The priestess led Sam by the hand through a small grove of trees, down a grassy hill that gave way to sandy scrub grass, and finally onto a rocky beach. Sea-spray wet Sam's face and hair, and the salt-smell in his nose was like coming home.
At least a thousand men and women stood on the long beachfront, staring out into the waves. Mostly nude, their pale skin glowed in the moonlight.
"They will follow us," said the priestess. "Sacrifices to Your Greatness."
Sam nodded and stood, surveying the beach and the cliffs in the distance. The tug of loss he felt at this being the last time he'd see land for millennia was brief, and it drifted away before he barely registered it.
There was another tug. Warmth encircled his finger, and he felt momentary discomfort in the back of his mind, the distant bonfire of his brother's soul in distress. He looked over the humans waiting patiently to walk to their deaths.
"I need no sacrifices," he said, "I've had enough in my lifetime," and the woman narrowed her eyes at him, then bowed her head in acquiescence. "Free them," he ordered.
With a few harsh words from the priestess, the men and women on the beach began to look around, visibly confused. In ones and twos, and then dozens, they turned away from the water and started climbing the slope to dry land, back to what was left of Arkham where their houses and businesses and cars and children waited, abandoned.
"The Dreaming awaits," said the woman.
Without another word, Sam let his Consort lead him into the sea.
After what seemed years of darkness, the soft flutter of bat wings flying past him, Dean emerged from a natural cave that opened to the harbour. He put up his hand against the blinding moon, having lost his boots and shirt in transit. People lurched past him like shipwreck survivors, but two figures remained in the water...
"Sam!"
Sam's head vanished, though to Dean's magic-addled eye he glittered like a star beneath the waves. Cursing, Dean clamped a knife between his teeth and tore down the long long pier in his bare feet and moonlight glinting off his shoulders and dove into the black water below.
The cold nearly stopped his heart, but he did not die. The riptide pulled him down and forward, but he did not sink. The ocean was a sunless, loveless world save for the songs of whales greeting their new master, but he did not lose hope. He let out the last air in his lungs to plunge deeper, chasing that fading light that was surely the corona of his brother's soul, calling him home…
The Impala zoomed through empty streets, corn fields waving in a gentle wind. "Hey wake up," said Dean, patting the bundle in the passenger seat, "We're nearly there."
The blanketed figure did not reply, and panic gripped Dean's chest as he shook Sam's shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
The old house loomed into view, a pie cooling in the kitchen window and the TV flickering behind the curtains. Mary opened the door in her bathrobe as Dean leapt out and raced around to the passenger side. "Dean honey, you're early."
"He's not waking up!" he shouted, gathering Sam in his arms and carrying him up the steps.
John came out, the younger version from Dean's wallet photo, and Dean sprang upon him, pressing Sam to John's chest. "Please help him!"
John searched his face, looking at one eye and then the other. What was wrong with them? Dean wondered, Why weren't they saying anything? Dean looked down at his arms. Pulled back the top of the blanket, let it unroll onto the carpet.
It was empty.
"Sam..."
The knife fell from his blue lips. If Sam called back, Dean was not there to hear it.