Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gabriel sits motionless in the metallic chair. A monument to exhaustion—too drained to even shiver.

If he could, he would.

The bunker’s freezing, and the chair—the damn chair—is a torture device masquerading as furniture.

Not only is it cold—it’s sadistic.

Obviously designed by someone with a personal vendetta against the concept of comfort. The entire surface seems engineered for maximum suffering—even for a perfectly healthy human, let alone whatever’s left of him.

Once an immeasurable celestial aura, his grace is all but gone—siphoned off in a slow-motion desecration of every cell that had stripped away even the smallest things he took for granted.

Not long ago, he had the ability to perceive infinite spectrums. Now even the bunker’s dim overhead lighting is almost too much. Flickering shadows crawl across the walls, making the world feel distant. Insubstantial. As if blinking too slowly might dissolve him into the dark.

It’d be a mercy at this point.

Grotesquely swollen, his lips are held together by a cruel ladder of thick black sutures, fraying at the edges where the skin oozes and refuses to heal. A brutal testament to Asmodeus’ merciless handiwork.

The demon’s smug expression lingers still—vivid, unshakable. His malevolence etched into Gabriel, one stitch at a time. He’d screamed—defiant at first—but the sound was soon smothered in blood and twine, reducing it to a wet, gurgling whine—more animal than archangel.

But even agony has limits—or so he’d learned.

What started as an all-consuming fall from grace eventually dulled into background radiation, no less vicious but no longer surprising. In its place came humiliation. Heavier, more enduring—eclipsing the need to cry out as the years dragged on.

After all, what use is sound, when no one’s listening?

If nothing else, Gabriel is adaptable.

So he doesn’t bother flinching when Sam Winchester bends close, doesn’t even blink. He’s learned that if you sit perfectly still—if you breathe only when absolutely necessary—the world sometimes forgets you’re there.

Sometimes it leaves you alone.

But not this time. Not when it’s Sam.

The embodiment of pouty goodness doesn’t retreat, nor look away. Just crouches between Gabriel’s knees and gets to work. His hands move meticulously, wielding a pair of sharp shears with the careful precision of a surgeon as he snips at the threads binding Gabriel’s mouth.

The pain—sharp, wet—is familiar, almost nostalgic. He finds himself grading it the way he used to grade the heat of stars. This is a three out of ten, maybe a four. He’s had worse.

But he hasn't had blood wiped from his face with a gentleness so wildly out of place it might as well be the punchline to a cosmic joke.

“Hang in there, Gabriel,” Sam murmurs, voice low and soft—a soothing balm against the oppressive silence that looms over them.

Clearly he doesn’t expect an answer. He’s just offering platitudes out of desperation—casting words into their midst like a lifeline, fending off the suffocating silence threatening to consume them both.

There’s a pause. Then, quieter still: “This one’s gonna sting a little, so try to hold still.”

The warning slips into the air—a quiet command wrapped in apology. Sam knows nothing can truly make this better—but true to his nature, that only drives him to try harder.

Gabriel’s fingers twitch as the cold edge grazes raw skin—a spark of sensation rippling through him like a live wire. But he doesn’t retreat.

Not because it doesn’t hurt—everything does. But reacting would mean acknowledging the world around him, and he’s not sure he can bear that.

Not now. Maybe not ever again.

Then the shears bite—Gabriel’s vision goes electric. For an instant he’s back in that place where time folds in on itself and everything is happening at once—the humiliation, the terror, the knowledge that nobody is coming to save him.

And then—he isn’t.

Dim light hums above him. The scent of vanilla and old books grounds him in the now.

He’s in the bunker.

And Sam is here.

Freeing him—one thread at a time.

Gabriel hasn’t spoken in… how long? Years? Decades? The memories blur. Time didn't flow properly in hell. It twisted, looped, and stretched in the depths he’d been trapped in. Pain had its own gravitational pull. He’d stopped reacting to it outwardly long ago.

So it isn’t the pain that startles him.

It’s Sam.

Sam whose calloused fingers move with a tenderness that's absurd. Insane, even—considering all the reasons Gabriel has given him to be anything but. And yet—here it is. The hand bracing Gabriel’s jaw exudes surprising warmth, and Sam’s breathing is uneven, just enough to betray his nerves.

Like he’s genuinely worried.

Like he cares.

Guilt and shame cling to Gabriel—sticky as algae in a murky, bottomless pool. He wasn't supposed to get attached. To feel bad.

But Samshine’s always been special. Since the first time they met, Gabriel hasn't been able to look away.

Back then, he’d been drifting through campus halls—more bored than predatory—idly searching for cracks in the veil where he might stir up a little chaos or mock mortal ambition.

And then he saw him.

Bent over a library desk, there'd been nothing mythic or menacing about the young man—just a handsome college sophomore with an adorably bad haircut and a threadbare hoodie that had seen better semesters. The kind who nursed coffee until it soured and highlighted entire passages of dense textbooks just to feel like he was making a dent.

He'd been doggedly refusing to be distracted by anything—not even the parade of beautiful coeds giggling nearby, but what had drawn Gabriel in wasn’t the stubborn focus.

It was the soul.

Sam Winchester radiated hopeful earnestness. A glow so blinding it left even an archangel blinking through it, momentarily dazzled. He wanted so badly to be good—to do right, to help people—that Gabriel could see the patterns of it swirling just by standing near him. Potential curling out in every direction, flaring in arcs like solar storms off a newborn sun.

It was indescribably beautiful.

And then he'd recognized who the poor soul had been marked for, and just like that, the awe curdled.

Because of course the Morning Star’s vessel would burn just as heartbreakingly brilliant as his original light.

Morbidly curious, Gabriel had lingered nearby, watching Sam struggle to articulate some truth about justice and mercy in his essay, and sat with the irony.

Who would've guessed Lucifer’s meat suit would turn out to be such a damn goody-two-shoes?

Wanting a closer look, he’d impersonated a lost delivery guy. Sam had looked up and smiled. Earnest. A little awkward, but happy to help.

That smile had almost convinced Gabriel to call the whole thing off.

Almost.

But even if he’d left Heaven, Gabriel was still stuck dancing to their tune. He’d rather sit back and let things flow, than wind up locked away like his brother for the second half of eternity.

So even though it changed nothing, that smile stuck with him. Left him drifting at the edges, just a little too invested in his brother’s candy wrapper.

Idle curiosity slowly twisted into something else entirely—growing, as he observed the endless parade of disasters Sam was hauled into.

Because somehow, against all odds, Sam’s inherent goodness endured.

A walking magnet for misery, Samshine got sucker-punched by life over and over again. Abandoned by his father (relatable), fiancée burned alive over his bed (oof), dragged away from his once-bright future to battle every conceivable ghost, demon, and supernatural creature under the sun—and through it all, he just kept going.

Picking himself up. Gluing the pieces back together—trying to help as many people as possible. 

Again. And again. And again.

The more Gabriel watched, the more he became convinced that Sam’s inherent goodness and hope weren’t part of the Great Design at all.

It was a bug. Some glitch in the software that should have been patched out by the time Adam bit the apple. A cruel and unusual misalignment that Sam never should have been burdened with.

So Gabriel decided to do the merciful thing.

And snuff it out.

So he'd gone out of his way to demolish every last vestige of hope in Sam. Orchestrating endless loops of existential despair—to teach Sam about pointlessness and loss. Made jokes at his expense, turning days into parodies of free will, hoping that at some point the kid would break—see the truth everyone else already knew: that in the end, the house always wins.

And yet, no matter how much the deck was stacked, the foolish bastard kept playing—rebuilding himself, brick by brick, with all the stubborn grace of a saint.

Or a masochist.

But Gabriel hadn’t known when to quit, either—and that, more than anything—was where it all went wrong.

Sadistically, he’d catalogued Sam’s pain like it was an academic exercise—clinical, detached, as if distance might dull his own actions. He could recite the litany of damage—each twist of the knife, every cruel trick meant to sand away Sam’s faith in anything brighter than the dark.

And it hadn’t even worked.

All it did was leave Gabriel with a ledger of unpaid debts he tried to bury under weak excuses—lessons, tests, tough love.

Lies—told more to himself than Sam.

And then, the real end came, and there was a moment. A final chance for Gabriel to change his mind and stand up to his family when it actually mattered.

And he ran—just like he always did.

A coward—leaving Sam behind, waiting for the 'yes' that would end it all. Sure he'd left an absolute shit-show of a suggestion behind in a Casa Erotica video, but it was just some last minute spit-balling of a plan he had zero hope in.

A human? Playing mental tennis with his brother? Please.

But then that self-sacrificing, too stubborn for his own good moron had stepped up to bat when no other sane person would have.

And he fucking did it.

Gritted his teeth, locked arms with Michael, and dragged both of Gabriel’s brothers into the Cage.

Not for glory. Not for redemption. Just because someone had to do it.

For the sake of a world that would never even know his name, let alone thank him.

And when it was done, Sam bore the consequences. An endless parade of torments—horrors Gabriel couldn’t imagine even after millennia of playing trickster. Or later, under Asmodeus’ knife.

Which he deserved for ditching Sam, didn't he?

He'd always known the world was unfair. But what they did to Sam—what he did—struck him as uniquely obscene. Something sick at the heart of creation. Beyond injustice. A tragedy with no punchline.

A punishment without a crime.

Sam spent an eternity in the lowest pit of Hell—where time runs faster and pain has no threshold—locked up with two furious archangels.

Because Gabriel turned his back on him.

By all rights, Sam should want him dead. And yet somehow—they end up here.

Sam, crouched between Gabriel's knees, hands steady as he carefully tends to the diminished archangel. Every power and privilege bled away until only this broken, stitched-up husk persists.

Receiving mercy from the very man he once condemned to hell. The one who, impossibly, still chooses to offer it.

Gabriel doesn’t know what to do with the tenderness. He could list every damn thing Sam has lost, and still not fathom how the man manages to conjure gentleness for anyone, let alone someone who’d once literally made his life a living hell.

Sam pauses, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, and exhales hard—undeterred by the archangel's mental gymnastics.

"You're doing great, Gabriel. We're halfway there. Just hold still a little longer, alright?" Sam soothes, thumb gently brushing the corner of his mouth, one of the few spots left unscathed.

Gabriel wants to make a joke—to deflect, pretend it doesn't mean anything—but the tangled mess of his lips ensures silence.

So instead, he shifts his gaze from the wall and meets Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes—still so damn beautiful, even from this weakened vantage.

He lets them speak where his mouth can’t: ‘I’m sorry’, ‘Thank you’, ‘I don’t deserve this.’ Every admission of guilt poured into a single, aching look.

And Sam doesn’t turn away. He meets it head-on, compassionately. Unguarded in a way no one dares to be around an archangel anymore.

And in that moment Gabriel dares to believe in the possibility of redemption. The idea that there might be a version of this story where the tenderness in Sam’s hands isn’t born of pity, but of something far more profound.

Grace.

The irony of the word isn’t lost on him. If anyone had wasted theirs, it was Gabriel.

Sam keeps talking—soft, unrelenting reassurances, though Gabriel hasn't responded once. His grace, weakened as it is, can’t help but absorb the sincerity pouring from Sam’s soul. It reaches him, steady, vibrant… Though he can tell that it’s source is in shambles.

That soul is like a cathedral after a bombing, sunlight still glittering through the broken shards. Breathtaking, even in ruins. And Gabriel aches, helpless, for all the ways he helped bring it down.

If he could go back—if he had even one do-over—he would never again leave Sam to the mercy of his brothers. Not a soul capable of such impossible compassion, even after a lifetime of cruelty.

Now, more than anything, he wants to gather it into his own grace. To fill its countless cracks with what little light he has left. Like the ancient bowls the Japanese mended with gold—made more precious for having been broken.

He wants to shield it, utterly and without hesitation, from every bastard—celestial or otherwise—who would dare lay a finger on something so beautiful… and so breakable.

The longing—to protect, to preserve—is so fierce it shakes something loose.

There’s a jarring crack . A lurching sensation, within a hidden vault sealed eons ago when the archangel's were first crafted. It's so alien that for a split second, he doesn’t recognize it as his own.

It’s not like a switch flipping.

No—it’s worse. Sudden. Unstoppable.

A dam breaks.

It lands with monstrous force, a celestial sized tsunami of desire crashing into him before he has time to brace. Barreling over him with a violence he’s unprepared for. This isn’t wistful or tender, not some slow-dawning warmth.

No—this is raw.

Primordial.

Need rupturing from a place that predates the cosmos.

One second, Sam is just some hunter. A soft-spoken human carrying too much of everything on his broad shoulders. The next, every flickering, near-extinguished ember of Gabriel’s grace is howling a single, unrelenting truth:

Mine.

He doesn’t mean to feel it. Doesn’t want to, and Archangels certainly weren't built to, but the emotion floods in anyway—fast, and absolute.

Sam’s existence blots out every other sensory input—the curve of his jaw, the flecks of gold in his irises, the maddening pout of his oblivious lips. All of it roils through Gabriel’s senses, unchecked and overflowing as it swallows him.

For a being who's always prided himself on detachment—on being the observer, never the participant—it is the most humiliating, most terrifying revelation in all the stacked infinities he’s witnessed.

And the most irreversible.

His breath hitches—wet, broken.

Emotion surges beneath his skin like a volatile current, clawing at his ribs from the inside. It thrashes, wild and aimless, crashing against the inside of his bones like waves trying to break free. As if his ruined celestial form can’t begin to hold what he’s just uncovered.

Instinct takes over. He jerks back—a wounded creature, overwhelmed, sucked under by the tidal wave of sensation too vast to conceive.

Pain answers immediately. It bursts in his mouth—hot and wet—as sutures rip wide with sickening snaps. Blood spills over his tongue, thick and coppery, choking him.

Even his vessel is trying to drown him.

“Damn it,” Sam hisses, voice sharp with concern.

Scissors clatter to the floor, forgotten. Sam surges forward, catching Gabriel’s face in both hands—his touch careful, but urgent. Fingers tremble faintly against cool skin, as if afraid to hurt him further.

“I’m so sorry—hold still, hold still—” he murmurs, already reaching for gauze. The motion is automatic, practiced—but the care behind it isn’t. A newfound tenderness that pulls Gabriel down in its undertow.

Then Sam’s thumb grazes the gash—just a whisper of contact.

And that’s all it takes.

The terrible feeling already clawing at Gabriel’s core crashes and breaks loose.

A strangled, unearthly sound claws out of him—not quite a sob, not quite a growl. Something in between. His grip snaps around Sam’s wrist, not out of anger, but desperation.

He wants to touch him. Worship him. Run, before he ruins him.

But it’s too late.

This isn’t lust. It’s older. More than mortal flesh was built to carry.

The feeling dwarfs every emotion Gabriel has ever known, reducing all his past affections to pale, anemic shadows in the ocean’s depths. Cheap imitations of the impossible affliction now flooding his grace.

Vast. All-encompassing.

Terrifying.

Every battered, ruined thread of his being, screams—pleads—for the same impossible thing.

Sam's soul.

And there it is—looking up at him through wide, heartbreakingly kind eyes, bright with alarm and concern.

Trying to save him.

“Shhh, you'll be alright, it’s just a little blood—shit. You were doing so good, Gabriel. What happened?” Sam’s voice is level, but laced with worry as he presses the cloth to Gabriel’s torn lips, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Gabriel wants to answer. Wants to laugh—maybe scream.

You happened.

The words bloom silently in the wreckage of his mind, echoing through every hollow chamber.

You looked at me like I was worth the trouble… and my whole fucking reality fell apart.

A sound escapes him—small, broken. Not a whimper. Not quite. It’s more like a keening note, almost musical in its helplessness.

Words remain buried in his half-sealed mouth like life beneath a landslide. All he can do is stare—eyes wide, and wet—at the man crouched before him. Beautiful, impossibly bright Sam—whose hands he’s bleeding on.

Marking him in ways he’ll never be able to undo—and it fills him with unfathomable despair.

Because Gabriel is in love with Sam Winchester.

And he hadn’t known—not really.

Not until now—suspended between agony and something like awe—shattered, reverent, wrecked.

For a creature who’s existed since before time began, a decade or two is just a blink.

But for a human?

For Sam?

It's been plenty.

Long enough for Gabriel to have personally ruined any chance he might've had. To salt the earth and prove himself to be the last person Sam should ever trust—let alone love.

A sob wracks him—quiet, ashamed.

He lets Sam believe it’s just because of some torn stitches.

Chapter Text

Gabriel’s voice emerges as a hoarse rasp—dust-dry, and brittle—like something left to die in the desert.

Once Heaven’s mouthpiece—now all he can manage is a croak.

Hell of a downgrade.

Sure, the lexicon of all languages still hums in the marrow of his being, but shaping sound into meaning feels as distant as divinity—something he once touched, now barred to him like Sam’s forgiveness.

Always near, always out of reach.

Not that he’d know what to say, even if he could. The right words haven’t been invented—nothing that could explain the thing lodged in his chest: raw, cloying, loathsome in its sweetness.

And all for Sam.

He’s become a shining beacon of indignity, festering in his own obsession. Because the truth is—he wants to flirt.

Flash a grin, toss a wink, spin some reckless charm in Sam’s direction—knowing full well it won’t work.

He wants to chase the impossible.

But indulgence is a luxury he can’t afford. He needs to get his grace back—ASAP.

For two very important reasons.

One? Because he owes it to himself to settle the score—to show Loki and his bastard sons what it really means to betray an archangel.

And two—because once again, Sammy's life is in his hands.

And this time, Gabriel isn’t running.

So here he sits. Stripped of everything that once made him untouchable. The masks have crumbled and the jokes are dead.

No one’s watching. No one’s clapping. And no one’s laughing.

Least of all Gabriel.

His grace—what’s left of it—sputters dimly.

If he concentrates, Gabriel can still feel his former shape the way a phantom limb twinges: a tug at the base of his shoulder blades, where wings used to be. Mostly it’s just a dull, hollow ache—underscored by the high, dissonant ringing behind his eyes.

Cosmic tinnitus.

Creation’s way of sneering: ‘Yeah, your operating system’s fucked, buddy.'

And of course, because the universe still has a sense of humor, he’s got an audience for the crash.

Faaan-tastic.

Sam hovers close, hope bright in his eyes. Dean lounges in the doorway, arms crossed, face full of that special brand of exasperated disapproval he saves just for Gabriel—like the sight of him still breathing is a personal offense. Castiel stands, hands pressed to Gabriel’s sternum, brow furrowed with concentration as the seraph channels grace into him.

It’s like watching someone try to jumpstart the universe with a car battery.

Gabriel feels it—like oil dripping into a bottomless tank, filaments of pale gold slipping through his fingers.

Once he cradled galaxies.

Now, even with his brother’s help, he can barely coax out a spark—only to watch it flicker and die. Always a breath shy of reigniting.

Gabriel stares grimly down at his palms.

Because of course it’s not enough. Castiel’s a seraph. A good one, sure—but not an archangel. Boosting Gabriel’s grace with his own is like trying to light a bonfire with a flashlight.

Fury at the bastards who sold him off like celestial scrap tightens his fists.

He doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know when. But he’ll make them regret it.

All of them.

Even if he has to drag what’s left of his wings to get to them.

Castiel’s grace finally dims and retreats, understanding that it’s not enough. Accepting that it never will be.

Gabriel sees the guilt in his eyes. Heavy. Unwelcome.

He rips himself away from it—he can’t speak, but his venomous glare says enough: sharp, insistent.

Don’t you dare pity me.

Castiel bears it like one more weight he’s resigned himself to carrying. Sam’s hand finds Gabriel’s back—solid, steady. A quiet anchor amid the wreckage.

The others begin to discuss options—like they have any. Gabriel lets himself drift, tuning out the heated voices around him.

He’d move heaven and earth to heal Sam—would pour every last drop of his remaining power into him if he thought for even a moment it might help. But with every scrap of his celestial strength drained, he’s about as useful as a Band-Aid without adhesive.

No stick.

No seal.

No use.

Which is unacceptable.

Because what he needs—more than anything—is for Sam to be okay.

Especially now that he’s become blisteringly aware of what he feels. This love—this awful, divine rot blooming beneath his ribs—gilded at the edges like gold-rimmed mold. A sanctified affliction with Sam at its core and no cure but more.

Unfortunately—short of draining a mountain of souls, which he’s not quite desperate enough for yet—Gabriel has no idea how to speed up the recovery of his grace. And the violence that broke him lingers: a grim afterimage seared into his senses of his celestial form unraveling.

The world had dissolved into nothing. Then reassembled in unfamiliar, washed-out hues—like existence forgot how to color itself without his grace to light the palette.

He’s not dead—not in any way that counts. But living?

Nah.

This isn’t that either.

It’s just the aftermath.

Entire days pass with little improvement. He watches words tumble from Sam’s mouth—and can’t parse a single one. Like language is a station he can no longer tune in to. Frequencies drifting just out of range.

“Hey… got you…”

“…not easy… right here…”

Utterly endearing noises spill from Sam, sweet, stubborn things he can’t quite catch—while Dean gripes in the background, and Castiel looks more frowny than usual.

Gabriel tries. He really does. Leans in, breathing shallowly, straining to parse just one word from his favorite human’s pep talks. Pours everything into the act of being present—of existing in a world that feels too large for his atrophied self.

And yet, in the silence between breaths—when he manages to just be—one truth bears down on him.

He needs Sam.

Desperately.

And Sammy’s soul has a deadline Gabriel can no longer perceive. Like a hydrogen spark flaring to life, creeping ever closer—silent, invisible, and it will burn Gabriel’s whole damn world to the ground unless he gets his shit together.

So he haunts Sam through the bunker—a silent stalker with zero subtlety. No artifice left—no time for dignity, not when Sam’s soul is ticking like a bomb.

Sam never calls him out on his odd behavior—thinks Gabriel’s only being clingy because he’s ‘traumatized.’

He’ll pause at a doorway, palm on the knob—just long enough for Gabriel to stumble after, trying to pretend he wasn’t waiting for the admission.

He knows it’s ludicrous—this clinginess. He’s never been human. Still isn’t—not even now, reduced as he is.

But this? This is a new tier of absurdity—even for him.

Obsessive? Codependent? Call it what you will. It’s love. And apparently an Archangel’s is a different beast altogether.

And then—just like that—a terrible truth crystallizes. The answer to a question he’s wrestled with on one too many dark nights.

Gabriel finally understands why Lucifer fell.

Why he couldn’t do the one thing Dad demanded: love humanity more. The poor bastard must have loved their father like this—utterly, completely. Nothing else ever stood a chance. Not when he’d already crossed the event horizon—too far gone into his obsession with Chuck to obey.

Dad had designed them to break like this. And still judged them for it. Typical.

He’s such an asshole.

It should feel like a revelation—some grand cosmic epiphany. But all it does is make Gabriel feel worse.

Because unlike Lucifer, he’s only just begun to fall. And the bottom of this pit? Nowhere in sight.

He’s still sinking—deeper, messier—into his need for Sam.

Sam who—bless his foolish heart—adapts to Gabriel’s oddities without a word.

Offers comfort without condition, and assures him softly, in the first sentence Gabriel understands, "I’m here as long as you need."

Maybe Sam doesn’t realize what that means to someone like Gabriel.

Maybe he does.

The result is the same–Gabriel latches onto the promise. Lets it carve a home deep in his ravaged core—because needing Sam isn’t a phase. It’s his axis now.

And Sam shouldn’t have said that to an archangel if he didn’t want to be held to it—words like that? They bind. And these?

They already have.

The worst part—the sick, damning, wonderful part of tying Sam to him with something as flimsy as an unintended vow?

It helps.

Now, when he stays close—when the frayed remnants of his grace brush the edges of Sam’s soul—it doesn’t heal.

But it quiets.

A tremor settles. A shadow lifts.

Sam breathes easier when Gabriel’s near. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it. But Gabriel does.

And if staying close is what it takes to keep that impossible brightness from flickering out?

Then he will.

Night always makes it worse—rage, loneliness, the icy shock of memory. The kind of pain that shouldn’t touch archangels, even broken ones.

But it does.

By the time Dean’s snores rattle the vents and even Cas has vanished into whatever dark corner he broods in, Gabriel is already drifting down the hall. The ache pinching deep and cold into his bones, drives him to Sam’s door.

He always end up here now—pathetic, knees drawn up, hunched in the threshold.

He tells himself it’s temporary—just until his Grace is stable enough to stop hallucinating old enemies around every corner so he can start hunting real ones.

It’s unworthy of what he used to be. And yet, he stays, burrows into the oversized shirt Sam lent him—no chance he’s ever giving it back, not unless Sam wants to pry it from his cold, clingy corpse. He breathes in Sam’s scent—salvation in fabric form—and watches his feet shift in the sliver of light beneath the door, aching for the courage to knock.

He doesn't really want to disturb Sam—just needs to see him to believe he's still here.

Unintentionally answering Gabriel's prayer, Sam opens the door. Blinks down at the sorry sight of him—gaunt, hunched, silent.

Sam steps back—and opens the door wider.

“Gabriel,” he says softly. “Come here.”

Gabriel’s jaw drops—but he vaults inside without shame, knees skidding, getting rug burn—which is new and horrible—as he scrambles onto the end of the bed. Heart hammering.

Sam sits beside him without comment. Leaves an inch of space—room enough for two broken things to pretend they’re whole together. Feeling the faint heat of Sam’s energy, he melts, drunk off it.

Sam’s hand lands on the mattress, fingertips brushing near Gabriel’s. The silence stretches. Warm. Patient.

Gabriel is a colossal wreck, and Sam’s—what?—coddling him?

Unbelievable.

Fuck. He is not going to cry. Can’t admit how badly he needs this or how close to unraveling he’s been without the hunter.

“You okay?” Sam asks, voice hushed with concern.

Gabriel nods. The alternative is sobbing, begging, 'don’t you dare disappear,' —which is not a line he’s ready to cross.

Time stretches. Bends. Gabriel counts the seconds—all of them a chance for Sam to send him away. Each one he doesn’t, a miracle.

With desperate courage, Gabriel reaches one trembling hand out and gathers the corner of Sam’s shirt between his fingers. Not clenching, or tearing—just enough to prove to himself that this is real.

Sam doesn’t pull away. Just lets Gabriel hang on.

A rhythm takes shape between them—quiet, awkwardly domestic, full of unspoken compromises. Gabriel even lets Sam herd him like a wounded duck from one room to another.

Sam calls it ‘caretaking.’

Gabriel calls it ‘foreplay I’m not supposed to enjoy.’

It becomes routine. Comfortably dangerous. Until one day, Sam gets it into his big, beautiful brain that Gabriel needs help on a more personal front.

It starts because the bunker’s water heater is notorious for its death spiral between scalding and subarctic. Normally not a problem—but for Gabriel, stripped of his angelic insulation, it’s a Russian roulette of agony.

His first attempt had been a disaster. He’s avoided the tub ever since.

Apparently, the stench has reached critical mass.

“Gabriel,” Sam says, with the quiet determination of someone who’s done playing. “It’s time for a bath.”

There’s a brief flicker of hope—maybe Sam just means Gabriel needs to bathe. Alone.

But then Sam pulls his shirt off, leaving his gorgeous upper body on display like it’s no big deal.

It’s a very big deal.

Gabriel’s brain bluescreens.

Sam. Towering. Gorgeous. Bare-chested. is talking about bathing… together? Platonically?!

No.

Absolutely not. Impossible.

Sam’s shirt hits the floor.

Gabriel backs away in mute horror, shaking his head, wide-eyed, arms flailing in a full semaphore of panic.

Sam narrows his own, insisting in the tone people use when trying to coax skittish deer across highways, “You’ve gone three weeks without a real wash. Doing laundry once a day is no longer enough. If I let you near the sheets again, they might disintegrate.”

No—I’ll be what disintegrates!

Gabriel bolts—leaping over furniture, knocking over a lamp, launching into full-body evasive maneuvers in his mad scramble.

“Seriously?!” Sam shouts, ducking a flung pillow.

Gabriel skids around a corner, tries to gain traction, and eats shit spectacularly.

Before he can recover, Sam is there—calm, immovable—scooping him up in a bridal carry.

“Easy,” he soothes, “I’ve got you."

That’s the problem!

Gabriel screeches in despair as he’s manhandled down the hallway.

He kicks. He flails. He mouthes every variation of NO in the universal language of ‘Do not bathe me, you Adonis-shaped lunatic!’

They go down in a heap.

“Stop—flailing!” Sam grunts, trying to wrangle a hundred and fifty pounds of celestial meltdown. “I promise it’ll be quick. Quit being so dramatic!”

Gabriel thrashes like a cat in a wet sack.

DRAMATIC?! SAM, I CAN’T DO THIS BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL MORON!!

Sam, of course, interprets his full emotional collapse as a garden-variety bath time tantrum and just hums sympathetically.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs. “You’ll thank me later.”

Sam strong-arms him down the hallway, muttering encouragements while Gabriel, dignity in tatters, silently composes his last will and testament.

This is the end.

The archangel formerly known as Gabriel, found dead in a tub full of shame and Sam’s shampoo.

By the time they reach the bathroom, Gabriel has stopped fighting—but then, Sam starts undressing further.

Gabriel shrieks and dives for the door but Sam just leans his full weight against it.

Being powerless sucks ass.

After further struggle and much protest, Gabriel ends up in the tub, bullied into a scene that once starred in his filthiest fantasies—now rendered impotent hell.

Water sloshes rhythmically around his thighs, his breath coming in shallow pants from the futile struggle.

Behind him, Sam kneels—solid and warm—gently cradling him upright as he works his own shampoo through matted curls.

Gabriel wants to die.

This is not how he thought he’d get to see Sam naked for the first time.

Not like this: with Sam’s thighs bracketing his, the clean lines of his body gleaming, every breath brushing against Gabriel’s nape.

Everything about Sam is beautiful. Maddeningly, inhumanly beautiful.

Bronze skin kissed by water and warmth. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. And that gorgeous mane of hair.

Gabriel can feel every inch of him—Sam’s heartbeat against his spine, the flex and shift of muscle under skin. The casual intimacy of being held by someone who doesn’t realize it’s dangerous.

Each shift of muscle, each careless scrape of soap down Gabriel’s chest—it burns.

A torment tailor-made for him.

His hands twitch in his lap, nerves short-circuiting with tightly reined frustration. He clenches his jaw, lets the heat bite deep, and forces his eyes shut like that might muffle the desperation pooling under his skin.

It doesn’t.

He wants to twist around and bury himself in Sam’s arms. To sob against his throat, to lap up the droplets trailing down his collarbone, press kisses lower—to that absurdly perfect V-line. To take.

He does none of that.

Because Sammy’s just being kind. Thinks he’s helping. Thinks this is safe—for both of them.

Naked—not just physically, but in trust.

And Gabriel wants to beg—for whatever Sam’s willing to give. Anything. Everything.

He doesn't though. Just presses his forehead to his knees and tries not to shake apart.

Never in his life did he think he’d be grateful for the impotence of a broken vessel.

Thank fuck for this weakened body. For the only mercy it offers: restraint he can’t override.

Because if he had even an ounce more strength, he’d ruin this.

It’s one of those mornings that stretch on like an old record, warbling under flickering fluorescent lights. Sleep clings to the corners of perception—especially for Gabriel, who despite being an archangel, has recently discovered a perverse pleasure in burrowing under Sam’s comforters and only emerging when Sam forcibly peels him out.

Especially after a rough night.

Which is exactly what last night was.

Sam drags Gabriel’s drained body out of bed with a sense of purpose. There’s a deliberate set to his jaw, that telltale focus that always gives him away: Sam has made a decision—and whatever it is, Gabriel’s on the receiving end.

Gabriel—grumbling and clingy, wrapped in one of Sam’s oversized shirts—allows himself to be led down the hallway when they round a corner and nearly collide with Dean. Gabriel stumbles heavily into Sam’s shoulder then stays there, hair clean but wild and sticking up at odd angles.

Sam looks bemused and resigned.

Dean stops mid-step. Blinks once. Then recoils with a strangled sound.

“Oh, come on, Sam! Really?!”

Sam doesn’t flinch. Gabriel, however, perks up immediately—having recently begun to understand more sentences.

Bleary-eyed and bold as sin, he latches onto Sam like a smug marsupial scaling his favorite tree. Limbs wind around Sam’s waist and neck; Gabriel hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder and leers at Dean, confident Sam will allow it.

Sam’s already seen him at his worst. Wounded, weeping, and covered in bubbles.

At this point, physical boundaries are a myth—like unicorns or functional Winchesters. If he had a problem with Gabriel using him as a glorified teddy bear, Sam should’ve raised it before lathering the archangel up like a loofah.
Besides—Sam’s warm. Gabriel’s cold. And Dean’s pissy little scowl? Absolutely delightful.

Without lifting his head—Gabriel gives Dean the most obnoxiously suggestive eyebrow waggle in his arsenal.

“He had a rough night,” Sam insists, continuing on to the kitchen with his celestial cling-on.

Dean follows at a distance and demands, “So what? You’re just letting this gremlin sleep with you now?”

“Would you rather he crawl into your bed?” Sam deadpans, as if carrying an immortal deadweight is perfectly normal.

Gabriel sneers, uninterested in cuddling up to shorter and dumber even as a joke.

When they reach the counter, Dean plants himself as far away as possible like it’s some kind of demilitarized zone. Sam sets Gabriel at the table, where he remains—silent and watchful—while Sam moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, as if this were any other morning.

“I’m just saying,” Dean grumbles, pouring himself a mugful of tar-black coffee, “you don’t know where that thing's been.”

Gabriel grins wide enough to show all his teeth and discretely motions to Sam before gesturing obscenely.

Dean chokes mid-sip. “Sam! control your animal!”

Gabriel snickers. Sam sighs and keeps cooking. A few minutes later he brings over two plates and sets one in front of Gabriel like he’s decided he needs to eat.

It’s precious, and Gabriel isn’t about to tell him otherwise. Curling over the food, he beams up at Sam like he’s his favorite star.

Because of course he is.

Eyes sweeping over the tableau—a literal Norman Rockwell of domestic weirdness, Dean grumbles around yesterday’s hangover and today’s skepticism, “You’re feeding him now too? What’s next? Bath time and lullabies?”

Gabriel almost faints from excitement: it takes two full beats—one for his brain to process Dean’s sarcasm, another to realize he understood another full sentence—for him to react appropriately. But when it hits? Oh boy does he commit.

