The Telegram, Chapter VIII. The Truth About Sam, Part Two*
From a distance, Sam would hardly spare a second look at the man who stands in front of him. He appears of average height, of average appearances-a bit on the older side, perhaps, leathery wrinkles dominating the lines of his mouth.
The eyes, however. Azazel’s supernatural, glowing eyes give his persona away.
“I must thank you for prostrating yourself before me. Were you not present right here, in the flesh-“Azazel licks his lips with a pointed tongue. “Why, I would scarcely believe it myself.”
The sinewy creature slinks forward, growing all the more unnatural as his vibrating excitement stresses the binds of his human body. Sam feels a chill in his bones, but stuffs the sensation away and bites back-“Why didn’t you retrieve me earlier then? Couldn’t finish the job the first time around?”
“Believe me, if I had known you to be a mere afternoon’s stroll away, you would be in a very, very different Place right now.” Yellow eyes flick down over the expanse of Sam’s body, and Sam tries not to shiver under them. The demon sees all, however, and only inches nearer.
With a sudden snap of his arm, Azazel tangles a fist in Sam’s shirtfront and rips it open, the material shoved down to strain against his jacket lapel, detachable collar hanging uselessly as Sam cranes from the touch.
The demon growls a bottomless, breath-robbing sound, before hissing, “This. ” He bares his teeth at a dark brand of pigmentation coloring Sam’s skin, just below his left clavicle. “This would be why we haven’t had the pleasure until now, my dear Sam.”
Sam swallows convulsively, looking down. “What are you talking about? My birthmark?”
“Are you really as stupid as you sound, boy, or are you playing games with me?”
Truly, the conversation is beyond him, for the large, blood-purple mark gracing Sam’s chest has been present for as long as he remembers.
“Could it be…the lauded, infallible Sam Winchester is truly…as ignorant as a mortal rodent? Don’t you know the Truth about yourself?” Azazel smirks, reaching forward to trace a dirty fingernail over the arcs of the symbol, as Sam fights down revulsion. “You were chosen from the very beginning, by Lucifer Himself. We dripped His blood into your wee little mouth, and from that day forth, it was only a matter of time before your powers would awaken. Of course, He didn’t want to leave it to chance.
“The Three of us watched over you. But once your family caught wind of our presence, your trail simply vanished, and we lost you. Needless to say, this did not please Him.” Azazel digs his nails into Sam’s chest, just over the brand on Sam’s chest. “I see, now. Your daddy and big brother did this to you. Ever the meddlesome gnats, those two-“ Azazel curls a lip and the pressure he exerts beneath his fingers turn furious. Five talon-like nails suddenly dart forth to embed themselves into Sam’s skin, piercing through skin and flesh as they drag down, carving five, ragged slices through the mark on his skin, and with it-
“Yes, ” the demon murmurs. “Yes, there you are, Sam!” Azazel steps back, flinging his arms wide open as he accepts some invisible force that Sam, utterly distracted by the burning sensation of the dripping gashes in his chest, can only conceive of.
“THERE you are!” Azazel trips backwards, consumed by his exhilaration, and Sam-clever, industrious Samuel Winchester-steals forward, one hand clutching his still-bleeding wound while the other grasps for the weapon concealed in his waistband-
Please, please let this work-
Azazel freezes, maniacal laughter stopped in its tracks. Sam opens his eyes and numbly looks down, where he has buried his knife inside the demon’s belly. Blood, red as any human’s, drips down the brass handle in a thick, definitive path that creeps along Sam’s fingers, one at a time.
Sam dares to look up.
The sight he is graced with is not, under any circumstance, the one he had hoped for.
Azazel’s serpentine smile grows an inch. “Holy water?” he chuckles. “Really, Sam. Did you think a silver blade blessed with holy water was going to even scratch me?”
With inhuman speed, he catches the grip around the knife hilt and wrangles Sam’s fingers loose with bone-bruising pressure, giggling all the while. “This barely even tickles, you dumb beast! Who do you think I am? ”
Sam has barely the time to feel his heart sink before he finds himself launched in the air and thrown against a crumbling wall with what feels like the force of a steam-powered engine. Any struggle is quickly thwarted, as Sam discovers with interminable dismay that he is, indeed, stuck like a swat bug by invisible hands.
