The Old Gods Return - Part II
The Return of the Old Gods
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 16154 words, altered states sex, mentions of mpreg, some sexual molestation)

Part I


Only five books later, Sam and Dean both realize that Asenaith has some serious issues. That doesn’t stop them soldiering on through the rest of her mad collection of books on demon-raising, ancient sacrificial rites and legends of the Old Gods. Sam’s perched cross-legged in the tiny space he managed to clear on the table in the library. Dean’s uncovered a patch of floor in the corner and is sitting in that. Dean looks strangely young - his curled up pose, the half-demolished fortress of books about him, his lower lip caught between his teeth and the small frown tugging his brows together.

Sam drags his gaze back to the book he’s flicking through. Its vellum pages are covered with greasy fingerprints and Sam wonders how many people have gone through it before. Its subject matter – the proper way to discard the ashes of the burnt offering (a child in this case) – makes Sam think he’s probably one of the few sane people to have read it.

“Dude,” says Dean, not taking his eyes off the book he’s reading. “You ever heard of the Cult of Dagon?”

Sam pauses and trawls through his memory. The name is familiar but he can’t place the context. So he shrugs and offers Dean the best he can.

“Something to do with the Old Gods. I think Dagon was one of them, supposedly. Though some people say they were using the name as the closest Biblical analogy for something else.”

Dean looks up, stares blankly at the wall, and then nods slowly. He glances at Sam and frowns. His lower lip is pink and swollen from where he’s been biting it.

“Something to do with fish too, wasn’t he? Or is that my stomach reminding me it’s time for lunch?”

“No, I think you’re right,” says Sam, smiling. “Anyway, what about him?”

Tapping his forefinger on the page in front of him, Dean goes back to the book. His frown deepens and it takes him a moment to answer. Then he pulls a face.

“There’s a part here about a Cult of Dagon operating in a town near Newburyport, which, from what I can figure out, is near here. And, Christ, but this cult puts up with some weird shit. This Dagon or whatever you wanna call it, goes around driving people crazy, getting them to feed it their kids, knocking people up – I’m talking guys as well as chicks – and pretty much turning the town into FishHeadVille.”

When Sam doesn’t say anything, Dean looks up. He shrugs at the bemused expression on Sam’s face and holds the book out to him. Sam takes it from him and briefly reads over the page. He stifles a grin; it’s typical of Dean to grab the most lurid facts and ignore the ones that might actually have an ounce of truth in them.

“The author himself says this is all speculation and rumour. Here, listen to this-“ Sam taps the page and triumphantly reads out a section he’s sure Dean will have ignored. “The worship of the Old Gods is certainly a dangerous and unsettling delusion but as none of the adherents of the faith have ever spoken openly about their beliefs - as far as this author is aware - we must remember that we have nothing to go upon but speculation and rumour.”

Sam looks at Dean and is met with an expression of unimpressed stubbornness.

“FishHeadVille,” says Dean.

“No one here has a head like a fish, Dean. We’d’ve noticed. Really”

Whatever argument Dean's about to make, he's cut off by a beep from his cellphone. He hesitates before pulling it out of his jacket pocket. His eyes are fixed on Sam, watchful and calculating. Then he puts the cell to his ear. He doesn't speak, just keeps watching Sam. After a moment, he hangs up and puts the phone away. Sam's eyebrows are pretty much disappearing beyond his hairline by this point.

Dean calmly goes back to reading and the urge to throw a book at his head is beaten down only because Sam knows Dean's head is so hard it'd probably break the book's spine.

"Dean. Who was that?"

Dean throws the book he's reading down and it doesn't matter that it's probably a book describing the best way to roast your sacrificial virgin, Sam still winces because that's not how you treat books.

"This is a total waste of time. If the book's here, we're not gonna find it, not without Asenaith. Let's just torch the place and tell William he's not getting his book back."

Sam straightens up, eyes wide, clutching the book in his lap a little tighter on reflex.

"Dean! Are you insane? We are totally not going to torch the place!"

Dean shrugs at him and spreads his hands, like he's demonstrating something simply by pointing out the room to Sam.

"These books are not part of a healthy lifestyle. We leave all of these now and we'll be back here in a week or two to put down whatever crazy-ass creature Asenaith's got running around. Seriously, we'd be doing her a favour. She could, I dunno, get a haircut and maybe go down the bar, meet some guys… She doesn't need-" Dean pauses, snatches up a book at random and reads from it, "doesn't need to know that Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. The only kind of guy she's gonna pick up knowing stuff like that is the kind we salt and burn."

There's a flush along Dean's cheekbones when he finally comes to the end of his rant. He's breathing heavier and he's looking anywhere but at Sam. Something drips again, somewhere in the house.

"Who was the call from, Dean?" says Sam.

"I don't know. It went straight to voicemail."

