Chapter Text
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Part Two
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There's a club within walking distance of the room Sam rents for the night. He knows this because after passing out for a few hours, he wakes up in a cold sweat to the sound of Rihanna crooning out distress signals loud enough to filter through the painted-shut window across from Sam’s bed.
Twenty minutes later, he’s sipping on the worst glass of whiskey he’s ever had the misfortune to be subjected to. The club is attempting to be trendy, and miserably failing. Strobe lights cast everything in a haze of blue and green, like being under water and high at the same time. The walls are decked out in the kind of décor that even a camping lodge would reject as too tacky—all deer heads and camouflage and endless lines of artfully placed beer bottles.
For a Friday night, there aren’t that many people here, just loose groups of guys laughing over open beers and looking for any kind of thrill, and girls twisting on what passes for a dance floor, nearly identical with their thick eyeliner and long, layered hair in shades of blond and brown and red. There’s a girl sitting less than a foot away from Sam, her arms propped up on the bar so he can see the star tattoo on her wrist. She’s nursing some fruity mixed drink that Sam really wishes he’d ordered instead of the crap he’s trying to force down. When she sees him looking at it remorsefully, her red lips curl up and she says, loud over the music, “Wanna trade?”
“Not tonight,” he replies easily, because he’s smarter than that. He doesn’t think she’s a demon—or anything other than a run-of-the-mill college girl—but he’s had a lot of practice ignoring his instincts and it’s never gotten him anywhere good. Better safe than sorry. Or drugged, or dead, or whatever.
“You look familiar,” she says, smile still in place.
She’s pretty, in a wasted kind of way, and there was a time when Sam wouldn’t have hesitated to take full advantage of someone like her. He considers doing it anyway, because while it won’t make him feel better he doesn’t see how it could make him feel any worse, losing himself in semi-normalcy for the brief time it would take him to talk her into bed.
Instead, he shrugs, says, “I don’t think so,” and the dismissal is so clear in his voice that she finally loses her smile and turns away.
If he’s honest with himself, he really wants to turn and see another smile across from him, one tinged in mockery and a tiny hint of risk, but he quickly pushes that thought aside because the point of coming here was to forget.
He’s signaling the bartender for another drink when something knocks into his back, hard, and he grabs out through force of habit. The culprit is some preppy kid barely old enough to drink, who glares and twists his wrist out of Sam’s grasp with a muttered, “Chill, dude,” and Sam tries to still the rapid beating of his heart. He’s so on edge, he doesn’t even remember to apologize until the guy is halfway across the room.
He wants a fight so bad he can taste it.
Sam can feel eyes on him as he makes for the exit; he tries to shake it off. Outside, the streetlights cast oily shadows on the ground. Something moves in Sam’s peripheral vision, but when he turns to look it’s just a couple making out on the hood of an old Camry.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
But he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
He’s not far from the motel, still puzzling over the feeling, when he stumbles over what turns out to be a dirt-encrusted tennis shoe. He catches himself before he makes an intimate acquaintance with the ground, but as he bends over the shoe, the sensation of wrongness intensifies so suddenly that he isn’t even surprised when he hears a low hiss from the alley that lines the closed bakery to his right.
Sam’s mind blanks. He’s reaching for his gun before he remembers that he’s unarmed. Cursing under his breath, he ducks into the shadows of the bakery awning, easing his way along the brick wall until he can lean around the corner and peer into the darkness.
A rapid clicking fills the air, like the tip-tap of fingers over a keyboard. Sam squints, straining to make out what it is that is making the noise.
He shifts, and his foot knocks against a long steel bar lying half out of the alleyway. The metallic clink has barely faded before he’s rolling out of the way, something heavy swooshing into the space he’d occupied seconds before.
It’s a rookie mistake, but too late to do anything except stand and fight until he either takes the whatever-it-is out or makes his escape. He can’t get a good look at it because it’s coming at him too fast, all claws and teeth—no, mandibles, goddamnit it’s some kind of insect—but he somehow manages to get his hands on the bar he’d tripped over and as he wraps his hands firmly around its length, he feels a fierce smile stretch across his face.
One of the thing’s claws catches hold of his thigh, bearing down and crushing, and Sam breathes out heavily from the pain even as he swings the steel bar with all of his strength.
The thing goes down like a dispersing hurricane, litter from the street flying out around it as it struggles to right itself. Sam doesn’t give it the opportunity, just keeps slamming the bar into again and again until his hands are numb from the ricochet and it isn’t moving anymore. There’s a nasty squelch when he pulls the bar back for the last time, dropping it at his feet. He wipes his gore splattered hands on his jeans before reaching for his phone, the weak light revealing the thing that was once some kind of giant mantis but is now a smattering of broken legs, cracked chitin and icky goo. A dismembered claw twitches weakly before going still.