“Oh, this is rich. This is priceless. The Great Sam Winchester, the little baby prince we’d all pinned our Hopes and Dreams upon…is no more powerful than a human meat-suit.” Azazel’s monologue gains a singsong quality as he continues: “This is perfect. It is perfect that I got to you first. Lilith-that spineless, little whore-she may wish to bow and scrape before you, but I…I have better plans for you.”
Sam fights to speak, or move, or anything-unfortunately, he finds his will entirely at the mercy of the demon who holds him captive. Azazel drags him up, and up, little pebbles of grit grinding into his hair and clothes…
“Well, Sam, it was good catching up. But I’m afraid this is the end.”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and braces himself.
-----
The explosion comes.
What follows, however, is not the White Light that Sam anticipates. Nor is it the flames of a hell so unequivocally proven to exist.
Instead, Sam finds himself dropped like so much luggage. He keels over, rubbing the soreness from his limbs when suddenly-Azazel shrieks, piercing Sam’s eardrums. Hands automatically fly up to his ears-just in the nick of time-for a second explosion erupts in the form of a loud, messy gunshot.
Over it, a string of syllables and words rendered in Latin can be thinly heard. Sam looks up and finds himself face-to-face with the familiar stance of-
Oh no, Sam thinks, staggering to his feet. “Dean!” Sam yells, watching Azazel’s blinding, yellow eyes turn maniacal as his human body is bombarded with bullet holes. “Get out of here, he’s going to-he’ll kill you! ”
At the interjection, Dean throws a fierce expression over his shoulder that freezes Sam in place, while his Latin recitation and short-barrel shotgun continue in a relentless two-front attack that keeps the Demon at bay.
Still, their opponent is not one to give up easily. A savage snarl roars in Sam’s ears as flames tall as himself rise up from the earth in a terrestrial rendition of the Underworld. The blinding oranges and burning reds flicker pink through the skin of Sam’s slammed-shut eyelids, when suddenly, he sees-
Fire. More fire, the room ablaze, conflagration licking up the walls and sending timber down like fallen angels. A boy-a protector, his stance strong and familiar, scoops Sam up and nestles him close. Unintelligible whispers, promising safety and shelter-
Suddenly, as if a switch has been triggered, the flames extinguish themselves. Any evidence of their existence is betrayed only by scorch-marks of burnt grass and the smell of smoke in the night air. In the abrupt stillness, Azazel’s body slumps to the ground in a heap of bloodied flesh while Sam watches on, tense and afraid to hope.
Nothing more comes-not immediately, at least. There is only the slack posture of Dean as he lowers his sawed-off firearm and lets his chin drop to his chest. Sam’s ears ring in the aftermath of raging conflagration and exploding artillery. He ventures: “Dean?”
No response. Sam tries again: “Dean. Are you…is he gone?”
Dean swings around, lets drop his firearm, and looks up to smile. It is not a warm expression that colours Dean’s face, however; neither is it a warm timbre that graces his voice when he eventually replies, “Gone is not quite the word I’d use.”
Dean blinks, his eyes flickering yellow.
No, Sam thinks as dry horror echoes throughout his body. Damn it, Dean. Sam scrapes together all his mettle to demand: “Give him back.” Unfortunately, Sam hears his own breath shake as it leaves his lungs, and knows his defiance to be naught but gesture.
“I don’t know,” the demon says colloquially. “I rather like it in here. More spry than that bag of bones, at least.” He cocks his head towards the motionless body shucked behind him. “And…oh, my, ” he continues, slow pleasure sneaking into his words. “It’s more interesting in here, as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well for starters, we’re talking Dean Winchester, here. Any of my pals would kill to get a shot at trying him out-well, they’d kill regardless, but I think you understand.”
“Dean…Winchester,” Sam repeats, mostly to himself. Winchester.