He turns away, kicks out at a pile of books, sending them into a slow, slippery avalanche. Sam watches them spill across the floor. Papers are disgorged from them, sheets of type and handwriting. Fire probably isn't the sanest way to deal with the things written on them, even if it is the safest. Still, Sam cares less about his indignation over burning books than he does the fact Dean's being avoidant. Again.

:::

With The Counted Horrors nowhere to be found, there's nothing to do but wait. Innsmouth doesn't have much by way of entertainment but there's a coffee shop near the harbour that looks less forbidding than anything else on the street. There are a couple of chairs and tables optimistically set outside but they're covered with sea spray so Sam and Dean venture into the dim interior.

The woman behind the counter gives them a blank smile and takes their order. Sam takes his coffee and slips into a table with his back to the window. He can't help hearing the sea though, even if he doesn't have to look at it. Innsmouth is full of the sound of the sea. It's like white noise, constant and irregular and enough to drive you crazy.

Dean's just coming over when the woman reaches out and grabs his wrist. Sam half-rises out of his seat as the coffee narrowly misses splashing down Dean's thigh. It dashes the floor instead but the woman ignores it, just like she ignores Dean's startled protest.

"The Black Goat of the Woods looks favourably upon you, young man. Reap her blessings. Be worthy."

Sam's freezes, half-standing. The woman goes on smiling at Dean, even as her hand gradually loosens from about his wrist and, finally, falls back to her side. Dean stares at her. His lips are parted as if he's about to speak. At last he says,

"Can I get a refill?"

The woman's smile grows and twists like weeds, becoming a grin, like Dean's given her the coded response she was waiting for and they're in on the secret together. She picks up the coffee pot and refills his cup. Then she sets the pot back down and nods at him.

"Right," says Dean. And, "thanks."

He throws a few cautious looks back at her as he takes the seat across from Sam. They sit quietly until the woman disappears into the kitchen at the back. Then Dean glances at Sam and pushes his coffee cup away from himself.

"Like I'm drinking any of her frickin' crazy-brew. So, what the hell was that about?"

Sam takes another sip of his coffee. It tastes old and bitter but good and it burns his mouth perfectly. He can't taste the sea when his throat's on fire. Then he puts his cup down and catches Dean's gaze, looks him straight in the eye.

"I could ask you the same thing. Who sent you that voicemail?"

All trace of bewildered amusement disappears from Dean's face. Shadows fill his eyes and his lips quirk up into a thin, tight smile. He runs his fingertip about the rim of his coffee cup, round and round and round. Then he shrugs and glances away.

"You did, Sammy. Third message in two days."

Sam stares at him then shakes his head. Before he's got chance to point out that he's been with Dean pretty much every minute of every day, Dean's scowl cuts him dead. He sounds frustrated but beneath it, Sam can hear fear.

"I know your voice, Sam. It's you. I don't know how you're doing it and I don't know why. But I know my own brother's voice."

If it's a joke, it's a bad one. Sam swallows and starts to take another drink of coffee, then stops and jerkily sets it down.

"So what's the message?"

Dean relaxes slightly when Sam stops arguing it. He pulls his cell out and scrolls through the menu, then presses a key and holds it out to Sam.

"That's the last one. It's been different each time. Don’t know how the hell you expect me to understand when you don't even keep to English."

When the message starts, it's as if he's walked in on the middle of a recital, by himself. It's his voice, no doubt about it, even if it sounds flat and dead.

"… Is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die. Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Yet He shall rise and His kingdom shall-"

The message breaks off even if the words haven't stopped. The words are still running in Sam's mind, as if they're coming from far away and disappearing over the horizon, but for the time it takes for Sam's heart to beat, he knows them.

He tries to catch his breath. His voice comes light and strained.

"How have I been sending these?"

"Beats me," says Dean. "One of 'em turned up while you were freaking asleep! And they're just going straight to voicemail." He rubs his jaw, forefinger and thumb sliding along his chin. "I don't like this, Sam. I think we should just pack up and get the hell out."

Sam's shaking his head even before Dean's finished talking. He tries to sound reasonable and patient but he's fighting against the knowledge that he can't leave here. It's not about leaving The Counted Horrors in the hands of a madwoman like Asenaith. It's about not being willing to run away from this. There's something working on him here and he doesn't trust it to be something that will leave him alone simply because he's left Innsmouth.

"C'mon, Sam," says Dean. His tone is wheedling and Sam would love to give in, if only to see Dean's eyes go bright and green-gold. "We could just-"

"No. I'm staying here 'til I've figured this out."

"Where are you going?"

It takes Sam a second to comprehend the question. Then he realises that at some point he stood up. He's on his feet and backing away to the door. He moves faster once Dean gets to his feet. Dean's stretching a hand towards him but Sam shakes his head.

"Need some air," he gabbles. "See you at the Seaview."

He needs air. He needs fresh air.

