The Tediousness of Temperance

by ProdigySammyyyy6056

This is the story of how Sam Winchester and Gabriel form an unlikely alliance, to kill Lilith and avert the apocalypse. The archangel makes it so the youngest Winchester must decide between his humanity or the fate of the world. With Heaven and Hell alike determined to stop them, the two form… something that resembles a relationship. (Sabriel, top!Gabriel, bottom!Sam)

1. Gabriel is a Dick

Art Link: https/leafzelindor./post/182110310529/art-masterpost-for-the-tediousness-of-temperance

A Little While After Sam Winchester Jumped the Cage-

Lightning came, a brilliant shock of white in the graphite sky, forking silently to the unsuspecting ground - the thunderous boom always calling its warning too late. The Elysian Fields Hotel abandoned and now only used as a squatting place for the poor and destitute, yet a single silhouette makes their way through the pouring rain. She brandishes an umbrella, her heels clicking against the cracked, uneven pavement as she sashays towards the building.

The door creaks open, moving open a centimeter at a time. It could move faster, but the wood of the door has grown moldy and soft with water and neglect, and if Kali pushed it harder, she'd probably push right through the door. Once inside, a thick coating of dust and mold coats everything. She steps tentatively with her ebony heels, as there are already several dark holes where floorboards have snapped, weak from mold and pressured downwards by the weight of discarded furniture.

Cobwebs brush the Hindu goddess's face as she steps deeper into the house. A thick carpet of dust clung to every object, the rays of light shining through the shattered glass windows catching on the particles suspended in the stagnant air. She moves deliberately, dust billowing into clouds as she passes. She continued to move through the house, kicking up more dust until it was difficult to see through the billions of particles that now swirled in the air.

The dust particles danced and swirled in each ray of light that shone through, onto shards of crystal from a smashed chandelier that once hung from the ceiling; the refracted light spattering the shattered and worn black and white tile floor with an iridescent rainbow of color.

Despite the lustrous glow the light beams played upon this room, the depleted nature of this building could not be concealed. Kali wrinkled her nose at the distasteful smell of damp hung in the air like a disease that had eradicated the fruitful perfume of the outside air long ago.

The meatsuit on the floor was lifeless. Lifeless. His blondish-brown hair was scattered in multiple places, stained with dried blood; crimson. His champagne colored eyes were wide open, but his dark irises held a sudden sadness. His clothes, a tan jacket and a red flannel, were bloody. His body was sprawled out with extended arms, on the cold linoleum floor; arching winged scorched into the material underneath him. And the repugnant odor. The Hindu goddess purses her lips, her eyes narrowing at the stench the archangel's body elicited.

Kali slowly ran her hand down the side of her leg, tracing up a concealed dagger. She ran the sharp edge down the length of her palm, and intoned in Latin," Tui gratia lovis gratia sit cure." Crimson seeped from the wound, a steady flow of claret running down the archangel's still face. Her thundering voice raised echoes in the hall. It also raised a quartet of resting pigeons from fallen beams near the ceiling, who burst into the air with a clap and a whirring from their wings and startled coos.

Another blast of lightning came like a rip in the inky night, as if behind the dark canvass was a brilliant light just waiting to flood through any crack no matter how small. It is then that the archangel comes roaring to life, his lungs expanding and contracting greedily for air. He sits up abruptly clawing away at the tenseness that rigor-mortis had set in his skin, settling all the way to his bones. Kali slowly crouches down, refusing to meet her former-lover's gaze as she digs out a moist makeup wipe from her purse, in a futile effort to clean him up.

"N-no," Gabriel says, or he tries, at least, but his jaw is rattling hard enough to grind his teeth. Kali leans forward with the damp, cold makeup wipe looming over his matted brow.

"You're filthy," She says, her voice gentler than it's been in the countless years they'd known each other.

"No," He manages to use what little strength he has to shove the hand away. He's still shaking, so much that it hurts, but he manages to choke out," Fuck, God, how long…?"

"A year more or less," Came Kali's cold reply, "Much has happened since your brother set ruin to this place, buddhoo. The world is in chaos, all lesser known gods and deities are struggling for new positions of power with a clear majority of religious figures being laid siege by your older brother's temper tantrum. I've already grown wary of their foolishness, Gabriel."

Gabriel sits up against the wall, grimacing as he feels something scuttle past his hand, "I take this makes us even? Or are you still soft on me?"

The Hindu goddess looks into the archangel's eyes, her painted lips a fine line as she hisses in her language, "I never held a place for you in my heart, Gabriel, you were only ever another thing to lay me in bed. Nothing more, nothing less. I have only done, what I have done, for a single reason: You did save my life," She crouches down, her hand grasping the archangel's crotch with an iron grip, "So, yes, we are now even. If I see your face again, now, or ever… I will take what little semblance of manhood you have." With that she is gone.

"Thanks," He utters at the wind. He closes his eyes, placing two fingers at his temple as he tunes into angel radio.

Michael has fallen as Lucifer fell

God does not intervene'

Raphael proclaims the end is still nigh

The youngest Winchester brings down the mightiest weapons of Heaven

No rescue is to be implemented

The abomination waltzes about without a soul

Castiel attempts to bring--

It was like a thousand nonsensical newspaper headlines blaring across sudden bursts of static. Heaven was in deep, deep shit without an official leader; a civil war between the seraph Castiel and the archangel Raphael. Gabriel had long since grown wary of Heaven's politics, so he skimmed past those tidbits—It was the name Sam Winchester that stopped him cold. The human that had saved the world, but at what price?

"Sam," Gabriel laments, "You stupid, self-sacrificing son of a…." He trailed off in a stream of curses.

The archangel had known that leaving the fate of the world in the Winchesters' hands would no doubt leave one or both paying the price, but he had made his peace with this. Or at least he thought he had. After all, Sam Winchester broke the world, it was only right that he should be the one to fix it. He knew he'd done something pretty awful when he had to work so hard to justify it; might as well be less than human, less than a worm, for all that he is able to do for Sam. The more demanding the reparations his subconscious required the worse he knew it was.

When he allows the guilt to come it takes Gabriel down the old familiar path. He wants to refuse to walk it, pretend that he is the deity he claims himself to be; Loki, the god of mischief, cold and callous to the world of humans. And it's true what they say, "Guilt is the root of hesitation." And he couldn't bare that. So, he kept his eyes on the horizon and his mind tuned to creating a positive future; because really, isn't that what everyone needs?

"One day, Lucifer pushed me off the edge of Mount Everest. I hit the ground. Another day, he threw me out into the ocean. I sank. Each time he tried to make me fly, I never succeeded," Gabriel explains, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, "Point being, he was…is a shitty big brother. But for some reason, that I've yet to figure out, I still love him."

Sam swallows hard, "Did you?"

The archangel tilts his head, turns his gaze towards the human, "Did I what?"

"Learn how to fly," The human responds, avoiding the latter's gaze.

The room is silent. Gabriel smiles. "Yeah. But I also learned it's easier tojust let yourself fall," He turns to the hotel room's bathroom door, Dean is still in there the only reason the two are conversing, "Sam, I'm so tired. God, fuck, every time I think I've gotten away from my family, away from their melodrama and fighting..."

The human still doesn't look, his eyes remain on the ceiling as he replies, "I know how that feels," His voice sounds unsure as if he doesn't know why he's indulging the archangel, "I've been trying to get out for a long time, too. But something always drags me back in—Azazel, Lilith, and now Lucifer."

"We're never going to get out, are we?"

"…Not until we're dead," Sam finally meets Gabriel's eyes, his hazel hues are stone cold and hard, devoid of all emotion, "I think it will be a relief."

The archangel stays silent at that, for a few moments. Then he utters, "Do you think that maybe, just maybe… In another lifetime we could have been something?"

"…In another lifetime," The human lets out a breath and finally says," …yeah. Yeah, I'd like to think that."

"Yeah?" Gabriel is smiling again.

"Yeah." Sam is smiling, if only ever so slightly.

"Another lifetime, then," The archangel states.

Gabriel doesn't even know why he recalls the memory. It was mere hours before his death, albeit temporary, at the hands of his big brother. The two had just been sitting in one of the hotel rooms, and had begun to talk, really talk for the first time. But the archangel has never really understood the significance of this little exchange, up until his death.

It was... strange, this change of heart. The realization that he had so badly misjudged Sam Winchester had come over him all at once and brutally quick, crashing down upon his head as waves crash against the cliff face during a storm. It shamed him to even think it, but he had spent the past three minutes utterly at a loss at how his outlook on the human had undergone such momentous change in so short a time.

So, this was grief. It seemed only right that it should touch Gabriel, who was living more than Sam, who was dead.

Chuck Shurley rests his hand on the rough paintwork that coats the door and pushes. Rough wooden splinters cut into his palm; shards of black paint crumble to the floor. The hinges squeal as though they are a warning, but their plea is silenced by a wall of noise.

Laughter overpowers the jukebox. Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke, the stagnant stench of cigarettes hides within the collaboration of mephitic odors. A sharp smell of drink wafts towards Chuck, like black plumes bellowing from the windows of a burning house. There's even a hint of sick tainting the fragrance of the room.

The Lord raised a shaky finger to call the server, and when they did not appear he turned his head slowly to his right to watch her scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than Coca-Cola. 'It must be near closing,' He thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker.

"Hey," Chuck called, "'ow 'bout 'rink, 'iskey."

The man turned his head, the professional smile he'd worn all night was quite gone. His eyes were pink, lids sagging, and his face hung loose and long. "You've had enough to drink," He grunts returning to the glass, "How many have you had, pal?

The supreme being chuckled and answered with a tone that was enthusiastic and matter-of-fact, "I drank nine rum distilleries across the Caribbean. I now feel a slight tingle in my fingers," He tries to cover his belch with his fist, but his puffed rose-kissed cheeks are a dead giveaway, "Grenada: River Antione Rum Distillery, is among one of my personal favorites of man kind's endeavors to numb themselves to the various stressors in their lives, such as work, school, relationships, money, et cetera."

The bartender's eyes lifted to meet the latter's, and his lips drew into an amused smile. "Well," He runs to the cloth counter clockwise, "I think I'll have to cut you off at, what was it? Oh, yes – Nine distilleries across the Caribbean."

Chuck laughs, his dull blue hues full of mirth, "While the people of the Caribbean certainly mastered the art of distilling, it is actually the Greeks that are responsible for its widespread creation," He cleared his throat, and muffled another belch into his fist, "While the art of wine making reached the Hellenic peninsula by about 2000 BC, the first alcoholic beverage to obtain widespread popularity in what is now Greece was mead, a fermented beverage made from honey and water."

Gabriel rolled his eyes as he made his way into the bar. That was just like his father - bring up the fact he's the almighty Creator with infinite knowledge in casual conversation. His father abruptly turned from the bartender and took in the sight of his son, a burst of musical laughter sounding off.

"Dad," Gabriel breathed, his eyes blowing wide, barely even registering he'd spoken out loud until the scruffy-looking man stopped laughing.

"Come, I'm celebrating, and I've summoned you here to join me," The Lord declares motioning to array of bar stools surrounding him, as if he were parting the Red Sea. Gabriel blinked, and all the bar patrons receded from his view at the sweep of his father's arm. "I recall the beginning, in Heaven, you were the one that introduced the concept of alcohol. You also got too rough when making the moon, dropped a few too many times, and now it's all cracked and holy. When Michael breathed life into the gaseous planets, he took great care in making sure none of them were damaged – "

"Okay," Gabriel interrupted, setting a palm forward "So, where were you?"

"That's a long story," Chuck sighed, gazing around the empty bar, "But I've been around."

"''I've been around,' "The archangel mimicked his father's voice, his annoyance obvious in the few words. He swore to all that was good and holy, when he back talked his father, he hears a roll of thunder in the distance and the supreme being's gaze darkened.

"No matter. There is no time to get into such trivial matters such as my absence," Chuck dismisses, his light-hearted attitude returning and the roll of thunder ceasing, "As I said before; we are here to celebrate. My final edition to my book series, Supernatural, has been published and garnered favorable reviews. The ending – The ending is what got people in the end."

"What the hell are you going on about," Gabriel sighs, running a tired hand over his face, "Look, no disrespect pops, but I only showed up here because I thought you'd – I thought you'd changed your mind 'bout some things."

The Lord isn't even paying attention, instead he's gripping a small volume in his hands; a graphic picture of two large man sprawled over a black car with the words 'Supernatural: Swan Song' stamped over the top, the 'g' dipping against the taller man's elbow that leaned against the hood. Gabriel blinks. He blinks again. He recognized that the two men were supposed to be the Winchester knuckleheads, but they looked more like male Project-Runway models meet Twilight.

Chuck flips to the last pages of the book and clears his throat," So, what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test... for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and God himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point," He looks up awaiting his son's reactions as h reads the last sentences, "No doubt – endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?"

Gabriel stays silent, contemplating how to even open his mouth. "Are you expecting praise, a statue built in your image? I ain't got nothin', pops."

"I thought it was quite the ending – But I understand you're not happy with it?"

The archangel is rigid with fury. "'Not happy with it?' Damn, fucking, right! You can go ahead and tear me apart molecule by molecule or snuff out my very existence, for what I'm about say, but I don't fucking care!" His breathes are coming out as hot, steaming pants, "That kid is down there as we're talking getting hate-banged by two very pissed-off archangels. And you haven't done a damn thing about it! You've all but tuned him out, and for no better reason than you didn't want to interfere. You're a thoughtless bastard, a stupid son of bitch that – "

Gabriel gasps as he's flung against the wall behind the bar, several bottles of various alcohols shattering and spraying. Chuck is standing now, his eyes have a deadness, a stillness. He's still holding the same small volume, his thumb over Sam Winchester's fictional counterpart. The archangel struggles against his father's far superior power, a rumbling growl coming up from his chest. His fingers claw at the cheap wall paper beneath his fingers, and he meets the Lord's eyes.

"I will not interfere. And you have no place condemning for not doing so," The supreme being seethes, his voice a quiet calm, "He had free-will, he made his choice – I did not force him to jump –"

"Fair enough. I'll have someone wrote you a prescription for a pair of testicles," The archangel chokes out, the power pressing him to the wall staring to fell suffocating him, "He may have jumped, but you could have saved him, instead of leaving him down there at the mercy of your two strongest creations, your two sons that are angry with you, but have nothing and no one else to take it on."

Chuck cocks his head to side, an almost innocent curiosity transcending the negative emotions in his eyes. "You… care for him, Gabriel. Don't you?" When the Lord spoke, and asked anything from those beneath him, there was no lying, no disobeying, nothing of the sort. So, Gabriel was forced to tell the truth.

"…yes."

"But, not in the way you care for your brothers," The Lord whispers, his hand scratching at his crucify beard," Nor any other sibling you have. No, you feel something deeper, more primal for him, yes?"

"…yes. Damn it, yes! But – "

In the few years, in comparison to the plethora of time he'd existed, Gabriel had known Sam Winchester he'd found no reason to feel the things he did for him. The feelings associated with the youngest Winchester were unpinnable, untraceable in both meaning and origin. They aren't transitory like lust or something to regret like anger, no, it was something sublime.

"– I don't know what it is."

He recalled the first time he looked upon Sam's face, it was not on the perfect features that he dwelled - not the gold flecked hazel eyes, nor the pomegranate pink lips. Instead it was the small blemishes and insecurities that allured him. The small scar on the neck, the shy smile, the small slouch that made his staggering height minimized, even if only ever so slightly. Because he was so tantalizingly human; a living, breathing creature that represented both sin and perfection.

"And I cannot tell you," Chuck concludes, his lips a thin line, "But, you also have free will, I remind you. It was a gift I bestowed to all of my creations, so if you don't like the ending of this story… than you simply have to change it."

"Change it?"

"You'll figure it out. And I bet it'll make a hell of a story."

Gabriel couldn't help, but snort at that, "Sounds like a shitty story if you ask me pops."

