"Heeeeeey Hercules! How's it hangin'?"
Sam rolled his eyes with a huff, letting the door jingle closed behind him. "Really? Hercules?" He dropped into a nearby seat, all sparkly gold vinyl.
Gabriel just laughed.
Sam sighed, leaning his head back against the booth seat and looking at the ceiling. The lampshades were made of various appliances—the light above him was a bulb inside of a vintage blender jar. The one in the next booth over was, of all things, a small colander. They were all like that. They were off, though. The only lights on in the diner/bakery/chocolate shop were the white Christmas lights strung up over the windows and along the front of the counter, so the shop was dim. But dim in a soft way.
Gabriel tossed a brown paper bag at him as he continued wiping down tables and humming under his breath.
The bag contained a decently sized apple muffin and a cake donut—sweet but not too much.
The music Gabriel was now singing with was something Sam recognized but only slightly. Something from the sixties, he thought. But... it wasn't any recording he'd ever heard.
"Blue moooooon," Gabriel seemed to be drawing it out just to be obnoxious. "Now I'm no longer alooooone, without a dream in my heaaaart-"
"Gabriel, who's singing this?" Sam cut him off, and Gabriel looked around with a frown.
"It's rude to interrupt people, Samson." He quirked his eyebrow.
Sam smiled apologetically, glancing down at the floor (white and silvery-gold checkered tiling) awkwardly. "Sorry. It's just—I thought this song was sung by some guy from the sixties?" He leaned on his elbows against the slick white tabletop.
Gabriel's expression morphed from one of minor irritation to comical surprise. "Sammy! What kind of sensitive geek are you!?" He spun on his heel, letting the cleaning rag fall into its bucket with a little splash. "This is Billie Holiday!" He grinned an incredulous grin and walked over, sliding into the seat across from Sam. "Are you telling me you thought that The Marcels were the only band to ever do this song? It was written like thirty years before they covered it!" Then he looked pitying, and patted the back of Sam's hand with a smirk. "You deprived boy."
"You listen to Billie Holiday?" Sam smiled, disbelieving, and mentally kicking himself for not saying something a little more... intelligent.
Gabriel rolled his eyes.
"Just because I tend to listen to very energetic and loud pop doesn't mean I can't enjoy some older music once in a while." He shrugged cheerfully. "Besides, who doesn't love a good love ballad from the early twentieth century? Or the mid twentieth century." He paused to pull a candy cane—where did he get a candy cane in August?—from his pocket and added, "Hell! Gimme a love ballad from any year and I'll listen!" He sucked thoughtfully at his candy, which was striped in an alarming shade of blue and pink, and Sam wondered what flavor it could possibly be.
Sam raised his eyebrows, flipping a strand of hair out of his eyes. "So, you have a weakness for love songs?" He looked absolutely baffled, and Gabriel laughed.
Gabriel leaned back, tapping his show lightly against Sam's shin as he said, "Well yeah, I mean—First off they're cheesy as hell, and second off sometimes a nice voice can go a real long way." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "If ya know what I mean, Sammy Boy."
Sam rolled his eyes with a snort. He leaned back away from the table, leaving the bag with his food sitting on the corner. "Dude, I think you're losing your touch." At Gabriel's look of confusion—that one where he squinted with his eyebrows pulled together and his head cocked, looking from nowhere in particular to Sam as if he were touched in the head—Sam grinned. "Really. I mean that made no sense. What were you even implying? That I can sing?"
Gabriel crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow imperiously. "No, Sammich."
Sam pursed his lips at the childish nickname. (Dean liked to call it his Bitch Face.)
"I was implying that I was good at singing and—come on do I really have to explain this?" Gabriel spread his arms out wide, imploring. The puppy-dog eyes were on high, and maybe they weren't as strong as Sam's own puppy-dog eyes but they still made him grin. He tilted his head forward to rub the back of his neck and muttered,
"I don't think I really wanna know."
"Yeah you probably don't." Gabriel put his chin down on the table to look up at Sam with a smirk. "But I don't care if you wanna know, Sam my man! I'll tell you—I was implying very heavily that singers with good voices are particularly loud in—"
"Dude!" Sam held up his hand. "No."
Gabriel sighed dramatically, biting off a piece of his candy cane. "Okay, okay!" He feigned sadness, pressing his forehead into the table. There was a long pause—not awkward but not comfortable either—before he mumbled "Don't wanna offend little ol' Samantha's sensibilities, after all." He snorted and Sam flicked his ear, making him flinch away with a whine.
Sam chuckled to himself and stood, grabbing the bag. "Anyway Dean's probably looking for me so I should go." He tried not to laugh when Gabriel pouted up at him and exclaimed,
"What?! Seriously? You've been here for like ten minutes! Or less!" He crossed his arms with a disgusted sound low in his throat, but smiled at Sam nonetheless.
Sam did his best to seem apologetic but Gabriel was reminding him too much of a grumpy little kid, so his lips twitched a little. He patted Gabriel's head—knowing it annoyed the hell out of him—and pushed his way out of the diner with an overly regretful, "Sorry Gabriel! You know my brother, though. Overly attached!" And then he was gone, ducking just a little since the door's to Gabriel's shop were a little low.
Gabriel discreetly acted as though he didn't briefly check out Sam's (admittedly fine) behind as he walked away, and danced over to his cleaning supplies, raising his voice to sing along with the next song to came on shuffle—it was Ke$ha's "Blah Blah Blah" and it was a total reversal from "Blue Moon."
But hey, it's good cleaning music.