The Old Gods Return (Sam/Dean, NC-17, 16154 words)
The Old Gods Return
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 16154 words, altered states sex, mentions of mpreg, some sexual molestation)
Written for spn_boc. Many thanks to roseganymede for helping me choose an awesome prompt, and to HP Lovecraft, who created the universe that collides with the regular SPN one here. Also thanks to greenspine for reading through this monster. ♥
The envelope is waiting for them behind the desk of the motel when they try to check out. It's made of a thick, coarse brown paper and Sam can't stop touching the flowing script in black ink that's the only marking on it: Mr Samuel Winchester.
No one should know they're here but the envelope's found them; whoever wrote Sam's name out knew where they were.
"'Old' and 'not much hair'?" says Dean. "Think you can do a little better by way of a description? C'mon, you must have spoken to the guy. Did he have an accent? Or say how he knew us?"
Dean's freaked and that's not the kind of emotion he handles well. He generally likes to handle it by setting fire to something. The motel manager looks about ready to run. He's hiding behind the desk, looking like he wishes he'd never let them take a room. Sam kind of wishes he hadn't let them either because the wallpaper? Was the ugliest yet. Seriously. Enough to give you a migraine.
"He was… old. Came by this morning and just said to give this to Samuel Winchester when he checked out."
Dean's jaw tightens and he leans forward over the desk but before he can grab the guy's shirt and give him a good hard shaking, Sam's got hold of his shoulder.
"C'mon, Dean. Doesn't matter." He flashes a smile at the guy, a polite, 'decent-upstanding-citizen' smile. "Thanks for this. Really. We'll be going now."
Dean casts one last displeased look at the guy but lets Sam steer him out of the motel. It's a bright, fresh morning. The Impala glistens under a layer of dew. There are wispy little shreds of clouds in the sky and the sunlight sparks off puddles of rainwater in the lot. Sam had listened to the storm last night in the dark, empty hours when he couldn't sleep.
They climb into the car and Sam's too busy turning the envelope over and over in his hands to notice that Dean hasn't started the car, is just watching him with growing impatience.
"Jeez, Sam, will you open the frickin' thing already?"
Sam starts at the hint of a snarl in Dean's voice and throws him an irritated look. It's only the fact Sam's name is quite clearly written on the envelope that keeps Dean from snatching it from him and even that's not likely to hold him up for much longer.
"Dude, will you give me a chance?" he says as he slides one long finger under the flap. "I was getting there!"
"But not in any hurry," Dean says. "You were always freaky as a kid like that, only kid I've ever known who didn't want to open his Christmas presents."
"I liked how they looked under the tree, when we had one."
The coarse paper rips and when the envelope opens, Sam can smell something old and dank. When Sam was about fourteen or fifteen, Dad had them living in a rented place in Portland, by the sea, and it's that same musty dampness that Sam thinks of now. It's gone before he's got chance to really catch it but the impression's set.
A single sheet of paper slips from the envelope. It's flimsy, so thin it's almost slippery. Sam unfolds it and reads it.
"Well?" Dean demands. "C'mon, man, what the hell does it say?"
Sam reads it through again and then frowns at the letterhead. He's just about to read it through again when Dean runs out of patience and snatches it from him. Sam doesn't put up a fight because his brain's still trying to process it.
He stares, unseeing, out the windscreen. Dean starts to speak, gives a small, confused sound, and then shuts up again. It's about how Sam feels. Finally Dean lowers the letter and Sam feels him turn to look at him so he turns his face towards him. Dean looks about as taken aback as Sam feels. There's a tiny frown on his face and he raises an eyebrow at Sam, as if expecting an explanation.
Sam shrugs at him.
"Any chance this is a joke?" Dean says.
Sam wishes it was. He thinks Dean does too. But he has to shake his head. He doesn't like doing it because it makes Dean's frown deepen.
"I don't think so, Dean. They knew how to find us, after all. I think this is the real deal."
Dean looks at the paper again, flaps it uselessly and Sam catches another scent of the sea.
"The Miskatonic University, dude. Alma mater of some of this century's craziest nutjobs? It's not real. It's an urban myth. I mean, really. People say they went to school there for the weirdo rep, not because they actually did."
"Every urban myth needs a starting point," Sam says, reasonable as he can.
"Yeah, but they don't send out invitations. Dude, this is…" Dean trails off, looking unhappy. He fidgets in his seat for a moment and stares out the window. "Don't remember reading anything about it in Dad's journal. In fact, aside from the directions they give us here, don't remember anyone ever actually saying where the University is s’posed to be, aside from in Arkham, wherever the hell that is. This is wrong."
"So you think we shouldn't go?"
Sam doesn't think it's an option, even as he asks the question. He's pretty sure Dean and he can refuse any invitation anyone chooses to make, it's not that. It's that this is something he can't turn down. Dean's right: the Miskatonic isn't mentioned in their Dad's journal, this is something new. And it's calling out to Sam.
He looks at Dean and sees him reading the letter again. They should know better than to let their curiosity get the better of them. They should.
"William Armitage," says Dean. "University Librarian. We can handle a librarian, right? Whatever kind of creepy shit he's got going on, I reckon we can take a librarian."
It's hard to disagree when Dean grins at him like that, so reckless and confident. Sam thinks they both know it's not as cut and dried as that, but he also knows they both want to go. So he lets Dean's grin sweep them along.
:::
By the time they’re the other side of Boston, Sam’s in a great mood, despite the weirdness of their morning. Dean’s good mood threatens his own - listening to the same three Motorhead songs over and over would make anyone a little grouchy - but Sam stubbornly refuses to be anything other than relentlessly cheerful.
It’s a beautiful day and the pure, vibrant colours of the New England scenery glow like everything’s been freshly washed. The pretty towns stutter out, becoming a single house here or there. It’s all still very picturesque, even if the few people Sam catches sight of are stooped and always in the act of turning away so he only ever catches a blur of a face.
Sam guides Dean to Arkham using the directions given in the letter because as hard as they looked they couldn’t find it marked on any map. They exchanged looks at that, not needing to voice the sense of misgiving that inspired.
Still, William Armitage seems friendly enough in his letter, saying he’d heard the brothers spoken of as the best hunters of the day. And he’d seemed adamant that the help he was asking for was not so much for his own good as it was for the good of the whole world.
“He wants us to save the world?” Dean had said. “Cool. Do we get upgraded then? From hunters to superheroes?”
“Guess so. Where do you s’pose we can pick up some cute little masks and capes?”
For all their joking, it makes a difference. It makes a difference that they had a potential ally, of sorts, from the very beginning of the job. And that this gig is set to be a big one. There've been plenty of times that a mysterious death or two has led to nothing but a town full of hostility and some pissed off husband getting some creative revenge on his unfaithful wife or the like.
Saving the world? Well, a thing like that can certainly change a destiny, can prove that what once was lost has been found.
"Dude, this place needs some serious work," says Dean, peering out the side window. "Colour me stunned that Arkham isn't the number one holiday destination this side of Disneyland."
If there was a welcome sign to the town, Sam missed it. He thinks though that there probably wasn't one. Even the fierce glare of sunshine can't lift the air of gloom and squalor that sits over Arkham. The sagging gambrel roofs of the buildings burn strangely shaped shadows on the ground. Buildings that must once have been remarkably fine have been worn away and are all the more depressing for the hints of lost glory that mark the lines of their old Georgian balustrades and crumbling stonework. There are the remains of faces and flourishes carved into the stone, more eerie than beautiful now.
There's no one on the streets although Sam can see the flutterings of figures through the smeared windows of the rundown shops and cafés they're passing. It stirs memories of Cold Oak, and there's absolutely nothing about that dead dead place that Sam wants to remember.
For as long as it takes for Dean to cast another unimpressed look about their surroundings, Sam thinks about telling him (begging him) to just turn the car around and put his foot down. To get the hell out of here. Because nothing good will come of this.
Then Dean glances at him and nods at the tall, thin building with pillars and arches that looms over the rest of the sprawling town, none the more welcoming for catching the majority of the sunlight.
"That's gotta be the University, right?"
"Either that or the local nightspot," says Sam.
Dean lets out a huff of laughter at that as he parks the car outside. They don't get out straight away. Both of them are taking one final look over the potential battleground before committing. Sam tugs the letter that brought them here out of his back jeans pocket and reads it through again. Dean's gazing up at one of the University windows, throws a half-friendly, half-mocking wave after a moment.
"Guess we're on," he says, jerking a thumb up at a figure that Sam can’t make out.
He climbs out and Sam bites his lip and doesn't follow suit until the reverberations of Dean slamming his door shut have finished trembling through the car.
:::
William Armitage doesn't quite put Sam's mind at rest. Oh, he almost does. He's a serious, professorial type but he greets Dean with as much genuine respect as he does Sam. People who are smart enough to figure Sam and Dean have the brawns and brains shared out equally between them always rate highly with Sam. He lifts his head so he can peer at them through the spectacles that have slid to the end of his aquiline nose.
Still, there's something about him that keeps Sam on his guard. He can't put a finger on what it is but as they're shown into a small study, Sam resolves to have it worked out by the time he gets time to talk to Dean again. Funny as it is for him to still be a sceptic, Dean never likes to rely solely on Sam's intuition.
