Archive of Our Own

Rowena arrives unannounced on a blustery cold day, knocking imperiously on the Bunker’s door and tapping her toe when it’s not opened as promptly as she feels she deserves.

Jack lets her in, still wary of her but less willing to offend anyone who vaguely fits into the wide-ranging box of ‘people important to Sam and Dean’. She proceeds down the stairs as if she owns them and fetches up in front of Sam, hunched over the table in the war room.

“Well, Samuel,” she says, looking down her nose at him. “Fetch me a whisky.”

Sam gives her an incredulous stare, but heaves himself to his feet, muscles creaking after his long research session. He rifles through the drinks cabinet until he finds something she won’t turn her nose up at, sliding it across the table before he sits back down. Jack hovers uncertainly at his shoulder, hands fluttering, until Sam pulls him down into a chair.

Rowena sips at her drink, raising an eyebrow as she realises it’s not rotgut. “Maturing at last, I see,” she comments, but Sam refuses to rise to the bait. He raises his own glass in salute, the moment almost ruined when Jack does the same with his glass of apple juice.

The silence stretches out, Sam and Rowena engaging in their customary battle of wills, waiting to see who breaks first. Sam’s certainly not going to give her the satisfaction of playing into her little games.

It’s Jack who eventually speaks. “Why are you here?” he asks, genuine, unmistakable curiosity tinging his words. Jack always wants to know why.

“Oh, nothing important,” Rowena answers, as if she hasn’t been sitting at their table desperate for someone to ask. “Just brought your dads a wee present.”

“My father is…” Jack starts, but Sam raises a hand before they can get into the complicated topic of Jack’s many father figures.

“What did you bring? One of the spellbooks you’ve stolen from our library?”

Rowena gives him a look that warns him not to be so foolish. “Something I made. Hold out your wrist.”

Sam fights the immediate instinct to clutch his wrist to his chest like an offended maiden. “Why?”

“For your gift.”

There’s another staring contest; this time it ends when Rowena reaches into her pocket.

“For this,” she says, sounding exasperated. A thin bracelet dangles from an imperious finger; two slim strips of black leather joined in the middle by a small metal rectangle. It looks completely innocuous, like something sold by crafters in a market or at the beach, and yet Sam can no more bring himself to let Rowena put it on him than he could slide a knife into his skin.

“Do you not trust me, Samuel?” Rowena asks, the playfulness in her voice undercut by something Sam doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“No,” Sam bites out.

Rowena glares at him. “Nephilim,” she commands, holding the bracelet towards Jack, who flails for a moment, looking back and forth between Sam and Rowena as if answers will be forthcoming. None are, so eventually Jack makes his own decision and extends his hand until it hovers over the bracelet.

Sam watches intently as a smile quirks at the corner of Jack’s lips, something soft flickering over his face. “It’s completely benign,” Jack pronounces. “You should accept the gift.”

“See,” Rowena says, packing great offense into one word.

Sam snorts, but he’s torn. “What’s the catch?” he asks.

“No catch,” Rowena says, softer than he’s ever heard. “Just something I came across that reminded me of you two lumbering idiots.”

He’s reminded so strongly of Crowley it takes his breath away. He hadn’t grieved for Crowley, not exactly; and yet, there’s a hole where he should be.

“Accept it, Samuel,” Rowena snaps.

Sam hesitates, but at Jack’s encouraging nod, he extends his wrist across the table. Rowena’s tiny hands hover next to his own before she touches the ends of the leather strips together and with a snap, they merge into one, forming a continuous band around his wrist.

“Hey!” Sam yells.

“Don’t be a baby,” Rowena chides. “Of course it’s magic.”

“How do I get it off?” Sam demands.

“It’ll come off if you really, truly want it to,” Rowena says, thumb sliding over the metal charm where it’s settled against his pulse point. “But I doubt that, somehow.”

“Well, I really, truly want it to,” Sam insists, staring at the bracelet and sounding petulant even to himself. Shockingly, nothing happens.

“Clearly not,” Rowena says, drily. “Now, top up my whisky like a good boy.”

***

Sam and Rowena are deep in a discussion about the magical properties of myrrh when Dean wanders in, hair tousled from what appears to have been a fairly epic nap.

“What’s she doing here?” he asks Sam, glaring at Rowena as she tops up her glass with his whisky.

“She brought Sam a present,” Jack answers, voice full of enthusiasm.

“Did she?” Dean growls, clearly as suspicious as Sam.

“And one for you,” Rowena adds.

Dean looks so confused that Sam holds out his wrist to demonstrate.

“It’s completely harmless,” Jack adds. “You should put yours on.”