July 23, 2008

The bar is hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with the rock music that dominates the atmosphere. The crowd is varied, students from the nearby university for the most part. Sam Winchester winds his way through the warm bodies to order a drink, the dark local beer with his own touch of course. He skims his fingers over the lining in his jacket, pulling out a large silver flask and dumping the contents into his glass. Crimson seeps through the alcohol, and absentmindedly, he dips his finger into the glass and stirs the mixture.

"Better than mother's milk." Yellow eyes flash in Sam's mind; burn there.

A group of young women in their thirties collapsed with helpless giggles as he turned to face them, all trying to beckon him over. Pouting that he refused to acknowledge them, they turned to a group of businessmen in their grey suits lighting up cigars. The noise level was high. The smoke level, too. But it didn't bother him. He was used to it; an unfortunate habit of the demon he now kept in his company, Ruby.

Ruby was in the back, pestering a fellow demon that supposedly had ties to Lilith. She was practically sprawled over the demon's lap, her hands rubbing up and down his chest as she whispered things in his ear that would make even a succubus blush. After a moment he nods, and she takes his hand leading him out the back door as she sends a wink in the hunter's direction. Sam smirks and takes a sip of his drink. He feels the barstool to his side shift as a new patron takes his seat. The bartender throws his rag over his shoulder and plasters a tired smile.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asks dryly.

"Get me a Sazerac, and don't go light on the absinthe," The man comments his voice light and upbeat, "And get a refill for the tall glass of water next to me."

Not in the mood for another rough night with a stranger, the words "no thank you" almost graze past the hunter's lips as he turns to the man. The trickster stares at him with an amused smile peaking past his lips. Before he can reply, another dark beer is shoved in front of him and the bartender has set to making the latter's drink.

"The Sazerac combines all good things—rye whiskey, absinthe, and a punch of bitters," The trickster explains softly,"...into a hell of a whiskey cocktail. Though, I can tell your drink packs one hell of a punch on its own."

"If I had a stake I would do you in," Sam warns, motioning to his hip where his gun resided, "But, getting shot where the sun doesn't shine probably won't feel nice, huh?"

The latter simpered, looking pleased with himself. He nodded in acknowledgment as the bartender slid his drink across the table and caught it with ease. Taking a moment, he took a long, heady drink from his glass, downing it in a matter of seconds.

"Yes," The Pagan god responds, "Before you shoot a load up my ass, let me tell you. I'd much rather do that to you. Plus, you look like you need another drink and a shrink, so I'm going to take a gamble and say you won't be sober for much longer. Besides, I thought we had fun the other night."

Dean was gone, and Sam Winchester had no conscience. He had encountered the trickster, still annoying and smugly alive as always, though he'd hoped differently. But after a few failed attempts of jabbing the Pagan god with a stake, coated in his last victim's blood, he had taken down a few drinks. Conscience was essential in the presence of this monster, but he was only human, and with memories of Dean's death awaiting a clear head... He fell upon the bottle, hard.

So, when the monster in question showed up unannounced in his hotel room, Sam Winchester knew beyond any doubt that he was going to die. Drunk, and suicidal, he didn't even go through the trouble of a real fight.

"—I'm afraid you have me confused with somebody who gives a shit. But it's okay," The trickster purrs, having already easily disarmed the drunken hunter with a snap of his fingers. "-you don't need to be embarrassed, turns out it happens all the time."

The harsh scent of drink can be smelt of on Sam's person. He knew it, and so does the Pagan god before him. He can see the large man struggling to keep his balance, and he knew he's struggling to keep it. His legs don't work as he tells them. Neither do his hands. Or his fingers. Somewhere, deep inside he knew his brain must be sending signals telling him what to do. Whether or not his body is listening is a different story.

"Messing with you Winchesters is the most fun I've had," The Pagan god sweeps the human's legs out from under him. "-without being forced to cuddle afterward."

Sam landed hard on his back, the breath knocked out of him as the trickster landed on top and straddled his hips. Without leverage, he had no way of pushing off. Afraid that his life was at risk, the hunter started to sit up to fend him off, but he froze as the latter grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back.

That was new. Just like what the trickster was doing now. The gargantuan man gasped, his hand pausing in midair. The tongue on his throat stole his breath more completely than the fall had. His body pressed against his, holding him down securely. For a moment he met his mocking eyes, and then the Pagan god forced his head even further back until all he could see was the ceiling.

"Relax, Sammy," The trickster whispered with a grin. "I promise I won't hurt you. Unless you ask, of course."

Sam sneered, "I make it a point to never enter a shrink's office unless I'm planning on grossly overpaying somebody for telling me something that I already know," He continues. "The other night was a mistake…"

"Look, I know you and I have never really connected – maybe that's because I'm relentlessly annoying, or maybe it's your fault because you can't tolerate relentlessly annoying people – I don't know," He responds, his voice becoming low and husky,"But answer me one question: Do you want another drink?"

Sam glanced at the trickster, his jaw clenching as his mouth formed a thin line. He inclined his head forward and his eyes narrowed dangerously -the bitch face- before answering," Shots."

The pagan god was already ordering," Two flaming B-52s, please," Seeing the tall man's puzzled look, he sniggered and states, "Aren't you just too precious for this world? Kahlua, Irish cream, Cointreau, and a few drops of 151 rum."

The bartender slid two petite, flaming shot glasses in front of the two men. The trickster eagerly took one and shoved the other into the hunter's startled hands. The shorter man holds his glass up, and tips it towards the hunter with a wink. Sam's turned his head to the side to avert his gaze, but the sudden rosiness of his cheeks gave him away.

They drink in silence, hoping that an answer lies at the bottom of the glass and then the bottom of the bottle and then the next bottle and the next. And so, the night drags on. Few words exchanged between them. And the words that are spoken are slurred and senseless.

Until the trickster utters one sentence," I have a room in a motel not too far from here."

Sam finished another shot," Lead the way."

The hunter was fairly sure that by the end of the evening he was going to get a horrible hangover. Then again, a hangover is most definitely a preferable alternative to thinking too much. Perhaps, it could even help him forget what would happen that night even faster.

There was movement between them, and slowly – very slowly – and after a moment the trickster realized that Sam's face was almost out of reach. He dimly heard himself let out a low growl of displeasure. Without thinking he tightened his fingers in Sam's strands and grabbed onto his broad shoulder with his other hand, yanking him down. It was hard, though.

But after bringing down the towering man to his height, he did not hesitate. Without giving the action a moment's thought, without pausing for a single instant, he twisted his fingers deeper into the man's mess of hair – and brought him down into a hard, ruthless kiss.

The trickster smiled lopsidedly into the kiss as he heard a deep, guttural moan escape the human's throat. Flicking his tongue sensually out he was met with Sam's, both pivoted against the other's while hands started groping and kneading. He kept up the gently but arousing touches, wanting this to be as pleasurable as possible for the tight-assed human.

Suddenly Sam groaned as the Pagan god brushed his hands up his layered clothing, warm fingers brushing against delicate skin. Liking the response, he quickly pulled off the man's jacket throwing it behind him, and with the speed of his dexterous hands, his shirt was swept away in that single fluid motion. He had totally undressed him from the waist up in less than two seconds.

"How, the hell, do you do that?" Sam choked out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

The deity just smiled. "Talent."

Sam's own fingers began fumbling over the buttons on the latter's shirt. The trickster snapped his fingers and his shirt receded from view, at last, they were chest-to-chest bare.

"Fuck…" Sam's head lolled back against the headboard while the older man pulled away from the kiss in favor of nipping his way down his collarbone.

" It's okay, we'll go slowly." The trickster mumbled to him as his teeth grazed his skin. Then his mouth moved up and latched onto his collarbone again. He lightly bit the skin, then sucked up a bruise.

"F-hck," He weakly protested.

Despite his feeble protest, the smaller man continued to move up to his neck, nipping, sucking, while his hands drifted down and loosened the buckle that held his jeans. The large man felt the suction on his neck and moved his head to the side to give him more access

His hands slid down to the hems of his jeans, he pulled them down in one swift movement along with his boxers. Slowly, he pulled them to his ankles, tossed them aside, then looked at his nude body from a vantage point between her feet. Then, like a snake slithering up to his prey, the trickster slid between his legs, gently parting them as he drew nearer.

Ignoring the plea, his hand rubbed right against the man's exposed member, slipping over all the moisture already built up at the tip. His body jerked at finally feeling it, and a cry shuddered out of his lungs. His touch became more purposeful, tracing tight circles right over the head, rubbing sensually until the hunter thrashed under him. The trickster wraps his hand around the now swollen member and continues stroking him painfully slow. The human curses and pushes into the teasing touch, wide eyes locked on him, lips parted and moist with saliva.

Abruptly, he pulls Sam closer by the hips and grinds their bare erections together, both men gasping at the wet, hot friction. The trickster's fingers went down, brushing between the hunter's cheeks suggestively. His husky voice rasps, 'Lube.' And Sam doesn't have to dig through a duffel to find it, instead he can simply reach back to the nightstand and snatch it from a drawer.

Sam's smooth back curves upwards at the first press of one dry finger inside his hole and the two know all too well this is about as far as they can go without any additional lubricant. The shorter man pops the top off the lube and squirts a grape-sized blob on his fingers to warm it up before sliding his fingers back down and propelling in.

"F-fuck," Sam hisses out clenching around the intruding digits. "P—please... J-just—Inside me—Now..."

Well, the trickster has never been strong enough to say no to him, so he lubes his manhood up and manhandles the larger man until he's reclined all the way back, legs spread wide and showing off his firm ass and gaping hole, all wet and begging to be filled. Without warning, he spread the hunter's long legs and lined his cock up, his free hand pushing on his back, pressing him into the mattress.

"Condom. Damn it, condom!" Sam growled into the pillow.

The trickster reached for the nightstand and grabbed one of the tin foils. He was close to shooting his load at once as he pulled the latex over his cock. There was a slight hesitance at the entrance as he pushed through firm muscles, then at about halfway in he felt a bit of friction as he reached an area of his shaft that had not gotten moist enough. He stopped there before the friction hurt them both, and he pulled back a little.

"Hold on," Gabriel reassures, adjusting his hips.

The next thrust was more deliberate, going a little faster and deeper, yet Sam sensed he was not quite done. With a bit more lubricant him on his covered member, he pulled back once more, and the third thrust utterly filled him until he felt his balls pressed up against his perineum. Despite himself, it made him let out a pleasurable moan to be filled so full.

"Are you okay?" The trickster whispered as he watched the tenseness in his brow.

Sam nodded quickly, too afraid that if he tried to speak, only a squawking sound would come out. The shorter man spoke little, keeping quiet to listen to him. The moist sounds of the thrusting, the slap of skin when he thrust in quickly, and his gasping moans at each movement, made it hard for him not to lose control instantly.

"I thought you said you didn't want me to be gentle," The Pagan deity teases, giving a particularly hard thrust. He chuckles, seeing the larger man's cheeks flush, "Well, in the ever-wise word of Gandhi, 'In a gentle way, you can shake the world, "Another thrust, "You have no idea what you're getting into…"

The hunter smirks, a single bead of sweat going down his temple. He whispers chillingly," Come and show me."

Their session was starting to slow which only made it more lasting and pleasurable to the hunter. Sam had grabbed a hold of the blankets below him as the trickster sped up. His hips slammed against his end and made his thighs tremble. Then, the trickster abruptly changed his position, so he could wrap his arms around Sam. His lips lightly kissed the hunter's upper chest and close to his shoulders. He still matched his thrust without pause. Their bodies were drenched in sweat and Sam's body gleamed.

Sam's hazel hues met with the trickster's own golden eyes. A strong chest tightening connection began to surface and blossom within them. The hunter felt it strongly, every wrong feeling was thrown away and he basked in this sensation instead. The trickster smirked, his face was dripping with sweat, but the latter didn't mind it. Spots decorated his vision as they climaxed together. The trickster's body trembled but they both tried to keep their tired eyes locked on one another.

Staring into the hunter's hazel hues, made something within the confines of his mind stir. He closes his eyes.

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched, and he states," Your daughter, she's still human for now, but once she comes of age she will turn. I was going to kill her, and I still want to. But you're here, and you're what I came for," He twists the machete in his grip," I'm willing to let some other hunter handle it when she turns, giving her at least a few more precious years, if you tuck your tail between your legs and don't put up a fight."

"And if I do?"

"Then you've changed my mind for me, and I still get to do what I came here for. Personally, I really like that option, but I figure I'll let you choose."

The thing was quiet for a while, staring at Sam before turning to look at the floor. And then, out of nowhere, the hunter found a metal lamp being swung towards his chest; he had to back away quickly to avoid it. When the man swung again, he jumped backwards and onto the armchair, using his feet to tip it over. He brought his machete forward, cutting in an arc at the lamp, effectively shoving the thing back a few feet.

"Bad fucking decision," Sam hissed.

Moving back towards the coffee table, the bloodsucking bastard broke a beer bottle on the side of the table, its sharp ends glistening now with the alcohol that dribbled off of it. He threw the bottle at him, placing the lamp on the ground.

"Saving your own, skin, huh?" Sam asked as he ducked the blow,"I think you just lost some brownie points." Pushing forward on the armchair, he flipped it back over and jumped onto the table as well, pleased when it held his weight. As he swung his machete down, ready to remove Vergara's head from his shoulders, the man dropped to the floor, taking another broken bottle with him. He quickly crawled beneath the table and came out the other side, climbing up as well. It must've been quite sturdy.

Sam twisted his leg around and kicked the man off of the table, right into the television which crashed to the floor. Jumping, he aimed the blade for his abdomen but found the floor when the man weakly rolled away. As he pulled it out, he found that the thing was now behind him, retrieving the lamp that he'd originally had.

They stood facing each other. Sam twirled the blade. "Stupid."

"I'm not lettin' you come back here. Not for me, and not for my girl," He responded, his eyes fiery," I'd rather die - " And so he did.

A voice at the doorway spoke," What the hell was that thing?"

Sam glances up, and inclines his head to the side, his face a puzzled expression. Gabriel, the archangel, was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest with a sucker bulging from his cheek.

"A Chiang Shih, a more colorful Chinese vampire which draws its power from the moon and is created when a cat jumps over a corpse," Sam says nonchalantly, wiping his machete off on a blanket that was strewn over the couch.

"Nice to see you too, Samsquatch - "

"It's strange," The hunter comments," That death seems to be less than permanent lately, for a lot of us. How in the hell are you back?"

"No small-talk. I get it. But I could ask you the same thing."

Sam answers," I don't know what brought me back. But it doesn't matter. I'm back, I'm staying, and that's all that matters."

"I talked to Castiel before I came to find you. He told me some... interesting things," Gabriel says, his face neutral.

The left side of his faint red lips tugged upwards creating a smirk on the hunter's face. "Things of a soulless nature?"

"…Yes."

The machete turned in his hand, and Sam snorted. "Don't tell me you're one of the many ready to sign a petition to get ol' Sammy back? The puppy-eyed moron?"

"I'm starting to get the impression that you don't have that many fans?"

"None," Sam states bluntly," Dean, the other guy's brother…He just wants the image of Sammy he's conjured up, this puppy-eyed idiot who rides shot-gun and indulges him. But I am Sam, just as much as the other guy is. I'm just not his brother. The block-head just refuses to see it."

Gabriel gives him a smile, and asks," I take you're not one to put up with his nonstop finger pointing and 'blah-blah-blah'?"

The hunter moves his hand in the air like it's a puppet, opening and closing his fingers like his hand is talking," Sam, I know you're hiding something from me! Enough with all of these lies!" His voice is deep and gravely, obviously a poor impersonation of his big brother.

"Wow, your mouth is kinda like a magician's hat. You never know what's going to come out."

"And you have the IQ of a toothbrush," Sam replies.

"Fitting as I want to be in your mouth."

Sam scoffs, giving him a lopsided smile, and chuckles softly. "You know, it's a shame. If you obviously didn't like the other guy so much, I think we'd get along fine."

"It is a shame. I bet you'd be open to all kinds of crap in bed," Gabriel agreed. He frowned as the latter spun the machete in his hand and began making his way towards the other room," What are you doing?"

"Finishing the job," Sam answers, his voice flat.