:::

Each time Dean calls his cell, Sam answers with, "I'm fine," then hangs up. On the sixth time, when there's just a slice of the sun left poking out of the sea, Sam says, "I'm fine, really," and Dean doesn't call again. Sam wraps his arms tighter about himself and goes on staring at the rise and fall of the waves, grey crashing into white over and over. The roar of it gets inside his head, fills it up so much that he feels like he's gone deaf.

Asenaith's house stands black and blank beyond the cruel outcrop of rocks. From nowhere, Sam gets to wondering if maybe she's dead. Maybe she walked out of her front door, to the steps, to the edge, then… didn't stop. Maybe she fell into the water, swallowed up in a second. Maybe her purpling, bloated corpse is floating into a harbour far from here even now, and he and Dean are going to go on waiting and waiting.

He shakes his head and sucks in a breath. His eyes are stinging and wet. His hands are so cold they feel like they don't belong to him.

Rush-hour, or what passes for it in Innsmouth, was over ages ago. There'd been footsteps and cars and the indistinct stream of people talking, like Sam could almost pretend the place was as normal as any other. But the town's silent now. Sam didn't register the noise dropping off. But then, he didn't notice when dusk became night either.

When he stands, his muscles are tight and stiff. He feels like he's been running, short of breath and body aching. It's difficult to make out the town in the darkness. The darkness is complete, as thick and heavy as it was the night before, when Sam had stared out of the hotel window and found nothing but the sound and smell of the sea.

He turns away from the ever-shifting expanse of the sea and starts walking back towards the town, along the slippery planks of the seafront. He doesn't hear anyone approaching but suddenly a voice comes from only a few feet behind him.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

His hand inches nonchalantly towards his gun even as he turns around. The speaker is a tall, dark-skinned man with a smile that lights up the night. He's taller even than Sam and it's such a strange experience, not to tower over everyone, that Sam can't give any more response than a mindless smile of his own.

"Look at the stars."

Sam's hand never reaches his gun. The man's hands settle one on each of Sam's cheeks and his touch is warm and gentle. He tilts Sam's head back and suddenly Sam realises that the sky is full of stars. It's a mystery how the night can be so dark when there's so much space and light above their heads. There's no room for night in the sky - there are stars everywhere.

"They're perfect tonight."

There are too many stars. Old and brilliant and sweeping about through the sky. They spin in circles as Sam stares at them. They shoot towards him and the whole sky is falling over him. He wants to duck away from them, his legs tangled beneath his body, but the man's hands on his face hold him steady.

The stars are coming towards him. The sky's opening up and there are more stars still. Pinpoints of light exploding everywhere that Sam looks. The stars are coming.

Sam opens his mouth to moan but there's nothing there.

It's gone. All gone. The sky's the same as it always is. Sam stumbles with nothing to keep him on his feet. The seafront's deserted. The sea is calm.

He has to get back to Dean. He turns back to walk towards town and all of a sudden he finds himself looking at the faded sign of the Seaview. It's right there in front of him. There's a light on up in one of the windows and Sam nods to himself. Dean's in there. Dean.

The lounge is deserted. None of the usual drinking crowd is there. Sam's vision is painfully clear. He sees every detail of the room: the scratches in the varnish on the tables, the motes of dust shifting in the air, the speckles on the wings of the moth circling the light above the pool table.

At the bottom of the stairs, Thomas is waiting for him. There's only a second when Thomas meets his gaze, searching for something in Sam's face - the rest of the time he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. Sam stops at the bottom of the steps and stares at him, even though he doesn't really see him. Thomas's hands are wringing the bottom of his shirt, twisting the material about sweaty fingers.

"He's upstairs. We prepared him for you. Everything is ready."

Sam nods, distractedly, and climbs the stairs. He trails his fingertips lightly along the wall as he moves down the passage towards their room. He opens the door and stops, smiles even though Dean probably can't see him, not from where he's laid out on the bed.

Dean is naked, sprawled out like it's a warm night and he can't get comfortable. He's awake though. His eyes are heavy-lidded but open, fixed on the ceiling. One arm hangs over the side of his bed, the fingers twitching spasmodically. He doesn't shift even when Sam approaches him.

This close, Sam can see the sharp rise and fall of Dean's chest as he breathes. He can see the dark flutter of Dean's long eyelashes against his flushed cheeks. His eyes track to Sam but can't settle. His mouth is soft and slack, his lips swollen and shining.

"Sammy," he whispers.

Sam nods and reaches out to him. He brushes his knuckles over Dean's bare stomach, feeling the instinctive flex of muscle at his touch. Carefully, Sam begins to undress, studying Dean all the while. Scars, old and silver, catch his gaze, so does the sculpted muscle of Dean's thighs and the heavy weight of his half-hard cock. He makes a sound in the back of his noise, low and full of want. As if in response, Dean rolls his head back, letting the harsh electric glow of the light roll along the sweep of his throat.

The bed sags dangerously and gives an ominous creak as Sam kneels on the end. He ignores it in favour of crawling up Dean's body, stopping only when he's straddling his brother's hips. Dean is warm and firm beneath him. He's trapped between Sam's legs but he's too out of it to even think of escaping.

