The Telegram, Chapter V. Promises, Promises
Despite Sam’s consummate neglect of the date demarcated by his appointment book as belonging to Ava (and Brady, and Jess), the occasion of it chases him down.
Or to be exact, Ava chases him down.
Late Thursday, just over one week after the Incident in the night, there comes a knock upon Sam’s office door. It catches him in the midst of a near-frenzy, as he hastens to complete every last task necessary for a smooth transition to the morrow before the arms of night fall over him.
The knock comes again, however, so Sam has hardly the choice but to storm out from behind his desk and answer it. He jerks the door open, snapping, “No more appointments to-night-“ only to stop short, when he discovers Ava standing opposite him. “What are you doing here?”
She answers succinctly: “I knew you’d forget.”
It takes a moment for Sam to recall precisely what it is that he has forgotten. The none-so-gentle buffet of his best friend’s palm against his chest speeds the process, though-it ushers Sam back to his desk, and in an even stronger press for urgency now, he dives into his pile of last-minute errands, pushing several on to the following day for what is destined to be a breakneck Friday.
With Ava’s assistance-she would make for a serviceable secretary, the speed in which she diminishes the pile of unopened envelopes on his desk-Sam finds himself hustled out of his small office with just enough time for them to reach their destination without too-debilitating of tardiness.
Downstairs, Ava and Sam merge with the crowd that swells through Market Street. They follow the main drag, bypassing an assortment of professionals down the old Cocktail Route in their haste to prevent Brady and Jess from having to entertain awkward conversation for any longer than strictly required. They arrive at their pre-determined location with serendipitous timing-under the weather-worn sign of Heidelberg Inn, Sam and Ava descend into the basement only to come up short behind the familiar form of Brady’s back.
Ava calls his name out, barely audible over the raucous din bouncing off wood-paneled walls and ornamented pillars, but Brady turns around and falls in step with them, his face alight.
“Sam, my boy,” he greets, clapping him on the back before bending down to peck his wife on the cheek. “We’ve secured a table, just over there,” he says, gesturing at a corner of the packed room before leading them towards it.
Jess is already seated, but she rises to embrace Ava. To Sam, a cordial nod, “Hullo there, Mr. Winchester.”
“Ms. Moore,” he returns, uncertainly. A slight embarrassment creeps into him as Sam recalls their last exchange with clarity-he’d promised to wait for Jess after the Viennese Waltz, only to disappear prematurely and without any notice.
Fortunately, Jess does not seem to be a pronounced holder of grudges. She replies, “Have you got my drink, after all?” with a small, but genuine smile, and Sam relaxes fully.
“Not on my person, I’m afraid, but I shall certainly buy you a cold stein if you have a thirst for beer. I suppose I owe you that much,” he replies with a wide grin, and just like that, the thin anxiety hovering over the table dissipates as easily as fog at daybreak.
The evening looks to be very promising-removed from the stuffy atmosphere that the Fairmont Hotel inevitably lends, the four young friends are precisely that: friends, pals, acquaintances. The whole-souled demeanor of the restaurant’s congregation is infectious, while an authentic, German orchestra entertains its guests with a thumping, martial strain that draws the inclusion of seemingly everyone-diners, waiters, and even the eagle-eyed manager chime in for the robust chorus.
Throughout it all, Sam, Jess, and Ava and Brady talk of anything and everything that comes to mind. The newlyweds supply an endless stream of amusing anecdotes, ranging from reports of the silliest wedding gifts they’d received, to wide speculation of where they ought to spend their honeymoon; all the while, Jess and Sam play off each other in friendly duels of wit.
As Brady regales the table with his appraisal of Burlingame-a real up-and-comer of a town that’s become playground to men and women who fancy weekend jaunts and holidays-Sam eats voraciously (and drinks in pace with his appetite). Before long, he is scraping up the last morsels of his beef sauer-braten.
Sam lays his napkin down, excusing himself to the mens room; at the back of the restaurant, a queue has formed (though luckily, it remains far shorter than the one that trails from the ladies’ waiting-room, Sam observes with relief). He leans against the wall, idly eavesdropping on nearby conversation as fellows gab to one another.
Quite unexpectedly, someone whumps down beside him.
“Howdy,” the newcomer says.
“Good Lord-“ Sam starts, jolting upright.