The archangel's jaw clenched, and he says," She's just a kid. Maybe she won't end up like her old man," The hunter's facial expression doesn't falter as he twists the doorknob," Sam, damn it! Don't –"

"Distracted much?" Sam spoke in a low and breathless voice.

"Remembering," The Trickster corrected, his fingers digging into the firm skin under them.

"Remembering who knows what while I'm here, naked, basking in our afterglow, but wanting you to make good on your promise of leaving me unconscious," Sam grinned as much as he could muster with his quickening breaths and trembling lips, "Not your best move, asshat. I'm tempted to just ride you, since you're obviously not willing to put in any effort."

"Well you best get to riddin'," The Trickster says in an unbelievably bad Southern accent," Missie."

The next morning Sam woke up to an empty bed, a cooling space where the trickster had been. It was extremely late in the morning – much later than the hunter, who was an early riser both by preference and training, usually slept. It was both a relief and a disappointment that the Pagan deity had left him. Dealing with the monster was exhausting, but not dealing with him was, in its own way, tiring too.

Feeling clearer headed than he had the day before, he rose, washed briskly, and dressed, wrinkling his nose when he realized his flannel was horribly wrinkled, and briskly pressed it with the cheap hotel iron. Later, he picked at a book of Ancient Greek he'd discovered while he ate his breakfast, which was just as it had been the day before—A fruit smoothie from a lovely shop down the road.

Then, Sam's half-empty plastic cup disappeared, leaving him grasping at empty air. The moment he puts down his book to investigate, he is surrounded by an enormous array of breakfast foods. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes, and a tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep them chilled. The basket of croissants set before him would be enough carbs to keep anyone going for a week. There's an elegant glass pitcher of orange juice, petite strings of pulp floating across the surface and cascading through the bottom. On the corner of the table there's a small note card reading: I heard it's polite to have breakfast after a one-night stand. If you're ever not so sober and up for making some regrettable decisions, you know who to call.

Sam glanced the note over, his face cast as dead-pan as he could manage, yet he failed. There at the corner of his would-be somber lips was a crease of amusement. But his phone let out a text alert, but instead of his usual ringtone, a man's moan elicited from it. The hunter felt his cheeks flush, and he grabbed the phone reading the message: I'll be back tonight ;).

"Son of a bitch."

Sam Winchester was a man of few fears. There were few things on earth he could genuinely say he was remotely startled by, barring John Winchester himself and, if he was being shamefully honest, clowns. He had reasons to fear them, rational reasons. Other rational fears- monsters, heights, death, pain- had been driven out of him agonizingly through the years, with extensive experience and ruthless attempts on his life.

He had no rational reason to fear the lanky, short man standing straight-backed and resolutely silent in front of him, so he told himself he didn't, although he was showing all of his usual nervous ticks. Excessive gulping, foot-tapping, averted eye contact—the works. The trickster held the silver flask in his hand, his honey-brown eyes narrowed dangerously that challenged the hunter, no, triple-dog-dared him to try and defend himself.

"Look--I can ex--"

"You can what?" The trickster interrupted with a snarl, "Explain? God, Winchester, I knew you were going off-the-deep-end, but this? You have no idea what you're messing with, and I hate to tell you, but it's obvious that demon-bitch of yours is not too keen on informing you!" He clenched his fist around the flask, and the metal gave way to his impressive strength, it squealed, and blood gushed from its confines running down his hands.

Sam dove, his hands cupping the shorter man's sullied hand. Blood now ran down Sam's fingers in heavy torrents, dripping onto the carpet below, and it took all the man's strength not to lap it up like a starving dog. He didn't like what he was, but he was so weak emotionally right now. Too much pain, too much suffering. He couldn't resist the pull towards addiction that roared through his blood. The trickster made to pull his bloodstained hands away, but the human's grip only tightened as his head bowed low. Then the taller man's face was mere inches from the shorter man's sullied fingers, sulfur rank in the air as the blood began run down the latter's arm. Sam's tongue ran over his lips, eyes dark with bloodlust.

The Pagan god let out a cruel, mirthless laugh, yanking his hand out of the human's grip, he wiped off his hand on the bedding. After a moment, he hisses," What'd you do, find yourself some all-too-willing demon bitch to drain the second your brother was gone, beg her for some of that sweet, sweet demon blood? A way to drink all your emotions away, to twist and corrupt your soul until it's not your baggage, until you don't even resemble something human anymore?" He sneers at the human, "After all, it's easier to just not feel at all, right?"

Sam stayed silent throughout the latter's entire rant, his eyes glued to the ground. His hazel hues finally glance up, a shine of tears going across as they began to redden." I-I-I couldn't save him," His voice shatters with grief and regret." I-I tried to--my soul, crossroads—they wouldn't fucking take it. 'Round and round the Winchesters go'. It's a game, a goddamned game to them!" He sniffles and blinks rapidly, trying to clear away the sheen of tears," Lilith, s-she took him away, a-and made me watch as he was turned into a fucking hellhound chew-toy. And you know what, I've got demon blood in me! This disease pumping through my veins that I can never rip out or scrub clean, but I can use this fucking curse and turn into a blessing! A way to kill that damned bitch… Lilith."

The trickster tilts his head forward, his face actually feigning something that resembled pity. It wasn't that he was cruel, he just didn't give a damn what the human thought. And he was blunt. Whatever he wanted from anybody he just told them straight, he didn't try to sugar-coat it or bargain, so he sure as hell wasn't doing it for this human.

"You cling to the memory of your sacrifices, of all of the things you've lost. They drag behind you, like chains of your own making. You have let go of the people, the places, and the things, but you have not let go of the pain. You have not forgiven yourself."

"...For what?"

"Being alive," He pulls back, seeing the emotional baggage in his hazel eyes, and allows his own to illuminate a pale blue, "There is another way, but you aren't going to like it. It's a stupid plan, it'll hurt, worse than anything you've ever felt, and it'll probably get you ganked in the end, and if you're not, you'll never be the same again, "He sneers leaning into his face, "But what've you got to lose, sasquatch?"

Sam lets out a breath, pushes away from the man, disengaging himself from his pale blue eyes that shone brightly as a rippling ocean in sunlight. He inhales deeply, letting out one last shuddering breath, "What... What the hell are you?"

"Not like this. Let me sober you up first," The trickster says, pressing his two forefingers against the human's forehead. Sam moans in relief, all signs of his hangover gone," Hey, Sammy. C'mon—we're going to get some grub. Get the hell out of this box so we can talk." He walks towards the door, and Sam's thundering footsteps follow.

The trickster walked over to the counter and ordered himself a triple-chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream, and a plain vanilla milkshake with extra whipped cream, for Sam. "Thanks," He said when the women handed him his drinks, and she beamed at him, appreciative of the generous tip he'd given her. He slid another ten onto the counter with a wink. " Later, sweetheart."

"I hate whipped cream," Sam complained when his reluctant companion slid the vanilla milkshake across the table towards his waiting hand.

"I know you do," The Pagan god picked up his own milkshake and slurped at it obnoxiously, smirking as the human groaned in disgust, "But it costs more for extra whipped cream."

"That's disgusting." Sam gave him a flat stare.

"I like sugar, so sue me."

Sam took his spoon and scooped out as much of the whipped cream from his milkshake as he could. Then he dropped the whole dollop could the trickster's already empty glass. The latter nodded in approval using his spoon to eagerly take in the extra whipped cream. The human suddenly looked at the trickster, his eyes staring at him quizzically. Just what was the shorter man playing at? First, he used Sam as a booty call and drinking mate, now, he's trying to help him? He was not convinced to say the least.

But the need for revenge was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless, unceasing, it could only be stopped by the cold steel of a rat trap, a trap he would devise himself. His need for revenge was like an abscess on the skin of the soul that could only be cured by the cruel sharp steel point of revenge. Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective antibiotic is cold hard revenge.

"Yikes," The trickster comments, running his thumb across his lip to lap off any remaining whipped cream, "Diving into your head is like a Wes Craven movie. I'm surprised ol' Krueger himself isn't running around in your noggin."

Sam's cheeks reddened, his eyes narrowing, "Stay out of my head."

The latter held up his hands in mock surrender, "Whatever. It's hard to stay out your head when you're practically yelling out your thoughts, "He rolls his eyes and turns to a passing waitress, "Can I get an order of the triple chocolate brownie á la mode?"

" Jesus," Sam mutters with a shake of his head, "So, you brought me here for a reason. If you're going to kill me, you better kill me now, hell, I won't even fight back."

The trickster rolled his eyes, "You're cute," He folds his hands and places them on the table, "You've tugged at my heartstrings and have forced my sentimental side to come forward."

"I…I don't…understand."

"First, you should know I'm not what I appear to be. I'm something much more primordial, more juiced up than a trickster. Because of that I know better, more effective ways of gaining power, " The trickster explains, his lips a fine line, "Ways that won't leave you reeling for another hit, so some demon can turn you into their bitch. Second, I'm much, much more fun to be with seeing as I provide additional things: snogging, light cuddling, sex—"

"Oh, god—"

"—Is what you'll be screaming—"

"Please stop…"

"—might even throw in some different positions—"

" Trickster," Sam exclaims, looking around the family establishment in mortification, "Okay, let's say you do want to help me, why would you do it? Surely you aren't doing it from the goodness of your heart. What's the catch—"

The shorter man is on the move in seconds, leaning over their table and pulling the human down for a heated kiss, hot and deep and chocolate-flavored. After a moment he pulls back as if nothing happened. " You were talking too much. Ease up on the questions—"

" What do you want?"

" I told you before, Sammy. I'm sentimental," The shorter man replies with a shrug, "I want to see you fulfill your Kill Bill fantasy, your Rocky II comeback, your Rambo revenge rampage, your—Not to mention it makes for more tactical coitus."

" I don't—tactical…?"

"You know," He replies, an almost hungry sheen in his eyes, "Nooky, whoopee, bonking, boinking, boffing, a roll in the hay, quickie, coition, sexual intercourse, lovemaking, making love, sex act, relations, mating, copulation, birds and the bees, carnal knowledge, facts of life—"

Sam sputters and chokes on his milkshake for the second time that morning," Jeez, I don't even… I mean—" He runs his fingers through his hair, "How do I even begin to trust you?"

" I'm sorry, let me get this straight. You're willing to work with a demon," The trickster questions indecorously,"—and you're just now worrying about the issue of trust? I'm honestly hurt, Samitch. But if you must know, I like to play both sides, to keep things interesting."

Ruby's meatsuit lay slumped on the floor, her eyes scorched into her skull as her mouth stayed agape. The meatsuit's brunette hair is singed and clings to her flayed skin. Her hands are dug into the hotel's cheap carpet, almost as if she were trying to scratch it away to escape. Her feet were at odd angles, the heels of her black leather boots snapped off.

The archangel Gabriel observed his work with a sense of pride. The human stared at the shorter man's side, his lips parted in a mixture of awe and disgust. Sam let's out a shaking breath, his eyes glued to the decimated meatsuit. The archangel's eyes still glow a place blue.

" How did you, what are you…?"

"I'm something much more primordial, more juiced up than a trickster. Because of that I know better, more effective ways of gaining power."

Gabriel's wings are azure shadows on the peeling wall, and Sam's hazel hues are just now noticing them. The human takes a step closer to the smaller man, and despite his towering height, he feels minuscule next to him. The archangel smirked, quirking his head towards the human as he offered his hand forward. The very first beam of the silver moon rebounded on pure gold feathers.

"Angel," Sam whispers in realization.

"Gabriel," Gabriel states with an air of cockiness, "The Archangel Gabriel."

Gabriel snaps his finger and a bottle of Spirytus Rektyfikowany, a highly concentrated ethanol which has been purified by means of repeated distillation, landed in his lap. He quickly unscrewed the cap and poured some into a shot glass, and gently pressed it to the human's lips.

Sam Winchester, his muscles flexing powerfully, glowered into the other's tranquil honey-brown eyes. Some part of him, deep in the back of his mind, kept warning him, trying to tell him to run. He ignored the warning. He sipped cautiously at the alcohol and coughed at the strong burn it elicited.

"Sam," The archangel repeated calmly, "It's all right. Relax. Sit down."

Sam realized that he was standing. He didn't remember getting up. Some of his hunter-self seeped back into his mind, calming him down, slowing his breathing within him. He looked down into Gabriel's calm, undisturbed face. The primordial being, his thatch of light brown hair framing an angular face set in a perceptive cast, studied him, assessed him with the slightest hint of a smirk fixed in the corners of his mouth.

"Y-you're an… angel," Sam repeats in stunned realization, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, "I always believed, but I never—I would never think…" Another shot was pressed against the curve of his mouth and he eagerly took it.

Sam had always believed in Heaven and Hell; angels, demons, God, the whole biblical shebang. From the time he'd first touched a bible, he'd prayed every night before he laid his head to rest because he honestly believed without a single fleeting doubt, that God would listen and answer. But, time passed, and no answers were given, his dedication and faith were not to be rewarded, but still, he prayed to God: Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…

Sam took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as he put his hands on his lap, intertwining his fingers. He watched his hands as he spoke, "Tell me, everything."

"That's a bit of a broad topic," Gabriel replies, a wry smile on his face.

"I want to know," The hunter says, his eyes shining like that of a curious child, "Everything that you've been hiding from me. Tell me, why would an archangel pretending to be a pagan god, want to help a human kill a demon?"

"Because if you don't kill Lilith, soon, she's going to help jumpstart the fucking apocalypse," Gabriel spits out, his honey-brown eyes stone-cold with dread and anger, "And trust me, a cage match between two brothers who loved each other, and betrayed each other; humanity is going to end up as collateral damage no matter who wins."

Sam sat, gripping the empty shot glass in his hand, eyes wide in breathless bewilderment. "Tric-Gabriel," He whispered, "What in the name of everything good are you talking about?"

The archangel the human for a moment, before responding, "It's a long story," He places the entire bottle of Spiritus Rektyfikowany onto the human's lap, "Drink up, Sammy, I'm about to rock your world…" He looked down at Sam and held the other's gaze while he spoke," The Apocalypse was foretold thousands of years ago, shortly after my big brother Lucifer was imprisoned in the cage. The prophecy stated that the 66 Seals would eventually be broken, and that Lucifer would escape his cage, bringing about the Apocalypse. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would assist him in destroying humanity. My oldest brother, the Archangel Michael was to then take a human vessel descended from Cain and Abel and lead the "final charge" against Hell and personally kill Lucifer in battle. Lucifer's death would bring about Paradise on Earth or what was left of it anyway," He sighs, "This of course is only Sunday dinner for my family."

Sam takes another drink, handing the bottle to Gabriel, "What's the cage?"

"Ah, Lucifer's Cage," The archangel takes the bottle, puts back a swig and grits out," Lucifer's Cage is a special part of Hell, designed by Dad to imprison Lucifer after he rebelled against Heaven, twisted a human soul into the first demon and corrupted the Garden of Eden," He snorts, "And they said I was the trouble child, being the youngest and all."

"I still don't understand— "

"You should make that a t-shirt."

Sam shot the archangel a glare and continued, "What does any of this have to do with me killing Lilith? And how would her death prevent the apocalypse, she's just another demon, right?"

"Wrong," The latter proclaims," Lilith is the first human soul to be twisted into a demon. The first in line of many "fuck you's" to God from Lucifer. So, it would make sense that she is the final seal to open his cage, but if you can kill her before any other seals break— "

"The Cage would stay closed," Sam whispers.

"And there would be no apocalypse," Gabriel points at Ruby's mutilated meatsuit," She was on a mission, Sam, a mission to try and get you to break that seal. To try and dupe you into starting frickin' Armageddon! Demon blood will make you stronger, strong enough to kill Lilith, but it takes longer and comes with a nasty habit."

"Can you," Sam gulps, not believing the next words to come out of his mouth, "Can you show me another way?"

"There's something you should know first," The archangel utters, "Your brother, he is the first seal. 'And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.' All of this, you dying at Cold Oak Cemetery, Dean selling his souls for you and being sent to Hell, everything, it's all been a plot—A sick, twisted plot to start the Apocalypse."

