The Telegram, Chapter VI. The Winchesters
In the night, Dean comes for him again.
No longer does Dean hold himself tense and suspicious; his smile is brilliant, this time, wide and unburdened, transforming him into so guileless of a being that he gains ten years of youth on his countenance. Sam is enthralled by the change.
Especially enthralling is the way Dean makes his way over to him. Sam looks up from his writing-table and feels his breath catch-Dean, his nighttime intruder (though Sam left the latch free, this time), drops down from the bedroom’s open sill with the grace of a cat, and prowls into Sam’s study with the intent of a tiger.
Dean smiles greedily, and Sam licks his lips, feeling hungry himself.
When they clash, it’s with fervor so heated, they could torch the room down. Dean is unabashed when he brings their bodies together-they scrabble at clothing, damning the nuisance the folds pose at this juncture. There are too many buttons, too many layers of which to eliminate. Sam fumbles with Dean’s waistcoat; Dean rips Sam’s pocket-watch off of its chain in his haste to get underneath.
They litter the ground with the starched shells of their clothing. Finally: Dean’s skin-Lord-his smooth, feverish skin is almost too hot to touch. Sam touches, anyway.
If Dean is the cat, then Sam is the carnivore; he tears at Dean’s body with the scrape of his teeth, and beneath him, Dean mewls. The sound is intoxicating. Sam wants more of it-wants to tease other noises from the depths of that working throat, Adam’s Apple helplessly bobbing up and down as Sam devours Dean’s mouth, Dean’s neck, Dean’s chest (his right nipple first, then the left, Dean arching in gasps).
The bed is too distant for this grapple of theirs. Twenty feet across rooms prove insurmountable to the boys, their lust too pressing a matter to dare interrupt with the interminable time a crossing would require. And so they stand together, entwined in each other for support and leverage as they fight for dominance. Two men, and this could unfold no other way.
Sam though, Sam is determined to win. He wants Dean, wants to push the infuriating man down and consume him wholly. Past grievances and bygone annoyances bubble to the surface, and with the passion it lends, Sam grabs Dean’s hips and shoves the man back against the jut of the writing-table, the miscellany there jumping with an indignant clatter.
“Sam, ” Dean pants. “Sam, ” like he can speak none other. Good, Sam thinks, exalting in the sound of his name as it escapes from Dean’s riveting, whorish mouth. He wants Dean to want him. Because-the Good Lord willing-does he ever want Dean.
Fortunately, in this Place and Time, Sam can have him. Perched on Sam’s writing-table, nude as a French painting and glowing like a Vermeer, Dean opens himself up to Sam with the slow, obscene spread of his legs, like a woman will do (but utterly, utterly male in the way Dean’s prick stands erect, catching light at the tip where clear fluid wells).
“Sam, ” Dean invites, and Sam answers back with a kiss-
Dropped upon the curve of Dean’s mouth, the kiss is tender and soft. While the fire that eats at Sam’s soul would have Dean flat on his back with Sam buried inside in the blink of an eye, there is more to it than that-this wondrous creature beneath him encompasses more than just a beautiful face and a willing body. This man of whom he knows practically nothing-Dean invokes in Sam such an array of emotions, it would be wasteful to simply destroy them with flames of lust.
From the moment those crystalline, green eyes caught his own, long ago and underground in that stifling chamber of the dead, Sam had become captive to their untold stories. Dean may speak of a mystery but he embodies so many more: Sam cannot place the origins of their bone-deep connection. He does not know why the name Dean makes him shiver so…but he means to find out.
He begins by kissing Dean gently, reverently. When Dean whimpers back, Sam puts his hands on the man. Dean trembles, and so Sam wraps a palm around Dean’s cock, distracting him with slow, languid pulls that smear leaking fluid over the swollen head, and when Dean bites off a curse and bucks into Sam’s grip-all bets are off.
“Just do it, Sam,” Dean demands. “I am no woman-I don’t need an hour of petting to get wet. I’ll be wet when you slick yourself, so just do it already.”