Maybe it's the shelves of books behind the desk, the titles of which are all oddly illegible. Maybe it's the general air of decay that's as bad inside the buildings as it was out. Or maybe it's the smell of the sea, so out of place here. Sam catches it sometimes, just for a second when he turns his head.
"I can't express my relief at seeing you," William says, settling into his chair. "And for you to have come so promptly as well, when you must have so much to do."
Dean's obviously uncomfortable with the tiny teacup and saucer he's been handed - he keeps twisting them round to get them better balanced and the scraping of porcelain has been damn near constant for the last five minutes. He takes William's opening as a chance to set the thing down on the table and Sam thinks William's as relieved about it as he is. The carpet on the floor may be faded and tattered but Sam guesses it cost a lot new and a big brown tea stain on it won’t fit in with the pattern.
"You said it was important," says Dean. "Saving the world type important. Can't leave a thing like that for 'when you've got time'."
William nods and laughs, a dry reedy sound. His amusement dies away quickly and he slumps back in his chair. Sam realises he misjudged his age. He had him down for fifties, maybe early sixties when he greeted them in the foyer. Now though, when he looks tired and grey, he seems more like eighty.
"Unfortunately it is just that serious."
When he doesn't say anymore Sam exchanges a frustrated look with Dean. Dean shrugs and glances away, handing the conversation over to Sam. Sometimes it sucks to be the one who's good with people - people who aren't big-breasted, big-haired young women that is.
"Can you tell us what the problem is, Mr Armitage?" Sam says, leaning forward.
William looks back at him and he looks desperate for a moment. Then he composes himself and gives a wry smile.
"A volume from our collection has gone missing. In the wrong hands it could do unimaginable evil."
Sam gets there before Dean does. His eyes widen and his voice loses its hushed tone in his alarm.
"Your collection? You mean, at the library? You're not talking about the Necronomicon, are you?"
A shudder goes through William as Sam speaks the book's title and he shakes his head quickly. Dean glances at Sam, his eyes still wide with concern. William takes a slow, soothing sip of his tea and shakes his head again.
"No. You may rest assured we would not allow such a thing loose upon the world. The primary duty of any librarian at the Miskatonic University is to ensure that the Necronomicon remains safely locked away." He hesitates, then looks at Sam. There's a speculative look in his eye, a light of shared conspiracy. "Would you like to see it, Mr Winchester? To put your mind at rest?"
That's not why Sam wants to see it and he thinks William knows it. He wants to see it because it's the Necronomicon. He wants to see it for the same reason Dean gets stupidly excited whenever it sounds like they might be on the trail of Bigfoot: because this is one of the holy grails of hunting.
Part of him thinks he should say no. He thinks Bobby would probably say no. Then again, William's already standing and moving to a safe at the back of the room. And Sam thinks Bobby would probably also understand why Sam can't say no.
"Uh… maybe it’d be best not-" Dean starts to say, shifting in his seat, but then William's carrying the tome back to Sam, Sam's reaching out for it. And then it's in Sam's hands.
It's not how he expects. He expects it to be cold to the touch, or maybe have an inexplicable hellish heat. He expects it to feel different to the thousand or so old books he's looked at in his lifetime. But it's just a book. It could as easily be an old hardback Dickens novel as a tome of unspeakable horror.
"Deceptive, isn't it?" says William and Sam realises he's been waiting for his reaction.
William reaches out and before Sam can stop him, he's opened the book. Sam draws in breath to protest because it's one thing to hold the Necronomicon in his hands, it's another thing altogether to open it. But he lets the breath out slowly, wonderingly as he reads. It's nothing but deranged rambling. It's strikingly lyrical but nothing that strikes him as sinister. If he didn't know better, he'd think it translated poetry rather than ancient evocations and storytelling.
"So," says Dean. "It's not the Necronomicon that's gone missing. Good to know. What has gone missing and what do you want us to do about it?"
There's a seriously displeased note to his voice that's obvious to anyone with ears. But Sam's the only one left alive, he thinks, who'd also pick up on the undercurrent of unease. So he closes the book again carefully and hands it back to William. Sam smiles at him as he does it, a secret, slightly guilty smile. William gets that it's a geeky pleasure rather than something to get freaked out about, even if Dean doesn't.
"Thanks. Dean's right though, I've let us get distracted. Tell us how we can help."
William doesn't answer until the Necronomicon is safely back within its vault. Sam suspects he's taking the time to figure out how to explain the situation. That's enough to put him straight back on guard. William takes his seat again and straightens some papers on his desk as he answers.
"We have a fine collection of books and texts on the subject of demonology and ancient deities here. We're rather famous for it. As such, we receive a great number of requests for research access. Very few people meet our standards and we decline most applications."
Dean raises an eyebrow, glancing at Sam for explanation, but William catches the look and answers for him.
"Most, if not all, of the books we store are capable of bringing hell on earth. Raising demons, creation of the undead, control of infernal beasts… we cannot allow just anyone to learn their secrets. We decline on the grounds that we are unconvinced that the motivation is purely academic. However, there have been occasions when people have been unable to accept our decision and try to take matters into their own hands."
William's comment in connection with the University library, and his surname suddenly stirs some half-forgotten snippet in Sam's mind. He frowns and looks William over again.
"The Dunwich incident?" he says. Dean pulls a face and sits back in his chair. Sam doesn't like leaving Dean out of the loop but this is too delicate for clarification right now. "A relative of yours?"
William's lips tighten but he inclines his head.
"Henry Armitage was my father. And how polite of you to call it an 'incident'. I believe 'nonsense' is more appropriate." His smile broadens at Sam's surprised look. He looks more comfortable on this topic than Sam would have expected. "Whereas I am no stranger to the occult, more than a few of the stories told about that episode are nothing but fabrication. My father loved a good story, he was also rather taken with the tales of the old gods. It was all quite ridiculous."
Dean makes a small irritable sound and shifts in his chair again. His frustration levels are such that Sam's got to wonder how long it is before he takes to driving them crazy with the cup and saucer scraping again.
"As I was saying," says William, politely ignoring Dean's not-so-polite prompt, "a young lady requested access last month to a series of Greek texts regarding the summoning of a certain demons, known as The Counted Horrors. We declined and she came to us in person, hoping to change our minds we thought." He flashes another of those wry smiles. "Oddly enough, when she left, the book was no longer in our possession."
"And you're sure she's the one that snatched it?" says Dean. "Couldn't have been taken since or before? Lost, maybe?"
"We checked it before her arrival and immediately after her departure. And we don't lose books."
Dean looks like he wants to argue the point, purely on the grounds of the guy pissing him off, so Sam leaps in again, leaning forward to catch William’s attention. He smiles at William and is graced with a paternally approving expression in return. He’s managed to connect with William as a fellow scholar of things that would be dismissed as horrific madness by the rest of the world. Whatever good will William had for Dean is clearly down to its last reserves.
“I’m guessing the police won’t act due to lack of evidence. So…. You want us to retrieve the book for you?”
William gives a small, tight nod. He puts his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. The colourless, dusty sunlight slants over his angular features, turning his face gaunt and full of dark red shadows. Sam wonders if it’s a conscious effort on his part to appear as creepy as possible.
“Her name is Asenaith Bishop. She lives in Innsmouth, I can give you directions as modern maps seem to have missed it somehow. I’m asking you to go to her home and bring the book back to the University, where it belongs.”
“I dunno, William,” says Dean, all unhelpful innocence, “that sounds like it might be pretty illegal.”
To his credit, though William’s eyes narrow, he doesn’t lose his temper. He gives Dean a very slow, very thin smile that reveals a mouth full of teeth.
“I suppose it does, but then again, so do any number of the activities I believe Asenaith is going to attempt using The Counted Horrors if you don’t retrieve it.”
:::
William walks them back down to the car. They don’t pass anyone else as they descend the rotting wooden staircases. There’s dust everywhere, so thick over the portraits that line the walls that Sam can only just recognize that there are faces in the frames and not simply a swirl of dull, ugly colours. Other people have to be somewhere in the building because every so often, there’s a distant creaking or low murmur of voices. Once, Sam even thinks he hears a sudden burst of laughter but he doesn’t see anyone.
He can tell the emptiness has registered with Dean too. His brother walks a little in front, peering round any half-open doors they pass, glancing down corridors.
William’s sedate pace keeps him next to Sam and suddenly he turns to him and says,
“You’re very close to your brother, aren’t you? That’s what everyone says. You’re the best hunters but you’re also extremely close to one another.”
It’s an odd thing to come out of nowhere and Sam doesn’t know quite how to respond. It sounds too confrontational to say what’s that got to do with anything? but it’s how he feels. William’s shown no interest in them personally. He’s only been concerned with ensuring they’ll do the job he’s asking. Sam flushes and shrugs.
“Guess we are.” And then, before William can say anything else that makes Sam uncomfortable, he shoots back, “How did you know how to find us?” William looks blankly at him but Sam’s not going to let it go. “The letter, at our motel? How did you find us?”
When Sam doesn’t break eye contact, William finally glances away and gives a small half-shrug of his own. He pauses to straighten a small bust of some obscure poet or writer. From where he’s standing, Sam can see that even the back of William’s stark black jacket has its own layer of dust. He’s as much a part of the University as the fading pictures and disintegrating woodwork.
“Come now, Samuel, you didn’t think hunters as famous as you and your brother could ever operate under radar, did you? There’ll always be ways to find you.”