Sam’s almost completely sure nothing on earth will convince Dean to put on something Rowena’s made for him, but as usual, Rowena is full of surprises.

“The Nephilim says they’re fine,” she says, before Dean can argue. “But… they’re a matched set and your brother is already wearing the other one, so any damage they might cause is already done. All that remains to be seen is whether you’ll deal with it together, or alone.”

Dean’s glare could set stone on fire, but he shoves his wrist at Rowena’s face. “Just put it on me and stop talking.”

Sam watches, warmth curling through his belly, as Dean’s matching bracelet snicks into place, forming the same unbreakable band Sam has on his own wrist. The bracelets are identical in every way, right down to how the metal charm on Dean’s also ends up pressed against his veins. Dean glares at Rowena as he slides his hands along the bands.

“Don’t give me that look, Dean Winchester. You’ll come to value these, I promise.” With that, Rowena boops Dean on the nose. Sam watches as Dean’s face shutters, his brows drawing together as he looks at Rowena far more thoughtfully than before.

“What does a lady have to do to be fed around here?” Rowena asks brightly.

***

Rowena leaves the next day, as abruptly as she’d arrived. Even two weeks later, Sam can’t work out what she’d come to steal; there’s nothing missing and he’s come to the conclusion she had visited to give them the bracelets. It’s an uncomfortable thought, one that doesn’t fit into the never-ending puzzle that is Rowena. Sam turns it back and forth whenever he has the time, and if he finds himself tracing his fingers around the ring of the bracelet as he does so, that’s no one’s business but his.

There’s magic in it, that’s for sure; the bracelet isn’t tight, doesn’t cut off his circulation, but it never strays from its position across his pulse point and it always feels blood warm, pulsing. Jack catches him staring at it a few times and always offers soft reassurances: “It’s harmless, Sam;” or “It was truly meant as a gift;” and finally, “Just trust me about it.”

He won’t answer any questions, only smiles his beaming, nougat smile whenever Sam asks; so Sam continues to play with his own bracelet and to watch its counterpart on Dean’s skin, wondering if Dean’s pulses with the same warmth.

***

Almost a month later, they’ve been marinating in the Bunker for a few days when Dean finds them a new hunt. “Lets go,” he says, bundling their bags into the car. Sam slides into shotgun with a smile, heart light as always when Dean’s this motivated.

They drive for hours, blaring rock giving way to softer tones as Baby works her magic on Dean. They’re headed west and the sunset is streaming fire across the car as they pull over for food. “What do you think?” Dean asks. “Call it a day or push on?”

“Let’s just get there,” Sam suggests. “Want me to drive?”

Dean gives him an incredulous look and Sam can’t help but smile. He’d known the answer before he asked, of course, but it’s part of the dance they’ve worked out over the years.

Once they’re back in the car, the greasy road food devoured, fingers and lips licked free of salt and fat, Sam slumps down against the passenger door. Dean smiles over at him before he fiddles with the radio. “Can’t find anything good,” he says, settling on something soft, guitars blending with wistful vocals. Sam recognises it, in the vague way he often recognises classic rock; this isn’t something Dean would listen to, but it is something Dean puts on for Sam to sleep. Stretching his legs out, he rolls his jacket into a makeshift pillow and lets his eyes drift shut, the hum of the car soothing him to sleep.

***

They’re up bright and early the next morning, ready to investigate. Dean had driven them into the forecourt of a motel in the early hours, Sam still fast asleep when he’d gone to get a key. Sam barely remembers Dean tugging him out of the car and into the room; he’d toed off his boots and snuggled under the covers, content in the knowledge Dean would take care of everything.

As sunlight streams through the windshield, warming the pastry in Sam’s hand, he makes a mental note to do the same for Dean tonight; to give his brother a night off from being in charge.

“Sheriff’s office first,” Dean says, swinging the car into park. The building in front of them is tiny, probably enough space for a sheriff, a deputy and a drunk tank. Sam doubts this town needs any more, in the normal run of things.

“I doubt he’ll know anything,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, but two people have gone missing in his woods in the last two weeks. We’ve got to at least try.”

Sam can’t argue t, despite his lack of faith in the effectiveness of rural law enforcement.

As he suspected, their trip is a complete bust.

“What can I say, boys?” The Sheriff says, thumbs hooked into his belt loops under a portly stomach. “The Parridges weren’t locals. They’d arrived new in town, hippies looking to settle out in the woods and get back to nature.” He doesn’t make the airquotes with his hands, but Sam can hear them all the same. “Idiots, if you ask me. There’s a reason people don’t settle in those woods.”

“And what’s that?” Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

The Sheriff starts, clearly not expecting to be required to give further detail. “Well,” he blusters. “Better for people to live closer to town. Folks have tried to live out in those woods a few times and it’s never taken.”