"No," Sam hisses, "No, no, he can't, he wouldn't—Can't you save him? You're an archangel, surely you're strong enough— "

Gabriel shakes his head, "In the beginning, when the apocalypse was first being formulated, the other angels and God himself feared that someone would try to do what we're doing, put a halt to the apocalypse train, so they put protections around the seals. Once the righteous man enters Hell, no one can get him out, not until the first seal is broken. The same goes for the final seal, that is why only you can kill Lilith, but it was never specified on who could assist."

"Are we really doing this," Sam gulps, his hazel hues starting to burn, "Going against Heaven and Hell, to put a stop to the end of times, something that's been planned for God-knows-how-long. We're just— "

"A boy with demon blood and an angel with a mind of his own," Gabriel finishes with the slightest hint of a smile, "Both with nothing to lose, just each other."

Sam takes a heavy swig from the Spiritus Rektyfikowany, draining nearly half the bottle. The two stayed silent for a long while, but during the tense silence, Gabriel laughed. It started soft, hearty but quickly twisted into a cruel, mirthless laugh that held no semblance of anything sanguine.

"God, all of this is just so fucked up," The archangel snarls, laughing harder still, "You know, we're more alike than I care to admit, Sam. We're both nothing like our families, Hell, we're both not a thing like our dads. And we both keep trying to get out but keep getting dragged back no matter how hard we try."

"Yeah," Sam says softly, offering the bottle to the archangel, "Maybe that's why we're drawn to each other. Can't stay away, despite… everything." The tricks, the lies, but the truth is just enough to make up for everything.

"I meant what I said before, by the way," Gabriel confirms, taking the bottle with an appreciative nod, "I am sentimental, towards you I mean, and I do want you to get your revenge, Rambo."

The hunter tenses, his heart beating heavily in his chest, "What do you mean by sentimental?"

The archangel frowns, taking a deep sip from the bottle, "I'm not going to say it."

August 4, 2008

The map was little more than a large array of brightly colored tacks and photographs to Sam Winchester now. Of course, underneath all of the day's work remained the detailed information of Kansas that he would ultimately use in junction with his own. But for now, all that mattered were his tactics and thumbtacks. Always a perfectionist, as he rearranged the map today, he revised his notes as well. But he had to write a key on a little sticky note for Gabriel, the archangel that was much more interested in banging him against a desk, rather than actually reading up on what was needed.

Yellow-Alive

Red-Dispatched

Blue-Dead

White-Resources

Clear-Notes

Sam's color-coded system had been put to use in the recent weeks, but now there was a lot more yellow than before, something that put him at a state of uneasiness. Red had been dispatched with entirely; as far as he was concerned, everyone on his list was just a means to an end. The actual bodies that were cooling in the morgue or already six feet under, still marked in blue, had taken a count of nine. Yellow dots rubbed salt into the wound; thirteen of Lilith's demons active, that he knew of. The white tacks had remained in place- hunters he might need to talk to if he couldn't find someone.

Gabriel walked in at that moment, his honey-brown eyes shining, then they landed on the map and he gave an eye-roll, inaudibly voicing his displeasure at his companion's busywork. Sam smirked, turning to his notes scattered all over the desk, taking little thumbtacks and coordinating them over the map. The archangel flopped onto the couch, reaching his hand towards the open bag of snickers on the table; the bag flew into Sam's open hand.

"Uh, Sammy, when I said to practice your powers, I didn't realize my candy would be put at risk," Gabriel grunts, his lips pursed as he lazily flicked his wrist forward. The plastic bag flew from Sam's hand, towards the archangel's waiting arms but then halted midair as Sam extended his hand forward again. "You know, Sasquatch, I have been finding you less tedious as of late. I'm even developing a begrudging soft-spot for you, but you touch my snickers…" He left the threat open for interpretation.

Sam laughed, he genuinely laughed for the first time in months, his hazel hues filled with mirth. Gabriel couldn't help it as a smile spread to his own lips, and he flicked his wrist again, pulling telekinetically at the favored bag of candy. Sam laughs, and pulls even harder, the bag starting to lean towards him. The look of shock on the archangel's face was comical, but this of course only made him more determined as he gave a final tug with his mind. The bag tore in half, snickers raining down like confetti at a parade.

"You really should lay off the candy, Gabe," Sam comments nonchalantly, turning to the map once more as his companion scrambled for the scattered pieces of chocolate.

"What do you think I'm going to do," Gabriel counters, scooping armfuls into the lift of his shirt, "Stay up late, eat raw cookie dough, and pinkie-swear my diet will start tomorrow?" He pops a piece into his mouth, and continues past his mouthful, "How would you like to be in a broken jaw commercial?"

Sam looked up in surprise, his fingers still tense around a solitary piece of candy. "What," He asks in mock surprise, "Even I like the occasional piece of candy. And I seriously doubt you'll miss one piece…"

Gabriel twisted his body towards him and leaned as much of his weight into Sam as he could, catching the piece of candy in between his fingers. Sam scrambled backwards on the bed, tugging possessively at the sugary treat, until he met the headboard. He smiles inwardly when Gabriel followed him up the bed, crawling in between his long legs and pressing up against his chest. The archangel's fingers were still taut around the treat, but his eyes ever so slowly shifted from the chocolate, to his companion's parted lips.

"…You're drunk." It wasn't a question. The archangel's playful gaze Immediately turned into a glower as he snarls, "Sam, you're going to drink yourself six feet under if you keep going on like this. You need to stop."

Sam's own smile fell, and he responds, "I know, but I don't think I want to."

"I know," Gabriel repeats dumbly, "But you have to. Any other time I'd be digging my own hole next to you, but…you can't afford to do yourself in now. Not with everything at stake, Sam."

Sam opened his eyes and stared at the latter. Nothing had ever felt so impossible, so… so futile. Drinking was a classic Winchester coping method – Something he'd been taught to do the first time Dean smuggled a few bottles into their motel room, shoving one into his hands. When Sam asked why, Dean had answered, 'That last hunt…it was rough.' Drinking to excess, whether it be alcohol or demon-blood was always preferable to actually dealing with the emotional turmoil he was going through.

The archangel had already dried him out, making sure there was no demon-blood in his system that wasn't already there. The pitying gaze Sam has received when he actually asked if Gabriel could take that way, too. Evidently not. The demon blood already in his system was there to stay, and as he suspected, would always be. Without demon blood, he simply took in a different type of drink.

"How?" Sam almost begged. He knew what, knew he had to find a way to remember Dean, but not… mourn him. But he hadn't even the faintest notion how do it.

Gabriel gave him that same pitying gaze as he squeezed his companion's hand, "I haven't got a clue, Sam." The hunter felt his heart clench, "Day by day, I suppose." The archangel looked over to the window, his gaze seemed leagues away.

"Time heals all wounds," Sam quotes bitterly.

"So, say the wise," Gabriel said with a sigh.

"Aren't archangels supposed to be wise and all-knowing?" Sam questions with a hint of a smile.

"I used to think so," The archangel half smiled, half grimaced as he answered, "Now… I think we are just as foolish as the rest of you. Perhaps even more so. I mean, just look at my brothers – Willing to destroy everything our father ever made, all for the sake of some supposed destiny."

In that moment Sam wondered if Gabriel blamed himself for what happened. Despite his attempts to disassociate himself from heaven, it was still his home. They were still his family, but he didn't want to choose sides. He didn't want to fight any of them, until he realized that he didn't have a choice. The archangel looked so old and weary in his vessel, that the hunter couldn't help but think he did. He yearned to reassure him that it was not his fault. That his brothers had made their own choices, choices that they would have made a thousand times over. But all he did was squeeze his hand back.

Gabriel stayed up with him for the rest of that night. The archangel forced him into the bath and shoved a brush in his hand, declaring that he would not step out of the room until he stopped smelling like a tavern. He then poured out every last bit of alcohol that he had hidden around the hotel room. He even confiscated the hunter's credit cards and cash, so that he couldn't purchase anymore.

"You'll get these back when I know I can trust you," Gabriel declares, pocketing them, "Until then, if you need anything I'll either snap my fingers or go get whatever you need for you, okay?"

The thought of not drinking wasn't comforting, Sam realized. There was no assurance in this. There was nothing to hold back his despair or sooth the wounds of his mind and body. It simply was. And he would have to deal with it. He would have to move forward; have to see the sun rise and the sun set while Dean did not. He was the one who would have to smile and speak and move his tired limbs.

He was the one who had to live.

Somewhere deep in his mind, Sam knew he should be grateful for that, but right now it felt nothing more than a burden. Dean had sold his soul, had gone to hell for him, and he couldn't come back unless he started… It was hard, and it was tiring, and it hurt more than anything. He didn't…. he didn't want any of this. He wanted Dean. He had only wanted Dean. And now he had nothing but grief.

Sam squeezed Gabriel's hand again and buried his face into his chest. He knew he should move; he shouldn't attach himself to somebody else... But all he did was weep. Warm tears poured out between gasping breaths. He was still fuzzy with alcohol, so he had no handle over his emotions, not like he usually did. The archangel is stiff as he holds the hunter against him, the tears going down his neck like burning oil.

"Sam," Gabriel says softly.

"It should have been me."

"What?"

"He never should have sold his soul for me – None of this would have happened if he would have just let me stay dead. I was ready to die, I was…" Sam trailed off," If he doesn't break the first seal, if he doesn't come back, I'm prepared to avenge him…that's all that matters."

Gabriel inclines his head, and asks, "If he does?" Sam stayed silent.

August 17, 2008

Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind Sam Winchester of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet his fingers come away dry.

Sam tilts his head upward, feeling his hair tickle his cheek bones; the pines are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. His lips part and he takes a deep breath, rose-pink lips semi-illuminated by the dappled light. After a moment, he tilted his head back up and continued his walk in the forest.

Nearly 8 hours ago Sam had gotten a call from some of his late father's hunting buddies. Evidently a group of demons had been seen skulking in the forests near Waterbury, Connecticut, and Sam was the only hunter nearby with enough experience.

"Okay, Sam Winchester, I've got a hunt for you. It's not that bloody for the moment, but I've got a feeling that it's about to be," The man over the phone explains causally," It's right down in Waterbury, and you're closest."

"Can't do it," Sam replies.

"What do you mean you can't do it? We've got demon omens and three missing people," The man shoots back, his tone disbelieving, "No doubt being used as meat suits— "

"Alright, alright," Sam keeps the phone to his ear, and starts shuffling around the hotel room to father his things, "Okay, yeah, I'll be there in a few hours—Really it's fine, I'll take care of it." Sam ends the call, rubbing a hand over his face.

He quickly grabs the hotel paper pad, running the tip of the closest pin over his tongue. He scratched several times and nodded in approval seeing little lines of ink scatter across the page. He quickly writes, 'Hunt came up. Be back in a few hours'-Sam. No doubt the archangel would be seething when he found out he left without informing him or bringing any back up, but he had a family business to carry on.

Suddenly, the sounds in the forest fell dead still. The hunter looked up, flinching as a dark shadow swept over the ground, leaping across limbs and leaves. There was a rushing, whistling sound in the air overhead. Birds burst from cover in the trees, giving alarm as they scattered in all directions. He peered up, searching through the canopy of gold and green, trying to find the shadows source. His eyes locked on something. There was movement.

Other movement snatched his attention. Sam's eyes searched the shade and shadows. Behind him, something was out there. Three, no, four demons, in dark clothing, following him, hanging back some distance. They moved with stealth, from tree to rock to tree. Looking. Waiting. Moving. Sam straightened to his full height, his eyes wide, attention riveted. They were stalking him.

The bushes and trees were almost silhouettes, the blackest of greens. He scanned for any more movement. None. Then the wind died, the leaves ceased to rustle, even the nonsensical noises of wildlife was absent. In those frozen seconds he could hear the crunch of dried twigs under boot, just enough to give him the location of his quarry. It was in that moment of absolute stillness that God must have tipped the balance to him; he swung around, hand in the air.

"You're not strong enough," One sneers, his head tilting forward, "We heard about your dealer, Ruby, she's long gone, and junkies can't get their fix without a dealer. Can they?"

"No, Ovaltine for you, Sammy," A female one hisses, her tongue flicking at him like a serpent's, "You're just like the rest of those hairless apes now; pathetic, useless, powerless— "

Sam smiles ever so slightly, a deadly calm emoting from him. The four demons quickly silenced their taunting, clearly perplexed by the lack of, well, anything. They'd locked eyes with the iciest steel eyes ever seen, just echoing a dark power that lingered inside. An involuntary shiver rolled slickly down the female demon's spine. She had been warned of the viciousness, the ferocity that had come with the demon blood, but she'd been told he was off it—She even sniffed at the air, not a drop that wasn't already there.

"Go to Hell," Sam commands.

The four demons halted, their bodies like stones as he weighted them down with telekinetic energy. Four pairs of eyes flashed back at him, all of them dark like oil spills as they spewed threats and curses. Sam slowly lifted his caressed fingers into the air, his eyes narrowed dangerously—Snap. A snap of his fingers was all that it took, and they unraveled at his feet, they were scorched into the Earth as their dark, tempestuous souls sunk back into the rotting crevices of Hell.

It happened too fast for Sam to even see it properly before he was lifted in the air and holding his guts in his hands. He crumpled against whatever was suspending him, almost surprised, staring up at the sky with warm blood rushing out of his body, without even an idea of what had happened. A young woman suddenly walked forward, her brunette braids almost blending in with her plethora of leather, and her tongue snaked up and down a rainbow-colored popsicle.

The young woman stops licking for a second, her lips forming a malicious grin as she rolls her eyes backwards into black oil-spills. "Sam, it's so good to see you," Meg purrs, her voice soft and feminine with her meatsuit's," It's been a long while, but when I heard you were out and about, I had to pop by and pay a visit. We do have quite the history, don't we?"

Sam spits out a mouthful of blood, his eyes drooping down to see what was protruding from his stomach, suspending him in the air—a gnarly tree root bigger than his arm. He coughed another mouthful of blood. He couldn't think. Trying to move only shifted his weight on the root suspending him. He struggled to breathe, trying to drag air through his torn lungs.

"You're strong now, Sammy," Meg sighs dramatically, her painted fingernails tracing up the sides of the splintered wood, "But, you're still human, you make mistakes. You looked away for a split second and I managed to impale you before you could snap your fingers again and send me to hell for what is it? Oh... yes, the third time."

Sam let his eyes fall closed. It was like sinking. He was so cold, shivering; if Hell was really fire maybe that wouldn't be so bad. It was over, all over—After everything he'd done, what he'd nearly become, Lilith had won and all because he'd glanced away for a mere fucking second. He would join his brother in the pits of hell, maybe he'd smile as they both screamed together. Something like him could never go anywhere else, didn't deserve any better than his own brother because he didn't deserve to.

It was over. And then it wasn't. He woke up with the sun in his eyes, his back dry and crusty from dried blood. It was early morning and there was blood all over his shirt but no mark underneath. Someone was carrying him away, the very first beam of light from the morning sun rebounded on pure gold feathers.

"You brought me back," Sam whispers, his voice hoarse.

"No," Gabriel's voice is strained. The answer hung in the air, and for a moment neither dared say it, "I told you, when you undertook this… Becoming stronger, it would change you."

"I can't die," Sam says, and when all he gets in return is a pair of sullen honey-brown eyes he simply knows, "I-I can't… die." His few, precious remaining friends were mortal. They would die. He was forever but they would die. He would have them for a few decades, a few precious, short years, and then they would die. He would have them for a blink of time and then they would die, and he would be alone.

"Not completely," The archangel replies, his eyes now staring forward, "You're the closest thing I've had to a friend, hell, to anything for a while, Sammy. I'm not planning on going anywhere."

September 18, 2008

A silver knife, a flask of holy water, a salt round. And it's all from the Bobby Singer's own dining room table, so the seasoned hunter can trust that they are real, the right tests. It's a smart move. It's a Dean Winchester move, but there were countless monsters that could imitate their hosts or choices of copycatting.

"Show me," Bobby says, no sentimentality present.