He flashes Dean a double thumbs-up—because yeah, actually, he did get sudsy with his favorite Sammich—then drowns his pancakes in syrup with an obnoxious squeal of the squeeze bottle for good measure.

Sam sets down his own plate harder than necessary and levels Dean with a ‘bitch face’.

“He’s still recovering, Dean. You could try being just a little more understanding about it.”

Sam turns his attention back to his food, and Gabriel seizes the moment.

He swoons dramatically for Dean’s benefit: back arched against the chair, one hand pressed to his heart. He fans himself with an imaginary clutch of pearls just so Dean gets the full effect.

Dean rolls his eyes hard enough to sprain something. “Yeah, pass.”

Without breaking eye contact with Dean, Gabriel nabs a huge forkful from Sam’s plate. Still staring—he shoves the whole thing in his mouth with a victorious chomp, cheeks puffed up with his delicious prize.

Sam sighs, “...Gabriel, why? You have your own plate.”

Gabriel shrugs. Obviously, it's because food from Sam's tastes better.

Dean glares. Gabriel just swings his legs happily.

The moment teeters on the edge of absurdity—and then, naturally, Dean tips it.

“Whatever. Hey, Cas!” Dean shouts without warning toward the living room. “You want breakfast, or are you still cursed with the whole ‘everything tastes like shit’ thing?“

“I don’t require sustenance. And yes—I can still only taste molecules,” Castiel intones solemnly as he appears… but sits down anyway.

Gabriel leans across the table toward Castiel, syrup glistening on his chin, and holds out his dripping fork of pancakes in invitation.

Castiel doesn’t even blink. “No.”

On the couch, during one of Sam’s late-night research binges, Gabriel eyes Castiel—currently peering over Dean’s shoulder—waaay up in the guy’s bubble like a socially inept gargoyle.

The tension is palpable: Castiel, wide-eyed and stiff as a disgruntled owl, leans in way too close while Dean scowls like a man one blink away from a sexuality crisis.

Gabriel watches them for almost ten full seconds—then decides it's time to stir the pot.

Feeling mischievous, he drapes himself over Sam’s back—deliberately limp—with a dramatic little whimper for good measure.

Gotta score those sympathy points.

His arms hang over Sam’s shoulders, cheek resting atop Sam’s crown.

Sam adjusts instantly. No questions. No protests. Just quiet accommodation.

Dean stares like he’s witnessing a car crash—slow, inevitable horror blooming across his face before finally sneering, “Can you not?”

Gabriel blinks up at him with wide, faux-innocent eyes, then nuzzles into Sam’s silky hair, eyes fluttering closed in exaggerated bliss.

He finds joy in few things these days. But this?

Tormenting the repressed Ken doll across the room?

Top tier.

“Seriously? What is wrong with you?” Dean snaps.

Gabriel could list six things alphabetically. Instead, he winds his arms more securely around Sam’s neck—careful not to strangle—and sighs, sagging dramatically.

Sam hides a smile behind his laptop.

Gabriel catches it from above—and he nearly combusts.

It’s not the polite smile Sam gives strangers. It’s the smile. The real one.

The one Gabriel remembers from so long ago—sweet and unguarded. As if his smile isn’t an act of profound defiance against the universe.

And then—heaven help him—Sam reaches up without thinking, and smoothes a stray curl from Gabriel’s temple.

Gentle. Thoughtless. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It barrels into Gabriel’s brain like a train.

“He’s been through hell,” Sam says quietly—not looking at Dean or Gabriel—but not needing to. “Leave him alone.”

The words aren’t defensive. Just fact. A truth dropped like a stone in still water.

And Gabriel?

He hears it loud and clear.

Because the real truth is… he doesn’t deserve this.

Not the kindness. Definitely not Sam’s. Or the damn universe-conquering patience with which Sam keeps propping him up with.

It gnaws at him constantly.

You don’t deserve this.

You don’t deserve him.

But if mercy’s on offer, Gabriel’s greedy enough to drink it down because he’s dying of thirst.

No shame left. No pride left worth keeping.

So he leans in. Again and again. Every time Sam steadies him with a hand. Every time their fingers brush and Sam doesn’t pull away. Every moment Sam lets him stay close.

And Gabriel never stops.

Not even when Dean throws up his hands like a soap opera villain wrongfully accused and barks, “So have we! And you don’t see me dry-humping anyone’s spine!”

Gabriel snorts—then dissolves into cackles against Sam’s hair, triumphant and utterly unrepentant.

“This is not how I imagined my brother’s return would unfold. But… it is exactly how I expected him to behave.” Castiel mutters dryly.

Dean opens his mouth, no doubt to double down—only to be hit by Gabriel’s finger guns.

Followed by a full-body shimmy down Sam’s back.

Sam doesn’t even look up. “If you don’t like it, stop encouraging him.”

Gabriel mimes a halo over his head.

Dean groans like he’s aged ten years.

The laughter doesn’t last.

It never does—not really.

Because hours, or maybe only minutes, after the last jab is thrown, the others drift away, and the bunker settles into its usual stillness. Castiel vanishes like a ghost. Dean stomps off muttering. Sam stretches, yawns, and rises with a quiet, “Back in a sec.”

Restroom.

Stupid human bodily functions.

Which leaves Gabriel alone.

He curls up in the deepest corner of the couch, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around ribs that haven’t stopped trembling since Sam let go. He’s wearing one of Sam’s threadbare flannels, sleeves three sizes too long—face buried in the collar just to keep breathing him in.

But it’s not enough.

Not enough to chase off the bone-deep chill that creeps in whenever Sam is out of sight. The bunker feels darker. Smaller. Hollowed out.

He rocks forward and back, breath stuttering, glancing toward the hallway every few seconds as if sheer willpower could summon Sam faster. He knows it’s irrational. He can count the minutes. He can count the seconds to Sam’s return.

But logic is useless when he can’t feel Sam nearby. Can’t sense the steady warmth that proves how alive Sam still is.

This is stupid.

Sam’s going to be right back.

Aaany second now...

Footsteps thunder down the corridor.

Too heavy. Too impatient.

Dean.

Gabriel hunches further in, suddenly burning with humiliation. He can’t stop shaking.

Dean rounds the corner, then stops short—eyes landing on the pathetic bundle of ex-archangel balled at one end of the couch, twitching, pale, and visibly trying to disappear into flannel.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dean mutters.

He exhales—hard. The kind of sigh that carries years of reluctant compassion and a strong desire to not be involved. It’s not even angry. Just tired. Tired of the world and its nonsense. Tired of this.

He pivots with a string of curses and stomps off down the hall.

Silence stretches again—thirty seconds, maybe—before Dean returns, now hauling a full-sized blanket in both arms like it insulted his ancestors.

Without warning or fanfare, he chucks it directly at Gabriel’s head with all the precision of an older sibling weaponizing kindness.

It lands lopsided—one edge trailing along the floor, the other draped over Gabriel’s head like a shroud. He clutches it closer anyway, burying deeper.

Dean stands over him. Deliberating something, arms crossed.

Then, voice low and steel-edged, he says, “Don’t make Sammy regret trusting you, asshole.”

The hunter stares at him like he’s waiting for some smartass comeback.

Gabriel has none.

Just the ache in his chest and the weight of the blanket around his shoulders. He tugs it tighter, grounding himself.

He can't speak—not yet. Not any words that matter.

But he can meet that glare and make a promise all the same.

He’s failed a lot of people.

Burned bridges, lives, entire dimensions in his cowardice.

But not this time.

He won’t vanish. Won’t flinch. Won’t hide behind jokes when it matters.

If Sam needs him, he’ll be there. Always.

Even long after the stars have gone out.

And if anyone comes for Sam—angels, demons, or even Dad himself—

They’ll have to go through Gabriel first.

He doesn’t need absolution.

He just needs to protect the one good thing left.

Something of Gabriel’s raw sincerity must land, because Dean's glare flickers. The sharpness fades. Not much, but enough.

Huffing, the man walks off without another word, boots echoing into the quiet.

Gabriel wraps the blanket tighter around himself and waits—for warmth, for calm, for Sam.

For now, the blanket will have to do.

Chapter Text

It begins in the split second between one blink and the next—a gasp of air so serrated it rattles through Gabriel’s borrowed ribs like a blade. He's upright before he’s even conscious of moving, heart jackhammering against the inside of his chest.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Glancing around, he spots Sam in the far corner.

Sam has folded himself into something so small and un-Sam-like it hurts to look at. Knees drawn tight to his chest—limbs twisted inward with so much tension it looks like he’s bracing for impact, and fists buried in his hair, white-knuckled and shaking.

He doesn’t make a sound, trying not to disturb anyone as he breaks down. Not a whimper, not a gasp. Not even the wet snuffling most humans let out when their faces are leaking that much.

The sight hits Gabriel like a blow. Panic chewing holes in his grace. Not just from the visual.

He can feel it. The soul beneath flickers like a candle wick caught in wind: guttering, starved, threatening to smoke into nothingness.

He doesn’t think; just moves. Drops to the floor, scrambling over, words clawing up his throat like broken glass—his first in years.

“Sam. Hey—Sammy—” It comes out, a desperate croak.

No reaction.

Gabriel reaches, hand hovering over Sam's shoulder but he doesn't let it land—gauging the risk of touch versus absence.

Fuck it. There's more danger leaving Sam drifting alone.

Cupping one trembling wrist gently between his palms, he massages it. The skin there is damp and chilled.

Sam doesn’t jerk away but he doesn’t yield either—locked in stasis somewhere between fight and freeze.

“You’re supposed to wake me up for this crap. Not cry alone without me, sweetheart,” Gabriel chides lightly—aware he’s being too soft, but unable to stop.

Still nada, Sam locked deep within some internal battle.

“I feel so left out,” Gabriel adds with a cracked sort of bravado; his old defense mechanism against sincerity, “Next time you want to have an existential spiral at two in the morning, you gotta wake me up first, okay? It’s basic roomie etiquette.”

A watery whine escapes Sam.

Gabriel leans forward—because after that noise, he has to.

Encircling Sam's hands between his own until their fingers tangle together, he pulls Sam forward into a hug that is neither graceful nor optional. It’s basic emergency protocol when someone you love is slipping off the edge.

He expects resistance—maybe even a flailing punch. Sam stays frozen for almost ten seconds before collapsing bodily against Gabriel with all two-hundred-plus pounds of hunter muscle and unresolved trauma.

Damp patches soak through Gabriel’s T-shirt almost immediately; tears, sweat or maybe blood from one of the scrapes along Sam’s temple from his own nails.

Gabriel holds him tighter. Grace stirs beneath his skin, agitated and weakly reaching.

“Listen,” Gabriel mutters fiercely, pressing their foreheads together hard enough to hurt, trying to ground Sam in the now, “I didn’t survive Hell’s Worst Motel just to have you quietly self-destruct on my watch. I have rules, Winchester.”

Sam wetly chokes on something like laughter and manages to force out two syllables through gritted teeth:

“Can’t—breathe.”

Gabriel softens his grip by point two thousandths of a percent, but doesn’t actually let go.

Archangels are not known for moderation.

“There’s my Samshine,” he mutters, brushing sweaty bangs aside with a hand that tries to be casual and fails spectacularly. “You want to talk about which particular brand of existential horror show this was? Or should we skip right to the distraction phase?”

Sam shakes his head minutely—a gesture less about refusal and more about inability—but breathes easier now under Gabriel's hands.

And isn’t that a trip? Sam Winchester finds him comforting.

“S-sorry you ‘ad to see me like this again,” Sam sobs, ashamed.

Gabriel makes a noise somewhere between incredulity and rage at the universe—a strangled little laugh too sharp to be anything other than pain-adjacent humor.

“Baby,” he says, “if you think this makes me think less of you, you’re not as smart as I thought. I mean, come on—you’ve seen me at my worst! Fair’s fair.”

His hand moves without conscious thought, knuckles brushing tears off Sam's cheekbones while he leans into it.

After minutes or hours, Sam’s soul finally steadies fractionally and he peels away just far enough to look at Gabriel through red-rimmed eyes gone glassy with exhaustion.

They stay like that until they hear stirring from Dean's room next door—a muffled curse punctuated by mattress springs—but neither moves.

They just breathe—tangled up in borrowed quiet, two survivors piecing themselves back together, one heartbeat at a time.

Gabriel shuffles into the bunker’s kitchen beside Sam in a mess of clomps, muttered grumbles, and one half-hearted wing twitch.

His hair is brushed back into his old flip, and he’s wearing another misappropriated flannel shirt—three sizes too big—sleeves rolled and still draping over his hands. Whether it’s theft or borrowing is a decision he’ll rule on later.

Sniffing the air, he instantly recoils.

“That sludge you make is a crime,” he declares, squinting at the coffeepot like it personally offended him.

Dean nearly upends his mug trying to process both the insult and the fact that Gabriel is talking again. He looks rough—still half in sleep mode, t-shirt hiked askew under the dead-guy robe hanging behind him, sleep-creased marks on his cheek still visible.

“Holy crap,” Dean chokes, catching a splatter of hot liquid before it hits his shirt. “You talk now?”

Gabriel doesn’t dignify this with direct response; instead he advances on the coffeepot. With extravagant care he taps two fingers against the glass carafe, closes his eyes in dramatic pain, and announces: “I’ve spent literal ages taste-testing divine nectar. This…” He gestures at the oily black concoction pooling at the bottom of the machine, “—is a betrayal.”

He snatches Dean’s mug for investigative purposes, takes an experimental sniff, then feigns a full-body spasm. “You call this brew? It smells like you melted down rubber and then filtered it through existential dread.”

Dean snatches the mug back with an offended grunt but doesn’t disagree.

The impromptu kitchen tribunal continues when Castiel appears out of nowhere—showoff—just standing there, face as blank as ever but eyes weirdly soft around the corners.

“I’m glad you’re speaking again,” Castiel intones with zero preamble.

Gabriel scratches the back of his neck, flinching like the sentiment stings.

“Yeah,” Gabriel grumbles, “Kinda sucks. Now you people will expect me to have input again.”

Castiel considers this response seriously for several seconds too long before announcing, “You always have input.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes at the little shit.

They settle into bunker breakfast protocol: Dean making gleefully unhealthy piles of bacon; Castiel watching him work with anthropological fascination; Sam pulling himself together to pour orange juice while Gabriel hovers, brushing shoulders.

Dean narrates an upcoming monster gig—a livestock mutilation tripleheader outside Boise that promises both boredom and arterial spray—punctuating every third sentence by daring anyone present to argue with his plan. Castiel volunteers logistical advice which nobody thanks him for but everyone notes anyway.

When Dean finally asks if Castiel wants a seat on Team Winchester for the hunt, Cas shakes his head soberly and says: “Sam and I need to stay with Gabriel.”

All three sets of eyes swivel back to him—and Gabriel is startled by this—he’d been expecting a quick getaway or maybe even a ceremonial banishment now that he was ambulatory again—but this?

“So what—you two are just going to skip a hunt and… babysit me?”

Dean tries for levity—“Not like anbody really wants to wrangle cow guts at sunrise anyway”—but there isn’t enough humor in Nebraska to float past the moment.

It clicks—all at once, with such force that Gabriel nearly sways. This is what they’ve been doing since he was dropped half catatonic on their figurative doorstep—Sam waiting on him hand and foot, while everyone stopped their own forward motion in fear he’d regress, or dematerialize, or get kidnapped again.

Gabriel looks down at his too-long borrowed sleeves and feels mortification burning him like he’s swallowed holy fire by mistake.

“So that’s it?” Gabriel blurts out bitterly. Arms crossing tight over Sam’s borrowed shirt; voice pitched high with incredulity. “You’ve all just… paused your whole damn lives to hover like malfunctioning Roombas stuck in a ‘nurture loop’ while I play ‘recovering celestial invalid’?”

Sam shrugs one massive shoulder without apologizing or defending himself—not even flinching from the accusation.

“Yes,” Sam says flatly. Gabriel waits for more but Sam just sits there, too tired for pretense, too honest for games.

“We’re keeping you safe,” Castiel adds helpfully from across the table—his version of comfort delivered without embellishment, which somehow makes it worse.

“No.” Gabriel wants to laugh but can’t find one. Bitterness chews holes through every syllable instead. “You’re locking yourselves in a bunker-sized guilt trap because I’m too weak to protect myself! Sam… Why would you—? You haven’t been out in weeks!”

At this Dean sneers, obviously having stayed in reluctantly—but Sam holds Gabriel’s gaze without blinking.

“And I’d do it again,” he says finally, voice steady but soft around the edges, “Every time.”

Gabriel stares at him, completely undone. Sam looks like he means it—like missing sleep and throwing his own recovery into a black hole is a price he’s happily paid daily just to keep Gabriel breathing.

Something seizes tight inside him. The scathing insult he was building dies quietly on his tongue.

Gabriel had braced for pity, maybe obligation. Not this—this stupid, staggering devotion that makes his chest feel too full and his skin too tight.

“…You’re idiots,” Gabriel says quietly, no real sting behind it now—there’s gratitude tangled up somewhere inside.

Sam smiles at him and it lights his world.

Something inside Gabriel eases—just barely.

His wings twitch behind him.

So of course Dean is out when everything goes to hell.

It’s just a Wednesday, which is the real insult. A Wednesday, damp and overcast, with Sam in one of his calm stretches—a lull in which he reads obsessively, and burns through pots of coffee. Gabriel pretends to be invested in reruns on the battered TV nearby, but he’s really just basking in Sam’s company.

The first warning is a ripple in the bunker’s wards that abrades Gabriel’s skin like sandpaper. He staggers upright, startling Sam. Castiel pops in, head cocked, wings arching behind his vessel’s shoulders.

The world detonates, main door blasting off its hinges with a concussive boom.

You’d expect someone like Asmodeus to relish subtlety, but he comes in grinning and direct. Two goon-demons flank him in mismatched meatsuits, reeking of sulfer. He doesn’t even need an introduction; all three of them have seen enough of those yellow eyes and his KFC get-up to know what they’re up against.

He zeroes in on Sam first with predatory focus, single-minded as any apex beast. Using his stolen power, he slams Sam against the wall, holding him up by his throat.

Crying out, Gabriel throws himself at Asmodeus, earning nothing but a contemptuous backhand that sends him ricocheting across the room. Spitting blood, he tries again anyway, but then the goons grab him and start dragging him up the stairs.

Castiel pulls his angel blade out and plunges it straight into Asmodeus’ side. The prince barely winces, snags Cas by his tie and slams him against the ceiling before dropping him in a limp heap near the kitchen entrance.

“You thought you could run from me?” Asmodeus sneers to Gabriel. “You thought you could hide behind these pathetic meatsacks? You’re not even a shell of what you were.”

Sam’s face turns red. His feet scramble for purchase, desperation riding every muscle.

Dying.

Suddenly incandescent with fury—a sense-memory of old power rising in him, Gabriel throws the goons down the stairs with a howl of renewed strength—radiating pain in celestial harmonics.

The strings of his very being have been tuned well past the breaking point, but for Sam—?

Sam—whose life is treated like a currency the universe never stops trying to spend? Well. Gabriel—

He’s sick of it.

Seeing his resistance, Asmodeus turns to taunt him again, “Gabriel! What are you doin’, son? You know too well what I can do to you!”

But Gabriel isn’t interested in memory lane. He plants his feet—and the world shifts. Shredded wings flare wide, casting fractured shadows across the room as something ancient and magnificent snaps back into place inside his chest.

A surge of divinity fills him up—healing his vessel and restoring his wings which reconstitute themselves behind his vessel, ragged at first but steadily filling in. Gabriel finally feels what it is to be an archangel again.

Not just a pretend trickster, or a coward, or a cosmic dropout. A catalyst for every story humanity ever told about salvation and vengeance.

He straightens, taller now, eyes gold-white with fury.

Asmodeus notices, yellow eyes widening in alarm.

“I broke you!” Asmodeus barks, voice pitching shrill even as he tries to stand his ground.

Gabriel doesn’t buckle.

He’s done flinching.

“You’re too weak!” Asmodeus roars, flinging a searing ball of stolen grace like a javelin.

Gabriel backhands it aside with a flick. It explodes against the wall, scorching a light fixture. He steps forward, wrathfully assuring, voice low and resonant:

“Not anymore.”

He pauses, then sneers at the demon.

“Oh, by the way? I always hated that dumbass suit.”

Before Asmodeus can retort or flee, he grabs onto the demon pinning his corrupted soul in place with his true form’s claws. There is no cleverness to what follows. No trick, no sleight of hand. He simply opens himself up, lets every atom of his grace reignite, and wraps Asmodeus in the storm of it.

Asmodeus screams, his grip loosening on Sam as the light bores in deeper, and deeper. The sound melts into a gurgle as his vessel burns from the inside out.

It is not quick, and it is not merciful.

Gabriel holds him there, suspended in agony—until every ounce of malice is purged. When it’s over, there’s nothing left of his tormentor behind but an ashy Rorschach of shadow over the room.

Dust drifts through the air in slow motion, refracting the afterglow of what just happened. His wings curl reflexively inward—not whole yet —but beneath every ragged inch there’s a surging restoration, a brightness that is both pain and relief.

He can feel it: the old architecture of his grace knitting itself together in hot, shuddering fits. It hurts. Oh god, it hurts—but it’s the kind of hurt that means something is coming back to life.

He staggers sideways against the ruined banister, fingers digging in as if physical contact with it will tether him here.

His vessel wants to drop to its knees and shake itself apart.

His angelic self wants to collapse into the veil and scream joy in every direction at once.

He tastes copper in his mouth, wipes it away with the back of Sam’s stolen sleeve—and barely holds down a hysterical laugh.

Everything is fan-fucking-tastic. Except—

Eyes wide, he stumbles forward and leans over the banister.

“Sam!”

There—slumped against the wall, coughing violently, and clutching at his throat is Sam Winchester.

Blotchy. Gasping. Teary-eyed.

Alive.

Relief crashes through him like a wave—he sags, breathless.

“Gabriel?” Sam coughs out, voice shredded.

Gabriel practically collapses down the steps three at a time, wings trailing shadows up the stairwell behind him.

Dropping beside Sam—careful this time—he hovers one trembling hand inches above Sam’s shoulder before actually daring contact. The moment their skin touches—a brush of palm over scapula—it’s like plugging two live wires together: a divine current humming between them, dangerous and vital and anchoring.

Gabriel feels lightheaded from proximity alone.

Finally. He can see and feel Sam’s soul again.

“What,” Gabriel starts, grinning with battered sincerity. “No applause? After that performance?”

It comes out ragged around the edges but Sam laughs anyway. A dry, incredulous sound that turns into a wet sob, a laugh gone sideways.

Their knees are touching on linoleum flecked with demon ash and bits of broken glass. Sam’s hands are shaking almost as badly as his own.

Gabriel finally saved someone who matters to him. He didn’t give up, or run away when everything twisted toward annihilation—instead he stood his ground for once in ten billion years. Staked what was left of himself on someone else surviving—

And holy hell if it doesn’t feel good.

Then Sam Winchester pulls him close and for the first time since his wings were torn away, Gabriel feels truly alive again.

Of course Sam Winchester is the source of it.

Because when Gabriel’s world rebuilt itself—Sam was placed dead center.

Where else would he be?

Chapter Text

The Impala barrels down the interstate, devouring miles of concrete beneath a sky the color of cold steel. The air inside the car is thick with friction—unsaid things grinding against silence, sparking tension that no one names.

Dean is driving, Sam riding shotgun, eyes ahead, fingers drumming anxiously on his thigh. And Gabriel—who could be anywhere, doing anything now that his wings are back in working order—sits behind them, arms crossed, feet pressed up center back, sullen.

He hasn’t said a word since they left hours ago.

Not since his wings returned.

Back when it all still felt like a miracle.

~~~

For the first time in years he feels more alive than ever. Not just patched up like some two-bit Frankenstein monster.

Kneeling in the bunker surrounded by ash, and Sam’s arms, he feels whole.

The first thing he does is test his wings. Flexing in wavelengths used to pierce through dimensions. This time it works. His wings expand and he sees everything at once.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, cupping his cheek. “You still in there?”

Gabriel sweeps Sam into his wingspan—an unthinking, touch-starved reflex, like his grace is checking that Sam’s soul is still intact, still his—and rolls unseen talons over Sam’s core, gathering further evidence that yes, they both survived this time around.

Sam’s pupils dilate under the inexplicable purifying sensation, amazed, worshipful—Gabriel’s own vision whites out briefly with sensory overload, able to feel the awe directly.

If bliss was an element on the periodic table, this would be its triple point.

“Fuck,” he breathes, so profoundly relieved, “That actually worked.”

He laughs—a sound that bubbles up out of him unchecked, so uncharacteristically bright that it bounces off the bunker walls like reflected sunlight off water.

“I’m back baby!” Gabriel crows, grinning wider than he intends, unable to mask the thrill vibrating through every cell.

Sam grins with him, and opens his mouth, clearly about to congratulate Gabriel on his return to pure awesomeness, then pauses sheepishly, “That’s fantastic Gabe, and we should definitely celebrate—but first, you mind helping Cas out?”

Eyes widening, Gabriel swivels his head. The other angel lies slumped amid burned feathers—a heap of spent celestial energy barely held together by force of will.

Reluctantly parting from Sam, Gabriel blips over instantly, dropping to one knee beside him. His fingers hesitate.

What if this doesn’t work? What if he’s still not powerful enough?

Gabriel points a finger at Castiel’s sternum, and pulses ringing golden grace through him like a defibrillator, filling every crevice in sight.

For a second nothing happens, then Castiel jolts upright with a strangled gasp—eyes flaring blue, before settling into their usual stormy confusion.

“Gabriel?” he manages after a beat, staring up at the impossible sweep of wings.

“Present~” Gabriel sings back automatically—then Dean Winchester barrels through the door, gun raised despite everything in this room being waaay outside its jurisdiction.

Because that's how Dean enters rooms even when his companions aren’t littered about like post-party casualties.

“Hey there, Dean-o,” Gabriel chirps, his voice crackling with leftover divine static. “You missed the fireworks.”

Dean’s mouth opens mid-threat—then clamps shut the moment he clocks the scene.

“What the hell happened?!” Dean demands, gesturing furiously at the destroyed door.

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and in one glorious bloom of power all the broken objects surrounding them—the shattered door, splintered table, even the cratered concrete around their feet—simply un-happens. The world rewinds to its idealized memory of itself: every object in the bunker’s map room pops back into perfect, pristine place. Even the door lands on its hinges with an audible click and a faint pop of displaced air.

Damn it’s good to be back.

"There!" Gabriel declares with extra flourish, raising his hands theatrically as if presenting freshly-detailed cars on a game show stage. "Better than new!”

Dean, who has never found Gabriel’s showmanship anything but irritating, just grunts as he holsters his gun.

“Guess that means you got your mojo back,” he mutters dryly, already losing interest in the archangel and shifting focus to more immediate concerns. Stomping down the stairs, he looks over Sam, before zeroing in on Castiel, who is wobbling upright.

Cas plants his feet and tries for dignity but lists sideways. Dean catches him under the arm.

“You good?” Dean huffs, voice gruff but more worried than he’d ever admit aloud.

Castiel blinks for several long seconds before leaning into Dean and nodding. Only then does Dean exhale with a relief so palpable it softens everything about him for one unguarded moment.

“So what now?” Sam asks quietly, looking to Gabriel with fragile hope. The words barely make it into the space between them; they’re meant for Gabriel alone.

What now? Now Gabriel gets to enjoy all those perks he missed.

He snaps his fingers again—just because he can. Power surges through his cells like a supercharged battery pack finally unclipped from mortal limits. The blood-stained shirt reweaves itself into something soft and more fitting. Grime peels away from his jeans, vanishing like smoke in the light.

Then—because he doesn’t know how not to perform—he conjures a lollipop: bright red candy orb glittering. For effect he spins it once between thumb and forefinger with a magician’s flourish— then freezes.

His smile flickers. The lollipop disintegrates—useless now, soured by memory.

By Loki.

Silence settles like dust—thick, suffocating. The rush is fading, and with it, the comfortable haze of weakness. Power thrums steady and sure beneath his skin again—no more trembling hands, no more stuttering grace. And with it comes the cold clarity of truth.

He doesn’t need to share a plate with Sam anymore. Doesn’t need the steady anchor of another body beside him just to sleep through the night. The excuses—hunger, cold, fragility—have all burned away beneath the furnace-blast of returning strength.

And what’s left behind is far more dangerous.

Want.

Unhidden now. Undeniable. Not softened by weakness or wrapped in necessity. It’s sharp, consuming, real—and it terrifies him.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t just want Sam.

He wants him too much.

So much it claws at him. So much it makes him reckless, selfish, desperate to stay close long after the need has passed.

And even worse—there’s no reason for Sam to want to take care of him anymore. No reason to offer comfort, or softness, or that quiet, devastating kindness. The moment stretches, breathless and fragile, and a chasm opens between what Gabriel aches for and what he’ll allow himself to reach for.

He casts a glance sideways.

Six-foot-four of battered idealism, newly restored, stands beside him—blinking at him with open, unguarded gratitude.

Gabriel looks away.

Already retreating. Already trying to silence the part of him that wants too much, takes too much, lingers too long. Because now he has no excuses left. And if he stays close, if he asks for more—he’s not weak anymore.

He’s just selfish.

Turning away he tries to ignore the shock and disappointment radiating from Sam.

Gabriel really wants to be a better person for him, and now he can help him without ever needing to touch him again.

That’s progress, right? Growth?

He wants to vomit.

He watches Sam stand up slowly, one hand braced against the wall—and doesn’t move to help him. Doesn’t reach, doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch.

All he can think about is crawling inside Sam's ribcage so he can live there forever.

But he wants more than that. Wants access. Intimacy that carves rather than caresses. He wants to memorize the cadence of Sam’s breath from the inside, trace the shape of his ribs from the underside. To map the full topography of Sam’s body and soul then file each line under devotion. He wants to press their cores together until neither can tell where one ends and the other begins. He wants permanence, not presence.

It’s killing him to hold back.

Gabriel stays—of course he stays. But he stops reaching.

No more shared silences on the couch, where the hush between them once pulsed with unspoken comfort. No more knees that might graze under the library table, sparking a quiet heat. Every tiny indulgence he ever savored—every accidental jolt of closeness—he trades for restraint. He trades the soft glow of connection for a brittle distance, barely wider than an inch but wide enough to keep him safe.

Sam hasn’t confronted him—yet. But Gabriel can feel those wounded eyes, and the unspoken questions building in the air between them.

Even Dean notices—and Dean couldn’t read an emotional cue if you tattooed it across his forehead.

All he wants to do is cling on again. Wrap. Press. Fuse.

But Gabriel knows better.

~~~

So now—he sits in the rear. Alone.

Sam glances at him in the rearview, brows furrowed. "You okay back there?"

Gabriel doesn't look up. "Peachy."

Gabriel could have hunted the pagans alone. Tracking Loki’s sons is almost insultingly easy. Any being with half a nose for mischief could follow their trail blindfolded and backwards. It’s so thick on the wind that Gabriel can taste it—bittersweet as burnt caramel, caustic as ozone.

He should have swept out in a flash of wings and light—ended the little bastards with a flick of his recovering grace and a well-placed bit of celestial irony. He’d always been good at improvisational violence, and now?

The stakes are personal.

But Sam—steady, infuriatingly stubborn Sam—insisted on coming along. At first Gabriel tried to shut him down with snark and cheap metaphors, but the harder Sam persisted, the less Gabriel could muster the will to deny him anything.

Pathetic, really—how Sam could unravel centuries of defense with a single, plaintive look.

It certainly doesn’t help that Gabriel can’t stand the thought of being physically separated from Sam for such a long period, even though he can sense Sam from anywhere now that he’s tagged his soul.

And so, out of a mix of worry for Sam, and a yearning too old to name, Gabriel let him come along.

Also? The other Winchester.

Sometimes Gabriel catches the flicker of Dean’s expression in the mirror: guarded, acid-bright, as if daring Gabriel to put one toe out of line near Sam. It’s almost flattering, to be worthy of such suspicion.

Understandable even.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Gabriel’s loathing for Sam’s overbearing, self-righteous older brother was nearly a physical sensation.

Mystery Spot remains his magnum opus—sure it’d been to teach Sam a lesson, but the real treat was taking the piss out on Dean.

He certainly hadn’t killed Dean hundreds of times because he liked the jackass. Unlike Sam, Dean so perfectly mirrors Michael—Dad’s wind-up toy— that the old man might as well have hit copy paste.

The parallels are too obvious to be funny.

Bred for obedience, born in the shadow of unreachable expectations, loyal to a fault—Dean Winchester is just Michael with a hangover and a car fetish.

So yeah. He’d killed the guy. Over, and over, and over again. Mashed Dean into pancakes, anvil to the head, slip-n-slide, bear trap—flambéed him at least once. Every iteration a new flavor.

And why?

Because the guy was a walking, talking, beer-breathing embodiment of everything Gabriel hates about his own kind.

Heaven’s family melodrama plays out in microcosm every time Gabriel sees Dean in full martyr mode—face screwed up in self-righteous anger over another of Sam’s supposed sins.

Sins that Sammy only commits when backed into a corner to save his brother’s ungrateful ass. Idiot’s only saving grace that sets him apart from Mikey is that under all his holier-than-thou bullshit he’d do anything to save Sam.

Knowing that, and the fact that Sam loves his brother has somewhat soothed the gnawing hatred he reserves for Dean. Nowadays it’s more of an afterthought, drowned out by an infinitely more compelling disturbance: Sam.

The more time they spent together, the more Gabriel’s hunger to protect Sam, to drink in the light just behind his eyes, grew. Tuning in to the heat of Sam’s presence at every turn.

He’s never been a fan of fate—rigged game, always cheats, always costs more than it gives. But he can’t picture a future where he walks away from Sam, not anymore.

But he also can’t picture one where they get any kind of happily-ever-after.

Boggling at the sarcastic quip, Dean darts a look between Sam and Gabriel, asking, "The hell’s wrong with you? You two break up or something?"

Gabriel answers painfully honest without missing a beat, "Can’t break what was never real."

Sam flinches like he’s been shot, soul juddering.

Gabriel’s grace reacts before he can think—surging in panic, rushing to soothe with a pulse of warmth undetectable to human senses.

It calms the worst of Sam's agony. Gabriel keeps his many eyes trained on him just in case.

They ride in silence until the next rest stop. Sam, eyes red, darts off, disappearing into the building.