There’s a body in the deeper dark of the alley, and Sam has to breathe through his mouth because the smell is pretty bad. Whoever it was, they weren’t able to hold their bowels at the moment of death.
With some difficulty, and a lot of ingenuity, Sam cleans up the mess (he’s so good at cleaning up his messes) and by the time he’s finished, his thigh is aching where the mantis got him and he wants to bathe more than he’s ever wanted just about anything in his life.
+++
He’s still bleeding when he steps out of the shower onto the damp tiles of the bathroom. Thin streams of watery blood trickle from the mess that is his left thigh. The wound is ovular, kind of like a giant bite mark where the claws sank in and pulled. Sam holds one ragged-edged towel to his thigh to staunch the bleeding as he stumbles out of the bathroom, trying to remember if mantises are poisonous or not.
This means that Sam is mostly naked when he catches sight of the archangel sprawled gracelessly on his bed, sandy hair making a halo around his face. Gabriel stares, one eyebrow rising slowly, but Sam is so taken aback that he forgets what little modesty he possesses.
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, because it seems the most pressing.
“You’ve been busy,” Gabriel returns, lightly.
“Yeah, I guess?” Sam rubs at the back of his head, and then, as an afterthought, shifts his towel to cover his junk. Wow, he thinks, just flashed an angel, good job, Sam, cookie for you. “Um, I’m just gonna…” Patch myself up, he intends to say, but it occurs to him that he doesn’t have any supplies for that, really. Jesus, can this get any more awkward? He should probably do something, anything, but he can’t seem to make himself function.
He’s nervous, he realizes. Like, sweaty palms, racing pulse nervous.
Gabriel is lifting himself enough to rest back on his elbows, his expression still faintly amused. He doesn’t seem to share Sam’s discomfort. “Kid, I’m gonna be one hundred percent honest here. You look like shit,” he says bluntly. “And as much as the curiosity is killing me, I’m not gonna ask you what the hell you’re doing way out here, alone—and hey, you actually paid for a hotel, no shacking up with the old fella? After all he’s done for you and your charming brother, what with the propensity of alcoholism and plaid—“
“I can’t go to Bobby,” Sam says quickly. He feels a twinge of guilt at that. He’s less than twenty minutes from Bobby’s place, but it never even occurred to him to drop in on one of the few people who still has any faith in him. “I mean, I won’t. I’m just passing through.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes, and then he’s in Sam’s personal space, taking his wrist with a grip that’s like pure steel. The warmth of the archangel’s palm seems to spread all through Sam’s body, and he can feel himself flushing as Gabriel pushes him down until his knees hit the back of the bed. The blood from his wound has stained the towel blotchily red. He sits down, the mattress springs protesting. When Gabriel lowers himself to his knees before him, Sam’s brain short-circuits.
“Uh—“
“Wow, calm down please,” Gabriel scolds, his lips quirking. “I know this is very exciting for you, Sammy, but this is completely platonic, I promise.”
“It’s S-Sam,” Sam corrects automatically, hating the shake in his voice. He can’t help it; Gabriel’s thin fingers are pushing the towel away, revealing the still-bleeding gashes that mar his skin. Sam very deliberately keeps the towel bunched over his lap, hoping to God that Gabriel hasn’t noticed the sudden, almost painful erection Sam is hiding.
The only light in the room comes from the bedside lamp, and it bathes Gabriel’s face in warm yellow light, his eyelashes golden against his high cheekbones as he concentrates on Sam’s wound. Sam desperately scours his own mind for some kind of distraction, and finally settles on listing the state capitals in alphabetical order.
He’s on Dover, Delaware when Gabriel, with surprising gentleness, passes his hand over Sam’s thigh, and the electric shiver that runs down Sam’s spine is the only sign that anything has been done to him. When Sam looks down, the claw-marks are gone and Gabriel is already across the room, poking through the empty drawers of the ramshackle entertainment center.
“You should get dressed,” he says, “and then you should come with me.”
“…What?” Sam says intelligently.
Gabriel gestures at the bed impatiently, and when Sam looks down he sees two slips of paper that turn out to be movie tickets. Tickets to Inception. This…is so surreal.
