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~5~ To the Depths

Dean plucked ribs and vertebrae and tugged femurs and humeri out of the mud, stuffing them all into the fishing net. He couldn't help but smirk with triumph. The fickle luck that sometimes followed him around had decided to join him in this watery grave.

He had at least half of Kara's skeleton in the net when something smacked into his shoulder. Bubbles escaped between his lips as he was knocked sideways. Eyes wide, his head whipped this way and that, seeking what had struck him. A fish? A crocodile?

Something caught on the edges of the light's limits, and then it was gone.

Stillness. Dean was running out of breath. He clawed to the surface, breaking it with a sputtering whoosh. As he gulped down fresh air, he trod water in a circle, the lamp turning with his head like a lighthouse. He didn't know what he expected to see.

Dare he go back down? He had to. Now that he had found the bones, this would be his only chance.

He drew in a last breath and submerged, going as straight down as he could. The glint of Kara's locket in the mud led him back to the remains.

Another cautious look around, and he grabbed the net. But then he was struck again, hard, in the other shoulder. He tried to swing a fist, but whatever it was, it was already gone. Before he could reach for the bones, something smashed into his ribs. He cried out, the sound muffled and accompanied by bubbles. He twisted in circles, pain radiating from his side. The light found nothing, but something came. It slammed into his lower back, then came around and cracked against his thigh, spinning him in the water like a wheel. The shock released air from his lungs, and he knew he had to surface.

But the entity struck yet again, behind his head, and both the light and the mask were knocked off. Before he could grab either, an icy hand gripped his ankle, and more bubbles burst from his mouth and nose as it dragged him through the water. He kicked, but his foot went through whatever had hold of him. He twisted around and forced his eyes open, only to see the rusalka.

She sensed his struggle, and looked back at him.

How Sam had managed to keep her captivated for as long as he had was a mystery to Dean. She was one ugly broad. Faintly glowing, her eyes were white and dead, her cheeks hollow. Her mouth was full of long, needle teeth, reminding him of a deep sea fish. She hissed at him and faced forward again, dragging Dean further and further away from her bones. And not towards the surface.

Sam!

How to draw her back. How?!

Sam called to her, pleading for her return. He even tried singing a love song. He might have been okay had he been rocking with Bon Jovi, but alone he sounded hammered.

His hands went to his hair, as though to pull an idea from his head. He waited for the calm that always came when his brother was in danger and he alone could save him. And at the sight of the crumpled burrito foil on the deck, the calm came.

Sam barged into the boathouse, wrinkling his nose at the stench of oil and fish. He rummaged through all the cupboards, batting aside empty containers, canisters and bottles, knocking over a glass jar or two, letting them smash on the floor. Then his hand brushed a greasy, black jug. He seized it and read the label. Boat motor oil.

He nearly tripped over the threshold as he raced back outside, twisting the cap. It clicked and jammed.

"Dammit!" Blasted child-proofing! It was so gummed with gunk, he couldn't read how to remove the lid. So he grabbed his pistol and shot it off.

"Hey!" He stood at the edge of the dock and overturned the jug, letting amber fluid chug into the water. "Come get me!"

Blind, cold, and starved of air, it was all Dean could do to not inhale water. The pressure on ears intensified. She was dragging him deeper. He thrashed in her hold.

Knife, my knife!

He managed to tug it from its sheath, but getting close to her was a different, and harder, matter. It was like he was being hauled behind a speed boat.

And then she released him. Dean couldn't see. There wasn't even a glimmer of moonlight to tell him where the surface was. He took a guess and started to kick and claw, keeping a firm grip on the knife.

Red splotched his vision. He was already past his limits, and yet he fought on, finally seeing moonlight. He had no idea what he'd done in his life to earn those last few seconds of strength, but he finally broke free of the water, spitting and gasping violently. He took several gulps of air before turning around and around, as though hoping to see the rusalka coming. Had he not hyperventilated earlier, he most certainly would have drowned. Why did she let him go?

Without his light, Dean could barely see the dock. It was a only few hundred feet away but it might as well have been thousands. How was he supposed to reach there and find the bones again before she dragged him under for good?