Gabriel leans against the car, trying to breathe through the weight crushing his ribs.

Dean crosses his arms. "Whatever the hell you think you’re doing here? It’s stupid."

Gabriel’s voice is hollow. "He’s better off."

Dean snorts. "Sure doesn’t look it."

Gabriel stiffens. But he doesn’t argue.

They make their way through the battered detritus of backwater towns and sleepless highways, three shadows moving in sync beneath the sodium-orange glow of doomed streetlights.

One evening, after a successful hunt, they linger outside a rundown motel with flickering neon lights. The chill in the air wraps around them, but it’s Sam’s concern that cuts Gabriel to the quick.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Sam asks, his voice low, hesitant.

Gabriel knows he’s been an ass lately. He doesn’t know how Sam can still stand him—doesn’t know how to stay near without falling back into old habits, how to keep distance without being cruel.

“If by ‘this’ you mean teaching those dicks a lesson?” Gabriel leans back, arms folded, trying to hide the tremble still buried in his vessel’s hands. He forces his usual smirk. “Oh yeah. Totally my jam. Can’t wait for the encore.”

Sam exhales, heavy with worry. “Just… be careful. I know how this usually goes.”

The words hang between them, stretching taut like wire. Gabriel turns away, though his senses remain tuned to Sam’s every breath, every shift of weight.

He doesn’t deserve Sam’s concern—hasn’t earned it, can’t ask for it—but he’s starving for it anyway.

Inside, Sam opens the door to room 6. Dean stomps on in but Gabriel lingers behind.

“You coming?” Sam asks, confused.

Gabriel hesitates. The temptation is too much already.

“Feathers,” he mutters, throwing out the first excuse that comes to mind. “They shed like hell. I’d hate to make you sleep in that mess Sambo.”

Sam frowns. His eyes are soft and bewildered. Hurt, even.

Gabriel rushes ahead hating every word. “Besides, I don’t need sleep anyway.”

Before Sam can press further, Gabriel vanishes to the roof.

He spends hours tracing sigils into the shingles, watching stars drift lazily overhead as the earth rotates.

He’s trying so hard to be better. This is what trying looks like, damn it.

So why does it feel so shitty?!

A soft cry from below interrupts his spiral.

Dad damn it.

Gabriel closes his burning eyes. Down in the motel room, Sam tosses and turns. He tries to soothe his human back to sleep with a touch of grace but it’s too late.

“Gabe?” Sam pants, sitting upright in bed. His voice trembles with anxiety.

Silence.

Gabriel paces above, jaw clenched. Sam’s voice unravels him—too pained, too close. If he lets himself hold onto Sam now, he won’t let go. He’ll bind them together for eternity, whether Sam wants it or not.

He can’t. Not when he’s barely even started making amends.

“You said to call you if I had nightmares… Where are you?” Sam sobs.

The words hit like a sucker punch, dredging up all the recent memories of his time with Sam—quiet, intimate moments; laughter pressed into shoulders; hands that shook and held anyway. He’s ruining everything by needing too much.

If he had any real restraint, maybe he could offer comfort without consequences. Could hold Sam without doing the irreversible.

But he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

His grace stirs violently under his skin, surging toward the bed below. He clenches his fists, barely pulling it back, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper.

Dragging both hands through his hair, he lets out a low, broken noise, and takes another lap across the roof.

“I can’t screw this up,” he mutters. “Not again. He’s been through enough without me adding to it.”

He wraps his arms around himself before he even realizes. It’s a habit now—and one he doesn’t even try to break.

“He held me because I was broken. That’s all it was. Because I needed him.”

And because proximity had let him channel what little grace he'd had left into bolstering Sam’s soul. That was the excuse. That was the crutch.

But now?

Now he doesn’t need to be close to help. Now, closeness would just be indulgence. It would be about him.

So Gabriel?

Gabriel doesn’t get to curl into that warmth anymore. No more leaning close just because Sam smells like fresh laundry and sweat and home.

“I can’t use him,” he growls, furious with himself. “Even if I miss him.”

He scrubs his hands hard over his face, then stares at his palms like they might offer solutions.

If he holds Sam again—he won’t be letting go. He’ll take. He’ll pour every ounce of grace into Sam’s soul until they drown in each other. Not to help Sam, but because he craves it.
Because now that he’s whole again, his hunger has teeth. And no matter how sweetly Sam cries, or how gently he asks, Gabriel doesn’t trust himself not to sink them in.

He’s not scared Sam will let him. He’s scared he’ll take without waiting. That he’ll bind them without asking—just because he can. Because if Sam says yes, even once, Gabriel won’t stop. He’ll burn through consent and keep going until Sam is marked, altered, his forever in ways no apology can undo.

“He’s safe,” he mutters, voice fraying like rope. “He’s alive. I did it. I didn’t run this time.”

He stops pacing. Breathes shallowly. His grace pulses unevenly under his skin, a steady thrum of strain.

“I didn’t run.”

That truth—small, hard-won—is the only thing keeping him upright. He stayed. Fought Asmodeus. Didn’t crumple like paper the second things got hard.

He saved Sam.

That has to count for something.

Right?

He stares past the chain-link fence into the cracked and empty lot below, searching for absolution in asphalt.

He doesn’t move until Sam cries himself to sleep.

Then, silently, Gabriel pops into the room. Conjures a second blanket, warm with grace, and drapes it gently over Sam’s curled-up form.

Sam doesn’t stir.

Gabriel stands in the dark, watching the slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest.

He etches a sigil into the motel wall behind the bed—a silent guardian that will alert him instantly if Sam’s soul begins to flux.

Then he retreats to the roof.

A beat passes. His voice drops, soft and bitter.

“No more tricks.”

He leans back on his heels.

“You’re gonna be better,” he tells himself. “You’re gonna fix all the things you broke. Clean up your messes. Starting with Loki and his damn sons.”

His eyes flare gold. His expression hardens—sharp and sure.

“I’ll protect him. From everyone.”

His voice cracks, soft and reluctant as it breaks free.

“Even from me.”

The next morning, Gabriel appears in his old clothes. No flannel. No hoodie. Just the same faded jeans and that damn green jacket—it feels all wrong now, like a costume he’d rather not wear. It hangs differently on him now, too tight, like someone else's skin.

Sam glances up from where he’s packing their gear, and his eyes catch on Gabriel’s outfit. He frowns, the barest twitch of confusion tightening the space between his brows.

“You retiring from stealing all my laundry?” he asks, attempting casual. His voice is light, but not light enough.

Gabriel forces a smirk—sharp and thin—a mask slipping over something far more fragile beneath. "Didn’t seem right anymore."

He doesn’t elaborate. Maybe he should. Maybe if he could just say it, Sam wouldn’t look like that—like something small and quietly wounded. But the words catch in Gabriel’s throat, brittle and splintered, too full of grief to get out clean.

Sam looks away. The moment breaks. But not before Gabriel sees it—a shadow of hurt in Sam’s eyes. It punches through him—quiet, cruel, and deserved.

Is this really better for Sam?

Is this what selflessness looks like? Tearing out your own heart and watching it burn?

Gabriel swallows hard, wishing he could bridge the chasm he’s created. But instead, he stands there, caught between the desire to reach out and the fear of taking advantage.

How much lower does he have to fall before he’s satisfied?

How selfish is he, really—still wavering between doing right by Sam and swallowing him whole?

Later, they sit in a worn vinyl booth at a sleepy roadside diner, all muted conversation and the hum of fluorescent lights. Sam zones out on the opposite side of the table, half-slouched, elbow on the window ledge. His plate of food sits mostly untouched in front of him, growing cold.

Gabriel pretends to read the menu. The words blur the second his eyes skim past them. Dean’s in the bathroom, which makes the silence more glaring.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Sam absently pushes a piece of toast across his plate. He knows Sam’s hungry. That’s not the problem. He just—doesn’t eat the way he did before. Not since Gabriel stopped sitting close, stopped stealing bites with smirking eyes and infuriating commentary while offering forkfuls of his own plate as well.

Not since Gabriel stopped being there.

Gabriel sees it all. The hesitation. The little cracks in Sam’s armor. He watches Sam flinch slightly—just a wince, a ripple across his expression. Maybe a memory from last night. Maybe a headache. Gabriel doesn’t ask.

He just breathes deep, closes his eyes, and lets a pulse of grace thread the air between them—subtle and warm, slipping into Sam’s spine like sunlight through fog. Sam exhales slowly, tension ebbing from his shoulders.

But still, he doesn’t eat.

He wants to feed him… to scoot around the booth, curl fingers around his wrist and ease him into eating one more damn bite, because Sammy’s a big boy and he needs it. Instead he sits perfectly still, hands trembling under the table where Sam can’t see. Swallowing against the desire.

He used to be able to justify every touch. Now he can’t without going too far. And it kills him.

Their waiter comes over, smiling just a little too long at Sam—probably because he looks a little too good even when he’s tired and miserable—Gabriel goes rigid.

The guy doesn’t even say anything particularly flirtatious. Just asks if everything tastes okay and tells Sam to holler if he needs anything. But his tone is warm, and his gaze lingers a little too long.

It’s polite, professional—but just interested enough to make Gabriel’s molars grind.

“So, are the stares complimentary,” Gabriel drawls, “or do they come with the check?”

The waiter blinks. “Uh—sorry?”

Sam turns sharply, giving Gabriel a look that’s half warning, half exhausted disbelief. “Dude.”

Gabriel doesn’t back down, sneering in a voice colder than glaciers. “Better watch who you’re ogling, buck-o.”

The waiter hesitates, blinking like he’s not sure if it’s a joke.

Gabriel’s smile sharpens, allowing gravity to press down on the interloper.

“Those peepers of yours wander again, and I’ll put them in a to-go box… Capisce?”

The waiter stiffens, frightened and disturbed.

“Gabriel!” Sam sputters, horrified. Turning to the waiter, who is now refusing to even glance in his direction he insists, “I am so sorry about him. It’s a blood sugar thing. He gets weird. Like gremlin-after-midnight weird. Please just ignore it.”

The waiter gives an awkward, tight nod and hurries off.

Gabriel stares down at the table, stomach roiling. He hadn’t meant to go that far—not really. But the thought of someone else seeing Sam the way he does makes his skin itch.

Sam glares at Gabriel for a long moment.

“What was that?”

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t whisper I’m sorry or I can’t help it or you don’t understand what you do to me. Because he knows if he says anything, he’ll say everything.

That he wants to fuse them grace to soul, and remake Sam as his and only his.

And if Sam lets him—if he tilts his head and whispers yes to him, like he had to Lucifer—Gabriel will plunge so far into him he’ll never come back out.

Gabriel shrugs, too stiff to be considered careless. “Just trying to spice up your otherwise boring eggs, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t dignify his bullshit with a response.

He just returns to jabbing his food around in silence until Dean comes back, sees Sam’s patented bitch face and halts.

“The hell did I miss now?”

Sam doesn’t answer. Gabriel sure as shit doesn’t either. The silence says enough.

Under the table, Gabriel clenches his furiously trembling hands tighter—trying to keep himself from claiming things he doesn’t deserve.

Chapter Text

The road unfurls before them, an endless ribbon of asphalt. Each mile marker they pass stands as a stoic observer to the mounting tension coiled within the impala.

All three of Loki’s spawn have been put down, and Gabriel should feel lighter—vindicated even. But it rings hollow.

The trickster’s sons hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t begged. They’d fought like soldiers, died like monsters.

Just names scratched off a list.

The emptiness sets in before the blood has even dried from his blade.

Dean had declared it done—“That’s the last of ’em.”
Gabriel hadn’t argued. Just stood there, chest heaving, wings aching, waiting for something—anything—that never came.

Because vengeance doesn’t soothe. Doesn’t stitch torn grace back together or rewind time to before Loki sold him like a trinket.

Mercy was never an option, so he keeps going. Because what else is there?

They dump the bodies. Get back on the road like nothing happened.

But something has shifted.

As the miles stretch on, an uncomfortable stillness wraps around them. Gabriel feels it pressing against his ribs as they drive—this stifling weight between him and the only person in the car who matters.

Sam has abandoned any attempt at conversation.

Just sits there, gaze fixed on the blur of passing landscape outside. He sits folded in on himself—radiating the quiet resignation of someone armoring against disappointment.

Every beat of silence amplifies into a void that relentlessly gnaws at Gabriel’s insides.

He aches to fill it, but he’s trapped in a stalemate, shackled by his own caution.

Rationality tells him he can’t simply reach out and banish the distance. In order to protect Sam, he has to constantly hold back the raging need within.

The desire to meld with Sam, to possess him utterly until no atom remains untouched, curls in dark insidious tendrils around his heart. He doesn’t know how to stop wanting to swallow Sam whole—bones and all.

So he keeps close but remains resolutely distant–stuck navigating an intricate dance of proximity and restraint with great caution, always wary of crossing lines best left untraveled.

Close enough to protect. Far enough to starve.

At the graveyard, Gabriel fixates on Sam's every move, gaze unrelenting—a silent sentinel shadowing the dimming glimmers beneath Sam's stoic exterior. He crunches through a Butterfinger, each bite sharp with anxious energy.

“How’s it goin?” Dean asks, scanning their surroundings, ever vigilant.

Sam doesn’t look up. Crouched at the grave’s edge, he sloshes lighter fluid over brittle bones. “Just… trying to make sure it’s all covered,” he grunts, jiggling the can.

One blink—and calamity strikes.

A ghost materializes—a blur of malevolence and fury locked on Sam’s back.

“Sam, look out!” Dean bellows. Neither of them reach him in time.

The blow lands hard. Sam stumbles forward—his eyes caught momentarily in a glassy haze of shock. “What—?” he starts.

For a breathless instant, Gabriel just stares. Watches the light drain from Sam’s face as he collapses limply into the gaping maw of the grave yawning below.

Then he’s moving. The candy bar hits the dirt, forgotten, panic surging hot in his throat.

“Sam!” he shouts, grace snarling beneath his skin as he dives after him, dragging Sam into his arms. His fingers fumble against the back of Sam's limp head, cradling it, desperately searching for signs of life. The world slows—time stretches thin, taut with dread.

Then he feels it.

Warm, slick, coating his hand, a crimson bloom opening over his palm.

Blood.

He’s an archangel but he can’t breathe. He clutches Sam tighter, presses their foreheads together as instinct overrides restraint and lets go—an unchecked torrent of power cascades into Sam with reckless abandon. Too much—but he can’t stop.

Sam shudders, back arching. Wounds knit closed, vanishing under golden light. Writhing against Gabriel's fervent hold, a strangled sound escapes him—half-cry half-moan.

Gabriel convulses—nerves lighting up in ways they were never meant to as soul meets grace in an electrifying crescendo. Euphoria pools opulently over his wings, and rational thought vanishes, eclipsed by sensation.

Surely, just a little more won’t hurt?

True form towering nearer, he cradles glittering shards and pours himself like water into glass.

It feels glorious.

His wings flare, the world falling away until there is only this—Sam’s soul, bright and open and inviting. Sam bucks fiercely beneath him with a delirious, high-pitched whine as his shards scrape over wings. Gabriel’s claws curl into the dirt. He can feel it—every pulse of arousal and confusion echoing between them like it’s his own.

He should stop. He doesn’t.

Not when Sam feels this good. So intoxicatingly pure Gabriel can taste it.

His mouth waters. His teeth ache.

Leaning down, he drags his lips along Sam’s throat, soft and bare—opens his mouth wide.

A gunshot rings out. The sound snaps through Gabriel’s mind like ice cracking.

Gabriel jerks back like he’s been struck. Sam’s soul—so bright, so unbearably trusting—slips just out of reach. He doesn’t chase it.

“Is Sam okay?!” Dean bellows, tangled in the fight above.

“Gabe?” Sam mewls, barely audible.

The sound—so small, so vulnerable—sends another bolt of heat lancing through Gabriel’s spine.

“What… what was that?” he whispers, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Gabriel opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

What could he possibly say? Sorry I nearly devoured you? Sorry it felt good?

His grace riots. He grits his teeth, choking back the need to finish what he started—to complete the merge, to bind, to claim. Instinct claws against the remnants of reason, begging for release.

Then Sam reaches for his cheek.

Reality slams back in like a fist.

“No,” Gabriel chokes, voice trembling. He rips himself away.

With a snap of his fingers, the bones beneath them vanish in a hiss of ash. The ghost is gone. So is Gabriel.

He flees to the motel bathroom, nerves still humming like the echo of a song he shouldn’t have listened to.

Gripping the edge of the motel sink, his chest heaves as if oxygen alone could burn this hunger out of him. It can’t.

“Mine,” he whispers.

It comes out hoarse. Damning.

A vow. A curse. A confession.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to forget the way Sam felt. The way it felt to be inside him—not carnally, not yet, but deeper.

He hadn’t meant to go that far. To cross that line.

But he had, and Sam had felt good. Too good. Sweet, open, and radiant in a way Gabriel hasn’t tasted since heaven.

“Mine,” he growls again—like repetition will make it true. The sink cracks beneath his grip.

With a breath, he tears a seam in reality and slips into his hidden pocket dimension. A fold of reality where he hides the worst parts of himself.

Shelves stretch endlessly into the void, each holding some token, some sin.

Sam’s shirts. Still warm. Still scented like soap, gunpowder, and something warm he can’t quite name without his grace snarling.

Receipts. Shampoo bottles. Napkins scrawled with sigils in Sam’s handwriting.

He’s a creep. He knows it.

Snatching up an oversized shirt, he presses it to his face. Inhales deep—something ragged and hungry snagging in his throat.

His hand is already moving.

Grace crackles with each drag, base and needy. Every stroke draws out memories: Sam arching in the dirt, Sam’s soul clamoring for more, and so fucking bright it threatens to blind him.

How could he not want to bite? To tear in and fill himself so completely that not even his own father could excise Sam from where he’s lodged in Gabriel’s guts.

Tightening his grip, his thumb swirls with practiced desperation over the head, friction and humiliation stinging raw pleasure straight up his spine. The shirt softens between his teeth like skin might.

Pulling it taut, he imagines it’s Sam’s hair twisted around his fist, imagines it’s Sam’s lips—hell, it doesn’t even matter, he could conjure a replica and he’d still know the difference. It has to be real.

It has to be Sam.

He pumps faster, panting through echoes of Sam’s ecstasy as his teeth tear holes in fabric. It’s so close to the surface—so pure, the distilled memory of Sam convulsing in his arms. He can feel the punch of Sam’s pulse even now, heat of him imprinted on Gabriel’s palms. Thinks of the way Sam’s voice caught, the whimper that’s going to haunt Gabriel to the end of existence.

Jerking himself harder, hips snapping into the hollow of his fist, he chases that sick, radiant thrill of merging—of obliterating himself inside someone else’s need.

Rutting into his own palm, his hip bones grind hard against the cold edge of the sink. Damp cotton muffles his groan as he comes, shaking with the violence of it. The shirt drinks it all in—heat, wet, the unspeakable mess of his longing.

He bites down on the collar, teeth gouging through faded fabric, and rides the pulse of filthy, shameful relief as it leaks out of him, painting his hand and the front of his jeans.

Collapsing against the vanity, laughter spills, hot enough to scald.

He could snap himself pristine and untouched, banish every trace of need. But he doesn’t. Some part of him wants to crawl back to Sam reeking of his want.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, breathless. “Fucking pathetic.”

Wiping himself off on Sam’s ruined shirt, he tucks it back outside of reality.

The door's hesitant creak announces the arrival of dawn, casting slivers of tentative daylight across the motel room. Slats of gold stutter across the worn motel carpet—but Gabriel doesn’t move.

His hands rest in his lap, fingers interlaced, posture immaculate but wrong. Not a strand of honey-brown hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in his clothes. And yet he looks ruined. Hunched in on himself. Eyes distant. The air around him tastes like grief and burnt sugar.

Sam’s essence still lingers in his grace—clings like a ghost. Gabriel hasn’t purged it. Doesn’t want to.

The door clicks softly shut.

Boots scuff across the carpet, cautious. Gabriel doesn’t need to look to know it’s Sam crossing into the fraught space.

The silence builds, stretches. Gabriel braces.

“What the hell happened out there?” Sam asks at last. His voice isn’t angry. Just lost.

Gabriel stares straight ahead. How is he supposed to explain that he tasted Sam’s essence and wanted more, more until there’d be nothing left of the man except what Gabriel secreted away inside himself? Wanted to keep it. All of it.

He opens his mouth, but the words dry up and die on the tip of his tongue.

“You dumped something into me and I—Gabriel, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. It felt…” Sam falters, cheeks coloring. “Weird.”

Gabriel flinches. “I know.”

“You know?” Sam echoes, soft and stunned.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam blinks, confused. Hurt flickers in the quiet way his brow knits.

“You’ve been avoiding me for days,” he says, more tired than accusatory. “Won’t talk to me. Won’t even look at me.” There’s an ache beneath his words—a longing for clarity. “And now you’re—you’re apologizing for what, exactly? Healing me too hard?”

“Yes,” Gabriel says quietly. That, and pressing so deep into your soul that I almost didn’t let go. Trampling sacred boundaries just to knead pleasure out of it so he could get off. “I didn’t mean to, I just—overdid it. I crossed a line.”

He waits for anger. Disgust. A slap, maybe.

But Sam just stands there, expression unreadable, one hand drifting up to push through his hair. “You’ve been crossing lines since you showed up. What’s different now?”

Gabriel swallows hard. Shame chokes the truth down.

Sam’s face tightens, drops. “Did I do something wrong?”

Gabriel sputters at him—startled, horrified. He wants to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for sins Sam doesn’t even know were committed.

“No. Never. Sam…” His voice cracks, then steadies, swearing. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sam studies him for a long moment. His frustration cools into something sad.

“Then why act like this?” he asks, voice soft, not demanding explanations but seeking understanding. “I miss what we had.”

Gabriel’s heart cracks, the ache blooming wide and ruinous in his chest. He misses it too, so much it hollows him—but if he says that, if he lets Sam believe there's still space between them to fill…

“I miss you,” Sam reiterates gently, as though saying it once wasn’t enough.

It’s a balm and a blade. Gabriel doesn't dare respond. If he says he misses Sam too, the space between them will collapse—and Gabriel can’t be trusted with it.

So he says nothing.

Sam absorbs the silence like a bruise. His jaw sets as he turns away, crosses to the other bed.

He drops his bag with a quiet thump. Sits down. Opens his laptop like nothing happened. Like Gabriel isn’t still trying not to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness Sam doesn’t even realize is owed.

Gabriel doesn’t move.

The silence returns—but it’s different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just thick. Awkward.

