aeroport_art | The Telegram, Chapter IX. The Telegram*

A week passes with no word from Dean. John either, for that matter.

The Roadhouse Tavern proves an unreliable source of information—Ash only congratulates Sam on the event of Azazel’s banishment, but beyond that, imparts nothing in regards to the Winchesters’ whereabouts. The barkeep, Ellen Harvelle, sings a similar tune, while her daughter Jo would hardly betray Dean, long-time companion that he is (object of affection, Sam thinks unkindly), just to curry favor with his pushy younger brother.

As such, the days march on, trampling Sam’s persistent telephone calls and wires into dust. Even the note he’d posted to Oakland disappears into the widening maw that is the absence of John and Dean Winchester.

The weekend arrives abruptly, Sam stumbling into it. On Saturday, Ava finds him at his home, a changed man.

Her Samuel is no longer. His eyes see further now—indeed, far beyond anything Ava could possibly imagine. He hardly speaks, smiles even less, and never laughs; frustratingly, Sam refuses to mention a single thing of what has transpired since his meeting with J. E. Winchester. Thusly, Ava—being the staunch, empathic friend that she is—rolls up her proverbial sleeves and says to Sam that weekend: “I think you should ask for Jess’ hand.”

What follows is Sam’s continuance of an unfruitful search that casts Ava’s advice in an increasingly favourable light the colder the trail becomes. In fact, less than one fortnight is all the time required for Sam to lose hope—what hopes could he have, suffice it to say, to win the amorous affections of his older brother? It was absurd of him to think anything could come of such an endeavour, and still more absurd for him to linger, wraith-like and aimless, within the dream the past few months have posed.

Like a dream, its patrons all must eventually rouse. Sam is no exception; for a man who has counted on pragmatism to get him where he is to-day, he must accept the fact that this particular reverie has ended.

It is with this reasoning that on a Wednesday morning, Sam sends a simple package with a courier to the Moore estate. Jess opens it that afternoon, after French lessons; by the morrow, the whole of San Francisco Society will hear of its contents: a pair of white ladies gloves, elbow-length and spun into the finest silk satin—or more significantly, as per tradition, the preliminary gift of a wedding engagement.

Jess smiles when she receives them, and continues to do so when she catches wind of the conversation that comes to pass between Samuel and her Father the following day, during which Sam asserts the seriousness of his intentions.

The Moores are agreeable—delighted, in fact, that a young man of Sam’s character (if not standing—but this is the 20th century, after all) will love and care for their, at times worryingly, fiery daughter.

Sam and Jess are engaged on a Saturday; their announcement comes Sunday.

Sam tells himself—as does Ava, Brady, and all the men of his Office and even the acquaintances he bumps into on the streets—that he is a lucky man.

He knows he is a lucky man. The only matter he ought to concern himself with, at this juncture, is whether or not he can make Jess a lucky woman.

With every fibre in his being, he shall try. Yet there remains a voice of doubt that plagues him…Sam determinedly shuts it out and vows to make this version of his life into one that will work.

Even if it kills him, he will make this work.

-----

Christmas Eve, 1910. San Francisco, CA. Lotta’s Fountain³⁹.

“By Heavens, have you ever seen so many people in all your life?”

Sam misses the latter half of his fiancée’s words, despite her shouting into his ear. “What did you say?” he calls back.

“I SAID, have you ever seen so many—“ three young children plunge between them, giggling as they stream past—“so many PEOPLE IN ALL YOUR LIFE?”

Sam chuckles, draws Jess round the waist and tucks her into his side, commenting, “We’ll never find Ava or Brady in this crowd!” Jess doesn’t hear him, but she sees his mouth move and nods obligingly.

Christmas-time in San Francisco is never a trite affair. What with the abundance of festive, electric lights that decorate Union Square, or the torrents of consumers that flood the streets to demolish their favourite shops, the holiday translates into an annual Bohemian carnival worthy of San Francisco’s wild reputation.

In the event bestowed upon its citizens of this year, 1910, the pandemonium is only exacerbated, as hundreds—perhaps thousands—of bodies cram into the groaning decks of Market Street and Kearny, where internationally-renowned and beloved singer Luisa Tetrazzini will perform⁴⁰.

She has yet to join the choir and orchestra on the makeshift stage, but nevertheless, legions of her fans await her in the brisk, clear night, chattering idly and swirling about as angelic caroling cuts through the bustling air.