Sam is already zipping up his jeans before it sinks in that he’s doing it again. He’s letting Gabriel do…whatever it is that he always does, this uneasy pseudo-friendship that has been driving Sam up the wall for some time now. And Sam just goes along with it, and he keeps projecting these motives onto Gabriel that clearly, judging by the archangel’s reaction in Taipei, he does not actually have. If he focuses on the facts, and not on his own emotions, he can probably get a much better picture of what is actually going on here. This is Gabriel being bored. This is Gabriel needing entertainment, and dragging Sam with him because he’s…convenient, or amusing, or maybe just a little pathetic and in Sam’s experience angels really value those qualities in the humans they mess with.
Slowly, Sam finishes pulling his shirt over his head, and when he gets it over his ears he says, “Actually, I’m gonna sit this one out, Gabriel.”
Gabriel is already watching him knowingly, one brow lifting in a familiar what-is-this-crazy-human-doing-now kind of look.
“Got other plans, do you?”
“No, I…I can’t do this anymore.” Sam’s sigh is quiet, tired even to his own ears. He looks up at Gabriel through his bangs, not sure what to say but knowing that he has to say it. “You’ve got to know by now that…well, it’s like this. I’m an idiot, because I really like you, and also because I’m actually telling you. How much I like you, I mean. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot.”
“Oh,” is what Gabriel says, all inflection stripped from his voice. His face is blank, like one of those marble statues people put in especially pretentious gardens.
“Yeah, and this is the most ridiculous declaration of l-love you’ll probably ever receive,” and oh shit he said the l-word, what the fuck is he thinking. Guh. “So I guess I should win some sort of prize for that, like maybe a free pass where you give me the benefit of the doubt when I say I really didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did. So…my bad.” Sam snaps his mouth closed suddenly because he hadn’t meant to say most of that, but when he’s nervous he can’t seem to shut up. He’s going to need so much therapy after this.
It’s odd that Gabriel is still around, that he hasn’t zapped himself off someplace like he usually does whenever Sam pisses him off particularly badly. Instead, he’s just standing there, his heavy gaze resting on some point past Sam’s head, his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo pants.
“You’re not my type, Sam,” he says finally, and though Sam already knew that, he can’t help the queasy drop of his stomach, like receiving an anticipated blow. “You’re really young and I have a preference for the ladies, just being honest here. You’re sensitive. I think I’d probably break you and…” Gabriel lets out a little half-laugh, barely more than a puff of air. “…I don’t want that.”
“No, yeah, I get that,” Sam says quickly, and he’d resorted to looking at his own bare feet but he looks up now to find the archangel right there, strong hands coming up to brush against Sam’s jaw, angle his face down until their foreheads are touching, so close that Sam’s eyes lose focus and he can feel Gabriel’s breath against his lips, candy-sweet and hot.
Ohmygodohmygod, Sam’s mind is frantically repeating in a helpless loop and then his thoughts die out completely at the first brush of Gabriel’s lips against his own.
The other Sam, the one that had inhabited this timeline before Gabriel dragged Sam in to take his place, had been far more experienced than Sam. He had a few extra years on him, after all, and he was miserable enough to find solace in the arms of just about anyone (or anything, for that matter) that showed any interest in him.
But this Sam has never kissed another guy before, and he thinks that he should probably be freaking out about the brush of stubble against his chin, the firm press of Gabriel’s lips, the calluses on the thumbs that are rubbing carefully at his cheeks in a deliberately calming manner.
He surprises himself, because he’s more than okay with it. He tilts his face until their lips slide together more naturally and it’s Sam who initiates the first sly swipe of tongue, licking into Gabriel’s mouth and turning the kiss a little dirty, nipping at the archangel’s lips and pressing his hands against the base of his spine to feel the muscles flex there, shameless in his desire.
Gabriel doesn’t have to breathe, but Sam does and when he breaks away he’s light-headed and gasping, flushed head to toe. Gabriel makes a tortured sound, low in his throat, and pushes Sam back until he’s lying on the bed, his hands shaking so badly that he can barely keep himself from falling back against the thin pillows. Gabriel climbs over him, twining one hand in his hair and pressing light kisses against his mouth until Sam thinks he might die. He’s rock hard and it takes all of the self-control he has to keep his hips still because he doesn’t want to look like a total slut.
“Oh, believe me, that is not a problem,” Gabriel growls, and they’re so close Sam can almost taste the syllables.
“Nngh,” Sam says, eloquent, and Gabriel is biting at the skin just below his earlobe before pressing his tongue against it. When he sucks at Sam’s pulse point, Sam just about loses it right then and there, bucking up into the air. Gabriel moves his legs forward, pressing his thigh flush against the front of Sam’s jeans and the contact is just enough to draw an embarrassing whimper from Sam which he tries to smother with the back of his hand.