As if the fiery scene his mind had conjured just moments before was not indication enough-indeed, if not all clues up to and including this showdown with hell had not been proposing this one, all-important Truth…
Dean’s his brother.
It strikes Sam with such resonance that he fails to understand how this fact had eluded him thus far. Since their first encounter in the Warren mausoleum, Dean had posed the paradox of both sheer familiarity and mystery. Sam never could quite grasp the exact attribute of the man that so intrigued him…attracted him, moreover…
It is upon this sobering thought that he realizes the extent to which this fascination with Dean has manifested itself: dreams, both waking and not, and a fixation so severe he’d perceived it as desire…
Oh, God.
Perhaps a modicum of the emotions that ravage Sam is reflected in his demeanor or some such ostensible display-in any case, Azazel latches upon it like a predator, as he twists Dean’s features into eerie delight.
“You boys,” he says, prowling forth. “You naughty, naughty boys.”
“Get out of him,” Sam begs, fearing the consequence of what Azazel has deduced.
“I’d rather not. This is too. Much. Fun.” The Demon rolls his words around his tongue, punctuating it with a wide grin as he stops short, close enough for Sam to see the freckles dusted over Dean’s skin as it glows in the moonlight.
“What do you want?” Sam spits.
At this, Azazel clinches the space between them and wantonly presses Dean’s body against Sam’s.
Sam inhales sharply, but strangles it so as to appear unruffled. It is a complete sham, however, for Sam is extremely ruffled. After all, it is no everyday occurrence to have the physical excitement of another man-or demon, for that matter-so blatantly asserted against his person.
Azazel gaily watches Sam’s throat work in desperate swallows. “What, Sammy?” he taunts. “Isn’t this what you want?”
Sam’s mouth twists into a sneer as he plasters himself against the shambled wall in attempts to procure some distance between them. To no avail, however, as the Demon follows in, grinding his growing erection against Sam’s hip.
“You’re sick,” Sam whispers.
Azazel is only all-too forthcoming when he counters, “No, you’re sick. You, and your brother. You think this-“ Azazel reaches down and cups himself (cups Dean) with an unabashed hand. “You think that’s me? I hate to break it to you, but while this is fun and all, I like to separate work from carnal pleasure.” Azazel leans in, gusting air over Sam’s turned cheek when he sings, “No, this body is all Dean.”
He pulls back to say offhandedly, “I always knew there was something off about your family. Never quite pictured this, but…well. Just goes to show you, mortals can be right hypocrites when it comes to assuming the high road.”
When Sam pointedly ignores him-characteristic mulishness coming to the fore as he refuses to be cowed by Azazel’s mental provocations-the Demon huffs in displeasure.
Unfortunately for Sam, Azazel knows precisely the genre of impetus that will catch the interest of his prey. He giddily announces: “Two Winchesters to slay in a single night! What fun!”
Though Sam has his head turned aside and his eyes squeezed shut, he is helpless to prevent the sound of ripping fabric from splitting the air, no more easily than he can overlook the hot, thick fluid that splatters across his chin and neck. When the unmistakable tang of metal touches his lips and makes its way over his tongue, Sam’s eyes shoot open in unadulterated terror.
What he sees is precisely the fulfillment of his starkest fears: Azazel had obtained Sam’s knife from wherever it lay and plunged it deep into Dean’s chest. The brass hilt of it protrudes from Dean’s body like a lever off a trolley, bobbing up and down from the efforts of Azazel’s deafening, unrestrained cackles as he calls out between guffaws, “One down-one to go!”
“Dean!” Sam lunges forward and grabs his brother round the waist in anticipation for a collapse that does not come. Only a second torrent of blood washes out over his hands. “Dean, ” he repeats, allowing the panic in his voice edge into desperation as he chants his brother’s name under the sound of Azazel’s raucous, joyous ejaculations.
The laughter is never-ending; the echoes of it will haunt Sam for years to come. And though his mind has numbed to near breaking point-Sam stares at the gaping wound in Dean’s chest as it gushes bright, red blood in rhythmic pulses-a thunderous shout of another voice suddenly wrenches his focus from the hollowing sight.