“We should have known better than to choose Lotta’s Fountain for our rendez-vous,” Jess remarks. Nearly a block away, the fountain is duly swallowed up by the crowd, creating the illusion of a sinking mast in a sea full of men’s and ladies hats. “We can’t even get NEAR it!”

“Perhaps we’ll just have to find them after.”

Jess makes to reply, but a thunderous roar of hollers, shrieks, and ground-shaking applause erupts, effusively drowning her out. Their attentions snap to the stage where the choir still stands, but the eye of the beholders is, most emphatically, not upon the twenty or so garbed carolers.

Madame Tetrazzini slowly, grandly climbs the improvised steps. She is spectacular as she approaches the center of the band stand; her shimmering white gown catches the light of every electric bulb strung up in the air and with its dazzling refractions, she shines like the moon. Even from Sam’s vantage point, almost two blocks away, the miniature form of the operatic sensation seems to engulf the atmosphere until every single eye is transfixed upon her otherworldly form.

The elated cheers persist long after what is strictly polite. Eventually the slow decline of it comes, lowering in volume just enough for Sam to hear—

“I think I see them!”

Jess tugs insistently on the sleeve of Sam’s overcoat as he swivels his gaze around, expecting one of Ava’s outlandish hats or Brady’s refined stance when instead, what he discovers is—

Dean—

Sam’s heart stops in his chest.

“Hurry, before she begins to sing!” Jess urges, grabbing Sam’s hand to pull him through the angrily shushing crowd. Sam follows her for a bit, but his focus is firmly locked on Dean’s unmistakable figure not some yards away.

Damn it, Sam curses; Jess is leading him in the wrong direction, while serendipity—incredible, impossible Serendipity—stares him in the eye and challenges him not to embrace her benevolence.

There is no choice, not really. Sam easily loses Jess in the eager mob and dives back to chart an unerring course towards his brother. He dares not blink for fear of losing him—won’t even apologize for the disturbance he creates as he jostles through the crowd. Nothing in the world (or heaven, or hell) could tear this opportunity away from him.

By the time Sam has waded over to Dean’s side, the crowd is eerily silent, holding its collective breath for Tetrazzini to begin. Sam, too, feels the weight in the air as it is in his lungs, oppressive and significant.

Dean has yet to notice Sam’s presence. Instead, his face is upturned, brightly lit by the glare of Tetrazzini where she beams on stage. In the cloak of anonymity—for in an assembly as such, Dean is but another eager listener in his well-worn homburg and overcoat—Dean’s guard is lowered, his eyes bright and animated as a gentle smile softens his mouth.

To put it simply: Dean is captivating. Bewitching, rather, for Sam can only stand frozen, blunt and beast-like as he scrambles to re-discover man’s aptitude for language in attempts to form an appropriate salutation.

Dean blinks, unhurriedly, and the motion draws Sam in until their shoulders brush.

Up on the band stand, to the complete and utter silence of the crowd—of the city, as all street cars and horse hoofs cease for the span of one inhalation—the orchestra begins. It may be at this flag, or perhaps Sam’s resolute nearness, at which Dean turns his head, eyelashes sweeping down before their inevitable rise. Dean’s pupils lazily swim up to lock on Sam’s face.

Immediately, Dean’s countenance shutters like a boarded-up window and in this instance, Samuel Winchester feels his heart break, for he wants none other than to convey so much—he feels so much, yet Dean’s armour is, always, wholly impenetrable to him.

But, to the great luck of our young lawyer to-night, there exists on individual who can supersede such stubborn repudiation—Madame Tetrazzini.

Two blocks down, elevated before the Chronicle building, Tetrazzini holds her audience in thrall. Beloved heroine and daily headline-grabber, the Florentine Nightingale herself has come to infuse the downtrodden spirit of disaster-struck San Francisco with her liquid voice and grace, and finally—after an eternity, and yet, seemingly no time at all—she opens her mouth, and begins to sing.

It starts with a high note; tinny and thin, and signature of the range only she can boast. It is a clear note, lovingly carried by the controlled strength of her iron lungs as it pierces the cool night air and reaches the ears of every visitor—indeed, every San Franciscan, as the city lies on its haunches in readiness to receive Tetrazzini’s song.