The things that will come out of that filthy mouth would make a criminal blush. It succeeds in its intent, however, as Sam responds with renewed vigor, spitting into one palm with which he grasps himself, working hard to prepare his flushed cock. But then quite suddenly, a seed of doubt edges to the forefront of Sam’s mind:
“Dean,” Sam whispers. “I don’t-I’ve never, with a…“
Although the stuttered words make no meaning of their own, Dean smiles with amused understanding. “There’s no wrong way to bed someone, Sam. Man or woman.”
Sam watches on with unbridled heat as Dean makes his point; he moves back, fully seating himself on Sam’s writing-table with a small hop aboard. Makes a show of moving papers and pens aside, before reaching for his own thighs and…
An embarrassing, high-pitched noise ekes out from Sam’s throat. He feels justified in it, however, for in front of him Dean’s raised his knees up, thighs pulled apart to reveal the tight pucker of his hole. All the air in the room rushes out-nothing to fill Sam’s lungs, as Dean sucks on a finger, then reaches down to finger himself open.
“Good Lord, are you trying to kill me?” Sam murmurs, watching the entrance of one digit as it wiggles in, sinking deeper with urgent, little ministrations. When Sam finds the mind to glance back up, the lopsided grin that has formed on Dean’s face is cheeky and utterly arrogant, hinting at all the times Dean may have been recipient to such professions of ardor.
The thought of it grates-that Dean shares this with others, while Sam treasures him wholly. Jealousy invades him, unwelcome and unwarranted, seeing as how Sam…well, Sam is no blushing virgin, himself. He knows how to brandish his body as a weapon, as a conqueror, and Dean-promiscuous, erotic creature that he is-even Dean will be pushed to unimaginable heights of pleasure, and all at the hands of Samuel Winchester.
Dean isn’t prepared for it-couldn’t be, with the girth Sam presents-but it is of no consequence for these eager, wanting boys. A little discomfort is easily dwarfed by the wave of their passions as Sam nudges the blunt tip of his prick against that fluttering hole and, in one rough slide, seats himself within Dean. Sam pauses to exult in the scorching, vice-like grip as Dean bucks in compulsory thrusts, his body struggling to make room.
From here on, there is no thinking required. Instinct takes over as Sam repeats the movement, again, and again, driving mindless cries out from Dean’s throat that sound to the beat of the desk as it batters the wall with the force of Sam’s hips. There is no possible way their coupling could last long-not with the drawn-out courtship they’d entertained, teased out over the course of weeks, and weeks. No, this union has been a long time coming.
“Dean, “ Sam warns, teetering on the precipice of climax, but Dean only bears down on the cock lodged inside him and rides it without remorse. Sam is helpless but to fall-and so he does, with a little cry, tempering the wave with reflexive spasms as he empties himself inside of Dean. Dean tumbles after, milky fluid spilling over the tautly bunched muscles of his chest and abdomen.
They come down together, bodies heaving in tandem with deep, gasping breaths. In the aftermath, Sam leans over Dean’s contorted body and slowly releases Dean’s legs, letting them drift to the ground, touching floor as Dean strains up, searching Sam out to bring their mouths together…
Through the haze of their sloppy kiss, Sam idly thinks, Strange. Though his ears ring with the toll of exertion, he still hears the ceaseless banging of the desk hitting the wall. Pulling back for a moment, Sam regards Dean, sleepy and warm, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. Sam tears his eyes away to look underneath their bodies-sheaves of paper litter the ground around them in stacks of rubbish, but the writing-table they lean on is completely still.
The knocking is relentless, however, and Sam grimaces, covering his ears as the clamor grows louder-
-----
Sam opens his eyes.
There’s someone knocking at the front door. Someone impatient. Sam groans and buries his head underneath the pillows.
“Mr. Winchester, are you in there?” Charlie’s voice comes through the front room, muffled, but distinct. He sounds a fright, too, his voice urgent-it’s entirely incongruous with what Sam knows of the apathetic door-man, so to hear old Charlie express an energy beyond that of a sedated basset hound could only mean an earthquake, or some tantamount disaster.
