DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters/plots. The name of the geographical area is real but any names are purely coincidental.

Chapter One

The low growls can be heard seemingly from all directions, low, guttural, and pure evil. Dean stares at the faint image before him, dark, bloodied, with piercing red eyes, greedily watching its prey. The hunter freezes, struggling to control his fear as the hellhound slowly advances, step by step, its gaze never leaving Dean's. Slowly, the young man reaches for his silver knife, the uncertainty that this weapon may not even kill the creature never escaping his mind. Green eyes lock on red as Dean's fingers inch closer to his blade.

The hellhound suddenly is on the attack, pouncing like a leopard, sharp canines ready for the kill. Dean tries to flee, but his feet seem rooted to the ground. As he cries out in horror and pain, the hellhound tears into his flesh, clawing through his leather jacket, ripping Dean to shreds.

"Sammy!" The name escapes from Dean's lips as the hellhound continues to shred the hunter like paper. "Oh God, Sammy, HELP ME!"

XXX

"Sammy! Help me!" Dean sat upright in bed, breathing heavily, face drenched with sweat. The dingy motel is deserted, much to Dean's relief. The last thing he would have wanted was to have Sam witness his panic, hear him calling out his name in his sleep. The last thing he needed was a lecture from his brother that his crossroads deal was a mistake. Far from it. Dean knew that if he had the chance to do it again, he would in a heartbeat. It hadn't been Sam who had witnessed his brother die before his very eyes, to hold his body in his arms as he slipped away, the life draining from those hazel eyes…

Damn it, Winchester. Dean sighed, tossing aside his blankets and making his way to the tiny motel bathroom. He stood before the mirror, unpleased with the reflection. His hair was a mess, was in bad need of a shave, and dark circles hung around his usually bright green eyes. Groaning, Dean splashed cold water on his face, hoping to look at least somewhat presentable should Sam return. He stared at the man before him, looked back on happier times: pranks in the Impala, summer nights sharing cold ones while gazing at the endless sea of stars, blasting Zeppelin and AC/DC at full blast, much to Sam's chagrin. Dean chuckled at the latter. Sam had always had terrible taste in music, was more into douchy shit like Chili Peppers or whatever that crap was.

"Dean?" Sam was back, and judging by the delicious smells wafting through the tiny motel, he had brought coffee and breakfast. Smiling despite himself (after all, he was never too upset for food), Dean made his way from the bathroom and reached for the tall Styrofoam cup and popped the tab on the plastic lid. Black, just the way he liked it. "Mmm thanks Sammy," he murmured with a grin before sipping his coffee. Sammy glanced at him, noticing that his brother looked like crap, decided to ignore his gut feeling, and dropped a paper take out bag on the bedside table. "Breakfast in the bag, too. Bacon and Egg McMuffin."

"Man after my own heart," Dean teased with a grin, reaching into the bag and pulling out a hash brown and the breakfast sandwich. Sam rolled his eyes as his brother unwrapped the greasy mess and took a large bite, sighing in contentment.

"Dude. Do you ever not think of your stomach? Those things are disgusting." Dean laughed as Sam pulled out a bran muffin and fruit and yogurt cup and began to unwrap the plastic spoon. "Well, at least I die happy."

"Don't even joke about that."

Dean looked up, saw the hurt in his brother's eyes. Shit. He had made a joke about dying. Definitely an inappropriate time. "Sammy, I'm sorry, kinda bad timing, huh?" Sam never responded, just plopped on his bed and fired up his laptop. Dean watched, eating the rest of his sandwich mechanically. Suddenly he was feeling like he was losing his appetite.

"Any new cases?" Sam tapped his fingers rather impatiently against the keyboard of his computer, waiting for it to load. The mood was already uncomfortable, and for once, Sam was more than willing to change the subject. For the most part, the younger Winchester always wanted to bring it up, to try to come up with some way to save his brother from hell, but Dean had always brushed him off. "Let's take a vacation, Sammy," he had suggested one time. "Get some fake passports and get shitfaced in Tijuana, meet some lovely ladies." Sam knew that he was trying to hide the fact that his brother was scared shitless, but had dropped the topic every time. Why bother when Dean was acting like he didn't care? About himself or Sam's wellbeing, for that matter? But this time, Sam could sense that something was wrong. He probably had a nightmare or something. Completely understandable. And now the idiot (well, idgit according to Bobby) was trying to brush it off, act all macho. The typical Dean Winchester solution to all of life's problems. But for once, Sam said nothing. There was still eleven months to figure something out.

"Actually, found one last night from a friend of Bobby's. Bunch of mysterious drownings in some place called Antigonish, wherever that is."

"Um, that's in Canada, Dean. Nova Scotia."

"Awesome." Dean si ghed. He clearly remembered the first, and last, case they had taken north of the border. A headless nun in the town of Miramichi, New Brunswick, had been killing hikers on the local trail. Unfortunately, Azaezel and his gang had rigged for the boys to take their little trip up north, resulting in Dean nearly dying at the hand of the Yellow Eyed Demon. Granted, this could have happened anywhere, but Dean still felt a tad awkward leaving the country for anything hunting related. Who knew what shit could go down, and in a foreign country no less? But it was a distraction from his deal, and hey, free health care, right?