“Have those people ever disappeared?” Sam asks sharply.

“No. Just come back with their tails between their legs.”

“Was there any particular part of the woods those people tried to live in? Either Parridges or the ones before?”

“Don’t know much about the Parridges. Pretty sure they’ve packed up and headed back to their city lives anyway. They had tents they were using until they could build something permanent so they could’ve been anywhere. But the ones before… that was when I was a kid. They built a house; the remains of it are still out there.”

The quick look Dean shares with Sam confirms his own thoughts: that’s as good a place to start as any.

“Can you show us on a map?”

***

After a couple of hours asking around town, Sam and Dean have nothing more usable than the vague suggestion the missing couple had been living out of tents in the woods while they looked for the perfect spot to build a permanent home on their new land. While no one knows where they’ve gone, everyone they speak to is sure the couple is missing.

“Came in every Friday, regular as clockwork,” owner of the local hardware store tells him. “Needed more gas for the stove. Haven’t seen them in two weeks, something’s definitely wrong.”

“Your Sheriff doesn’t seem to think so,” Dean argues.

“Well, he’s an idiot. People don’t just up and leave land they’ve bought without telling anyone.”

Sam can only agree.

***

“It might be a normal case of missing people,” Dean argues as he hitches his pack higher on his back. “Plain old psycho killer.”

“It might. That mean we should leave it to the Sheriff?” Sam asks. Dean glares at him. “Just because you don’t want to go on a hike…”

“I’m fine with hiking,” Dean mutters. “But it’s stupid, trekking out into the middle of the forest like this when it could be nothing.”

“But it could be something,” Sam argues. “And besides, we haven’t had a case in a few weeks. You just wanna go home?”

The glare this time is incendiary. Sam knows how much Dean hates not having anything to do; knows the lack of activity opens the door to all the things his brother keeps barred shut. But Dean hates hiking, too; as he’s gotten older, he’s grown more and more attached to the notion of a mattress at night, or the availability of a warm shower.

“Look,” he says, restraining his eye roll. “The faster we head out, the more likely it is we’ll be back this evening. So let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t bother to hide his own eye roll, but he follows Sam without another word.

***

It’s a good few hours before they find any sign of the Parridges.

They’d left the Impala next to the couple’s own car, parked at the end of a narrow trail; definite proof they hadn’t headed back to their previous home.

“Wanna bet we get out here and they’re having a really wild two weeks?” Dean had asked, leering; but the tightness around his mouth shows his skepticism.

The trail gets narrower and narrower, until Sam’s shoulders are brushing the surrounding trees as he passes through. As many times as he’s thought about finding somewhere remote for him and Dean to retire to, somewhere no one will find them and the fate of the world will no longer hang on their shoulders, he can’t imagine wanting to be somewhere as far off the grid as this. It boggles his mind that the couple had managed to get anything down this trail, let alone a camping stove and a gas canister.

“What’s wrong with people,” Dean mutters behind him. “Why can’t they live in a normal place.”

Sam has to agree.

It’s another couple of minutes before the path widens into a small clearing. A tent stands proudly in the centre, zipped secure, with a firepit in front. There’s another tent off to one side, bulging oddly in places. A small lean-to has been rigged at the edge of the clearing, keeping the cooking stove, some chairs and a small table clear of any rain. It’s neat and homely, and Sam can’t help but smile.

He and Dean separate on auto-pilot, Dean heading to the main tent while Sam moves to the side. Pulling the zip down, he finds it full of supplies; not just food but tools and other useful items, the piles causing the bulges he’d seen from the outside.

“No one here,” Dean calls from the other tent, zipping it back shut. He bends to examine a cooler set beside the tent, before rearing back so fast he falls on his ass. “Fucking hell,” he exclaims. “They’ve definitely been gone a while.”

Sam smirks at the look of utter disgust on Dean’s face.

“Fuck you. If you’re not careful, I’ll smear whatever this is all over your stupid face.”

Sam’s highly amused at Dean’s ire, but he certainly doesn’t want whatever noxious mess is left in the cooler anywhere near him. Schooling his features into one of his best bitch faces, he points out, “We don’t have time for messing around, Dean. These people are missing.”

It works like a charm; Dean glares, but drops the lid of the cooler shut.

“So, smartypants, what do you suggest we do next?”

“Keep looking,” is the only answer Sam can find.

***

They spend a few more moments going through the Parridges’ things, but there are no clues to be found - not a hint of sulphur or any sign of a struggle. As best they can tell, the Parridges had woken up and gone about their day, and never returned.