Sam looks up to find the tense form of John Winchester, just yards away.
There is no time for surprise, as the man immediately throws a small object towards Sam, who catches it automatically. John barks, “Throw it over his head!”
Sam snaps to attention, shaking the article out-attached to braided string is a metal pendant; he spreads the loop wide open and deftly hooks it over the head of the startled Demon.
The laughter tapers off, followed by a sharp, purposeful cough. The Demon repeats it, coughing hard and wetly as if struggling to dislodge some object from his throat. Though nothing comes forth, Azazel refuses to quit; his entire body lurches with the strain of expelling some object that will not surface, and he is soon reduced to a painful dry heave.
In the blunted silence, John’s voice picks up a well-memorized speech that carries over, strong and clear. He dictates confidently, exorcism cascading from his mouth like a coming tide.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”
Dean kneels on the floor, now, convulsions and gags gaining in turbulence with every step John circles in with. Finally, John’s voice rising to an emphatic crest, Dean throws his arms out behind him, chest yanked vertically into a frightening contusion as a screeching scream careens from his mouth into an expulsion of dark, cloudy matter.
Like a tornado in reverse, the thick clouds spread out towards the sky, accompanied by an electrical storm of lightning that splits the sky open wide, until slowly, reluctantly, the lightning eases down into sizzles of static. Black clouds dissipate, giving way to lighter, more natural weather. The dregs of grey lazily drift apart and the moon finds itself again, peering down to watch as miles below, the fragile form of Dean Winchester crumples to the ground.
His father and brother dart forward, catching Dean before his body hits the scorched earth.
-----
“Dean,” Sam says. His voice is small and scared, even to his own ears. John passes him a cursory look, then re-focuses on the broken body of his elder son.
“Dean,” John says, his voice firm and demanding. “You’re okay, son. Come on, you’re okay.”
Sam dully watches as John cuts the mangled shirt from Dean’s body with a serrated blade. From the utilitarian bag he’s brought, John extracts a skin of water and pours it over the leaking wound. “Come on,” he cajoles. “Just a scratch.”
“Did he…is he going to be okay?” Sam ventures.
“Well, he missed his heart, if that’s what you’re asking,” John replies, bringing his eyes up to meet Sam’s. With hesitancy belied by the sure hands that continue to work over his task, John says, “You did good out there, Sam.” He looks like he wants to say something more, but then a pitiable cough sounds from below and all attention zeroes in on Dean.
Dean struggles to sit up, groaning. Sam stills him with a gentle palm, but John quickly brushes it aside and quells Sam’s protests with a stern look, saying, “Let him up. We need to patch the wound.”
With militant efficiency, John cleans and bandages with supplies pulled from his kit-a kit that includes a whisky flask, which Dean digs out with single-minded surety. Triumph briefly lands across his visage as his hand closes around said object…at least, until he realizes he has only one arm with which to use, while John monopolizes the other, holding it steady as he wraps strips of linen over injured flesh. Dean throws Sam a plaintive look until his message is communicated; with a start, Sam quickly unscrews the top of the flask and returns it to Dean.
Grimaces, grunts, and forceful swigs of alcohol punctuate the time it takes for John to finish up, but before long, Dean is-asides from a pallor no doubt attributable to the extensive blood loss he’d suffered-thankfully on the path to recovery.
As the immediate crisis concludes, Sam lets himself relax. What follows is the slow, incredulous realization that Firstly, Azazel is gone-exorcised, and banished beyond the gates of hell.
He blinks round to face the drawn-but relieved-faces of Dean and John. My family, Sam thinks. He feels his chest expand with an incredible sense of belonging, for it is inarguable it is that Sam belongs with these men. Underneath the grizzled exterior of the eldest Winchester, John regards Sam with insurmountable affection and pride. Next to him, Dean-too tired to filter the sentiments he is ordinarily so loth to reveal-allows unadulterated joy to dance across his features.