Sam blearily throws his sheets off and carries his feet to the front room-once there, Sam remarks with sudden dismay a cooling, tacky fluid making an uncomfortable nuisance of itself, between Sam’s thighs-no doubt a result of the…vivid dream he’d been regrettably pulled from. With an embarrassed groan, Sam trundles right back into his bedroom in order to swap his pajama pants for clean trousers.
“Mr. Winchester, there’s someone for you! ”
“All right, Charlie, I’ll be right there!” Sam calls back. He shoves his embarrassment aside, much as he has with the soiled pajamas he leaves in a heap, off in the corner of the room. Sam makes a mental note to sort them out anon (and with them, all their sordid implications).
When he unbolts the door and jerks it open, he finds himself faced with not only the door-man, but a visitor as well. Sam recognizes the second man to be young Adam Wilkes, long-time servant of the Wilson household.
“Adam, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to fetch you, Mr. Winchester, at Mrs. Gough’s request.”
“What’s happened? Couldn’t she leave a message? I’m not sorted out enough to be making house calls, right now-“
“She said it’s very dire, sir,” Adam presses, his blue eyes wide and panicked enough to strong-arm even the most grudging of hearts.
“All right, just-give me a minute, I’m hardly awake,” Sam says, inviting the boy in as Charlie turns to go, presumably to re-occupy his post downstairs.
At Adam’s goading, Sam sprints through his morning regimen, splashing his face and choosing his clothes with water-blind eyes. He forgoes even the procedure of brushing his teeth, the urgency with which Adam spurs him on.
“Was there any mention of what happened?” Sam asks worriedly, his grogginess long receded in the face of what unfavorable circumstance may have befallen his best friend.
“No, she just said to fetch you AT ONCE and sent me out with the buggy! Come on, you don’t need that-“
Sam obediently leaves his pocket-watch to follow Adam out the door, buttoning up his coat even as he goes. He does one last about-face to snatch his derby off its knob, clapping it over his flyaway hair as he thunders down the stairs.
-----
By the time their buggy pulls into the carriage house of the Wilson estate, Sam has dreamt up a thousand detailed scenarios that would find Ava is such distress so as to rouse Sam from his sleep and have him delivered post-haste. The bulk of them involve gruesome incapacitations of loved ones, so when Sam clips across the threshold of the home and lopes up the grand staircase to enter the Parlour Room with his walking stick and hat still on his person, he does not feel so terrible about brushing off the startled maid in favor of rushing to Ava’s side, where she reclines on a divan with her back to him.
“Ava, old girl!” Sam tosses his stick onto the tea-table with a loud rattle and drops to his knees.
Ava whips around, her eyes immediately fastening upon Sam’s in mirrored frenzy. “Oh, Sam! I’m so glad you’re here!”
“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“It’s-oh, I cannot even catch my breath. Just-“ Ava sits up, grasping about for some object. Finally, her hands seize on a peacock-blue book, which she grabs off the cushions. “Here!” she cries, thrusting it at him.
Sam regards the cloth-bound book with raised eyebrow. “A book?” he asks. Ava nods passionately. “You delivered Adam to wake me on a Saturday morning, just so you could show me a book? ”
“You know very well how I hate that haughty expression of yours,” Ava accuses. “Just trust me-it concerns a VERY important matter.”
“It’s a book, Ava! You had me scared halfway to my grave-I thought you ill, or your family in some terrible way. And by Heaven, you know how reckless Brady is with his motor! What if he’d gotten himself into an accident?” Sam stops to run a hand across the itchy stubble that graces his jaw, wishing he’d had the opportunity to shave. “At the very least, could you pen a message for poor Adam to carry, the next time you seek to pry me from my bed?”
“It isn’t my fault that big noggin of yours always leaps to the most dreadful of conclusions.” Ava says with a little hmph! , before glancing down to tap the cover of the book with a purposeful finger. “Now, the book, if you will.”
With a withering sigh, Sam assumes the vacant seat on the divan and splays out, letting the heart-stopping adrenaline ebb from his system. He removes his hat and sets it down; all the while, Ava’s expectant gaze drills little holes into the side of his head.