“Well, they probably didn’t go back to the road,” Sam points out. “So I guess there’s one other option…” he inclines his head at the other path out of the clearing, a track as narrow as the one that had led them there.

“Fucking A,” Dean grumbles, but he hefts his pack off the floor and sets off.

This time it doesn’t take them nearly as long to find something useful. Even with the added time spent looking for signs the Parridges had deviated from the trail, they soon notice the path widening. Dean glances back at Sam, sharing a sharp nod, and checks his gun is secure in the waistband of his jeans.

Once again they emerge into a clearing, but this one is significantly bigger; still relatively untouched by the spread of the forest. Thick, tangled grass highlights what used to be a lawn, the trail morphing into a winding, flagstoned path with weeds poking through. At the far edge of the clearing the ground slopes down to a stream, wide enough to require the stepping stones spanning it.

And in the middle of the clearing, a house.

It stretches up from the ground almost organically, the undergrowth meeting ivy tracing down the walls until the join between house and land is obscured. The stone walls are visible intermittently between the foliage, while a tree pokes its way out of a window and the roof. The other windows gleam blackly, dark eyes looking out across the clearing, shielding their secrets.

Dean comes to an abrupt halt, Sam crashing into his back. They stay like that, pressed together, Dean’s shoulder nestled into it’s familiar spot in Sam’s clavicle, as they take in the spectacle in front of them. Sam can feel Dean’s gun pressed into his hip, cold and comforting as his own hand settles on the knife in his inside pocket.

“This is not what I was expecting,” Dean says, full of dry humour.

“No shit,” Sam returns.

“I guess this is the house the Sheriff mentioned? The one that was abandoned when he was a kid?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, peering at it more closely. “It looks much older. The Sheriff’s only, what, fifty-ish? The architecture on this looks turn of the century.”

“Nerd,” Dean says, eye-roll audible, if not currently visible.

“And yet, here I am being useful.”

Dean snorts. “Well, I guess we’d better check it out. Joy.”

They walk down the path, Sam keeping close behind Dean. Grass brushes against them as they go, a ticklish sensation that matches the shivers creeping down Sam’s spine. Sam feels as though they’re being watched, but when he tries to analyse the feeling, it’s pervasive, coming from all around them, as if they are surrounded by eyes.

“Let’s hope we can get in,” Dean says, as he steps onto a small, paved patio.

As if responding to his worries, the door swings open in front of them, untouched.

“Oh good.” Dean sounds put out but Sam knows inside he’s probably gleeful, adrenaline spiking and body readying itself for whatever comes next.

“Definitely our kind of case.”

“You think?”

“Guess it was worth the hike.” Sam can’t keep the smugness out of his voice and he’s rewarded with an elbow to his gut.

Before they can bicker any further, Dean steps through the doorway and Sam hurries to follow, his hand on the salt in his back pocket.

The gloom is immediate, bright sunlight sucked into a greyish vacuum. Dust swims through the air in front of them, highlighted in the one beam of light trickling from the open door. The air feels thick, untouched; while the outside sounds of birds and the rustling of leaves disappear immediately into dull silence.

“Cosy,” Dean remarks, looking around.

The remains of furniture litter the room in front of them, which must once have been the main living space. A dining table lists uncomfortably to one side, missing two legs and drooping towards the floor; to the other lies the overturned remains of an old-fashioned chair, insides spilling out. Shelves hang from the walls, either dangling from one fixture or on the verge of collapse; knick knacks strewn on the floor around them. Vines crawl over everything, carpeting the floor in places and winding up the walls.

Their footsteps are muffled as they walk towards the one door, feet snagging in the leaves. Shoving this door open is far harder work, but eventually it reveals a kitchen, a huge sink underneath the covered-over back window and a cast-iron stove taking up most of one wall. A tree has broken through the flooring on the opposite side, stretching up until the branches have poked through the floorboards above them.

“The Sheriff would’ve grown up in the 60s or 70s, right?” Sam asks, keeping his voice hushed. “This is not a 60s kitchen, this is far older.”

“Thanks for the newsflash, Samantha.”

Sam’s shoulder barge sends Dean forward a couple of steps. “Think the stairs will hold us?” Dean asks, once he’s regained his balance.

Sam looks at the staircase in one corner and at the ceiling. “It’s not the staircase I’m worried about,” he mutters.

That’s nowhere near enough to stop Dean, who picks his way carefully up the stairs before Sam can say anything else. Sam hurries to follow, unwilling to let Dean face potential danger alone. The stairs creak and shiver painfully, but both Winchesters make it to the upper floor without collapse.

Upstairs is much the same as down. The back room smells strongly of mildew; when they poke their heads inside, hundreds of books have been torn from shelves wrapped around the walls, piled rotting on the floor. Sam’s heart breaks; who knows what treasures were lost here.