As he looks back over his shoulder at Sam, William is smiling. It’s a nice smile, friendly and paternal, but Sam is not stupid and doesn’t buy it for a second. He stops dead on the spot and raises an eyebrow.
“That’s not a ‘how’,” he says.
He raises his voice just enough for Dean to hear and sure enough, Dean stops too, looking back at them. When he sees Sam and William in their civilized little face-off, he comes a few stops closer, glancing between the two of them as if he’s going to be able to figure out exactly what’s been said by their expressions. But even if Dean is clueless, the fact that William’s suddenly faced with both brothers knocks a little of the smug ambiguity out of him. He rolls his shoulders and his smile becomes more awkward.
“We paid some hunters an awful lot of money to locate you. Is your curiosity satisfied?”
The crudeness of the method used, when Sam was expected to have believed some intricate network of communication or even magic, leaves Sam fighting off the urge to grin for a moment. Instead he clears his throat and goes back to walking. It’s only a second before William falls in alongside him.
By the time they reach the ‘pala, William has recovered his hauteur. He gives Dean’s hand a perfunctory shake and then takes hold of Sam’s hand while Dean’s getting in the car.
“Thomas Waite runs a small hotel in Innsmouth, the Seaview. He’s a good friend of mine. I’ll let him know you’re coming and he’ll give you rooms, free of charge. He’ll also help you find Asenaith. Don’t expect to find any other friends in Innsmouth though. They’re a peculiar community, the product of inbreeding and superstition.”
“Sounds like a fun crowd,” says Dean from inside the car. He swings Sam’s car door open and gives him a pointed look. “C’mon, Sammy, we’d better hit the road.”
Sam gives William a polite wave as they pull away. He watches him in the wing-mirror until he’s out of sight, a tall dark figure standing on the crumbling steps of the university. Then he shoots Dean a look and is relieved to see that Dean’s expression is as skeptical as Sam feels.
“Only way hunters could have found us is if the desk clerk was one,” says Dean. “And that big old belly o’his makes me think he’d have to be packing some serious firepower ‘cos no way is he chasing things down.”
“I know.”
Sam doesn’t know if it’s quite as simple as that but the more he thinks about it, the more sure he is that William wasn’t telling the whole truth. A man trusted to safeguard a collection of books like the ones Miskatonic University is famous for doesn’t break so easily.
They follow the back road that William had directed them to and drive into a watery sunset. The wet blur of the sun sinks through clouds and down below the horizon, and the world takes on a peculiar grayish-pink tinge. Despite the cloying humidity, Sam keeps the window wound up because the air’s full of flies. They keep buzzing in his ears and he toys with the idea of asking Dean to close his window too. But he’d have to admit then that he’s got a problem with the bugs and he knows Dean would never let it go. Still, Dean’s music drones out most of their noise, and he finds himself grateful for the steady familiarity of it. They don’t bother with the radio; it’s nothing but dry talkshows.
“So,” says Dean, “the Dunwich incident. Fill me in.”
Sam thinks back over the scraps he’s heard over the ages, finally gives a shrug. Scraps don’t amount to much.
“I don’t know that much really. It was back in the twenties, I think, and more often known as the Dunwich Horror. A weird kind of changeling kid was born in Dunwich, had advanced aging, superior intelligence and, well, looked a bit freaky. When he was a bit older, he asked the Miskatonic for permission to read the Necronomicon, or maybe he wanted to take it away with him, and the librarian at the time, Henry Armitage said no.”
“Good for Henry.”
“Yeah. Anyway, the kid came back in the night and tried to steal it but ended up being savaged to death by one of the guard dogs.”
“One hell of a guard dog,” says Dean.
Sam smiles and nods.
“When they looked at the kid’s corpse, they found his anatomy’s screwed to hell. Some versions of the story say tentacles, others say cloven feet.”
“Either way, must have been tough for his mom to buy him clothes.” Sam glances at him, one eyebrow raised, and Dean flashes a smile in his direction. He waves a hand at him. “Go on! I’m listening!”
“Turns out the kid left something behind in Dunwich. Cattle die and there were weird noises in the night and… well, it’s your typical day at the office for us. Henry Armitage and some others went to investigate.”
A fly buzzes right in front of Sam’s face and he slaps it away. Suddenly, it’s a lot darker. Through the panes of the car windows, Sam can only make out the shapes of trees, dotted over vast planes of shadow. His mouth is dry and his eyes feel sore and full of grit. He draws in a breath and then Dean chuckles.
“Back in the land of the living, hey, kiddo?”
“What? I don’t…”
Dean’s lips quirk into a grin.
“You’ve been asleep. Went mid-sentence a few hours ago. You’re lousy company sometimes, man. Had nothing but this road and Black Sabbath.”
“No. No, I wasn’t asleep-“ says Sam, but he’s not sure because his watch is saying it’s ten pm too.
“Check the drool on the window,” says Dean. “You were totally gone.”
It feels wrong but even Dean can’t pull a prank on this scale. Even though Sam remembers the hazy dusk light as though he’d just blinked, it’s night out, no argument. So he slumps back in his seat and rubs the back of his hand over his face. There’s a thick, sour taste in his mouth and he thinks it might be the sea air. They must be close to the coast now, the air’s full of old, dank salt. It doesn’t smell fresh, not like the sea down south does.
He flexes his shoulders, which certainly ache enough to suggest he’s been sleeping. Dean looks to be running on the high he always gets at the beginning of a case. Sam hates him a little for it.
“So, uh, you want to hear the rest of the Dunwich story?”
Dean gives him a look, as if asking if Sam's trying to be weird.
“You already told me. The thing running off over the hills, shouting for its dad, Armitage thinking it was something to do with old gods. There more?”
Sam feels wrong for a second time and he frowns then shakes his head when he realizes he’s sitting there, sulky and disgruntled.
"No. That's it."
"Good," says Dean, "'cos we're about to hit Innsmouth. So try to look a little less like you've just crawled out of your grave and are looking to chow down on a few brains."
Sam gives Innsmouth the once over and then throws a sardonic smile at Dean.
"You sure? Because I reckon I'd fit right in like that."
Innsmouth is the kind of place that makes Arkham look like a thriving metropolis. There aren't even hints of former glory. It's a fishing hole and it stinks of it. The light of the rising moon glistens off the wetness that covers everything, from the rusted metal roofs of the squat houses to the uneven stone of the street, leaving it all looking slick and slimy.
Sam can't see the sea but he can hear it. He's been hearing it for a while but it's been creeping up on him so stealthily it's only now it's crashing somewhere close by that he can properly register the sound.
From the look on Dean's face, he's about as impressed.
"Right, how's this for a plan: we find the Seaview, we find where our girl is, we get our book and we get out of here, all in the next hour and a half?"
Sam nods, watching drops of water freckle over the car window.
"That's a plan I can get behind, yeah."
:::
As it turns out, their plan gets sunk at the 'finding the girl' part. They find the Seaview, which is a multi-storey dump of a place on what passes as the main street of the town, and they find Thomas Waite, who is a short guy with a perennially nervous expression.
"Sam and Dean," he says as they approach the desk. "William called ahead, said you were coming. I've got a room set aside for you."
"Uh, great," says Dean, tapping his fingers on the yellowing page of the register that Thomas has set in front of him. He's still got the Impala keys in his hand, the bags are still in the trunk. "Change of plan though, we're looking to get the job done tonight. So, where are we going to find Asenaith?"
Thomas looks between the two of them and mops at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He smiles a little but it doesn't reach his eyes, which are small and dark.
"Oh you can't do that. Asenaith lives out on the cliffs. The path is treacherous, even in daylight. Besides, the sea's rising."
From the look on Thomas's face, this is obviously a non-debatable point. Sam doesn't know what 'the sea's rising' means, he guesses it's something to do with the tide. Whatever it's about, it doesn't look like Dean's great plan is going to be viable.
He gives a resigned sigh, meets Dean's gaze, then picks up the pen on the desk and signs the register. Dean hesitates, glares at Sam like it's his fault the crazy woman's living on a rock, signs the register himself and throws the pen down. Thomas makes a pleased, relieved sound and takes the register back from them.
From the look of the low-ceilinged lounge Thomas leads them through, the Seaview is apparently the town watering hole. It’s like any other backwater drinking spot Sam’s ever seen: working men slumped around tables full of foamy, empty glasses, servers with overly tousled hair and too much thigh on show, a little more light around a few pool tables and the faint background noise of music from the eighties. He’s reassured by the normality of it, even if he doesn’t like the way the people look at them as they pass.
The look they give Sam - blank and appraising - is different from the look they give Dean. It puts Sam on edge in a way he can’t quite figure out. He only knows that he feels better when he moves to walk right along side Dean, using his greater height to block his brother a little from view. Dean’s oblivious to it, of course. Dean’s always been oblivious to the fact that the effect of long-lashed green eyes and full lips isn’t restricted solely to women. Mentioning it to Dean would probably earn him a split lip and a week of Dean sulking.
Their room is about as good as Sam was expecting in a place like this. There are large patches of damp on the dull green walls, like storm clouds pushing over a sickly-coloured sky. The window’s been left open and Sam can’t help a shiver at the frigid sweep of air. There’s a painting on the wall, a seascape done in watercolours but oddly brown. Neither bed in the room looks particularly comfortable, the blankets thin as paper. Through an open door off to the side, Sam can see an antiquated white-tiled bathroom.