“Sh-shit,” he groans, and, “Please, I—I need—“
Except he isn’t exactly sure what he needs, just that whatever it is it involves Gabriel and probably less clothing, so he pulls at the edge of Gabriel’s polo, sliding it up and pressing his hands against the tanned skin of his belly, the warmth of it going straight to his head. There is a faint line of blond hair that extends beyond the waistline of Gabriel’s pants and Sam runs the tips of his fingers through the thin strands, Gabriel’s breath stuttering against his neck.
“Yeah,” Gabriel says. He pushes Sam’s hand away and in what seems like one smooth motion, undoes the front of his own pants and Sam’s, pulling down Sam’s boxers until cool air rushes against his cock and makes him break out in honest-to-God goosebumps. All of the air rushes out of Sam in one long exhale when Gabriel’s hand wraps around the both of them, Gabriel’s cock hot against his and the pressure is so sweet that Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to wind himself down just enough not to come immediately. He clenches his own hands in the bed linens, hanging on for dear life.
It’s too much, Sam thinks, dazed. He almost can’t stand it.
Sam has no idea where Gabriel gets the lube from, but between one gasp and the next the archangel’s hand is suddenly slick, his thumb sliding over the head of Sam’s dick and Sam’s hips jerk against his will, grinding himself into Gabriel’s firm grasp, the slip and slide of their cocks rubbing together. Gabriel has his face buried against Sam’s collarbone, his breathing quick and damp and the second time his thumb passes over that too sensitive spot Sam goes rigid, his vision exploding into a kaleidoscopic array as he comes harder than he ever has, long streams of his own semen coating Gabriel’s hand and their stomachs. Gabriel moans, sounding almost pained, and he lasts only a few more seconds before he is trembling through his own orgasm. Sam stares at his face, the clench of his jaw and the flash of amber through the slits of his eyelids, completely awed.
When Gabriel comes back to himself, he flops down next to Sam on the bed, one arm propping his head up. He stares at the ceiling, apparently as out of it as Sam feels. Sam isn’t sure how it happened, but they’re both fully clothed now, all physical traces of their…activities conspicuously absent. He rubs at his stomach, remembering the wetness against his skin, shivering at the memory of it.
“So,” Sam tries, awkwardly crossing his long legs, “that was sudden. And awesome.”
Gabriel snorts. “Sam, you’re so moe I am in a continual state of disappointment that a shower of cherry blossoms doesn’t randomly pop up wherever you happen to be.”
“Uh, okay. Unexpectedly geeky of you, thanks for that. But…” Sam sneaks a glance at Gabriel only to find the archangel still determinedly staring at nothing in particular.
We just had sex, he realizes, his stomach twisting with his bewilderment. I’m pretty sure that counts as sex, right? It had happened so suddenly, too quick and intense for Sam to even consider walking away from it, and now he can’t help but wonder if it was a one-off deal, just Gabriel working through his own frustration. The thought makes him feel sick.
“You’re an idiot,” Gabriel informs him, rolling over to fix him with an exasperated glare.
“Look, the mind reading thing is not fair,” Sam says. “And you’re totally giving me mixed signals. One minute you’re dumping me because I barely touched you, I mean, you didn’t talk to me for days, and the next you’re…” Sam looks away from that too-bright gaze. “You’re doing this.”
“Yeah, because you’re a paragon of good sense and self-composure, right, Sam?” Gabriel falls back against the pillows with a muffled huff. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s been a bit of a political upheaval upstairs.” Gabriel whirls one finger in the air above their heads. “It’s…well, it’s like the worst family reunion you can possibly imagine, mixed with the Constitutional Convention, with a side of Jerry Springer.”
“Huh,” Sam says.
“Mm, not fun for me, and you’re, as I think we’ve established, an idiot. I don’t usually go for the whole self-sacrifice bullshit but I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From all of that!” Gabriel sits up abruptly, running his hands through his golden hair. He looks wretched. “Heaven wasn’t meant to be a democracy, Sam, but that’s what we’re damn well melding it into, and I’m the new system’s number one advocate. I don’t know if you realize this, but angels aren’t so great at making their own choices, and you have no idea what I had to go through to get Raphael on my side. I mean, diplomacy instead of blind obedience to a, for all intents and purposes, nonexistent figurehead, how crazy is that? But it’s either this or civil war and, let me tell you, you do not want that.” He shakes his head. “There’re a bunch of my brothers that are pissed about the whole thing, and they haven’t forgotten the role you and your brother played in it. Christ, that’s not even counting all the demons that would cream themselves at the thought of getting their hands on you. I’ve mostly kept the heat off of you guys, but…it’s like you want a sign on your back that says, ‘Hey, come and kill me,’ because you want to get it on with me, of all people. I don’t think you could pick a more conspicuous date to the prom, Sam.”