The master bedroom is creepier; sheets still on the bed in disarray, clothes trailing from drawers and spilling from a big imposing closet. A sleeve hangs from a chair while Sam could swear there’s still an indent in the lumpy, rotting mattress.

“Guess they left in a hurry,” Dean says. He’s scanning the room, taking in all the small details through the gloom of the ivy-covered windows.

Sam’s more interested in the way the house feels. “I don’t think there’s anything here, Dean.”

“What? Why?”

Sam pauses, struggling to find words for the way he feels. “This house feels empty,” he says. “I don’t think there’s anything in here.”

“There’s certainly enough signs of a struggle,” Dean points out. “Or of distress.”

“Distress, yes,” Sam says. “But I don’t think there was a struggle, I think the rest is weather damage. And I don’t know why, but I don’t think the house was the cause of the distress.”

“One way to check,” Dean says, pulling the EMF meter from his pocket and flicking the switch. Nothing happens, the light staying stubbornly on green.

“Not a ghost,” Sam insists.

“We’d better check the other rooms just in case, but yeah, not a ghost,” Dean agrees.

There’s no sign of EMF anywhere else in the house, nor does it smell of sulphur. “So that leaves every other monster ever,” Sam says, biting his lip.

“Not quite,” Dean says. “Something made that front door open. It wasn’t the wind.”

“Well, whatever it was must’ve been outside. There’s nothing in here.”

Dean nods. “Let’s head out.”

It’s darker than Sam expects when they leave the house. The murk inside had hidden the onrushing evening from them, and they step out into the half light of dusk.

“Fuck,” Dean swears.

“When did it get so late?” Sam’s annoyed; they’d headed out without planning for a night out in the woods. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to make do, but it’s hardly his favourite thing.

“I didn’t think it was so late.” They share a glance; it’s unlike them to be caught out like this, and for both of them not to have realised…

“You think it’s something to do with the house?” Sam asks.

“I think it’s something to do with whatever we’re here for.”

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine. He takes a step closer, so he’s just behind Dean’s shoulder, his hand finding his gun in his waistband.

“I’m not sure this is a firearms situation,” Dean says slowly. Sam agrees, but he feels better with the weight of it in his hand.

“We should probably try and head back to the car?” Sam asks, half of him already wondering if they should set up camp for the night by the Parridges’ tents.

“Yeah.” Dean takes a step forwards, but as he sets foot on the path, the forest starts to shift in front of them. Tendrils of mist snake out from between the trees, silvery and elusive.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Dean says.

“That is so not good,” Sam echoes.

The light dims even further around them, but there’s no twinkle of stars above, despite the clear sky. The air feels clammy and damp, almost seeping in to Sam’s skin through his layers, a fine sheen forming on his face.

“Well, I’m not gonna stand here and wait for a mist-monster to get me,” Dean says, striding forwards, out of reach before Sam can react. His movement wakes the fog; the swirling intensifies, swooping towards Dean with evident purpose. Sam stumbles forwards, lunging towards his brother and reaching for Dean’s arm.

His hand closes on nothing.

***

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It’s the same refrain he’s been repeating for an hour, as he swings his flashlight through the trees. The mist still lingers, much thinner, individual swirls making their way between the trees at a pace with Sam as he works his way through the forest in circles from the house.

Sam’s sweating, from nerves or from the ever-present moisture, but the air is far chilier than it had been when they’d set out that morning. His stomach churns, roiling every time he thinks about his brother. He speeds up, head whipping from side to side as he looks for anything that might give a clue to Dean’s whereabouts.

***

After another hour’s frantic searching, Sam grinds to a halt. Taking a moment, he leans against a tree, chest shuddering with exertion. His hand loosens around the flashlight, fingers cramping from gripping so tight, and he sinks down, allowing his back to take some of his weight.

The forest is quiet around him, silver still visible through the gaps in the trees, the stars now clear above, bright enough for him to navigate his way with relative ease.

As his breath evens out, he tries to calm his racing thoughts, to be more rational. While he still doesn’t think whatever had taken Dean had come from the house, he does think the house remains crucial, which means he needs to work his way back there and start again. The house, or its surroundings, have to hold more clues they’d missed.

Pushing back to his feet, Sam retraces his steps. Luckily, the way he’d crashed through the forest means there’s a ready trail to follow, broken branches and muddy footsteps keeping him on track. It’s not long before he makes his way back into the clearing, the house a looming black shadow before him.