While Sam should hardly be more shocked to see Dean’s increasingly familiar visage than he ought to be expectant, the man nevertheless manages to unsettle Sam at every turn. Dean sprawls against the wall, outwardly more comfortable in his dusty, casual attire than the penguin suit he’d donned at the Fairmont. He smiles up at Sam, and it trickles warmly in his chest, like honey.
In the desire to weaken so disarming an opponent, Sam yearns to quote: “You must not smile so! Listen, no one is allowed to smile that way at anyone!”. Taking into account the inopportunity of the moment, however, Sam can only suffer in silence. Images and sensations quickly filter up, as he remembers Dean (in his bed, not a week ago), remembers their tussle with vividness. And here Dean is, once again, making a right mess of Sam’s pleasant, orderly life-and doing so with flagrant disregard of propriety, as Dean picks at his teeth with a finger.
Such brazenness should disgust him-really, it ought to, but before Sam can disengage himself from the unsavory spell he has been cast under, Dean edges in to say, “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esquire.”
A loud bang of a door interrupts them, the single restroom opening up for a gentleman who squeezes by as Sam presses against the wall to give the man room. Dean uses the opportunity to plaster himself distractingly to Sam’s side.
“Is this really the appropriate place for this?” Sam breathes. He receives an odd look from a lady, who is waiting in queue across from them. Sam coughs. Then hisses, low under his breath so only one set of ears can participate, “I already know you’re after the final code-made it perfectly plain, the other night. You’re plumb crazy, you know. Breaking and entering is practically a capital offense.”
“Not as capital an offense as passing up the only chance you’ve got to avenge your mother’s death.”
Sam blinks, attempting to disassemble the veiled promise of information lurking in Dean’s retort. It proves an insurmountable task, however, so Sam adopts a quicker route- “What do you mean? For once, for the love of God, will you simply say what you mean?” When Dean’s eyes slide behind shutters, Sam seizes him by the biceps and hauls him aside, wanting fewer curious listeners for the perilous topic of which they speak. They wind up backed into a small alcove, where the walls dip in to accommodate a single telephone.
There is scarcely enough room for the desk and machinery, much less two grown men, yet Sam pushes Dean inside and gives him a hard shake.
“I want answers, Dean. If I am to help you in any which way or form, it is a perfectly reasonable request that you cease your pussyfooting, and put me wise.”
“Good Lord,” Dean replies, his eyes large and alarmed. “Take it easy.” He shrugs out of the grip and draws back as far as he can, avoiding Sam’s penetrating eyes.
Sam won’t let him off easily, though. If he is to conform to Dean’s wants-obscure, and layered though they may be-he won’t give up his last bartering chip, only to be cast aside (or murdered, more like) when he is no longer of value to anyone.
It is this train of thought that leads Sam to act thusly: he crowds Dean into the corner of the alcove, taking full advantage of the height he so often suppresses, because in this instance-in this particular situation, Sam does not want to blend. He doesn’t want to look approachable, or seem friendly-on the contrary, he aims to intimidate.
Sam slides his hands up from Dean’s arms, only to settle them on the sides of Dean’s tender, vulnerable neck. He runs the pads of his thumbs across the scrape of a nascent beard, and the pulse underneath it thrums hotly and quickly, like that of prey.
As if drenched with cold water, Sam suddenly realizes-Dean is only human, like any other. Capable of great physical feats and violence, undoubtedly, but human nonetheless. And for the moment, it seems Dean grasps the extent of his own mortality-he swallows convulsively under the wide palms that gently, threateningly encircle his throat, and shivers at the thumbs that trace up and down his windpipe.
Sam knows to strike while the iron is hot. “You say you have a proposition for me,” Sam starts, running a tongue over his canines. “So let’s hear it, then. What are you willing to give up to get your-“ Sam slips his thumbs down Dean’s collar, digging his nails in the soft spot just under his strangely delicate clavicle- “clever, lock-picking hands on the last code?”
Dean’s breathing is ragged and uneven, but his words are unmistakable: “I’d do-I’ll do almost anything.”
It is close enough, but Sam-Sam, who now lords over his very own once-stalker, his once-aggressor-Sam wants more than just “almost anything.” He wants Dean to reveal everything. He leans in to communicate as such, Dean’s eyes widening-
“Sam!” A feminine voice rings out.
Dean snap-reacts, mimicking elastic in the instantaneous manner in which he thrusts Sam away. The edge of the small desk, protruding from the alcove wall, jams into Sam’s hip and he curses, clutching at bruised bone even as he turns to apprehend the identity of who seeks him with such maddening concurrence.