Dean starts with the holy water. He opens the flask, splashes some across the front of his chest, then takes a healthy slug for good measure, gurgling it and swallows it. He then uses the knife to slice into the salt round, grabs a few grains out which he rolls between his pinched fingers, then presses against the soft inner skin of his lower lip then swallows. Next comes the silver knife. He draws the blade across the back of his forearm and nothing happens, and it makes Bobby's hands shake.

"Dean," Bobby grunts out at last, his narrowed eyes slowly starting to ease into softness.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Dean pants out, clearly exhausted. Bobby fists his hands in Dean's jacket, pulling him into a crushing hug as both arms held him tight. The younger hunter closed his eyes, feeling relieved as he patted the latter's back, holding him with just as much ferocity.

"It's—It's good to see you, boy."

"Yeah, you too."

"But… How did you bust out," Bobby chokes out, confusion flashing the relief from his features.

"I don't know. I just, uh… Just woke up in a pine box in the middle of nowhere, with what looks like a nuclear fallout around me," He shakes his head, running a hand through his dirt and sweat tinged hair, "I-I don't know."

"That don't make a lick of sense," The older man responds, leading him into the living room both attempting to dodge large piles of books.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're preaching to the choir," Dean snorts, shaking his head.

"Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop, and you'd been buried four months," Bobby made a look of disgust as he continued, "Even if you could slip out of Hell back into your meats…"

"I know. I should look like a Thriller video reject."

"What do you remember?"

"Not much," Dean avoids the seasoned hunter's eyes as he states, "I remember I was a hellhound's chew-toy, and then lights-out. Then I come to six feet under. That was it," Bobby sits down as Dean utters, "Sam's number's not working. He's, uh — He's not…"

Bobby flinched, almost as if that was the question, he'd been dreading all along. The seasoned hunter let's out a shaking breath, running a hand over his bearded face. "About a month ago there was a hunt, i-in Waterbury, Connecticut. Four demons," His eyes start to redden, and he clears his throat, "Sam said he'd handle it, but then he never called back in and… They found Sam hours later, impaled to a tree. T-they think he was ambushed. He had little to no chance alone. I'm so sorry."

"No," It was all Dean could say, so he repeated it, more insistent this time, "No, no… No!"

As much as he tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water started falling one after another, without a sign of stopping. He hit the wall and tried to scream, but his voice was melted by the strangled sounds coming from his throat. The muffled sobs wracked against his chest.

"…. Sam!"

Sam Winchester pulled off his soiled jacket and set it on the table, ignoring his archangel companion's wolf whistle, and proceeded to wipe off the demon knife on the jacket, streaking the material red. The deserted warehouse was a typical Winchester's choice for private activities such as these: spacious, empty and far away from eavesdropping neighbors. The floor was littered with an array of trash and nonsensical rubbish left by the destitute who had taken the place as a makeshift home there in the past. The walls were peeling and laden with mildew, the wooden cladding beneath poking through several different gaping tears.

"I don't know where that bitch is…please…stop," The demon rasps through chapped and torn lips, his voice drowned out by the blood bubbling in his mouth," Lilith is too far up on the food chain—A grunt like me… never…"

Gabriel rolled his eyes, his lips puckered on yet another massive sugar-risen confectionary he'd stolen from their lost stop at a local gas station. Three sticks were already tucked daintily behind his ear, his boredom evident by the number of lollipops he was sucking through with every passing minute. Sam was obviously not amused, considering in the weeks he'd been with the archangel a personal goal of his was to try and get him to cut back on the sugar, with little to no success thus far.

Gabriel pulled the fourth stick from his mouth with no signs of the colored crystal left on it, so he sighed dramatically and tucked it behind his ear. Letting out a long drawn out groan, he turned to his companion and remarks, "We've gotten all we can out of him, Samshine. Let's just do away with him so we can move onto the next lead and stop wasting our oh-so-precious time," He motions towards the incapacitated demon, "You've been practicing enough, you are more than prepared to do this, end him, now."

"I know," The confidence is Sam's voice is evident, and the archangel can't help but feel a swell of pride in his chest. He had his own goal in place to make use of his time with Sam Winchester, to make the moose stop doubting himself and his capabilities, and unlike Sam, he'd been successful with his own goal.

The ever-present slouch Gabriel had become accustomed to disappeared as Sam lifted himself up to his full towering height, he extended his arms with his shoulders rolling in their sockets, oblivious to the subtle sparks of energy that lit up in his palms and underneath his shirt, and when Sam opened his hazel hues the air crackled with the same power. He flicked his hand, and black smoke poured from the man's mouth, settling like a dark, seething cloud onto the ground below his feet.

"Good, Sammy, steady—You are in control, you will always be in control if you keep your concentration," Gabriel coaches, hovering just over the taller man's shoulder, "Now take it in, consume its power. Take control!"

He heeded the archangel's words, closing his eyes again, and took in a deep breath. There were too many demons to fight—hunting alone would never be enough—and he had to kill Lilith, avenge his brother. He had to. Sam delved into that dark place within him that had been fueled by the demon blood force fed to him at birth and started to reach out to the demon in front of him.

The black smoke billowed into the air once more, heading towards Sam's parted lips as he motioned with his hand. The demon's true form quivered and fluctuated, trying to flow in the opposite direction, but the telekinetic pull of the youngest Winchester's powers was far too powerful. The smoke thinned and pushed into Sam's gaping mouth, spiraling in like a dry Kansas tornado in August, but there was no flash of black eyes to signal possession; his human skeleton lit up like a Christmas tree, just for a moment as the demon's powers absorbed into Sam's meatsuit.

Gabriel watched this ensue with a cold resolve and crossed his arms over his torso. "Sam, are you in control," He continued warily, setting a gentle hand on the latter's forearm," Sasquatch? Is that you?"

Feeling satisfied, and utterly spent, Sam ever so slowly nodded his breath coming out in heavy pants. Despite his low energy he felt elated. Weeks of practice had not been all for naught; he'd consumed the spawn's twisted, corrupted soul and taken in its powers with ease. A small smile lit his face, and paired with his disheveled state, he did not look entirely sane. He slowly made his way back to the car, if the archangel had taken care of the meatsuit the spawn had left behind.

Without warning, as soon as Sam reached the car and took out his keys, Gabriel stopped him, turned him around by his shoulders, and grabbed Sam. He shoved Sam back against the door and kissed him. His hands fisted in Sam's shirt and he pulled him against him as he pressed him back against the night cooled Impala. It was a kiss full of want, full of not wanting to do what he did, wanting to keep what he had. Sam kissed him back with less force, allowing the archangel to take that from him because that was what he needed now—Reassurance.

"I'm me," Sam breathes between the kiss.

"I know."

The Astoria was certainly not a "chocolate on the pillow" hotel. The receptionist smelled of stale perfume and the tables had used ashtrays with still fuming cigarettes in them instead of flowers. It was dingy, dark, and cheap. Perfect. Gabriel kept his sunglasses on and said nothing as the key for room 207 was dropped into the lines of his hand. Sam being the prima-don-a he was with his new "male-model" hair as the archangel had good naturedly nicknamed it, immediately shut himself away in the bathroom.

The first thing Sam noticed was the utter fairness of his skin, a parchment like paleness that was unusual as he remembered his once gentle tan. It then struck him that his skin was more than just pale; it was untarnished in every way, not a single spot of acne or even a freckle. He tried to look past it as he picked up his coarse brush and ran it through his shoulder length long hair that curled up at the ends. He had always prided himself on his deep chestnut locks, but now the color looked too flawless, not a single discoloration in the strands or even a split-end. He frowned as he put the brush down on the counter.

The human (though he was starting to question the subject of his humanity) didn't want to see these obvious signs that something was different, that something about him had drastically changed. Unlike demon blood, consuming the entirety of the demon itself didn't leave him reeling for another hit, if anything it left him feeling satisfied and full like he'd just indulged in the most exquisite of feasts. But he knew that in the weeks since he'd been taken under Gabriel's wing, his mind and body had been altered in ways that simply weren't… human.

Picking up his coffee cup, Sam took a drink of the tasteless brew, leaning against an old dresser. The motel's coffee maker was sub-par, but he would manage as he always had to. It was then, of course, that Gabriel decided to continue their earlier session, so the stubborn, horny archangel grabbed the back of Sam's head, pulling his face closer to his own and gripped tight, clenching his fingers in the long dark strands of his hair, soft and thick in his hands. He pulled back and and lifted his chin, pressing his mouth to the curve of the human's lips.

Sam's fingers eagerly worked at the buttons of his shirt. Getting frustrated, Gabriel pulled the article of clothing open, popping buttons, sending them pinging off the counter, floor and walls, and he didn't seem to care as he grabbed Sam by his hips and wrapped the larger man around him. Of course, Sam could never be man handled due to his staggering height, but Gabriel showed off his strength as he picked Sam up with ease, lips still on him, and unceremoniously threw him onto the queen-sized bed.

"Do you want this? Because I swear to pop-pop, I won't stop until your legs are quivering and the neighbors are very well aware of my name," Gabriel growls into Sam's ear as he straddled his hips, "Do you want it, Bullwinkle?"

"Gabe, I want," Sam says, trailing off with a moan.

Gabriel plants kisses along Sam's jaw and neck until he can bury his face in Sam's hair. "What do you want, Sammy? I'm not a mind reader, technically."

"Want you inside," Sam says, and wraps his long, muscular legs around the latter's waist, pulling him against his hips harder," Fuc-"A hard rapping on the door startled him as he jolted against the archangel's hips.

"I probably should have waited for the pizza to get here, before I started foreplay," Gabriel says with a shrug, climbing off his now seething lover. He tried to laugh it off but was meet with a hard pillow to the face, "What, I didn't want bloated and gassy sex! And I mean it was probably for the best, seeing as I do not have any protection on my person now, so unless you're up for parenthood— "

"Just go grab one from my bag, I'll get the pizza," Sam groans out, rolling onto his stomach seeing that he wasn't going to be getting any form of sexual satisfaction for a while. He went towards the door, grabbing his wallet from his still loose jeans, and the banging on the door become more insistent. "Alright, alright!"

He opens the door, not even bothering to look up as he counts bills into his palm. He carefully slides his wallet back into his jean pocket and looks how with a friendly smile. "How much was… t-that— "His voice halted and his eyes widened in shock as his Adam's apple bobbed nervously up and down, his breath becoming sporadic and heaving.

"Hey ya' Sammy."

Sam Winchester's eyes were trained on his brother as if he were some sort specter, his heavy eyelids a fraction too slow to blink, his irises too stationary. It was as if his brain was suffering a massive short circuit and was struggling to compute. Gabriel moved into his line of sight, touching his cheek with the side of his thumb, his lips forming a pensive line.

"Hey," The archangel utters," Hey, look at me, Sam. Sam. Look. At. Me."

Dean Winchester and Bobby Singer are frozen at the doorway of the hotel room. Their boots mid-stride, and their mouths still agape as if they were about to speak. Sam was suddenly immensely grateful for the archangel, who had frozen the two in time, giving him enough time to collect himself. Gabriel had stepped in front of the two, but due to his less impressive height he only managed to cover their necks and below.

Sam's head tilted upward to his face, his eyes sliding into focus. "Is it him," His voice is trembling, yet he continues, "Is it really him because if it is—That means the first seal is— "He feels sick.

Gabriel turns around pressing two fingers against Dean's forehead. After a moment of two he takes a sharp intake of air, and slowly nods. Sam's breath hitches, and before he can even open his mouth his back hits the wall, and he slides down slowly. But, oddly enough, the archangel is still examining his brother.

"He's been branded," Gabriel declares running his hand down Dean's exposed arm. A large handprint is burnt into the skin of the left deltoid, "Another angel raised him from perdition, only confirming our worst fears. Your brother shed blood in Hell, he's broken the first seal."

Sam grits his teeth, not liking the accusing tone in his companion's voice. "If he'd known… He would have never— "

"It's doesn't matter now," Gabriel cuts off, his eyes narrowed dangerously, "The seal is broken, so now we're on the clock, Sam. We need to find the angel that resurrected him. This is not something we want to be kept in the dark on."

Sam nods and sets to packing his things. He was frantically disarranging his neat pile of clothes, tucked carefully into the dresser drawer. He grabbed a fistful of shirts and threw them into the waiting duffel beside his feet. Then he suddenly halted, running his shaking fingers through his mess of hair as he breathed erratically.

Sam's fingers tense in the edges of the drawer, as he asks, "What about Dean?"

Gabriel halts, almost as if he was dreading the question. "Don't make me answer that," He states, "I think you know."

"I know, but it's killing me right now. I'm scared," The hunter confessed. "I can face ghosts, zombies, demons, fucking angels, whatever. I can take that, all of it. But leaving my brother behind… this is killing me."

"Come on. I know you're scared. A lot of times you feel like a little boy in a big guy's body," The archangel reassures, "But here's the dirty little secret: Fear is good. It keeps you from becoming a shitty person. Trick is you just can't let it paralyze you. But don't you worry about a thing, there, Sammy," He continues examining the burn on Dean's shoulder," OIAD MONASCI OI Castiel."

"Enochian," Sam infers, "Who is Castiel?"

Gabriel is standing next to the water, a small fledgling at his side. The fledgling holds his hand, his vessel's toes curled into the sand as water washes over them. Castiel, the fledging was called, made an expression of confusion at the feeling and began to step further into the water. A small fish is heaving its way up the shore, and the fledgling moves to place his foot upon it.

"Don't step on that fish, Castiel," Gabriel warns, grabbing the younger angel by his vessel's torso, "That fish is meant for remarkable things."

"Castiel," Gabriel smiles, "Is an old friend. An incredibly old friend, I knew him as a fledgling. Perhaps, he may be able to help us discover what the angels are planning."

Sam nods and finishes packing, "I want to say goodbye to him first," The archangel opens his mouth to object, but the human cuts him off, "It's the least I can do for him. This may be the last time I ever see him, Gabe, and even if it's not… If we do meet again, it will not be pleasant."

"Fine," Gabriel presses his fingers together, about to snap, "You have one minute."

"Sammy?" Dean whispers as he unfreezes, "You're alive, fuck, you're alive." And that's enough of that. Dean fists his hand in Sam's shirt, ignores Sam's uncertain flinch as reels Sam in until their chests crash together. Dean wraps his arms around his brother tightly. His real, live, flesh and bone brother. "How the hell are you alive? Bobby said they found you dead—God I thought after all the shit that happened, it'd all been for nothing…"

Sam shuffles his feet, pulls from the embrace, and clears his throat, "Dean I don't have a lot of time," He turns and he's grateful to see that Bobby is still frozen, and his archangel companion has left the room. They're alone. "And I have a lot I want to say, but… I can't."

Dean's relief turns into confusion, "Sam, what are you trying to say…? Did you do something— "

"Do me a favor, Dean. Don't try and find out what brought you back. You get in the impala, drive away and never look back, okay? Can you do this for me," Dean shakes his head not understanding. Sam doesn't let him reply as he continues, "I have to leave you, Dean, and I can't let you intervene with what I must do. Just know, everything that I've done, everything that I will do… I've done for you." The wind shifts, and he's gone.

September 19, 2008

Sam Winchester pushed his breakfast away. With butterflies in his stomach and his head buzzing with possibilities, there was no way on Earth he'd swallow a bite, let alone a whole plateful. Gabriel eyed him strangely, before turning back to the various herbs he has arranged on the coffee table. The archangel has a large volume written in Enochian, the language of the angels, and is now scribbling things down on a notepad.

"You need to eat," Gabriel insists, pointing his pen at the latter's takeout box.

"I can't," Sam responds, now using his fork to pick at a mushroom on his omelet, "There's too much going on. I don't think I can stomach anything. Hell, I haven't been able to keep anything down for the past few days."

Sam knew, he knew that he was changing; his appetite and thirst was slowly starting to ween away. What truly startled him, or what should have startled him, was that he was losing the part of him that made him, well, him. His empathy. After what he did to his brother, he should feel something, anything, but he doesn't… feel. He didn't like what he was, but he was so lacking emotionally right now. Too much pain, too much suffering.