“Here we are, gents, on the house,” says Thomas. “Anything to help the Miskatonic.” He drops his voice suddenly at the last word and glances about fearfully. He shoots them another feeble smile and backs out.
Dean prods at one of the beds with a dubious expression, his lower lip protruding in a manner that on anyone else could be a pout. The mattress manages a whining creak of springs. Sam crosses to the window and starts to pull it shut. He’s struck by how black the night is. Even with the moon glowing in the sky, he can’t see anything of the street aside from a few dim shapes of cars. There’s only the roar of the sea.
“Thought we were getting two rooms,” Sam says.
“You’ve never had a problem sharing with me before,” says Dean. He seems to recognize how prickly he sounds because he tries to smooth it over with a grin. “Must be the height of the tourist season. Bet they just come flooding in to Innsmouth. I’ll bring our bags up.”
Sam moves to cut him off at the door.
“No,” he says. “I’ll get them.” At Dean’s querying expression, Sam feels inclined to give something by way of explanation. “I didn’t like the way they were looking at you. At us.”
“Seriously, Sam, they probably don’t see many people from outside of Innsmouth here. Hell, we’re not related to them somehow, that’s gotta be a novelty.”
It’s stupid but the thought of Dean going down there alone, out where they all could see him, watch him, makes him inexplicably angsty. People do crazy things and Sam isn’t sure he trusts the locals to understand that trying anything with Dean would be very bad for their health. He knows Dean can take care of himself but Dean doesn’t see the threat quite as clearly as Sam does.
“Just… just let me,” says Sam.
The soft amusement on Dean’s face rapidly turns to exasperation. Dean shoulders past Sam and is out in the corridor before Sam can stop him.
“I’ll get the bags,” he calls over his shoulder. “You get some sleep, you look like crap.”
:::
The stones are huge and the angles of them make his eyes hurt. They shouldn’t fit together but they do, locking one into another into another. Towering up into the swimming sky. Sam touches the walls, the roughly hewn pictures, and his palm aches at the contact. He brings his hand back down and rubs it mindlessly on the clinging rumples of his wet t-shirt. He can’t look at the structure for too long because it makes him want to scream and if he opens his mouth he’s going to drown.
He walks and walks and it’s silent, thundering. His footsteps make no sound at all. He can’t even hear his heartbeat. The weight of the water can’t hold him back. Instead it wraps around him, like he’s a bubble trapped under a slide.
The path seems to spiral down but he can’t tell because the walls still seem square. He presses flat to the wall and edges further along, even though his skin stings everywhere the rock touches him.
“Sam?”
Sam glances around but there’s only the empty, soaking air. His fingers are like claws against the wall, the nails threatening to snap clean off. The path keeps swirling downwards. Something’s pounding at the bottom. Something’s singing. Its songs make Sam want to fall to his knees. To bash his head against the wall until his skull cracks open and his brain can slip free. Anything to make the songs get out from inside him.
“Sam!”
Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning towards him. His eyes are luminous in the half-light. He’s still dressed and he’s holding his cell in his hand. Sam half-sits up and swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, the sour panic still running through him. Dean’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him steady. It’s hard to breath for a moment but it gets easier. Sam pants and gasps and Dean holds onto him.
Finally, Sam can sit up properly and brings his knees up to his chest. He scrapes his fingers through his hair, which is wet with sweat.
“Vision? Or nightmare?” says Dean, as he drops his hand.
It’s too soon to not have Dean touching him but Sam doesn’t know how to vocalize it. He shakes his head and shrugs.
“Nightmare,” he says. “I think.” He thinks again about Dean’s cell, his fingers curled about it. “Who were you calling?”
Dean glances down at the phone as if surprised to see it there. He looks at Sam again and then throws the cell back onto his bed.
“No one really. Just… checking my messages.”
After so many years of travelling together, living right within each other’s space, it’s still hard sometimes for Sam to tell when his brother’s lying to him. Right now though, he’s pretty sure Dean is. He can’t push it any further because he doesn’t know why Dean would be hiding who he’d been calling, or who’d been calling him, but it doesn’t ease his wrong feeling.
“How long have I been asleep?” he says at last.
“You were out when I brought the bags up.”
Sam starts to shake his head because he knows how anxious he was about Dean going down, through those crowds of hungry-eyed men, alone. He’s sure he intended to sit and wait until Dean was safely back in the room. But he can’t remember Dean coming back. He can’t remember it at all.
:::
Morning does Innsmouth a few favours, but not many. The place still keeps its spot on Sam’s list of Top Ten Places He Never Wants to Visit Again. There are a few more people on the street, mostly unfriendly-looking types on their way to work but, as Sam gazes through the Seaview’s dining room window, a little girl with long blonde plaits waves at him. He waves back, until her mother grabs her by the wrist, shoots Sam an ugly look, and drags the little girl away.
“Your town’s not big on visitors, is it?” says Dean with a grin, as Thomas pours him a cup of coffee.
“Sure isn't,” Thomas says with a laugh and takes a seat across from them. “But to be fair, they don’t often get visitors inclined to be sympathetic.”
Sam turns back in his seat to rejoin the conversation.
“Sympathetic to what?”
There’s a second where Thomas looks trapped and Sam wonders if he’s said more than he meant to. Then the look disappears and is replaced with one of careful neutrality. He scratches the back of his neck and doesn’t meet their eyes as he speaks.
“It sounds ridiculous I know but, most of Innsmouth still believes in the Old Gods. Huge, nasty gods that used to rule the world and are right now just… sleeping. They believe they’ll come back to rule us one day.”
“And you?” Dean says. “What do you believe?”
Thomas hesitates again.
“I believe that if that’s the case, you’d better hope that day’s a long way off. The terror the Old Gods would bring would make the demons you boys hunt no more than butterflies.”
Dean exchanges a look with Sam as he brings his coffee up to his mouth. He’s smiling, in spite of the dark look in his eyes.
“There’s a cheery thought.”
It’s too unsettling for Sam to want to dwell on it long. He’s still feeling heavy from the night of bad sleep and the thick hostility they’re met with everywhere they go is wearing him down. He wants to be gone.
“So,” he says, “Asenaith Bishop. Where can we find her?”
“You won’t,” says Thomas. “Not until some time tomorrow. She’s out of town. But-“ he adds hurriedly, seeing the startled looks on both Sam and Dean’s faces, “she came back here after her visit to the University. Her house is unattended. Poor security on it too.”
The soft breath Dean lets out suggests he’s not exactly thrilled by the prospect. Neither’s Sam. Still, it’s not as if they’ve got much choice. They’re here now and it’s important to get the book back to where it belongs. Sam swirls the last of his coffee about in his cup, struck for an instant on the ripple of the liquid, then glances at Dean.
“We take a look and if we can’t find it, we wait until she gets back and we politely ask her to return it,” he says, in the gentle tone of a proposed plan.
Dean grumbles into his cup but shrugs.
“I liked my plan better,” he says.
:::
The photo of Asenaith that Thomas gives them shows a woman a few years older than Dean, with a sickly complexion and a lot of wispy blonde hair. Dean takes one look at it, shudders and passes it back to Sam. He’s apparently even less inclined to fall in lust with her when he sees the house she’s living in.
Thomas was right about it being too risky to reach it in the dark. It’s a tall, dark house on an outcrop of rock that can only be reached by navigating a path that drops away on both sides into nothing but the sea. The crash of waves is deafening and Sam wraps his arms around himself and wishes he’d put on something thicker than his hoodie. He follows along behind Dean and can see the droplets of seawater speckling the back of his leather jacket. There’s a vague, nagging urge to swipe his fingertips through the dampness but he’s not sure he’d trust himself to keep his balance if he did.
He feels too exposed under the hugeness of the sky, a tiny nothing between space and sea. Even the dank overhang of Asenaith’s roof is welcome. He drops to a crouch to pick the lock and feels even safer when Dean crowds in behind him, a warm living shield. The salt air burns in his nose and mouth but it gets overwhelmed by the familiar scent of Dean, all leather and gunmetal and coffee.
When he rises back to his feet, he staggers briefly and Dean catches him. He holds him by the shoulders and looks up into Sam’s face, eyes wide and concerned.
“Hey, you okay?”
He is when Dean’s right there and Sam doesn’t have to look at the sky or listen to the sea. He only has to look at Dean. He smiles at him, soft and sleepy, then gives him a single nod.
“Yeah, just think I might be coming down with a cold or something.”
Dean lets go of him and moves past him into the house, gaze roaming over the interior even as he calls back to Sam.
“Yeah well you need to be dressing a little more sensibly. You’re not in California now, man. Rest of the world has a whole lot of ‘cold and wet’.”
Asenaith’s house has a whole lot of ‘dark and smelly’. It’s got all the dust of Miskatonic University, plus a layer of grime. The windows are too filthy to let much light through and there’s a steady dripping of water somewhere deeper in the house. There’s not much by way of personal items. Asenaith seems to go by the Bobby-Singer school of decoration and has piles of books lining the walls. A few loose sheets of paper are on the floor and Dean stoops to pick one up. He sighs in disgust and lets it drift back to the ground.
“This is one big, ugly haystack.”
Sam pushes one of the doors wide, the creak of it echoing off the walls. He jerks his head at the library of books inside, rows and rows on shelves and the floor filled with the overflow.