He keeps staring. Sam doesn’t look back.

~~~~~~

Dean strides in, boisterously—his presence crashing into the room like sunlight through unwanted curtains: loud, unapologetic, impossible to ignore. The door slams shut with a decisive thud, his hands juggling a precarious stack of takeout boxes, wearing the kind of forced grin that insists everything’s fine—whether it is or not.

“Alright, celebratory artery-clogging breakfast coming right up,” he crows, as if greasy food could fix everything.

The room sags beneath the weight of his forced cheer.

Gabriel doesn’t turn. Just stands at the window, arms crossed, wings tight in dimensions no one else can see. His grace writhes within him, akin to a beast thrashing against iron bars, demanding satisfaction he dare not give.

Gabriel’s voice cuts through the brittle cheer like a blade—sharp, involuntary.

“Sure. Why not? Sam nearly died, and I’m having an existential crisis. But hey—let’s have pancakes and then maybe we can form a lil’ circle of denial and sing Kumbaya.”

Dean rolls his eyes, unfazed by the angel’s barbed humor. “Sure, but you’re the one playing the acoustic guitar, smartass,” he fires back without missing a beat.

Wrappers crinkle. Sam moves slowly, arranging his food, acting like everything is normal. Dean shovels fries. Sam picks at his plate, like he doesn’t notice Gabriel boring a hole into his cheek.

He’s lost weight. Too much. He needs to eat.

In between mouthfuls of grease-laden fries, Dean broaches a subject hanging over them like an ominous cloud ready to burst. “So. Now we can go after the big bad himself.”

“Loki,” Sam supplies quietly. The name lands in Gabriel’s gut like lead.

It still tastes like betrayal.

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asks expectantly.

Gabriel shrugs again—tighter this time, but trying for levity, “Dunno, Sammy. Maybe we leave a Yelp review. ‘Would not recommend—jokes were lacking, murder was average.’ Might draw him out.”

Dean snorts. Sam doesn’t.

They eat. Kind of. Dean does—devouring his meal with mindless efficiency. Sam just nudges his pile, like he’s afraid it might bite.

Sammy hates this greasy crap. With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel changes it to oatmeal and a selection of Sam’s favorite fruit.

Sam’s eyes snap to him, surprised—hopeful. Gabriel pretends he doesn’t notice.

The silence stretches like a held breath.

Something has to give.

But not yet.

Killing Asmodeus had been a symphony of rage and retribution. The bastard’s end had sung in celestial harmonies—discordant, fierce, righteous. It left Gabriel feeling, if not clean, then at least slightly less soiled.

But the gaping wounds in his heart kept bleeding.

Because Asmodeus wasn’t the one who mattered. Not really.

The real betrayal still lingered—breathing, laughing, sneering in the dark.

Loki.

Unfinished business never sat well with Gabriel, so he’d moved on. One target to the next. Purging Loki’s spawn from the world wasn’t vengeance—it was pest control. That’s what he told himself anyway. A final, thorough cleansing of the infestation Loki left behind. Every kill a hollow echo of justice.

But it never tasted as sweet as he hoped.

Because Loki was supposed to be different.

Loki had been his friend.

Worse—his only real friend.

Back in the long, slow dark after Gabriel fled Heaven—self-exiled, disillusioned, furious—he’d stumbled into the Norse trickster and seen, instantly, a kindred spirit. Another stray with a broken home and an excellent taste in humor.

They’d become partners. Co-conspirators. Brothers in everything but blood.

It was Loki who taught Gabriel the finer points of human deception. The subtle joys of a long con, the poetry of irony. They’d spent years one-upping each other across the globe. Their games were ruthless, escalating, absurd—mortals reduced to pawns, gods and monsters alike played like chess.

The only meaningful competition was who could make the other laugh first.

There were moments, fleeting and quiet, when Gabriel had almost been happy. Or something close enough to pass. Laughing under borrowed stars. Swapping secrets. Comparing notes on disappointing fathers.

He’d felt less hollow.

So when the time finally comes—when Gabriel stands before Loki not as a co-conspirator, but as an executioner—it feels like gutting his own reflection.

Because Loki knows him.

Every trick. Every tell. Every vulnerable seam in Gabriel’s armor he thought he’d hidden.

They’ve danced this dance before. Swapping faces, pulling stunts, bleeding chaos into the seams of the world. But it had always been a game. The stakes were always artificial. Their chaos a contest of cleverness, not blood.

Until now.

Now every blow is bitter. Every strike reminds Gabriel of the trust he once had. Every dodge, every swing, carried the taste of rust and regret. It takes everything—every scrap of resolve, every broken piece of his grace—to finally pin Loki to the wall.

It's grim. Ugly. Nothing like the theatrical deaths Gabriel used to stage with dramatic irony and flair. There is no catharsis. No punchline. Just the choking finality of a bond shattered beyond repair.

The decisive moment comes—and Gabriel hesitates.

Fury falters. Doubt creeps in.

The ghosts of shared laughter whisper through his mind like smoke. He sees their old tricks, their old smiles, the warmth before the rot.

And Loki sees it too.

“You’re a joke,” Loki spits, eyes gleaming with venom. “A failure. You live for pleasure, stand for nothing. And in the end? That’s exactly what you’ll die for.”

The words slide between his ribs like a blade. He wants to deny it. Wants to laugh it off—but the truth, when wielded right, always cuts deeper than lies—and he’s terrified Loki might be right.

He’s spent his existence running.

Slipping between disguises, burying himself in borrowed names and Saturday morning punchlines. Sitcoms were easier than silence. Laugh tracks louder than guilt. He wrapped himself in irreverence like armor and called it freedom.

Even now, part of him itches to vanish. To fold back into some cozy illusion and let someone else do the hard work. Let someone else be brave.

But then—

Sam steps into his periphery.

Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t demand. He just stands there—solid, unshaken, calm belief gleaming like sunlight through fog.

Sam is here—for him. Despite everything. Because Sam believes that he can be more. That he can change.

Gabriel doesn’t deserve that faith.

But he can answer it.

Prove that he is more than Loki's accusations.

He straightens, breath steadying. The doubt dims—overpowered by the simple, staggering truth that someone still believes in him.

Gabriel meets Loki’s eyes with renewed conviction, driven by the burning desire to rise to those expectations.

“You first,” he spits.

And drives the sword home.

It’s over.

The silence that follows is jarring. The world a little too still.

Gabriel staggers—not from the fight, but from grief, rising like bitter smoke in his throat.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Real.

Sam.

He allows it. Just once.

“You good?”

Gabriel swallows hard, blinking past the ache in his chest.

Nods once, burning steadily under Sam’s touch.

Chapter Text

When they get back to the bunker, Dean pauses at the threshold, door half-cracked. He glances between Sam’s hunched shoulders and Gabriel’s casual distance and squints suspiciously.

“Didn’t you get your mojo back? The hell are you still doing here?”

Gabriel stills for a half-second, expression unreadable—then lights up like Dean’s tossed him a script he’s been rehearsing for weeks.

“Well, so glad you asked, Dean-o,” he says with a theatrical sigh. “You see, I might have gotten some charge back, but not all of it, and hoo boy, I am exhausted. Reknitting the frayed edges of my wings? Not exactly a walk in the park. Gonna need familiar spaces, scalding showers, unrestricted Pop-Tart access—some TLC. You understand,” he adds, hip-checking Dean on his way past.

Dean sputters, glaring at Sam for some kind of veto or backup. Sam just sighs, pats Dean’s shoulder, and watches Gabriel swagger down the stairs.

Just like that, Gabriel officially moves in.

Because from the moment he touched Sam—he knew he could never leave.

He claims one of the deeper, colder corners of the bunker—where the walls don’t echo quite so badly with the phantom memory of Sam’s touch.

Dean reacts loudly.

He stomps around like it personally offends him that Gabriel still exists. Sneers every time Gabriel leaves a cabinet open.

“You know what they call someone who eats our food, and uses all the hot water without paying rent? A freeloader,” he gripes.

Post-It notes sprout like weeds around the bunker:

TAKE OUT THE TRASH.

DO NOT DRINK ALL THE SYRUP.

CLEAN YOUR STUPID MUGS.

STOP TURNING RANDOM CLOSETS INTO PORTALS TO NARNIA.

Gabriel doesn’t dignify them with a response. He enchants the garbage cans to self-empty, the dishes to auto-wash, leaves the Narnia portal alone—this time, and the real cherry on top—sneaks Dean a black card with no limit and a sticky note that reads: Daddy Warbucks sends his regards.

Dean doesn’t leave another note after that.

But one morning, the pantry has mysteriously been reorganized—Gabriel’s usual snacks now mid-shelf, front row.

Just where he likes them.

Unlike Dean, Castiel—the only one who can see Gabriel’s traitorous wings—simply frowns. Watches him like the wounded soldier he is—hoping for reinforcements that might turn out to be a firing squad.

“You’re acting… differently,” Castiel says, tone edged with suspicion. "You haven’t spoken to Sam in days."

Gabriel sneers. “Yeah, well, that’s not really your business is it?”

“The Winchesters are all of my business,” Castiel assures him with those stupid air quotes he does, “Especially when you’re circling one of them so aggressively. You’ve fixated on Sam—more so than when you were a shriveled husk. Why?”

"Because he’s got more light in him than anything else in this pitiful universe," Gabriel snaps. Unprepared for the truth to land in the open air, he turns away. “So you can relax, bro. I’m practically housebroken.” He flashes a grin-one with no warmth-because he doesn’t have a good answer for what the hell he’s doing. Knows he’s fucking everything up.

“Now back off.”

Castiel doesn’t press the issue. But Gabriel can still feel all those many judging eyes trailing behind him long after he leaves.

There’s something fading in Sam.

Gabriel watches it happen day by day—his soul quieting. Not dimming, not corrupted—just… folding in on itself. Every step Gabriel takes away from him makes it worse.

But he can’t return to what they had.

Won’t.

Getting his wings back made one thing viscerally clear: he is dangerous now.

Not a burnt-out flicker clinging to Sam like a barnacle—but a fully restored archangel with limitless power.

Now enmeshed with a dangerous obsession.

He could do anything.

There isn’t a being in existence—besides dear ol’ Dad—who could stop him from taking what he wants now.

And that terrifies him.

Because if Gabriel slips—if he lets go, even once—

Sam is screwed.

In every possible sense.

And that horrifies him.

So he keeps away. Pretends they’re strangers again. As if all the nights pressed close—grace tangled in soul, skin to skin—never happened.

But beneath the façade, something has shifted. There's a newfound stillness, a sharpened edge, fueled by a craving for completion that’s only grown since he got a real taste of Sam’s soul.

Sam doesn’t question a thing.

Doesn’t ask why Gabriel won't sleep in the same room anymore, or demand an explanation for the distance that grows like rot beneath the floorboards—

He just… absorbs it.

Like he’s bracing for the inevitable. Like this isn’t the first time someone he cared about has pulled away.

Gabriel can’t go back to what they had.
But that doesn’t stop the need to care for Sam.
So instead he leaves things behind—small offerings. Sam’s favorite pen reappears. Bottles of the expensive shampoo replace the cheap stuff. Fresh coffee beans, Sam’s favorite sit top shelf, always restocked.

Breadcrumbs.

Meant to soothe. But they only seem to make things worse.

Because Sam looks at them like he’s waiting for something more. For their old routines to snap back into place.

And when they don’t... he folds in on himself.

He knows Sam needs him, that he’s hurting—he also knows the avoidance is necessary.

Desire doesn’t bow to logic.

Night after night, his feet betray him. He ends up outside Sam’s door, caught in his own self imposed exile, listening to the rustle of pages, the murmured marginalia.

Wonders what would happen if he just knocked. Walked in, and admitted that he can’t stop thinking about the way Sam’s hair curls in the bath.

He doesn’t—because that would be creepy.

But the truth is, he started not caring two nights ago after listening to Sam screaming through the walls.

Which is what lead to him standing here, waiting until Sam’s breathing slows—

Mapping every breath. Every shift.

Memorizing which hours Sam’s most vulnerable to nightmares so he can suppress them before they can snare.

He can’t go in.
So he watches over him from the shadows instead.

Sometimes Gabriel sits in the library, pretending to read a battered comic book while actually observing every micro-expression on Sam’s face from behind the cover.

Other days he lurks in the kitchen, using grace to expand and rearrange the inner contents of the refrigerator so that Sam’s favorites are always at eye-level.

He’s noticed that Sam likes to alphabetize the spice rack. It’s a pointless compulsion, given that Dean routinely destroys the system during meal prep, but Sam spends every Sunday evening restoring order with quiet determination.

Gabriel initially mocks this, thinking it’s cute. The next week, he organizes the rack before Sam can get there—just to see if Sam notices.

He does. There’s no comment, just a phantom smile and a sidelong glance that lingers in the air long after Sam has left the room.

Gabriel tells himself it’s just instinct.

That Sam needs the brush of his grace to keep his soul from deteriorating further. That he owes Sam—for saving him, for stopping Michael and Lucifer, for standing beside him against Loki, for every quiet moment spent nursing him through catatonia.

But the more Gabriel tries to rationalize it, the more absurd it becomes.

Knowing it’s ridiculous doesn’t stop it.

If anything, it only makes the hunger worse.

Gabriel’s grace, no longer dormant, seethes—thrashing inside his vessel like a caged bird desperate for flight.

He trails Sam down hallways, brushing close enough to let it slip through—just a brush, just enough to give Sam's soul a boost. Every bone in his vessel strains with the denial it takes not to reach for him. Any time Sam walks past without touching him, it feels like a scream trapped behind his teeth.

He knows it’s dangerous.

He can already feel the shift—knows that each small interaction only accelerates his descent.

But he won’t stop.

So he stays near. Hovers. Tethered by obsession, starved by restraint.

Unwilling—and utterly unable—to step away.

He tells himself he’s protecting Sam.

But somewhere along the line, that stopped being true.
And he wonders when.

When care blurred into possession masquerading as reverence.

When the ache grew so vast it began to warp the very shape of his grace.

He’d snuff out every star just to bask—for even a moment longer—in the warmth of Sam’s smile.

To smooth the faint lines around Sam’s weary eyes. Feel the calloused texture of his hands, the gentle, meticulous manner in which he touches everything—

The way he'd once touched Gabriel.

For the first time in his immortal life, Gabriel understands what it means to be afraid…

of getting exactly what you want.

In the dusky lull between dinner and yet another looming existential crisis, Gabriel wanders the bunker’s endless corridors, mentally rehearsing a sarcastic monologue for Dean’s benefit, when he nearly collides with Sam outside the laundry room.

There they stand—mere inches apart—ensnared in that familiar, awkward gravity that persists between them. For a moment, neither moves. Silence stretches between them, brittle and charged.

Sam’s face is carefully neutral, but his eyes betray him—a flicker of something soft and seeking that Gabriel catches before it vanishes behind new walls.

“You following me?” Sam teases, hesitant but warm, like he’s coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. Steady. Grounding. A comfort Gabriel misses more than he’ll ever admit.

He’s an idiot.

“Right,” Sam murmurs after a beat, stepping closer into the narrow stretch between them. “Small bunker.” Casual words—but his tone holds something deeper. An opening. An invitation for honesty if only Gabriel would take it.

Gabriel curses himself. A fool tangled in his own web of fear and longing.

Sam studies him from beneath lowered lashes.

“You look tired,” Sam observes. Concern laces his words with unmistakable tenderness. “Thought you couldn’t get tired anymore?”

Gabriel forces a smirk. Keeps the mask in place. “I look devastatingly handsome,” he quips, though the bravado rings hollow even to his own ears. “Thank you very much.”

Sam doesn’t laugh.

He meets Gabriel’s eyes instead—unflinching, candid. “I know you’re not okay.”

Gabriel stills.

“You want to keep pretending, fine,” Sam continues with quiet conviction. “But I’m not blind. You’ve been avoiding me. Not even creatively—just… dodging.”

Gabriel opens his mouth—denial on the tip of his tongue—but it withers under Sam’s gaze. Deep and searching, they pin him like a butterfly behind glass. Vulnerable. Trapped.

“I haven’t—” he starts weakly.

“You have,” Sam counters, cutting him off, not cruel, not angry—just heartbreakingly steady. “And I don’t get it. I thought…”

His gaze drops.

"I thought we were getting somewhere.”

Somewhere.

Dad help him-what kind of somewhere?

The hunger in Gabriel stirs. A beast pacing behind his ribs. Furious that Sam’s dangling hope so close—so recklessly within reach when he’ll never truly understand the scope of what he’s offering.

He can’t just say shit like that to Gabriel. Not anymore—not when every boundary feels frayed, ready to snap.

“Sam,” Gabriel breathes, helpless, reaching for words that slip through his fingers like sand. “You were there. You felt what happened. I crossed a line I should never have—”

“You saved my life.” Sam's response is immediate and unyielding—the understanding woven into his voice forming quicksand beneath Gabriel’s feet.

“I lost control," Gabriel counters shakily. The admission tastes bitter, though necessary.

“I trust you.”

The words land like a slap. Gabriel flinches.

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair, which catches glimmers of light in subtle waves. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m not trying to corner you or start a fight. I just… miss you.”

Gabriel’s gaze flicks away reflexively, an instinctive defense mechanism born from millennia of evasion.

“You don’t really miss me,” he shakily deflects. "You miss when I needed you.” His voice is casual, almost dismissive, a mask of nonchalance that doesn’t quite cover the vulnerability lurking beneath.

Sam’s face tightens, hurt—but he doesn’t yield.

“I miss all of it,” he insists. Confession barely more than breath.

“Even… the hard stuff?” Gabriel manages quietly, testing the limits of Sam's resolve. The question hangs heavy between them, laden with memories.

“Especially then. The you I saw when everything else was stripped away.” Sam insists.

For a long, aching moment, Gabriel says nothing, caught in the riptide of conflicting desires.

“You shouldn’t.” he admits, raw and jagged in its delivery.

Sam stills at the words—an unforeseen obstacle halting his hopeful advance.

Gabriel doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, his focus drifts to some indistinct point beyond Sam's shoulder.

“I can’t be what you need,” he adds with a somberness that sinks into the very air around them. “I’m not safe. I’m not stable. I’m not—”

He chokes on the last word.

“—available?” Sam supplies gently. But there’s something steely underneath.

Gabriel’s eyes snap back to his. Wide. Wounded. Terrified.

Sam watches him—just for a moment. Watches the freeze. The fight-or-flight at the edge of something vast and real.

And when it becomes clear Gabriel won’t move, won’t speak, won’t reach—

Sam steps back.

Slow. Measured. Like he’s offering one final chance to close the distance before it disappears entirely.

One step.

Then another.

Until the bridge between them collapses from the strain.

His jaw clenches

“No.” His tone is quiet yet steady—a statement rather than accusation or plea. “You’re just scared.”

He turns—firm, but not cruel. “If this is as far as we can go that’s fine Gabriel. Just don’t expect me to keep waiting.”

He walks away.

Doesn’t glance back.

Just leaves.

Gabriel stays frozen.

Long after Sam’s footsteps fade down the corridor, long after the silence curls in around him like a vice.

He doesn’t move.

Not when the cold from the bunker floor starts to leech into his borrowed skin.

Not when the lights flicker once in protest, or when the thrum of Sam’s soul finally vanishes around the bend.

Because if he moves now—if he so much as breathes—he might chase after him.

Might confess everything.

Might ruin them both.

So he stands in that hallway like a monument to cowardice, replaying every word. Every flicker of hope Sam had laid so gently at his feet. And how he hadn’t just failed to pick it up—he’d backed away like it was a bomb about to go off.

You’re just scared, Sam had said.

He was right.

Gabriel is terrified—of breaking Sam.
Of reaching too far, too fast, and watching Sam fade under the weight of his want.
Because Gabriel has tasted it now. What it means to be known. To be trusted. Touched.

Loved, maybe.

And now it’s gone because he’d let it walk off.

So he stands there, hands clenched at his sides, aching with the kind of silence that lives only in the aftermath of something precious slipping through your fingers.

He could call after him.

Could fix this by dragging the words out of his throat to lay them bare.

But he doesn't. Because wanting Sam was one thing. Keeping him… that would require surrendering to every monstrous instinct he’s barely keeping at bay.

So he lets him go.

And stands in the quiet, surrounded by all the things he never said.

Chapter Text

And then something shifts—

Like the first tremor before an earthquake—small, but undeniable. A subtle distortion in the air. A tension not yet named, but heavy with consequence.

It starts with Castiel.

The angel—once so single-minded in his devotion to Dean—begins altering his course. His steady, solemn presence no longer drifts behind the elder Winchester—no. Now, he’s recharting his trajectory. Placing himself in a space that once belonged to Gabriel and Sam alone.

At first, it’s just little things. Castiel choosing to sit beside Sam in the war room instead of across from him. Following Sam when he leaves a conversation, under the pretense of ‘continued discussion.’ Bringing Sam tea, of all things.

Gabriel almost laughs—but the humor curdles before it can bubble up. Because this isn’t just some awkward attempt at friendship—there's a blatant intensity to Castiel's actions.

He’s moved into spaces Gabriel used to occupy. As if daring someone to push him out—knowing Gabriel won’t.

Gabriel watches, grace vibrating discordantly, as Castiel reaches out to steady Sam during a stumble over a loose rug. His presumptuous hand finds its way to Sam’s back—like it belongs there. Closer than he deserves. Closer than he has any right to be. His face stays neutral—stoic in that infuriatingly Castiel way—but Gabriel sees it. The faint flare of affection.

It’s infuriating.

And Sam lets it happen.

That’s what really drives the knife in.

The worst part is, Gabriel recognizes the symptoms. He’s seen this before—in the early days, just after he arrived. There’s an ease about Sam when Castiel is near—a softening of edges that Gabriel had started to believe only existed in their space.

Sam doesn’t flinch or shy away. He just offers a small, grateful smile, and continues talking as if nothing happened—as if the gesture is normal.

They’re forming a neat little ecosystem—self-sustaining, closed-loop, perfectly calibrated to exclude a third party.

Gabriel tells himself he doesn’t care. That whatever itch burns beneath his skin from watching Castiel’s eyes linger too long over the curve of Sam’s spine—the way those dumb bedraggled wings nudge closer every day—is nothing but old habits dying hard.

But the thing about angelic feelings—particularly the oldest one’s, like archangels—is that once in motion, they don’t just ‘die down.’

They sharpen.

Sam smiles. Laughs—a soft, rare sound. Voice lowering to a hushed murmur, like something sacred is blooming in the quiet spaces between them—something that was almost his.

It’s like witnessing a meteor strike in slow motion.

You know it’s coming—that nothing will be spared, and everything you love will be annihilated.

There’s nothing you can do—yet you can’t look away.

Nowhere is safe, and the destruction is total.

Gabriel is back at full strength—and yet, somehow, he still reels from the shockwave. It rattles through him, sparking the bitter impulse to seize what’s his before a certain someone else dares claim it.

And that’s the thing—the who matters.

It’s not that Gabriel begrudges Sam happiness. He doesn’t. He wants that for him—he always has. No, this… this is about balance. About the natural order of things. About the laws and rules reality is supposed to adhere to.

And Castiel is breaking all of them.

That seraph—he’s in the top ten beings who should never be allowed within lightyears of Sam Winchester. Because when it comes to fucking Sam over, he actually outranks Gabriel himself.

Except the universe, as usual, is off-script and this time it’s Gabriel’s fault.

He’d pushed Sam away. Deliberately. Resolved to take a step back for Sam’s sake. And maybe—if it’d been any other jackass circling in—maybe he could have stomached it.

But Castiel?

Why should he get to have what Gabriel doesn’t?

The seraph should have stuck with the other Winchester. Dean and Cas? Sure, makes sense, those idiots deserve one another. Castiel, all limpid blue eyes and terminal awkwardness, had always been Dean’s problem. His brother’s stubborn single-mindedness had even been admirable—until all of that purpose honed itself on making Sam laugh instead.

Now his voice pitches softer in Sam’s direction, less a pronouncement and more an invitation, like he’s rearranging himself just to fit into the space where Gabriel’s been so pointedly excised.

Gabriel fades to the periphery, but his attention never wanes. He counts the growing, unwelcome gestures between them. The way Sam’s voice goes gentle with Castiel, like he’s cradling some fragile thing. There’s an intimacy there—familiar only because it used to belong to him.

And that’s something Gabriel cannot forgive.

The next afternoon, Gabriel finds himself perched on top of the kitchen island, pretending to read the back of a Cheerios box like it contains the secrets of the universe. He keeps his wings tucked tight to minimize their span, but every feather bristles with agitation.

From here he has a perfect line of sight to the library, where Sam and Castiel sit shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over a shared laptop screen. Sam’s hand moves across a yellow legal pad with that absentminded genius Gabriel admires. His hair falls into his face, but instead of brushing it away himself, he lets Castiel reach over and do it for him.

“Can you believe this bullshit?” Gabriel mutters, speaking to the room, but really to no one.

Dean, scraping burnt bits from a cast iron skillet, grunts. “You talking about their nerdathon?” He says brow arched, “You got a problem with them bonding?”

“Course not,” Gabriel fires back, tone acidic. “If Sam wants to test out a flimsier model with a coat in place of a personality, that’s his call.”

Irritated, Gabriel flicks a cheerio into the air with precise spite, watching it skate a perfect arc onto Dean’s knuckles.

“Knock it off,” Dean grouses. “Cas is family and Sam’s a damn grown-up. He can hang out with whoever he wants.”

“Right,” Gabriel says, voice pitched high with disbelieving cheer, “because that’s always worked out so well for him.”

Dean’s expression flickers—clearly reviewing Sam’s shoddy history of trusting the wrong people and agreeing, but not appreciating Gabriel lumping Castiel into that category.

It isn’t just jealousy at play here—it’s cosmic quality control. Someone has to vet the applicants because Samshine’s got atrocious taste. He’s always had a thing for monsters.

Looks like Gabriel finally qualifies.

Castiel? Even more so.

He wants to stand up, wedge himself between them, wrap a wing around Sam, and declare mine in a voice that would strip bedrock.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Gabriel conjures two more boxes of cereal and a gallon of milk, then upends the whole mess into the kitchen sink just to listen to Dean mutter, “The hell is wrong with you?”

What’s wrong is that Gabriel is down to two unthinkable options: walk away, or take Sam for himself.

Gabriel’s never been the selfless type.

And Sam? He’s damned either way.

Damnation’s always more bearable when it’s on your own terms.

It happens on a Thursday.

They’re holed up in the bunker. The world outside continuing as usual, nothing cataclysmic or apocalyptic happening at the moment.

Inside it is a different story.

Gabriel silently seethes watching Castiel lean into Sam, pointing to something on the page as they sort through the dusty case files of the Men of Letters. His lips practically graze Sam’s ear as he mutters.

Gabriel stands in the doorway, rigid, his teeth clenched tight as a coil of tension winds tighter in his chest.

Then it occurs—something small. So stupidly trivial, yet it obliterates Gabriel’s hard-won equilibrium.

Sam lifts his coffee mug to take a sip and winces, hissing sharply. Hand flying up to cover his mouth, he clumsily sets the mug down, spilling some over the edge and scalding his wrist.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he whines, shaking his hand in frantic discomfort, droplets scattering across the table.

Castiel, already at his side, reaches towards Sam’s face.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, leaning in, fingers brushing Sam’s jaw with infuriating delicacy.

In a blink, Gabriel is across the room, shoving his brother’s hands away. Gaze locked on Sam’s swollen lips and the angry pink welt forming on his wrist.

His grace thrums beneath his skin, a current of need and frustration. He wants nothing more than to kiss the pain away from Sam’s lips, to soothe and claim.

Firmly resisting, he heals the wounds in a flash, snapping tersely at Castiel, “He’s fine.”

The seraph's eyes narrow, sharp and piercing. Tension crackles in the air as their wings flare unseen to the human in their midst.

“It’s just some coffee, guys,” Sam says cautiously, blinking up at the two towering angels, confusion and a hint of alarm flickering across his features.

Gabriel says nothing. Just loosens his grip and steps back. His grace screams to drive this interloper away, to stake his claim—make it painfully clear that Sam is his.

But he can't—not while Sam is watching anyway.

Wings flapping with a mix of fury and longing, Gabriel turns and leaves. Bitter. Burning.

Gabriel wants to scream.

Locking himself in his room, he trembles, attempting to reign himself in. Everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. It was one thing to have a crush on Sam—but this?

This is all-consuming.

It's watching Cas touch Sam's back, seeing the reverence in his eyes like he's holy, and imagining tearing his own brother’s wings off.

He’s barely restraining himself from snapping that dimwitted trench coat bastard into another reality. One of the really shitty ones. Like a Hell-Universe. Or that demented one where everyone’s a puppet.

And then—if he felt like being generous—he’d bring Castiel back, beat the ever-loving piss out of him, and warn him never to look at or even think about Sam ever again.

He sinks to the floor pressing both palms to his skull, like he can crush the thoughts out. Never once has he actually considered killing one of his own brothers. Not even Lucifer—who ruined everything he ever cared about—had convinced him that one of his precious family members should die.

But now…?

He knows it’s irrational. Yet he can’t bring himself to care.

Because he doesn’t just want Sam’s soul.

He wants everything.

Every moment. Every breath. Every scrap of warmth and comfort Sam generously shares with everyone else.

Castiel isn’t any more deserving of it than he is.

Considering all the times he abandoned Sam. Especially after he had a nuclear bender on Leviathan juice and shattered the barrier keeping Hell at bay in Sam's mind. Or even the hurtful, cold-blooded names he’s called Sam over the years—abomination, mistake.

Oh, and let’s not overlook the time the brainwashed, feather-brained bastard let Sam out of the panic room and started the apocalypse.

No. Castiel is yet another cog in the same divine machine that delights in chewing Sam up just to spit him out.

But Gabriel is still too late. And that’s the part that kills him the most.

Because Loki was right—he’s a coward. Always has been. Gabriel hadn’t dared to say a damn thing to Sam, while Castiel, with none of his shame or reluctance—did. He should’ve found the courage somehow—just once in his forsaken existence.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be sitting here now, trembling in a locked room, seething with the taste of regret and grace gone sour from watching his brother touch Sam.

Gabriel wants to be the one Sam smiles at. The one he trusts. The one he reaches for.

But Gabriel’s just the loser who realized far too late that he’d rather fight Heaven and Hell both if it meant Sam would look at him the way he’s looking at the seraph.

The way Gabriel looks at him, because he froze. Missed his window.

Now all he can do is watch—while Castiel gets to be with Sam.

Gets to touch him. Look at him tenderly.

Loving him—the way Gabriel should have been.

The envy is eating him alive.

Chapter Text

Sam and Castiel are gone.

They slipped out hours ago—something about supplies and a quick run to the hardware store. Sam could’ve just made a list and sent the seraph off alone. But no—Sam offered, and the bastard masquerading as a trench coat had accepted.

Gabriel is still trying to swallow past the look his brother had shot him on the way out, his stupid obliviously happy face practically screaming, ‘You snooze, you lose.’ He’d even flashed Sam a soft, contented smile—the kind that made Gabriel want to level a star system or three.

He’d watched the bunker door shut behind them, the bolt sliding into place like a death sentence.

“So.” Across the room, Dean kicks his boots up onto the map table and leans back. “Guess it’s just you and me, huh?”

Gabriel doesn’t respond.

Dean glances his way, those somber Disney princess eyes boring into him as he deliberates. Shrugging, he reaches for the bottle of whiskey nearby.

“You drink, right?” he asks, already pouring a shot.

Gabriel’s torn between telling Dean to take a hike—maybe decking his oblivious face—and yanking the bottle away just to say what he’s really thinking.

Sort your own damn love life out so I can have mine.

Instead, Gabriel forces the smirk he’s spent centuries perfecting—crooked, dazzling—like a man used to playing at mortal pleasures.

“Sure. I’m versatile,” he says, voice honey-smooth and a little hollow. He watches Dean for a reaction, but there’s nothing: just that practiced, stone-faced stoicism that passes for emotional equilibrium in this group.

Dean nods like everything's perfectly normal—like they’re just two guys stuck in the same hole—and slides a glass across the table.

Gabriel catches it—amber liquid swirling in the low light—and flicks it into soda with a touch of grace. Pretends they’re drinking the same thing.

Commiserating. Or whatever this is supposed to be. Everybody always just assumes that vessels run on the same basic inputs as humans, but angels don’t metabolize things like they do—he’s not about to sip glorified paint thinner just to pretend they’re bonding.

Dean’s just a clueless ape fumbling at empathy—like their situations are even in the same galaxy.

The main difference being? Dean’s the only reason he and Castiel aren’t together already. Plain and simple. If he’d just pulled his head out of his ass earlier, and confessed his feelings to the seraph, Castiel would already be with him.

Gabriel, on the other hand… hadn’t even realized there was a race to be won—until someone else went and crossed the damn finish line.

He stares down into the carbonated fizz of his glass, teeth grinding. He’s aware of the way Dean’s gaze flickers over to him, then away again, like he’s gauging the mood.

They sit in silence for a while—two idiots pretending they’re fine with being leftovers.

Then Dean drops the pretense, slouching forward, his face etched with frustration.

"Cas used to be there every time I turned around," Dean grumbles, his fingers drumming restlessly on the table. "Now him and Sam are acting weird. Every time I try to hang out, he says he has plans..."

He tosses back a shot of whiskey, the liquid vanishing in one swift motion.

"Feels like my best friend ditched me for someone prettier, smarter, and way less of a mess. You know?"

“Yeeep,” Gabriel replies dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching in bitter amusement as he raises his glass of faux-whiskey and knocks it back.

Oh.

Oh, the irony.

The sad, pathetic, cosmic tragicomedy of it all.

Dean has no clue that the reason Castiel is spending so much time with Sam is because they’re dating.

Because that's what people in a relationship tend to do. 

They spend time together. Alone.

Touching each other in ways that—if Gabriel ever catches Castiel doing to Sam—he’s snapping his neck. Moral quandaries about killing his own brother be damned.

Dean eyes him sideways as he pours another round, bottle glugging softly. “You’ve noticed it too, huh?”

Gabriel downs his soda again. The bubbles sting his throat.

He pretends that’s what’s burning.

Not the jealousy nesting behind his ribs—sharp-toothed, patient, and gnawing through him like it’s got forever to finish the job.

But it’s not just jealousy. There’s something else—tight and needling at the base of his spine, an itch of unease. A restless compulsion to check. To see. To know.

To make sure everything is still PG-rated and not the sort of thing that’ll make him tear reality in half out of spite.

He tries to focus as Dean keeps talking—something about angels, and boundaries, and how they only get them after you've stopped wanting them to—but Gabriel’s barely listening. His patience runs thin. His grace stirs.

With a subtle exhale, he lets it slip loose—just a thread, thin and invisible, unwinding from deep inside him. It coils through the bunker air, quiet and unseen, a warm pulse of celestial intent threading the world, seeking only one thing. Familiar. Luminous.

Sam.

And there he is.

They’re in a hardware store—some dusty little place packed with paint swatches, lightbulbs, drawer knobs. Sam is crouched beside a shelf, holding up two nearly identical sets of hinges. Castiel stands beside him, arms crossed, brow furrowed like it’s some kind of tactical decision.

They’re not touching. Not kissing. Not doing anything obscene.

But Sam’s laughing, smile bright, relaxed—the kind of look Gabriel hasn’t seen on him in weeks.

And Castiel—that traitor—is watching him with soft eyes and the barest tilt of a smile, like Sam personally invented joy.

They could be talking about drawer alignment. Screw threads. Whatever boring nonsense people pretend to care about when they’re definitely out together for reasons that aren’t drawers.

But Gabriel knows better.

They’re probably also talking about how their dicks are going to touch tonight—

No.

No, Sammykins needs romancing. He'll wait a few weeks, at least, before he lets that bastard lay a finger on him. Not that Castiel will have the first clue what to do with him anyway. The guy’s had, what, two and a half girlfriends? Tops? Sam’s probably going to have to teach him. Which means a lot of close, intimate touches… and kissing… and cuddling… and—

Gabriel jerks in his seat as Castiel steps closer, casually brushing his fingers along Sam’s shoulder like it’s nothing.

Like he has any damn right.

The bubbles in his glass stop fizzing. They start to boil.

He doesn’t even realize his grace is flaring until Dean shifts beside him.

“Dude,” Dean says, eyeing him with a wariness usually reserved for rabid wildlife and monsters. “You good?”

Gabriel blinks. The soda settles. Cools.

He glances down—and sees hairline fractures snaking across the surface.

