Gabriel's sprawled out on the other side of the table when Sam gets back to his room.
He's found beer from somewhere, or made it? Or stole it? Sam's still not entirely sure how that works. When he sits down the angel slides one across the table, air drifting out of the top of the bottle.
"Where's Dean?" he asks, because he hasn't seen him since he took his bags out of the car.
The corner of Gabriel's mouth curls up.
"Let's just say, your brother and my brother are taking care of all that post-battle adrenaline."
It takes a Sam a second to get that.
"That's kind of weird," Sam decides, though he's not quite sure if he means the angel part or the guy part. Or maybe a little of both. "Though considering all the ridiculous eye-fucking they've been doing, I probably shouldn't be surprised."
"It's been a little like watching continental drift-" Gabriel makes a gesture to go along with the words "-on a very small scale, slow but inevitable."
"I really hope he knows what he's doing," Sam mumbles into his bottle.
"It'll be good," Gabriel says with a hint of amusement. "It'll be the best your brother's ever had."
Sam doesn't believe it for a minute.
Not that he really wants to picture Dean having sex with anyone.
Or Castiel for that matter.
But he's fairly sure it will be full of awkward declarations of love and Castiel not getting it. Because Dean's had a lot, and that's a really, truly shameless amount of sex. Castiel is an angel, all head-tilty bewilderment, marble stillness and serious voice. Besides, Sam's been into battle with him and he doesn't feel like people do.
"Dean's had a lot," he says dubiously.
Gabriel's tongue slides into his cheek.
"Not like this."
"Seriously, he's an angel," Sam points out.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow as if to enquire what exactly Sam thinks he is. Or why that should, in any way, make for unsatisfying sex.
"It's not exactly going to be-" Sam tries to think of a way to end that sentence, but the only word that springs to mind and stays there is 'dirty.'
Gabriel cuts him a look that's completely unreadable, then he reaches over and very carefully lays two fingers against the back of Sam's hand.
Sam's blindsided by pleasure so sharp it's almost razor-edged, it doesn't stop but rolls, swells like a wave and digs through every inch of his skin to tighten the muscle below. It's smooth and hot and he's choking on it, hands fisted in his own jeans while the breath shivers out of him on a whine. He's half-suffocating under that dizzy intense rush of blood that's too much and he's gone, all the way gone, shuddering on a wet, messy curl of a high that leaves his eyes rolling.
Gabriel very slowly slides his hand away.
Sam whimpers unattractively into the table, groans dizzy disgust and embarrassment at the fact he's now sticky and hypersensitive.
He has half a dozen curses on his tongue, but he just doesn't have the breath to use any of them.
Gabriel leans over and steals his beer, drains half of it in one go, before relaxing back against the wall.
"It'll be good," he says firmly.