“That’s probably true,” Sam says slowly, pushing himself up until he’s on the same level as Gabriel. “And the last thing I want to do is…make things worse for you? You get that, right?”
Gabriel rubs at his face, groaning. “It’s not about me, it’s about you. I didn’t go through all the trouble of giving you back to your brother just for you to die in the stupidest way imaginable.”
“Yeah, why did you do that?” Sam picks at the fibers of the cheap bedspread, apprehension going through him like a cold breeze. “What was in it for you? We weren’t exactly the best of buddies before. I tried to kill you. A lot. The other me especially.”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, and the look he gives Sam is so detached and cool that Sam isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s times like these that he’s reminded of the fact that Gabriel just isn’t human, not even close. He puts on a good act, but at the end of the day he’s as far removed from the human experience as the other angels. “I wanted to do it. Isn’t that enough?”
Sam’s mouth goes dry and he clambers off the bed, suddenly needing some kind of distance between them. Something drifts to the floor by his feet and he bends down to scoop up the movie tickets, both crumpled, and just stares at them for a long moment.
“I guess it is,” he says. “You always just do what you want.”
Gabriel watches him with hooded eyes. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”
And that, Sam thinks, is what will be his undoing, that arousal that curls all through him, lazy and catlike, whenever Gabriel is at his most selfish. He’s so carelessly powerful. It’s impossible to resist, and now Sam can see what Gabriel meant about breaking him. It will break him. He could throw himself up against Gabriel for the rest of his life, like a moth against a windowpane, and he’ll never really get through to him because they don’t see each other in the same light. When Sam looks at Gabriel he sees something awesome, something beautiful and special, but Sam is just a charming blip on Gabriel’s radar.
Sam shrugs and turns away but Gabriel’s grip is tight on his arm, pushing around and back until he’s pinned to the wall behind him, Gabriel staring up at him with no sign of mockery for once. His body, so much shorter than Sam’s, is impossibly strong and he holds Sam still with absolutely no effort.
“I think you misunderstand me,” he says roughly, eyes flashing gold. “It’s too late to back out now, kiddo.”
Sam scowls, obstinately twisting away even though he knows he’ll never break that iron grip. “Hey, I’m not that much of an idiot, I get it.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“I can do friends with benefits, Gabriel,” Sam says, aiming for cool but he can’t keep the note of bitterness out of his voice. “I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”
Gabriel laughs, and then he releases Sam from his hold, his head tilting to the side. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so stubborn, so easily hurt. What do I need to do? Do you want me to declare my undying love on one knee by candlelight? I can do music, chocolate, flowers, the whole shebang if you need it. Your trust issues are as endearing as always, but I can’t take it if you look at me like I just ran over your favorite pet and drove off laughing into the sunset.” He grins, those dimples springing up to frame his lips like parentheses. “Sam.”
Sam blinks, and realizes his mouth is hanging open. Belatedly, he shuts it and leans back against the wall, his head spinning. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying…fuck it. Let’s do this thing.” And he grabs at the collar of Sam’s shirt, pulls him down until their lips meet, open-mouthed already and so wonderfully messy. Gabriel is a fucking fantastic kisser, which makes sense because he’s been around for…for a long time, and Sam lets himself melt into the sensation because he wants to believe that it means something to someone other than himself for once.
“It does,” Gabriel murmurs, with unexpected tenderness, his hand still caught in Sam’s shirt and his mouth up against Sam’s ear.
+++
Inception is just as glorious as Sam had thought it would be. He might gush about it a little too enthusiastically because as soon as they exit the theatre, Gabriel lays one hand on his arm and abruptly they aren’t in the commercial district of South Dakota anymore, circa May, they’re in some ritzy room with tasteful, modern furniture, everything in shades of white, the windows draped in long, gauzy curtains that reveal a calm ocean view, no people in sight. It’s so bright after the darkness of before that Sam just stands blinking for a few confused seconds before Gabriel takes hold of him, pulling at the thin jacket Sam had donned against the cool autumn air that has now given way to the warm, salt-laced air of the sea.
“Just so you know,” Gabriel says, smirking, “I’m not a big fan of the establishments you and your brother usually frequent.”
“I can see that,” Sam says, his breath hitching when Gabriel’s hands casually pop open the buttons lining the front of his shirt. It would probably be faster for Gabriel to mojo his clothes off, he thinks, but he’s always seemed to be a process-oriented kind of guy.