He’d kick up a fuss about it, but years of friendship have taught Sam that it would be quicker to simply do as the woman says. He draws his attention to the heavy tome in his hands.
A transcription of the cover is provided here:
THE
UNIVERSAL COMMERCIAL
ELECTRIC TELEGRAPHIC
CODE
Multum in Parvo
Simplicity and Economy Palpable, Secrecy Absolute.
BY
J. E. WINCHESTER
Upon notation of the book’s author, Sam’s breath sticks in his throat. “You don’t think…”
“That’s not all,“ Ava rushes to say, reaching over his lap to flip the cover open. The pages land at the Preface, and Ava jabs a finger at the bottom. “Go on,” she says. “Read it.”
Warily, Sam recites: “’…The Author hopes that his work will show the possibility of attaining SIMPLICITY, ECONOMY, and SECRECY, the three great objects of a telegraphic code, and that the time may be not far distant when the use of this Code will assist in matters far greater than those of this humble servant.’
‘To Love, and Family. J. W.”
Sam halts here, lifting his eyes to meet Ava’s. “Well-“ he starts. “Well, it couldn’t be him. It says to Family, and we both know how much my father values such a thing. Not at all, I mean to say.”
“I’m not so sure, Sam. But putting aside the possibility of this Author being of some relation to you, the contents of the book itself warrants great scrutiny. Why, I don’t see how I hadn’t noticed it before!” Ava ducks down to sift through the pages, flipping arbitrarily until they fall open to long lists of telegraphic code. She goes on to explain, “I daresay, just look at the words! Remember those phrases you impressed upon me, weeks and weeks ago?”
How could Sam possibly forget? He’d been living in the thick of it, ever since Abigail Gunther bestowed the first set upon him.
At Sam’s nod, Ava continues, “While they aren’t strictly present in this dictionary, they sound so similar. Clearly of the same breed.”
“You mean to suggest that the codes I’ve come across-that this J. E. Winchester, he may have something to do with them?”
“That is precisely what I am suggesting, Samuel.”
He looks down once again, running fingertips across the columns of codes. Ava is sharp to have noticed how the combinations of the letters, their roots and prefixes…they’re far too alike to the codes to be bred from coincidence. Sam’s hopes rise mercurially.
“I should…I ought to find the man.”
“Indeed,” she agrees, with a knowing smile. “Now, wouldn’t you say this was worth getting out of bed for?”
-----
With so lucrative a lead in his possession, Sam wastes little time hunting down J. E. Winchester. It is easy as nothing to affect a cryptography enthusiast, utterly besotted with the “creative genius of Mr. Winchester” (Ava would call it narcissism, but Sam merely thinks it good acting). The publishers at Eden Fisher & Co. disclose the Author’s address with merely a smile and a bid of Good Luck to Sam on his mission to obtain the man’s autograph.
Thusly, on this dreary December day, Sam’s journey finds him in the outskirts of Oakland, California-a scant hour’s ferry ride away, but a world apart in terms of culture and development. While the towns South of gay San Francisco turn gladder and lovelier by the year, across the bay, quite the opposite is in effect.
As evidence, Sam would like to present: the house before which he stands.
He could wax rhetoric of how profoundly dubious the groundwork of the building is (the porch skewed to one side), or how the salary of a writer must not be sufficient enough to hire hands to tidy (the fiction of) the front garden. Instead, in the interest of saving Time, Sam will simply liken J. E. Winchester’s abode to the similitude of the suspect Roadhouse Tavern-and he shall leave it at that.
Holding onto the neck of his walking stick, Sam raps the brass butt of it against the rotted door in three quick successions. He quickly scoots back, mentally rehearsing the cover story he’d conjured for the purpose of this visit, when in his peripheral vision, Sam suddenly perceives a thick line of white that graces the front doorstep.
He squats down, examining it more closely. The line is comprised of what seems to be cane sugar, or salt, sealing the underside of the doorway in uninterrupted clumps. Strange, Sam thinks, dragging a finger through the small crystals as he wonders at their purpose.