Spotting Dean’s pack abandoned on the ground outside the door, Sam realises how long it’s been since he’s eaten. His stomach is tender, still flipflopping in distress; but he knows from past experience he has to eat something to keep his strength up if he wants to find Dean. He gulps down a bottle of water first before pulling out one of their protein bars, sitting cross-legged on the ground as he forces it into his body, nibble by unwelcome nibble.

It gives him time to stop and think for the first time, and to listen to his body. As he chews, he focuses on his throat, on forcing each bite down, and listens to his stomach, worried the food will make a reappearance. He tries to calm his breathing, to slow his racing pulse, and to ignore the worried tremble of his thighs.

As he does, he notices his left arm feels warm, hotter than the rest of his chilly body. There’s a faint throbbing, just underneath the decreasing thunder of his pulse, that grows more noticeable as the rest of his body slows. He locates it to Rowena’s bracelet, or more accurately, to the skin underneath. Slipping his thumb underneath the band, the skin is scorching, despite the coolness of the leather.

“What the…” Sam mutters, as he rolls his eyes. Now is not the time for Rowena’s bullshit to be added to his problems. But the more he focuses, the more he realises there’s nothing threatening about the feeling, and he remembers Jack’s repeated insistence the bands were harmless. He wonders if Dean’s band has been activated in the same way, wherever Dean is.

The band flares with heat, almost scorching his skin. Sam jumps, scrambling backwards instinctively despite the fact the bracelet is magically adhered to his skin. It cools quickly and Sam runs his finger across his wrist, but there’s no sign of any damage.

“Damnit Rowena,” he murmurs. “Gotta be so fucking mysterious. Why’d you give me and Dean these and not tell us what they mean?” As he speaks, the band heats again, a scorching jolt. Shaking his head, Sam clambers to his feet. He’ll just ignore Rowena’s nonsense until after he finds Dean.

The band heats with a force that drops Sam back to his knees. Dean, he thinks. This happens every time he thinks about Dean. The band heats, although not as intensely, and this time it throbs, a pulse Sam thinks of as ‘happy’. Has Rowena given them connected bracelets?

So many pulses go off his arm tingles up to his elbow, his thumb twitching in sympathy. “Well, fuck,” Sam says faintly. At least that’s one mystery solved, and if the bracelet is behaving like this, hopefully it means Dean is still ok. Heaving himself off his knees, he slings Dean’s pack over his shoulders and wonders where to search for clues to Dean’s current whereabouts. The house feels like the logical answer.

The bracelet burns. Instinctively, Sam turns away. He scans the clearing as he thinks about what other clues he has.

If the house was unimportant, the other thing of note was the mist. He’d seen it first between the trees but truthfully, it had surrounded them, coming from multiple directions. Striding around the clearing, Sam peers between trees and under bushes, but there’s nothing. It’s not until he reaches the side of the house that he remembers the small stream, meandering silently past the building.

Staring along it’s rocky course, Sam wonders if it was connected to the mist in some way. At the very least, it’s another traceable path to follow out of the clearing.

The bracelet buzzes gently on his arm. Sam has a brief moment where he considers the fact he’s taking into account the opinions of a magical bracelet given to him by a morally-dubious witch, and thinks fuck it. It’s not like he’s swimming in other options.

***

Making his way along the stream is harder than he’d anticipated. It’s rocky and slippy and Sam can’t see the myriad cracks and crevasses in the milky light of the stars. After the second time he slips and falls in he decides he’s better off walking in the stream itself.

He makes better time after that, the streambed relatively flat. The bracelet vibrates continuously on his arm, a gentle counterpoint to the splashing of the water around him. Sam’s wading upstream and the water gets deeper as he goes, swishing around his knees. The banks rise, narrowing to the point where his shoulders barely fit through and he has to tuck his elbows in to avoid knocking them on the rocky walls.

He’s starting to panic he might have to abandon his plan and go back when another sound becomes audible under the susurration of the stream. It’s indistinct, a bass to the the whistle of Sam’s breathing, and it’s not until Sam steps past a rocky outcrop that he finds out the cause.

He’s standing thigh deep in a large pool, weeping willows trailing around the edges, their leaves dipping into the water. At the far side, a waterfall thunders down, spray misting around it, sparkling in the starlight.

Sam gazes in dismay at the sharp, angled rocks around the rushing water. There’s no way he can climb them, certainly not in this light and possibly not in the morning. With the trees crowding the edges of the pool, there’s no obvious exit. He’s faced with the realisation this might be the end of his path; he might have wasted the past hour on a wild goose chase that’s failed to bring him closer to Dean.

Running his hands through his hair, he scrubs at his face, trying to hold back tears of frustration. Maybe his best bet is to get dry and hunker down for the night, catch a couple of hours sleep and set off again at first light. Turning, he steps back towards the narrower part of the stream.