“Oh, I am,” he purrs, flicking at the fly on Sam’s jeans. “What do you think of your first glimpse of the unspoiled Samoan seaside? I kind of dig it.”
“’S great,” Sam says, shaky because Gabriel is kneeling to tug Sam’s jeans and his boxers until they pool around his ankles. He stares up at Sam with an inscrutable expression as Sam stands there with his white Oxford shirt fluttering open around his hips, not a stitch else on except a little shy smile.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “I have a great idea,” he says.
He rises and strides away without another word and Sam follows behind him, sheepish and curious and already worked up. They go into what turns out to be the biggest bathroom Sam has ever seen, the most ridiculous tub in the history of the world taking up most of the space. It’s big enough for at least four or five people to comfortably swim in it, sunken into the floor like a pool, white tiles spreading out around it in an a perfect corona. There are floor-to-ceiling windows in here, too, covered in the same thin fabric that doesn’t do much to hide the world outside. Gabriel already has the water running, and Sam has only dreamed of water pressure that strong. Motel showers will bring him to tears from now on.
Steam is rising up from the rapidly rising water, giving the room a dreamy quality. Gabriel shucks his own clothes clinically before slipping into the tub with fish-like grace and then raising one imperious hand to beckon Sam.
As Sam approaches, his feet slapping too loud against the floor, he tugs off his open shirt, folding it into a neat square that he places next to the crumpled pile of clothes already littering the floor. He holds his breath as he enters the water, which is hot enough to be uncomfortable. Gabriel is leaning against the side of the bath, his arms folded over the edge and his head resting on his arms, eyes at half-mast and fixed brazenly on Sam’s naked body. The heavy steam clings to their skin and Sam thinks that this might be the first time he’s really seen Gabriel sweat. Thin beads dot his forehead where his hair is already hanging lank and wet.
“This is…unreal,” Sam says, sinking further into the water with a quiet hiss until only his shoulders are sticking out.
“Live a little,” Gabriel says languidly, and then he sends a tremendous spray of water into Sam’s face with a clever push of his hands.
“Oh hell no, it is on,” and Sam is splashing right back at him, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes so that he gets a clear view of Gabriel fighting off Sam’s attacks with desperate splashes of his own.
Pretty soon Gabriel has Sam pinned against the side of the bath, his arms stretched out on either side as the archangel grins down at him, soaking wet and sliding deliciously up against him. Sam tries to angle their hips together. Gabriel avoids him skillfully, and then he’s prodding at Sam until it becomes clear that he wants him out of the water, but only enough so that Sam is balanced on the white tiles of the edge of the bath. The coolness of the tile against his ass is distracting. Sam is quickly brought back to the more immediate reality of Gabriel leaning up from the water and pulling Sam down into a teasing kiss.
Sam should have guessed, but he it had honestly never occurred to him that Gabriel would be just as infuriating at this as he is at everything else. He takes his time moving down Sam’s body, plucking at his nipples first with light, barely there touches and then too-soft brushes of his tongue. Sam shudders as the rough pads of Gabriel’s fingertips trail down his sides, spreading the already evaporating water droplets over the sensitive skin there. That clever mouth is moving waaay too slowly down and by the time Gabriel’s tongue is lapping at the shallow crease between his hip and his groin, Sam is shaking like a leaf.
“Come on,” Gabriel murmurs, his cheek rubbing against Sam’s thigh in a way that should be illegal, “you’re a talkative guy, Sam, so talk to me. Tell me what you want.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says because he’d do anything for more—more friction, more sensation, just more in general. “Just, uh, right at the moment anything is good. You could—touch me, please.”
“I am touching you,” Gabriel says, innocent. He’s blowing a cool stream of air against the wet trail of saliva he’d left on Sam’s belly.
“Nn. Yeah, no. No, touch me, like, I need your hands—“ He’s going hot all over, mortified. This has never been his particular kink. “On my dick, okay, there, please just, your mouth, or—or—or fuck—“ Because Gabriel is lapping at the head of Sam’s cock where it juts up against his stomach, unashamedly open-mouthed and so filthy as he sinks down on it with one sharp inhale. Sam can only process wet and tight and hot, his legs falling open without any input from him at all. He can’t come up with anything that is really comprehensible or, he thinks, sexy, so he settles for a stuttered string of curses as Gabriel moves over him, drawing him in and sucking at him noisily.