“Sam,” the woman repeats, peeking her head around the corner to reveal a cherubic, curious face. “Oh, there you are-“
It is none other than Jess. When she discovers the boys, her voice ceases to work-mouth slightly agape, her bright, blue eyes track over the way Sam and Dean have crammed themselves into the tiny space, only the slimmest of inches separating them from what couldn’t be interpreted as anything but a clandestine, full-bodied embrace.
Sam means to disengage themselves from their suspect position, but Dean beats him to it. He springs out from the nook, grabbing hold of Jess’ hand with both his own-one to carry her fingers, the other laid on top in a most forward practice-and he says, with charm abound, “My apologies. I’ve nicked your companion for awhile longer than expected. You see, he was helping me to work this infernal contraption.”
Jess darts an uncertain glance over to Sam, who watches the interchange with a frown wrinkling his forehead. In the momentary lull, as both Jess and Dean hold out for an affirmation of the hastily spun story, Sam finally confirms, “Indeed. There are still fellows about, I suppose, who have yet to acclimate themselves to the economies of the Telephone.”
Sam holds his breath, awaiting some scathing, green-eyed glare or other acknowledgment of the none-too-subtle derision in Sam’s comment, but none proves forthcoming. Dean only caresses Jess with one long, unabashed sweep of his eyes, as the pout of his mouth pulls back into a one-sided grin.
“I’m Dean, by the way,” he says, with no apparent intentions of dropping Jess’ hand.
A sickly sensation crawls through Sam’s belly, as he can hardly believe his ears-Dean gives his name freely to Jess, with nary a string of attachment in sight. Never-mind that Sam had to claw and bite his way onto the same level that Jess has been so immediately elevated to; Dean steps closer to her, his every intention made crystal clear through his hungry grin and the way he edges ever nearer, like an apple moth to a lit candle.
The sheer injustice rankles Sam, and he seeks to make his censure known. He steps out of the alcove and moves Dean aside to drape a possessive arm over Jess’ shoulders. She looks at him in surprise, but says nothing-only gently draws her hand out from between those of Dean’s.
Sam’s subsequent grin is haughty, and directed solely to the man who continues to upend his equilibrium. “I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. This…fellow…has been seen to, so there is no further reason for us to tarry.”
“Of course,” Jess says, puzzlement echoing in her voice. She composes herself, however, to repeat, “Of course. Well, it was lovely meeting you, Dean. Good luck with your wire troubles.”
Dean salutes her smartly. Sam just narrows his eyes at him, before smoothly pulling Jess out of the hallway.
After re-settling at their table and passing the rest of their rendez-vous without event, Sam thinks he has escaped the damning presence of Dean. Only, Dean has other ideas.
Later, as Sam and Brady hunch over the slip of paper that tabulates their expenses for the meal, a hard clap comes down on Sam’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Sam drags his eyes skyward.
It comes to no surprise when he beholds Dean above him. Dean pauses dramatically, then leans down to whisper in Sam’s ear, as the rest of the table watches on with due interest:
“I can change your mind, Sam. I promise you this: I can be very…persuasive, when there’s something I want,” he drawls, lips brushing the outer shell of one of Sam’s ears, which are flushed a deep red. “Meet me at the Roadhouse Tavern, after you’ve broken up this little Alcott reunion. Clara and Ritch, off the Folsom line. Just ask for me, the girls‘ll point you in the right direction.”
Sam would love none other than to go directly home, just to prove to Dean the existence of an independent will; unfortunately, neither of them are under the pretence that Sam could let escape the chance for what may possibly be the final yarn that will un-spool the mystery of the murders that surround (and include) the late Mary Winchester.
Thus, Sam tightens his lips in silent agreement. Dean pats him on the shoulder, tossing a glib smile to the baffled company present before he makes his way upstairs and outside.
-----
Later that evening, Sam finds himself in the dark alley of Ritch Street. As he regards the dilapidated building before him, his stomach lurches with something akin to trepidation-after all, South of Market (where he has strayed), between the run-down hostels and rowdy Irish establishments, anything goes. To worsen matters, the façade of the Roadhouse Tavern does little to assuage Sam’s concerns-sitting back from the abandoned street, the flimsy wooden structure can barely pull itself together enough to remain upright.
It would figure Dean would house himself in surroundings such as these, Sam thinks, as he enters the saloon on begrudging tread.