Sam ducks his head and lays a small, chaste kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth, where the first crinkle of a smile always appears.

"In my drink," says Dean. It's slurred but still coherent. "Put something in my drink. Fuckin' perverts… stripped me… touched me, Sammy."

"Mmm," says Sam and runs his tongue slowly along the curve of Dean's lower lip. He thinks he can taste the buzz of the drug in his brother's mouth, so he pushes his tongue between his lips to better seek it out.

It's a slow, lazy kiss and Dean's hand comes up, smoothes clumsily at Sam's spine. He helpfully spreads his legs when Sam eases a knee between his thighs. Sam slips a hand down between their bodies, lingers a moment at Dean's cock then slips further back, behind his balls. Dean gives a high whine and squirms under him. When Sam pulls back, dimly surprised by the reaction, he sees Dean's cheeks have flushed an even brighter pink.

"They put their fingers in me. Made me slippery and open. For you, they said. Fingered me, made me think of you. Fuckers."

Sam wriggles his hand further between Dean's legs - Dean's thighs part so easily, so obediently for him – and finds the slick tightness of his hole. He rubs his fingers along the cleft of Dean's ass and smiles at how it makes Dean writhe and make those adorable little sounds. If he twists his wrist just so, he can press the pad of his thumb against Dean's hole, push it almost inside him.

The drugs have made Dean a boneless thing and Sam enjoys how he twitches and moves as Sam plays with his ass, enjoys his helpless moans and hushed breaths. He wonders how Dean would move, would sound, if Sam were to put more fingers in him, if he were to make Dean ride his whole hand. He'd be beautiful. But better still if it's Sam's cock in him. Yes.

Sam pulls back onto his knees and looks at Dean. Dean's so mussed. His hair sticks up in soft, sweat-damp spikes and there's sweat shining all over him. It's almost not worth talking to him because he's so out of it, better to just fuck him. But it's Dean and as if from a great distance, Sam remembers that they should always talk their plans through with one another, that's what they should do.

"I'm going to fuck you," Sam tells him, trying to sound serious and calm because God knows Dean is high-strung and Sam would hate to have to tie him down because Dean's let himself get all freaked out. "I'm going to put my cock up inside you and fuck you, and you're going to let me. You're going to take it all. You're going to let me fuck you until I'm done with you. Are you listening to me? Are you hearing what I'm saying?"

From the way Dean's hips are jerking, grinding him against Sam, Sam doesn't think Dean is listening, but Dean nods and nods, smiles and nods some more.

"Yeah, yeah, you're going to fuck me. I think you should. Yeah, you definitely should."

He might have been about to say more but Sam tries to kiss him again - because it's hard to think of anything else when he's watching Dean's mouth move as he speaks – and that shuts him up. He's almost there, almost has Dean's perfect, cocksucker mouth for his own again, when Dean catches his face. His palm cups Sam's cheek and the gesture reminds him of something but he can't think what.

Dean stares at him. His pupil's are blown but he's trying so hard to see Sam. There really are gold flecks in his eyes, thinks Sam. They're so pretty.

"Hey, who are you?" says Dean. "I don't-"

The question is very boring when Sam could be kissing Dean, or fucking Dean. Yes, fucking Dean. So Sam pushes Dean's legs apart and grabs his hips, dragging him down the bed towards him. He pulls Dean closer, so close he can see the lube they've used to finger him open glistening about his hole. In a smooth, single thrust, he slides his cock into him. He drives into him until he's buried to the root.

Dean makes this strung-out, breathless noise as he's penetrated, bracing himself on his elbows so he can rise up into Sam's thrust. He's trembling and Sam strokes his hip to soothe him while he adjusts to having his cock so deep in Dean. His hand seems so big, splayed over the sharp line of Dean's hipbone.

He can't get his cock any deeper into Dean but he pushes a little, experimentally, just to see if he can. Dean gives a whimper and it's on the right side of pained but only just, Sam stops. Instead, he pulls back, letting his cock slide out of Dean, slow and slick, only to slam back in. Each thrust makes Dean's spine ripple and he clenches, hard and tight, like he's never ever going to let Sam go.

Sam pulls back until only the head of his cock is inside Dean, Dean's ass all stretched and pink, and Dean starts making all these plaintive, protesting sounds. Like it hurts him not to be full of Sam. Sam feels bad for putting that frown on Dean's face. Dean's eyes are luminous and wet and Sam doesn't think they're tears but they make him feel guilty anyway.

So he curls over Dean, sliding his arms under him to cradle him, and makes sure he fucks Dean with shallow thrusts, thrusts that won't give Dean any chance to feel empty.

Dean doesn't stop watching him. His hand keeps coming up to touch Sam's face, his fingertips bumping awkwardly over Sam's cheekbones and lips, like blind butterflies. Any time he can, Sam kisses and nips at his fingers. And if he can't catch Dean's hand, he's more than happy to have Dean's mouth for kissing again.

