Sam Winchester was telling the truth.

Not that he had any right to expect Dean to believe him. Not with all the evasions and omissions and lying-directly-to-his-face lies that Sam had told his older brother over the past year. Sam knew he had no right to be trusted. And yet he still wanted to be. The little brother in him needed to be. Especially now. Because when Sam said, "Dean, something's wrong," he was telling the truth.

48 HOURS EARLIER

The town of Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, didn't really scream "center of the demon apocalypse." It didn't really scream anything, unless boredom can scream. There wasn't much to recommend it. There was the university, sure. Sam had noted that before they rolled into town: maybe the library would be useful, maybe it wouldn't. There was the closed Piper Aircraft factory, and the closed paper mill, and the just-clinging-to-life main street. And there was the National Hotel, where Sam and Dean had booked themselves into one of the rattier rooms they'd stayed in lately. No Magic Fingers, no themed décor. No décor at all, really. Just the smell of stale beer and fried everything wafting up from the bar on street level, and the threadbare blankets that looked like they once had been white but were now the same nicotine color as the front desk clerk's front teeth.

"Ah, home crap home," Dean sighed wearily as he dropped his duffel on the bed closest to the door. He turned to look at Sam as his brother dropped his own bag on the floor and frowned at his new surroundings. There wasn't even a table or desk to set his laptop on.

"How much you wanna bet there's no wi-fi," Sam groaned.

"I doubt there's any wi, let alone fi," Dean replied. Sam half-smiled at that. Getting back on the same page – "a fresh start for both of us," as Dean had put it – was taking some time. But they were getting there, slowly but surely. And it was worth it. Sam's fear of what Lucifer and Michael had in store for him and his brother was matched only by his determination that they would never say "yes." That they would never agree to be the vessels through which the full force of the Apocalypse that Sam himself had kicked off would be unleashed onto the world. But they could only stay strong if they stayed together. And jobs like this small-fry gig in the ass-end of Central Nowhere were helping.

"Well, I printed out everything I got so far," Sam said as he reached into his backpack for the neatly labeled manila folder inside. He dropped down onto Dean's bed and opened up the folder for Dean to read over his shoulder. Dean couldn't help a half-smile of his own as he scanned his brother's familiar tidy scrawl and carefully underlined photocopies. He could have been looking at one of Sam's notebooks from a 7th grade history class. As much as their lives had changed since then, some things stayed the same. His brother was still a nerd.

"The deaths began just over a week ago," Sam recapped, "with the last one this past Friday. The vics have all been women, all dying in their home, all … drowning in their bathtubs."

"Yeah, that's weird," Dean agreed. "Have there been any weirdo drownings in town before this?"

"None that I can find," Sam answered, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I looked back 60 years and there's nothing. So far the police are treating each of these cases as accidental, but for a town to go from no bathtub drownings to three in eight days …"

"That sounds like our kind of accident," said Dean. "So where do you want to start?"

Sam thought for a moment. If he was honest with himself, he suspected that Dean was going easy on him, humoring him, giving him a chance to take the lead. But rather than resent the gesture, he took it for what it was: a confidence builder, and a baby-step toward trust. They were still on training wheels, after all.

"The last victim is still in the morgue; we could go check out her body and then go take a look at the scene of death," Sam suggested. "See what's what."

Dean nodded. "Cool. But just once I wish you would say 'check out her body' without it involving a morgue. Or a scene of death."

Sam full-on smiled at that one. "Relax, Romeo. Maybe the coroner is hot."

The coroner was not hot. He was pissed.

"I already filed my report for the county and the local boys haven't even opened an investigation," Gill grumbled, in a voice that sounded like it came from a man who smoked two packs a day and gargled with thumb tacks. "Tell me again why I should bother going over all this again?"

"Because Uncle Sam would greatly, greatly appreciate any assistance you can give us," Dean replied, flashing his FBI badge a second time. Sam raised himself up to his full height and glared back at the coroner in silent agreement.

"And why, Agent Hetfield, does Uncle Sam care about three old biddies who suddenly forgot how to take a bath?" Gill asked Dean as he shuffled reluctantly to the rear of the small county office.

"That many people dying that quickly in a town this size?" said Dean. "It really … screws up the … Census figures." Sam shrugged quizzically at Dean, mouthing "WHAT?" behind Coroner Gill's back, and Dean shrugged in return before plastering the smile back on his face as Gill turned back around to face them.

"Well, if this is our taxpayer dollars at work, then I'm glad I stopped paying my taxes," said Gill, ending in a cough that he swallowed up with his sleeve. "You want her, you got her. Just lock up when you're done." Gill opened the door on the cold storage container and slid out the body bag before slouching back to his desk, his cough still echoing down the hall.