Something flashed beneath the surface of the archangel's expression and the hunter hurried to investigate the sudden shift. It was too late, the emotion disappeared before he could identify it, like reaching desperately for an escaped balloon; the string dangling so tantalizingly close but the wind pushed it away and it's lost forever.

The archangel sighs, setting down the book, "Look, you pretty obviously have short-circuited, can't say I blame you after everything that's gone down," He motions to the couch, "Because the odds of us actually winning this thing are roughly on a par with me finding the Loch Ness monster in the bathtub. But you've got to remember, Sammy, there's always a chance, okay?"

The hunter looked up, his expression bemused, "Are you giving me a pep-talk?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to be more of a positive influence on you," He grins, readjusting the book in his lap, "Besides, it's hard to focus with your— "

Sam moves his head closer to the latter. Gabriel sits frozen, from both confusion and excitement. The hunter leans in, so his forehead rests against his. They close their eyes. Both their breaths are shaking.

"Thank you," Sam says in barely more than a whisper.

"For what?" Gabriel replies, his voice low and husky.

"For being you," The hunter's voice wavers, exhilarated from the tension between them, "Despite, everything—You always manage to comfort me, even when you don't know…"

Sam gently leans in and kisses Gabriel's warms lips. They pull apart and take shaky, shallow breaths. Unable to contain themselves anymore, Gabriel holds Sam's head in his hands and pulls him into a fiery and passionate kiss. The archangel's hands work their way around his much larger body, feeling each crevasse, each line along his perfect physique; they both stumble to the couch. Sam lies on his back as he matches his body's form.

Gabriel kissed him and the world fell away. It was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rested below his ear, his thumb caressing his cheek as their breaths mingled. Sam ran his fingers down his spine, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them and he could feel the beating of his heart against his chest. They pull apart and open their eyes. They stare at each other, deep into each other's eyes

"What do you want me to say," Gabriel asks softly, his champagne-colored hues lax with empathy, "I know what's happening to you, I know you're changing, but what can I say to…" The archangel was an emotionally constipated bastard, he knew that.

Sam shakes his head, "Nothing. You don't have to say a thing, just…"

No other words were needed. Gabriel nods in understanding, gently wrapping his arms around him as he presses his cheek to the side of Sam's head, cradles the nape of Sam's neck in his palm. This was a first, usually their embraces were brief, not an ounce of sympathy behind them, just an object of their list. No, this was not lust, it was something deeper, something that didn't pertain to the bodies—Something that both felt, but neither were going to admit it.

They were both emotionally constipated bastards.

With the spell written down and all the ingredients gathered, the two had decided to summon the angel Castiel in an old warehouse. Sam was on his hands and knees, spray painting various Enochian symbols on the floor, and he tried to paint them as precisely as possible. Gabriel was placing the ingredients in a large golden bowl, and was checking them off as he watches Sam.

"I like seeing you on your hands and knees," Gabriel chirps, his eyes dancing over his companion's bent-over ass. All he got in reply was a disgruntled snort, the dick even had the audacity to turn the other direction to deprive the archangel of the sight.

"Look," Gabriel tried to reason, his hands up, "Angels aren't exactly… friendly towards humans. In the nicest words possible, they are dicks. Great. Big. Fucking. Dicks— "

Sam Winchester objected, standing up, "Gabe, I've never had the opportunity to meet another angel. Besides, if we're going to be allies, shouldn't I get to meet him?"

"Sam, angels are like chocolates," The archangel explains, his eyebrow raised, "If chocolates were bastards. Bastard coated bastards with bastard filling," Seeing the hunter's unconvinced stare, he continues with, "You will get to meet him, okay? Just, just let me talk to him alone first, okay?"

Sam still seemed unsure, but conceded," Alright, damn it, alright… Just keep me updated, okay," He presses a soft kiss to Gabriel's lips, "We'll meet up again later, and maybe…"

"Hold the phone: are you suggesting that if I sleep with you, that I won't have to deal with problems like this," Gabriel teases his companion, making Sam flush, "Because I'm seriously considering taking that hit. I mean, honestly, what are you like in post-game? Is there spooning? Because I don't spoon, I'm not a spooner."

"You're just pissy because when we spoon, you're the little spoon- "

"I like being the little spoon, for your information- "

"As if you have a choice in the matter… I'm nearly a foot taller than you. I'd love seeing you try and spoon me— "

Gabriel snorts and starts going through the various herbs and other ingredients on the floor around him; blood of the summoner, acacia, and oil of Armelin. He then lights six candles positioned on four Enochian symbols, spray painted on the cement floor with white spray-paint. Slowly, he runs the dagger over his hand and watches as blood splashed into the bowl below.

"Out," Gabriel orders his companion.

Sam continues to make his way out, letting out an annoyed grunt as his pocket vibrates. He was immensely grateful that he'd turned off his ringer, he'd had enough of his companion changing his ringtone to various annoying songs, "Heat of the Moment" by Asia being one of his favorites, thus far. It was an unknown number, but he answered it anyway.

"Sam, bloody, Winchester," A posh, crisp British accent greeted Sam.

"Who the hell is this," Sam said, just a hint of agitation in his voice, "How did you get this number?"

"Name's Crowley," The voice replied, "And no need to wonder where I got your number, I have it and that's what matters, darling.

"You're calling for a reason, Crowley," Sam growled, emphasizing the stranger's name, "What do you want?"

"I'm looking to make a business transaction," Crowley said. There was the muffled sound of someone struggling and the man's faint voice saying, "Speak up. Your baby brother is listening and needs to hear you... loud and clear."

"Fuckin' bmisish dhick—!" The owner of this new voice was obviously gagged, "Sammy!"

Sam's breath hitches and he feels his heart speed up, "Dean!"

"I'm okay," Dean spat, someone must have removed the gag, "Tied up s'all. But Sam, don't come for me— "

"I think you've gotten the idea," Crowley cuts off, "I have no ill-will with this uncivilized arsehole you call a brother. All I want, is to make you an offer you can't refuse."

The hunter closed his eyes, and repeated, "What do you want?"

"As I said before; we have business," He replies, his voice emitting a cockiness, "I have heard much about you, why, you've become the hottest topic at the demon water-cooler. And I believe we have some... common enemies. Nothing brings two people closer than the mutual hatred of other people."

"You're a demon," Sam replies, his tone one of disgust, "Tell me, Crowley, why shouldn't I just kill you where you stand? If you know me, you know what I am, what I've become… Why shouldn't I just tear you apart from the inside and take what fuels your battery. Surely, since I'm "the talk" you've heard about what I've done to your buddies," He smiled, "It's become almost too easy. And I only get stronger each time." There it was, the part of him that was making him question his own humanity.

"Oh, Sam," Crowley replies mockingly, "As if you're one to turn down any sort of help. From what I hear, you're desperate for some other options. Especially with some certain... feathery issues starting to appear, if you catch my drift as the kids say."

"Maybe. Where do you have my brother?"

Crowley hums softly, "I will text you the address when we finish this lovely conversation. But I don't want any other problems to worry about," He trailed off, his voice going low, "Come alone."

"So, I talk to you, and Dean . . ."

"Returns to you, safe. Not a hair on his pretty, little head harmed."

Sam gripped his phone, "How do I know you're not lying through your teeth?"

"You don't for sure, but we demons lie a lot less than you hunters pretend," Crowley responds, "You would know that, wouldn't you, Sam? After all, we demons are like your second cousins," He continues, "Bottom line. We talk, I give you your brother, and we both walk—You keep that sweet little threat from earlier just dirty talk."

"Alright," Sam hesitated, "But, what if I don't like what you're selling, what happens if I don't take your deal?"

"Sam," Crowley said lightly, "We may have to make some negotiations, but as I said before; I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse."

"...Okay. We'll see."

"Pleasure doing business with you," Crowley said and hung up the phone, "I'm looking forward to meeting the infamous Sam Winchester."

Gabriel threw a match into the bowl, watching as it set fire to the contents inside. At first nothing happened, and then the entire building began to shake, the very structure was trembling as dust floated down into his hair. With an annoyed snort, he ruffles his hair and combs his fingers through it. Then, all the lights in the warehouse begin to shatter, glass and sparks flying. As the light begins to fade a single figure begins to emerge.

The angel's vessel is of average height, but much to Gabriel's frustration, he is taller than him. He had dark, messy "sex-hair" as he always liked to call it. It should have been too dark to get a good look at them before, but his eyes were seriously blue. Almost sickeningly blue—full on Prince Charming, field of cornflower, perfect, cloudless sky blue. Someone should name a crayon after the guy. From behind his trench coat, on the wall behind him, the angel's wings unfurled—Dark, only shadows on the wall.

The angel cocks his head to the side, "Who are you? I do not recognize you brother?"

Gabriel opens his arms wide, a smile spreading to his lips, "It's been a while Cassie," He winks, "I'm back."

"…Gabriel."

Sam Winchester made the trip in a little over three hours, pulling into the driveway just as the sky began to darken. A large flashing neon-red sign that read 'The Velvet Room'; he'd been invited to a night club. Sam could see more lights flashing from the large building's one entrance, and as he walked towards, he saw a large man holding a maroon, velvet sack with golden ties. The man shoved the sack into Sam's arms and grunted out, "Go change, then go to the back room. He'll be waiting."

The hunter, wary and knowing he needed to cooperate, took the velvet sack. He made his way to the bathroom near the entrance, and quickly changed into the clothes in the bag. A navy-blue V-neck with a black leather jacket, and tight black jeans with a pair of black shoes. Sam scowled, examining himself in the mirror before letting out a snort.

"I look like I'm going to a late night showing of The Crow," He snorts again, and adjusts the jacket.

The club is dark save for the flashing lights on the stage and near the dance floor. It was like dancing on the Northern Lights; beneath the dry-ice smoke swirled an array of blues, acid greens, hot pinks and gold. The music played over the dance floor as if had fused with the bodies. Men and women alike are gyrating about, flailing wildly to the pulsing music. "Hell, Yeah" by KMFDM is blaring over the speakers. They're all drunk and high on experimental drugs.

Several girls, all in tight dresses that made their breasts push up, and their asses amplified; they danced slowly, they were practically undressing him with his eyes. The girls continued their dance, and to the hunter every movement was full of poetry. They advanced, retreated, pirouetted, their arms waving from side to side above their heads, their heads swaying, their garments fluttering, their swift turns hiding their features, yet seeming to show glimpses of dark, oil-spills for eyes beyond. Demons; every single damn one of them.

Sulfur is rank in the air; the smell burns deep in his nose. He attempts to subtly adjust his tight jeans. They're extremely uncomfortable, but he has no other choice but to wear them. Crowley obviously didn't want him sticking out like a sore thumb in the club's nightlife. His usual attire, usually composed of many layers, did not suit the atmosphere this place elicited; ambiance, hazes, and a hint of lust.

After some time, Sam notices two medium-sized doors near the bar open. Out steps a beautiful, yet intimidating raven-headed woman in an all-black pant suit that's just a little too tight. Out of all the other women here, she immediately stands out in the room, eyes as dark as her suit. She is accompanied by one brawny man in all black. A demon meat-head, he presumes.

"Sam Winchester," She walks straight up to him, offering her hand as she says, "I'm Cecily. Crowley's associate."

"Pleasure," He grits out, ignoring the hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," Cecily purrs, taking no notice of his rude gesture, "I have heard much about you, and I see the rumors are true. I wonder if all of them are true…" Her eyes rake his body, and she bites at her lip.

Sam feels his cheeks flush, he is never comfortable being the center of attention. "So," He swallows, and asks, "Are you taking me to Crowley?"

"Eager," The woman smiles, touching his shoulder. Her hand is small against it, and her nail polish matches her suit, "Follow me."

Cecily turns on her blood-red high heels, the only varying color with her outfit, signaling Sam to follow her. She leads him through the doors, and the man guides them further into the room. As he walks into the room he feels as if he's walking into a palace throne room. The throne is a high back chair made of a deep oak finish with a red velvet cushion. The throne sits at the top of a three stepped platform which just adds to the prestige of power that one would feel. The rest of the room looks to be the same as the rest. No windows, many tapestries hang from the walls as well as a crackling fire to warm the room, while low lights keep the rest of the room dim.

The man he assumes to be Crowley sits on the throne, he is a man of average height, slightly round with dark hair and light skin. He's wearing an expensive, no doubt dry cleaned suit and is holding a long, winding chain that reached to the other side of the room. In the corner, where the chain extended, was his brother, Dean Winchester. He didn't seem harmed, just extremely pissed, and obviously humiliated at the fact he was chained like a rabid dog.

Dean's eyes landed on Sam, and they went from dangerously narrowed to relieved, to dangerously narrowed again. "What the hell are you wearing," He questions, a snort escaping him, "You look like a biker Ken doll." He grunts as his chain was yanked.

"Shut up," Sam hisses.

"Sam Winchester," Crowley said by way of greeting, "Punctual, please, come in." His eyes lingered on the Sam for a moment, and he cocked his head as if examining a product.

"Did you pick the outfit," The younger Winchester asks, walking closer.

"I did, actually," Cecily chirps, slapping Sam's ass as she makes her way to the side of the throne, "And I was right. You do have quite the perky little ass. I just want to pinch it- "

"Cecily," Crowley says, clearly exasperated, "Would you and Brutus please excuse us? I believe the Winchester brothers and I have much to discuss."

Cecily pouts, but motions for the large meat-headed demon to follow her back out the double doors. As she sashays away, she turns to Sam one last time and winks. Dean sees this and shoots Sam another glare, giving another yank at the chain around his neck. Crowley sighs and tugs right back, making the older Winchester fall into a heap.

"You all good, Sammy," Dean asks, his face still on the floor.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam said, his voice starting to waver, "You?"

"Everyone's fine and dandy," Crowley said as he twirled the chain's end between his fidgeting hands "Well, most of us, anyway. You're looking a bit pale, Sam, perhaps a little dead in the eyes." His voice made it clear he knew exactly what he was talking about.

His brother eyed him now, his gaze cautiously curious. "Sam."

"Can we just do this, please?" Sam said tersely. He was not favoring the gleam in the demon's eyes.

"Of course," Crowley states, his lips parting to reveal a hyena like smile, "But first, let me satisfy my ever-growing curiosity. Just what are you now?"

"Sam- "Dean grits out again.

"You're clearly not human," The demon continues.

It's horrible, watching distrust and wariness slowly made its way into his brother's eyes. He had years of experience in hunting, a profession that trained individuals to be wary of anything that was not considered to be human, he clearly wasn't going to let this pass. Sam winced and tried to stop Crowley's inquiring, before he made this much, much worse.

"But, you're not a demon," Crowley inquires, his voice going low, "No matter, I can see the subject is making you uncomfortable. Now, in good faith, I'll send your brother over first. Once you are content that he's safe, we talk."

The demon snaps, and the chain around his brother's neck disappears. Sam quickly pulls out the impala's keys from his leather jacket's pocket and shoved them into his brother's hand. Dean flinches, and he stares at Sam like he's got lobsters crawling out of his ears. The younger Winchester swallows thickly, he can't deal with his brother right now.

"Go," Sam says softly.

Dean hesitates, but then his eyes go over his brother's skin that is far too pale. His eyes that Crowley had, so accurately described – Dead. They looked cold, callous like a predator set on catching its prey with no fear of another missed meal. God, just what had his baby brother gotten himself into during his absence? The older Winchester clenches the keys in his hands and makes his way out of the room to the car.

"I kept my side of the deal," Crowley said coolly, "Now it's your turn."

"Talk, then," Sam responds, trying to keep his voice emotionless.

"I want you to cut the head off the snake," The demon purrs, "Kill Lilith."

"Okay," The hunter laughs coldly, "And why, pray tell, would you want Lilith dead?"

Crowley smirks, suddenly materializing in front of Sam. "Sam," He says, his tone a tad bit annoyed, "Surely it's obvious, even the slightest bit clear," Seeing his confusion, the demon scoffs, "If you're the smart one, I fear just how much of a moron the shorter one is."

Crowley continues, "Anyway, it's called survival of the fittest, darling. In this case, I am not the fittest, but what Darwin never talked about… was the things that feed off the fittest to survive."

"You're comparing yourself to a parasite," Sam inputs, his eyebrow raised.