Before he is caught snooping, Sam straightens his back. Still, no reply comes from within the house, so he knocks a second time, only to have silence greet him once more.
Sam steps forth and gingerly presses his ear against the peeling paint of the door, straining to catch some indication that the house is not so vacant as it purports to be-after all, if this J. E. Winchester is indeed who Sam imagines him to be, then would it not be far-fetched to think the man would seek to avoid him, as he has done for over two decades long?
With this theory in mind, Sam abandons his primary plan of campaign in favor of-well, if he is to be entirely honest, here-in favor of skulking. And housebreaking, if the opportunity so arises (Dean’s questionable code of ethics must be exerting its influence). In any case, if J. E. Winchester is truly absent, there should be no one to complain if Sam conducts a bit of investigative work about the property.
Mind made up, Sam smoothly rounds the porch, stepping over long weeds and brush to gain access to the side of the house. A small window punches the monotony of wooden slats-Sam attempts to peer in, but the glass is so dirty and smudged, he cannot see beyond the mundane contents of the sill (a candle-holder, and two pens). Again, Sam notes the eccentric placement of more sugar; whilst the majority of it sits on the interior, tiny granules escape to the outer ledge. Sam tries the window-it doesn’t budge.
It is at this juncture that a tinny strain of voices filters over Sam’s ears, carried by the wind. Like a terrier that’s caught scent of prey, Sam perks towards the source of noise in hopes of re-capturing the ghost of words in the air.
Long moments transpire, but Alas! Its owners speak in too low a tone to permit his hearing anything of it. The longer he endeavours, however, the more plain it becomes that the voices originate behind the residence.
With his heart performing a percussion line against his ribs, Sam slowly creeps through the overgrown flora, vying for a better post from which to eavesdrop-or at the very least, one that can afford a glimpse of his subjects. Though he inches ever nearer, the conversation now a constant burble, the details of it remain damnably inaudible.
Suddenly, as one voice raises heatedly, Sam gets one phrase entire: “-why can’t we tell him? It’s his life, after all.”
Sam gasps. That voice-that gritty, hot-blooded voice-it’s Dean. Of that fact, there holds not a shred of doubt in Sam’s mind…only, for what earthly reason would Dean be doing here, out in Oakland?
Sam cautiously edges out from behind the house, where a makeshift clearing-delineated by a ragged ring of trees and fern-composes the semblance of a yard. Two men stand in the middle of it, arguing.
“I didn’t raise you to be insolent, Dean. You know what folly that would pose.”
The wild growth of greenery effectually hides Sam from view-on the other hand, the View is equally hidden from Sam. As this will hardly quench his curiosity, he takes a chance and nimbly leaps behind the nearest tree-
A throwing knife hurtles through the air and lodges itself into Sam’s chosen shield with a terrifying THUNK, scant inches from his nose. He strangles an inelegant cry in his throat-is numbly proud for the way his voice stays, even as he watches the knife hilt quiver from the lasting impact of its collision.
Sam swallows hard, immobile with the fear of having been caught. The two resume their quarrel, however, and Sam emits a silent sigh of gratitude.
From behind the tree, the branches expose rents and gaps from between which Sam can spy-he chooses his position carefully, for the men appear to be using his cover for target practice, as suggested by the throwing knives that rest on a hip-high tree stump between them-the weapons laid out in a row like silver fish-or by the scarred bark and deep ruts scattered across all the trees within Sam’s proximity. Once he settles into a propitious arrangement, Sam re-aligns his focus on the dialogue at hand.
“…would be playing straight into their hands.” The older man-Sam supposes him to be J. E. Winchester-stands firm, emphasizing his point with the shake of a small knife in his hand. Though Sam squints to the best of his abilities, the identity of the man escapes him-he’s turned away, exposing naught but short, salt-pepper hair, and the large expanse of his back.
“But-“
“-But what, Dean?”
Dean pauses here, reluctant to assert his reasoning, in much the same way a beast will defer to the leader of its pack. It seems, however, that Dean is ardent enough in his views that he will break habit to contend: “I think he deserves to know.”