The bracelet flares angrily, burning hot against his wrist. Sam stares, half expecting steam to rise up from the water around him.

“Here, really?” he hisses at it, too annoyed to resent the fact he’s talking to a bracelet. “Where the fuck is Dean here?” Heat blooms through his wrist again.

Sam growls, but he’s got nothing left to lose. Pushing his way through the water, he moves carefully over to the side of the pool and explores the banks, looking for any hint of… well… anything. He still has no idea what he’s hunting.

Fronds drift across his face as he moves, shivering across the back of his neck. He puts his hand into a cobweb, recoling before he realises what’s sticking to his fingers. There’s a nest under one of the willow branches, eggs nestled under a sleeping moorhen gleaming in the low light. Sam moves carefully on, more aware than ever of the need to keep quiet; worried that he might disturb more than the local fauna.

It’s not until he reaches the edge of the waterfall that he finds something. There are rough steps carved into the sides; all uneven stones and jagged edges, but steps nonetheless. There’s the faintest of paths through the undergrowth, surrounded along the water by an abundance of blooming flowers.

Checking his gun is still tucked into his waistband and his knife secure in his pocket, Sam heaves onto the first step, almost falling back in surprise when the bracelet buzzes intensely. Oddly comforted, he shakes himself down and pushes along the path.

He rounds a rocky pillar and finds the edge of the waterfall. The path ends at a sheer, flinty wall; Sam looks up, but the slippery rock is insurmountable. The bracelet is still thrumming happily, so Sam extends his hand through the water.

He doesn’t hit rock. His hand continues as far as he can reach, so taking a deep breath, Sam tries to remember every good thing Rowena has ever done for them and steps under the spray.

There’s a gasping, unpleasant moment where he can’t breath, air stolen from him by the force of the water. He pushes through, taking another step on trust, and then another as the ground continues in front of him. The water drops off behind him, quietening into a dull murmur that allows Sam to hear his own harsh breathing.

Too wary to turn on his flashlight, Sam extends both hands, grasping until he finds rock to one side. Steeling himself, he moves forwards.

***

Sam is in a narrow tunnel, his shoulders once again brushing rock. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other on the rock above his head; he’ll do Dean no favours if he knocks himself out. There’s no light; Sam hates the feeling that his eyes could be either open or closed and he’d have no way of knowing. It brings back memories of the nightmares he’d had when Dean was threatening to bury himself in that terrible coffin; nightmares of his brother trapped in darkness for eternity.

Resolve strengthened, he tries to speed up, but anything other than slowly inching forward is impossible.

It takes him a while to realise he can see again, his elbow in front of his face rearing up in the gloom. The light grows, a murky, shifting green like being underwater. Sam peers at his feet before realising they’re being obscured by trails of mist; his heart stops and starts again, the buzzing on his wrist confirming he’s definitely in the right place.

Moisture seeps into his layers, clammy and insistent; trailing into his lungs and making him feel slow. He tries to keep quiet as he approaches, aided by the dampening effect of the mist. Spotting a curve in the tunnel ahead, he feels the bracelet go wild; not just with continuing vibrations but with a pull that raises his arm without his consent, pushing him to continue.

Certain Dean is close; Sam pauses to reflect on what he knows. Almost nothing, is the answer; in lieu of information he remembers all the weapons and kit he has on his person, making sure it’s all easily accessible. Gun; knife; holy water; holy oil; salt; matches; silver bullets; witch killing bullets; a small, portable stake; Sam has it all. As prepared as he’ll ever be, he steps around the corner into a wide, low cave.

Dean’s immediately visible, slumped against a wall, his eyes glazed. He’s awake but not with it; a loose, dreamy smile lighting his face. It’s an advanced version of his post-pie face; or more accurately, they way he’d looked after the terrible sandwich that had oozed blue slime. He’s not restrained; as Sam watches, he lifts his arm, looking at his wrist in dazed confusion.

Sam scans the rest of the cave, trying to discern who, or what, had kidnapped his brother. The cave extends back into darkness, made worse by the inconsistent light. A stream trickles past Dean, his brother’s bracelet-free hand trailing idly in the water. Flowers line it’s banks, growing from patches of green; Sam flicks his eyes to the ceiling in search of a hole in the roof but there’s no sign of any way sunlight might enter the cave. As far as he can tell, he’s standing in the only entrance; he steps out and moves to one side immediately, putting the wall at his back.

“Dean,” he hisses. “Dean.”

There’s no response from his brother. Dean continues to splash his hand, head rolling on his shoulders; the wide, vacant smile on his face sending chills down Sam’s spine.