Inside, a clientele of burly, unshaven men crowd around grimy table-tops littered with pint glasses in various levels of quaff. Sam would expect no less. However, when he seeks out “the girls” Dean had instructed him to query for his whereabouts, the last person Sam anticipates to meet is Ms. Joanna Beth Harvelle proper-the established gentlewoman of San Francisco Society is seated at the bar, sans escort, and with whisky in her hand, no less.
Flames of annoyance lick up, and-not for the first time-Sam wonders at her precise relation to Dean. Are they lovers, as that kiss at the Fairmont would indicate? Does the infatuating man simply require a warm body, or is Ms. Harvelle truly so privileged as to claim ownership to Dean’s fondness?
With a small noise of self-disgust, Sam quickly stamps out the embers of such deviled thoughts. It is not an un-frequented place they will take him, but neither is it a particularly pleasant mind-frame.
Perhaps sensing her existence in Sam’s thoughts, Ms. Harvelle’s eyes soon fall upon him-as does a veritable tide of flinty, hardened stares that pierce from all across the dingy room like glittering jewels. Sam is suddenly made aware of how conspicuous he must appear, smooth-faced and coiffed as he is, and garbed in dapper, office attire; Ms. Harvelle herself dons a modest robe, easily afforded by the tightest of purse-strings.
To Sam’s great relief, the lady in question quickly drains the amber liquor from her glass and beckons him over.
“Sam, right?” she asks, by way of salutation.
“Correct...and if I’m not mistaken, you’re Ms. Harvelle, are you not? Of relation to Mr. William Anthony Harvelle?” Their family is well-established, having founded a successful ammunitions brand.
Ms. Harvelle’s face turns blank, replying, “That would be my father. But my father’s been dead for two years, now.”
Sam pauses in horror, unsure of the proper proceeding after a faux-pas of such magnitude. Eventually, he stutters, “I’m sorry. I-I was living in Palo Alto for several years. I…I never heard.”
She simply shoots him a disparaging look that makes Sam feel very small. Luckily, the young lady is not so sadistic as to leave him to wallow in his acute mortification, and changes the subject: “Please, call me Jo-at least while we’re here. You’re sticking out like a sore thumb, as it is. Where do you think we are, the Fairmont?” she jibes, hopping off her stool to loosen the knot of Sam’s neck-tie and fluff her fingers through the pomade in his hair. Sam stiffens, grasping at a semblance of composure that is being made difficult under the restless hands of Ms. Harvelle, as she works over his entire appearance, stopping her only when her hands make to undo the buttons of his waistcoat-there are boundaries, after all, between a man and woman of their status.
Ms. Harvelle-Jo, rather-just cocks her head aside and nods in a sort of withering approval.
Still, Sam doesn’t fancy over-staying his welcome at the Roadhouse, and so gets right to the point: “Are you…I presume you are the one I am to beg for the whereabouts of your slippery friend.”
The smile on her lips betrays no small amount of smugness, and Sam finds Jo to be enjoying all too heartily his pronounced bewilderment of the situation at hand. Her membership to this small club of insiders irks him so, but by this point, Sam is resigned to the fact that he has waded into something bigger than him-some impenetrable world that plays by a set of rules entirely aberrant from the ones Society would have them follow.
Sam’s displeasure must be billowing off his self like dust from an ancient tome, because Jo soon takes pity. She gives Sam the first straight answer he’s heard in a long time-says, “He’s in back.” A quick jab of her thumb points the way, Sam spying the shrouded door of which she speaks.
Following her instruction, Sam traverses the saloon and takes the door into a side room.
The space inside is so dark and small, it looks as if it may have once been a supply closet but has since been converted into makeshift quarters. Dean sits on the low bed there, but (for once), it is not he who commands Sam’s attention…
“Ash? ”
For fear his eyes deceive him, Sam steps closer to the uniformed man who so resembles his friend-and it is no trick: standing before him is none other than Sgt. Ashcroft McGinness.
“Sam,” Ash says, taking a half-step forward before his eyes drop down to Dean’s, as if asking some implicit question. Dean gives a small shake of his head.
“I am afraid I don’t understand,” Sam says, watching the non-verbal exchange with consternation, when Dean stands up, brushes himself off, and extends his hand to Ash. They shake, Dean saying quietly, “We’ll continue this later, all right?” and the look Ash sends Sam is apologetic. If only Sam knew what it was he was apologizing for.