“It just got a whole lot bigger.”
Part II
(Sam/Dean, nc-17, 16154 words, altered states sex, mentions of mpreg, some sexual molestation)
Written for spn_boc. Many thanks to roseganymede for helping me choose an awesome prompt, and to HP Lovecraft, who created the universe that collides with the regular SPN one here. Also thanks to greenspine for reading through this monster. ♥
The envelope is waiting for them behind the desk of the motel when they try to check out. It's made of a thick, coarse brown paper and Sam can't stop touching the flowing script in black ink that's the only marking on it: Mr Samuel Winchester.
No one should know they're here but the envelope's found them; whoever wrote Sam's name out knew where they were.
"'Old' and 'not much hair'?" says Dean. "Think you can do a little better by way of a description? C'mon, you must have spoken to the guy. Did he have an accent? Or say how he knew us?"
Dean's freaked and that's not the kind of emotion he handles well. He generally likes to handle it by setting fire to something. The motel manager looks about ready to run. He's hiding behind the desk, looking like he wishes he'd never let them take a room. Sam kind of wishes he hadn't let them either because the wallpaper? Was the ugliest yet. Seriously. Enough to give you a migraine.
"He was… old. Came by this morning and just said to give this to Samuel Winchester when he checked out."
Dean's jaw tightens and he leans forward over the desk but before he can grab the guy's shirt and give him a good hard shaking, Sam's got hold of his shoulder.
"C'mon, Dean. Doesn't matter." He flashes a smile at the guy, a polite, 'decent-upstanding-citizen' smile. "Thanks for this. Really. We'll be going now."
Dean casts one last displeased look at the guy but lets Sam steer him out of the motel. It's a bright, fresh morning. The Impala glistens under a layer of dew. There are wispy little shreds of clouds in the sky and the sunlight sparks off puddles of rainwater in the lot. Sam had listened to the storm last night in the dark, empty hours when he couldn't sleep.
They climb into the car and Sam's too busy turning the envelope over and over in his hands to notice that Dean hasn't started the car, is just watching him with growing impatience.
"Jeez, Sam, will you open the frickin' thing already?"
Sam starts at the hint of a snarl in Dean's voice and throws him an irritated look. It's only the fact Sam's name is quite clearly written on the envelope that keeps Dean from snatching it from him and even that's not likely to hold him up for much longer.
"Dude, will you give me a chance?" he says as he slides one long finger under the flap. "I was getting there!"
"But not in any hurry," Dean says. "You were always freaky as a kid like that, only kid I've ever known who didn't want to open his Christmas presents."
"I liked how they looked under the tree, when we had one."
The coarse paper rips and when the envelope opens, Sam can smell something old and dank. When Sam was about fourteen or fifteen, Dad had them living in a rented place in Portland, by the sea, and it's that same musty dampness that Sam thinks of now. It's gone before he's got chance to really catch it but the impression's set.
A single sheet of paper slips from the envelope. It's flimsy, so thin it's almost slippery. Sam unfolds it and reads it.
"Well?" Dean demands. "C'mon, man, what the hell does it say?"
Sam reads it through again and then frowns at the letterhead. He's just about to read it through again when Dean runs out of patience and snatches it from him. Sam doesn't put up a fight because his brain's still trying to process it.
He stares, unseeing, out the windscreen. Dean starts to speak, gives a small, confused sound, and then shuts up again. It's about how Sam feels. Finally Dean lowers the letter and Sam feels him turn to look at him so he turns his face towards him. Dean looks about as taken aback as Sam feels. There's a tiny frown on his face and he raises an eyebrow at Sam, as if expecting an explanation.
Sam shrugs at him.
"Any chance this is a joke?" Dean says.
Sam wishes it was. He thinks Dean does too. But he has to shake his head. He doesn't like doing it because it makes Dean's frown deepen.
"I don't think so, Dean. They knew how to find us, after all. I think this is the real deal."
Dean looks at the paper again, flaps it uselessly and Sam catches another scent of the sea.
"The Miskatonic University, dude. Alma mater of some of this century's craziest nutjobs? It's not real. It's an urban myth. I mean, really. People say they went to school there for the weirdo rep, not because they actually did."
"Every urban myth needs a starting point," Sam says, reasonable as he can.
"Yeah, but they don't send out invitations. Dude, this is…" Dean trails off, looking unhappy. He fidgets in his seat for a moment and stares out the window. "Don't remember reading anything about it in Dad's journal. In fact, aside from the directions they give us here, don't remember anyone ever actually saying where the University is s’posed to be, aside from in Arkham, wherever the hell that is. This is wrong."
"So you think we shouldn't go?"
Sam doesn't think it's an option, even as he asks the question. He's pretty sure Dean and he can refuse any invitation anyone chooses to make, it's not that. It's that this is something he can't turn down. Dean's right: the Miskatonic isn't mentioned in their Dad's journal, this is something new. And it's calling out to Sam.
He looks at Dean and sees him reading the letter again. They should know better than to let their curiosity get the better of them. They should.
"William Armitage," says Dean. "University Librarian. We can handle a librarian, right? Whatever kind of creepy shit he's got going on, I reckon we can take a librarian."
It's hard to disagree when Dean grins at him like that, so reckless and confident. Sam thinks they both know it's not as cut and dried as that, but he also knows they both want to go. So he lets Dean's grin sweep them along.
:::
By the time they’re the other side of Boston, Sam’s in a great mood, despite the weirdness of their morning. Dean’s good mood threatens his own - listening to the same three Motorhead songs over and over would make anyone a little grouchy - but Sam stubbornly refuses to be anything other than relentlessly cheerful.
It’s a beautiful day and the pure, vibrant colours of the New England scenery glow like everything’s been freshly washed. The pretty towns stutter out, becoming a single house here or there. It’s all still very picturesque, even if the few people Sam catches sight of are stooped and always in the act of turning away so he only ever catches a blur of a face.
Sam guides Dean to Arkham using the directions given in the letter because as hard as they looked they couldn’t find it marked on any map. They exchanged looks at that, not needing to voice the sense of misgiving that inspired.
Still, William Armitage seems friendly enough in his letter, saying he’d heard the brothers spoken of as the best hunters of the day. And he’d seemed adamant that the help he was asking for was not so much for his own good as it was for the good of the whole world.
“He wants us to save the world?” Dean had said. “Cool. Do we get upgraded then? From hunters to superheroes?”
“Guess so. Where do you s’pose we can pick up some cute little masks and capes?”
For all their joking, it makes a difference. It makes a difference that they had a potential ally, of sorts, from the very beginning of the job. And that this gig is set to be a big one. There've been plenty of times that a mysterious death or two has led to nothing but a town full of hostility and some pissed off husband getting some creative revenge on his unfaithful wife or the like.
Saving the world? Well, a thing like that can certainly change a destiny, can prove that what once was lost has been found.
"Dude, this place needs some serious work," says Dean, peering out the side window. "Colour me stunned that Arkham isn't the number one holiday destination this side of Disneyland."
If there was a welcome sign to the town, Sam missed it. He thinks though that there probably wasn't one. Even the fierce glare of sunshine can't lift the air of gloom and squalor that sits over Arkham. The sagging gambrel roofs of the buildings burn strangely shaped shadows on the ground. Buildings that must once have been remarkably fine have been worn away and are all the more depressing for the hints of lost glory that mark the lines of their old Georgian balustrades and crumbling stonework. There are the remains of faces and flourishes carved into the stone, more eerie than beautiful now.
There's no one on the streets although Sam can see the flutterings of figures through the smeared windows of the rundown shops and cafés they're passing. It stirs memories of Cold Oak, and there's absolutely nothing about that dead dead place that Sam wants to remember.
For as long as it takes for Dean to cast another unimpressed look about their surroundings, Sam thinks about telling him (begging him) to just turn the car around and put his foot down. To get the hell out of here. Because nothing good will come of this.
Then Dean glances at him and nods at the tall, thin building with pillars and arches that looms over the rest of the sprawling town, none the more welcoming for catching the majority of the sunlight.
"That's gotta be the University, right?"
"Either that or the local nightspot," says Sam.
Dean lets out a huff of laughter at that as he parks the car outside. They don't get out straight away. Both of them are taking one final look over the potential battleground before committing. Sam tugs the letter that brought them here out of his back jeans pocket and reads it through again. Dean's gazing up at one of the University windows, throws a half-friendly, half-mocking wave after a moment.
"Guess we're on," he says, jerking a thumb up at a figure that Sam can’t make out.
He climbs out and Sam bites his lip and doesn't follow suit until the reverberations of Dean slamming his door shut have finished trembling through the car.
:::
William Armitage doesn't quite put Sam's mind at rest. Oh, he almost does. He's a serious, professorial type but he greets Dean with as much genuine respect as he does Sam. People who are smart enough to figure Sam and Dean have the brawns and brains shared out equally between them always rate highly with Sam. He lifts his head so he can peer at them through the spectacles that have slid to the end of his aquiline nose.
Still, there's something about him that keeps Sam on his guard. He can't put a finger on what it is but as they're shown into a small study, Sam resolves to have it worked out by the time he gets time to talk to Dean again. Funny as it is for him to still be a sceptic, Dean never likes to rely solely on Sam's intuition.
Maybe it's the shelves of books behind the desk, the titles of which are all oddly illegible. Maybe it's the general air of decay that's as bad inside the buildings as it was out. Or maybe it's the smell of the sea, so out of place here. Sam catches it sometimes, just for a second when he turns his head.