"In a way," The demon responds, "But, the thing is Lucifer isn't a demon, remember, he's an angel. An angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him you're just filthy, backstabbing bags of puss. That's the way he feels about you," He makes his way to his desk, and pours two glasses of scotch, "What could he think about us?"

"But he created you," The hunter points out, taking one of the glasses.

"To him, we're just servants. If Lucifer manages to exterminate humankind, we're next," Crowley states, his voice grim as he downs his drink, "So, let me help, huh?"

"…How do you even know about, well, any of this? From what I've heard, most of the demons are in the dark about what's even going down," Sam says, taking a tentative sip from the glass.

The demon smiles, that same damn hyena smile again, "I don't like being kept in the dark, moose. And you don't know this, but I also happen to be Lilith's right-hand man," He shrugs pouring himself another glass of scotch, "She mainly keeps me around for business purposes, and a fuck every so often. I did sell my soul for an extra couple of inches on me- "

"Augh – I don't need to be thinking about that," The hunter groans, "Anyway, so what you're saying is… You know all about the apocalypse, the seals, Lucifer, everything?"

"Never let anyone tell you you're just a pretty face," Crowley says with a wink, "The deal: I give you everything I have on Lilith, I serve as a mole of sorts, and I can provide an occasional service with my various connections," He sniffs, "In return, you end this thing before it can start, and when everything is finished… You leave me be."

"Okay." Sam stared at the demon, braced for some sign that the deal was sealed, but the demon just stared back, clearly amused. He didn't have the patience for this, "Seriously?"

Crowley shrugged, "The decision is all yours, Sammy. Sealed with a kiss."

Sam smashed his mouth against Crowley's and tried to jerk away when the demon leaned up into him and started to wrap its arm around his waist. He felt the demon's hand start to slowly cup his ass, through the tight jeans, and before the hunter knew it, he was shoved against the wall. Sam finally managed to spur some of his demonic strength and shoved him off. He scrubbed his mouth with the sleeve of the leather jacket, fixing a "bitch" face at the chuckling asshole.

"Don't worry," The demon says, his chuckles starting to fade, "I never kiss and tell."

Archangel Raphael, whose name means 'God heals', is the archangel designated for physical and emotional healing. When his father breathed life into him, it was his purpose, and it was his father's will. So, Raphael fixed what was broken; he induced a war when populations grew too much, he sends a plague when hairless apes get too mouthy, he even sent a cleansing flood when sin overwhelmed his father's last, perfect creation.

"How," The archangel intones in Enochian, the teeth of his vessel gritted as he stared at the underling at his feet, "How is this even possible? Father made rules for a reason, rules that cannot be broken, so the apocalypse cannot be simply prevented! How is he getting so close to even touching a hair on Lilith's head?"

The underling swallowed, and chokes out, "We do not know. Lilith is supposed to break the seals, and her confident Ruby was supposed to protect the last remaining "special child" Sam Winchester and prepare him to break the final seal and become the host to Lucifer," He shakes his head, a head is sweat going down his temple, "Ruby was killed, by one of our own. And since then, all of the plans…"

"Then we make new plans," Raphael states, his tone making his annoyance apparent, "I want Sam Winchester to be conscious of the fact, that we know of his plans to put a halt on the apocalypse. We shall send him a warning, one and one only, give him a chance to stop this nonsense," He sniffs, "But, we must find the one that has betrayed us, for it is evident that one of our own is assisting him in strengthening his powers. Send word to all those stationed on Earth."

"What shall I tell them?"

Raphael smiles, the expression not reaching his emotionless eyes. "Tell them," His voice is callous, cold, "We cannot kill Sam Winchester, but we can tear him apart, again, and again, and again, until he's driven mad at the prospect of living a second more," His smile fades, and his lips become a thin line, "Find the one that has turned against his kind, end them swiftly and quietly."

"You're working with Sam Winchester," Castiel says, his awe-inducing blue eyes narrowed, "The Boy with the Demon Blood?"

"That's right," Gabriel replies coolly, "Sammy and me, two of the world's biggest screw-ups, we're going to save the world. And I think you ought to feel inclined to help." He digs a sucker out of his pocket, and tears off the wrapper, sticking it into the side of his right cheek.

"Save the world," The seraph sneers, "You have no right, no right to ask anyone for help, Gabriel, not after what you did. Much less I," He eyes the archangel with a persecuting gaze, "You abandoned me, heaven, your family! And for what, t-th-these hairless… apes?"

"Cas," Gabriel utters.

Castiel's eyes glow and he fluctuates his grace. "Gabriel," His voice is deep and commanding, like that of a true soldier of heaven, "Our brothers and sisters came here, and risked their lives to raise Dean Winchester from perdition, to prevent the apocalypse! Many of us have ascended to Earth, to try and prevent the breaking of seals."

The archangel snorts, popping his sucker from his mouth to point it at the latter. "You're being duped, little brother."

The seraph's head inclined to the side in confusion. "How am I being, I believe the term you used was… duped?"

"You see senior management intends on allowing the 66 Seals to break, in order to bring about the Apocalypse," Gabriel explains, his tone growing increasingly laced with disgust, "Our brothers and sisters believe that the Apocalypse is God's divine plan that must be carried through and will cause everlasting paradise on Earth. They don't care what happens to the humans, in fact they haven't given a damn for a long time."

Castiel's eyes are wide, but he shakes his head. "No," His voice is shaking, "It is our duty to keep watch over the humans that hold dominion over the Earth, as God originally intended."

"They don't give a damn," The archangel exclaims, popping his sucker back into his mouth, "They have finally gotten tired of having to herd the flock, so they're just going to let Lucifer and Michael deep-fry had the fucking planet! Sam and I, we are actually trying to prevent all of this from happening!"

"Why do you use a word meaning sexual intercourse as an exclamation," The clueless angel interjects, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Fuck me," Gabriel groans, rubbing a hand over his exasperate hand over his face, "I forgot how literal halo-heads could be. My point is, I want you to join us, Cas."

Castiel stiffens, "I will not turn my back on heaven as you did, Gabriel. Besides, how do I know you even speak the truth?"

"Let me give you a front row seat to what I've seen," The archangel takes the latter's hand pressing it against his temple, "Look in my mind Castiel, see for yourself. I know everything that I know… because I've lived through all of this before."

Castiel hesitates, his eyes flickering from the floor to the archangel's warm champagne-colored hues. After a moment, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath gazing into Gabriel's mind. His face twitches, and his lips part to let out a shaking breath as he gasps out," N-n-no-o-o… No!"

Gabriel keeps his own eyes closed, feeling the seraph shift through the painful memories. When suddenly, the seraph halts at a particular memory; Sam Winchester is pressed against the wall, the tender flesh of his neck exposed as he lets out deep, whining noises from his throat. His shaggy brown hair falls over his eyes as his lush, magenta lips like plump, ripe fruits part and he gasp out, "Gabriel."

Castiel's eyes flash open, and his cheeks flush. "Gabriel," He murmurs, "I… Everything that I saw, that is what the future holds if Sam Winchester does not kill Lilith before the other seals break?"

"Yes," The archangel's voice is grim, "I'm sorry that I left you, Cas, but I didn't want to be a part of the fight."

"Why are you fighting now then?"

"I found something worth fighting for."

Castiel's blush heightens. "I also saw that," He gulps nervously, "So, you are… intimate with Sam Winchester?"

Gabriel beams, finishing off his sucker with a loud 'pop'. "Yeah," He expressed, his eyes twinkling, "I've only known him for a little while now, but if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in his place and then myself."

"And from what I saw in your memories, since you left heaven you've been masquerading as the Pagan god, Loki," The archangel nods, urging the seraph to continue, "In lore Loki is attracted to larger beings; Svaðilfari the great stallion, Angrboða the giantess, and Sigyn the goddess. I sense that this is more fact than fiction, seeing the younger Winchester's astronomical height compared to that of your vessel's."

The archangel's smile fades as he scowls. The seraph has a look of innocent curiosity on his vessel's unshaven face, but Gabriel was not convinced in the slightest. "We're four seconds in and I'm already regretting my decision," He quips.

Gabriel walks outside the warehouse, Castiel walking behind him with his trench coat flying behind him in a flourish. The archangel suddenly halts, both of his eyebrows raised as he presses his lips into a thin line. He points at the empty parking spot where the impala had been several hours ago and makes a disgruntled noise.

"That can't be good – Fuck," Gabriel shrieks, his eyes landing on a note taped to the warehouse's door," Fuck, fuck, shitty-ass fuck… Every time he leaves a note shit hits the fan! For the love of – Fuck!" He grabbed his phone from his pocket and clicked on the contact 'Cock-Sock' and brings the phone to his ear as he taps his foot impatiently.

Meanwhile Castiel examined the note. "It says: 'Had business to take care of. Will pray if assistance is needed.'"

"Hello," Sam answers at the fifth ring.

"Sam," Gabriel actually releases an exhale of relief, "Look, you cannot just go gallivanting places on your own with all of the shit that's going down, and just leave a note! Now, do you care to explain what happened that prompted you leaving on your own?"

Sam sighs on the other end, "Long story short, my brother got kidnapped by the King of the Crossroads, Crowley, and I made a deal for our benefit," His tone changes from tired to amused, "Were you actually worried about me, Gabe?"

The archangel scoffs, "Listen, I don't care if you get a message from God himself, complete with stone tablets! Don't go off on your own, okay?"

"I left a note," The hunter responds as a-matter-a-factly," …Look I have to go— "

Before the archangel can object and continue his tangent, his companion has already hung up, "Stupid… cock-sock."

The kitchen rag runs down the shaft of the machete, tracing the scars, remembering the hunts again and again and again as the emptiness fills the voids in Dean Winchester. He remembers diesel fuel, rusting frames of old cars. Sam smiling, afternoons fixing up the Impala. He would smile, too, a cold beer in hand. Grease and gasoline. He never thought he was happy then, he was such a fool.

Dean leaned back in the old, splintered chair in Bobby's kitchen table. He shifts, trying to find a position where the hardwood wasn't digging into his already aching back. His bare, muck ridden feet found their way into the crook of the table's underside as he took another mouthful of his beer. He slowly lowers the bottle again, his fingers hanging precariously onto its glass sides.

At the bottom of another drink, Dean let's out a strangled roar tinged with rage and sorrow. He throws the empty bottle against the wall, the resulting shatter causing glass to spray across the room. Tears threatened but Dean held them back, staring determinedly into the dull lamplight, jaw stubbornly clenching, nostrils slightly flared.

" Son of a bitch!" Dean bellows, saliva winging its way through the air.

Bobby Singer runs the room, his entire body tense. The younger man can imagine his expression. Dean has spoken little, and his friend is worried, so he'll try to force it out. The old coot thinks he understands him better than himself, and before, maybe that was true. But now, he's in the dark; Dean is always unpredictable when going through the stages of grief.

"Dean," Bobby barks out, grabbing his shoulders as he gives him a rough shake," You need to clam down, now! Where the hell have you been?" He breaks him from his broken reverie, snapping him straight back into the present. Air whooshed into his lungs, bringing him back to life. "You've been gone for hours-Did you take that hunt—Dean?"

"He's dead," Dean whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. He didn't even try to hide his anguish," What am I supposed to do?"

"Dean – "

"I can't even fucking bury him!" After learning of what had happened to his brother, he'd been determined to give him a proper send-off, only to learn the body had gone missing," What, what if he's –"

Bobby rubs a hand a tired hand over his face, and says," Don't do this to yourself, son. Sam is gone. There was no one to bring him back this time."

"Maybe," Dean concedes, his mouth a thin line. He stands up and goes for his phone on the counter," But we'll see about that. I'm going to have a talk with the guy who sent him on that hunt."

"You sure about this?" Bobby Singer questions on the phone, snapping Dean out of it.

"Hell no, I'm not sure about this. But it's Sam," Dean trails off, his sharp green hues glancing at the door at his side, "He's still my baby brother. I'm not doing anything, not until I'm sure."

"Yeah, but what if what this Crowley says about Sam is true? I just don't like the idea of you marching right into it," Bobby says, he tries to keep his tone even, but Dean can hear the concern creeping in the edges," …Sam is like a son to me, but he was gone, damn it! Dead as a door nail, and then his body up and vanishes. And now this, he just suddenly turns up again without a scratch?"

"So, did I," Dean reminds the seasoned hunter.

Bobby scoffs, "Don't remind me. I've got all my feelers out about that, and I've heard zip. But, I may know a psychic we can talk to— "

"He warned me," The hunter states, "He told me not to look into what brought me back. We'll leave it be, for now. We've got bigger fish to fry."

"Alright," The seasoned hunter replies, "Don't do anything stupid, ya idjit." There's a soft click signaling that he's hung up.

Suddenly the night club's door opens, blaring music and flashing lights greeting the dark night. Sam Winchester waltzes out, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket as he lifts his head to the sky. His lips part and he released a shaking breath, his shoulder length hair billowing in the chilled night wind. Dean stealthy slips behind his brother, pulling his gun from his belt.

Dean cocked his gun and grits out, "Turn around."

"Why? Can't shoot me in the back," Sam says softly, keeping his back to his brother.

"Turn. Around," The older Winchester's breath is a snarl, "Christo."

Sam did, slowly. His eyes were the color of the hazel like autumn leaves, green, blue and striated with flecks of gold. Dean almost expected his eyes to turn black, but it was just his brother's gaze. Dean's finger tensed, pinched against the trigger. Yet, it wasn't because his gaze was sharp, and it burned cold like ice on a northern sea.

Sam held his hands up. "You know you can shoot me if you want. No one's tried it, but I wouldn't bet on it working," He smirks, "A tree root didn't do the job, so…"

Dean didn't move his hand. The rest of him didn't move either. "You were dead," He said, voice hollow, "Explain to me – what are you, cause you're sure as hell not – "

"...No, I am not human," The younger Winchester looks thoughtful as he replies, "But, lately I've been trying to convince myself that I still am. Perhaps some part of me still is, but in our line of work that doesn't exactly matter, does it?"

"Sam," Dean's voice sounds strangled.

"I didn't want you to get involved with any of this, Dean. Believe me on that," Sam says softly, "And I'm still not letting you, so I'm walking away with you conscious or unconscious. Your choice."

"Damn it, Sammy. What have you gotten yourself into – "

"Dad always said that if you couldn't save me, that you would have to kill me," Sam stipulates, his tone bitter, "You can try."

Dean swallows thickly, and he adjusts his gun. He fixes his aim, gun still pointed at his brother. At his brother. The hunter slides his gun to the left and pulls the trigger, flinching as the shoot sounds off. The bullet was aimed to lodge itself into his brother's shoulder, but instead it was being held between his fingers. Nonchalantly, he tosses it over his shoulder, and it rolls somewhere down the street.

"If you're going to shoot me, you better shoot me dead," Sam hisses, "No warning shots, or maiming shots – Only kill shots."

The older Winchester closes his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he slowly lowered his gun. Sam doesn't look surprised in the slightest. The youngest Winchester narrows his eyes, and whispers with a voice like the creaking of gallows, "Didn't think so."

Sam flicked his wrist, and Dean yelped as he was flung backwards, crashing into an old dumpster unit that lined the night club's wall. The hand gun fell from his grasp as he collapsed on the ground, old cardboard boxes and empty glass bottles clattering around him. Darkness pushes in from the sides of his vision, threatening to take his consciousness.

"Sam," Dean manages to choke out, "Sammy! What did you do? Damn it! What did you do – "

The last thing he saw was his baby brother walking away with only the street lights illuminating his path.

Chapter 6

September 19, 2008

The road stretches onward, hugging the land, taking each turn in easy stride. It is a grey that has welcomed many suns, become silvery as it soaked in the rays. But it is night at the time, and it is raining. Sam Winchester tries to pull his leather jacket over his saturated form as he wanders in the soft rain, small pellets of water spitting on his hands as the remainder of the drops quench the scattered puddles decorating the asphalt.