The door shuts softly behind them, and soon only Sam and Dean remain, facing each other warily.
A glow of orange light flickers against the exposed, wooden walls, cast by the candle on the simple desk. The lone flame fails to penetrate the darkness of the room’s corners and crevices, however, lending a coffin-like air. Sam shivers.
“Take a seat,” Dean says, interrupting Sam’s mounting claustrophobia with a gesture towards the bed. There is no chair in the room, so Sam settles on the mussed quilt, the bed frame groaning with his weight. He idly wonders if this is where Dean sleeps-in which case, Sam would understand the man’s need to troll the streets of San Francisco at night, dismal as these quarters are.
Dean takes his place against the opposite wall, leaning back against the closed door there (and blocking the exit) with a calculating look upon his face.
As it appears Dean will not be the one to begin, Sam ventures, “That was Ashcroft McGinness, was it not? The man with whom you were speaking.”
He only receives a nod in assent. “How is it that you know him?” Sam asks, doggedly. “I mean, I suppose I involved the man in this…this supernatural affair, when I asked of him to retrieve some dossiers for me. Yet I was under the impression that he was still very much in the dark.” The notion that, all this time, Ash may have been playing Sam for the fool, unsettles him a great deal. For how long had Ash known of this sinister plot? Since their school days at Stanford, even?
“Ash has been a friend to me for many years, now,” Dean says, and it seems as though Sam’s fears are to be realized. He feels further slighted, when Dean adds, “He is helping me out-as he’s done for you. But what role he plays in regards to Azazel is of no concern to you, so put it out of your mind.”
Sam leaps to his feet and crosses the room in two, three short strides, as he growls, “I came here for answers, Dean, not more of your-your secrets, and riddles. You said. You promised. ”
Ever the cool countenance upon his veneer, Dean smirks at him and replies, “Your forget what it is, specifically, that I promised.” An outright leer chases the statement, and the implications of it draw up Sam’s exact recollection of their conversation, only hours earlier-
“I promise you this: I can be very…persuasive, when there’s something I want.”
The air between them turns hot and stifling. Sam retreats from it, seating himself at the foot of the bed once again. He says resignedly, “We’ve reached an impasse, you and I. You seek the final code so that you may locate whither the demon, Azazel, has concealed himself, while I-I only ask to understand the situation. Now, you mentioned a proposition, back at the Heidelberg Inn. Out with it, then. Show me this infallible persuasion you boast so heartily of. Or better yet-just tell me what in damnation is going on, around here.”
Frustration wracks his shoulders and Sam, tiredly, leans forward to rub his face with his hands. When he emerges, Sam very nearly butts his forehead against Dean’s, the suddenness with which the man appears before him. Dean sits on his haunches, his face so near that Sam can discern each freckle and mark upon his complexion. The sight is altogether dizzying.
“You already know what’s going on, Sam,” Dean says, softly. “I’ve told you all you needed to know. Azazel killed your mother and her friends, so in following of justice, I aim to kill him-well, as much as you can kill a demon. Now, if you would just…” Dean licks his lips. “Cooperate. We could put this whole nasty business behind us, and you’ll never have to see the likes of me again.”
Does Dean really believe Sam would find such a proposition to be favourable? Clearly, the man is challenged.
Annoyance piqued, Sam argues, “You tell me nothing, Dean, but the bare, ivory-bone facts. It is not enough to know that my mother was murdered. No, what I want to know-what I must know, is why? Why was she killed? And the others, how were they so involved as to require their deaths?” Sam reaches out to tangle Dean’s shirtfront in one fist, jerking him down to force the meeting of their eyes.
Perhaps Dean, too, is weary of the burden that Secret-Keeping imposes upon him, for he visibly relents. “There was no rhyme, nor reason for the way she passed. She merely happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But the lore…do you really want to know the lore, Sam?”
An emphatic nod is the best answer Sam has.
“All right,” Dean says. He stops to disentangle Sam’s grip from his shirt, before continuing: “Now, I told you before-Azazel was only one of three powerful demons. They’ve existed since…since before our minds can even conjure, but it is only in recent times that these three have posed a threat. Somehow-we don’t know how-they crawled out from the gates of hell and have since been biding their time on Earth. Even now they remain in hiding, just waiting for their chance to re-unite and bring about a horror so cataclysmic, it would mean the end to everything we know.”