"I can't express my relief at seeing you," William says, settling into his chair. "And for you to have come so promptly as well, when you must have so much to do."
Dean's obviously uncomfortable with the tiny teacup and saucer he's been handed - he keeps twisting them round to get them better balanced and the scraping of porcelain has been damn near constant for the last five minutes. He takes William's opening as a chance to set the thing down on the table and Sam thinks William's as relieved about it as he is. The carpet on the floor may be faded and tattered but Sam guesses it cost a lot new and a big brown tea stain on it won’t fit in with the pattern.
"You said it was important," says Dean. "Saving the world type important. Can't leave a thing like that for 'when you've got time'."
William nods and laughs, a dry reedy sound. His amusement dies away quickly and he slumps back in his chair. Sam realises he misjudged his age. He had him down for fifties, maybe early sixties when he greeted them in the foyer. Now though, when he looks tired and grey, he seems more like eighty.
"Unfortunately it is just that serious."
When he doesn't say anymore Sam exchanges a frustrated look with Dean. Dean shrugs and glances away, handing the conversation over to Sam. Sometimes it sucks to be the one who's good with people - people who aren't big-breasted, big-haired young women that is.
"Can you tell us what the problem is, Mr Armitage?" Sam says, leaning forward.
William looks back at him and he looks desperate for a moment. Then he composes himself and gives a wry smile.
"A volume from our collection has gone missing. In the wrong hands it could do unimaginable evil."
Sam gets there before Dean does. His eyes widen and his voice loses its hushed tone in his alarm.
"Your collection? You mean, at the library? You're not talking about the Necronomicon, are you?"
A shudder goes through William as Sam speaks the book's title and he shakes his head quickly. Dean glances at Sam, his eyes still wide with concern. William takes a slow, soothing sip of his tea and shakes his head again.
"No. You may rest assured we would not allow such a thing loose upon the world. The primary duty of any librarian at the Miskatonic University is to ensure that the Necronomicon remains safely locked away." He hesitates, then looks at Sam. There's a speculative look in his eye, a light of shared conspiracy. "Would you like to see it, Mr Winchester? To put your mind at rest?"
That's not why Sam wants to see it and he thinks William knows it. He wants to see it because it's the Necronomicon. He wants to see it for the same reason Dean gets stupidly excited whenever it sounds like they might be on the trail of Bigfoot: because this is one of the holy grails of hunting.
Part of him thinks he should say no. He thinks Bobby would probably say no. Then again, William's already standing and moving to a safe at the back of the room. And Sam thinks Bobby would probably also understand why Sam can't say no.
"Uh… maybe it’d be best not-" Dean starts to say, shifting in his seat, but then William's carrying the tome back to Sam, Sam's reaching out for it. And then it's in Sam's hands.
It's not how he expects. He expects it to be cold to the touch, or maybe have an inexplicable hellish heat. He expects it to feel different to the thousand or so old books he's looked at in his lifetime. But it's just a book. It could as easily be an old hardback Dickens novel as a tome of unspeakable horror.
"Deceptive, isn't it?" says William and Sam realises he's been waiting for his reaction.
William reaches out and before Sam can stop him, he's opened the book. Sam draws in breath to protest because it's one thing to hold the Necronomicon in his hands, it's another thing altogether to open it. But he lets the breath out slowly, wonderingly as he reads. It's nothing but deranged rambling. It's strikingly lyrical but nothing that strikes him as sinister. If he didn't know better, he'd think it translated poetry rather than ancient evocations and storytelling.
"So," says Dean. "It's not the Necronomicon that's gone missing. Good to know. What has gone missing and what do you want us to do about it?"
There's a seriously displeased note to his voice that's obvious to anyone with ears. But Sam's the only one left alive, he thinks, who'd also pick up on the undercurrent of unease. So he closes the book again carefully and hands it back to William. Sam smiles at him as he does it, a secret, slightly guilty smile. William gets that it's a geeky pleasure rather than something to get freaked out about, even if Dean doesn't.
"Thanks. Dean's right though, I've let us get distracted. Tell us how we can help."
William doesn't answer until the Necronomicon is safely back within its vault. Sam suspects he's taking the time to figure out how to explain the situation. That's enough to put him straight back on guard. William takes his seat again and straightens some papers on his desk as he answers.
"We have a fine collection of books and texts on the subject of demonology and ancient deities here. We're rather famous for it. As such, we receive a great number of requests for research access. Very few people meet our standards and we decline most applications."
Dean raises an eyebrow, glancing at Sam for explanation, but William catches the look and answers for him.
"Most, if not all, of the books we store are capable of bringing hell on earth. Raising demons, creation of the undead, control of infernal beasts… we cannot allow just anyone to learn their secrets. We decline on the grounds that we are unconvinced that the motivation is purely academic. However, there have been occasions when people have been unable to accept our decision and try to take matters into their own hands."
William's comment in connection with the University library, and his surname suddenly stirs some half-forgotten snippet in Sam's mind. He frowns and looks William over again.
"The Dunwich incident?" he says. Dean pulls a face and sits back in his chair. Sam doesn't like leaving Dean out of the loop but this is too delicate for clarification right now. "A relative of yours?"
William's lips tighten but he inclines his head.
"Henry Armitage was my father. And how polite of you to call it an 'incident'. I believe 'nonsense' is more appropriate." His smile broadens at Sam's surprised look. He looks more comfortable on this topic than Sam would have expected. "Whereas I am no stranger to the occult, more than a few of the stories told about that episode are nothing but fabrication. My father loved a good story, he was also rather taken with the tales of the old gods. It was all quite ridiculous."
Dean makes a small irritable sound and shifts in his chair again. His frustration levels are such that Sam's got to wonder how long it is before he takes to driving them crazy with the cup and saucer scraping again.
"As I was saying," says William, politely ignoring Dean's not-so-polite prompt, "a young lady requested access last month to a series of Greek texts regarding the summoning of a certain demons, known as The Counted Horrors. We declined and she came to us in person, hoping to change our minds we thought." He flashes another of those wry smiles. "Oddly enough, when she left, the book was no longer in our possession."
"And you're sure she's the one that snatched it?" says Dean. "Couldn't have been taken since or before? Lost, maybe?"
"We checked it before her arrival and immediately after her departure. And we don't lose books."
Dean looks like he wants to argue the point, purely on the grounds of the guy pissing him off, so Sam leaps in again, leaning forward to catch William’s attention. He smiles at William and is graced with a paternally approving expression in return. He’s managed to connect with William as a fellow scholar of things that would be dismissed as horrific madness by the rest of the world. Whatever good will William had for Dean is clearly down to its last reserves.
“I’m guessing the police won’t act due to lack of evidence. So…. You want us to retrieve the book for you?”
William gives a small, tight nod. He puts his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. The colourless, dusty sunlight slants over his angular features, turning his face gaunt and full of dark red shadows. Sam wonders if it’s a conscious effort on his part to appear as creepy as possible.
“Her name is Asenaith Bishop. She lives in Innsmouth, I can give you directions as modern maps seem to have missed it somehow. I’m asking you to go to her home and bring the book back to the University, where it belongs.”
“I dunno, William,” says Dean, all unhelpful innocence, “that sounds like it might be pretty illegal.”
To his credit, though William’s eyes narrow, he doesn’t lose his temper. He gives Dean a very slow, very thin smile that reveals a mouth full of teeth.
“I suppose it does, but then again, so do any number of the activities I believe Asenaith is going to attempt using The Counted Horrors if you don’t retrieve it.”
:::
William walks them back down to the car. They don’t pass anyone else as they descend the rotting wooden staircases. There’s dust everywhere, so thick over the portraits that line the walls that Sam can only just recognize that there are faces in the frames and not simply a swirl of dull, ugly colours. Other people have to be somewhere in the building because every so often, there’s a distant creaking or low murmur of voices. Once, Sam even thinks he hears a sudden burst of laughter but he doesn’t see anyone.
He can tell the emptiness has registered with Dean too. His brother walks a little in front, peering round any half-open doors they pass, glancing down corridors.
William’s sedate pace keeps him next to Sam and suddenly he turns to him and says,
“You’re very close to your brother, aren’t you? That’s what everyone says. You’re the best hunters but you’re also extremely close to one another.”
It’s an odd thing to come out of nowhere and Sam doesn’t know quite how to respond. It sounds too confrontational to say what’s that got to do with anything? but it’s how he feels. William’s shown no interest in them personally. He’s only been concerned with ensuring they’ll do the job he’s asking. Sam flushes and shrugs.
“Guess we are.” And then, before William can say anything else that makes Sam uncomfortable, he shoots back, “How did you know how to find us?” William looks blankly at him but Sam’s not going to let it go. “The letter, at our motel? How did you find us?”
When Sam doesn’t break eye contact, William finally glances away and gives a small half-shrug of his own. He pauses to straighten a small bust of some obscure poet or writer. From where he’s standing, Sam can see that even the back of William’s stark black jacket has its own layer of dust. He’s as much a part of the University as the fading pictures and disintegrating woodwork.
“Come now, Samuel, you didn’t think hunters as famous as you and your brother could ever operate under radar, did you? There’ll always be ways to find you.”