Time passing is not of any real interest to Sam, not until he realises Dean is not moving back against him anymore. In fact, Dean can barely keep his eyes open. He's breathless and exhausted. Seeing his brother so entirely fucked out - beautifully quiescent as Sam's cock disappears into him over and over – stirs something new in Sam. Or maybe simply something forgotten. He loves Dean. Loves him so much.

The room is full of pale yellow light, like dawn but it can't be because Sam is still full of stars, and besides, it doesn't matter, doesn't matter because he loves his brother. He can barely catch breath himself, he's so full of stars and love. Words are coming from his mouth, ugly guttural words that aren't designed to be spoken by human tongues, but he can't hear them and they're not important. There's only Dean and the stars and the need to come.

When he comes, he thinks he's going to go blind because the stars - all the ancient light of the strange, old places in the universe – explode in his head. It's so bright and so loud he has to hide his face. He slumps over, buries his face in Dean's neck. His brother's pulse is against his lips, warm and sluggish. He thinks the world might be breaking open but he's safe, tangled up in Dean.

Finally it goes quiet and dark again, and Sam dares to move. A great wave of tiredness washes over him. He'd been fine when he'd been fucking Dean but now, now he has to struggle to move his limbs. His softening cock slips free from Dean with a sick, wet sound. A few drops of come splatter Dean's belly and Sam reaches down, dips his fingertip into them. Slowly, without really thinking about it, he rubs the fluid into Dean's skin.

It's the last thing he remembers: his fingertips massaging his come into Dean's belly while yet more of it leaks out of Dean's ass.

:::

The singing's so loud it makes the very stones shake, the whole irrational structure trembles. Sam is on all fours on the ground, his arms wrapped over his head. But the singing gets everywhere – the water that presses down from the sky ripples with it. The words, terrible inhuman words, bubble through the sea and get right inside Sam. His whimpered prayers falter and then reshape.

The water begins to boil and churn. Something moves far below in the dark and the deep places of the sea.

As Sam starts crawling forwards, downwards, he takes up the song.

:::

He's going to be sick. He doesn't know if he's going to make it to the bathroom in time but he does his best. Trips over the sodden pile of his clothes – when the hell did they get so wet? – bangs his elbow into the side of the shower cubicle, but manages to collapse on his knees in front of the toilet just as his stomach gives another heave and empties.

It burns his mouth, fills his nose with snot and makes his eyes stream. It's disgusting and it's not over yet. Sam clutches the rim of the bowl as he vomits again. His stomach rolls over and over and Sam's hacking and spluttering before he's finally done.

He rocks back onto his haunches and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. Whatever it is he's brought up, it's gross, yellowish-brown and the consistency of thick mucus. It stinks of stale water. It makes Sam feel sick all over again. He flushes the chain and gets unsteadily to his feet.

Daylight, pale but clear, spills past the open curtains and into the room. Sam stumbles to the window and pushes it wide. Even the stinging sea air is preferable to the unclean heat of the room. In the same moment of thinking that he feels dirty and needs a shower, Sam registers that he's naked.

Something about that makes him look over at Dean but it doesn't make the situation clearer. Dean's on his belly, under the blanket, face turned towards Sam's bed. He's fast asleep, which is weird because the look of the sky makes Sam think it's got to have gone midday, at the very least, and Dean's never a late sleeper.

He starts to cross towards him, intending to wake him up, then stops. It's not because he's naked, though he figures Dean doesn't really need his first waking moments to be full of his baby brother's bare ass, and the rest. But it's because he's oddly awkward about having to deal with a conscious Dean.

So he hunts around in his duffel bag and finds some clothes, because the ones he was wearing yesterday are currently leaving a sodden little puddle on the floor. He hopes Thomas's goodwill will extend to overlooking any damage that might do to the carpet.

His stomach gives a hollow rumble so loud it makes Dean snuffle and roll over. But Dean doesn't give any other indication he's planning on waking up any time soon. It looks like Sam's on his own on the hunt for breakfast. He closes the door silently behind himself as he leaves, and immediately almost trips over a tray, set on the floor, with two cups of coffee on it and a plate with some toast. It's all very cold.

He chews thoughtfully on a stiff slice of toast and goes off in search of Thomas. He wanders along the corridor then down the stairs. Thomas isn't behind the desk and when Sam peers round the door into the kitchen, he's not there either. In fact, there's nobody at all. The hotel is deserted. A newspaper, with today's date, is lying on one of the tables in the lounge, open on the sports section. It's the only sign of life.

Sam stops in the hotel doorway and looks out across the street. The sun's low in the sky, a colourless disc behind scattered clouds, and the sound of the swell and fall of the sea is present as ever. There are people in the hardware store across the road and it settles Sam's growing sense of unease. Settles it a little.