Sam listens with bent head and furrowed brow, “And what of Mary? What threat could she possibly pose to…to a band of demonic ring-leaders? ”
“She overheard something she wasn’t meant to hear; it’s as simple as that. When our three demons were fresh out of hell, sloppy from their giddiness at escape, they spoke of their plans in a vulnerable premises. They spoke of their designated hideaways-where they were, how to gain access-details of that sort. The plans were very specific, and as inalterable as a booking at the Waldorf-Astoria, and Mary-well, Mary…she heard it all. At length, the demons recognized their folly and from thereon, it was simply a matter of destroying their little spy as soon occasion presented itself.”
Emboldened by the haste in which the mystery of his mother’s death unravels, Sam takes up the yarn and continues, with dawning enlightenment- “But before they had a chance to extinguish her, Mary passed on the information-coded, and broken up into disparate pieces, in order to preserve some modicum of security that would prevail after the death she knew-must have known-to be imminent. She was clever. Far cleverer than the demons had alleged.”
Dean hesitates for so long that Sam wonders if he’d erred in his deductions, but a stiff nod comes eventually. “Right. She made informants of friends, praying they would act quickly and in tandem, disposing of Azazel and the others before they fell victim themselves. Unfortunately, we know this to be precisely what happened-and now, Mary’s legacy lives on in only bits and pieces, separate and estranged and utterly useless while they remain so.” Dean’s eyes are downcast as he speaks, and in them dwells a shadow of such distress that Sam wracks his mind for some method to dispel it with. But as effortlessly as the gloom had formed, a wry smile takes its place as Dean adds, “That was some detective work, Sammy. I suppose that university degree didn’t go entirely to waste.” In Dean’s low voice dwells an undercurrent of admiration, oblique and subtle.
Sam hears it, though, clear as day, and an insurmountable pride washes over him like a tidal wave. After all, he’s solved it! He knows, finally, the entirety of the subterfuge that surrounds the string of murders he’d been chasing as a dog chases its own tail. And as if that weren’t triumph enough, there still remains some justice to be had; the means to finding Azazel and the others (and exacting upon them an appropriately grisly punishment) is as near and tangible as the distance between Sam’s lips to Dean’s ears, shaped in the form of Abigail Gunther’s code.
Only, a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Dean,” Sam says, drawing the attention of the man once again. “Tell me. How is it done? How do mere mortals, the likes of you and I, defeat an ageless wraith made of supreme evil?”
At this, a slow grin spreads across Dean’s face, utterly magnetic. “Haven’t you ever heard of an exorcism, kid? And here I imagined you the Good Christian.”
“Yes, and I suppose you’ll have me believe there exists an ark capable of boarding every species on the planet, or that every Sunday communion, I drink the blood of Christ-” Dean quirks an eyebrow at this, and Sam trails off in slow shock.
Dean laughs at the comical expression presented to him, before saying, “Lord, you should see yourself!”
Sam makes a face, saying pointedly, “In any case. After I tell you the code-“ Dean’s face lights up- “what else can I do to help?”
A scowl replaces the delight with undue speed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a civilian Sam, and civilians have no part in our world. I’m sorry enough you had to be involved to this extent, but I’d sooner skin myself with a dull blade than put you in further peril. Hell, Dad would beat me to it-“
But Sam hears no more, for Dean stiffens up like a wooden plank, his teeth clicking shut. No matter-Sam breaches the silence to haughtily purport, “I don’t care that you feel some gratuitous obligation to protect me; I am not some woman or babe to coddle. I have wits beyond the likes of any of the prime individuals outside this door, and I have the stature and agility for any dust-up that may incur, as you well know-“
“Trust me,” Dean cuts in vehemently. “You are the last person we want on a rampage to find Azazel-”
“But why? Why is Ash allowed in-“ Sam leaps to his feet, hands splayed out at his sides as invitation to reason. “Ms. Harvelle, even-why her, and not me? Do you love her-do you lie with her?”
If Sam imagined he could intimidate Dean with his assertiveness or girth, he is sorely misguided, for Dean is of the character to be electrified by belligerence, much as women are by pretty frocks. Dean simply rounds forward and shoves Sam back on the bed with the added ease that the element of surprise lends, and before long Sam is pressed deep into the mattress, Dean straddling him at the hips in a parody of their encounter, that memorable night in Sam’s apartment. This time, however, Dean is the one who reigns, as he jolts forward to deliver a smart punch across Sam’s cheek.
Stunned, Sam works his wounded jaw as he manages, “What was that for?”