After shaking out the last drops of oil, Sam threw the jug in the water too, chest heaving to keep up with his racing heart.

"Come on, you bitch."

The whole boathouse shuddered. Sam staggered from the suddenness of it.

Uh oh.

With a moan, the deck bucked, snapping boards and spitting nails. Sam snatched up his backpack and stumbled inside. But when he got out the front door, the walkway to the shore was gone. Smashed to bits. The water wasn't deep but she was down there, and she was pissed.

"Hurry up, Dean."

The water surged and churned below the structure. The floor began to rock, and he knew the stilts were failing. Should he jump? He might make it. Or he might just make it easier for her to get him. Before he could decide, the stilts snapped one by one, like shattering bones. The boathouse tilted and began to slide into the water. Sam toppled back in through the doorway, which slammed shut of its own accord.

He grabbed a counter before he could plunge to the far end of the room. But then the floor levelled out, swaying gently like a boat. He used his sleeve to brush filth off the window, revealing that the building was floating out onto the lake.

Water began to squirt in through the cracks, to burble up between the floorboards. There were too many leaks to plug. Sam looked to the ceiling, hoping for a skylight or hatch. There was nothing but rafters. But the water was rising up past his knees.

"Roof it is."

Sam ensured his backpack was secure on his back before climbing onto a counter, then up onto a standing cupboard. He grasped the nearest rafter and pulled himself up with ease. Just in time, the rusalka shattered the windows, frigid water gushing in to displace the air and slowly devour the entire building.

Sam clambered to the peak of the ceiling, and there, he began to dig. He clawed into the wood. Slivers stabbed into his fingers, beneath his nails.

Idiot! Biting back the pain, he reached over his shoulder and pulled out an iron crowbar from his backpack. He lied against a rafter and stabbed it into the wood, trying to rip out boards. Below him, the water rose, black and merciless. The air was so cold he could see his breath. He attacked harder, prying and twisting, encouraged by the sounds of squealing nails and splintering wood. Several chunks were dropped into the water below, and once he bore a large enough hole, he ripped aside tar paper and layers of plywood. By the time he was pushing through shingles, water was lapping at his back.

Sam panicked. He shoved his head, arm and shoulder through – and got stuck.

"Crap!" His feet were in the water. He felt the cold creep up his legs. His other arm flailed with the crowbar, and that seemed to be keeping the rusalka away for the moment. But for how long?

The more he thrashed, the more the shingles snagged his collar and cut his neck. Retreating, he discovered the painful way, wasn't an option. He had to keep digging.

Sam tore each shingle off, away from his collar. His other hand blindly attacked the boards on the inside with the crowbar. Water had risen up to his chest. The cold made it difficult to breathe. He watched the water slowly creeping up on the outside. It was lapping at his neck by the time he finally ripped away enough material to force his other shoulder through, then, abandoning the backpack, wriggle the rest of the way out.

Panting, he stood on the peak of the roof and turned in a circle, seeking something, anything, to help him get out of this predicament. All he had left was the crowbar. Everything else had been claimed by the lake.

Apart from the ripples and bubbles around the sinking boathouse, the water was deathly still. Eyes wide in the darkness, Sam scanned for the rusalka. There, a wake. She was circling. Waiting. Or playing?

The boathouse should have been at the bottom of the lake by now. As another minute snailed by he knew she was still controlling its descent. Perhaps he'd been wrong – Dean hadn't found the bones. Or worse, he had, only for the rusalka to drown him before Sam could lure her back. The thought of that made him angry. He shook, and not from the cold.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Finish me off!"

The boathouse lurched, nearly making him topple into the water. When it shuddered, he had to crouch to retain his balance. It scared him, the strength she had to control the lake like this. The water was at his feet now. He looked to shore, but it was several yards away. He'd never make it.

His hand tightened around the crowbar. He had to try. Better to die trying to survive than to let death come as he cowered, helpless.

Sam faced the end of the roof, closest to the shore. He ran, made ready to jump—

And then a wave surged before him, crashing into him head on and slamming him back onto the roof. He cried out, pain shooting out through his whole body, feeling like his spine had snapped in two. He rolled onto his front, moaning, clinging to the roof's ridge even as it sank below the surface at last. He went to stand, only for an unseen presence to grab his wrist, pulling him underwater. His shout of protest came out as bubbles and a muffled noise. He tried to hook the crowbar over the ridge and stop himself from being dragged in deeper. But it ripped free of the shingles, so he spun around and slashed the tool through the water.