So, she sings. “The Last Rose of Summer”⁴¹ is an exhilarating, crystalline song that sounds of bittersweet parting, of desperation and beauty. It is a song that reaches into all its listeners and pulls from them the deepest ache.

For Sam, the ache he feels is, at long last, articulated. Tetrazzini is Sam’s crutch tonight; she is his channel, his voice. Through the eloquence of her song, she translates to Dean—

This…this is what I mean to say. This is how I want you.

Sam steps forward and touches Dean’s cheek, and for the first time, Dean accepts it. He butts down and Sam bites his lip as Dean closes his eyes. Gives in.

Dean, Sam mouths, entranced by the sight of his brother dragging his lips across the flat of Sam’s palm. A low coil of heat rouses in Sam’s belly; Dean stokes it with dark, beckoning eyes.

“God,” Sam breathes, feeling the fluttered kiss at his wrist like a douse of ice water as his skin leaps, toeing the line between burn and freeze.

At the entry of violins, Tetrazzini pausing before the next verse, Sam suddenly breaks from his stupor and remembers the exact domain of which their game takes place: on the street, that is, in public. In the midst of some thousands of spectators, in fact, and unless Sam harbours a penchant for ending the night with his and Dean’s arrests by any of the police who line the edges of the streets, hawk-eyed for signs of rabble-rousing, then he will certainly relocate this affair of theirs.

With a slanted look through which Sam pours every ounce of feral seduction, he backs away from Dean and winds through a small conduit of space to slip out from the mass of humanity spilling over the streets. He hopes against all hopes that his brother follows behind.

-----

Around the corner, between the packed sidewalks of Third street and Geary, there is a small millinery boutique that specializes in women’s hats. Mainly imports, and a motley assortment, at that. The shop is dark and closed—it is, after all, well past nine o’clock. Moreover, what use would a hat shop be when international diva Madame Tetrazzini is but one block down, serenading San Francisco in the open-air⁴²?

Inside the boutique—against all the odds that have erected before them—are Sam and Dean Winchester.

Sam kneels before his brother, bucking his head against the sweat-damp palms that scrabble at the top of his head. His own hands fare no better, as they slip on Dean’s bare thighs.

“Lord, you taste…” Sam trails off, licking the crease between Dean’s leg and scrotum, where salt and clean musk gathers. A mewl comes from overhead, and the sound of it is so sweet, so erotic, that Sam finds himself clinging to his brother’s naked hips, incapable of naught but groaning into a twitching thigh.

“Just—quit tormenting me, will’ya?” Dean begs.

Sam’s groan turns into a growl; he licks across gently thrusting pelvis until his tongue reaches its destination. Picking up the tip of Dean’s flushed cock with his lips, Dean yelps and knocks a hat off the rack beside them. Mirth bubbles up in Sam’s chest, and the sensation is pleasantly welcome.

“Watch it,” Sam says playfully, between generous mouthfuls of pretty, veined flesh. “Shan’t wreck—the place, now—“ Dean cusses and kicks into the wall— “should we?”

Though Sam has mastered the art of tantalizing an audience—whether it be a jury or, in this case, a lover—he is still only human. When Dean’s cock dribbles a needy trail of wet liquid over the apple of Sam’s cheek, Sam can no more easily keep his faculties in check than fly out the window on two wings.

He makes one last kittenish suck to the shaft before engulfing it outright—Dean’s grip on his hair immediately turns painful, pulling water to Sam’s eyes, but the obscenities that spill from his mouth is worth the discomfort.

“God—finally, God damn you—”

Oh, it is very much worth it.

Sam grins distortedly—his mouth is occupied with the hard flesh on his tongue. Regardless, Dean seems to feel the effort and replies in kind with a breathy laugh of his own.

From hereon, the tryst quickly unravels like a thread pulled from knitting. Sam applies himself to the task at hand (or at mouth) with slightly clumsy technique, which is far recompensed by utter zeal, as Dean finds himself having to pull Sam back by the hair when the boy nearly strangulates himself with Dean’s blood-heavy flesh.

The whole encounter is a messy, desperate one, paraded to the soundtrack of a ghostly aria that filters in from the street. Under Sam’s relentless tongue and large hands, which together create the tightest, most frantic suction for Dean’s hips to erratically thrust into, it is only a matter of time before Dean—quite suddenly and to his own alarm—finds himself at the edge of release.