The words echo loudly in Sam’s ears, as he distinctly remembers having uttered an identical statement once: I think I deserve to know. Is it possible that the crux of the dispute unfolding before him…do they speak of him?
Another whip of a knife buries itself into the trunk adjacent to him, and Sam snaps back from his thoughts. The older man replies:
“We’re not going to tell him. It would place him in more danger-in fact, what we should be doing, is carting him off to Africa, or the Orient. This late in the game, it isn’t just about Sam anymore.” At Dean’s silence, the man heaves a large, opulent sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean, but that’s my final word on this.”
While such contentious a statement would only stir the defiance in Sam’s belly, it appears Dean is no stranger to Ultimatums. Dean concedes the point-any sign of his dissatisfaction is only demonstrated by the vigor with which he flings a knife into a pitiable tree some yards away.
“Fine, so we keep him out of this,” Dean grunts. “That just means we have to kill the bastard that much sooner.”
“My thoughts exactly. Did you manage to obtain the code?”
A faraway pre-occupation comes across Dean’s demeanor. At length, he says, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And?”
“Accodadura. The full line goes like this: Frutescent Yovine Cappula Acodadura. ”
J. E. lowers his hand from its position mid-air, knife going slack in his grip. Though his visage remains hidden from Sam, Dean’s expression is immediately visible; a frown wrinkles his brow. Dean asks haltingly, “What-what is it? Where is the demon?”
“San Francisco,” J.E. replies, his voice ashen.
Dean’s own hand stills on the row of remaining knives; from even this far a distance, Sam can see the pallor of Dean’s skin as his blood drains away. “Christ,” Dean swears savagely. “Where precisely?”
Sam pitches forward, intent on hearing the answer to Dean’s question even as he sneaks a hand into his pocket to grab his fountain pen, in the event the reply proves too meticulous for memory alone. Never say Sam Winchester was an unprepared fellow.
“Frutescent Yovine, Cappula Acodadura. Right?” Dean nods, and so J. E. translates: “’Firstly, the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Observatory. Golden Gate.’”
Dean’s recognition dawns alongside Sam’s, as he voices both their thoughts aloud-“Sweeney’s Observatory. Over in the park.”
“How far is that from Sam?” J. E. demands.
“Just a few stops away by trolley. Does-does Azazel know that Sam’s right under his nose? God, the one thing the demons want, and we cosy them up together like idiots.”
The older man sounds grim as he says, “We’ve got to destroy Azazel before the demons realize. Even with the sigil we put on him, I’m surprised Sam’s escaped their notice thus far. We can’t be this sloppy anymore.”
Suddenly, J. E. Winchester pivots and unknowingly presents himself to the full extent of Sam’s observant lynx-eyes.
If Sam harboured any doubt from this scene that J. E. Winchester was indeed his Father-the man Sam had censured all his life for the tragedies he’d been made to suffer through as a young boy-they all vanish, replaced with a fierce surety. Though true, Sam was but a babe at the time, he can no sooner forget the man than he could his own face. The wide set of John’s mouth-the gruffness of his hands and familiar stance with which he holds himself-Sam sees himself in this man, and furthermore, remembers him.
He hates that the effervescent memories he retains of John are at such odds with Sam’s resentment. He hates that even now, Sam’s instincts would have him embrace the man, as if he were still the same boy he once was-four years old, and loved. A bitter lump forms in his throat; Sam swallows it down, his fingers itching to push the tree branch aside and to reveal himself-still, he is not so foolish as to give up his location; not when matters of such enormity and secrecy are available for the taking, if only Sam will arrest his impulses long enough to listen.
Unfortunately, the bulk of what will be said, has been said. John begins to stalk towards Sam’s position in the trees, saying over his shoulder to Dean, “Stay the night. We can go over our stratagem here in Oakland, but prepare to leave by to-morrow Evening.”
John’s trajectory remains a straight path to discovery, so Sam hastily dashes to the side, finding cover around the corner of the house. Not a moment too soon, either-John reaches the pocked tree and begins extracting the small knives from their wooden sheathes, the ferns beside him swaying in the wake of Sam’s evacuation.