The rusalka's power wavered for a moment, as though she were cowering from the iron. Sam tore free and clawed for the surface.

Wham! He was struck so hard in the side he became discombobulated. He tried to spot what had hit him, but he saw still nothing when he was hit in the gut, and all of his precious air was forced from his chest in an explosion of bubbles.

He realized too late he had dropped the crowbar. And there was nothing worse than being winded underwater. Like a demented frog he struggled to reach the surface, dazed and pained but determined to live. He made it, and for some reason the rusalka let him get several gulps of air before she grasped the back of his collar and hauled him into the depths.

He fought wildly, thrashing and kicking and throwing fists. But it was like someone had tied an anchor to his neck. He sank past the large dark mass of the boathouse, the pressure on his ears and chest making it impossible to think. Then his back hit mud, cold and silty. The moonlight almost didn't reach this far deep but he could tell where she was. The water warped and swirled as she floated through it, indistinct, frigid.

He had little time before he needed air again. And all of that would have to be spent on getting back to the surface. By the way she cuddled up to him, half lying on his chest, she wasn't going to let him.

A woman's voice, the rusalka's, was heard briefly and clearly in his head.

Mine.

It was too quiet. Dean had found the bones again, after several stressful minutes, because when the rusalka had last struck him, his headlamp had fallen off – right beside her remains. But he'd been able make two trips, grabbing bones and bringing them up to pile on the dock. Why wasn't she defending her remains now that she knew they were being unearthed?

Dean ensured he had every bone, every finger joint and tooth, up on the dock before he surfaced for the last time. It was with great relief that he heaved himself out of the water. Pushing all the remains together, he also set the locket on the pile, just in case. He rattled with cold but he didn't stop to pull on clothes, going straight for the salt canister and kerosene. He was generous with both. Then he pulled matches from the duffle bag, ready to be rid of this cow.

He exhaled, and his breath plumed.

"Aw, great."

Dean fumbled with the matchbox, his fingers too numb to function. "Dammit." Several matches ended up at his feet. He knelt to grab them, and when he stood, he was confronted by Darren Stewart.

"Whoa!" He leaped back, mind scrambling to think up an excuse as to why he was standing on the old man's property with a pile of bones. But then he realized...it wasn't Darren.

"Don't, please, don't." The man flickered in and out of sight. Wonderful. Lance Stewart's ghost. "She's all I got."

Dean forced a sympathetic smile, crude as it was with his numb cheeks. "Sorry, buddy, but you're dead and she's killing people."

"She dint mean to! Honest! She promised she wouldn't after I..."

"And you believed her? Then why did you stay? Why didn't you go with the reaper?"

Lance looked terrified for a dead person. "She...she promised."

"Well she lied. Five have drowned so far, and my brother's next. Hell, I almost was!"

"Because you were hurtin' her! They were hurtin' her!"

"Okay, so a few people dropped some garbage in the lake. That's no reason to go killing them."

"That's what I kept tellin' her. For sixty years I stopped her from drowning folk. I thought, after so long, the urge t' protect her home wouldn't be so violent. But then I learned of a mining proposition that might have affected this lake. I...I told her t' leave. Find another lake t' occupy. Before I could convince her..." Lance shrugged.

"Dude, you're supposed to put ghosts to rest, not court them for over half a century." Dean held up the matches. "This is how. It has to be done, Lance."

"Just leave her alone. Now that I'm dead, I could join her. I could keep her company, and stop her from killing anymore. You want your brother saved? I can tell her t' let him go! Watch!" He vanished.

"...Lance...? Lance?" Dean threw down the matches. Hardly satisfying, but he was so cold he didn't care. "Dammit, Lance!"

Something was keeping the man here. Sam said his body had been cremated, so it had to be an object. What could it be? The last thing Dean needed was another vengeful ghost to haunt his ass after he ganked its girlfriend.