“You’re so cute, Sam,” Gabriel says after he leans back, his hand pumping Sam’s cock in place of his mouth, which is spread into an amused smile. He promptly returns to his task, licking at the base of Sam’s shaft so softly that Sam thinks he’s going to lose his fucking mind, he really is, especially when that too-fleeting pressure is applied to the thin skin of his balls and he nearly comes up off the tile, keening high in his throat. Gabriel’s fingers are tickling up the insides of his thighs, making Sam’s muscles twitch in protest and then Gabriel presses his mouth there, too, kissing along both thighs and even to Sam’s knees, laughing at Sam’s frustrated groans.
The steam makes it hard for Sam to catch his breath. He’s resting back on his elbows, gasping when Gabriel finally pins his hips down with a sudden show of strength and takes him in his mouth again, this time in earnest. Sam pushes himself up enough, despite the harsh push of Gabriel’s hands and the shock of suction-pressure, to see Gabriel’s golden head moving between his legs, Sam’s cock sliding wetly against his lips and Gabriel chooses that instant to meet his eyes. The debauched look is good on him, Sam thinks in the seconds before he comes. It’s so quick that Sam doesn’t even have the chance for a warning, the curl of his toes, still submerged in water, the only sign that he’s losing it, and he’s making these quiet, unconscious ah-ah-ah sounds as he spills into Gabriel’s mouth. Gabriel is careful and neat as he finishes him off, passing one finger delicately under his lips to catch the little dribble that escapes when he pulls away.
It’s so hot that Sam just has to reach for him, kissing him so deeply that he tastes himself (which should be ew but is actually really interesting and…not as gross as he thought it would be). Gabriel rises from the water like the god that he’d pretended to be for so long (or maybe he hadn’t needed to pretend, not much, because when Sam lets his hands rest against Gabriel’s bare hips a thrum goes through him, like touching the surface of one of those plasma globes he’d been so fascinated with as a kid).
“Yes,” Gabriel hisses as Sam lowers his head to the impressive erection now at face-height, and it’s amazing that he caused this, that Gabriel wants him. It’s a powerful feeling. Sam has never given a blowjob before, but what he lacks in experience he tries to make up for with enthusiasm. The taste isn’t unlike what he’d already tasted on Gabriel’s lips, sort of salty and strange. He chokes as Gabriel pushes in deep, the archangel’s hands sinking into Sam’s hair and holding on, fucking into Sam’s mouth and speaking in low, throaty tones words that Sam can’t for the life of him make out. Trusting Gabriel not to cut off his air supply entirely is a daunting task, but Sam relaxes his jaw, letting Gabriel thrust against his tongue and hollowing his cheeks as he tries an experimental suck.
It must be the right thing to do because Gabriel begins to gradually lose the rhythm he’s built up, his breath growing ragged, and he tries to pull away at the last second but Sam stubbornly resists, licking at the head of his cock as Gabriel strokes himself to completion. Hot fluid hits Sam across his lips and he licks at that, too; most of it ends up on his chest, though, and Sam wipes at it curiously, running his fingers through it.
Gabriel’s knees fold and he pulls Sam back into the bath with him, kissing at his damp temple, still murmuring in that unfamiliar language.
“Yeah, me too,” Sam breathes, pressing his nose into the slope of Gabriel’s neck. Everything smells of sex and sweat and it’s a miracle that the water is still as hot as it is. It’s strange that, given what they just did, the feeling of hands on him, spreading water and then soap over the jut of Sam’s shoulder blades and over his chest seems so intimate. But it does, and Sam is on the verge of purring when Gabriel manhandles him around until he’s sitting between Gabriel’s open legs, his head falling back against Gabriel’s torso as the archangel goes about washing his hair, every motion cautious and soothing.
“Sam.” For the first time, Sam catches the warmth in the way Gabriel says his name, like it means more than just what he’s called. He stares up at the underside of Gabriel’s chin until Gabriel looks down at him, golden eyes solemn for once. “I think you should tell me why you ran away from home.”
Sam is so drained that he hardly flinches. “Wow, I’m not twelve, Gabriel, that is so not what it’s called. I...sometimes I need space, you know? To think about stuff. God, you of all people ought to understand that.”
“Hmm.”
“And Dean’s just—he so determined, you know, he gets these ideas in his head and he barely consults me at all, he just expects me to toddle after him like…like a child. It’s irritating as fuck.” Sam watches the play of light against the ceiling, grimacing because he’s pretty sure Gabriel isn’t really all that interested in his and Dean’s petty fight-of-the-week, is only asking because he knows, in whatever mysterious way he knows anything, that it’s been weighing heavily on Sam. “We talked about it maybe twice and next thing you know, he’s signing over our lives. It’s bullshit. The worst part—“ He chokes a bit on the words, but they come out despite how much he hates the truth of it, like his honesty valve is twisted on too high. “—the very worst part is, I feel like a freaking third wheel. How pathetic is that?”