"What are we, Census takers now?" said Sam as he began to unzip the body bag in front of them. "Real smooth there, Uncle Sam."

"I'm Uncle Dean. You're Uncle Sam. Get it? Sam?" Dean grinned.

Sam grinned despite himself. "Yeah. Thanks."

Both brothers tensed as the body of the latest victim was revealed to them. Sam reached for the metal clipboard and let out a sad sigh.

"Audrey Worthington, aged 52. Lived in town. Teacher at the junior high school. No husband. No kids. There's not much here, Dean," he said, handing the clip board over to his brother.

Dean flipped through the report to the last page and read, "'cause of death: respiratory impairment due to accidental drowning.' Wait, what's this?" He leaned over the gurney and pointed to the last section of the report. "Our friend the coroner says they found traces of antirrhinum in her lungs." Dean shrugged as Sam's brow creased with concentration.

"Antirrhinum," Sam thought aloud. " Antirrhinum … that's snapdragon flower."

"Snapdragon," Dean repeated. "Isn't that one of your witch-ier weeds?"

"Yeah, it's pretty common in pagan lore and in white witchcraft. It's used in purification rituals mostly. And mostly by Wiccan wannabes who wouldn't know a real curse or a spell if it jumped up and said 'boo!'"

"So what, was Ms. Worthington here just taking an extra soothing bath with some crystals and a New Age pan flute CD, or is something else going on here? Something that maybe wasn't so 'accidental'?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "I think we need to check out the scene of the … bath."

"Oh I love it when you talk dirty, Sam," Dean smirked. "Or … clean. Whatever."

Audrey Worthington's house was as unremarkable as the rest of the mostly 19th century homes that lined her Lock Haven street. The Victorian two-story had definitely seen better days. Even as they rolled up after sunset, Sam noted the chipped paint and the somewhat moldy roof. The front garden, however, was immaculate. Sam bent down to examine it more closely as Dean rummaged through the trunk of the Impala for the supplies they would need.

"Snapdragon flower," Sam pointed out to his brother as Dean rejoined him on the front steps. "Valerian, hyssop, foxglove. Our Ms. Worthington had quite the green thumb."

Dean nodded. "C'mon, let's get inside. See if we can figure out if we're dealing with a coven here or just a crunchy hippie chick with a thing for herbs."

Dean hitched the duffel higher up onto his shoulder and tossed his brother the lockpick set, which Sam caught deftly in one hand then spun on one heel and jogged up the front steps before kneeling down at the doorknob. Within seconds, the lock clicked open and Sam pushed the door aside for his brother, following Dean into what looked like a front parlor.

The place was tidy, if a little cluttered. Lots of antiques and knick-knacks and shelves and shelves of books. It reminded Dean a little of Bobby's place, if Bobby were a woman. He shuddered at that mental image for a second, then flipped on the EMF reader and followed his brother further into the house. They weren't necessarily expecting any spirit activity, but hey, you never know.

The EMF needle remained locked on the less exciting end of the spectrum as the brothers moved from room to room. Sam caught Dean's eye and nodded in the direction of the staircase as he began to ascend. Dean returned the nod and continued his sweep of the remaining downstairs rooms.

As he reached the second floor, the first room Sam saw, directly off the landing, was the bathroom. His hand tensed around the sawed-off shotgun his brother had handed him, and he entered the room slowly. There was no police tape, no signs of any other investigation, no signs that anyone had met an untimely end here just days earlier. Sam let out a breath and began to spin around the small unremarkable bathroom, not really knowing what he was expecting to see. The clawfoot tub, empty now, stood against the far wall. To his right, a pedestal sink with a large framed mirror hanging above it and a bucket and scrubbing brush placed beneath it. Behind him was the door back out to the landing, and completing the circuit there stood in the corner a white wicker clothes hamper and shelves filled with fluffy bath towels.

Sam turned to face the bathtub again and his eyes opened wide in shock. The empty tub was not empty, but filled with clear bath water.

"DE-!" Sam began to shout, but was cut off as a force he could not see pulled him from his neck and shoulders and plunged him down head-first into the tub. As his shotgun clattered to the tile floor, Sam landed with a splash, and flipped and rolled onto his back, his torso now fully submerged under the bath water while his too-tall legs dangled over the side. Sam struggled and thrashed, using his arms to push himself up off the bottom of the tub. With a monumental effort he raised his face above the water and drew in a loud gasping breath before he felt himself being plunged back under the bath water. He tried to push himself up again, but it was no use; it was as if his back were welded to the spot. He tried using his legs as leverage, kicking against the side of the tub to try to flip himself up and out. But he couldn't budge. Looking up, he could see through the water to the white ceiling above him. "I'm going to drown in one foot of water," he thought, as he fought to keep his growing panic at bay.