Sam had no idea what was happening. One moment he was becoming one with the lake bed, a cuddle toy for the rusalka, the next he was being rocketing towards the surface, something icy cold gripping his upper arms. He broke the surface and spewed water, inhaling raggedly. His mind cleared and the pain in his chest lessened. The hold on his arms vanished. Was the rusalka suddenly taking pity on him?

He didn't really care. He needed to get to shore.

Sam kicked off his shoes and pulled out of his jacket, abandoning the extra weight. Every breath shook with the cold, and he wondered how he could have possibly complained about the heat of the day. He began a calm, controlled breaststroke towards shore, but kept his head above water. At any moment he thought he would feel the rusalka's icy fingers on his ankle. The threat was enough to keep him going even as the cold taxed his energy reserves, and he kept his eyes on the approaching shore. Not far now...

Dean paced on the dock, now wearing his pants and shirt, a thundercloud over his head. He had no idea if Lance was doing as he said or, if he tried, whether he was successful. During the few moments his cell had feeble service, Dean couldn't get hold of Sam. He tried flashing the headlamp across the water, but the horizon remained black. Maybe Sam wasn't looking? Maybe Sam was at the bottom of the lake, food for the fishes.

Dean could wait no more. He stood over Kara Walter's remains with the matches.

"Sorry, Lance."

With a scraping hiss, he lit the matches and dropped them. Fire roared to life, licking the bones hungrily. He watched them burn, watched the locket melt. Then and only then did a wave of energy pass through him, and he recoiled in shock as a light, rapid ripple radiated out from the dock, through the lake.

"That was new."

Sam frowned.

"The hell?"

It had felt like a wave of sound had gone through him, and yet he heard nothing. And...was the water warmer?

He tried not to lose focus on the approaching shore, but the water was definitely warm now, and getting warmer.

He submerged and looked down, trying to peer through the dancing rays of moonlight to the darkness below. He squinted, then frowned. He'd seen videos of underwater volcanoes before, but this was a freak lake, not the depths of the sea. That writhing vein of glowing red and yellow was not a split fissure – it was the rusalka, and she was burning.

Yeah, Dean!

Sam's elation was short lived. The water was getting so warm it stung his frozen body. He abandoned calm and steady, swimming as fast as he could towards shore. He could hear her screaming, and as she screamed the water temperature rose. It surpassed a hot tub. It reached the cleansing, muscle knot-reducing heat of a shower after a long day on a hard case – aka, Sam's limit – and then got hotter. He thought the water might start boiling at any moment, and feared he would not make it—

Sand. His hands clawed through it, and he half lurched, half flopped out of the water with the grace of a newborn giraffe. He got his feet under him and stumbled onto the beach just as a blast of water and steam exploded up from the surface of the lake. Sam ducked beneath his arm, but only a few hot droplets landed on him. He watched cautiously as the water slowly stilled, tendrils of steam waving over the surface. They quickly vanished, leaving no trace that anything out of the ordinary had happened there.

"Whoa."

Dean had only thought about saving his baby brother's life. He did not think of the consequences that would follow. As usual.

He knew the rusalka was done for, and was packing up his gear from where it was scattered all over the dock. He had just stuffed the salt canister into the duffle bag when he saw his breath plume again. He sighed through his nose, then straightened, turning as he pulled out and aimed his shotgun. It would have been slick and cool had Lance not been ready, knocking the gun flying from Dean's hand before he could shoot. Somehow it didn't end up in the water, but it was still to far away to fetch.

"You know, for a newly deceased you're pretty good at that already."

The only response he got was a horse-kick to the guts, and he doubled over, grunting. He couldn't even straighten before another blow sent him sprawling onto the deck.

"You killed her!" Lance roared. "You killed her!"

"Technically, she was already dead—" Dean was silenced as an invisible fist cracked against his face, knocking his head to the side. Stunned, he put a hand to his jaw, pushing it against where it had been hit. "Ugh."

"I loved her! She was mine!" Lance tried to strike him again, but he had exhausted himself, and by the flickering of his form, it was all he could do to stay present. "Mine, not...not Darren's. I loved her."

"No one's saying you didn't," said Dean cautiously. He eased further away on his back, just in case. Where was that knife? "Were...you rivals for her affection?"