Maybe Dean doesn’t really want me around, he’s just including me because he thinks it’s expected, it’s his responsibility.
“Dean and Cas, they’ve got their own thing going on, and Jesse’s just a little kid, so…so it’s not the same, and…I don’t know. It’s just weird.”
“I see.” Gabriel sighs, playing with Sam’s bangs absently. “You know if you don’t at least talk to old Dean-o, that exemplar of patience, he’s going to do that thing where he moves heaven and earth to get to you and, I hate to say it, but that never ends well for any of the parties involved.”
“I know. I know. I was upset, jumped the gun.”
“Maybe a little,” Gabriel concedes with a fond smile. And then, “You know, for all his very egregious faults, he doesn’t think that of you.”
“What?”
“This is getting creepily reminiscent of matchmaking, but…because you’re such a lovable moron, I’ll lay it out for you, Sam.” Gabriel’s hands are warm against Sam’s face, tilting it back until he’s looking straight into his eyes with a sort of disturbing calm. “Your brother loves you. Responsibility doesn’t factor into it as much as you think it does. Quit overthinking it. Am I making myself clear?”
Sam blinks. “Sure. Okay. I feel like I should be laying out on a couch and you should have, like, a notebook or something to record my deepest darkest feelings.”
“Believe me,” Gabriel says, and for some reason there seems to be entirely too many teeth in his grin, “I’m not your therapist. I fully intend to have my revenge on you for allowing your charming brother to get his grubby little hands on my phone number. I like that number, Sam. It’s such a shame to have to change it, but a voicemail every hour on the hour would test the forbearance of much lesser beings than myself.”
“Fuuuck,” Sam moans, “I can’t believe—ugh. Sorry. You can’t kill him.”
“Of course not.”
“Or…or do anything else to him.”
“Nope. The revenge thing applies just to you, aren’t you lucky?”
“I really am,” Sam says sincerely, because he’s warm and he’s tired and Gabriel’s hands on him are the best part of ever, he’s pretty sure, so he tips his head just enough to kiss the open palms that are so close to his lips.
+++
Dean was apparently too stubborn or too furious to bother checking into another motel during Sam’s absence, because the room Gabriel zaps them to is awfully familiar. Sam stares at the door, rubbing at the back of his neck, but when he chances a look at Gabriel the archangel shrugs in a clear it’s-your-funeral way before disappearing without a sound.
Chicken, Sam thinks spitefully, and he isn’t very surprised when his phone beeps with an immediate incoming text message from said archangel.
says the guy looking like little lost orphan annie get IN there already <333
Wow, hearts. Sam tries to think of a witty reply, but he’s too flustered. Maybe later.
With one last calming (yeah right) breath, Sam raps his knuckles against the door and steels himself for Hurricane Dean.
He’s right to be wary. When Dean pushes the door open and sees him, his eyes go wide and something unreadable passes through them, something hurt and angry and awful. He’s got a gun in one hand, but he holsters it quickly and Sam stiffens, his own eyes squinting against an anticipated blow to the face. But Dean doesn’t punch him; he just stares.
“Hi,” Sam finally says, so awkward, feeling like he’s in one of those what-is-wrong-with-this-picture puzzles.
“You’re back,” Dean manages, voice tight.
“Yeah.” Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot, arms hanging limply at his sides. “Um…where’s Cas and Jesse?”
“Store,” Dean says shortly, and then, “I should fucking kick your ass.”
Oh God. It’s a bro-hug moment, Sam can feel it, but Dean is so tense that he’s afraid to make any sudden movements.
“That…is a valid reaction,” Sam says. “You have every right to be mad, Dean, but—“
“Oh, shit no, do not go all Freud on me, let’s just, let’s just not.” Dean crosses his arms, leans against the doorframe and looks anywhere but at Sam. “I might’ve pushed the domestic thing on you too fast, okay, so…so what I’m saying is, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Sammy.”
It’s a typically roundabout apology, so Dean that Sam’s lips are quirking into a tiny smile before he can stop himself.
“I know that,” Sam says, for once sure of the truth in his own words. “I do want to.”
Dean’s uncertain smile is heartbreaking. “Oh.” And, “…Really?”
I would do fucking anything for you. You’re my brother. You practically raised me. I love you. There is no way Sam could ever actually say those things. Instead he says, “Let’s do this thing."