He's on his way back up stairs, thinking to bite the bullet and wake Dean, when his cell rings. Caller ID doesn't recognise the number and he hesitates before answering the call. He feels a strange dread that he might hear his own voice on the other end of the line. That hollow version of himself reciting apocalyptic weirdness. But it's not him, it's a woman.

"Sam Winchester?" she says. "Sam, you're in danger. You think I'm the enemy but it's them. It's them, all of them. They've already taken Dean out of the game. It's you they want now. You have to let me help you. You have to or we're all dead."

"Who is this?"

There's a sharp sound, almost like a laugh.

"Asenaith. This is Asenaith Bishop. The woman you've been looking for? Or have you forgotten that too?"

Sam slumps back against the wall, blinking. He had forgotten. And she's right: there's more than that that he's forgotten. There's so much more. It simmers under the surface, strained images of flesh and seawater and heavy-lidded green eyes. It takes Sam a second to catch his breath. He swaps the phone to his other ear.

"What have they done to Dean? What do they want?"

"Come to my house. It's the only safe place left. Come quickly-"

"What have they done to Dean?"

Asenaith pauses again before answering.

"They've drugged him. He's safe enough there. They're finished with him. He'll wake later. But you won't be able to help him if you don't come right now."

She kills the call and Sam stands there, feeling torn. He wants to know what's happening to him, what's happening to them both. But Dean is asleep in his bed and he's been drugged and it makes Sam so fucking angry to think that someone's been putting the kind of shit in Dean's system that knocks him out for hours. No, he's not leaving Dean if he can help it.

But Dean's still dead to the world when Sam gets back to him. Sam drops to a crouch by his bed and shakes him by the shoulder, gently at first but more insistently when Dean's breathing doesn't alter. All the response Sam gets is a small frown wrinkling Dean's brow and a slurred murmur that he thinks is probably a curse. Sam stands back and considers whether he could carry Dean across town to Asenaith's house. Somehow, he doubts it. And if Asenaith is telling the truth, it's hardly a low-key move to make.

Dean's fingers curl about the edge of the thin, greying blanket and he sighs contentedly. Sam's got no choice but to leave him behind until he knows what's going on.

:::

People look at him as he passes. It's that same hostile, narrow-eyed gaze he's used to getting from the inhabitants of Innsmouth. He just feels it a little more keenly now Dean's drugged out of his skull, the woman who's meant to be seventy different kinds of demon-raising crazy is claiming to be on his side, and there's some ambiguous 'they' responsible for all the madness.

The sky's dim and yellow and the sense of losing yet another day, of slipping from night to night with only a glimmering of daylight in between throws Sam even further off balance. He keeps his gaze fixed on Asenaith's house on its edge of the cliff and lets his long-legged stride eat up the distance between.

Asenaith's waiting on the porch, her thin fingers hands wrapped about her cellphone. She's not smiling but Sam can see her straighten up as he approaches. She sweeps her fine blonde hair out of her face and stretches out a hand to him, glancing back at the town as she does so.

"What's happening here?" says Sam. "What's… why have they drugged Dean? What've they been doing to my head? What the hell is happening here?"

She catches his forearm and draws him into the house. The door's closing when he realises something: this may be a bad idea. Asenaith smells of the sea, the stink of it rolls off her, and that's when Sam gets an idea that this really probably is a bad idea. He's knows it's a bad idea when he sees William Armitage, his suit as neat yet dusty as ever, waiting inside for him. Thomas is there too, and a good number of the townspeople that he doesn't know. They're all there, waiting for Sam.

His gun's taken and there's another gun, or make that two guns, pointed at him. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to focus on what's really important, rather than on the rising tide of fury he's feeling that would make the yellow-eyed demon proud of him.

"What have you done to my brother?"

William takes a step closer, then apparently thinks better of it when Sam's lip curls into a snarl. He stays where he is, out of reach, and smiles reassuringly.

"We're going to take excellent care of Dean. Don't worry about him at all, Samuel. And I really do apologise for the deception but people are very rarely sympathetic to our aims. We needed you here at the right time and the right place. It is regrettable that we had to lie to you to achieve that but hurt feelings are of no significance to the Old Gods, let me assure you."

William gives a pleasant, little laugh at that and straightens his cuffs. Sam raises an eyebrow, encouraging him to go on, while he figures out which gun is going to be the biggest obstacle to escape. Asenaith is the one closest to the door but Sam doesn't want to get shot on his way out, not if the bastards have Dean.

"The Counted Horrors then, still…"

"Safe in the library of Miskatonic University," says Asenaith. Her tone is scathing. "I would never steal from the library."

William smiles approvingly at her and nods. One of the guys holding a gun has a very sloppy grip. Sam reckons one good swift kick and he'll drop it. Of course, that leaves the other guy, with the steadier grip and the clearer eye, still with a gun and a clear shot at Sam.

"Asenaith was one of my best students," says William. "Such an apt pupil. She was drawn to the study of the Old Gods more determinedly than any other I've seen, save perhaps my father. It was only right that she be instrumental in their return."