To Sam’s horror, a tendril of mist snakes around Dean’s shoulders, creeping up his neck. Dean doesn’t react as the tendril slides along his ear, growing thicker. Sam panics as he frantically wonders how he can fight fog before it coalesces in front of him. A woman shimmers into place in front of Dean; or at least, something with the suggestion of a woman. Long, translucent hair trails down to a narrow wisp of a waist, the face set atop a long neck pointed and sharp. High cheekbones sit above a cruel mouth, while thin, brittle fingers stroke across Dean’s face.

“He’s mine,” the apparition croons.

Like fuck, Sam thinks. “What are you?” he asks aloud, trying for time and intel.

“Your kind knows me as a nymph. I protect the forest from those who would defile it. Those who would try to take it from nature. Those who would build on it.” She grins, bright and cruel, and Sam thinks with nausea of the Parridges. “I belong to the water and he belongs to me.” Her voice rushes and dips like the stream, melding in with the cave around them.

“He does not,” Sam insists, aware he sounds every inch like the little brother he is.

“He’s been touched by Fae, he’s already a part of us. And I claim him as mine. You should leave, human; there’s no winning him back.”

Sam has one of his rare, painful flashbacks to being soulless; he remembers Dean reappearing in the middle of the night, and the leprechaun’s preference for first-born sons.

But Sam had won then, and he’ll win now. Even though he has no weapons that can possibly vanquish the Fae.

“He’s not yours. He’s my brother and I won’t leave.” Throwing caution to the wind, Sam dives forwards, wrapping his hand around Dean’s arm.

The bracelet roars to life, shooting fire jumping from Sam’s arm to Dean’s, so strong Sam’s surprised he can’t see sparks in the air. Dean’s arm warms and Sam watches with shock as Dean rouses from his stupor, blinking his eyes, colour rushing back into his cheeks.

“Sammy?” Dean asks.

The nymph shrieks behind them, a thunderous, maddening sound.

“How?” She howls. “It’s not possible.”

Sam’s not keen on waiting to find out why he’d been able to wake Dean. “C’mon, Dean,” he says, shaking his brother.

“He’s mine.” The nymph is livid with anger, so bright she hurts to look at. Her face has turned vicious, teeth extending from what had been a softer mouth, thin fingers transforming into claws.

“He's not,” Sam hisses. “He’s mine. My brother. My Dean.” My soulmate, the old long repressed voice inside him croons.

“Damn right,” Dean adds, voice weak. He stands, wavering, and Sam catches him against his chest.

“No!” The Nymph lunges forwards.

Sam reacts instinctively, dropping Dean and reaching into his pocket. His hand scrambles about before landing on the vial of holy oil and matches. He hurls the bottle at the nymph; it passes through her but smashes on the floor at her feet. The lit match follows and she shrieks, starting to fizzle.

Sam watches, Dean at his feet, as the nymph disappears, breaking apart and dispersing into the air. She doesn't go quietly; the cave is filled with her echoing wails until all trace of her is gone, Sam's ears pounding.

“What the fuck, Sammy?” Dean asks, sounding thoroughly put out.

“The fucking Fae tried to claim you back,” Sam replies, bitterly.

Dean shudders. “Luckily I'm happy right fucking here,” he says fervently. Sam can only agree.

***

They find the Parridges’ bones at the back of the cave, sucked dry of the marrow. Sam sighs as he covers them over; they'd meant no harm. They'd wanted to protect nature as much as the Nymph had, they'd just gone about it a different way.

He and Dean arrive back at the Bunker the next day, having alerted the Sheriff to the remains of his “not missing” residents. Jack greets them at the door, thrilled to see them as usual.

“How did it go?” he asks, always curious.

“We killed the monster,” Dean replies, bitterly. “Just not in time.”

Jack frowns, as genuinely sad as always.

“And you,” Sam adds, pulling out his newly-developed Dad voice, “Are going to explain these damn bracelets.”

Jack looks sheepish. “Rowena asked me not to. She said it would make things awkward.”

“Well, Rowena isn’t here,” Dean says, stern enough that Sam cringes back.

It has a stronger impact on Jack, whose eyes grow impossibly bigger.

“Ok. Well. She said they were special bracelets for you both, but you wouldn't like why. Because you're soulmates. The spell only works for soulmates.”

Sam's breath catches in his chest. That word again. The one he and Dean don't talk about. But even without proof, without confirmation from Rowena, he knows it's true. Warmth blooms through him.

“Oh,” Dean says, scratching the back of his reddened neck. “That.”

“See, awkward,” Jack says, earnestly.

So fucking awkward, Sam thinks. But so perfect, too. Touching the ring of the bracelet on his wrist as he watches Dean do the same, he smiles. Rowena was right. he definitely doesn't want to take it off. Ever.