"Ok so we have some mysterious drownings. Go on." Sam logged on the internet and typed furiously in the search engine. Before long a newspaper article popped on screen. "Says here the guy drove his car off a cliff into the Antigonish Harbour. Vic's name is Ryan Jones, age 19. Never came home from work on Friday night. The police found his Honda Civic on the bottom of the lake, windows wide open, kid still inside."

"Nothing odd about that."

"The kid wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and yet seemed to be glued to his seat, with nothing weighing the body down. Last time I checked, a person tends to float a little when submerged in water without anything to weigh him down."

Sam scanned the article, and then looked up at his brother. "Ok, Dean, a little odd, but doesn't seem very much like our kind of thing. Could be explained."

"Yeah, that could," Dean admitted as he sipped his coffee. "But how about the young man before that? He drowned in his car too. On dry land." He pulled out a newspaper article from a few days earlier. "Kid was found in his car, a good 100 feet or so from the waterfront, soaking wet. The car itself is bone dry and get this, autopsy report said that his lungs were full of water. If he hadn't know any better, the coroner would have said cause of death would be suffocation due to drowning."

"Ok, that kinda sounds like our kind of thing."

"You think?" Dean reached in his duffle, pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a shirt. "I'm going to hit the shower. Thinking we should dig out the Canadian passports?"

XXX

An hour later the boys were on the road. Fortunately the boys had just finished hunting a wendigo in Maine, and were only a few hours away from the Canadian border. A few pit stops and a (fortunately) uneventful stop at the border crossing, the Impala pulled into the little town of Antigonish. It looked something out of a postcard, with its quaint old school feel. It reminded Sam of the New England towns in Connecticut or Vermont, with its older brick structures. Originally founded in 1784 under the name Dorchester, the town eventually became prospered to become a quaint university town and host of the city's popular Highland Games. In other words, a town which was bound to be rich in folklore. A quick Google search revealed that there were some possible supernatural hot spots associated with the area: mysterious fires which would materialize under bizarre circumstances in an area known as Caledonia Mills; a ghost ship at a nearby place called Malignant Cove; and the mysterious sound of drumming by Tracadie Lake, presumably the spirits of soldiers killed in battle when British forces attacked Fort Beausejour in 1758. All interesting facts, but completely unrelated to the alleged water spirit. Sam announced as much as the Impala cruised into the town limits.

"So, basically just a bunch of legends that have nothing to do with the case. Great." Dean felt his stomach growl as they passed a diner, and immediately decided to make a point to check it out once they had settled into their motel.

"Looks like." Sam sighed, rubbing his temples gingerly. He could feel a headache coming on and wanted nothing more than a hot shower and bed. But a job was a job, even if he would have much rather been researching on how to weasel his brother out of his demon deal. Dean glanced at him quizzically, but wisely said nothing as he pulled the sleek car into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn and killed the engine. "Okay, we'll just have to pay a visit to the ME tomorrow, see if there's anything unusual," he suggested as he pulled his duffle out of the trunk and reached for Sam's backpack. "But first, we need to fuel up." As expected, Dean was ready to go get something to eat practically as soon as they had checked in, and reluctantly Sam followed, laptop in tow. Dean rolled his eyes as he climbed into the driver's seat and switched on some Sabbath. Sometimes little brothers were such killjoys.

XXX

As expected, Sam barely picked at his food, while his brother dug into his bacon cheeseburger and fries with gusto. Rolling his eyes, Sam plunged his fork into an overripe tomato and chewed methodically, eyes barely leaving the laptop screen. Frustrated, Dean snapped his fingers in front of his brother's bland face.

"Seriously, dude. Can't you stop for five minutes to eat?"

"Can't. Researching the case."

"God you're such a nerd," Dean muttered in between mouthfuls of burger, and Sam begrudgingly chuckled despite himself. He was going to miss that about Dean. The way he would always make him laugh…

Jesus, Sam. He was talking like he was going to give up on Dean already? They still had practically a year to come up with something to save him. Sam looked back on the time when Dean had almost died in that car accident, how Sam had been adamant on repairing the Impala, when Bobby believed the car to be a write-off. Hell, the damn thing was fucking totalled. But Sam had insisted that they salvage. "Dean's going to want to fix it up when he gets better," he had told their mentor. "We can't just give up on it…" To give up on the Impala would be to give up on Dean. And he can't give up on his brother. Not after he had given up his very soul for him.

"Seriously, man," Dean groaned, snapping the laptop closed. "You need to back off a bit. Enough with the hell stuff."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Sam! You didn't bring that thing so that you could look up water spirits. You were trying to figure out a way to wiggle my way out of my deal."

"Dean…" Sam tried to deny it, but his brother only stared him down, dropping a half-eaten French fry on his plate. "Sam, I can read you like a goddamned book. Now you're going to back off with the hell stuff and start research what we're supposed to be working on."

"How can you expect me to just 'research a case' when your case should be my priority? Do you really expect me to just let you die?" Sam paused, finally noticing the other diners staring at the Winchesters with a little more than just idle curiosity. Shit. They were talking about hell in a public place. Just wonderful.

As if on cue, Dean reached into his wallet, sorting through his cash to make sure that he was pulling out Canadian money. "Time and a place, Sammy," he muttered, placing a wad of the colourful bills on the table.

"Then we can talk about it at the motel."

"No. I said drop it." Dean grabbed his jacket and walked briskly out of the diner, Sam following sulkily. Note to self: when researching about hellhounds, do it at the goddamned motel.