“Damn it,” he cusses, pushing at Sam’s head with weak hands. He may as well be trying to shift a brick wall, though, for all the good it does. “Get off, I’m gonna—“

Dean feels the smirk again, feels the quirk of Sam’s lips around the base of his prick, and it is that small action more than anything, that pitches Dean overboard with a keening, bitten-off groan. He comes hard, with the voice of an angel in his ears and the strength of a crowd’s chorus reverberating through his frame. It would be ridiculous and bawdy—making love in the midst of song, like actors on stage—were it not so fitting.

Before long, Dean has emptied himself into the abyss of his brother’s mouth, and Sam is standing back up, licking ejaculate from the corner of his lips. The sight of it is sultry, dizzying, as Sam drags the back of his hand across his red mouth and chin to catch the moisture leaked there.

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice gritty and dark with arousal.

“Come here,” Dean replies, remembering with certain abashment that he has not acted as a gentleman should: he’d forgotten to take care of Sam. Well, there is a simple enough remedy.

“Wait, stop—“ Sam protests, but it is too late for Dean has already palmed Sam’s groin. Only...

Dean glances down with a small frown. “You’re not…?”

Sam attempts to weasel away, but when Dean slips a hand down the front of Sam’s trousers he quickly discovers the precise reason for Sam’s lack of excitement. Dean remarks, eloquently: “…oh.”

Sam is bright red, his flush visible even in the low light.

It is utterly endearing. Pleased, Dean pulls his brother in with his free hand, even as he wrestles the other out from Sam’s trousers and curiously licks viscous fluid from his fingertips. Sam’s seed tastes like his own, but different yet.

“God, Dean. What are you doing?” Sam breathes.

“Nothing you didn’t do, if I’m recalling correctly.”

A brilliant smile comes over Sam’s countenance, illuminating his face. Dean doesn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a precious gift; it’s a heartrending sight.

“Sammy,” Dean says brokenly, dropping his face to hide in crook of his brother’s neck. “I can’t. Jesus, I can’t…stop myself when you’re like this,” he murmurs. “Can’t stop any of this, not when you’re right here, close enough to touch, every day.”

Sam noticeably stiffens. There is a long, poignant lull before Sam asks, his voice barely wavering, “Does this mean you’ll give us a shot?”

“No,” Dean replies, and he feels the waver seep into Sam’s body. He hates to do this, but Dean is the elder. He must. “It means I have to go.”

“You said that the last time—“ Sam pushes Dean back, locking their eyes together with no small amount of anguish on his part. “—yet you remain here. For weeks, Dean. Do not tell me I had nothing to do with it—“

“I’m leaving tonight, Sam.” When no response comes, Dean forges on: “Have my ticket and everything. Dad’s counting on me—none of this ended with Azazel, you know that.”

“So why, pray tell, does our father not dispatch himself? Why must he dictate your every move? You are not a marionette on strings; you’re a grown adult—”

“He’s got business to take care of in the Bay. And besides, it isn’t Dad. It’s me; I want to go.”

“You’re running away,” Sam states. Frustration thrums in his voice, audible and visible, as his fists shake at his sides.

“And you’re staying put,” Dean rebuts. He snatches up Sam’s left hand and jabs at the simple gold band around his ring finger. “I’m not blind. Nor am I deaf to what people say around this town. Do you really think I’m going to stay back—pursue some ridiculous, inane delusion with you, when it took you less than a month to decide you could spend the rest of your life with this woman, with Jess?”

The immediate widening of Sam’s guilt-stricken eyes tugs at Dean something fierce, as do the clumsy, breathless explanations that stream from his brother’s mouth. Yet Dean has enough dignity scraped together to keep himself from responding kindly; he won’t beg for love like some damned whore or mistress. And Sam’s actions speak for themselves.

Dean cuts through his brother’s litany of excuses. “Stop it,” he says. “You’re not a philanderer, and neither are you the sort of man who would go back on his word. So don’t even entertain such thoughts.”

For a long, silent moment, Dean thinks he’s gotten through to his brother…but Sam surprises him when he says, almost imperceptibly: “You’re being a coward.”

It hurts to hear. Especially so, when it rings this true. “Yeah,” Dean admits. “Maybe I am. Doesn’t change anything.”

He can’t meet Sam’s eyes, because he knows of their allure, of their spell—and he knows his own weakness before them. If he meets his brother’s gaze, it will only make it impossible to do what’s right.