As he looks back over his shoulder at Sam, William is smiling. It’s a nice smile, friendly and paternal, but Sam is not stupid and doesn’t buy it for a second. He stops dead on the spot and raises an eyebrow.
“That’s not a ‘how’,” he says.
He raises his voice just enough for Dean to hear and sure enough, Dean stops too, looking back at them. When he sees Sam and William in their civilized little face-off, he comes a few stops closer, glancing between the two of them as if he’s going to be able to figure out exactly what’s been said by their expressions. But even if Dean is clueless, the fact that William’s suddenly faced with both brothers knocks a little of the smug ambiguity out of him. He rolls his shoulders and his smile becomes more awkward.
“We paid some hunters an awful lot of money to locate you. Is your curiosity satisfied?”
The crudeness of the method used, when Sam was expected to have believed some intricate network of communication or even magic, leaves Sam fighting off the urge to grin for a moment. Instead he clears his throat and goes back to walking. It’s only a second before William falls in alongside him.
By the time they reach the ‘pala, William has recovered his hauteur. He gives Dean’s hand a perfunctory shake and then takes hold of Sam’s hand while Dean’s getting in the car.
“Thomas Waite runs a small hotel in Innsmouth, the Seaview. He’s a good friend of mine. I’ll let him know you’re coming and he’ll give you rooms, free of charge. He’ll also help you find Asenaith. Don’t expect to find any other friends in Innsmouth though. They’re a peculiar community, the product of inbreeding and superstition.”
“Sounds like a fun crowd,” says Dean from inside the car. He swings Sam’s car door open and gives him a pointed look. “C’mon, Sammy, we’d better hit the road.”
Sam gives William a polite wave as they pull away. He watches him in the wing-mirror until he’s out of sight, a tall dark figure standing on the crumbling steps of the university. Then he shoots Dean a look and is relieved to see that Dean’s expression is as skeptical as Sam feels.
“Only way hunters could have found us is if the desk clerk was one,” says Dean. “And that big old belly o’his makes me think he’d have to be packing some serious firepower ‘cos no way is he chasing things down.”
“I know.”
Sam doesn’t know if it’s quite as simple as that but the more he thinks about it, the more sure he is that William wasn’t telling the whole truth. A man trusted to safeguard a collection of books like the ones Miskatonic University is famous for doesn’t break so easily.
They follow the back road that William had directed them to and drive into a watery sunset. The wet blur of the sun sinks through clouds and down below the horizon, and the world takes on a peculiar grayish-pink tinge. Despite the cloying humidity, Sam keeps the window wound up because the air’s full of flies. They keep buzzing in his ears and he toys with the idea of asking Dean to close his window too. But he’d have to admit then that he’s got a problem with the bugs and he knows Dean would never let it go. Still, Dean’s music drones out most of their noise, and he finds himself grateful for the steady familiarity of it. They don’t bother with the radio; it’s nothing but dry talkshows.
“So,” says Dean, “the Dunwich incident. Fill me in.”
Sam thinks back over the scraps he’s heard over the ages, finally gives a shrug. Scraps don’t amount to much.
“I don’t know that much really. It was back in the twenties, I think, and more often known as the Dunwich Horror. A weird kind of changeling kid was born in Dunwich, had advanced aging, superior intelligence and, well, looked a bit freaky. When he was a bit older, he asked the Miskatonic for permission to read the Necronomicon, or maybe he wanted to take it away with him, and the librarian at the time, Henry Armitage said no.”
“Good for Henry.”
“Yeah. Anyway, the kid came back in the night and tried to steal it but ended up being savaged to death by one of the guard dogs.”
“One hell of a guard dog,” says Dean.
Sam smiles and nods.
“When they looked at the kid’s corpse, they found his anatomy’s screwed to hell. Some versions of the story say tentacles, others say cloven feet.”
“Either way, must have been tough for his mom to buy him clothes.” Sam glances at him, one eyebrow raised, and Dean flashes a smile in his direction. He waves a hand at him. “Go on! I’m listening!”
“Turns out the kid left something behind in Dunwich. Cattle die and there were weird noises in the night and… well, it’s your typical day at the office for us. Henry Armitage and some others went to investigate.”
A fly buzzes right in front of Sam’s face and he slaps it away. Suddenly, it’s a lot darker. Through the panes of the car windows, Sam can only make out the shapes of trees, dotted over vast planes of shadow. His mouth is dry and his eyes feel sore and full of grit. He draws in a breath and then Dean chuckles.
“Back in the land of the living, hey, kiddo?”
“What? I don’t…”
Dean’s lips quirk into a grin.
“You’ve been asleep. Went mid-sentence a few hours ago. You’re lousy company sometimes, man. Had nothing but this road and Black Sabbath.”
“No. No, I wasn’t asleep-“ says Sam, but he’s not sure because his watch is saying it’s ten pm too.
“Check the drool on the window,” says Dean. “You were totally gone.”
It feels wrong but even Dean can’t pull a prank on this scale. Even though Sam remembers the hazy dusk light as though he’d just blinked, it’s night out, no argument. So he slumps back in his seat and rubs the back of his hand over his face. There’s a thick, sour taste in his mouth and he thinks it might be the sea air. They must be close to the coast now, the air’s full of old, dank salt. It doesn’t smell fresh, not like the sea down south does.
He flexes his shoulders, which certainly ache enough to suggest he’s been sleeping. Dean looks to be running on the high he always gets at the beginning of a case. Sam hates him a little for it.
“So, uh, you want to hear the rest of the Dunwich story?”
Dean gives him a look, as if asking if Sam's trying to be weird.
“You already told me. The thing running off over the hills, shouting for its dad, Armitage thinking it was something to do with old gods. There more?”
Sam feels wrong for a second time and he frowns then shakes his head when he realizes he’s sitting there, sulky and disgruntled.
"No. That's it."
"Good," says Dean, "'cos we're about to hit Innsmouth. So try to look a little less like you've just crawled out of your grave and are looking to chow down on a few brains."
Sam gives Innsmouth the once over and then throws a sardonic smile at Dean.
"You sure? Because I reckon I'd fit right in like that."
Innsmouth is the kind of place that makes Arkham look like a thriving metropolis. There aren't even hints of former glory. It's a fishing hole and it stinks of it. The light of the rising moon glistens off the wetness that covers everything, from the rusted metal roofs of the squat houses to the uneven stone of the street, leaving it all looking slick and slimy.
Sam can't see the sea but he can hear it. He's been hearing it for a while but it's been creeping up on him so stealthily it's only now it's crashing somewhere close by that he can properly register the sound.
From the look on Dean's face, he's about as impressed.
"Right, how's this for a plan: we find the Seaview, we find where our girl is, we get our book and we get out of here, all in the next hour and a half?"
Sam nods, watching drops of water freckle over the car window.
"That's a plan I can get behind, yeah."
:::
As it turns out, their plan gets sunk at the 'finding the girl' part. They find the Seaview, which is a multi-storey dump of a place on what passes as the main street of the town, and they find Thomas Waite, who is a short guy with a perennially nervous expression.
"Sam and Dean," he says as they approach the desk. "William called ahead, said you were coming. I've got a room set aside for you."
"Uh, great," says Dean, tapping his fingers on the yellowing page of the register that Thomas has set in front of him. He's still got the Impala keys in his hand, the bags are still in the trunk. "Change of plan though, we're looking to get the job done tonight. So, where are we going to find Asenaith?"
Thomas looks between the two of them and mops at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He smiles a little but it doesn't reach his eyes, which are small and dark.
"Oh you can't do that. Asenaith lives out on the cliffs. The path is treacherous, even in daylight. Besides, the sea's rising."
From the look on Thomas's face, this is obviously a non-debatable point. Sam doesn't know what 'the sea's rising' means, he guesses it's something to do with the tide. Whatever it's about, it doesn't look like Dean's great plan is going to be viable.
He gives a resigned sigh, meets Dean's gaze, then picks up the pen on the desk and signs the register. Dean hesitates, glares at Sam like it's his fault the crazy woman's living on a rock, signs the register himself and throws the pen down. Thomas makes a pleased, relieved sound and takes the register back from them.
From the look of the low-ceilinged lounge Thomas leads them through, the Seaview is apparently the town watering hole. It’s like any other backwater drinking spot Sam’s ever seen: working men slumped around tables full of foamy, empty glasses, servers with overly tousled hair and too much thigh on show, a little more light around a few pool tables and the faint background noise of music from the eighties. He’s reassured by the normality of it, even if he doesn’t like the way the people look at them as they pass.
The look they give Sam - blank and appraising - is different from the look they give Dean. It puts Sam on edge in a way he can’t quite figure out. He only knows that he feels better when he moves to walk right along side Dean, using his greater height to block his brother a little from view. Dean’s oblivious to it, of course. Dean’s always been oblivious to the fact that the effect of long-lashed green eyes and full lips isn’t restricted solely to women. Mentioning it to Dean would probably earn him a split lip and a week of Dean sulking.
Their room is about as good as Sam was expecting in a place like this. There are large patches of damp on the dull green walls, like storm clouds pushing over a sickly-coloured sky. The window’s been left open and Sam can’t help a shiver at the frigid sweep of air. There’s a painting on the wall, a seascape done in watercolours but oddly brown. Neither bed in the room looks particularly comfortable, the blankets thin as paper. Through an open door off to the side, Sam can see an antiquated white-tiled bathroom.