As a mouse with light feet will do, Sam skitters through the side yard and retreats down the road in the direction from whither he came.
-----
Thirty minutes later, onboard the Melrose with his face to the wind, Sam shields his eyes from the fluorescent sky and slowly, methodically considers all he has learnt of during his excursion to Oakland.
There is much to process.
The fact of his Father’s existence remains that-a fact. In due time, the shock will diminish. By contrast, the subject of which John and Dean discussed…that poses a quandary worthy of deep deliberation.
Sam now knows, to a reasonable extent, the location of the monster that murdered his mother-additionally, there is the newfound information that Azazel searches for Sam (to finish off the job he began some twenty years ago, Sam can only assume). And in conclusion…what, exactly? What course of action is Sam to follow from these priceless morsels of information?
With a sudden, ferocious squeeze of pain, a sharp sensation penetrates the forefront of Sam’s head like an ice pick jammed between his brows. He crumples to the floor of the deck, one hand pinched over his forehead, the other still clutching the banister lest he topple overboard-
The effort is of no consequence, however, for the maritime scenery drops away beneath Sam’s feet, only to be replaced with solid, packed terrain.
He allows his eyes a moment to adjust-only, they never do, regardless of how much blinking or rubbing he performs. The images before him remain stubbornly hazy, the colors saturated and unearthly.
Sam takes a hesitant step forward, swiveling his head about in attempts to discern his surroundings. He is outdoors. The Time: seemingly the dead of night, as overhead, pinpoints of white vibrate into surreal streaks, connoting stars. His wandering gaze skims across decrepit lawn that rolls upwards, forming a crest of land that Sam doggedly climbs.
He reaches the top of the hill-in an instant, his whereabouts become sickeningly plain.
Sam finds himself in a remote tract of Golden Gate Park, at the outer edges of Sweeney’s Observatory. At the ruins of them, anyhow.
Down below, a large arena of brick and stone rubble sleeps, as if in waiting for a spell that will re-cast its bygone splendor. The Observatory once constituted a beautiful, two-storyed monument built for gazing out over the City, but was carelessly felled by the Great Quake, as per the fate of so many edifices. Now, the crumbled arches exude elegant tragedy, and broken stairs lead thirty feet into the brisk night air only to drop away to unforgiving rocks.
Near a particularly large collection of boulders, a blur of activity catches Sam’s eye-his attention flies to the open clearing that yawns within the ring of wreckage.
There, three figures warily circle-Sam starts forward, scrambling down the hill and kicking up dirt en route to the tableau where three men, whose identities Sam can only assume are-
No, STOP-Sam thinks as he hits ground level.
The scene rolls on, heedless of Sam’s desperation; Dean and John lunge for the third figure-Azazel-with deadly weapons raised. In response, however, Azazel merely allows a spine-chilling stretch of a too-wide grin crawl over his mouth. Time trembles, and slows…
With a yell, Sam falls to the ground.
Beneath him, the wooden deck pitches back forward, and Sam nearly slips through the flimsy rails that keep individuals from lolling about the boat’s edge and falling overboard.
An anonymous hand claps his shoulder and tethers him as Sam finds his feet. He distractedly thanks the man before looking up to realize that the ferry has dropped anchor, its passengers lining up to file onto the pier. Sam watches the queue for a moment; single, working men pop their knuckles impatiently, eager to get home for the day, while dirty families huddle together, taking comfort in each other’s presence. A great many of them are no doubt embarking towards a new chapter of their lives, having completed their journey across the Trans-Atlantic Rail.
Out of the blue, a sense of kinship bubbles up within Sam, as he likens himself to one of the weary travelers stepping off the ferry-he is, after all, on the cusp of something unknown and inalterable in his own life…
…for Sam has decided: he is to bring his person to Sweeney’s Observatory-to Azazel-in All due Haste. This very night, in fact. John and Dean’s lives are forfeit otherwise, and the loss of life-the loss of Dean, who holds so much of Sam hostage, and stands to claim yet more-is simply unthinkable.
Sam grimly sets his jaw and steps off the ferry.
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