Muttering a curse, he relaxes his hold. The cracks vanish, mended in a flicker that’s more habit than conscious effort. He does little to hide the slip, doesn’t really care if Dean notices. He’s worked with worse audiences.

“Absolutely,” Gabriel says, buoying up a smirk so insubstantial it barely survives the trip across his face. “I’m totally fine.”

Dean’s eyebrows arch suspiciously, then crumple down to a scowl.

“Riiight…” He drawls it out, slow and insinuating. “You sure you’re not upset Sammy ditched you? ‘Cause you’ve got a full-on poop face thing going on.”

Gabriel groans, setting the glass down—maybe a little harder than necessary.

“Seriously, Dean-o?” Stretching, he pops every vertebra in his vessel with a melodramatic arch, and adds, “Let’s not pretend, okay? You and me? We’re not about to braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings. Chick-flick moments make my skin crawl only a little less than they do yours.”

Dean grimaces but continues, voice level, “I’m just saying, man. Ever since you came back, you’ve been giving Sam these weird sad googly eyes—like you're a sixth grader who lost the seat next to his crush. It's kinda gross.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to retort, but Dean’s not done. He pauses, leans in, and narrows his gaze.

“Wait. Are you actually—jealous?”

Gabriel almost laughs, a sharp, involuntary bark, but then he feels heat crawl up the back of his neck. Burning eyes lance over to Dean, flaring. The shadows stretch long behind them.

Dean recoils slightly but doesn’t back down—if anything, the son of a bitch squares his jaw and leans in closer like he’s about to perform some kind of emotional exorcism.

“What? You like him, right? Just tell him, man. It’s not like he’s with anyone—although I dunno if Sammy’s even into dudes.”

Gabriel just stares.

Weighs the value of silence... against the far greater appeal of arson.

It would be so easy. Just a little cosmic nudge here, an Earth-shattering kaboom there, and no more probing questions, or ‘helpful suggestions’.

But then Sam would be sad.

Sam, who he hasn’t confessed to because he doesn’t deserve to—and it’s painfully obvious to everyone but this dimwitted hunter that his brother is far too good for him.

Hell, Gabriel doesn’t think anyone’s worthy of Sam—or his ridiculously self-sacrificing heart. Not even dear old Dad—and the guy made him.

Dean, obstinately, seems to have no intention of letting this drop. “Seriously, man, stop being such a drama queen. If you’re into Sam, go for it. It’s not like you’re going to break him.”

Gabriel almost laughs at that. Not break Sam? That’s rich, considering the Winchester in question is always breaking himself. Over and over, just to keep this stupid world turning, or his brother breathing, or spare the universe from another apocalypse.

Glaring at his soda like it’s the one who brought Sam up in the first place, he tilts his head, lips peeled back in a scowl disguised as a grin.

“Did you ever stop to think, oh fearless one, that maybe it isn’t that simple?” he asks, tone like sugar poured over a bear trap. “That sometimes people don’t want to screw up the one good thing they’ve got left by fumbling through a tragic declaration of feelings?”

Dean blinks, caught off-guard by the bite.

“Sam and I are… complicated,” he mutters, taking another sip to mask the sour twist of guilt in his mouth. “You know our history. Not exactly smooth sailing. Plus Sam’s got plenty of… baggage. Enough for a cruise liner. He doesn’t need me shoving more into his carry-on.”

Understatement of the millennium.

Their paths hadn’t crossed on the smoothest terms. Especially not during the Mystery Spot ordeal—when Sam finally figured it out and tried to stab him. Not that Gabriel blamed him.

That one? Totally on him.

He doesn’t bother revealing more: that if he thought for even a second it’d be welcome, he’d throw himself at Sam in a heartbeat. Sam whose silky hair falls in his eyes when he’s hunched over a book, the delicate lines of worry that bracket his mouth, the way he looks at Gabriel like he isn’t just some cosmic joke Dad made for everyone to laugh at.

Dean snorts, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

“So, what, you’re just gonna sit around and mope? Hate to admit it, but you came through for us in the end. And Sammy—he’s a pretty forgiving guy, especially when it counts. So you’ve got a decent shot.”

Gabriel almost admires the conviction with which Dean argues. Almost. If it weren’t so completely misplaced, he might even be impressed. The hunter rolls his big green eyes like he’s begrudgingly dispensing divine wisdom.

“Pretty dumb of you to let it pass. Thought archangels were supposed to have bigger balls. What are you scared of? That he’s not interested?”

That.

And a thousand other stomach-churning possibilities that Gabriel’s tried very hard not to think about.

He'd laugh, but there’s not much amusement left in him, not after weeks locked up in this bunker, wings pinned under the dead weight of what he’s not allowed to have.

“It’s not about being scared,” Gabriel sneers—and before he can stop himself, venomously reveals, “It’s because he’s already with Castiel—so it doesn’t matter how I feel!”

The words land between them like a live grenade.

Dean goes still. The color draining from his face—it's enough to make even an archangel like him worry he’s given the poor bastard a stroke.

“…Wait—what?”

Gabriel doesn’t answer. Just lifts a hand—snaps his fingers once.

A sharp crack of displaced air conjures physical proof: a glossy supermarket tabloid, the kind that usually claimed Bigfoot lived next door or that Elvis had been reincarnated as a tabby cat.

Dean catches it by reflex, nearly upending his glass in the process. On the cover is a lurid red headline:

CONFIRMED

Complete with a blurry, zoom-lens photo of Sam and Castiel, fingers intertwined, walking out of the hardware store like some kind of Hallmark couple.

Eye’s widening, Dean’s grip tightens until the glass gives with a high, brittle pop. Fragments scatter, glinting briefly before vanishing into the void of the bunker floor. Whiskey sprays across Dean’s hand, stinging little cuts that have blossomed over trembling hands.

Gabriel rolls his eyes at the dramatics, feeling more satisfaction than he probably should. With a sigh and flick of grace, he vanishes the spill, heals the asshole’s palm, and drops a fresh glass in its place.

“Yeah, dick-for-brains,” Gabriel snaps, voice taut. “You didn’t know? Of course not. Coming from the guy who can’t even sort his own crap, it figures you’d dish out the worst, most unwanted advice I’ve ever heard.”

Dean doesn’t move. Gabriel watches, morbidly fascinated, as Dean’s brain short-circuits, blinking over and over, as if the repetition would make the facts go away.

“How about,” Gabriel continues, rising from his chair, wings bristling, “you focus on sorting your own shit out—and let me do the same.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

Just storms out.

Forty-five minutes pass with the speed of a fresh wound clotting over, sticky and incremental.

After dropping the big bombshell, and storming out, Gabriel considered that he may have overreacted to the asshat’s unwanted counselling. He hasn't seen Dean since, but maybe, just maybe, he'll be a liiiiitle bit less of a jerk next time they talk.

In the meantime, he’s been sitting alone in his room, elbows braced on his knees, intently glaring at dust motes drifting through the air. Watching them float, collide, and fall, closer to each other than he’ll ever be to the thing he wants.

They don’t bother rearranging themselves into a solution, merely ignore him with the same indifference as his father who hasn’t called in ten millennia. Gabriel didn’t even get to say hi to the guy when he came back, too busy being tortured at the time.

The air around him snaps like static, frayed and sour with resentment, until it’s interrupted by the heavy steel door of the bunker swinging open with a low, reverberating thud.

The steady cadence of Sam’s footfalls descend down the stairs. It’s a rhythm carved into Gabriel’s memory by now; no one else walks quite so deliberately. He wants to punch the part of himself that recognizes it in the dick. The part that cares too much. The part that’s been waiting impatiently like a damn dog with separation anxiety for the sound of Sam’s return.

Gabriel barely breathes as the steps near. His grace stretches toward the sound, shameless and starved. It wants, and he hates that it wants. It always wants Sam, and it always will. Even when Sam’s not his.

He tells himself to stay put. To play it cool, nurse his wounded pride and let the duo have their domestic moment. Their three minutes in the kitchen divvying up groceries and talking about nothing. But there’s a reflex—a compulsion, even—older than this vessel. He always has to see for himself. Has to know exactly what he’s missing.

And right now Sam is back.

So even though Gabriel wants to remain seated—wants to continue wallowing—his vessel betrays him, rising of its own accord. Like it always does when Sam is nearby.

An irresistible, magnetic pull.

He waits, counting out the seconds it takes them to reach the bottom of the stairs. Then he materializes, leans against the darkened edge of the doorway, hands in pockets, like he’s been there all along.

He arrives just in time to see Sam place a small box onto the map table.

Sam's other arm is loaded with brown grocery bags, biceps straining deliciously under the weight. "Cas, could you put the ice cream away before it melts all over everything?"

Castiel could have easily carried all the bags himself or teleported the food from the car to the kitchen. But Sam, stubborn to a fault, likes process. Sam likes routines. Gabriel’s observed enough by now to know that this is not just a compulsion but a coping mechanism.

None of it is lost on Gabriel. Not a single gesture, pattern, nor tic.

He is an archangel, a celestial singularity, a has-been god masquerading as a man, and he is—at this freshly minted moment—absurdly, humiliatingly jealous of a trench-coated seraph with all the emotional awareness of a toaster.

Just because Castiel gets to stand next to Sam and be the guy who helps carry the bags in.

The seraph offers a silent nod, then moves to follow the directive with precise, unhurried focus. It's so outrageously domestic—that Gabriel wants to throw himself through the nearest wall.

“Hey, Sammich,” he jibes in place of begging, grinning with more teeth than is strictly necessary, “Need a hand? Or you saving all the heavy lifting for your boyfriend?”

The way the word ‘boyfriend’ leaves his mouth makes him want to swallow glass.

Sam’s eyes flit up.

“Hey Gabe!” Sam greets greets him with a soft, unguarded smile—unsurprised—like he’s used to this level of Gabriel haunting him by now.

The sound of Sam’s voice bends the atmosphere; every molecule in his borrowed flesh wants to lean toward it, bask in it, maybe even get drunk on it.

“We stopped by that little French bakery uptown. Got you those raspberry tarts you like. Figured you could use something sweet.” He moves the small box across the table, eyes glittering with expectation.

Gabriel stares at the box. There’s nothing magic about it. No celestial shimmer, no infernal glow, just a neat four-inch square of recycled cardboard. It’s the second most beautiful thing he’s seen in decades.

His heart breaks, all over again, because he remembers, with the clarity of someone who’s been alone a very, very long time, that he did once, offhandedly, say something about the tarts.

Of course Sam would be the one to remember his favorite pastry from a stupid throwaway comment weeks ago. Of course this painfully beautiful, considerate soul would be the one, out of all other beings, to recall the words of the youngest, most overlooked archangel in the heavenly family.

The person no one's bothered to search for in the last millennia, let alone thought about like this. To then go out of his way and spend actual human money, knowing full well that Gabriel can just snap things into existence.

People who know that don't ever get him things. They never have.

Until now.

Gabriel swallows, and his mouth is sand and static, all at once.

He’s—he’s not prepared. Not for the laser of Sam’s attention, nor for the way it short-circuits his usual arsenal of snark and sneer. He tries to summon a witty rejoinder, but all he can muster is a brittle, “What, no fancy gold stickers?”

Sam’s face does something infuriating. He beams-beams at him from his very soul.

“Sorry,” Sam says, and there’s a thread of laughter in it, but no mockery. “They were out. The lady behind the counter said they were fresh from the oven, though.”

Fresh out of the oven. This, apparently, is meant to impress Gabriel, the being who once orchestrated the birth and death of stars. And the worst part is—it does.

“Perfect,” Gabriel croaks, voice too thin. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Sam says, and his eyes do that stupid twinkle thing, sincere and guileless. “You’ve been kind of quiet lately. Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

Gabriel wants to scream, wants to reach across the table and throttle Sam for his relentless, idiotic sweetness he directs to people like him who haven’t done a thing to deserve it. Wants to fall to his knees. To pull the gigantor down and kiss Sam until the memory of Castiel is burned out of his mind, until there’s nothing left but Gabriel’s name echoing through the bunker.

Instead, Gabriel conjures up a smile, but it’s thin and cracked, the too-bright grin of a game show host who knows the grand prize is a kick in the teeth.

“Guess I’m just not the life of the party these days.”

Sam looks at him—really looks at him, as if Gabriel is a person. There’s no pity in it, only warmth.

“Well, this should help,” Sam says, gesturing at the box as if it contains universal salvation and not one overpriced little pastry. “Cas and I are gonna put the rest of the groceries away and then probably crash early. Long day.”

Gabriel nods numbly, not trusting his voice, barely trusting the clumsy, human-shaped body that wants to betray him by reaching for Sam’s wrist, for his shoulder, for a touch he’s not allowed to want.

He watches as Sam walks away, fielding a chorus of Castiel’s inventory questions with the patience of a saint.

He doesn’t move for a long time after they disappear.

He just stands there, locked in stasis at the edge of the map table with the little box sitting just out of reach. He stares at it: the neat fold of the lid, the faint smudge of a thumbprint, a little indentation where Sam pressed too hard.

Fists clenching, he wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he’s even doing here.

It’s too much.

The sweetness. The thoughtfulness. The unbearable fact that Sam had wanted to bring him something so kind.

And then he’d turned to Castiel.

He wants to be angry, to hate Sam for giving him even a millimeter of hope, but instead he just wants. And wants.

He stares at the box until the edges blur, body buzzing with power he can hardly contain. He feels his wings press, stretching outward, grace swelling with all the things he can’t bring himself to say. All the things he’ll never be able to say.

He vanishes in a flash of gold.

The world reassembles around him in a scream of wind and vacuum. He’s halfway across the planet, perched at the summit of a desolate mountain ridge on a dim Northern continent, the sort of place Dad probably started and abandoned in one of his half-hearted phases.

The air is thin, so frigid it might as well be glass. Nothing living for miles.

Perfect.

Snow billows against craggy stone as he howls—a wordless, full-throated fury—and kicks a canyon into the mountainside, the very air shaking around him with celestial power unbound. He pounds his fists into the stone, sending rings of energy down the ridgeline, avalanching millions of years of silence into a single, brief epoch of noise.

He shreds entire slopes off the mountain just for the feel of it, the sensation of something splitting that isn’t himself. It’s messy, violent, pointless.

It’s not enough.

Nothing ever will be, when what he really wants is to finally say, with violence and clarity, is that it’s not fair, it’s not right, it’s supposed to be me… It’s supposed to be me—it’s supposed to be me!

He tries to stop at one point, but there’s nowhere else for this to go. The snow stings his face, freezing to his cheeks and brow, but he doesn’t notice. The wind scours his eyes dry, but he doesn’t care. The world is empty and he fills it only with rage.

He spends an hour—maybe two, maybe less—reducing an entire valley into a mosaic of fresh scars. A record of his presence stamped onto the earth. He wonders if anyone will ever notice, if some future scientist will carve a core sample out of this place and marvel at the inexplicable, one-in-a-billion pattern of rupture and ice.

When the fury at last ebbs, it leaves a crusted residue behind: shame, exhaustion, the familiar mid-level ache of a tantrum thrown too late and for the wrong audience. Gabriel stumbles backward and falls—falls, actually, for the first time in centuries—onto his ass in the soft, obliterated snow.

He pants like a beast, eyes burning, skin gone numb. He can barely catch his breath, though it’s not physical fatigue that hobbles him.

He sits in the ruin of his tantrum and, for a time, stares into the auroral chaos overhead. There is no comfort in the cold, no relief in the silence, just the knowledge that the world is as indifferent as the Host ever was.

For an instant, he’s tempted to remain here, suspended at the edge of the planet where nothing can reach him. But old habits, like cosmic law, are immutable.

Gabriel peels himself off the snowdrift and lets his mind slip through the veil, his awareness snaking down the curvature of the earth, across the leaking boundary between this world and the bunker’s subterranean dark.

Sam is alone in his room, lying on his stomach with a battered paperback balanced in one hand, his back shaped in a gentle arc above the quilted bedspread.

There’s no one else in the room.

For the first time in weeks, Gabriel can’t sense Castiel’s signature anywhere near Sam—no looming shadow, no silent blue glare, no static-tinged brush of grace lingering on the walls. The air around Sam is clean, clear, and Gabriel inhales as if he could take it into himself and keep it there forever.

His abscence is the only reason the trenchcoat bastard survives the night.

Morning hums through the depths of the bunker unnoticed, each overhead bulb flickering on in sequence. The air down here is always a little stale.

Gabriel hasn’t slept. Not that he needs to. But he’s been sitting in the map room all night, still as any relic, locked in a stalemate with the little white box. Staring at the single raspberry tart still resting in it like it’s some kind of holy relic.

It hasn’t been opened. It hasn’t even been moved away from the spot where Sam left it.

He could conjure a perfect copy of this a thousand times over—multiply it to the size of a cruise ship, drown himself in tarts if he wanted. But it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t be this one.

This one came from Sam. Sam who thought about him—for three seconds or thirty—long enough to go out of his way and carry this back with his own hands.

Gabriel’s grace flickers restlessly, coiled tight in his chest. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the corner of the box—but he doesn’t open it. Doesn’t touch the pastry itself. He just sits, fingers tented, and watches the slow creep of time reflected in the glassy shine of the table.

“Hey.”

Gabriel startles.

Sam’s in the doorway, hair rumpled, hoodie slouching temptingly off one muscular shoulder like he just rolled out of bed. He blinks sleepily, eyes flicking to the tart, then back to Gabriel.

“You, uh…” Sam rubs the back of his neck, hoodie sliding even lower with treasonous ease, exposing more of a collarbone that Gabriel cannot stop looking at. There’s vulnerability in the gesture—Sam is such a tall guy but he always looks so small when he’s nervous. “You didn’t eat it?”

“Didn’t feel like it,” Gabriel says, looking at the ancient, battered map under the glass instead of at Sam. He can see Sam’s reflection in the polished surface, a blurry specter with worried brows.

Gabriel watches in real time as Sam’s face cycles through confusion to disappointment to guilt, all in the space of a single heartbeat. “I thought you liked raspberry.”

There’s no accusation in it, just an earnestness that makes Gabriel want to tear the ceiling down in shame.

“I do,” Gabriel says, and his voice cracks on the second word. He pretends not to notice. “I just… wasn’t hungry.”

“Was it stale or something? I know you can make better food but I figured…” He trails off, looking genuinely distressed, and then those damn puppy eyes are on full display, all sad confusion and self-doubt.

He’s too damn cute.

“I just… You know—thought you might like it. You’re always making stuff for us. Felt like maybe I should try to return the favor…” Sam weakly reveals.

Gabriel’s stomach twists.

He can’t lie to Sam. Not really. But he also can’t not lie—not when Sam looks like that, like maybe he did something wrong by being perfect.

So Gabriel waves his hand subtly, casts a minor glamour over the tart. He lifts an illusory bite to his lips, lets the illusion crumble across his tongue and vanish unseen—silent sleight of hand.

The real tart—perfect, untouched—he slips into a dimensional fold behind the veil. In that pocket outside of time, it’s suspended: every detail exquisitely preserved, the glossy jewel of the raspberry, the careless dusting of powdered sugar, the smudge of Sam’s fingerprint on the box.

He will never eat it.

The act of eating was always unnecessary, anyway. Food, for him, is a distraction, an interface to human experience that could be picked up and put down with equal ease. But this is different.

This is a gift. The first one that meant something. And he’ll preserve it forever.

“Mm,” Gabriel hums around the fake bite, eyes closing like it’s divine. “Delicious. You spoil me.”

Sam’s face lights up, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the tension in the room dissolves—not entirely, but enough to allow breathing. His precious hunter has no idea he’s turned Gabriel into a damn dragon, hoarding treasures in the dark.

He leans his hips against the edge of the table, close enough that Gabriel could reach out and touch the freckle on his wrist if he wanted.

He wants.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want,” Sam says, smile easing into something soft and a little shy. “I won’t be offended.”

Gabriel refuses, on a cosmic level, to let the light in Sam gutter out because Gabriel didn’t show enough sincerity.

“No, really, Samshine,” he vehemently insists, hunching over the illusion covetously, “Best thing I’ve had in centuries.” He finishes it off, makes a show of savoring the tart, eyes half-lidded in manufactured ecstasy. He even hums, just to sell the lie, and lets the fake sugar dissolve over his tongue.

He’s rewarded instantly when Sam beams again, soul fragments glowing. Gabriel lets himself smile back—and thinks, for the briefest, most blasphemous second, that he could love Sam Winchester.

Not in the curated, arms-length way he and other angels were made to love the universe, but up close, catastrophic, the way they’re supposed to love God and end up burning themselves out in the process.

Sam leans in, bracing his hands on either side of the map table, arms flexing in a way that draws Gabriel’s attention. The hunter squints at him like he’s trying to solve an equation and is just a variable short. “You, uh, sure you’re alright?” he says, voice gone quiet, earnest. “You seemed… off last night.”

Gabriel feels the question like a pressure change in the room. He knows Sam means it—means all of it, in that infuriatingly guileless way.

“I’m fine, Moose,” he says, and because the truth would shatter them both, he adds, “Just had some grace static to burn off. Sometimes the universe gets a little noisy and I gotta recalibrate. Occupational hazard.”

Sam considers this, lips pressing together as if weighing cosmic malaise against the context of their lives, and somehow finds it reasonable.

“Okay. Just… if you wanna talk. Ever. I am, you know. Here.” He rubs his thumb over the edge of the table, not meeting Gabriel’s gaze, but the offer slices straight through Gabriel’s armor regardless.

He wants so badly to take it, to unspool the knot inside him in the shape of a confession—but the only way to survive is to stay knotted.

So Gabriel arranges his face into a convincing mask of gratitude and says, “I know. Thanks.” He means it, and hopes that’s enough.

Sam stretches a little, hoodie riding up enough to reveal a flash of distracting skin at his hip as he he yawns.

“Well anyway... Glad you liked the treat,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes. “Cas and I are gonna head out again in a bit. There’s a weird set of omens near the county line, stuff not matching up with the usual pattern. It’ll probably be nothing, but… if you want anything else from the outside world, let me know before we split.”

You, Gabriel almost says, the irretrievable truth burning at the back of his throat with a taste like ozone and blood.

“I’m good,” he forces out. “One tart’s enough to get me through any apocalypse.”

Sam quirks a smile, all dimples and teasing exasperation. “I find that hard to believe,” he says. “But okay. We’ll be back by tonight.”

He turns to go, and for a moment Gabriel thinks he’s safe—thinks maybe he'll get to breathe for a second or go scream silently into the void again the moment Sam’s out of earshot.

He has one hour of peace, before the universe decides to twist the knife.

Sam reappears, this time with the seraph trailing behind him. Castiel. Angel of Thursday, and biggest cockblock ever.

“Sam,” Cas says, and there’s that warmth again—that quiet fondness that grates under Gabriel’s skin like a jagged key in the wrong lock.

“Hey,” Sam replies, soul lighting up all over again for someone else.

Castiel reaches out, hand landing with the casual precision of repeated practice on Sam’s forearm, then gliding up to rest on his shoulder. The touch is light, irreverent. Intimate in a way that’s all the more devastating for its ordinariness.

Gabriel’s hands curl around the table’s edge, splinters biting up under his nails. His vision tunnels, every color in the room leached to the sickly blue of Castiel’s grace. He can see it—how the seraph subtly threads his power through the touch, how easily it sinks into Sam’s unsuspecting skin.

The indignant rage bubbling up is not unfamiliar, but it spikes viciously in him as he watches them—the easy choreography of bodies long used to sharing space. Sam doesn’t even startle; he leans into the contact, the way people do when they’ve forgotten what it means to be alone.

Castiel whispers something so low it barely stirs the air, and Sam laughs. Not one of the big ones, but a quieter thing. Embarrassed, maybe, or just shy. Sam reaches up, rakes a hand through his own hair.

And then it happens, the thing Gabriel will replay a trillion times in his mind, the thing that finally detonates whatever restraint he has left: Castiel tucks a stray lock of Sam’s hair behind his ear. Not a declaration, not a dare—just quiet, habitual intimacy, the way one might tidy a cherished artifact, or a lover, and starts to lean in—

The air shifts, bunker lights flickering, temperature dropping as if someone opened a window to the void.

There is a sound like thunder underwater, and then Gabriel is there.

He doesn’t remember seizing Castiel’s wrist. Only the aftermath: his own hand clamped around bone. Pinning him in place with grace pounding through every cell, grinding bones together until hairline cracks weave up through the seraph’s arm.

It’s enough force to paralyze a lesser angel. Maybe even kill, if he isn’t careful. There’s a moment—a microsecond—where nothing happens. Where Castiel simply blinks, owl-eyed, as if unable to compute.

Then the pain registers. Castiel’s face jerks, angelic mask faltering as Gabriel pours enough power into his grip to calcify every nerve up to the elbow. The seraph’s grace ripples in a spectrum of agony visible only to beings like them.

Sam flinches as if struck himself. “Gabriel—!” His voice cracks at the edges, alarmed and pleading.

“Don’t touch him,” Gabriel says—more than a warning. It’s a divine edict. Three sets of wings flare to their fullest: layers of gleaming gold flecked with black fractal patterns darker than the the event horizon of a failed star, shifting in a display meant to incite the fear of God. Each is laced with thousands of eyes—all open, all watching, all wrathful.

Castiel’s own wings respond, some streak of stubborn humanity that the old hierarchy never bred out of them. They are battered—hacked at the edges, ragged threads of blue-black grace—a child’s watercolor next to Gabriel’s Sistine fury, bracing for an onslaught.

They lock their many celestial eyes. Castiel’s blues are frozen in horror like the roadkill he always ends up looking like every time he bites off more than he can chew. He tries to yank his arm away, but Gabriel’s grip is unyielding.

“Release me,” Cas rasps out.

Gabriel leans close, their foreheads almost touching, and intones softly so Sam can’t overhear.

“The next time you touch what’s mine,” Gabriel murmurs, carrying enough charge to rattle the fixtures overhead, “I’m going to rip your wings out at the root.”

Castiel glares, but there’s defeat mingling with the rage. He tries to wrench free, and fails. Only then, with a low, wounded sound, does he relinquish the fight—wings wilting, arm going slack.

“Gabriel,” Sam’s voice cuts through now, quieter but with a steel edge. Sam’s hands are out, palm-up, “You’re hurting him.”

“You think you’re the better choice?” Gabriel snarls, not taking his eyes off Castiel. The seraph’s skin is already mottling beneath Gabriel’s grip, bone and sinew suffused with ultraviolet agony. “You shattered his mind. Left him crawling through the dark—”

He breaks off, shakes his head, lips curling. “You think you get to play boyfriend now because the little angel that couldn’t finally figured out what feelings are?”

Castiel’s affect falters; all the borrowed humanity that coats his vessel like a polite veneer shudders and falls away. He cannot meet Gabriel’s gaze, not with the infinite-eyed fury staring back at him. Instead, Cas stares at the floor, his free hand trembling, the other still captive.

“You know nothing,” Castiel finally grits out, and the words are soft, resigned.

Gabriel ignores the unspoken plea not to be seen and not to have his own shame exposed. He’s had enough of letting his siblings spin their narratives uncontested. He leans close, the grace in his voice now a low, cold wind, even as his body physically pins Cas to the moment.

“You don’t get to touch him like that,” he says. The words come out flat, almost bored, but every syllable is a spike. “You don’t get to smile at him like you earned it. Like you didn’t crack him open a dozen times, then just… what? Superglued him together with sheepish looks and apologies?”

Castiel’s composure fractures. The pain in his wrist goes almost unnoticed as something deeper—shame, or guilt, or even regret—shivers up what’s left of his grace. For a split-second, Gabriel thinks Castiel might break down, that he’ll see the seraph’s face contort into an ugly cry and maybe even beg for mercy.

But no. Castiel just breathes, a shallow, angry inhale, and stands as tall as his mangled arm will allow.

“You don’t understand,” the seraph warns, timbre of his voice a rung lower now, “You are overreacting.”

“Am I?” Gabriel laughs—bitter and breathless. “Because you didn’t see him curled up on his floor last week. You didn’t hear him muttering Enochian in his sleep like he was back in the Cage. But sure, yeah, let’s play Happy Boyfriends and pretend you didn’t screw him over half a dozen times.”

“Gabriel!” Now Sam breaks in, his voice sharp, almost angry.

And that—more than anything—stops him cold.

Chest heaving, Gabriel finally looks at Sam.

His eyes are wide, the pupils blown out with a cocktail of fear and adrenaline, and his mouth is set in a stubborn line. But underneath the defensive posture—underneath all the hunter’s armor and the camouflage of cynicism—Sam’s soul is a raw, battered beacon, pulsing outwards on a desperate frequency.

Flickering.

“I know I’m too late,” he says, raw and unraveling. "I spent centuries running away from everyone’s bullshit, and now the one time I finally came back to stay, it's just in time to watch Castiel steal the one thing left that means anything to me-”

Sam’s face goes blank with shock, lips parted, all the words he might have formed falling away in the grip of the archangel’s confession.

“I love you,” He says, voice crackling—no fanfare, no riddles, nothing but the raw edge of it. “I love you, and I couldn’t even admit it to myself until I saw you let someone else in. I was never even going to compete, Sam, but I sure as hell don’t want to watch you crawl back to one of the few people that ever hurt you as badly as I did.”

There’s a new silence, but this one is swollen with meaning. Castiel is still in the room, but for once even he is a bystander. The only thing that moves is the pulse at Sam’s throat.

“If you want me to believe you meant any of what you just said,” Sam replies, and his voice is both gentle and immovable, “you need to stand down and let Cas go. Right now.”

Gabriel drops the arm at once.

His wings, all six, flicker, then fold away like the petals of a flower curling in the dark.

Castiel peels himself away, clutching his wrist, his usual stoic mask reassembling itself, but Gabriel can see the way his power flickers and stutters, the humiliation etched deep into every micro expression he can’t quite hide. And yet there’s an oddly smug gleam in his stupid eyes for someone who almost became confetti.

Gabriel wants to tear them out.

Cas leaves without a word or even a backward glance, coat flaring unnecessarily as he shoulders his way down the corridor. Every step is a silent fuck you, and Gabriel is tempted to blast him into angelic glitter just on the principle.

Gabriel looks down at his hands, flexes them once. They’re shaking.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Gabriel says, but it doesn’t have the venom it should. He forces himself to look up, into Sam’s eyes, searching for something that might save him.

Sam doesn’t leave him hanging. He steps closer, the careful, tentative way you approach a stray dog, or maybe a landmine. He doesn’t touch Gabriel, not yet. Just stands. And waits.

“And you do?” Sam asks, not angry so much as resigned. “You tortured me. Mocked me. Left me to Lucifer, and the apocalypse, and never once looked back. Ran off and played dead every single time it mattered. So you don’t get to show up now and scream at Cas because you think I didn’t wait for you. Because I’ve been waiting for you to show up and do the right thing.”

Of all the spells and sigils Gabriel has ever seen, nothing has ever immobilized him like those words. He stands, silent, waiting for the final verdict, dreading it.

Sam sighs, then adds, softer, almost apologetic, “But I’m not actually with Cas.”

Gabriel blinks in confusion. The words have entered his ears, but the meaning pinballs evilly around the inside of his skull.

“What?”

Sam rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “It was—” he says, and then aborts, rubs the back of his neck, and tries a different angle. “Look, Dean’s not great at feelings, obviously. He and Cas have had this thing going for ages, but Dean’s so repressed it would take more than another apocalypse to bring them together.”

Another nervous breath. “So, Cas and I—we pretended. To… push him a little. Force him to get real about how he felt.”

There is maybe half a second in which the entire universe, multiverse, and every possible alternate reality, all stop spinning just to allow Gabriel to recalibrate. He has seen empires rise and fall, but this is the first time in ages that someone’s words have reconfigured the axis of his entire existence.

“…What.”

“It was supposed to be a gentle prod,” Sam shrugs, sounding defensive.

Gabriel wants to both throttle and kiss him.

“Cas is not super smooth. Subtlety’s not his department. So, I figured, if we were obvious enough about it, Dean would get jealous, or at the very least admit he cared about Cas.”

The archangel wants to laugh, and he would, except the sound gets snared somewhere between his ribs and his teeth; instead, it surfaces as a strangled little hiccup.

They were faking it. The whole thing, the endless flirtation, the not-so-secret glances across library tables and the “accidental” brushes of grace—it was a setup, a performance, Kabuki theater staged for the benefit of a single, pyrrhic audience: one emotionally constipated Winchester who would, if he saw his own heart on a platter, still claim he preferred bacon.

The magnitude of the relief is so profound, so instantaneous, that for a moment Gabriel feels like he might liquefy and seep right through the floor tiles.

It was all a ploy to force Dean to grow the hell up. Thank fuck. Thank you Dad.

“So,” Gabriel says, slowly, “You and Cas are not—” he makes a vague, obscene gesture with two fingers and a fluttering motion, “—doing the angelic bunny hop?”

He knows it’s juvenile, but he can’t help himself; it’s the emotional equivalent of knocking a glass off the table after the existential threat has been neutralized, just to feel the shatter.

Sam’s blush is majestic. “God, no. Cas is like a weird brother. The guy even tried running lines by me beforehand, like it was a high school play.”

There is an embarrassed fondness in Sam’s voice, but for the first time Gabriel truly sees it for what it is: not attraction, but the exasperated, affectionate tolerance reserved for siblings or long-suffering lab partners who have ruined exactly one too many chemistry experiments but somehow keep being assigned to your table.

Gabriel is almost giddy with the revelation, so much so that he has to clamp down on his own grace to keep it from sparking out across the room.

“Except that he flirted in front of me too, and I almost killed him,” Gabriel deadpans, feeling nauseated. Damn it. Now he owes the seraph an apology.

Sam fidgets. Then almost too quietly to be heard, he adds, “Maybe I also wanted you to be jealous.”

Gabriel blinks. “You what?” The angel doesn't dare to hope, and yet-

Sam gives him a look, pure Sam—equal parts apology and dare. There is no smirk, no posturing, just a naked, open vulnerability.

“I didn’t think it’d actually work,” Sam mutters. “But I hoped… maybe if you did care, you’d say something.”

“I do care,” Gabriel blurts, desperate now. "I meant it. I love you. I've been head-over-heels in love with you. Even when we first met and I was a jerk to you—maybe especially then because the way you never give up is one of the most breathtaking things I have ever seen.”

Sam’s eyes go wide, pupils flaring, soul dancing.

"Then why didn't you say anything?" Sam finally asks, his voice trembling on the knife-edge between accusation and plea.

Gabriel shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t think I deserved to. Not after everything. Thought you'd hate me.”

Even in that moment, the archangel is expecting the recoil—the sudden withdrawal, the righteous anger, the old, familiar echo of rejection that has trailed him since the day he wandered off Heaven’s reservation and learned just how small even a runaway archangel can become in the open world. He braces for it, tenses every inch of himself for the blow.

Only it doesn’t come.

"If I hated you, why would I let you spend the last few weeks hanging around the bunker? With us. Me and Dean and Cas."

Sam’s voice is not angry, not even disappointed. It is gentle, and patient, and so open it makes Gabriel want to crawl into him.

"That's-!" That's different, he wants to argue, and yet- All those things he's done, and the Winchesters have forgiven him. Welcomed him, in their own strange, broken way—into their lives, into their home. Into their family.

Sam watches him struggle for a long moment—the ineffable, unfixable angel who still, after all this time, cannot quite believe he is wanted. Then, softly, without warning—steps forward and pulls him into a hug.

Gabriel melts.

Folds into it like a man starved. Hands fisting in Sam’s jacket, forehead tucked against his neck. His wings, those six unruly banners of light, wrap around them both—at first instinctively, then with increasing surety, enfolding them in a cocoon of golden feathers. He trembles, breath hitching—close to a sob, but no tears fall.

"Are you...?" Gabriel tries to speak, but the words get tangled in his throat. He’s not looking at Sam; the floor is suddenly fascinating, the grout lines between the cement tiles an entire cosmology of safe, neutral ground. “You sure you don’t wanna go back to trench coat?” he rasps, barely audible.