If ghosts could cry, Lance nearly was. "She was everything t' me. I tried to keep her secret, because Darren always got what he wanted. We were twins, but he always had the best grades, the smarter clothes, the straighter smile." His rage was what kept him visible, and the more he spoke, the more solid he became. "I found Kara. She was...troubled. I wanted to fix her. T' care for her. And for a while, I thought I'd succeeded." He shook his head. "But then she...she drowned herself. Right here. I saw her vanish into the water, but I was too far away. I knew she was gone before I even stepped foot on the dock, but I swam for her anyway. I never found her. And I never swam again."

Those words jogged a memory in Dean's memory. But before he could jog it further, Lance's cold eyes flicked up to him.

"Now she's gone again. For good. I am alone." Lance pointed at him, and Dean felt icy tendrils uncoil in his chest, wrapping around his lungs. He gasped.

"Have y' ever had your heart ripped out, boy? Shall I show you what it feels like?"

The tendrils constricted. Dean couldn't draw breath. His heart beat faster and faster, struggling against the fist that had closed around it, a bird in too small a cage. Every effort to draw in breath was like trying to inflate already full lungs. Through blurred vision he saw Lance's hand curl, and with it bloomed a searing pain in his chest. He couldn't scream. He tried to speak, but all that came out were hollow gasps, and he writhed helplessly, fighting for air, fighting for life—

Bang! Lance vanished with an angry howl, and with him went his cold grip on Dean's vitals.

His chest filled in a ragged rush, and he coughed until his face was red. Rolling onto his front, he stood, expecting Sam to be standing there even though he knew his brother was clear across the lake.

"...Evening, Darren."

The old man barely looked strong enough to hold the shotgun, let alone aim it. But there were perks that came along with spray-shot.

"Baaah, I just knew you two were up to somethin'. And it warn't no university assignment." He let Dean pick himself up. The Winchester was still gasping, and waved a hand towards the shotgun.

"How did you know about that?"

Darren released a whistling breath. "After I found Lance speakin' to the lake, I decided there might be something behind this ghost thing he claimed. So I looked up everythin' I could."

"Why didn't you tell us before?"

"'Cause." Darren set the gun down and shuffled back down the dock, kneeling on wobbly knees to pick something up. When he came back, Dean was able to see what it was.

"Lance's swim trophy. Y'saw it on the mantelpiece earlier. Rachel – his granddaughter – left it with me this afternoon. Said she found it in his locker the day he died, but couldn't bear keeping it at home anymore."

Dean nodded. It made sense. When Lance died, he attached himself to the trophy, and then Rachel took it to their home. But the house was too far away from the lake for him to keep Kara company, until the trophy was brought to Darren's.

"You know what must be done, then?" he asked. Darren looked sullen.

"Yeah... I don't suppose...there's another way?"

Dean shook his head. "There is nothing left here that could appease him, to make him let go. He will get angrier and angrier, and eventually, he will kill. His ties to this world must be severed."

He stopped, expecting the usual questions: Will it hurt? What happens to them? Where do they go? But to his surprise, Darren tossed the trophy onto the charred remains of the rusalka.

"Do it. Be done with this."

Moments later, fresh salt and kerosene doused the remains, this time with the swim trophy. Darren only watched the lit matches fall before turning and shambling back towards his house.

Dean gazed after him, and couldn't help but pity the old coot.

"Darren..." He paused. What could he say? But if Darren heard him, he chose not to acknowledge him, shuffling on until he vanished into the gloom.

Sam remained sitting on his spot in the gritty, rocky sand as the Impala parked on the road atop the bank behind him. He heard the familiar creaking of the driver side door—only slightly different from the passenger side—then footsteps slip and slide down the bank, which carried on until they were beside Sam.

Dean plunked himself down beside him, one leg sticking out before him, the other bent and his arm resting on his knee. Sam didn't ask him how his evening went, simply enjoying the tranquility of the spiritless lake beneath the moon. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, and the endless hum of a distant highway brought forth a feeling of nostalgia. Sam released a contented sigh.

"...Didn't there used to be a boathouse here?" said Dean.

Sam smiled.

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