through the air. It was a move they'd performed so many times before. Sam leaned back, and the head thunked to the ground, then the body.

Sam blinked, utterly confused about how he'd come to be standing in the edge of the river, no campsite in view.

But he knew who to turn to. His fingers brushed Dean's sleeve. "What happened?"

Dean made a smartass response, the relief on his face more telling than his words.

They never did learn what the monster was, or how it had lured Sam. But he never forgot how the voice of his brother had broken through and saved him.