"Oh, they're coming back, are they?" says Sam.

William's smile turns indulgent, and horrible.

"Yes, Samuel. You've been calling them." The escape plan freezes in Sam's head and suddenly he can't help but give William his full attention. His startled gaze only makes William smile more broadly. "You've been calling them ever since the day I let you read from the Necronomicon. The book has been open in your mind. You've been reading and you've been calling and tonight, when the stars are right, you will reach the last canto of the rites, and Great Cthulhu will rise."

Sam shakes his head, only dimly aware of the room and the people. The crash of the sea reverberates through the house. He shakes his head again and wets his mouth.

"I won't."

William's face seems blurred. His voice comes from far away. He moves closer and Sam lets him. There's a book in William's hands, a normal looking book, and Sam reaches out and takes it from him. William sighs, that smile still on his lips.

"You will. You can't help it. Cthulhu has heard your voice. He's been sleeping beneath the sea all this time and you've woken him."

And that's it: Sam falls into the book just as William has said, as if he has never been away, as if the words have been there all along. The meaning of the words doesn't penetrate, or if it does, it's not on a level that makes any sense to Sam. Maybe they mean something to the deepest, most primitive parts of his mind.

Vaguely, he senses his surroundings changing. Thomas, he thinks it's Thomas, leads him out of the house, to the edge of the cliff. Sam drops to his knees there, the Necronomicon still clutched in his hands. The sea froths and foams below him and the wind batters him. There are people around him, he thinks, but he's not sure. Because there are still pages in the book to read.

Somewhere, somehow, it gets dark. The sun might have set. Sam might recall it slipping beneath the sea, but he's more interested in the colour the sea turns in the dusk, in the night. It goes silver and black, shimmering like it's made up of millions of strands, coiling and interweaving through one another. Sometimes the strands give a little jump, like something plucking at them, and Sam waits for them to snap.

They don't snap. But the air does. It's loud and it breaks and Sam falters in his reading.

"Sam! Sam! Get the fuck away from that goddamn book!"

Dean. The thought's there but it's not enough to break through the need to go from one word to the next, always one word to the next.

"Stop him! Quickly! Careful there!" That's William. And that's the sound of a struggle. Sam contemplates turning around to see what's happening but that would mean taking his eyes off the page and he can't do that. Not when he's so close to the end. "Search him, he must have a gun somewhere – just be careful with him."

More struggling and perhaps Dean says 'Sam' again. Perhaps there's a …for God's sake, Sammy, please… too. The sea's moving too much, too fast. The water's too loud and there's only one page left.

Only one more page.

That's when the sea falls open. Wide open, just like the sky's doing. There's a mountain breaking through, the seawater and stars pour off swollen flesh and tentacles. There are wings and claws and that's all Sam's mind can take in. If he looks at it any longer, he's going to go mad. He wants to curl in on himself and gibber. But there are still words to read. And even though Sam can barely make out the page through the horrified tears rolling down his face, he goes on reading.

Last few lines and then Sam can scratch his eyes out so he never has to risk seeing what's rising up out of the sea and sky ever again.

The silence is shattered by the blast of a gun. The bullet zips past Sam, inches away from his head, and though that's not enough to shock him away from the page, Dean is. An arm curls about his shoulders and drags him away from the edge of the cliff. His fingers are pried away from the Necronomicon and the book drops to the floor. Its pages rustle in the wind and are sprayed with seawater as the waves crash back into place.

Sam's pulled to his feet and Dean's presence, his body hooked under Sam's arm to support him, brings him to himself. He looks away from the sea and away from the book and sees Dean: hollow-eyed and gaunt, skin the colour of sleet. There's a gun in Dean's hand, Sam guesses it must be warm. It's always so hard to completely separate Dean from his arsenal.

Sam clings to Dean and together, they stumble backwards, away from the silent, staring-eyed throng that's still turned towards the stirring water. They're still watching, still waiting.

"Dean," says Sam and Dean's gaze snaps to him immediately.

Then they're moving again, crawling over the narrow path of the rocks, running back through the town. To the Impala. Sam slumps in his seat while Dean slams the car into gear and sends the Impala roaring down the street. Away from Innsmouth.

Away from the sea.

:::

After an hour or so passes, Sam stops shaking. His eyes stop feeling like they're ready to burst from his skull. He doesn't feel safe yet though. There's still all that sky above their heads. The Impala must look like less than a speck of dust from way up there. He huddles down, arms around himself and shoulders hunched. Dean's about as bad. He keeps a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Except for a few glances at Sam, Dean doesn't look away from the road.

Another hour passes and then Dean shudders, his face briefly the wrong shape.

"I'm sorry," he says.

He turns to meet Sam's blank stare then looks back at the road that winds along into the night. The trees and fields whip past like they're on a fairground ride. Even the lights of a gas station or a diner, some sign of regular civilisation, would be welcome right about now.