“For being so incorrigible. How could I love Jo, when bedding her would be like bedding-I don’t know, a small child, or something equally disgusting. You think I tell them these things because it makes us all the happier for it? Hardly,” Dean sniffs. “I try and keep you out-keep you safe, and the thanks I get for it-
“No one ever ask for you to do so! I am my own man, and I’m telling you now: I can help. Just…tell me. What is so repellant about me, that you cannot stand to allow me the revenge I seek to exact on my mother’s behalf?”
Dean leans down, stretching out full, and cat-like, across Sam’s body. “Because. Because that’s the very point,” he hisses. “Mary died for you. She died for us all. The least you could do is validate her sacrifice by living yourself a long, and full life.” The fire in Dean’s gaze burns so rapaciously, Sam would shield his eyes were he not brimming with it himself. Fight fire with fire, so they say, and thus Sam does exactly that-
He grabs Dean round the back of his neck and jerks down, forcing that infuriating mouth to collide angrily against his own.
There is the inanity of the act to consider, Sam tells himself, as Dean petrifies above him; he only hopes it a precursor to requited passion, rather than a blow to the head, or some such violence.
Dean does not keep Sam guessing for long: in a thrilling, astonishing turn of event, Dean kisses back. The hesitation quickly gives way to strength and confidence-Dean is no amateur at this. He kisses with a fervor and strength unmatched by any previous partner Sam has engaged, rocking their bodies together in distracting swells that mimic the way his mouth roves. So exploratory is Dean’s tongue, Sam feels himself a cartographer’s territory as Dean attends to each crevice and dip of Sam’s mouth-three centimeters across the bow of this lip, Dean traces. Remember this landmark, at the mole on Sam’s skin.
Sam is just beginning to relax into it, allowing Dean to ply his mouth open with intoxicating ease, when in one cruel instant-he is bereft of it.
He opens his eyes. Above him, face aglow from the gleaming candle-light, with thick lashes like brushstrokes, Dean pants heavily; his chest shifts up and down against Sam’s, teasing and making Sam ache.
“What is it?” he breathes. Dean says nothing, only avoids his gaze, and so Sam brushes his knuckles over Dean’s cheekbone. “Is it…I’ll tell it to you, Dean, if that’s what you want. Cappula Acodadura. That’s all it is. Cappula Acodadura. ”
Their eyes meet and hold as Dean mouths the code word to himself, silently. It is utterly entrancing, the alluring movement there, and so Sam reaches for Dean and pulls him down once again, eager to return to the more…pressing matters at hand.
For the briefest of moments, it seems as though Dean will surrender. His strong hands find their way to Sam’s face, cradling it as he delivers the sweetest kiss-but alas, at the very last moment, Dean wrenches himself away.
He sits up, still straddling Sam but ostensibly uncomfortable, now-and he’s shaking. Whether from need or fury Sam can only speculate, but the tremors grow so pronounced that he can feel it rattling through his own bones.
Sam wants to put Dean at ease. The wide, traumatized expression staring down at him plucks at Sam’s chest, and so he props himself up on his elbows and softly pleads, “Dean.”
“Listen…this is a bad idea.”
Yet despite his pronouncement, Dean makes no effort to end it; in fact, only the bite of his lip and the barest recline reveals any misgivings. It simply isn’t enough-if Dean wants Sam to balk, he is going to have to work much harder than the utterance of one short, uncertain phrase.
Sam stretches up to touch Dean’s forearm with the pads of his fingertips.
It is not the instigator he meant for it to be-the simple brush of contact causes Dean to jerk back. He clambers to his feet and plants them in a wide, robust stance, fists clenched hard. “Get out,” he says resolutely.
But you want this, Sam wishes to argue. With Dean’s flushed face and state of arousal as evidence, it would be the simplest of cases to win; he could lure Dean back to bed and press him down in it, forcing the man to see how much they both want this, indecent and irrational as it may be.
Dean disrupts Sam’s reverie to repeat: “Get out, before I break your face.”
Unfortunately, this is not some trial from work Sam is contending with; no police officer to hold the defendant down, no jury’s verdict to tell Dean to come back. There is only the battle of wills between two men, and the stubborn set of Dean’s jaw and the rear of his shoulder as if to launch forth a blow transmits a message so unequivocal, Sam has no choice but to be the one who surrenders.
And so, he leaves the room. He leaves the Roadhouse Tavern, and all its occupants behind with it.
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