"Think, think, think …" Sam screamed at himself. If he couldn't get himself out of the water, maybe he could get the water out of the tub. He reached behind his head and searched feverishly with his slender fingers for a drain or a bath plug. His fingers curled around a small metal ring, and Sam pulled. The rubber plug came away from the drain and Sam relaxed for a second. "Thank god," he thought, as he waited for the water level to descend while fighting the growing need to suck in huge lungfuls of air.

Only the water level didn't descend. It didn't budge an inch. Two seconds later, true panic hit Sam Winchester.

He trashed and kicked and splashed and pulled against the sides of the tub. But it was no use. Air. He needed air. He felt the water fill his mouth and nose. He looked up through his watery prison again at the ceiling above and felt his brain begin to slow. There! Above him through the filmy ripples. A familiar shape. Familiar green eyes filled with familiar fear and anger. Dean. Dean was here. Sam relaxed as he felt the hurricane of activity that was his brother erupt all around him. His vision darkened, then exploded into white spots.

It didn't matter. Dean had found him. Dean was here.

Dean was in the kitchen. It was surprisingly large given the layout of the rest of the house. Three large windows opened out onto the east side of the house, and at the base of each was a window box filled with more plants and herbs that his geeky brother would be able to rattle off from memory.

"This better not be freakin' witches," Dean said aloud to himself as he moved away from the last window and toward the large hutch against the back wall. The wooden cabinet was filled with bowls and plates and glasses. And more books. Dean scanned through them, finding mostly cookbooks and a few gardening books. Somewhere between The Encyclopedia of Herbs and The Complete Guide to Healing Plants, Dean's eyes fell on a battered, slim volume with no title along the spine. He pulled it from the shelf and flipped it open one-handed to reveal a handwritten journal filled with illustrations, ingredients, steps. Spells.

"OK, Ms. Worthington," Dean whispered. "I think it's time you share with the class." He pocketed the journal and began to give the rest of the books a second look-through.

"DE-!" Dean heard the muffled shout from somewhere above him, followed by a soft thump. He stared at the ceiling above him for just a second before yelling, "SAM!" Dean pelted through the house back to the front hall and took the stairs two at a time before stopping at the landing. He could hear water splashing and the sounds of a violent struggle coming from behind the door of what could only be the bathroom.

"Sam!" Dean shouted again, and pounded on the door with his fists and then his shoulder, but the door would not budge. He heard a loud gasp from inside the room, followed by an even louder splash, and his already racing heart kicked up another notch. "Son of a bitch," Dean growled behind gritted teeth. He leaned back on his left foot and kicked out at the door with his right. The door gave slightly, but didn't open. On the fourth kick, he had it. Dean tumbled into the room, and his eyes grew wide at the sight that greeted them.

There was his brother – half-in, half-out of the full bathtub – thrashing for all his worth beneath the water. He stared down into the water for a second, confused green eyes meeting panicked hazel ones, and Dean could have sworn he saw Sam smile slightly.

Dean sprang into action. He reached into the water and wrapped his hands under both of Sam's shoulders and pulled with all his might. With veins popping along his neck and arms, Dean finally conceded that brute strength was not going to win out here. He needed a Plan B, because after everything they had both been through, Dean was certainly not going to watch as Sam died in a freaking bathtub.

"Think, think, think …" Dean screamed at himself. If he couldn't get Sam out of the water, maybe he could get the water out of the tub. He was reaching behind Sam's head to try to find a bathplug, when he spotted the stopper in Sam's hand, already pulled from the drain. Dean spared himself a moment of pride in his brother for having had his wits about him enough to try the same Plan B, before panic descended once more.

"Shit!" yelled Dean, as he searched the room feverishly for something, anything that could help. In the corner below the sink he spotted it: a bucket.

Dean grabbed the bucket and began to bail for all he was worth. Careful not to hit Sam in the face, he plunged the bucket into the bath over and over again, flinging water out over the side. Sam's thrashing had slowed, reduced to weak grasping gestures with his hands. This spurred Dean on, faster and faster, until he, the bathroom floor, and the landing beyond were all drenched in water.

He stopped for a second to look down at the tub, and his heart dropped. The water was still there, all of it, still covering Sam's face and upper body. It hadn't budged an inch. Sam's eyes were still open, still staring up at him from below the water. But there was no panic there now. No relieved smile. Nothing. Nothing but quiet.

