...
Sam rises slowly from a dream made up more of sensation than sight: the dark, smooth taste of chocolate, suddenly turning coppery and bitter, a flash of heat, then seeping cold, the brush of feathers against his cheek and a crippling, agonizing pain in his chest. It takes him a few moments to realize that this isn't his dream- it's Gabriel's.
This happens occasionally; Sam picking up on the Archangel's unconscious frequency by accident. The first time it happened, the human was jolted awake in a cold sweat, trying to claw his own skin off. Once they'd realized what had happened (he'd wandered into a memory of Gabe being burned with Hellfire, sometime in the 1300s), the Trickster was overcome with guilt and attempted, yet again, to convince Sam that their relationship was dangerous for the hunter. Of course, Sam was having none of that, and after a round of scolding, followed by several rounds of we're-not-breaking-up-so-get-used-to-this-cuz-you're-stuck-with-me sex, they'd said no more about it. Sam knows, though, that Gabriel still feels responsible every time his dreams bleed over to the Winchester's. He also knows that if his Angel realizes that Sam was dream-peeping again, he'll sulk for days. To avert this, he rolls over, draws the smaller body towards his, sharing his body heat, trying to chase the nightmare from both their minds. He doesn't say this often enough, but he loves the way Gabriel fits perfectly in his arms, the way Sam can enfold him completely, tuck him in and rest his chin atop the Archangel's head. He feels Gabe shiver, responding to his touch, and he nuzzles at the hollow of the Trickster's throat, murmuring indistinctly through a mouthful of sleep, "'S jus' a dream. G'back t'sleep, gorgeous."
Gabriel tenses in his arms, and Sam wonders if he objects to the nickname. The ex-demigod doesn't let on in public, but that's another of his little insecurities- he's self-conscious, highly-aware of his vessel's shortcomings (no pun intended), whether real or imagined. He's offered to change his appearance when they're together, make himself taller, more toned, or softer, curvier, anything Sam wants. That was the first time in their relationship that Sam got angry- really angry.
"Look at me!" He'd snapped. "Would you change something about me? Am I not good enough for you or something?"
Gabe had stood there in nothing but his boxers, gaping in shock at the outburst. "What? Sammy- no! Of course- you can't- I don't want you to change at all! You're perfect!" Catching himself, he'd thrown a quick, deflective comment. "I mean, your hair could do with a trim, but-"
"Then what the hell makes you think you're not good enough for me?" Sam interrupted, still looking furious.
Gabriel floundered, completely blindsided by the question. The look on his face, lost and confused (and proving his relation to Castiel), was so blatantly cute that Sam couldn't help but be a little charmed.
His expression softening, he'd cupped the shorter man's face and kissed him gently. "You're Gabriel," he'd said quietly. "You're an Archangel of the Lord. You're short, You've got a twisted sense of humor. You're mouthy. You've got a sweet tooth that could put Willy Wonka out of business. And I love you, so much that it hurts, just the way you are."
He'd pulled away then, just a little, to get a look at Gabe. The Trickster's tawny eyes were wide and shining wetly, so much pain and shock and emotion in them as he whispered, "Sammy," and dragged the hunter back down for another kiss.
"One thing, though," Sam said sternly, grinning in spite of his tone, "You seriously need to quit calling me Sammy."
Gabriel shifts again, like he's trying to slip away without disturbing his companion. Before Sam can form a sentence of protest, there's a snap and suddenly there's only an empty warm spot where the Archangel was.
He sits up, blinking owlishly and scanning the dark room like he expects Gabe to be standing at the window. The bedroom is empty save for him, the only sound his own breathing.
"Gabe?"
...
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