Sam huffs a warm laugh against the side of Gabriel’s head. “Nah. I’m good right here.”

Gabriel squeezes tighter, a small, broken sound escaping him.

“…You’re really not with Cas?” Gabriel finally whispers, the last, desperate check—the last outstretched hand feeling for a ledge before he falls all the way in.

“No,” Sam says, and the word is steel-tipped, irreproachable. “I never was.”

There is a beat of silence, a hush so absolute that Gabriel can hear the thrumming of Sam’s pulse, the faint celestial echo of his own wings, the tectonic shifting of his own future finally, finally snapping into place.

Then Gabriel’s voice, barely audible, as though speaking the words threatens to sabotage their existence: “Can I… be with you?”

Sam leans back, and the look he gives Gabriel is so full of warmth and acceptance it makes Gabriel fall in love with him all over again.

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice breaking into a smile. “I’d like that. A lot.”

Gabriel grins, wide and bright, and squeezes Sam tighter in his embrace.

Chapter Text

The kitchen looks like it’s been hit by a bomb.

Flour clouds the air. Bowls—at least a dozen—are stacked precariously on every surface. Syrup bottles line the counters in neat but ridiculous rows. There’s a faint sizzling sound from one pan and an alarming poof from another, and at the center of it all—

Gabriel.

He wears a pink frilly apron with 'Kiss the Chef (Or Else)' scrawled across it in glitter. His hair sticks up like he fought a war with static electricity. There’s batter in his eyelashes and powdered sugar on his elbow.

He flips pancakes with alarming speed, multitasking like a man possessed. A few pancakes are shaped like animals—moose, of course—but others are decorated with chaotic spirals or Enochian sigils.

The table is already set.

Twelve kinds of pancakes. Real maple syrup from 1793. Whipped cream he summoned from a French monastery's kitchen. Orange juice freshly squeezed by himself. And—just in case—he has a table reservation in Montmartre held by a cherub who owes him a favor.

“Gabriel…?”

Sam’s voice drifts in from the hallway. He'd been woken up by the smell of something sweet and… burning?

Gabriel spins, flipping a pancake behind his back with flourish. His eyes are wide, smile manic.

“Morning, Samshine!” he chirps. “I made breakfast. Twelve kinds of pancakes: chocolate chip, banana, —Most are probably edible. You like crepes too, right? I made some. And blintzes. And—”

“Why… ?” Sam asks, stunned.

“Because!” Gabriel exclaims. “You deserve the best. And also because I panicked and may have overcompensated slightly.”

“You think?”

Gabriel walks over, powdered sugar trailing in his wake like glitter. He presents a tray like he’s unveiling the Hope Diamond.

“Tartines. With local French butter. From 1722. Before things got weird with cows.”

Sam sighs, smiling. “Gabe…”

Gabriel falters.

“This is very sweet,” Sam says, gently reaching out to wipe flour off his cheek. “Ridiculous, but so sweet. You know you don’t have to do all this right?”

“You got me a tart,” Gabriel says defensively, leaning into the touch.

“That was one tart,” Sam snorts, looking happily bewildered.

Gabriel shrugs like he’s trying to play it cool, but his wings twitch faintly in embarrassment. Thankfully Sam can't see them.

“I wanted to do this for you,” Gabriel says. “I don’t know how to do all this the right way, but you gave me a second chance, Sam. And I don’t intend to screw it up.”

Sam reaches gently for Gabriel’s hand. Their fingers brush, and Gabriel freezes.

“I don’t need tartines. Or six kinds of syrup. Or... whatever that is,” Sam says, nodding at something still vibrating in a pan.

“I just need you to stay. Just to be here when it matters.”

Gabriel looks at him.

Really looks.

And for a moment, the chaos around them fades.

“I can do that,” Gabriel swears, smile crooked and raw.

“Good.”

They stand in the mess, hand in hand, surrounded by an absurd amount of breakfast and for the first time in a while Gabriel is blissfully happy.

"Still gonna go nuts and spoil the crap outta you though. Wanna give you everything you never knew you wanted," Gabriel insists. Sam smiles shyly, leans in and-

The fire alarm goes off, cuing them in to the smoke roiling out of the oven.

Sam pauses, snorts, then giggles helplessly. Gabriel burns the sound into his grace even as he groans and turns a wrathful glare onto the stove.

"Dad damn it," He hisses, snapping away the smoke and ruined muffins.

Sam laughs and wraps his arms around Gabriel, large hands petting his back comfortingly. “We’ve got plenty of time. You can screw up breakfast.”

“As long as I don’t screw up with you,” Gabriel mutters leaning into Sam, trying not to smother him but wanting so much more. Everything he can get after almost losing Sam too many times to count without ever having had this.

“You won’t.” Sam says, and he sounds so happy, so certain that even Gabriel believes it for a moment.

Sam is quietly reshelving lore books when Dean stomps in clearly pissed off and hungover.

“Sam.”

Sam straightens slowly, already bracing.

Dean crosses his arms. He’s still in sleep clothes—dead guy robe, flannel pants and a Led Zeppelin shirt—but his glare could drill through rebar.

“Want to explain why I had to find out from Gabriel that you and Cas are dating?”

Sam winces. “I was going to tell you.”

Dean barks a bitter laugh. “When? After the wedding? During the vows?”

“It's not like that,” Sam says quickly. “It was actually never real. We were just trying to—”

“To what Sam? Piss me off?!” Dean cuts in.

Sam sets a book down gently, taking a calming breath. “Dean, you’ve been pining for years and refusing to admit it. Cas deserves to know, and you deserve a shot at something real. We weren’t trying to hurt you. We were trying to get through to you.”

Dean looks away. His jaw flexes, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter.

“I thought I lost him.”

“You didn’t,” Sam says, voice softening. “And now you know. So do something about it.”

Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t make what you two did right.”

“No,” Sam agrees. “But it got you to see him. Really see him. Isn’t that worth something?”

Dean doesn’t respond. Just stands there, frowning, caught between defensiveness and realization.

After a moment, he grumbles, “Whatever. You keep your hands to your own damn angel and I better not have to hear any of it.”

Sam snorts. “No promises.”

Dean groans and walks off, muttering something about needing earplugs and holy oil.

Sam watches him go, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns back to the books.

For once, everything feels like it might be okay.

Gabriel paces the hallway just outside the map room, wings twitching in agitation, grace rippling like static under his skin. He’s been avoiding this moment since the outburst, but it'll have to be dealt with eventually, might as well be now.

He exhales. Then exhales again. Then mutters, “Screw it,” and pushes open the door.

Castiel sits at the table, going over one of Kevin’s old notebooks. His grace flickers slightly as Gabriel enters, registering the presence without surprise.

“If you’ve come to break my vessel's wrist again, I’m not in the mood,” Castiel says flatly.

Gabriel winces. “Not... this time.”

Castiel’s expression remains unreadable. He closes the notebook, gaze heavy.

“Then what?”

Gabriel hesitates. “I came to say sorry.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s it?” Gabriel bristles. “No quip? No brooding accusation about how I’m unstable and dangerous?”

“You are unstable and dangerous,” Cas replies calmly. “But you weren't wrong.”

Gabriel blinks. “Excuse me?”

Cas leans back slightly. “You said things I didn’t want to hear. That doesn’t mean they weren’t true.”

Gabriel stares, thrown off his rhythm. He came in ready to apologize, maybe to fight. Ready to deflect and lash out. This? This quiet acceptance cuts deep.

“I crossed a line,” Gabriel says after a moment. “In front of Sam. I shouldn’t have.”

Cas inclines his head slightly. “You scared him.”

“I know.”

“And you embarrassed yourself.”

Gabriel groans. “Thanks, I’m trying to apologize, not get mocked.”

Cas doesn’t smile. But his tone softens, just barely.

“You love him.”

Gabriel doesn’t answer.

“You love him,” Cas repeats evenly, then fixes Gabriel with that impassive cow eyed glare that somehow makes an archangel like Gabriel feel ten inches tall. “You were right about me, but you shouldn’t get another chance with him either. Not after what you did to him.”

That hits harder than it should. Bristling because he still hasn't forgiven the seraph for being so handsy while he was 'fake dating' his Sammich, his eyes narrow.

Gabriel forces an irked smirk, “You think I don’t know that?”

“You do,” Castiel says simply. “But knowing doesn't change anything. Sam is not a consolation prize for guilt.”

Gabriel’s expression cracks.

“I’m not trying to win him to feel better,” he says sharply. “I’m trying because I love him. Even if he never picks me, I’d still—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

Castiel studies him. For a long moment, he says nothing.

“Good. Keep it that way.” Cas says. “Because if you hurt him, I will kill you. Slowly.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen.

“I will grind up an archangel blade,” Cas adds flatly. “And find a way to force feed it to you.”

Gabriel raises his hands. “Message received.”

Cas nods, rising from his chair. “Then we’re good.”

Gabriel blinks again. “We are?”

“We are,” Cas confirms. “For now.”

He moves to leave but Gabriel steps in his path.

Wings unfurl—just enough to remind Cas who he’s dealing with. To give his own warning.

He leans in, voice low and venom-smooth.

“If you ever touch him like that again—if you so much as look at him like he’s yours—I’ll teach you the very meaning of the word mistake.”

Castiel stills, expression unreadable.

Gabriel continues, smile gone like it never existed. “I will eradicate every last molecule of your grace. From this plane, from this timeline, from existence, -from the damned empty. There won't be anything to bring back. You’ll vanish. And not even Chuck will remember you were ever real.”

A beat.

Then Gabriel tilts his head, just slightly. “You feel me, Fluffy?”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

He just nods once, eyes hard, and walks away.

Gabriel watches him go, wings folding in like the gates of a temple.

He turns and walks the other direction—satisfied.

The bunker has gone still. Even the hum of ancient warding spells feels quieter than usual. Everything is wrapped in that late-night hush where words feel too loud and silence speaks for itself.

Sam sits on the edge of his bed, book forgotten in his lap. He stares at nothing in particular, brow furrowed slightly—not with distress, exactly, but with the weight of too much thinking.

There’s a knock.

Not urgent. Not soft. Just... there.

He knows who it is before he says, “Come in.”

The door opens, and Gabriel steps inside.

No flair. No snap. No quip. Just Gabriel—rumpled and fidgety. He's clutching a pillow under one arm, wearing sweats and an expression that’s way too hopeful for two AM.

“You okay?” Sam asks softly.

Gabriel shrugs, closing the door behind him. “No. Not really.”

Gabriel steps inside. “I, uh… was thinking. Since we’re…” He gestures vaguely. “Together now. And I really don't wanna spend the next 8 hours staring at your door waiting for you to wake up... Maybe I could—if you don't mind—maybe I could sleep in here?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Sleep, huh.”

“I can sleep!” Gabriel insists, a little too quickly. “Well. Sort of. Or at least lie dramatically staring at your gorgeous face and sighing while you actually sleep. You wouldn’t even notice me. I’d be like a decorative throw angel.”

Sam snorts. “So… cuddling only?”

Gabriel nods, too fast. “Cuddling only. Scout’s honor.”

Sam considers, knowing damn well he's never been a scout. He shifts, just slightly over in invitation.

Gabriel stares. “Wait—really?”

“Hurry up before I change my mind,” Sam says, amused.

Gabriel nearly drops the pillow in his rush to climb in. But once he’s beside Sam—real, warm, close—his confidence wavers.

Gabriel sits. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t look at him.

They sit like that for a long moment—just breathing the same air.

Then Sam leans in, slow and quiet, resting his shoulder against Gabriel’s.

There’s another silence. This one softer. Closer.

Then Sam reaches up and brushes his fingers through Gabriel’s hair, sweeping a stray curl away from his face.

“You gonna stay?” he asks.

Gabriel nods, meaning forever.

Sam lies back first, tugging the blanket aside.

Gabriel follows, hesitating just a second before curling close. Not touching—at least, not at first. But Sam shifts and reaches for him, gently guiding Gabriel's arms around him. Gabriel melts instantly—spooned up behind Sam's model long legs, one arm hesitantly resting on his waist.

He presses his face to Sam’s shoulder and breathes. Fights the urge to roll into Sam like a starved animal.

“I can handle this,” he whispers. “I can. This is fine.”

Sam chuckles, soft and fond. “Relax.”

Sam strokes a hand slowly down his back, grounding. Reassuring.

“I can’t,” Gabriel breathes. “You’re right here, and you smell like vanilla and old books and you’re warm, and I’m in hell. I mean heaven. I mean—hellven. Both.”

Sam shifts just enough to thread their fingers together.

Gabriel swallows hard. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I get to decide that,” Sam murmurs. “And I've decided that you’re trying, and that means something."

A silence stretches between them, soft and comfortable now.

Then Gabriel whispers, so quietly Sam almost misses it:

“…Don’t kick me out in the morning?”

Sam squeezes his hand, jokes, “I'll think about it.”

Gabriel lets his vessel go still, the illusion of sleep draped over borrowed skin while his grace unfolds in the dark—wings of golden light, countless eyes, and talons gleaming in unworldly focus. Sam is asleep—barely. Restless and wounded even in dreams.

Gabriel settles over him, whispering calm through the cracks, pressing peace into the places where nightmares try to root.

Only when Sam’s mind finally stills does Gabriel descend further—past thought, past memory—into the heart of what remains.

The soul.

He remembers it vividly.

Every curve, every contour—how it had looked when they first met, whole and radiant. A soul that burned with conviction and compassion alone, warm and bright and human.

Now it lies in ruins.

Gabriel can feel it fading at the edges—like paper left in sunlight too long. He hovers over the fragments, talons extended in despairing reverence. His true form quivers, aching with something like grief. The damage is beyond human comprehension—fractures splintered through lifetimes, whole pieces worn to gleaming dust. So much agony etched into the core that even touching it feels like bleeding.

He did this.

Not all at once. Not with intention. But his indifference, his cruelty, his cowardice and abandonment led to this. Until his brothers took advantage of that vulnerability to shatter something and it didn’t grow back right.

Any other soul would’ve blackened by now.

Would’ve gone dark and hollow.

But not Sam.

Even in this state—broken, brittle—he glows. Brightly. Beautifully. A miracle stitched together by sheer, stubborn will. A defiance of entropy. A refusal to be ruined.

Gabriel’s breath catches. His many eyes weep over the glittering remains.

This shouldn’t be possible.

And still, here it is. Here he is.

And Gabriel is going to fix him.

Even if it takes a million years. Even if every moment is agony. He will reassemble what’s left and breathe life back into the ruins—because he is never letting Sam go again. Not to fate. Not to death. Not to anyone.

If nothing is done… then Sam might not blacken with time, but something worse might happen.

He might fade.

Gabriel won't allow that.

It’s painstaking. The fragments are delicate—some paper-thin, some scorched at the edges—but none are lost. Not truly. Gabriel sorts through them gently, reverently, a craftsman rebuilding stained glass in a ruined cathedral.

He works in silence, possessive and devoted, gathering every fragile piece like treasure. Sam is his to protect now. His to restore. His to hold together.

And as a few motes finally fuse together—soft and trembling with light—he dares to hope.

That maybe, just maybe, Sam will feel a little better every morning.

Starting now.

Chapter Text

Gabriel folds his true form down, collapsing wings of light and impossible limbs into the boundaries of flesh and bone once more. His grace coils back inside the vessel like a tide pulling inward, eyes dimming, talons vanishing, divine enormity sealed away behind a fragile, familiar face.

His vessel is warm.

That’s the first thing he notices.

Pressing closer, he buries his nose in Sam’s hair where soft, wild chestnut waves spill over the pillow. He swears he can still catch that trace of vanilla and something herbal from Sam’s shampoo.

Their legs are tangled up, and his arm is draped across Sam’s waist. He's long and solid, breathing slow and even. Their hands are still entwined from the night before.

And Gabriel holds on tighter now—like he knows what he’s cradling.

Because he does.

He could stay like this forever just watching Sam. Studying the curve of Sam’s lashes, the little furrow between his brows even in sleep... But there’s a problem.

A very specific, very pressing problem.

His vessel is reacting to the closeness. Arousal stirs low and sharp, but it’s more than physical. It echoes across layers—his grace flaring, his true form arching inward, writhing with the desperate, instinctive need to be closer.

After a night spent cradling Sam’s soul, touching it so intimately to begin healing it, every part of him—vessel and otherwise—is wound tight with aching longing.

He freezes. Horrified.

And then—

Sam shifts in his sleep—innocent, unaware—and presses back.

Pressing that bodacious backside right into Gabriel’s lap.

Sam lets out a sleepy, confused little grunt—and wriggles again.

Gabriel makes a choked sound, full of panic and need and stunned, shattering want.

This is it. This is how he dies. Erect, spooning the man of his dreams, in cuddling only territory with the world’s most dangerous ass pressed directly against his cock.

Sam stills, then grumbles.

“…Gabriel,” he says, groggily.

“Hi,” Gabriel squeaks, panic rising. “Good morning! Nice weather we’re—oh sweet Chuck, please don’t move again... Or do, dealers choice.”

There’s a pause.

“Are you—?” Sam utters.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Sam starts laughing, ass shaking with him.

“Sam,” Gabriel whines, voice muffled as he buries his face in the curve of Sam’s sweet giggling neck. His vessel trembles, caught between restraint and raw instinct, and behind it, his true form coils in restless hunger. “Please—you can’t laugh like that while I’m in this state. I am—you have no idea—I’m suffering.”

Sam huffs another laugh, shoulders shaking. “I thought you could handle this.”

“I could,” Gabriel growls, tone rising to something half-feral, half-pleading, “when your unfairly perfect ass wasn’t grinding against me like a sleepy stripper!"

Sam’s ears go red. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Gabriel moans, desperate. “Which makes it worse, because now I’m the cosmic pervert getting hard over innocent, accidental contact and you’re going to look at me with those big eyes like I hurt a puppy and then you’ll kick me out and I’ll implode or combust or both—”

He cuts himself off with a pained whimper, clinging tighter.

Mine, some ancient part of him whispers. Mine, mine, mine—

He wants to crawl inside Sam’s skin. He wants to wrap around him like armor. He wants to anchor himself in the curve of Sam’s spine and never let go.

Then Sam reaches back, calm and quiet, and gently takes Gabriel’s hand again—like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing.

“No one’s getting kicked out,” he murmurs, voice quiet but warm.

Gabriel makes a wounded sound, hips helplessly grinding once before he reigns himself in. “You know what you’re doing to me. You did this on purpose.”

“I really didn’t,” Sam says, giggling.

Gabriel groans again, smothering his face against Sam’s gorgeous hair, feathers trailing helplessly over soul. “If I die of frustration, I’m haunting your bed for eternity.”

“You’d like that.”

“I’d live for that.”

“You’d be dead, Gabe.”

“Details.” Gabriel lets out a shivery sigh, possessive hunger pulsing just beneath his skin. “How do you do this to me, Sam? You make me so—”

Sam shifts suddenly, half-turning to look at him properly. His eyes are bright, hair a complete mess, a faint pink dusted over his cheeks. He leans in slowly, gently, and presses his lips to Gabriel’s.

It’s chaste. Soft, a little dry. But it annihilates Gabriel.

His grace surges white-hot, radiant and trembling. Wings rustle unseen, claws curling tight into the sheets.

When Sam pulls away, Gabriel can barely remember how to make his vessel breathe.

Sam blinks at him, eyes soft and warm and smiley.

Gabriel stares.

Then, he dives forward and kisses Sam again—desperate, greedy, aching. He kisses like he’s trying to make up for all the time they lost. All the years he spent aching in silence.

Harder this time, deeper. He kisses his poor, oblivious, beautiful human who just opened the floodgates.

Sam lets out a surprised noise—then laughs, melting against him. When Gabriel licks at the seam of his lips, Sam opens easily, welcoming. Their tongues meet—hot, slow, exploring.

Gabriel pulls back with a gasp, eyes blown wide.

“Can I…”

“Can you…?”

Gabriel bites his lip, trembling. “I wanna… touch you. More. Properly.” His fingers trail down Sam’s arm, reverent, tentative. “Unless this is too fast? I can wait. Swear it, Sammy—”

He's cut off by another kiss.

Sam pulls back just enough to look at him, cheeks pink, lashes low.

“Go ahead,” he says softly. Like he’s been waiting too.

Gabriel exhales, pupils dilating until there’s no gold left.

“Oh fuck yes.” He hisses, yanking Sam closer like he’ll never let him go again.

Sam’s hands find his shoulders, holding on as Gabriel leans in again. Their mouths fit together seamlessly, like they were made to do this. His tongue curls around Sam’s.

He tastes like ozone and sugar.

Groaning lowly, Sam arches up, legs spreading to accommodate the smaller man's hips. His hands slide up under Gabriel’s shirt, roaming over his lower back, then up between sensitive shoulder blades where wings connect unseen .

Gabriel shivers, grace thrashing under his skin.

He breaks away, gasping. Takes the opportunity to start kissing down Sam's neck. Teeth scraping lightly over his pounding pulse point.

“Sammy,” Gabriel breathes. “Sam, Sam, Sam.”

Sam whimpers, tilting his head back to give him better access.

Gabriel groans, nipping over it. “You’re so Sexy... gotta have you baby, lemme have you.”

Sam huffs, nails dragging down the shoulder blades of Gabriel's vessel.

Gabriel's many wings flare, cock jerking in his sweats, and he can't tell whose heartbeat is pounding in his ears but it's driving him crazy. Shifting, he kisses up Sam’s stomach, pushing his shirt out of the way until its up to his armpits.

Salivating he immortalizes the absolute vision Sam makes into his very grace. Heaving and flushed all over, twin little buds perked up... like they want to be played with. 

Gladly.

Diving down he wraps his mouths around one and laves over it roughly, teeth grazing the sensitive nub.

"Gabriel!" Sam pleads, hands grasping at his shoulders in a way that'd leave bruises if he wasn't an archangel.

As if afraid he'll stop. Silly little human...

Gabriel chuckles darkly, pausing to rub Sam's trembling sides possessively, seeing the need for him in Sam's soul. “More? Is that what you want?”

Face flushed, Sam's shoulders bunch, then he nods hesitantly, not making eye contact.

He's too fucking cute. Makes Gabriel want to mess him up.

Leaning down, he moves to the unattended nub, and bites down, hard. Suckling and nibbling and pulling.

Sam shrieks at the sting, eyes watering. He squirms and writhes, but the archangel doesnt budge, effortlessly keeping him pinned.

It makes Sam anxious yet incredibly aroused at how easily the angel can manhandle him. How he can hold him in place and play with his body however he wants. 

"Gabe, it hurts-," He whines, trying to push the archangel back. The suction increases until a tear rolls down his flushed cheek. "Too rough!"

He ignores him. It makes Sam's toes curl and his lashes flutter. Slowly the sharp stinging pain fades into a dull ache that makes him lightheaded.

Makes him push his chest closer, and then pull it farther. He doesn't know which he prefers anymore. 

His other nipple feels damp and lonely.

Eventually the persistent mouth releases him with a wet pop, and the cool air on his aching flesh makes Sam gasp, hips jerking. 

Leaning back, Gabriel admires his work. Sam's nub now a swollen red peak, glistening with spit. He runs a finger over it, and Sam shivers, biting his lip.

"M' gonna take such good care of you Sam-a-lam... Make sure everyone including that trench coat bastard knows who you belong to," he growls. Hands bruising and teeth biting, he determinedly leaves marks everywhere he goes .

Sam keens under the pleasurably painful assault.

Gabriel leaves a bruising bite on the spot just above Sam’s pounding heart. “You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine. Say it, Sammy.”

“Yours,” Sam gasps, eyes teary, hips shyly rocking up.

“Good boy,” Gabriel purrs.

He moves lower, hands skimming over Sam's abs down to the sharp V leading into his boxers. Sam's cock is tenting the front, leaking so much it's staining them translucent. Mouthing lightly over the bulge, Gabriel's tongue traces the shape of it, then bites.

Sam cries out, head thrown back against the pillows, thighs shaking as precum drips unchecked. He can't believe this asshole just bit his dick. It hurts, it stings... So why does he want him to do it again?

Teeth scraping him distractingly, the angel's firm hands slip up through the bottoms of his boxers, fingers rubbing along the crease of his hips towards the base of his dick.

“Hnngh-! Please-!” He sobs, desperately bucking. "Stop teasing-"

“Don't worry Samshine, I know what you need...” Gabriel croons, using inhuman strength to tear the seemingly flimsy clothes off of Sam. “Gonna give it to you.”

Sam whimpers at the once more casual show of strength, desperate to have Gabriel closer. To feel safe and small in a way he never did in his entire life, -not even during his childhood. He wants to be held down and used.

To be owned.

Gabriel pulls away long enough to yank his own shirt off. Sam stares at the newly revealed skin, swallowing hard. He's seen Gabriel naked before during one of his stupid pornos —but this is different. This is Gabriel. In his bed. About to—

Sam shivers, naked cock straining, the shaft marred by teeth indentations.

“Like what you see, kiddo?” Gabriel preens, flexing his vessel with casual smugness as Sam's soul shines a little brighter.

It’s not massive or ripped, but there’s power coiled within that disarmingly compact frame—one that could tear the world apart and piece it back together without breaking a sweat.

And his face? Stupidly attractive. Those wickedly gleaming eyes, the annoyingly cute nose, and dazzling smirky smile.

That damn smile is what started this whole thing. Sam hadn’t realized it back then—that what he thought was just the thrill of gaining an ally, was in truth, the beginning of something deeper. A crush. A longing. A quiet unraveling.

But his feelings have long since grown past the point that Sam could deny. Or ignore.

Because Gabriel -flighty, chaotic, unpredictable Gabriel- who's not always there when Sam needs him—always comes back eventually -like a bad penny. Always trying to help in his own way.

Sometimes late, sometimes broken, sometimes bloody, but he returns. Maybe his methods are convoluted. Maybe his timing is terrible. But he comes back and tries. God, he tries.

He's the only one Sam has ever loved that's survived being near him for so long.

Maybe it’s because he’s an archangel.

Maybe it’s something else.

Whatever the reason, Sam is grateful.

But he refuses to do it again. To mourn him for the umpteenth time. To sit in silence while Gabriel fakes his death, only to have him sashay back in months later like it never happened.

Not now. Not when things are finally real.

Especially now that they're taking their relationship to the next step.

If Gabriel disappears again—abandons him—Sam will track him down, beat him to death with a shovel, and then bring him back just to do it again.

And again. And again, until Gabriel gets it.

Until he learns to stay.

And maybe it’s a little violent. Maybe it’s a little unhinged. But it’s his emotional baggage. Take it or leave it.

Suddenly, violently anxious, he snarls at Gabriel, "You don't ever get to leave after this."

Gabriel's eyes go wide, blindsided by the anxious possessiveness radiating off Sam—then narrow, glaring at him in a similar way, because he's never, not in a million years going to let Sam go either.

Sam's beauty had carved a hole into his angelic guts ages ago.

Leaning in, eyes glowing, he threatens, “Never, Sammy. You're stuck with me. For the rest of our miserable existence's, and beyond. You got that?”

Sam’s heart pounds.

He grits his teeth. “Prove it,” he hisses, because he has to know. Has to believe it.

Gabriel growls, leans down, and kisses Sam again, deep and filthy.

Sa m can’t help it; he moans, thrusting up against Gabriel, feeling the huge, hot line of his cock through the angel's sweats.

When Gabriel finally breaks the kiss, he stays close. Their foreheads are pressed together, and they’re panting into each other's mouths.

"Was gonna do this right and go slow, but that's out the window now you little shit," Gabriel grits, caressing the edges of Sam's needy soul.

Filthily, he points to Sam's belly button and swears, "Gonna spread you wide open, fill you up to here. You want that sweetheart? Want my cock wrecking your sweet ass ?"

Sam whines, back bowing. "Oh, fuck-!"

Growling he flips Sam over, then grabs his silky long hair, pulling hard enough to sting. Sam gasps, compliantly letting himself be manhandled and positioned however Gabriel likes.

Which is apparently with his ass in the air and his head pressed to the mattress, trembling as Gabriel spreads his cheeks to see the little rosebud of his hole. S am feels his breath against him, and can't help the whimper that slips free.

"G-Gabe, please-"

"Shhh," the angel coaxes, spreading him, inspecting him. “So pretty,” he coos. “This sweet ass is all for me right Sammy?”

"Uh-huh," Sam whimpers, face on fire, nodding desperately.

"Only mine," Gabriel agrees, and the low, possessive tone has Sam's insides heating. "I'm the only person who gets to touch you from now on." He dips lower, presses a thumb to the sensitive rim, rubbing and massaging, and watching it twitch.

“Yes, yes, yours, just for you, whatever you want,” Sam babbles, pushing his ass back towards Gabriel as best he can with how well the angel is pinning him down with his stupid strength.

The finger prodding his hole stills.

"Whatever I want... You should be more careful what you offer," Gabriel leers, s napping his fingers. Suddenly Sam feels slick and empty. "For now I'll just give you some natural lube and up the sensitivity in your cute ass... Just a liiiiitle bit."

A moment later, a hot, wet, sucking sensation has him crying out and clenching, whole body jerking, startled. Every lap into his ass suddenly feels better than touching his dick ever has.

Laving his tongue over Sam's fluttering hole, Gabriel devours it like Sam's ass is an all you can eat buffet. He's making these obscene slurping noises as he laps at Sam's crack, spreading his ass apart with two hands so he can dig deeper, tongue slipping past the tight ring of muscle and spearing inside.

It's so fucking hot, and slick, and velvety.

“Gabriel!” Sam sobs, pushing back into Gabriel’s mouth. The angel groans against his puffy, glistening rim like he's in heaven and continues. 

Keeps eating him out, no human need to stop to breathe, his only goal satisfying Sam. His jaw is soaked with slick, chin dripping.

Panting and gasping, Sam claws at the sheets.  His thighs are shaking, barely holding him up, but the last thing he wants is for Gabriel to stop.

"Fuck-! Oh, oh, fuck-" he chokes. He can feel himself clamping and squeezing around the tongue, his entire body is on edge, the heat in his groin growing hotter. It's so good.

He's almost, almost-

Then the sensations are gone, and his hole is too empty. Whining, he wriggles and pushes his hips back, desperate to get the aching emptiness to go away.

"Hush, I'm right here," the archangel promises, leering at the mess. Sam's hole is slick and swollen, dripping down the backs of his balls. Gabriel spits on it, and Sam cries out, hips jerking.

“Wow,” Gabriel teases. “Look at you, so desperate for it. You want my fingers?” He presses the tip of one against Sam's entrance, teasing it. “Want me to fill you up and stretch you open ?”

"Yesssss," Sam whimpers. "Please!"

He can't believe that he's begging this sarcastic asshole to shove his fingers in his sensitized ass. But he is. Shamelessly.

Gabriel laughs, and pushes his thumb inside, slow and steady, twisting it until he finds Sam's virgin sweet spot for the first time. Sam screams, back arching off the bed. His cock pulses a heavy rope of precum onto the dampening bedspread.

“Oh, does that feel good?” Gabriel asks, smug. “That's your prostate, baby. Isn't it nice to know that I can make you come hands free? How many people do you think have that kind of power over you, huh, Sammy?”

“Jus-just youuuu-!” He wails, unable to hold in the sounds of his desperation.

Two more fingers press in, stretching Sam wider. The rim of Sam's hole twitches around the intrusion. Sam's thighs are shaking, his hips bucking. Gabriel holds him down with one hand on the small of his back.

“Stay,” He commands.

Sam sobs, tears soaking the sheets, but reigns in his thrashing hips.

Gabriel smiles and kisses the base of his spine. “Good boy.”

Fingers begin to thrust deeper, fucking his greedy insides open. Gabriel adds a third finger, and then a fourth, plunging in and out with wet squelching sounds. Sam's hole is stretched obscenely wide but it's not enough. He feels dirty, and wrong, but it just makes his asshole hungrier.

He almost begs for Gabriel to just shove his whole fist in so maybe his aching ass will finally feel full.

Luckily, that's not necessary.  Fingers retreat with a naughty slurp leaving him clenching around nothing .

Whimpering, Sam starts to beg again. "Please- Please-!"

“Shh, shh, easy, baby.” He coos, stroking his hand over Sam's flank, soothing. “Don’t worry, I'll fill you right up. Just need to get this stupid thing off. ”

There's a rustle of clothing behind him. Turning his head, Sam peeks back as Gabriel eagerly pushes his sweatpants off and kicks them away. His eyes widen.

It's huge. Thick and long, curved slightly upwards, with a broad head and a vein running up the underside.

“Like what you see, champ?”

Hell no.

“Gabe. I may not have bottomed with any guys before but I've seen their dicks. There's no damn way that's going to fit in my ass.”

Aggressively Gabriel flips Sam over so he's on full display. His legs are spread, cock lying flat against his belly in spite of his valid concerns.

Lifting his hips into the air easily,  the archangel nuzzles and kisses the soft skin under his balls, then bites. Hard. As if to claim that everything between Sam's legs is his now too.

Sam throws his head back and whimpers, legs locking around his head.

" It's a good thing you didn't bottom for any other bastards Sammy because then I'd have to go back in time and kill them all." Gabriel growls, hands leaving bruises on his thighs, "Still might... but let's not worry about that cause you were such a good boy and saved that sweet ass for me. "

He grins, downright feral. "And now I'm going to ruin it." Shifting, he presses the thick head to Sam's fluttering, puffy entrance.

Sam cries out, his dick giving a weak dribble as the words hit him directly in the gut

"Yes-!" He gasps, deliriously, briefly forgetting his protests. Then his brain catches up, he squeaks, "W-wait, no-! M' not- Not ready!"

"Yes you are," the angel purrs, nudging in, slowly, inch by inch, and it's a struggle to stay relaxed.

It's a lot bigger than the fingers. Wider, and longer. His hole is being pushed to its limit, the ache throbbing in the center of his pelvis. Gabriel's thick shaft is a solid, pulsating heat inside him that goes on forever, inch by inch, splitting him open.

"Fuck- Too big!" Sam gasps, and he's trying to pull away from the overwhelming pressure, but there's nowhere to escape. Gabriel's weight is pinning him down and he's spreading him wide, leaving him so very, very, very full.

When he bottoms out, pushing the air from Sam with a breathless, "Ommph-!" There's a subtle bulge from the behemoth buried in him. Overcome, tongue hanging out obscenely, his eyes roll back.

Gabriel pauses, balls pressed against Sam's ass to let him adjust. His precious human trembles beneath him, gasping for breath. Glassy puppy eyes stare up and through him, as mouth ajar, a line of drool slides down his cheek. Soothingly he runs his hands down that long, arched, runners body and eyes Sam's cute little nipples, red and straining from his earlier abuse.

So pretty. Stunningly debauched.

Gabriel tweaks one and grinds into him, making Sam moan at the too much yet not enough scraping of his insides.

“Gabriel!” Sam cries, voice high and needy. His traitorous legs spread wider, even as some buried part of Sam is screaming this is too much and it isn't right.

It feels like Gabriel is rearranging his guts.

"See, sweetheart?" The angel croons. "Told you, you'd be able to fit. Look at that ass gobbling me up. What a good job..."

Sam mewls at the depraved praise. He takes in a shuddering breath, and his stomach swoops, clenching. The movement makes him hopelessly conscious of the cock spearing him. He's never had anyone in him before, so why does it feel so good?

So good it's scary.

Gabriel leans down and kisses him, swallowing his helpless whimpers. He starts to move, slow and steady, rolling his hips in a way that has his cock dragging over Sam's sweet spot with every thrust.

Sam wails into his mouth, clutching at Gabriel's shoulders, pulling him closer. He can feel every inch of Gabriel's cock sliding inside him, stretching him open, making a home for itself in Sam as it ruins him just like Gabriel promised.

Sam sobs, tears leaking down his cheeks. He feels so full, so stretched. Gabriel's cock is pounding into him and Sam can't think, can't do anything but take it. His rock hard, untouched cock bobs against his stomach with every thrust.

Untouched because nothing feels as good as the angels thick cock buried in his guts. He's dribbling like a faucet, smearing precome on his tummy. Sam's so close, so fucking close. He can feel the heat building in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter like his ass around that glorious cock.

Gabriel fucks him so good, so deep. It's perfect. Like Sam's ass was made for him. Mind going blank, he comes, screaming Gabriel's name. His vision whites out, his entire body shaking as he rides out his orgasm, clenching down on Gabriel, milking him.

He's coming down, ass still throbbing strangely, when Gabriel plows into him with a hard thrust. Crying out in shock, he looks down and sees that Gabriel hasn't cum at all.

Grinning salaciously down at Sam he offers, "Stamina is a human thing baby... We stop when I say so."

Sam whimpers, burying his face in the crook of Gabriel's neck, clinging to him as Gabriel continues to pound into him , drawing out that throbbing deep in Sam's ass.

Gabriel groans, biting down on Sam's shoulder, sucking another dark mark into his skin as his thrusts become erratic. He buries himself deep inside, grinding his hips in circles as he lets his vessel's dick cum, filling Sam up. He grinds deeper as he finishes, sighs, then snaps his fingers.

Sam whimpers in confused, despairing lust, as his hole remains stretched around the once more hard cock. Gabriel grins down at him, eyes gleaming.

"Ready for round two?" He purrs.

Sam blushes and looks away, trying to suggest taking a break, but then a finger gently drags over his quivering tummy. Suddenly his asshole pulses and wraps tighter around the archangels perfect cock. Gasping as his brain slides to horny mush, he breathily asks, "Do you think I could be... on top this time?"

Gabriel's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he laughs, delighted.

"Sure thing, baby boy. Hop on." He rolls them over, settling Sam on his lap, hands on his hips, holding him steady.