"Those voicemails, Sam – you were calling me too. You needed my help. I should'a…" Dean trails off, biting down hard on his lip.

"You're wrong," Sam tells him. "You're so wrong. They had it all planned out, Dean. Everything, just so it would fit in with the stars. You couldn't have done anything, even if you'd figured out what was happening. They've been playing us since the beginning. Everything, s'all been a set-up."

"They were using you! It's my job to not let that happen!"

"They were using us both!" Sam snaps back.

The silence is instant and Sam's lips tighten. He feels awkward sitting so close to Dean. He can't remember it all but he remembers enough. From the way Dean's jawline goes rigid, Sam reckons he remembers enough of it too. They're neither of them ready to talk about it just yet.

Dean lets out a breath and rolls his shoulders.

"It was dark when I woke up. You were gone and some guy had a gun on me. Told me to sit tight and not to worry." Dean snorts. Even Sam manages a faint smile at that. "Like that was going to happen. I came after you as soon as I could, Sam. It was too late though, wasn't it?"

"Reading from the Necronomicon was too late, Dean. It's not your fault. You don't get to beat yourself up for this one."

They're still not back to where they should be. Having sex with your drugged brother while you're under the influence of some harbinger of deranged gods isn't exactly something that gets balanced out by a stilted conversation about whose fault the whole mess is.

Sam rubs his brow, feeling tired and worn out. He could sleep for a week. Finally, Dean finds a motel when they're both too exhausted to run any longer. Sam sinks onto his bed and lays back. He's so so tired.

When he closes his eyes, he sees the surface of the sea sliding away from something massive and ancient, he sees tentacles thrashing the water, and the moonlight shining on rubbery plains of flesh. He opens his eyes.

He's never going to sleep again.

:::

There's an envelope waiting for Sam behind the desk of the motel when he checks out. He stares down at the flowing script of his name on the coarse brown paper. He glances over his shoulder, through the window, to the parking lot where Dean's loading up the trunk.

The smell of the sea hits him when he breaks the envelope's seal. The letter slithers out into his hand.

Dear Samuel,

Your abrupt departure was lamentable but entirely understandable. I do hope you're not feeling the effects of the rite too terribly. I'm told that plenty of camomile tea will settle your nerves. You may even find yourself able to sleep within a few days.

And Dean, how is he? It was very clever of him to escape. You may assure him that his captor did not break too many bones in his fall. He suffered a few broken ribs and a shattered jaw but your brother showed remarkable restraint, considering he believed you to be in danger. How wonderfully close you are.

I trust that same closeness will not lead you to do anything foolish when the time comes upon Dean. I imagine you begin to suspect the truth already. You and Dean were ideal for our purposes. We needed a psychic, a voice loud enough to reach Dread Cthulhu in R'lyeh and stir the sleeping dreamer. But we also needed a vessel strong enough to carry the Old Gods' seed.

Bring your brother back to us before the nine months are over and we may be able to help him survive the birth. Of course, I'm sure if you choose to manage the situation yourself, you will find the honour of being present at the birth satisfaction enough. After all, not only did you wake Cthulhu but you acted as host for the priest-god, a more remarkable blessing than any a demon might have bestowed upon you!

Should you need anything, don't hesitate to contact us. I do hope to see you again within the nine months. Until then, I remain,

Your friend,

William Armitage.

Sam closes his fingers tight about the letter, crumpling it into a ball in his palm. He looks out of the window again. Dean's just bringing the trunk down. He slams it shut then stumbles. On instinct, Sam starts to reach out to him, even though there's glass and distance between them. Dean catches himself before he can fall. His eyes close and he rests against the Impala for a moment. His face is grey.

Then he straightens up and sees Sam watching. He gestures for him to join him then turns away to climb in the car.

As the Impala starts up, Sam drops the letter in the trash and walks out.

~end


A.N. I want to give a few closing notes on this one, so as to properly credit the source of most of the creepiness in this. Sam's account of The Dunwich Horror comes, of course, from the HP Lovecraft short story of the same name. Miskatonic, and Arkham, are both Lovecraft's, though I did take liberties with the nature of the university and its aims. In fact, like many other writers who've used Lovecraft's mythos, I've pretty much done my own thing with it so it may well contradict Lovecraft canon. I don't think he was all that consistent with his canon anyway, so I hope he won't mind.

Sam's voicemail message is stitched together from various pieces of text attributed to The Necronomicon, and separates to:
1. "That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die."
2. "Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!", which translates roughly to "Yes! Yes! Cthulhu waits! In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming."
3. "Yet He shall rise and His kingdom shall cover the Earth."

The Black Goat of the Woods (with a Thousand Young) refers to Shub-Niggurath who is commonly thought of as one of the female Great Old Ones and is occasionally associated with fertility goddesses, which seemed appropriate as Dean was about to get knocked up.

Lastly, the smiling man that Sam meets on the seafront I kind of intended to be Nyarlathotep, simply because I think the character is cool and wanted him to be part of the mess. :)