Two odd pieces of completely irrelevant trivia – the bedroom at Sam's luxury pad is actually Lara Crofts bedroom from the new games, and Myystik Spiral is Trent's Band in Daria.
Sam wakes up with a mouth like the inside of a dried out coffee cup and two memories of the previous evening. The first is of being woken by an ungodly banging at a stupid hour of the morning. The second is vaguer, but most definitely contains the knowledge that he was ridden into the mattress by the small blond stranger who had also gotten cake everywhere.
He snaps his eyes open, to the fury of the hangover bear currently stomping in his skull, and looks more closely at the bedroom. It's mercifully empty, but there are crumbs all over him, and a sort of crust that he really doesn't want to think about. Because it's far too early to even try and come to terms with the fact that he had had sex with a stranger. A male stranger.
A male stranger currently singing boisterously in the kitchen downstairs.
Sam groaned and flopped over onto his face.
Alcohol, penises, cake, sex, England.
It was all very bad.
(-*-)
Castiel looked out of the window of Dean's car, wondering exactly why he was such a pushover.
A couple of theories presented themselves, living in close proximity to Gabriel all these years, being fairly bad at dealing with conflict, having the odd sensation that he was created to be the 'side man' in any given situation, rather than the lead. But, whatever the reason, he had put himself in Dean's hands as far as the days activities were concerned.
Now all he could do was pray.
Dean drove like the car was full of bees. Fast, erratically, and with a great deal of arm motion. It was a large black car, old and heavy, but other than that Castiel had no opinion of it. Dean's choice of music blares from the speakers, something hectic and fast paced with guitars and drums, again, beyond Castiel's realm of interest and experience. Dean drums along on the wheel, frowns intensely and swerves through a red light. Castiel clings to the door.
They pull up outside of an arcade, one of the old style ones Castiel remembers visiting with his brother as a child in the states. Gabriel would play on the claw machine, the driving and fighting games, and Castiel would sit in the star wars themed dark box until someone wanted to play the game there – enjoying the remote pinging sounds of cash deposits, and reading about how fruit flies are born.
Dean is already climbing out of the car.
"What are we doing here?" Castiel dares ask.
Dean grins. "Pretty much anything."
"It looks...closed." Castiel says, though the word that comes to mind is abandoned.
"It does at that." Dean looks up and frowns with mock concern. "They'll let us in though." He charges around the side, towards the staff entrance.
"Why..."
"I know the owner!" Dean yells back. "Come on, I'm so going to beat you at skeeball."
Castiel frowns. "Oh no you are not." He mutters, going after the other man.
(-*-)
"Rounds, or funny shapes?" The stranger Sam has been studiously ignoring asks from the foot of the bed. And really, Sam would keep ignoring him, even though it's rude, because they've kind of passed the point that good upbringing has prepared him for, manners wise. Except that...well, he feels crappy, and sorry for himself, and pancakes would be really nice right about now.
"Rounds." He mutters, childishly.
"Good choice." The man's footsteps retreat a little. "My mother always said, if a man's good enough to fuck, he's good enough for pancakes."
The sheets are whipped away, leaving Sam, naked and exposed to the cold air.
"She never actually voiced the opinion." The man, Gabriel, Sam remembers, continues. "But she said it with her eyebrows." He picks clothes out of Sam's suitcase, discarding plain sweaters and shirts until he comes by a T-shirt that Dean had given him with the 'Myystik Spiral' logo on it, and a pair of jeans he'd partially shrunk in the wash.
"Clothes." Gabriel says helpfully, dumping them on the bed. "Shower – then you can have pancakes."
Sam feels he should protest, and so makes a vague sound of discontent.
Gabriel slaps his ass lightly. "Now." He says sternly, and disappears downstairs."I'm not going to keep them warm." He calls back.
Sam drags himself off to the shower.
(-*-)
Castiel looks around the arcade, a dusty, sheet draped square of space, the pool and air hockey tables like altars.
He's very aware that Dean could probably kill him right now.
All the lights come on when dean snaps a few switches, machines jingle and pop with neon bright purple and green, music, decades out of date, comes from hidden speakers. Dean bounds back across the cement floor, whips a sheet from a dusty plastic table and slides a red disk towards Castiel.
"Air hockey?" He asks.
Castiel picks up the circular plastic 'bat' and slides it against the disk, propelling it back towards Dean.
They play with progressively more heat as the match continues. Castiel finds that he's quite good at it. After a while Dean starts cutting in with jokes and trash talk, and Castiel finds it oddly cheering, he even adds his own retorts in, which seem to amuse Dean.
After that they move on to the promised Skeeball, then mini-bowling, Tekan, rally driving and House of the Living Dead.
Throughout Castiel listens to Dean's cheery commentary, his cursing when he misses a shot, playfully obnoxious self congratulation when he gets his target. As they mow down the undead with pink and blue plastic pistols, Dean slaps his shoulder after a particularly well executed shot and Castiel feels oddly pleased, reminded of what his rare trips with Gabriel could have been like, if they'd been a lot more similar.
"On your left." Dean shouts, picking off a poorly graphic-ed zombie with ease. "Got your back."
Castiel reloads, shooting at the edge of the screen.
"Right back at you."
(-*-)
Sam grudgingly admits that the pancakes are ok.
Fine, so they're amazing, that still doesn't make the situation any better.
Gabriel eats his breakfast happily, and Sam's getting more and more flustered by the way the shorter man keeps 1) checking him out and 2) touching him like...like...
Ok, 'like they had sex last night' wasn't really a complaint he could make. And the memory of it is getting more and more vivid, adding to Sam's awkwardness every time he remembers being naked and...mounted. He feels all kinds of slutty and anxious and yet Gabriel is still talking to him like they met at a garden party hosted by a maiden aunt.
"Do you want more syrup?" Gabriel asks.
"Mmm? No...I'm good." Sam cuts another bite from his breakfast. "These are...really good."
"Thank you." Gabriel stacks his pancakes high and adds syrup with a flourish. "I know though." He grins.
Sam smiles half heartedly.
"Sorry...are you still freaking, about the sex thing?" Gabriel asks tactlessly.
Sam chokes on a mouthful of sponge.
"Yes, I'm guessing is the answer to that." Gabriel fills in.
Sam coughs and eventually gathers enough air to say, "I'm not freaking...I'm just...incredibly..." He catches himself. "I'm straight."
Gabriel looks at him.
"I am!" Sam insists.
Gabriel looks at him pityingly. "With that hair?"
"What's wrong with my hair?" Sam asks.
"Nothing." Gabriel smiles lewdly. "It's darling."
Sam looks down at the table.
"Ooooh...you're serious." Gabriel muses. "Oops."
"Ooops?" Sam explodes. "You burst in here, take advantage of me and now it's all 'oops'?"
Gabriel raises an eyebrow.
"First of all – you could probably break me in half." He says pointedly. "You're like a...camel to my...tiny purse dog – there's no way I could make you do anything."
Sam looks suitably chastened.
"Secondly, I was just as drunk as you, probably more so – see above re: camel." He stabs a hunk of pancake as punctuation. "Besides, it's not like I made you my bitch."
Sam kind of feels like his bitch.
He eats his pancakes quietly after that.