Sam bites his lip and slowly raises then drops, whimpering at the too good feeling of having his hole stretched wide around Gabriel's length as it sinks mind numbingly deeper. Gabriel groans, head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed. Sam rocks until he's sitting flush against Gabriel's thighs.

Sam's hole is so sore and tender from being relentlessly fucked and stretched, but it's throbbing for more abuse.

"Fuck, baby. You're so tight. So perfect," Gabriel groans, digging his fingers into Sam's hips, guiding him into lifting himself up and then dropping back down, taking Gabriel deep again and again.

Sam whines at the praise, eyes screwed shut. Gabriel is so big, stretching him so wide, and he can feel every inch of his cock, every vein, every curve. It's overwhelming.

Panting and gasping for breath, Sam's own cock is hard and leaking between them already. It's too soon but he's so close again, so fucking close.

"Please," he begs, voice high and needy,  hoping this time Gabriel will be satisfied.  That Sam's body will be satisfied.

Gabriel grunts and bucks up into him, slamming into his sweet spot. "Cum for me, baby boy. Come on, let go."

Sam screams, arching his back, and cums again. His cock pulses, shooting white ropes onto Gabriel's chest. Sam shakes through it, whimpering as he rides out his second orgasm, feeling it more in his ass than his untouched cock.

Gabriel holds him steady, grinding into him, fucking him through it. Sam's lust stricken shivering has just started to subside, when Gabriel snaps his fingers and suddenly Sam's insides are aching all over again, Gabriel picking up his pace, fucking up into him harder and faster, making him yelp.

"You're doing so good, baby. So good for me. Taking my cock so well."

Sam whimpers, eyes watering. His cock is feebly twitching, trying to rise again. Gabriel snaps again and suddenly it's leaking all over his tummy again and he's mindlessly rocking back to meet every thrust. Gabriel grins and picks up the pace, slamming into Sam harder and faster, making him cry out at the impossibly building sensations. He's so close, so fucking close again. He can feel his own orgasm building, coiling low in his stomach, tightening like a spring.

Gabriel's thrusts become erratic, and he buries himself deep inside Sam, grinding his hips in circles as he comes, filling him up. He grinds deep one last time blissfully sighs, then snaps his fingers, and bam, rock hard and ready for the next round inside Sam.

Sam whimpers, Gabriel grins down at him, eyes gleaming.

Sam pants helplessly up at him, overstimulated tears streaming down his face, and feels his abused hole clench, squirming around Gabriel's insatiably hard cock, cum leaking out around it. Sam's dick is still limp but his insides are twisting.

Sniffling and staring disbelievingly at this animal, Sam moves to crawl off the hard dick, determined to tell him he really really can't go again this soon.

Gabriel just laughs, delighted and easily pulls his ass back, knocking the breath out of Sam as he's speared again. It sets off a cascade of too good throbbing through his insides.

"C' mon Sammy, it'll be fun, " Gabriel swears, petting over his heaving flank.

Sam blushes, whimpering. "S' too much Gabe."

Gabriel grins, sharp and dangerous. "Not for my baby boy. Don't you wanna be a good little slut for daddy?"

A needy, shameful part of him perks up and Sam blushes, horrified as he feels his dick manage a twitch. Biting his lip, he reaches with a trembling hand to spread himself wider in answer.

"That's my good boy," Gabriel purrs, snapping his fingers and just like that Sam's hard and aching all over again -Which is when Gabriel dares to pull out.

Moaning at the sensation, Sam clenches around nothing with confused desperation, and Gabriel just laughs.

Delighted, he easily slips a few fingers into Sam, watching them disappear and then reappear in Sam's red, swollen rim.

Gabriel's fingers brush against his prostate, and Sam's eyes widen as it suddenly becomes even more sensitive, aching and tender. He writhes on the sheets, trying to get those fingers deeper. Easily he flips Sam over onto his hands and knees, slapping his ass and watching it jiggle. Sam's a mess, covered in sweat and come and tears, and Gabriel loves it.

"Please," Sam begs, voice high and needy.

"Please what?" Gabriel asks, amused.

"Please fuck me!" Sam wails.

Gabriel grins, sharp and feral. "As you wish."

Gabriel slams into him, not stopping until he's bottomed out, balls pressed against Sam's ass. Sam cries out, arching his back, and impossibly, immediately comes again, dry, clenching around Gabriel's cock. Gabriel groans and grinds into him, making him whine and whimper as he's overstimulated even as Gabriel's grace floods through him keeping him needy.

It goes on for hours, but feels like days to Sam's melting, horny mind. He's been bent, bitten, and used in all the wrong and right ways and it's driving him mad. Humans aren't meant to be fucked like this but Gabriel's powers make it possible.

"M' gonna oose ma miiinnnd, Gabe pweash," Sam whines, hole perfectly moulded to Gabriel's relentlessly pounding cock. Gabriel grins, pulling out and flipping him over again.

Sam is a mess, covered in come and lube and sweat, and Gabriel loves it. Wants him addicted and braindead for Gabriel's cock, so much that he'll never even consider looking at anyone else.

He's an archangel, no one else will ever measure up after this.

Spreading Sam's legs, he dives back in, fucking him hard and fast until Sam feels his asshole cum again, -and again. Over and over and over Gabriel keeps going, fucking him through dry, aching orgasms. He screams and writhes, drowning in pleasure until he's no longer sobbing and begging for Gabriel to stop.

Instead, mind melted by overwhelming pleasure, nipples erect and abused, hole never satisfied, he moans brokenly for him to keep going, to fuck him harder and keep filling him up with his cum.

To never leave his slutty, needy ass empty.

Gabriel laughs, delighted and easily flips him over onto his hands and knees, slapping his ass and watching it jiggle. They keep fucking and fucking and fucking and fucking, and it's perfect.

At some point hours later while Sam is still arching and writhing, the room goes bleary.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Gabriel, still balls deep in Sam's heavenly ass -the scent of him soaked into the sheets, into Gabriel’s skin, into Gabriel's very grace -realizes he went a liiiiitle too far.

Shit.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the slow rise and fall of Sam’s ribs beneath the stretch of skin that his mouth fully marked up last night. He'd barely refrained from leaving angelic handprints.

His fingers twitch where they’ve been resting on Sam’s hip, and he draws them back like they’ve burned him.

What the hell did I do?

He told himself he’d wait, Sam's past relationships have clearly shown he prefers being romanced before running bases. He swore—swore—he wouldn’t act on his urges yet, -no matter how bad he wanted to envelop and entwine their entire beings.

He was supposed to go slow for Sam, ease into their relationship, treasure him like he should be -not dial up the poor humans sensitivity and blow Sam's brains out with his dick. No matter how open to it Sam's soul seemed, or how sparkly his eyes.

But he did. He took.

And oh baby, Sammy sure did give.

He knows Sam wanted it, could see the way Sam trembled, clung, begged. Even when they started crossing some sketchy lines Gabriel had been sure to keep an eye on Sam's soul and could see it spinning green flags, and perking up even when his brain and mouth were begging for a pause. Every time that soul lit up with pleasure Gabriel's grace wanted to give more, to feel more, more, more.

He wanted to wring every last drop out of the human and drown in it.

But that doesn’t make it better.

Sam stirs, pressing back into Gabriel’s chest with a sigh. Warm. Trusting. Wrecked.

Gabriel hates himself in that moment.

Because he loves him.

Because Sam is too good for him.

Because he touched him too much, too soon, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to stop next time either.

Not when those gleaming shards keep begging for his healing touch.

Carefully he moves to slide his morning wood out of Sam's unconscious body. His poor baby is completely fucked out, having passed out sometime during their fuck fest.

Cursing at his lack of impulse control he bites his lip and moves his hips back a little more even as his cock throbs to do the opposite.

He's almost out, nothing but the plush tip left in when Sammy sleepily whimpers. His greedy hole that Gabriel's kept nice and tight with his grace gives a slutty little clench and drips .

Freezing, Gabriel stays where he's at, staring at the erotic vision.

And just like that, his shame burns out like a dying star.

Eyes trailing over Sam—his jaw, neck, the bruises all over where he lost control, had to stake some kind of claim even if it wasn't a permanent one. The line of his spine, taut and soft and perfect.

He feels it stir in him again—hunger, awe, the staggering weight of want wrapped in the unbearable truth that he would do it all over again if given the chance.

He kisses Sam’s shoulder, slow and reverent. Sam hums in his sleep, tilts his face toward the pillow, and Gabriel’s hand finds its way back to that hip like it belongs there -because it does.

He has a brief crisis of conscience...

Fuck it. Sammy needs this anyway...

Gently rolling his hips, he works his cock back in and out of Sam's clutching body as his still sleeping baby boy widens his legs, mouthing at the pillows. He's got one arm wrapped around Sam's waist, holding him close while the other hand slides up, fingers harshly rolling and pulling one of Sam's swollen nipples.

He presses closer, teeth brushing the back of Sam’s neck.

“Gonna have to forgive me Sam, I'm just not sorry enough.” Gabriel moans, needing more of Sam.

He’ll make up for this with worship.

With loyalty.

With the kind of devotion that goes down in legends for the lengths he'll go to to stay right here and keep Sam safe and happy in his arms forever.

Sam's body responds eagerly, his hole milking Gabriel's cock even in his sleep. Sam quietly keens, hips rocking. Gabriel groans and picks up the pace, fucking into him harder and faster.

Still not waking up Sam's back arches and he comes with a whimper and grind, body striving to wrap around Gabriel like a vice, holding him deep.

Grace shivering in the pleasureful waves Sam's radiating, Gabriel snaps his fingers and Sam's cock fills again, rising up to his tummy as Gabriel fucks into him again.

" Sam, Sammy," Gabriel moans, unapologetically thrusting into him. " Need you to wake up, baby boy. Wake up for me. Wake up and come on daddy's cock."

Sam whines, eyes fluttering at the order trying to penetrate his sex fogged brain.

He's sore, and his head is pounding. But his insides are being rammed, and he's so full, so stretched, and it feels so good. Something thick is hitting all the right spots, making him see stars even as his eyes finally roll open and then back.

Sam is so close, so fucking close and it's deep in him. There's a cock deep in him and he's a good boy so he needs to cum and be filled like the slut he is.

He's still out of it, but his body is whole heartedly responding because after last night?

That thick cock owns him .

Crying out, he wakes up and cums so hard he almost blacks out again, clenching down and savoring how full he is until his lust fogged brain is able to think past his owner's cock to remember whose it is. Every part of his body, sensitive and erect, shakes as Sam has another small orgasmimmediately because -oh, oh, it's Gabriel's cock!

Gabriel, who is merciless, just how Sam's aching hole craves, continuously fucking him, making him writhe and whimper and wonder helplessly if he's been fucking Sam's defenseless body all night. Sam's cock, fueled by the grace lighting up his every nerve ending, gets hard again at the images of his naughty angel violating and remolding him even in his sleep.

Shivering, he gasps and pants, somehow so fucking close again and he's bawling.

Waking mind thrown into the addictive deep end by overwhelming pleasure, he moans brokenly. Gabriel chuckles and leans in to bite and suck on his ear.

"Morning baby. How are you feeling?"

He's so full, so stuffed, and it's perfect. His mind is mush, his thoughts are scattered.

"Good," he breathes, voice high and needy. "S'good, so good, don't ever stop."

Gabriel laughs, delighted, and fucks him harder, making him cry out and come again. This time as Sam is coming down from his high, hips still helplessly rocking, Gabriel decides to have mercy on him and doesn't make his cock rise again, just lets Sam keep his cock warm and snug inside Sam's messy hole.

Sniffly, Sam's brain finally starts somewhat processing the situation, and he realizes what they've been doing for god knows how long. Covering his face, cheeks flushed, he feels Gabriel deep in him where his body is screaming he belongs, and wants to curl up and die. Hips shuffling, he makes to move away from Gabriel's addictive cock but barely manages more than a shallow grind .

"Gabe," Sam whimpers, feeling embarrassed and shy now that he's awake. "You're- You're still-"

"In you," Gabriel purrs, rocking his hips, making Sam whimper as his insides are scraped.

Sam blushes, and hides his face in the pillow. "We- ."

"We what, sweetheart?"

Sam bites his lip, blushing harder as his mind slips and slides as hormones flood his overwrought mind. "I- we were supposed to go slow-? I think?" His cock drunk brain whines, suddenly not able to remember the many reasons that this wasn't supposed to happen yet, and certainly not like this.

Gabriel grins and rocks his hips again, making Sam shiver and shake . "Oh, baby. There's nothing to be ashamed of. You're perfect. My perfect little slut."

Sam moans, "But- but I'm not-"

He tries to protest even as he can feel his traitorous body savoring that fat cock plugging his silly, greedy little hole. Whining as his insides throb even as his own cock fails to rise, he feels shameful, and hot.

"Not what?" Gabriel asks. His true form's talons cradle Sam's poor little soul that's begging to be soothed and distracted from just how broken it is. And Gabriel's going to -gonna take good care of all of Sam.

"A slut." Sam weakly protests, back arching, tongue out as he pants.

Gabriel laughs and rolls them over so that Sam is on top, straddling him. Sam's eyes widen, feeling that horribly devastating cock plunge even deeper inside him. It's pressing up against his swollen sweet spot and making him see stars!

Gabriel's hands find his hips, guiding him until he starts to move on his own, instinctually riding Gabriel's cock.

"You sure?" Gabriel purrs, smirking. "Your sweet ass says otherwise. It's gobbling me up like it's starving."

Sam whimpers and shakes his head, biting his lip. "It's not- I'm not-" He breaks off with a moan as Gabriel bucks his hips up, driving his cock even deeper, making Sam whimper and fall onto his chest, unable to hold himself up. Gabriel's strong hands grab his hips and start slamming him down on that delicious cock.

Sam's tongue lolls out, a line of drool dripping down his chin unchecked. His eyes are glazed over, lost in the pleasure, in the feel of Gabriel inside him, filling him up, making him whole.

Even though his dick remains limp and empty, Sam can feel something building in his insides, coiling tight in his stomach.

It's strange and terrifying and he feels like he's gonna piss himself.

Sam is shaking, sweating, panting. He's already come so much. His balls are empty, there can't possibly be anything left-! But Gabriel is relentless, fucking him hard and fast, biting his neck, his chest, his throbbing nipples that feel tenderized, making him sob and beg and plead.

When he finally cums, screaming, it bursts out of him, clear, intense, soaking them and further ruining sheets. It definitely looks like he's pissed himself and Sam might die of embarrassment if his brain wasn't a pile of mush. Gabriel just keeps going, fucking him through the blissful aftershocks. 

Snarling wetly in Sam's ear, Gabriel assures him, "Only sluts like you can squirt like a fucking fountain baby. "

Sam hiccups, tears running down his face. He's so tired, so sore, and it's absolutely fucking insane but even after all that,  his body wants more, more, more. Wants to be filled up and used, wants to be owned.

"Please," he begs, voice hoarse from screaming. "I can't- I can't-"

Gabriel chuckles, low and dark, and kisses his neck. "Shhh. Sure you can baby, I'll help you."

He snaps his fingers. Sam's eyes widen as he feels his insides quivering, even more sensitive, aching and desperate to be claimed, to be bred.

Sam wails, weakly thrashing, trying to escape, but Gabriel holds him down, keeps him on his cock, keeps him pinned, trapped. The higher Sam's pleasure ratchets the more Gabriel can actually see his little soul shards clustering together on their own. Eyes widening, he pours his grace into them, helping them glue themselves, and then pushes Sam further into bliss, because if this is what helps him save Sam? Stops his soul from possibly fading?

Why the fuck would he ever stop?

"Be a good boy, and give me another show, hm? Wanna feel you squeeze me dry with that pretty little pussy, baby." He snarls, determined and heated from the pleasurable loop he's maintaining between his grace and Sam's gorgeous soul.

Sam freezes at the derogatory purr. Moans out a helpless, "Oh-!" As his ass- oh fuck, -his pussy, clenches around Gabriel's relentless cock. He's a man, he's not supposed to have a pussy-!

But that's not stopping his ass from acting like one. His head is spinning.

Gabriel croons, seeing how much the soul gleams at the term, and strokes his hips, his thighs. " Such a good girl Sammy... Love the way your cute lil pussy sucks my cock."

Sam's toes curl, and he cries, overwhelmed, confused. It's wrong. It's so, so wrong. But his body is responding to every filthy word, every touch, every command. His ass- his pussy is clenching, milking Gabriel's cock, cum ming again as the angel cums too, pumping him full, leaving his mind a melty mess.

Completely exhausted and spent, he passes out.

Again.

Chapter Text

Sam wakes up slow.

Everything hurts—but in the best kind of way. His muscles are warm and loose, skin hypersensitive. His thighs ache, his everything is bruised -even his ankles have teeth marks, and there’s an unfamiliar, smug weight wrapped around him like the world’s cockiest security blanket.

A hand strokes over his hip. Gentle. Possessive.

Then a nose nuzzles behind his ear and a purr ghosts against his skin:
“Good morning, Samshine.”

For one blissed-out second, everything feels perfect. Then memory slams into him and Sam groans, face burying in the pillow.

Because holy hell, they had a lot of sex.

More than should be humanly possible.

But apparently that metric doesn’t apply when your partner’s an archangel with no respect for human limits.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sam mutters into the pillow, voice muffled and pained. It’s unclear if he’s talking to Gabriel or himself. Possibly both.

He’s never done anything like this before. Ever. And he really doesn’t know what possessed him to let Gabriel go that far.

“Oh—too much?” Gabriel asks, instantly soft, mouth brushing the shell of his ear with ridiculous delicacy. It sends a shiver through Sam’s sore, overstimulated body.

Honestly?

Yeah. It was too much.

But also… kinda amazing.

“No—I mean. Yeah. But also… not really?” Sam stammers, voice hoarse, brain scrambled. “I—uh. Just… sore. Everywhere.”

Gabriel’s hand stills. His voice gentles, a concerned murmur close to Sam’s temple:
“You want me to heal you?”

Sam inhales, then exhales slowly. He shakes his head, just a little, and mumbles, “No. No, it’s fine. I just… give me a minute.”

Every bruise, every bite, aches in a way that’s almost grounding. Like proof.

Proof that Gabriel’s still here.

That this time, he’s staying.

He better be—after doing this to Sam’s body. Because now, even in the quiet aftermath, Sam already feels that restless emptiness creeping in. Like his skin remembers the touch and doesn’t know what to do without it.

He tries to ignore it.

He can't just lie in bed all day hanging off Gabriel's cock. 

...Except that’s exactly what he just did.

Pushing down the absurd temptation to go another round, Sam grabs the nearest shirt and tugs it over his chest—wincing slightly as it brushes over his aching nipples and the stupidly perky aftermath of Gabriel’s attention to them.

“Going to shower,” he mutters, cheeks flushing, voice rough and sandpaper-soft.

He swings his legs off the bed and starts to stand—only for his knees to immediately give out beneath him.

Helplessly splayed, he feels his hole leak onto the floor. It's filthy. He has the overwhelming urge to push it back in...

Fuck.

He's never been this horny in his life. Cheeks aflame, he tries to pull himself together, but it takes a moment. He can’t move. Doesn’t think his legs will support him.

He can feel Gabriel watching him. Judging him. Probably laughing at him.

He wants to crawl under the covers and never come out. Instead, he grits his teeth and turns to glare at the angel, who is indeed, sitting propped up on the bed, looking supremely smug. There's a glint in his eye.

Something that makes Sam's heart pound. His swollen rim tingles.

"You okay baby?" Gabriel coos, leaning forward.

"I'm fine!" Sam squeaks, wrapping himself in the blanket and scrambling to the bathroom.

Once inside, he locks the door. Then, breathing hard, he drops the blanket, and removes his abrasive shirt. Limping towards the shower, he freezes. Stares at his reflection in the mirror, blinking in disbelief.

His eyes trail over his long limbs. The bruises and bites littering his neck, his chest, his hips- his puffy nipples. There's dried cum on his belly, and a mess that's sliding down his leg

He looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight is a punch to the gut.

It's hot. Really fucking hot, to his utter mortification. Every inch of him screams that a certain someone got their hands on him, and had their wicked way.

That same someone is currently back in the bedroom lying on the bed waiting for him. Probably planning to ruin him in new, inventive ways, because whatever Gabriel breaks he's fully capable of fixing it.

If only so he can break it again.

The thought should horrify him. What happened last night was wild and crazy. They went at each other like animals, and that's not him. At least, it wasn't. Before.

But the way Gabriel had touched him, and fucked him, and owned him... Nobody has ever made him feel like that. And no one else will ever be able to. Only Gabriel with his ridiculous misusing of celestial power.

Examining himself for any serious damage, he isn't surprised to not find anything beyond the superficial but continues looking anyway.

Cheeks burning, Sam's trembling fingers reach back towards his aching hole. It's swollen and red and so sensitive he can hardly stand it. Tentatively, he touches it and his knees buckle again, leaving him clinging to the sink to keep himself upright. The sensation is intense, almost painful and so good he can't help but press again.

Again. Again. Until he's shaking and panting. Fingers rubbing his dripping rim, he teases himself until the heated caress becomes unbearable and painstakingly stops.

He needs to shower so he can be clean enough to pretend he didn't spend the last however many hours getting his insides wrecked like -like a slut...

A dirty little slut who needs to clean all the cum out of his pus- .

Flushing, Sam shakes his head, cutting off the dangerous, slippery slope his thoughts are taking. Thoughts that are a direct result of the words Gabriel was growling in his ear for hours. He's not a woman, and he doesn't have a pussy. He's a man, he just has an asshole that likes to get pounded by-

Nope. Not going there. Shower. Now.

With a low whine, Sam pulls his hand away from his hole, and heads to the shower. Turning the tap, he waits for the water to heat up. When it's warm enough, he gets in and lets the spray wash over him and lets it soothe him.

Tries to relax, anyway. It's difficult, being alone. Being empty...

Whimpering, Sam grabs for the shower head, bends over, and spreads himself.

Shaking, he presses the spray to his entrance. With a choked moan, his knees hit the tiled wall.

He's just -just making sure its all clean .

That all the cum is out.

That's the reason he's standing here, spreading himself so the water can go further, deeper-

That's the reason he's moaning, pushing the detachable shower head closer. Feeling the hot water blast and swirl inside him. Whimpering when the angle is just right in his gaping ass.

Not because he loves being filled to the brim. No. Never. Because that would make him a-

"Hnnn-!" He cries out, back arching, cumming as he turns up the pressure. Fingers shaking, Sam controls himself, puts the shower head back up, watching the water wash the sticky evidence away.

He's done getting sidetracked.

Completely, totally done, and moving on to the next task. Because his insides are clean, so now he can continue with his shower and ignore how his puffy pussy- no, fuck! He doesn't have a pussy, it's his asshole that's throbbing.

Turning around, he washes his hair and body, even as his body is begs him to turn around, to spread his legs, to open his aching, needy hole and fill it with the showerhead again and again and aga-

His fingers slide over one aching nipple, and suddenly he's gotta tug at them.

Moaning and whimpering his hips twitch. Sam's a fucking mess, he can't control himself, and damn it he's gonna need a cold shower. But first, a few more moments of indulgence. A few more sweet, aching, rubs of his hardened nubs. A few more minutes to enjoy the burn, the sting, the throb and pulse of his empty hole that's begging to be stuffed full of-

Fingers. That's what he's using. That's what's cramming itself in his empty, needy hole. His fingers. Two of his own thick fingers. Groaning, he adds a third, fucking them into his slick hole.

They're not big or thick enough, and Sam is- he's desperate. Shakily he reaches for his slim shampoo bottle, presses the base of it to his mouthing entrance, then freezes.

He shouldn't do this, shouldn't-!

Squirming, his hole clenches, hungry, and before he can stop to think about it, he pushes the slender end of the bottle into his tight heat, and throws his head back in bliss, muffling his moan. He's panting, his eyes are watering, and his thighs are shaking, but it's not nearly enough. Impatiently, he shoves the rest of the bottle in. Gasping and grinding his hips, feeling the smooth surface slip and scrape against his clenching walls.

He fucks himself on the slippery, unyielding hardness. Imagining that it's Gabriel, and he's- he's a good girl.

It's not the same. He's not being held down and forced to take a dick that's too big, too much, and that won't leave him no matter what. It's a poor imitation, but that's better than nothing. Biting his lip to keep his moans silent, he fucks the bottle in and out of his aching hole, until the pleasurable pounding builds to something sharper. Sam's brain is melting, and he can't- he can't- can't-!

Sam whimpers, and his hips jerk, painting his thighs. But his needy little pussy still wants more, more, more.

Trembling and weak in the aftermath, he leans against the wall, and slides the filthy bottle from his pulsating insides, savoring the tug, hips twitching. Flushing, he stares at it, shame burning in his gut.

This isn't right. He can't be doing this. He can't be fantasizing about-!

About having a cunt. Being fucked. Used. Taking it like a good girl.

This is all Gabriel's fault! He's the reason why Sam's acting like some kind of, of nymphomaniac. Why his aching, throbbing ass feels wrong and strange and bad, and yet, also so, so, good... His body has been corrupted, and it's dragging him down with it.

Hastily washing the bottle off, he guiltily shoves it back on the shelf and scrubs away the latest mess and finishes his shower.

Once he's finished, he towels off, hands shaking.

He's- he's not gonna be able to resist this. To hold himself together and act normal. Especially not when all he can think about is crawling back into bed and begging Gabriel to fuck him.

Or at least get his mouth on him again. Slick, and hot, pulling at his nipples like he's suckling at them -like he can drink from them, and that shouldn't be such a turn on, but it is.

His hands come up, fingers gently tracing them, and Sam can't help giving a pathetic whine, pinching harshly.

Something warm and wet drips down his chest, and for a moment he thinks it's just leftover water from the shower until he looks down. Gasping in aroused horror, he sees white fluid beading out of his stiff nipples.

What the fuck.

Trembling, he pinches and tugs, and watches milk dribble down his chest.

With a disturbed, high pitched keen, he lets his stiff, lactating nipples go. Shortly after he feels a strange, tugging sensation below, like a hand being dragged between his legs and suddenly he feels even more open and empty in his body, followed by a thick, gushing sensation.  

He looks lower, and his brain goes offline at the sight.

Unfortunately for him, where his dick used to be there's a dripping pussy.

He still looks like a man everywhere else, but clearly he isn't. Something in his mind snaps, horror and painful arousal mixing as shaking hands drift down his bare stomach.

Needing a better view, he looks in the mirror anxiously spreading his newest addition for a better look.

There's a swollen mound of flesh nestled at the apex of his trembling thighs, and in the middle of the cleft, a hard, red, nub, peeking out from beneath its hood. Tearing his eyes away from his newly exposed clit, his gaze continues downwards, towards the opening hidden in the swollen folds. It's glistening, and his breath catches at the realization that he's leaking.

That's a lot of slick, and its- its dripping from a pretty, rosy, and achingly empty pussy.

This can't be real.

And yet- all it takes is one hard, fumbling press to the twitching clit to see if it's some sick hallucination, and then his pussy is obviously so happy to have been born it cums.

Hard.

Back arching, a desperate, keening sound escapes his throat. Sam is a squirming mess, clinging to the sink and staring at the ceiling, while his aching, greedy cunt bursts, spraying deliriously down his freshly washed thighs and all over the floor.

Dazed and struggling to catch his breath, Sam realizes he really did just cream himself. From touching his clitoris, his clit. His oh-so-sensitive clit that he has now.

Shivering, a hand comes to his mouth, and his eyes are wide, aroused, and horrified.

This isn't happening! He can't have a pussy! He's a man, and men don't have-!

-This is Gabriel's fault.

The thought burns through the teary haze, and Sam's cheeks flush. Of course it is. Who else's would it be? He's the only one who's ever had the power to alter Sam's entire sex in the first place. Or the balls to actually do it, without asking, or even fucking telling him.

That bastard-!

Stumbling to his feet, large towel wrapped around his whole body, Sam staggers down the hall and yanks the bedroom door open, demanding, "Gabriel!"

"Sam?" Gabriel's already on his feet, looking concerned. He's naked, and beautiful, and his cock is soft and hanging between his powerful thighs. The mere sight of it makes Sam's traitorous pussy throb.

But that's irrelevant. Because his dick is gone, and that's the problem here.

"Turn me back," Sam growls.

"Turn you back?" Gabriel frowns, confused. Then, his expression shifts to concern, and he steps forward, reaching to touch Sam's face. "Baby, what are you talking about-"

"Don't touch me," Sam hisses, jerking his head to avoid the contact. He's too sensitive, and he can't afford to let his defenses down. Can't allow his body to distract him from his objective. Which is to have his own cock and balls back. Not this- this thing that's currently oozing down his leg, and making his knees weak. Making him want to throw his arms and legs around his lover, grind his needy new slit against that perfect, veiny length until they both cum and- and-!

Fuck. Fuck. Fu-

"I mean it, turn me back!" Sam snarls, stepping out of reach. "You made my di- my old parts disappear, and I need you to give them back."

"Your old parts," Gabriel echoes, his voice sounding hollow and flat. Like he doesn't understand. His eyes widen, and he laughs. Laughs. Then his gaze is raking over him, pausing at the juncture of his thighs.

"Well aren't you a kinky little bitch? I mean I made it so your body could adapt to your wants and needs... But did you grow an actual pussy for me to fuck baby?"

"What-? How would I-?" Confused as to how it suddenly became his fault he turned out like this, Sam grits his teethand protests, "I didn't- ! This wasn't- You did this to me!"

"You did that yourself, Sammy," Gabriel replies, rolling his eyes. "If you didn't want a cute little kitty cat, why the hell would you make one?"

"But- that doesn't-," Sam stammers, caught completely off guard. "No! You're the one who called my ass a pussy!"

"And you certainly were acting like you had one, weren't you, princess," Gabriel grins, stalking closer, and his tone lowers to a purr. "So, if I bend you over now, will I find a tight, pink, virgin cunt waiting for me to pound it into submission?"

"No!" Sam shrieks, backing away. "Absolutely not-! you took away my-," he swallows, his cheeks flaming, "my cock. And I want it back. Right now."

Gabriel sighs like Sam is being the unreasonable one, "Sammy. Baby, if you wanted a dick you'd have one, that's how this works now. Seeing as you don't...."

He grabs at the towel and Sam squeaks, holds onto it tighter, fighting him. But Gabriel is stronger, and faster, and he's determined. He tears the fabric from Sam's grasp and lets it fall to the floor, leaving Sam exposed. Feeling his cheeks heat, Sam covers himself with his hands, trying to hide the milk beading from his nipples and his new, gaping, needy slit.

Gabriel stares, frozen in place.

"Sweet merciful Fuck." He whispers, voice hoarse. Then, his gaze lifts to Sam's, and his golden eyes are bright, blazing. Hungry. "Sam. You've gotta let me..."

"W-What-?" Sam pants, nervous.

"Let me have you," Gabriel steps close, his mouth brushing the shell of his ear, making him shiver. "Come on, I know you want to show me that pretty new cunt of yours."

"No, I don't-"

"Baby, come on, please," he wheedles, and the way he says it makes something twist low in Sam's belly. Something hot and sweet and aching. His pussy is throbbing, and his heart is racing, and Gabriel's hands are on his hips, his thumbs tracing the crease of his inner thigh. So, so close to that aching space. "I'll make it so good for you. All you've gotta do is say yes."

Sam whimpers, his willpower crumbling. It's impossible to ignore the effect that Gabriel's having on him. The way his insides are quivering. The ache that's building, deep and low, a twisting knot of need that's growing harder and harder to deny.

Silently, he gives a nervous jerk of his head.

Gabriel's reaction is immediate. Pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, his teeth scraping the delicate skin. One of his hands slides down, fingers reach out to circle his dripping entrance. His hips buck and he whines, biting his lip.

Gabriel asks, smirking, "How many times did you cum in the shower, sweetheart?"

"I-," Sam starts to deny, then stops. Swallows. Inhales, and tries again. "...Twice. I think. Maybe three times. I'm not sure, okay-?"

Gabriel hums, pleased, and keeps petting the swollen folds, teasing him. He's going to lose his mind, he's gonna die from frustration. He's shaking, his knees are weak, and his stomach is doing somersaults.

Then, those clever fingers slide inside, and his thoughts go blank.

"Look at that," Gabriel croons. "Your slutty, greedy little pussy is so wet, baby. Practically sucking my fingers in. Feels good doesn't it?"

"Nnooo-!" Sam mewls, even as his standing legs shuffle wider, knees bending as he grinds down onto Gabriel's fingers.

His dribbling hole says he's a liar.

"Oh, Sammy," Gabriel purrs, leaning in and kissing his abs. "Don't lie to yourself," He bites down on Sam's hip, making him cry out. "Just admit it. Admit that you're a slutty little bitch who's addicted to cock. That's what you are, isn't it, baby? Say it, Sam. Say, 'I'm a slut.'"

Sam sobs, shaking his head.

"Say it," Gabriel orders, and Sam's hips jerk, throbbing deeply at the commanding tone. He's aching to be filled, and he knows that Gabriel's cock is the only thing that will satisfy him. Gabriel drags one dripping nipple into his mouth, suckling, and Sam keens, arching his back as he drinks Sam's milk.

His pussy is clenching around Gabriel's hand, trying to suck the thick fingers in deeper, to get them to hit all the new addictive spots in his brand new hole.

"Please," Sam begs, voice broken. "I need you to fill me up. Ram that cock deep in me until I can taste it! I'm begging you, please fuck me-!"

Gabriel grins. "As you wish, princess." He kisses him, hard and bruising, and Sam melts into the filthy claiming kiss, letting himself be dominated.

Suddenly Gabriel's cock is pushing up into his sopping virgin cunt with a long wet squelch that drives Sam insane from embarrassment even as he gives a delighted, "Ho-ohhhhh~! Hnnn-!" and eagerly swallows the thick length.

Moaning, he cants his hips closer as what he's sure should be a painful first plunge is just a delicious stretch that makes his pussy throb harder. No doubt thanks to whatever the fuck Gabriel did to his poor body.

He's so wet, so open, and he's never felt anything like this before. It's perfect, and it's exactly what he never knew he needed. Core gushing, Sam lets himself fall into that dirty rush all over.

Gabriel's balls slap against him, and Sam wails as his pussy milks Gabriel's cock, trying to keep him inside, -keep him deep. He's aching, he's burning, and he needs his womb plugged and painted white.

"Fuck, baby, you're so tight," Gabriel groans, setting a brutal pace that has Sam's legs lifting to wrap around the the shorter man, archangel strength keeping them standing as his nails dig into Gabriel's shoulders leaving red marks as he hangs off cock.

"Your pussy is so perfect. So pretty and all for me, hm, sweetheart? My good girl, -gonna fuck your slutty brains out. Make a mess of your gorgeous cunt." He's babbling, grin wide and predatory.

Sam is sobbing, his insides are molten, his tits and cunt are leaking everywhere, and then suddenly there's another cock entering his ass and both of his greedy holes are full.

Deliriously he looks down to see Gabriel has grown a second cock and is using it to fuck Sam's ass pussy and pussy at the same time.

His mind blanks, and then his mouth falls open, and he screams, orgasm hitting him like a freight train, his whole body seizing up. Pussies convulsing, he dribbles down Gabriel's crotch and thighs. Sobbing and so fucking full, he feels his tummy bulging, stretched around that thick hot rod.

Tired and aching, Sam passes out. Again.

But it's all okay, -because Gabriel will take care of him.

Chapter Text

Sam wakes slowly, blinking against the haze. Warmth surrounds him—blankets clinging to his damp chest, a strong arm wrapped firmly around his waist. He realizes he’s been pulled into Gabriel’s lap, his body cradled close like something precious.

Everything feels... strange.

There’s a deep throb inside him, slow and insistent. He’s too dazed to resist it at first, too steeped in comfort and heat to care.

“Sammy?”

Gabriel’s voice is close—too close—and when Sam blinks again, it’s to find golden eyes inches from his own, worry etched into the archangel’s face.

Sam’s gaze drops to his mouth.

He wants to kiss him.

Gabriel makes a soft, concerned noise. “Sam? What’s wrong?”

Sam frowns, trying to shake off the fog clouding his thoughts. “Nothing.”

Gabriel doesn’t buy it for a second.

When Sam starts to squirm away, something flickers—and Gabriel feels it like a blade under his ribs as Sam’s soul dims. Just slightly, but enough to make him tense.

That's not allowed.

Sam can’t dim. If he fades again, even a little, Gabriel could lose everything he’s worked for. He could lose him.

Gabriel tightens his grip—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady. To anchor.

“Sammy,” he says, firmer now, “what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Sam bites his lip, cheeks pinkening. “Just…”

“Just what?” Gabriel presses, more gently, though a thread of desperation hums beneath his voice. This whole process is still so fragile.

Sam’s soul is a shattered thing, agony baked into every shard. Even the pieces brushing against one another cause pain—let alone Gabriel’s careful sorting, trying to find what still fits.