Sam walks down the straight road without looking back -- he's so scared if he does, he'll never keep going. Because for a second time, he'd ditched his brother in favor of doing things without him. It's one foot in front of the other for so long, the hunter is not even sure how much time has passed. There is nothing about his person to indicate exhaustion, and he certainly does not feel it, excluding the strange feeling in his lower abdomen.

Sam felt an odd fluttering sensation in his chest and wondered what it meant. Then a roll of thunder seemed to crack the air, as if the very heavens might split apart. It rolled like the ash could of a volcano, becoming a rolling, booming rumble. It declared to all the raw power of nature and gave fair warning of the wrath that was to come. Unbeknownst to him, it was the wrath of the archangel, Raphael.

There was another fluttering sensation in his chest, and then a sound of ruffling feathers. Gabriel appears mere inches from him, his features grim. "The storm's a warning!"

"Nice to see you too," Sam responds," …What do you mean a warning?"

"The people upstairs, they're pissed," The archangel laughs bitterly as he pulls his companion closer to him, his hand sliding into the curve of his hip," Raphael, another one of my big brothers, is actually afraid of what we're doing, and he's too chicken-shit to come down here himself and do something about it."

Lightning came, a brilliant shock of white in the graphite sky, forking silently to the unsuspecting ground - the thunderous boom always calling its warning too late. The hunter jolted at the abrupt strike, settling into the body behind him with ease; as the rain started to turn into a downpour around them both. Lightning struck down again, close, only a hundred feet away and Sam suddenly extended his hand towards it.

Gabriel suddenly swats his flat palm against Sam's outreaching hand, like a mother did when a naughty child acted out of line. "No, Sam, stop it! I know what you're thinking… And you're bat shit crazy just for thinking it," The archangel roars over the downpour, "Come on, we have to get of here – "

"What would happen if I tried to absorb the power," Sam yells back, "I can absorb the power, the essence of demon's because I have demon blood in me, so I'm suited to take it in. But what would happen if I tried to absorb that power?"

Gabriel let's out an aggravated snarl, "You won't die, but it will slow you down. It's hard to work when you're split down to nothing but molecules!"

"A test," The hunter mutters to himself, gently pushing back against the latter's touch," I'm getting stronger, I have to see if I can do this, I could turn the tide – "

"Sam – Don't you dare… No!" Gabriel's voice sounds a thousand miles away, a distant whisper in the back of his head as he extends his fingers forward. With that thought, his power leapt up; the power to absorb the power from demons. He strove to take the angel's power, but he tried to remember Gabriel's tutelage on control, but the yearning for that feeling of fullness, satisfaction as power ebbed into his veins grew and blossomed.

The lightning strikes again, and it doesn't feel like the abominable power the demon's hold with their corrupted souls. No, it's pure and light, a brightness that fills him until he is filled to the brim yet yearning for me. It's grace, pure unbridled light that shines so bright. It was the kind of brightness that sears into one's retinas making one close them for fear of going blind; a brightness that would make fresh snow look grey and dull. It was a brightness to rival the sun itself.

Swaying, Sam reached out to grasp Gabriel's hands, which were patting at his face. His voice was all but gone from his hearing. Then he felt two hands settle on either side of his face, and the brightness is seeped from his body. All he could think was how inhuman he felt, as his arms dropped away from the archangel's body, and he slipped down to the soaked road below, every bone in his body aching with weariness.

September 21, 2008

Aruba Island, Kingdom of the Netherlands

Sam Winchester breathed into the breeze, his eyelids fluttering closed as he breathes in the briny aroma. Scrunching his toes, he feels the softness of the sand, still damp from the retreating tide. He wiggles as a shiver cascades down his spine and his eyes burst open. The sand blurs out in a blissful trance, the shore fading into liquid gold, vivid in the brilliant light.

"Remind me why we didn't think of this sooner," Gabriel moans, shifting against Sam. He snaked one hand down into Sam's swim trunks and started stroking lazily. Sam grunted softly, pressing back against the archangel's chest. Gabriel smirked and took that as acquiescence, he continued.

With every movement the sand shifted. With every motion forward there was some backward and down, just like walking in fresh fallen snow. Yet unlike the crystalline blanket of white bequeathed by the winter time, the fine grains under foot give the hunter warmth from the sun's rays. Like their sky-bound benefactor they are yellow, as if the sunshine itself is trapped inside the unmelting crystals of silicone and oxygen.

"Gabe," Sam blurted, his tone neither enthusiastic nor matter-of-fact," What are we doing here? I mean, it's nice and all, but there is…" His voice trailed off as he felt a hot breath on his neck, then the tender brush of lips.

Gabriel's breath is curling against the skin just above the shoulder as his hands are skating against the smooth skin of Sam's stomach, occasionally scraping down his side in long scratches. "This is us taking a break, and with the stunt you pulled the other night… Fuck, we need it. If I hadn't drawn the grace from your body, you probably would've been torn apart from the inside out," He murmurs softly, his fingers still going up and down his sides," Can we please just enjoy it? Just pretend, even if it's just for a little while, that we're not two morons caught in the middle of a war we have no business waging?"

The hunter hums thoughtfully, but doesn't touch upon the subject again, much to the archangel's immense relief. "I mean you walked right into an angel smiting; that's a challenge if I ever saw one, so we need to stay low for a bit. But on the bright side you didn't immediately get blasted into oblivion the second you took all that grace into your body – I guess we're starting to get a promising idea of your power."

"…What am I," Sam's voice is feeble, he is terrified of the answer," …I know what I can do. I know that I'm not human, at least not entirely, but what am I? What am I becoming, Gabe?"

"Sammy," Sam heard the soft, broken whisper of his companion's voice, so much strained emotion packed into one word," That's all you are to me, and all you ever will be to me. The hunter with an ass so tight I could stick a lump of coal up there, and in three hours I'd have a diamond. The only human I know of that's been more than one-night stand to me…"

"Then what I am I to you?"

"…That remains to be seen," Gabriel replies, but in truth he didn't know.

Sam would later recall two particularly important thoughts sticking steadfast in the forefront of his mind during the foreplay into what would ultimately lead to sex on a beach in Aruba. One, he was one hundred percent positive that all five-feet of horny archangel grinding up against him would be over, and most definitely between his thighs and lips tonight. Two, he, like the archangel, did not know just what it was he felt for him, but whatever it was it wasn't bad; there's that.

"Too many clothes, have to get rid of all these ridiculous layers covering you up Sasquatch. Nothing in the way of your ass, your thighs," A slow slide of hands down his hips, the gentle scratching at his sides halted, "That sweet, flat belly of yours." Soft hands work quickly, his swim shorts being rucked down, off. Then he copies the movement with his own pair and they're both already bare, asses on the hot sand.

Sam rolls over onto his back, and in seconds Gabriel is trying to slither in between his lanky, but muscular legs. The archangel slaps his hands down on the latter's knees and pulls them apart ever so slowly. Gabriel gives a soft laugh until the hunter wriggles his hips against his, friction causing him to sink his face to Sam's neck and moan. It takes a massive effort to lift his head from the warmth of the gentle strands that cascade just at his heated neck.

"Nghh – Do we have to do it like this," Sam mumbles his hands hooking around his companion's sides, "I don't want sand riding up my ass."

Gabriel laughs again, and nudges Sam. The gentle push urged him onto his hands and knees, and the archangel is eagerly taking his position.

"Sam..." The archangel moved his hands from his hips reaching around, delicate fingertips dragging across his nipples. The hunter's chest shudders as his cock's hardwired straight to the sensitive nubs on his toned pecs.

"Yeah, god yes, just… Gabe," Sam's moans are praising," Please... inside me, now. Gabe, fuck, now."

Gabriel nods and adjusts his hands to settle on Sam's hips. They separate long enough for the archangel to grab his discarded trunks, pawing through the side pocket until he finds a small packet of lube. They moan deep and needing while Gabriel works Sam open as gently as he can stand. At last, he rolls his own hips and the latter's hole seemingly parts for the tip.

Gabriel pushes it in deeper with incremental rolls of his hips, his cock so much hotter than the hunter's body that he can feel every inch of it sliding in, compelling his insides to open until he's fully sheathed. The archangel withdraws nearly all the way and then slams back in, setting up a pace that almost halts the moans in Sam. The hunter shudders, his hands digging into the sand beneath his fingers, back arching.

"Fuck," Gabriel hisses, and he thrusts faster," God, so good, Sam…"

Sam's breaths started coming in small pants as he feels the muscles of Gabriel's arms and chest flex with the exertion of holding himself upright while thrusting forward. Suddenly the archangel did something to him, hit something, moved some way, and his orgasm slammed into him. He came hard onto the moist sand below and he could feel the thrusts slowing, the archangel wasn't too far behind as he too climaxed with a loud moan.

After going at it three more times, the archangel and the human deemed it wise to move to a different patch of sand. Luckily, they were smart and had chosen a relatively unpopulated part of the beach, but they had managed to scare a couple of the locals half to death with their coitus. Now, they were both lazing on a large blanket, sprawled on their stomachs with their trunks back on as they let the sun settle on their skin.

Sam has a large book propped on a small mound of sand, but Gabriel being not much of an avid reader didn't really take notice. But he does notice when Sam starts sucking on one of the archangel's suckers. His eyes go wide for just a second, and he doesn't take them off Sam. Or his pink, sticky lips; stretched but tight around the sugary confectionary.

"Since when do you like suckers," Gabriel's voice is low and husky.

Sam shrugs, lets his companion hear the little 'pop' sound as he hollows his cheeks and pulls it out. "Since now, I guess. I've been craving sweets. Since when do you give a shit?"

Gabriel smirks," Since now I guess."

He is tempted to make three rounds into four, but on the other hand he does not feel like moving to another patch of sand. Not to mention, it didn't sit well with him to reward the hunter for stealing anything from his stash of candy. The hulking mass of muscle and height needed to stick to his greens, lest his precious sweets be put in danger.

"I think it would do you some good if I took some of these suckers off your hands, Gabe," Sam comments, his hazel hues bright and full of mirth," Besides you have some of my childhood favorites; piña-colada, mandarin orange, even blue raspberry."

"Now listen, even though I am in the best shape of my life — and I am, by the way…I mean, fact of the matter is you could pretty much bounce a damn quarter off my ass, you know, if you," Gabriel shrugs nonchalantly, snatching the sucker from the latter's lips, "If you wanted to."

"…We're going to have to move to another part of the beach again, aren't we," The hunter's voice is breathless.

The archangel smirks, leaning in for a sweet, sticky kiss," Definitely."

Neither of them noticed the flutter of feathers as another angel arrived on the beach. Not until Castiel cleared his throat awkwardly, his bright blue eyes expressing curiosity at the position the two were in. He inclined his head to the side like a puppy. Gabriel yelped and pulled Sam's thick book over his swim trunks to cover the obvious bulge, and Sam just blushes in embarrassment.

"Castiel, Sam. Sam, Castiel," The archangel sputters out," First thing you need to know about this angel, he has a bad habit of popping in at the most unconventional times." The hunter's cheeks just turn a deeper shade of red; first time he got to officially meet another angel, and of course, he was making out with his brother on a beach in Aruba.

Castiel doesn't seem fazed, and simply says," Sam Winchester. I've been told that you are eager to meet me."

"Y-yes," Sam stutters, his cheeks turning even redder, "I've never met another angel. Gabe, I mean Gabriel, your brother, he's the only when I've ever – God… Shit! Sorry! Sorry."

Sam suddenly jumps up, rubs his hands on his swim shorts, and offers him his hand as he smiles warmly at him. Castiel turns to Gabriel, a slight frown on his face. The archangel just grins and nods encouragingly at him in return. Castiel hesitates for a second, before taking Sam's hand in his own and slowly shaking it. Sam's excited smile grows radiatingly bright, and he grips the angel's hand tighter and shakes it more eagerly.

Suddenly as if burned, Castiel pulls his hand away, nearly throwing Sam to the ground in the process. Sam stumbles back a few feet, but recovers, looking at the latter with wide eyes. The seraph brings his hand forward for inspection and closes it into a fist as his face twists into one of disgust. The human clenches his fists at his sides, trying to keep a neutral face as the latter faces him.

Castiel spits out in e," OL ZIR A NOCO DE ELO. PI UNKNOWN APILA PAID, JONAC NATOSA," He steps closer as he continues," PI VOL RILA NASOSA NO, PI VOL RILA SANOM NO. TAL VOLOR WEZAD NONIL SOV NAMASOL POLO VASI. PI VINEM VAMIL RANAMALO JILOHAZ SOV POLO."

"What did he say?" Sam asks softly.

Gabriel shakes his head and makes his way towards Castiel. "NO VASI JADANIPIS TAL PIM," He barks out, giving the angel a rough shove," DAZIS VIS RELILAMAMAL FOL JASEMADATAM!"

Gabriel continues barking away in enochian, and every so often Castiel would squeeze a word in. Then suddenly, Castiel nods, and gives Sam a final glance, before there's a flutter of feathers and he's gone.

The sex wasn't bad, exactly, because sex with Sam Winchester was always phenomenal compared to every other human, no matter how awkward the location. Gabriel could live without the part where he kept finding sand lodged in every crevice of his body for the next two days. It was always fun to watch Sam shake improbable amounts of sand out of his hair though, and he was always in good mood afterwards, curling up next to the spent archangel under their beach umbrella even while half-heartedly swearing that they would take it to their perfectly nice bedroom next time instead of rolling around on a beach towel.

Then again, their last attempt to have "normal sex" had cost them quite a few pennies. The hunter's developing powers, the one's he had no complete control over, made sex on solid objects a hassle. Sure, sand wasn't much better since every time the archangel would press too hard or hit just the right spot, the sand beneath them would randomly shoot into the air and spray down on them like snow. But at least he wouldn't owe more money since the bed fiasco…

Gabriel isn't entirely sure how they make it to their pricy hotel room considering they don't stop kissing and undressing each other, but at some point he's standing in front of room 66 (it reads 69 since the archangel was an immature jackass) and fumbling the golden key card into the slot while he tries to keep himself curved into Sam's back, but he has short arms and it's like trying to reach around a brick wall.

At last, he managed to curve around the hulking man like freaking a contortionist and get the door open. Without a warning, Gabriel pulled them all the way through the door and all but carried Sam to the bed. The archangel threw the human on the bed and watched him bounce up and back down. The man's chest heaved in surprise, his breath hard but his eyes still hungry.

Sam was getting lightheaded from all the kissing, but he didn't quite realize what was happening as they devoured each other, not noticing the bed slowly levitate into the air. Not until the bed suddenly thudded back down onto the floor when Gabriel's mouth moved to Sam's nipple. The two yelped and turned bright red in embarrassment.

"Shit," Sam swore as his companion pulled back from the foreplay.

"Fuck, maybe we need to weigh the bed down?" Gabe suggested.

"So, get this, Crowley just emailed me this link," Sam says as he walks into the room, his still open laptop levitating in the space around him, "Several hunters have been brutally murdered in the past few days; Olivia Lowry, Carl Bates, Jed, R.C. Adams... According to Castiel maybe even a dozen more."

Gabriel nods in understanding, "It's another seal breaking. The rising of the witnesses," The archangel sighs and curses in enochian," The bitch is trying to get things underway. Lilith must have cast a spell that released The Witnesses."

"The Witnesses?"

"The Witnesses are people who have seen, or died at the hands of, supernatural beings. They can be distinguished from normal ghosts by a symbol branded on them," Gabriel explains as he pulls out a sucker from his jacket," Once summoned by the proper spells, they act in a manner similar to other vengeful spirits but target a specific person with their wrath. They will kill the individual if they can."

Sam gulps nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing, "Wait, but if only hunters have been killed so far that means - Fuck," He lowers his head into his hands, "The Witnesses are ghosts of people that hunters failed to save."

"Give the man a prize," The archangel mutters, giving a hefty suck on his candy, "I take this means that our vacation is over?"

"We have work to do," The human states, and moves his hand to his suitcase. Clothes lift into the air, swirling in a twister of cloth, before landing unceremoniously in the unzipped bag, "I still need to work on that."

"Sam... You realize that if The Witnesses are going after hunters..."

Sam closes his eyes, exhaling softly," I know, Gabe. I know."