"No! No no no no no no!" Dean yelled, running his hand down his face. "Sammy!" There had to be something else going on here, something else he could do! Suddenly, Dean remembered the little journal he had found downstairs. He felt for it in his jacket pocket for a second then yelled, "freaking witches!" as he began to tear the bathroom apart.

That had to be it. This was a curse. A freaking witch and a freaking curse. "Find it, find it, find it, find it …" he chanted to himself as he ripped through the white wicker hamper and the shelves full of towels. He got on his hands and knees and looked under the tub, behind the sink, behind the toilet. Nothing. He reached for the mirror and yanked it off the wall.

There.

On the top of the heavy frame was a small fabric bag wrapped in a leather cord. Dean snatched it up, threw the mirror to one side, and fumbled through his pockets for his lighter, trying not to think of how long it had been since Sam had last moved. Seconds? Minutes? He flicked the lighter and … nothing. Three more tries and nothing; everything on his person and in the room was soaking wet.

"C'mon. C'mon!" Dean shouted in desperation. He ran out to the landing and grabbed for his dripping wet duffel bag. What he was looking for, he didn't know. But then it hit him: why not fight water with water?

His fingers circled around the flask of holy water and he strode back into the bathroom, flinging the hex bag into the sink and pouring the holy water over it. The bag began to hiss and smoke, and instantly the water began to drain from the tub. Dean scrambled over to the side of the tub, reaching for his brother, who he could now lift up as easily as if he were a six-foot-four rag doll. Dean flopped Sam out of the tub and laid him gently down onto the bathroom floor. Sam's hair was plastered against his face, his skin and lips a pale grey.

Dean grabbed Sam by his soaking jacket lapels and shook him. "Wake up!" Dean shouted. "Please, Sam," he said, quieter this time. "Please, please, please," Dean continued to whisper as he ran his hand over his brother's face, pushing the hair out of Sam's eyes, and then fumbling along his neck for a pulse, afraid of what he might find.

There. It was weak, but it was there.

Dean placed his ear against Sam's chest. His brother was cold, and there was no comforting rise and fall. Sam had stopped breathing.

Dean rose up again onto the backs of his heals and leaned over his brother, gently lifting his neck and opening his mouth. He breathed into Sam's mouth. One, two, three times. Then he corded his fingers together and pressed them against Sam's chest hard. One, two, three times. He went back to Sam's face, tipping his head back and breathing for his brother. One, two, three times. He returned to Sam's chest. He worked silently, pressing his fists into Sam's chest. One, two, three times.

Water poured from the sides of Sam's mouth, followed by a sputtering, hacking cough. Dean nearly collapsed onto his face as the tension poured from his body. He reached for his brother and pulled him onto his side while Sam coughed and gagged and wheezed down air, curling his knees into his chest while his body was wracked with tremors.

"Shhhhh," Dean soothed. "You're okay. It's okay. You're okay."

"He's okay, he's okay, he's okay," Dean repeated aloud to himself as he closed his eyes and lifted his head upward toward a heaven he didn't believe in. "He's okay."

Sam continued to cough and sputter as Dean pulled his brother's shoulders onto his lap and rocked him slowly for how long he couldn't say. Slowly, Sam's coughing eased. Dean looked down at his brother's face.

"Open your eyes, okay?" Dean whispered, suddenly feeling an urgent need to see those eyes he had stared down at only minutes earlier through the churning water. "C'mon, Sam. Throw me a bone here, would you?" He shook Sam's shoulders lightly with one hand, and tapped Sam's face with the other.

Sam sputtered to life again, his head jerking violently out of Dean's lap, only to settle back down a second later. "Dean," he croaked, his voice a wreck, his throat a misery. Sam stared down at his legs, now lying against the hard bathroom tile, and then up at his brother's face against the white bathroom ceiling, only this time with no suffocating water between them. As he realized where he was, he let out a sigh. "Dean … thank you."

"Well, that's what I'm here for, isn't it? To save the long-haired princess from the … tower? Bathtub? Whatever. Can you stand?"

"Yeah, help me up."

Dean clasped Sam's forearm and spun out from beneath Sam's head, pulling both himself and his brother to their feet.

"Whoa, give it a second," said Dean as he pressed his palm against Sam chest to keep him from faceplanting back into the tub.

"I'm good, I'm good," said Sam, taking in several steadying breaths.

"Good, because I for one am ready to blow this pop stand."

"Wait, shouldn't we finish searching the rest of the house first?"

Dean just blinked at Sam for a minute, wondering if his brother truly was this committed a hunter, or whether the kid should just simply be committed.

"Nope, Sammy," said Dean, "I'd say one near-drowning means our work here is done. Besides," he added, reaching back into the sink and pulling out the waterlogged hex bag, "I think we've found everything we need right here."