Outside, the songs have ceased, and one can only assume the concert is over.

Dean numbly does up his trousers and tucks in his shirt, before turning to leave the millinery shop. He’s got a train to catch.

-----

However.

As is the nature of all matters concerning the heart, distance proves a feeble deterrent. Within weeks of Dean’s departure, the hole he leaves in Sam’s life dilates larger and larger, until it is completely evident to everyone around him that not even a matched soul such as Ms. Jessica Lee Moore could ever play substitute in the place of a Family that had been re-discovered, then lost.

More specifically, only Sam knows that Jess could never be substitute in the place of a true Love, discovered and lost.

Thusly, he breaks their engagement in February. After watching Sam’s descent into reclusion, their friends and family breathe a collective sigh of relief, for as propitious as Jess and Sam’s marriage may have seemed on paper, the folks of San Francisco are plenty modern enough to recognize the precursor to a miserable union. And with the way Sam had been shuffling his feet around the office, or dragging his walking stick behind him on the streets, like a sullen tot with a blanket, any and all persons could plainly see what a despondent newlywed he would make.

It could not be considered a blessing, per se, but it is with relative ease that San Francisco Society grants their young lawyer a pass on the event of his broken engagement. It provides plenty of fodder for the gossip mill, at any rate, and the ladies never could say no to a steady crop of juicy rumours.

Sam, for his part, could care less what idle women will whisper about him. He only knows that no amount of pleading or doleful looks from Ava can heal the absence Sam feels. No number of polo matches at the Burlingame Country Club or rounds of beer at the local watering hole with the men from the office can stop Sam from yearning for his brother to sport with, or to drink with.

In fact, were Sam not so wholly engrossed with how little he cares for the things people will say of him, then he would be pleased to accept the general well-wishes of the community when it becomes known that finally, at long last, the elder Winchester son makes contact.

This occurs in late March, when the first tendrils of Spring have begun to unfurl. At precisely 12:45 PM, on a cool Thursday afternoon in the cradle of his office on Market Street, Samuel J. Winchester receives a telegram from the Union Pacific Railroad Office.

It reads as follows:

ONE-WAY TICKET TO NEW YORK CITY FOR PICK-UP COURTESY D W

Sam lets the unfolded paper flutter to his desk.

The beginnings of a smile, though creaky and dusty from lack of use, nonetheless creeps into the corners of his lips.

Sam’s secretary very nearly impales herself upon her letter opener from shock when she detects the remarkable event that appears before her. His smile grows in strength until it reclaims almost entirely its previous magnetism, as if this were any day prior to her employer’s sudden downward spiral that had insinuated itself late December. She does not even realize the ferocity with which she has longed for the sight, but the warming of her heart indicates as such, and she is bursting to share the good news. Soon, all the adjacent offices of their floor have been notified of the happy event. Mr. Winchester is smiling, she says furtively into the telephone.

He’s smiling, and it’s only getting larger!

Sam hears her from his desk, and it draws a chuckle from him. By the end of the day, he has left her a sizeable bonus with which to tide herself over, as he tells her unequivocally that he plans to close up shop in gay San Francisco. Re-location is all the rage, he says by way of explanation, and when his secretary peeks into the envelope Sam has left for her, she has little choice but to agree.

On his way to the Union Pacific R.R., Sam feels lighter than air, and he cannot keep the grin off his face. Nor does he attempt to, for he means to leave it there until Dean can be the one to occupy his lips otherwise.

-----

Two weeks later, with the sort of reluctant happiness that good friends will see you off with, Sam boards the Transcontinental Express. When he arrives at the New York Depot a mere eighty-three hours post-departure, Dean is there waiting for him—Panama hat in hand, with a grin to match Sam’s in brilliance. Only when they find themselves back in Dean’s small, one-bedroom apartment in Gramercy Park, and behind firmly closed doors, do the smiles budge.

After all, in lieu of simply grinning at each other like loons, our boys have more pressing matters with which to attend to. There will always be time for easy affections and light laughter; in fact, Sam and Dean will come to enjoy such frivolities as easily as breathing, or as living. But in the meantime, in this moment—a moment the Winchester brothers have been waiting for, for perhaps all their lives—it is enough to just be together.

It is more than enough, actually. For Sam and Dean, it’s everything.

Fin.

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