While Sam is perfectly content to allow the continuation of their tableau, the three of them unable to help from face-splitting grins, John eventually speaks up.
“Sam,” he starts. “I think you may already be aware of this, but I’m your father. And Dean-“ he gingerly sets a palm on a bare shoulder as Dean glances up to lock eyes with Sam-“This is Dean, your-”
“We’ve made each others’ acquaintance,” Sam interrupts, gaze darkening as he wets his lips. Dean’s smile slips a fraction, but Sam continues, “I have things I want to say to you, John. While I’m entirely contented to meet you, you must understand my perplexity as to why it took two decades for us to reunite. For the moment, however, I’d like to speak with Dean. In private.”
John spares a careful look between his two sons, who appear to carry on some silent conversation. He shrugs and says to the elder, “I’ll be at the pier. You know the one.” He then turns to Sam, reaching out to envelope Sam in a gruff embrace. “I know you must be angry, Sam. But let me just say first, our absence…it was for your own good. We wanted to keep you safe and out from all these supernatural affairs, especially with the knowledge we had about you. In any event, you know as well as the rest of us now, it’s not a pretty world out there.” John lets go and looks Sam square in the eye. “Kept an eye on you, though. You’ve grown up good, son.”
With one last squeeze that fills Sam with boyish pride, John turns to go.
-----
Only Dean remains.
He watches on with palpable apprehension-asks, “What did you want to talk about?”
Sam plants himself in front of his brother and breathes: “Only this.”
A forceful kiss demonstrates his intent-the initial shock of it leaves Dean immobile, so Sam seizes the moment to turn his brother’s face up with possessive hands and eagerly deepens the kiss until it’s sweet, and good. Sam slowly licks his way in, spreading soft lips open into a hesitant return of heat.
When Dean jerks back, Sam snatches the lapels of Dean’s coat with jackrabbit reaction, keeping him close.
“We can’t…I’m serious, Sam. We can’t. ”
Sam says nothing, only bows his head, turns his mouth down at the corners, and glances up through his hair, strands of which have fallen loose from its hold. And although Sam makes no further utterance, Dean replies:
“Don’t be like that, Sam. Don’t…don’t look at me like that. If you knew, you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Knew what?”
Dean’s eyes drop to the floor and he says: “You didn’t let the fella finish, earlier. Your Father, I mean to say. He…he’s my father too.”
Sam keeps quiet. After all, he knows. He’s known for awhile now. And yet, this knowledge changes nothing of the insane, irrepressible urges his body will have him articulate. Oh, surely, he’d expected something to change-they’re brothers, for God’s sake. Sam and Dean share the same battle-worn Father; they were borne by the same tragic Mother. They spill like blood and, lest everyone forget, they’re both men to boot. Whether it makes them sodomites or sinners or any of such delicate phrases, it effusively means a dangerous dalliance. And such deviance from Society-well, having been a part of the institution for so long, Sam knows fully well the disastrous consequences of societal digressions.
His intellect painstakingly alarms him to these matters. However, Sam’s emotions refuse to pay heed. The revulsion that ought to come with the cognizance of his attraction to Dean-indeed, to his very own brother…it does not come. Neither can Sam bring himself to care, for the green eyes that grudgingly flick up…they promise the home Sam had never quite found on his own; they promise absolution.
Dean searches his brother’s face, irises tracking back and forth like a caress. “Wait…” he says. “You knew, didn’t you?”
He did. And it matters not-Dean, on the other hand, looks inclined to be sick. He sways back in the snare of Sam’s grip, saying, “You knew already, and yet you still…”
Sam doesn’t budge. Dean can look at him all he wants, but beautiful, wretched countenance notwithstanding, Sam is not going to let his brother escape.
So Dean just swallows hard, whispering, “It’s perverted. You know it’s perverted, right?”
Dean’s eyes turn wide and vulnerable, sending silent pleas to Sam as if he is the elder-as if Sam is the one who can resolve their situation with a wave of the hand.
Well, who is Sam to deny his brother anything?