“Here we are, gents, on the house,” says Thomas. “Anything to help the Miskatonic.” He drops his voice suddenly at the last word and glances about fearfully. He shoots them another feeble smile and backs out.
Dean prods at one of the beds with a dubious expression, his lower lip protruding in a manner that on anyone else could be a pout. The mattress manages a whining creak of springs. Sam crosses to the window and starts to pull it shut. He’s struck by how black the night is. Even with the moon glowing in the sky, he can’t see anything of the street aside from a few dim shapes of cars. There’s only the roar of the sea.
“Thought we were getting two rooms,” Sam says.
“You’ve never had a problem sharing with me before,” says Dean. He seems to recognize how prickly he sounds because he tries to smooth it over with a grin. “Must be the height of the tourist season. Bet they just come flooding in to Innsmouth. I’ll bring our bags up.”
Sam moves to cut him off at the door.
“No,” he says. “I’ll get them.” At Dean’s querying expression, Sam feels inclined to give something by way of explanation. “I didn’t like the way they were looking at you. At us.”
“Seriously, Sam, they probably don’t see many people from outside of Innsmouth here. Hell, we’re not related to them somehow, that’s gotta be a novelty.”
It’s stupid but the thought of Dean going down there alone, out where they all could see him, watch him, makes him inexplicably angsty. People do crazy things and Sam isn’t sure he trusts the locals to understand that trying anything with Dean would be very bad for their health. He knows Dean can take care of himself but Dean doesn’t see the threat quite as clearly as Sam does.
“Just… just let me,” says Sam.
The soft amusement on Dean’s face rapidly turns to exasperation. Dean shoulders past Sam and is out in the corridor before Sam can stop him.
“I’ll get the bags,” he calls over his shoulder. “You get some sleep, you look like crap.”
:::
The stones are huge and the angles of them make his eyes hurt. They shouldn’t fit together but they do, locking one into another into another. Towering up into the swimming sky. Sam touches the walls, the roughly hewn pictures, and his palm aches at the contact. He brings his hand back down and rubs it mindlessly on the clinging rumples of his wet t-shirt. He can’t look at the structure for too long because it makes him want to scream and if he opens his mouth he’s going to drown.
He walks and walks and it’s silent, thundering. His footsteps make no sound at all. He can’t even hear his heartbeat. The weight of the water can’t hold him back. Instead it wraps around him, like he’s a bubble trapped under a slide.
The path seems to spiral down but he can’t tell because the walls still seem square. He presses flat to the wall and edges further along, even though his skin stings everywhere the rock touches him.
“Sam?”
Sam glances around but there’s only the empty, soaking air. His fingers are like claws against the wall, the nails threatening to snap clean off. The path keeps swirling downwards. Something’s pounding at the bottom. Something’s singing. Its songs make Sam want to fall to his knees. To bash his head against the wall until his skull cracks open and his brain can slip free. Anything to make the songs get out from inside him.
“Sam!”
Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning towards him. His eyes are luminous in the half-light. He’s still dressed and he’s holding his cell in his hand. Sam half-sits up and swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, the sour panic still running through him. Dean’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him steady. It’s hard to breath for a moment but it gets easier. Sam pants and gasps and Dean holds onto him.
Finally, Sam can sit up properly and brings his knees up to his chest. He scrapes his fingers through his hair, which is wet with sweat.
“Vision? Or nightmare?” says Dean, as he drops his hand.
It’s too soon to not have Dean touching him but Sam doesn’t know how to vocalize it. He shakes his head and shrugs.
“Nightmare,” he says. “I think.” He thinks again about Dean’s cell, his fingers curled about it. “Who were you calling?”
Dean glances down at the phone as if surprised to see it there. He looks at Sam again and then throws the cell back onto his bed.
“No one really. Just… checking my messages.”
After so many years of travelling together, living right within each other’s space, it’s still hard sometimes for Sam to tell when his brother’s lying to him. Right now though, he’s pretty sure Dean is. He can’t push it any further because he doesn’t know why Dean would be hiding who he’d been calling, or who’d been calling him, but it doesn’t ease his wrong feeling.
“How long have I been asleep?” he says at last.
“You were out when I brought the bags up.”
Sam starts to shake his head because he knows how anxious he was about Dean going down, through those crowds of hungry-eyed men, alone. He’s sure he intended to sit and wait until Dean was safely back in the room. But he can’t remember Dean coming back. He can’t remember it at all.
:::
Morning does Innsmouth a few favours, but not many. The place still keeps its spot on Sam’s list of Top Ten Places He Never Wants to Visit Again. There are a few more people on the street, mostly unfriendly-looking types on their way to work but, as Sam gazes through the Seaview’s dining room window, a little girl with long blonde plaits waves at him. He waves back, until her mother grabs her by the wrist, shoots Sam an ugly look, and drags the little girl away.
“Your town’s not big on visitors, is it?” says Dean with a grin, as Thomas pours him a cup of coffee.
“Sure isn't,” Thomas says with a laugh and takes a seat across from them. “But to be fair, they don’t often get visitors inclined to be sympathetic.”
Sam turns back in his seat to rejoin the conversation.
“Sympathetic to what?”
There’s a second where Thomas looks trapped and Sam wonders if he’s said more than he meant to. Then the look disappears and is replaced with one of careful neutrality. He scratches the back of his neck and doesn’t meet their eyes as he speaks.
“It sounds ridiculous I know but, most of Innsmouth still believes in the Old Gods. Huge, nasty gods that used to rule the world and are right now just… sleeping. They believe they’ll come back to rule us one day.”
“And you?” Dean says. “What do you believe?”
Thomas hesitates again.
“I believe that if that’s the case, you’d better hope that day’s a long way off. The terror the Old Gods would bring would make the demons you boys hunt no more than butterflies.”
Dean exchanges a look with Sam as he brings his coffee up to his mouth. He’s smiling, in spite of the dark look in his eyes.
“There’s a cheery thought.”
It’s too unsettling for Sam to want to dwell on it long. He’s still feeling heavy from the night of bad sleep and the thick hostility they’re met with everywhere they go is wearing him down. He wants to be gone.
“So,” he says, “Asenaith Bishop. Where can we find her?”
“You won’t,” says Thomas. “Not until some time tomorrow. She’s out of town. But-“ he adds hurriedly, seeing the startled looks on both Sam and Dean’s faces, “she came back here after her visit to the University. Her house is unattended. Poor security on it too.”
The soft breath Dean lets out suggests he’s not exactly thrilled by the prospect. Neither’s Sam. Still, it’s not as if they’ve got much choice. They’re here now and it’s important to get the book back to where it belongs. Sam swirls the last of his coffee about in his cup, struck for an instant on the ripple of the liquid, then glances at Dean.
“We take a look and if we can’t find it, we wait until she gets back and we politely ask her to return it,” he says, in the gentle tone of a proposed plan.
Dean grumbles into his cup but shrugs.
“I liked my plan better,” he says.
:::
The photo of Asenaith that Thomas gives them shows a woman a few years older than Dean, with a sickly complexion and a lot of wispy blonde hair. Dean takes one look at it, shudders and passes it back to Sam. He’s apparently even less inclined to fall in lust with her when he sees the house she’s living in.
Thomas was right about it being too risky to reach it in the dark. It’s a tall, dark house on an outcrop of rock that can only be reached by navigating a path that drops away on both sides into nothing but the sea. The crash of waves is deafening and Sam wraps his arms around himself and wishes he’d put on something thicker than his hoodie. He follows along behind Dean and can see the droplets of seawater speckling the back of his leather jacket. There’s a vague, nagging urge to swipe his fingertips through the dampness but he’s not sure he’d trust himself to keep his balance if he did.
He feels too exposed under the hugeness of the sky, a tiny nothing between space and sea. Even the dank overhang of Asenaith’s roof is welcome. He drops to a crouch to pick the lock and feels even safer when Dean crowds in behind him, a warm living shield. The salt air burns in his nose and mouth but it gets overwhelmed by the familiar scent of Dean, all leather and gunmetal and coffee.
When he rises back to his feet, he staggers briefly and Dean catches him. He holds him by the shoulders and looks up into Sam’s face, eyes wide and concerned.
“Hey, you okay?”
He is when Dean’s right there and Sam doesn’t have to look at the sky or listen to the sea. He only has to look at Dean. He smiles at him, soft and sleepy, then gives him a single nod.
“Yeah, just think I might be coming down with a cold or something.”
Dean lets go of him and moves past him into the house, gaze roaming over the interior even as he calls back to Sam.
“Yeah well you need to be dressing a little more sensibly. You’re not in California now, man. Rest of the world has a whole lot of ‘cold and wet’.”
Asenaith’s house has a whole lot of ‘dark and smelly’. It’s got all the dust of Miskatonic University, plus a layer of grime. The windows are too filthy to let much light through and there’s a steady dripping of water somewhere deeper in the house. There’s not much by way of personal items. Asenaith seems to go by the Bobby-Singer school of decoration and has piles of books lining the walls. A few loose sheets of paper are on the floor and Dean stoops to pick one up. He sighs in disgust and lets it drift back to the ground.
“This is one big, ugly haystack.”
Sam pushes one of the doors wide, the creak of it echoing off the walls. He jerks his head at the library of books inside, rows and rows on shelves and the floor filled with the overflow.
“It just got a whole lot bigger.”
Part II