~*~Hi all! Just a quick note to introduce this latest story! This is my first fanfic...so of course I had to pull out all the stops and make it a SuperWhoLock. ;) I've had a great time writing this and I hope you guys enjoy it as well!

Each episode has 3-5 parts of 1,000-1,500 words each. I'm planning to post each part once a week, on Mondays, for as long as the fanfic goes on (which, at this point, is unknown.) :) Also, for those interested, this fanfic takes place: somewhere between Supernatural S2 episodes "Bloodlust" and "Croatoan"; at the end of Sherlock S3; and between S6 and S7 of Doctor Who. I know in real life the timelines don't match up...and I will probably get a few minor details wrong here or there...but let's just play along and say it's slightly AU. ;) (Also, for those wondering...no slash, no Johnlock, and no Destiel.)

Questions and critiques are welcome! Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters, even though I wish I did.~*~

EPISODE 1: TIN MEN PART 1

"I wish you'd given me more time to research." Sam flipped through his dad's notebook, re-reading the section on wendigos over and over.

"Relax." Dean hung his right arm over the seat, driving with two fingers of his left hand hooked over the bottom of the Impala steering wheel.

Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, then shook his head. It wasn't worth critiquing his older brother's driving skills yet again. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. "Relax? We don't know anything about this thing. All you did was talk to a few locals, then you were all gung-ho about getting out here to hunt."

"Claw marks on trees? People disappearing mysteriously, campsites trashed? It's a wendigo, dude. Just like out in Colorado." Dean turned onto a gravel road and stopped, squinting up at the streetsign that was partially hidden by a scrubby pine. "This is it, right?"

"Yeah. But—"

Dean stomped the gas, throwing gravel as they headed down the road. He grinned.

Sam sighed. He shifted sideways in the seat to face his brother. "Dean, listen to me. In Colorado, we studied the records. We knew when the thing hibernated and when it came out to eat and approximately how many people it took each time. We don't know anything about this wendigo. What if it's not even a wendigo? Maybe it's a lake monster of some kind, or something entirely different. Werewolf? Vampire? Or maybe it's not anything supernatural at all, and it's just a bear."

Dean gave him a 'you're being stupid' look. "Eating people? You are listening to yourself, right?"

A yellow-and-white striped gate came into view, blocking the rest of the road. Dean turned down a slight incline into the graveled parking lot and stopped. He got out.

"I just don't like going in blind," Sam muttered under his breath, shoving the door open.

Dean tossed him a flare gun, then a shotgun, then a handful of rock salt shells. Sam pocketed the shells and raised his eyebrows.

Dean shrugged. "Just in case. But I don't think we're going to find anything other than a wendigo. We're in the things' backyard, dude. This is where the myth originated." He belted a machete around his waist and stuck a flare gun in his jacket pocket. "Heck, they even have an island out there with a camping spot named Wendigo. You ask me, that's just asking for trouble."

"You're running your mouth. That means you don't know what's out there either, and you're nervous about it, whether you admit it or not." Sam slung the shotgun over his shoulder.

Dean punched his shoulder and headed into the woods toward Lake Superior.

The crunch of pine needles was loud under their boots as they walked. Underneath the pine woods, it was significantly darker than it had been on the road. It wouldn't be long before it would be too dark to see in the forest. Sam frowned. Hope the island is pretty clear. As if hunting at night wasn't bad enough, hunting with no natural moon or starlight to help them was next to suicide.

They hit the beach. Sam paused and look up and down the wide stretch of sand. It was a beautiful day, just cool enough for the multiple layers he wore, with a little breeze coming in off the clear blue lake, but the beach was deserted.

"Guess word got out," he said.

"Hey, look there." Dean pointed down the beach.

About thirty yards away, the sand changed to slabs of sandstone, grooves and shelves worn in the rock from the years of winter storms. Across a small channel sat the island, a chunk of rock rising from the lake, dotted with caves in the sides and topped with pine trees and thick brush.

"Dude, the thing looks like your head after you wake up," Dean said.

Sam punched his brother's shoulder. "Don't hate on the hair."

"One of these days, it's goin' bye-bye while you're napping."

"Dude, I will punt you into next week if you don't stop."

They made their way to the rock and stood at the edge of the water. Sam pursed his lips. The channel, maybe fifty yards across, looked deceptively calm. Tiny waves sloshed gently back and forth on the lake's surface. But he, unlike his idiot brother, actually like to know stuff about the places they visited, and he knew from reading that the channel would have a decent undercurrent. More to the point, though, would be getting Dean across it without—

"Agh, we should've bought a canoe or something," Dean said. He crouched and tested the water with his hand. "That stuff's cold!"

"You think I'd trust my life to you in a canoe?" Sam scoffed. "Besides, you knew this was coming. We'll just wade across." He sat down and started unlacing his hiking boots.

Dean stared at him in disbelief. "I was picturing a few yards, not a freakin' football field! I'm not wading through that."

Sam finished rolling up his jeans to his knees, and stood, slinging the knotted laces of his boots over his shoulder. "Guess I'll go alone, then, while you run back to town and buy yourself a kayak or something. Pansy." He stepped into the water.

Crap, that was cold. He looked away to keep his surprise from showing on his face.

"Oh, all right, all right!" Dean pulled off his own boots, rolled his pants, and gathered his equipment from his pockets, holding it above his head as he eased into the water. He made a disgusted face.

As they waded away from shore, the slippery rock under their feet sloped downward. Sam dug in his toes to keep from slipping and falling on his butt. He kept his eyes on the island, scanning the red rocky shore. The people in town had said this was a popular backwoods camping spot, even in the fall, but he couldn't see any signs of life.

Dean stopped.

"Oh, what now?" Sam asked.

He nodded at their feet. They stood on a ledge of sand probably ten yards from the sandstone beach of the island. A couple of feet below the ledge, the lake floor was covered in tiny, colorful pebbles. Sam saw a few minnows dart past.

"How deep does this get?" Dean looked down and saw that one of his pant legs had unrolled a little, soaking the hem. "Aw, crap."

"It's not supposed to be deeper than our knees, not at this time of the year." Sam started to step down.

The step was a lot deeper than he had thought. He stumbled forward, sloshing water over his waist. Sam swore and raised his arms, trying to keep his jacket as dry as possible, but it was too late. He was soaked up to his ribs, thanks to his flailing.

Dean laughed. "Yeah, Good one, Sammy."

"Shut up, jerk." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the soaked flare gun. "Now this is ruined."

Dean wiggled the flare gun he held above his head, smirking. "Good thing I got mine." He hopped down into the low spot, cringing and muttering under his breath.

They hurried across to the other shore and sat down to pull on their socks and shoes.

"Just wade across, he says," Dean muttered under his breath. "It's not that deep. We'll be fine. Shoulda bought that canoe. You'd better hope I don't get a rash from walking around in wet pants all night."

Sam rolled his eyes and headed up the slope to the top of the island.