Sam lets sneak the beginnings of a lopsided grin-considers it fair warning before gently cinching his arms to draw the man in with the objective of illustrating his stance on the entire issue.
He picks a swath of skin that is to his liking, along the tendons of Dean’s neck just below the scruff of his jaw, and samples it with an almost demure, perfunctory lick. It makes Dean gasp nonetheless, and the feel of it-Dean’s skittish lungs thrusting the barrel of his chest against Sam’s-stirs heat inside him.
Sam wants to hear the gasp again-wants to be the one to provoke it. Being careful about Dean’s shoulder wound, Sam spreads his fingers over the landscape of Dean’s back, appreciative of the solidity as Dean heaves against the flat of Sam’s palms. It makes Sam wants more.
He’ll take it, if he must; Sam opens his mouth to attack Dean’s neck, suckling hard enough to bring a bloom of blood just below surface. The consequent fluttering of Dean’s breath is all the encouragement Sam needs to widen his mouth, sucking in more skin, more sweat. Hands rove southerly, sliding over infernal layers of fabric to arc side-ways and land on the spur of Dean’s hips, where thin cotton shirting transfers heat as easily as if it were skin to skin-as if Sam were touching Dean’s skin, fingers to hips.
Perhaps he pushes too far-later, Sam will hardly believe his own audacity-but Dean launches himself backwards, breaking the ring of Sam’s embrace. He delivers a green-eyed glare that would have Sam burning in shame if not for the dampening effect of Dean’s bluster as he yanks his shirt hem, stuffing it back into the waist of his trousers from whence his younger brother had so boldly ventured.
“This isn’t,” Dean pants. His hands fall uselessly to his sides. A bit of his shirt is still un-tucked, and there remains a tiny peek of bare belly there that Sam distractedly ignores. “I’m going, now. For awhile I mean.”
Sam’s eyes dart back up. “Come again?”
Dean collects himself with a steadying inhalation, before elaborating, “I’m leaving town.”
“But-“ Sam starts forward, hating the way Dean automatically back-pedals. “We’ve only just found other!”
“What, as brothers you mean? All the more reason to leave, Sam.”
There is an absurd amount of righteousness in the way Dean speaks. And while he may fool those less attuned to his idiosyncrasies, Sam is not led the least bit astray as to what lies beneath his brother’s arrogant guise.
Dean’s scared. The fact of the matter is, Dean is simply unprepared to battle the monumental Goliath that is Society, and Sam…well, Sam is not so pig-headed as to deny the simple truth that, indeed, the difficulties their union would pose are just a little bit terrifying.
On the other hand, Sam is sure enough in his convictions to know that the alternative-a life-time of suppression and avoidance-would surely be the less palatable choice. Now, he need only impose upon Dean these truths.
“Everything, then-all we’ve done? Don’t be coy with me, Dean. You were the one who promised ‘persuasion’ in a distinctly lascivious tone, back at the Heidelberg Inn. And lest you forget, it takes two individuals to engage in frottage. Do you think I didn’t notice your state of excitement, when you broke into my apartment? Or at the Roadhouse Tavern, when you threw me out of your room?” At the sure blush that creeps into Dean’s cheeks, Sam would whoop with victory would it not alarm his brother into anger, or denial. Thus, Sam controls his tumultuous emotions just enough to deliver, in a low and measured voice: “Don’t run from this, Dean. I swear to God-“
“It’s not running away,” Dean quickly interjects. “We need the time to…who knows, maybe the next time we meet, this will all…” He makes vague gestures with his hands, sweeping at the space between them. “It’ll all have gone away. Returned to what’s natural. The fact of our relation needs time to sink in.”
“I’m not saying we can’t be brothers,” Sam says quietly.
“Well I’m saying, we can only be brothers.”
It is at this unequivocal statement that Dean leaves the Observatory. Sam, for his part, stays awhile after, reposing his back against a fallen boulder with little to keep him company but the drying blood in the grass beside him and the nebulous thoughts that drift in and out of his mind. It is only until the first fingers of dawn pull themselves into the sky that Sam gets to his feet and carries himself home.
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