And he’s not telling Sam about any of it. He can’t. There’s nothing Sam can do to change how fragile he is now, and Gabriel refuses to burden him with that weight. Not when even a flicker of fear or sadness could send everything unraveling again. Negativity doesn’t just hurt—it hastens the crumbling.

So Gabriel will carry it alone. Smile. Pretend he's not in a constant state of borderline panic waiting for the levee to give. It had started to seem hopeless.

Until last night.

Until he saw it—felt it—happen. As he and Sam moved together, body and soul wrapped in shared pleasure, the fragments had shifted. Soaked in endorphins, soothed by grace, the shards had begun to roll into one another—weakly sticking into faint, remembered clusters. Gabriel had poured more grace into them to hold the pieces in place before they could scatter again.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

For the first time, there was light at the end of the tunnel. He could save Sam—if he could just keep him happy enough. Blissful enough. Pleasured enough to let the healing work.

So no. Sam isn’t allowed to dim. Isn’t allowed to spiral or slip.

Not now. Not when there’s finally a way out.

“Tell me,” Gabriel urges.

Sam exhales, low and shaky, ducking his head. “I don’t know. I just… I feel weird.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow slightly, bracing. “Weird how? Like sick, or—?”

“No!” Sam blurts, eyes flying up to meet his. “No, not like that. Just…”

His gaze drops again. His voice softens to a near-whisper.

“I’m… hot. And… sensitive.”

Like maybe if he says it softly enough, it won’t be true.

But it is.

He’s been like this since waking—burning with it—and the longer he tries to ignore it, the worse it gets. It pulses through him like a slow, hungry fire. Every breath, every twitch of muscle makes it worse.

Gabriel freezes. Then his expression softens—slowly morphing into something warm and wolfish.

“Aww, it’s okay, baby,” he coos, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers slide into Sam’s hair—then give a gentle, playful little tug now that he knows Sam's just embarrassed.

Sam’s breath hitches.

“It was a lot, huh, getting such a cute, hungry, little pussy. Can't believe you thought that was my idea. That's a hell of a kink you got there, Sammy." Gabriel croons. His mind had been blown when he'd clocked onto what Sam had done to himself. Talk about buried desires. If Sam's into that, who knows what else he'll be up for.

"Shut up," Sam mumbles, flushing darker. He can't help it. Thanks to Gabriel's naughty tricks, Sam's body is changing, adapting to the role his traitorous mind seems to want to play. What his body is apparently telling him he wants. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Oh yeah. Absolutely, one of the worst," Gabriel agrees. Moving Sam around in his lap, he spreads the human's trembling legs. Nuzzling against his throat he murmurs, “But I'm your asshole right Sammy?"

Sam hears the hint of vulnerability in the question, and feels his heart twist. His eyes slip closed, and he nods. Because yes. Of course.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.” Sam's voice is rough and shaky. He turns his head, pressing his nose to Gabriel's shoulder and breathing in his scent.

"Still not too much right?" The smaller man asks, cautiously. "You can tell me when you need a break. If you're ever really hurting or uncomfortable, we can pause."

"I did ask for a break!" Sam whines. "And then you ruined me!"

He gestures at his body, at his swollen nipples and the cum trickling from his puffy, gaping hole. His entire being aches, and he's not sure if it's from the sex or the fact that Gabriel's no longer touching him. Not filling him with that thick, hard-

"Your soul didn't give me the safe word, babe." Gabriel snickers, tongue coming out to lick a long stripe from the hollow of his throat to his jaw. Sam shudders, and moans.

"That's-! That's not fair! How the hell is my soul gonna give a safe word?!" Sam argues, flustered.

"By looking less beckoning and sparkly," Gabe shrugs. His hands move up, thumbs rubbing his stiff, milk-filled buds. Sam gasps and writhes, hips rocking, feeling his insides clench and leak at the stimulation.

"Gabe, No-! How am I supposed to go about my day when my body just wants-!" He stops short. Not wanting to admit that the mere sight of Gabriel's naked, inhumanly powerful form is making him wetter than ever. That his nipples are aching and dripping and his empty, throbbing pussy is begging to be filled and used.

"Go on, Samshine, use your big boy words." Gabriel prompts, grinning.

"Fuck you," Sam grits out. He can't help the desperate need growing in his belly, nor the way his heart is racing, entire body crying out for Gabriel to take him. He's hot and wet and his clit is so sensitive it's like a switch, every brush of fabric, of the air, of his own hand, is enough to set him off.

"Say the magic word," Gabriel sings, pinching abused, swollen nipples. Hard. Sam cries out, and arches his back.

Stammering and whimpering, his hips twitch and he can't resist grinding on the archangel's thigh, shame and arousal mixing low in his gut as his his hips start that hypnotic dirty rocking motion.

"Gabriel, please," he begs, tears welling up in his eyes, trying to pull away.

"Please what, baby?" Gabriel purrs in his ear, nipping the lobe and holding Sam still in an iron-clad grasp.

Sam's cheeks are on fire.

"We can't keep going like this!" he pleads, voice breaking. "You have to turn my body back to normal again, before-!"

"Before what, Sammy?" Gabriel echoes. His tone is soft, cajoling. He runs a hand down Sam's spine, fingers dipping into the cleft of his ass and watching his glittering fragments dance. "C'mon. Say it. I wanna hear the words. Wanna hear you say it, nice and clear, baby. Don't get all bashful on me now."

Sam shudders, and whines, unable to think beyond the hungry throbbing within that's hijacking his brain, "Before I can't live without your cock! I already can't even think straight, and now I'm- I'm leaking from my tits and aching because you made me accidentally turn my dick into a pussy, and- and I'm a mess! I don't know how I'm gonna function like a normal human being unless we stop this before its too late!"

"Okay." Gabriel agrees.

Sam blinks back tears, surprised.

"But let's go one more time, yeah? One last time, and then we can do the whole slow dating and vanilla sex instead -Unless, of course, you ask for more..." Gabriel soothes. Lucifer was never as good as him when it came to temptation no matter what the humans decided. That jerk ass is like Mikey. Both a buncha brute force barbarians smashing things until they get their way.

Sam stares. It's a terrible idea. If he lets Gabriel fuck him even one more time there's a very real possibility that he won't ever be able to stop.

He should say no, should push the angel back and run far, far away, but he can't. His heart won't let him because he loves this idiot. And his pussy- his stupid, insatiable pussy- is already drooling and clenching in anticipation.

"One last time...?" He croaks, licking his dry lips. "And then you'll turn me back?"

"One last time." Gabriel promises, smile wicked -knowing.

"Okay." Sam breathes, nodding along like an idiot. Bending over on trembling legs he reaches back and spreads himself so Gabriel gets a good view of his absolutely dripping insides. The movement's instinctual, and his cheeks heat at the mortifying realization that it's already too late. There won't be any going back to normal.

Not after this.

Helplessly, he looks down to the sight of his little clit standing fully erect, cunt oozing onto the floor. He whimpers, humiliated. It's an obscene show, but he can't bring himself to stop presenting the lewd, gushing slit, hips giving a slow, rolling grind.

His mind has cracked and split open, just like the slick, soft, valley of trembling flesh between his thighs, leaving room for Gabriel's cock to carve in his new purpose in life.

Gabriel's gaze is heavy, eyes roaming over his gorgeous lover, drinking in the view. He's never going to stop wanting more. Anything, everything he can pull from Sam. Lifting Sam's ass higher he shoves his tongue deep into Sammy's sweet hole, wriggling and stretching him wide. Thighs shaking, Sam clamps down around his golden blonde locks as his clit, new and still unused to any stimulation, is relentlessly harassed.

Sam's entire world narrows down to the wet, slick heat ravaging him. The way Gabriel's holding him in place, fingers reaching, burrowing deep into his ass while he eats Sam out. It's obscene, it's filthy and Sam's never felt anything so fucking good in his life.  

Too much, too fast, and not nearly enough.

The sounds pouring from his slack mouth are nothing short of animalistic. He can feel the pressure building, can feel his orgasm approaching, and tries to hold it off, to prolong the pleasure, but it's no use. The moment Gabriel's tongue presses up, curling over his g- spot in a filthy lap, he's lost.

He comes with a choked sob, whole body shaking. Gabriel doesn't even pause, just keeps pushing him from one peak to the next, and the next. Until the muscles in his abdomen are cramping and his legs are numb, and his voice is hoarse from screaming.

"Gabe, Gabe, no more-!" he sobs, trying to crawl away, but the hand in his ass is merciless, crooked fingers keeping him hooked in place.

Finally, Gabriel stops, pulling his tongue out with a raunchy suck. "You ready for me, Sammy?"

"You can't!" he babbles, but his traitorous hole is aching to have that curved cock scraping his insides.

"But I promised, baby," Gabriel grins, razor-sharp and predatory. Hands sliding down, he cups Sam's belly. "One more time right? Just one more, and then it's all over."

Teasingly, a plush, dribbling cock head is rubbed in gentle circles over his labia, then pressed so the tip is being mouthed by his bubbling opening. Sam's breath hitches, pussy trying to suck the length of him in, to keep him buried there, balls-deep where he belongs.

"Please," he whines, not sure what he's asking for. To stop? To keep going-?

"Anything for you, princess," Gabriel swears, and then the thick, fat, bulbous head is piercing him, the rest of that gorgeous length following, filling him to the brim.

There's no room in his head for anything but the way his whole cunt is savoring Gabriel's cock. Nothing else matters, nothing else exists. Everything is centered on the feeling of that heavenly shaft splitting him apart, and the way his walls are spasming, trying to squeeze and milk the length.

Sam's entire body clenches, his eyes rolling back as his lover's fingers expertly pinch and knead his clit, the hood pulled back to expose his throbbing bud and rolling it -pr essing until he's cumming and coming undone.

Mouth open and eyes unfocused, the noises spilling from his mouth are inhuman and guttural, pussy and nipples gushing, white hot liquid like a faucet.

Gabriel's hands move, turning him over to grip the backs of his knees, before easily bending him in half, driving his cock deeper, harder. Sam's body seizes, clamping down on the monstrous prick.

"You- you said one time," Sam sobs. "I-I already came- !"

"That wasn't what we agreed on baby, we said one more round," Gabriel laughs, relieved to see all the trembling little clusters of soul clumping together into tiny gleaming flowers. His grace tingles where it meshes with them, crackling and making him dig talons beneath the bunkers foundations. "I still haven't cum yet..."

Shoving Sam's ankles towards his ears, his cock swells and drives in impossibly further, the head of it nudging against his cervix, and then, to Sam's shock and horror, somehow, painlessly popping through, and into his womb. "So don't pass out on me Sammy."

"Hnnn-ah-?!" Sam wails, toes curling. He can feel the blunt, hot, flared edge being gobbled up by his deepest parts, and the sensation is indescribable.

Tears slide down his flushed cheeks, and Gabriel's face looms over his, kissing them away, before moving to his throat, teeth scraping and sinking, marking him. Claiming him. Making him his.

"Don't you want my cum in your belly, baby?" he asks, voice low and husky, and god, yes, that's exactly what Sam wants. He wants to have his insides drenched.

"Oh-! Yes!" he moans, and his entire body seizes up, his toes curling, hips bucking, pussy clenching for it. "Gotta cum. In me-!" He gasps, and the words are spilling from his lips, but he doesn't know why he's saying them.

Sam's vision blurs with heated tears, brain struggling to remind him that this isn't supposed to be happening. He's not supposed to be doing this, he shouldn't have agreed to even one more round because he's passing the point of no return, can't do anything except take that fat cock, and babble.

He really should have insisted on his body being turned back, because now? Now this is his pussy. His filthy hole that needs to be fucked.

The thought makes his skin break out in goosebumps. He's addicted to the way Gabriel is fucking him, the way his body is reacting, the mortifying sounds of his own sloppy hole.

His words slurred and running together as he waits for that hot splash inside. "Fill me up-!"

Gabriel leans in, bites his ear, and growls, "I will when you cum on my cock."

He gives up.

Completely and utterly, pussy convulsing as it submits in a wet spray.

His insides are burning, his clit is a stiff, pulsing bead, and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst. But none of that matters, because Gabriel is cumming too, slamming into him with a wet, meaty smack that makes his ears burn.

Thick, molten ropes coat his abused, aching walls, painting his insides. It's messy and gross, and the best thing Sam has ever experienced.

Sam's mouth falls open in a silent scream, tongue lolling, back bowing. There's a deep, aching throb, as his greedy little pussy cums again, doing its best to slurp up every last drop from Gabriel's spurting cock.

Barely conscious, he registers Gabriel pulling out, and a warm, wet towel cleaning him. The sensations make his body shudder and twitch, his pussy giving another weak pulse, drooling onto the bedspread.

A thumb runs along the rim of his gaping hole in a sticky, petting motion.

"Let's get you a nice thick plug. Don't want you to feel empty, right, Sammy?"

"Mmmhm ," he agrees, distantly. Then realization makes him whimper at his own depravity, -of the fact that he's not arguing, that his first reaction was to agree. Squirming helplessly, he pleads, "No, wait-!"

Fingers slip between his thighs, sliding over his swollen slit, then sinking in and toying around just because he can, because Gabriel owns him. The contact is too much, yet not enough, and Sam just shakes through the strange petting strokes and takes it. Gabriel doesn't make any move to go further, just keeps Sam open and worked up as he plays.

"Shhh ... You need something in there, baby. Can't have you dripping everywhere." If he just keeps making Sam feel good he can save him that much faster. Bonus? He gets to watch Sammy writhe and grope that huge battered soul of his into a glorious feedback loop that's driving them both insane the longer he has contact with it.

For the first time in his existence he's starting to understand what it means to get addicted. He wants to leave hand prints down to the soul. Wants to fuse them together until he can't tell where he starts and Sam ends. 

It's too soon for that, but he can do something else...

"Nnhh- Aahn- But-!" Sam weakly tries, even as his body shudders and clenches in agreement. It's terrifying and wrong, but he can't bring himself to pull away from the touch. Not when the angel is circling the tender, swollen nub of his clit and telling him things that are making him melt and cream himself again despite how thoroughly his insides have been reamed already. 

It's not fair.

Sam is dazed so he hardly registers Gabriel's hands sliding under him to lift him, doesn't even realize that his hole is spreading and that something is being pushed inside. Not until it's already burrowing deep in his belly. Sam's eyes widen and his hips buck, a whimper leaving him because that's not a dildo, that's-!

"Is that-?" He whines, can't finish the question, because there's no need, and his body is responding, trembling at the sheer obscenity, because that's his lover's disembodied cock plugging him up.

Keeping him full and ready, so that Gabriel can fuck him whenever he wants to. Anywhere and anytime. And oh, the way his pussy throbs and twitches at that thought is mortifying and thrilling in equal measure. "Gabe-! That's not a toy-!"

"Yep." Gabriel says, patting Sam's ass, and pressing the base of his duplicate deeper. He can't fuse them yet but he can leave bits of himself in Sam, and for now that'll have to be enough...

It's nowhere even close. He wants it all. Every last speck of Sam Winchester, and until he can have them-? 

He's starving over a buffet.

Smirking to cover the need to snarl and devour his mortal whole, he offers, "Just a copy of me to keep you all filled and happy so you can relax."

Cheeks aflame, Sam whimpers in humiliation, and his whole body flushes at the thought of having to go out in public full of cock.

"Nnnooo," he keens, hips twitching. Gabriel's hands are big and warm, and they're rubbing his tummy where the head of the dick is bulging, his womb a stretched, heated curve. Shifting his legs, his clit pulses, and suddenly his entire body clenches. "Oh~!" He cries out, and then moans, feeling his insides quivering.

His nipples are tingling and damp, and his cunt- his stupid, hungry lower mouth- is sucking and pulsating in a slow, syrupy orgasm that leaves his limbs heavy and his mind blank, as it tries to gobble the cock in him even deeper.

"There's a good girl, Sammy," Gabriel viciously coos, praising.  "Doesn't that feel better, hm? Your cute little pussy all stuffed and happy?"

The words are embarrassing and humiliating and Sam hates that the sound of them makes his cunt dribble around the cock's base. Sam can't even argue, can't do anything except lie there, and let the angel slide a hand between his thighs, and stroke his swollen, drooling sex.

Arms coming up Sam crosses them over his flaming face. He's a mess. Sweat slides down the curve of his spine, his insides pulsing in aftershocks that have him squirming. A terrifying part of himself is rapidly caving in to this degrading treatment, and he knows he should just reach down and tug the thick cock out.

But his body is louder, more insistent, and the idea of not having a dick in him is unbearable. Loves the feel of that curved, fat length keeping him spread open.

It's disgusting, and his treacherous body is loving every second of it, getting off on the vulnerable feeling of the monster of a cock just resting idly in his belly.

So when Gabriel palms and rocks the base, Sam doesn't protest. Just whines, bites his lip, and eagerly takes it.  

"So perfect," the archangel murmurs, lips warm and soft against skin. Wings surrounding them on all sides, he nuzzles into Sam's nape and groans, "Mine."

Fingers curl, one pressing inside Sam along the angel's cock, and the stretch is delicious. Sam moans, and then the pad of that fingertip is massaging his g-spot.

"C'mon, Sammy," the angel whispers, determinedly driving them both further over the edge. "Be a good girl, and keep cumming for daddy."

And oh, that should not be hot. But it is.

His cunt clamps tight on the thick, veiny shaft plugging him, and his poor, overstimulated cunt pulses and squirts leaving them both shuddering.

Sam has a hard time relaxing during their 'break '

He's not sure how long he sleeps, but he wakes to still roving hands over his quivering body. Proprietary, and familiar. Fully confident of his right to do so. The haze of contentment dissipates, his nerves returning in a rush.

This is bad. Very, very bad. Gabriel is touching him like Sam's his property, and his body is agreeing.

"Couldn't keep my hands off," Gabriel chuckles.

His tone is soft and would almost be soothing, if it weren't for the filthy way his hand is moving, dragging a slick, slimy finger through Sam's folds, prodding at his sore, loose entrance.

"I don't need to sleep and I got bored... Had to occupy myself somehow."

The words are horrifying in their implications and yet Sam is helpless to stop the rush of arousal that floods him.

"Did you-?" Sam swallows breathily. "Did you molest me in my sleep all night?"  

His body and brain seem to be insisting that the answer is yes, that that's the reason his cunt feels extra sticky and sopping this morning.

"I couldn't resist" Gabriel admits, unabashed. He leans in, mouthing and sucking on a swollen nipple. Sam's breath hitches. "You were begging for it. Pussy drooling all over the place, mouth wide open and slack, just waiting to be filled... I ate you out around my cock for hours."  

He grins, and the look in his eyes makes Sam's blood heat. "Not that you minded, did you sweetheart?"

"You- You can't just-!" Sam's face is on fire, and the images in his mind are obscene.  

Himself, passed out, the archangel between his spread legs. That talented tongue laving and sucking over sensitive bits. Fingers spreading his hole and fucking him alongside the cock plugging him. Curling and pumping in a sloppy rhythm, coaxing him to squirt and cream and gush all while Sam was unconscious, and oh, that's definitely what happened.

There's a giant wet spot beneath him.  

"How could you?!" Sam's cheeks burn, hips helplessly humping and clamping down, feeling appalled and fantastically used.

Gabriel's smirk widens. "Didn't your pretty little pussy have sweet dreams last night? Sweet, wet, messy dreams-?"

"No-!" Sam protests, and then moans, voice pitching higher as Gabriel's thumb rubs and flicks his puffy, tender clit. "Ah-!"

"Are you sure about that, baby?" Gabriel asks, his voice low and sultry. "Do you think you can really trust those new holes of yours to behave?"

"Nnnn-!?" he lustily moans, whole world centered on the sensations of too gentle fingers keeping him on edge.

"Want me to do some more?" Gabriel coos, pressing his grace further into the cracks of the pleasurably writhing soul.

"Uh-huh," he lustily moans, an insistent thrum from within, driving him to naughtily confess, "My pussy wants to cum on your tongue again..."  

The admission is shamefully earnest as he humps for more friction, inner muscles fluttering and tight around his favorite cock.

Frustrated horny tears erupt as Sam further concedes, thighs locking around Gabriel's hand, "My pussy must have been dreaming about the way you- the w-way y-you- ah-ahh-!"  

His spine bows and his hips jerk, and he cums so easily, sobbing, "The- the way- you lick and suck everything out of me-hee-! Hhnngg-!!!" Sam's back is a bow, and he's shaking and trembling, the sensation of the cock shifting deep inside him enough to have his toes curling, cumming again immediately, harder than the last.  "Ugh-ah-ah-AHH-!"

"That's my good girl," Gabriel purrs, and the praise makes Sam's insides tingle and squeeze, his orgasm dragging out, milking the dick in his belly.

"Shameless. Now, bend that ass over so I can eat that juicy little pussy some more."

Chapter Text

Hours later, smiling disarmingly, Gabriel casually announces, "I wanna see you cum from those pretty little pecs of yours. Got two cute little toys just for them."

Sam blinks, too out of it to react as Gabriel presses strange little bumpy cups over his pert nipples where they suction to his skin.

Gasping at the tightness of the odd little cones, his cheeks burn. They have a small circular area in the middle that his abused, sensitive nipples poke through.

"Gabriel..." Sam weakly protests, lashes fluttering, "We can't just stay here fucking forever..."

He blinks, then laughs.

"For someone so smart, you can be so adorably dense sometimes. How long do you think we've been back here now? Didn't you wonder why you haven't been hungry, or thirsty? Or why Bert and Ernie haven't bugged us ?"

He smirks, booping Sam's nose and informs him, "Time moves differently in this room. When we leave, not even a minute will have passed. So don't worry, I'll take care of you... Now lemme play with your little tits~"

With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel has the suction increasing until both of Sam's puffy pink peaks are squeezed and pulled into the open circles of the cones. The bumps on the inside are rubbing up against his nipples and areolae in the best and worst way .

They're swelling up in the harshly sucking, vibrating cups, and his cunt is throbbing in tandem. It's a heady, confusing mix, but it just has him on edge, no where near as good as Gabriel playing with his other parts.

"Aw, is it not enough baby? You do have to feel pretty sensitive to cum this way... Let's work on that," Gabriel coos, snapping. "Better, princess?"

"Hnh-?! Wh-What did you -?" He whimpers, eyes rolling back, unable to cope with the stimulation, writhing as he fails to escape the merciless torment of the devices attached to him. "Feels like they're on my cli-hiiiit!"

"That's the point, Sammy," Gabriel assures smugly, "So just relax and let the machine work its magic... Also, have you considered just how good it'd feel if you let go a smidge more? Ever thought about letting your body shift all the way?"

"Wh-What?! No!" Sam squeaks, shaking his head, horrified at the idea of being completely changed. He doesn't want to lose what's left of his masculinity. If Dean ever found out he'd never live it down.

"C'mon Sam-a-lamb~ All I meant was maybe a temporary change, just to try it out. Doesn't the thought excite you a little bit?" His grin is sly, teasing, and his hands are still petting Sam's shuddering sides . "All you'd have to do to change back is want it badly enough and your body would shift. You could have the best of both worlds..."

"Th-that's not-" He gasps, then moans, voice pitching into a keen .

Temporary Sam's ass. He can't even convince his stupid brain that he wants a dick back now because he already prefers cumming from a cunt -how the fuck would he be able to go back to his old body if he lets this madness progress further?!

But it's so hard not to keep picturing it when his nipples are getting a thorough workout, and Gabriel's looking at him with the same sort of expression that a predator would have while eyeing its prey.

Images of his body being slimmer, more feminine and vulnerable sends a shiver through him. Maybe his chest could get bigger, and his waist smaller, his hips wider, thighs softer...

It shouldn't be a tempting offer.

It isn't.

"C'mon, it'd feel sooo much better. I'll make sure you have a good time Sammy. Your sexy pecs are real nice, but wouldn't a heavy pair of boobs be fun to play with...?"

"Ooohhh-!" Sam mewls, eyes crossing as his nipples are viciously sucked and teased by the little machines. There's an ominous, aching throb, followed by a sharp cramp low in his abdomen.

It's not fair, Gabriel is misleading his body with his alluring words ! He's making him imagine his tits growing heavier, and his waist becoming slenderer, hips curvier, ass jiggling.

"Nhooo~!" He hiccups, voice going higher as the inceptive thoughts take hold. His lashes flutter, chest starting to swell, heavy and aching even as he can feel the rest of himself slimming and shifting just like his stupid brain imagined but the sensations-!

"Good girl, that's it Samantha," Gabriel purrs, hands massaging the growing breasts. "Let it happen baby. Doesn't it feel great?"

"A-ahn~" Sam whimpers, face on fire, curvier thighs clamping together as she humps up.

Because it does.

Everything feels so intense as it changes , like the first time he grew a pussy. Her body is quivering, and her new fuller chest is tingling and aching , and his- her boobs are- !

"Keep going," Gabriel urges, flushed, "Just a little more and you'll have the perfect set of tits, sweetheart. A big, soft pair. Nice and perky and full of milk. Just made to be played with."

"Make it stop-!" She sobs, lashes fluttering, trying to pull away, to halt the process. But her mind is trapped in a foggy haze and she's quickly losing herself to the sensations. To the images of her body, and the sound of Gabriel's voice, coaxing her further along.

"Stop what, baby?" Gabriel croons, and he's turning up the sucking setting on Sam's puffy, inflamed nubs.

"Feels too good," Sam chokes on a breath, the admission shameful, and yet his traitorous mouth is pouring the words, as his mind supplies his ears with a high, girlish lilt to his voice, "M'g-gonna-!"

"You gonna cum from having your tits played with, hm? Like a real slut?" The archangel teases, and Sam can't help the cry that tears free from her lips. "You can do it, baby, c'mon. Be a good girl, and show me how much you like this, huh?"

"Nnh- N-No-!" Sam cries, voice shrill and needy, and the pitch of her own moans are doing something to her, because she's not a boy right now. Not a man, or anything close.

"Haa-aahh-!" Her mouth is slack and wide, drool slipping down her chin, and she's-! She's cumming from her milky boobs! Her entire focus is on the white hot electric pleasure rolling through her. She's floating, and flying, and she can't stop the shift!

Her waist slims, her hips widen, the curve of her ass rounds, filling out. It's upsettingly delicious and has her clenching, and squeezing the cock in her because her mewling cunt feels smaller now.

"Nmmm~" She whimpers, scared and aroused- the anxiety somehow making her more aroused as her body betrays her. Her hair is getting longer, and her lips feel poutier-! Then the buzzing on her breasts and the pull increases and she can't even think about anything anymore except how good her poor, dripping sex and aching nipples feel-!

"Yeah, just like that," Gabriel groans.

His hands are everywhere, touch possessive, and gaze heated. And he's praising her, calling her a good girl. Telling her she's perfect, and beautiful, and that her big, soft, sensitive, milky titties were made to be played with. That her clutching cunt is the best thing in existence.

And her stupid, slutty body is eating the compliments up, softening further to give Gabriel exactly what he wants, and it's scary and wrong- and it's not fair!

But fuck it feels good!

"Ha-aah-ha-" She pants. Even her lungs feel smaller. Her throat, tongue, teeth, eyes- everything's different. She can tell -can see the delicate fingers, and smaller shoulders.

She's changed completely, and that should be enough to sober her but her tits are still being milked, and the more those heavy handfuls are pulled at, the less certain she becomes. Sam's not sure... of anything.

The only thing she's aware of is that nothing has ever felt this good in her stressful life. That there's a deep, molten heat building within that's burning her from the inside out and she can't- can't-!

"Mmmnhg-!" she cries, whole body clenching and cumming. She doesn't know what's happening or why anymore -only that her vision's gone black and she can't stop gushing and squirting, and-

"-is a bit extreme, isn't it, baby?" Gabriel's saying, and his voice is the first thing Sam hears as her awareness returns. Her lashes flutter and her heart pounds.

Sam's disoriented and shaky. Her head is spinning, and her body aches. She can't remember how this even started, only that now she's-

"I'm a- a-" she's stuttering, now lethal puppy eyes wide as she stares down at the unfamiliar womanly curve of her chest.

Gabriel's grin is wicked. "A gorgeous woman? A total babe? Yes -yes you are," the archangel finishes for her. His palms cup her swollen boobs. "Holy Cannoli Samantha are these C cups?"

"No-! I can't be!" Sam protests, weakly. Though in the back of her head, the words 'Are you sure about that?' keep looping. Because her new body is incredible. Her breasts are perky and gorgeous, and the sopping orgasms that her aching cunt has given her have been some of the most intense in her life.

"I mean, you are a little bit," Gabriel teases. Her heart skips a beat, cheeks heating. "Think about it Samshine, you have a horny little pussy. And these fat, juicy boobs-" he squeezes, tugs. "-are attached, so it looks like they're yours. This luscious, curvy figure- " he whistles, slides his hands over her body, and her breath catches.

"Don't you like feeling pretty and sexy? Having that wet, needy cunt of yours worshipped and filled?" Gabriel asks, voice husky, and there's a part of her that's definitely on board , that's screaming 'Yes- Yes!'

Dangerously leering he suggests, "Maybe you just need a little more convincing to relax..."

The cock plugging her pussy starts thrusting into her hard, untouched. Squealing and squirming, her legs spread instantly, inner walls swallowing and pulling at the shaft.

It's not her fault that archangel powers are making her lose her mind-!

"Ah-ah-!" She keens, and the noises are so high and feminine that her insides pulse in shame to the pounding in her belly.

Another copy of Gabriel's cock sinks into Sam's unsuspecting ass.

Sam opens her mouth to breathily protest, but then the archangel snaps and a small, rose shaped object appears in his palm.  

"Look at this, sweetheart,"  Gabriel croons, holding it up. "Isn't it pretty? And it's got a surprise in the middle.  Do you wanna know what the surprise is Sammy?"  He's teasing him, and Sam's body is helplessly curious.

"Surprise?" She hears herself asking.

The archangel says, low and sultry, "This is a special device that goes on your clit." Her heart pounds. "Right now, that cute little button of yours is just peeking out. But it's not nearly as exposed as it could be ."  

His smile is predatory.  

"This thing will help it grow bigger, stick out more." Sam's eyes widen. "Doesn't that sound nice, sweetie?"

"Hah~?" Sam gasps bewildered as her stupid, slutty brain imagines it.

"Yessss," She moans, rocks, and then, horrified and disgusted, slaps her palms over her mouth, unable to comprehend the fact that the word came out of her own lips.  Cheeks on fire, she shakes her head. "I didn't mean that-!"

"Your face is so red," Gabriel laughs, delighted. "It's okay to be confused princess, that's why we have the flower. I'll put it on for you, so you don't have to decide. You can just let it happen."  

And before Sam can say or do anything, the flower is being pressed up against the hood of her clit.  

"Now look, the outer petals will spread that pretty little hood of yours away, and then..." Sam can feel something wrapping around the nub of her clit, pinning and lifting. Tight, and squeezing, and aching-! "Then the inside of the toy will latch onto your poor, unprotected clit, and suck on it. Stretch and tease that sensitive little bead until the blood flow makes it swell, and grow, and stand right out."

Sam is speechless, her mouth open, gasping, as her newly exposed clit is sucked. The petals of the rose are stretched wide, her flesh pulled taut, and the bud of her clit is throbbing.

"No-!" Sam pleads, and she's trying to deny that any of this is happening. But her clit is already pulsing in the tight grasp of the evil flower. Already aching and straining. "No more-!"

A button is clicked.  

Suddenly, instead of a simple stretch, her clit is being suctioned and milked in a tight, pulsating rhythm. Pumping in and out, and in and out, and in and out, and in-! Her tight bud is swelling .  

S he moans, hand shooting down to try and pry the cruel toy off of her, but it's no use. In fact, the more she touches and tugs at it, the worse it gets. Harder suction, louder wailing, and the cocks are moving, and thrusting and pounding deep!

"OOHHH-!!! N-nghh-!" She sobs, hips bucking. Her hands stay locked on the stubborn rose, unable to remove it or take her eyes off her poor clit.

"That's right, accept it Samantha ," Gabriel purrs, his tone sending shivers down her spine. "Give in and enjoy the sensations, baby . C'mon, you can do it, can't you, sweetheart?"

"Uh-huh-," She mewls, nodding absentmindedly. The swollen bulb is the size of her pinky, and oh-! Oh, the sensation of the thing sucking on it-!She fights it, tries to snap out of it.

"Gnh- Nn- No-!" She protests, thighs spreading and clamping in quick succession, the motion automatic.

This can't happen, but Sam's mind is scattered and blank.  "Ah- ahh- ahhh-!"

"Aw, what a cute little bean. Perfect size for your cute lil hole," he laughs. "Can you feel how how sensitive and aching that needy button is now?Just breathe and feel it Sammy, focus on the feeling." Gabriel's voice coaxes.  

Helpless to disobey, her mind drowns in the waves of heat, the burning, aching need, and the knowledge that her body's not under her control. That the only way to get through this, is to embrace that. To let her mind follow her traitorous body, and give in.

But she can't give in!

"Uhhh-nnngg-!!" Her voice is cracking. The cocks are swelling, the machine is merciless, and her clit- her little pea sized clit is gonna pop and she has to stop it before-!

But the more her fingers fiddle and tug to escape the rose, the worse it gets. Until finally, the machine does its job, and her entire lower half seizes as her pussy gives the deciding vote, spraying heatedly down her thighs in a declaration of victory as it forces her into depraved womanhood.  

It's the hardest orgasm she's had yet, so hard she can't even remember what it felt like to cum from a dick. Can't imagine ever wanting to experience such a weak, pathetic rush of endorphins ever again, when she can have her greedy little hole teased and fucked and filled.

Obviously her cunt is where she's meant to cum from. Where her body was always destined to climax, no matter how much her feeble mind tried to fight it.  

And now that she's accepted the truth, that her cunt is the superior organ, -tighter, hotter, juicier-?

Her pussy rewards her. Drowning her in a never ending, bubbling release that makes her insides dance with joy as she accepts it.

Accepts that from the moment her pussy arrived drooling and squirting at the first touch in slick celebration that it was here to stay.

Finally the cocks in her pussies settle down. The breast toys and rose lowering to gentle pulses that keep her subtly shivering in the aftershocks of her earth shattering orgasm, but none are removed.

"Feel better?"

"Uh-huh," Sam agrees, dumbly, nodding along. She's still trembling, but her mind is clear and free of fear.

"Are you my good girl, Sammy?" Gabriel asks, and his tone is warm and inviting with the promise of praise.

The offer is too tempting to refuse, especially after all that.

"Y-yes," Sam shyly concedes. "I'm a good girl. Your good girl..."  

Her cheeks heat, and her breath hitches. It's beyond embarrassing to admit, but that's okay.  Because her pussy is singing in delight, washing a waythe shame of admitting the truth. Self soothing, she allows herself to give a slow, voluntary clench in her cunt for the first time, savoring the cock still in her. It makes the tingling in her pelvis more intense.

Makes her toes curl.

Panting, she reaches down and spreads everything open for Gabriel, "And I want you to suck me dry..."

She wants her labia licked and bitten enough to soothe the rest of her brain, and the constant, dribbling itch.  So that her mind can go back to feeling floaty and unbothered enough to make her thoughts shut the fuck up and leave her alone.  

"Hmm, alright, but lets bring it down a notch for a bit. You just came pretty hard," Gabriel agrees, gaze loving. He's staring at her like he's never seen anything better.

His mouth is hot and gentle, and his hands feel so much bigger in her new form -firm, and sure.

Contently she luxuriates in sensations that are too gentle to rouse her outside of some pleased shivering. Just a nice, low, simmer. Slowly, the thoughts in her head start to quiet, leaving her blissfully mindless.

"Mmm..." She sighs, happily, and closes her eyes, lashes wet. "Feels nice." She breathes.

He suckles one taut nipple in slow pulls, and she squirms as her sex flutters.

"Anything for my pretty princess," Gabriel coos, and the pet names are reassuring and calming. Helping her melt, and forget, and ignore the last few twinges of anxiety.

Finally her stupid brain is starting to understand that this isn't a bad thing. That her body is happier than ever before like this. Her tits are soft and milky, her ass is bouncy, and everything is perfect.

"Want a bath, sweetheart?  A massage?  A foot rub?" He asks, and the idea sounds amazing. "Want me to pamper that sexy little body of yours Sammy ?"

"Please," She adds, softly. The rhythmic, sucking pulses of the rose remain slow enough to ignore. She's a puddle. Bones melted.  Limbs turned to jelly. Mind a blank slate. "Would love that ."

"Of course, baby," He says. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll have a nice dinner, and watch a movie. We can cuddle and talk, and then you can sleep. Sound good, princess?"

"Perfect," Sam smiles. Her lips are fuller, and her voice is high, but the sound of his voice soothes her into submission. "Sounds really, really nice, Gabe."