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The Games We Play

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It's been coming for a long time. Saving the world together, fighting a war together, living in each other's pockets and spaces. Sam's the one that's been resisting. He's the one that's been pretending. It's either that or go mad. Because everything in his life is finally at the point where it's good again. Where it feels right again. He has breathing space, thinking space.

That's when Gabriel finds him in his motel room. He appears like a hundred times before and fills the room with noise and  movement and sarcasm, and it's familiar - until it's not. Because the books in Sam's lap end up scattered on the table, the weight of Gabriel on his thighs instead. There's a hand on his neck, breath against his cheek and then Gabriel kisses him.

Sam lets himself feel it for as long as he can get away with. The sharp newness of it, the ferocity of it. Like Gabriel just couldn't help himself anymore. And Sam's wanted it, God help him, he's wanted it. But he's pulling back.

"Gabriel, stop," Sam says and his voice shakes.

"Why?" Gabriel asks, close enough that it's almost breathed into his mouth.

"I don't want -"

"Yes, you do," Gabriel says through a laugh and there's a slide-shift of denim where they're pressed together too tightly to lie, too tightly to hide where Sam's cock is already a firm, traitorous line. Gabriel's mouth is so warm. It's hard, clever and tempting and Sam could drown in it.

He turns his head away.

"I can't -"

Soft laughter cuts the words off.

"I think you can, Sam."

Sam grips Gabriel's waist and digs his fingers in tight.

"I won't," he says roughly, and that's the one that turns Gabriel's soft, open mouth into something tight, he slides back, stops touching him.

The tightness turns into irritated confusion.

"Why? You want me, I know you do. For months, Sam. I've seen what you think about me."

Gabriel's shifting in again, just a little, all pressure and smirk and wet mouth. But Sam - he can't do this again, can't be played with and manipulated and used. He grabs for Gabriel's waist again, stops him, stops everything.

"You're too much," Sam hisses. He digs his fingers in and pushes Gabriel back. So he can think. So he can breathe. "I can't do this with you. You're all games and shiny coats of paint, Gabriel. Everything's a million miles an hour and nothing's ever real. You get whatever you want with a snap of your fingers and I don't want -" He sighs out a breath, loud and rough.

Gabriel's watching him. "What don't you want, Sam?"

"I don't want to play," Sam says desperately. It comes out flared and honest and hurt and Gabriel goes very, very still. "I don't want to be one of your games."

Gabriel lets his hands slide free, fingers trailing the very ends of Sam's before they come to rest on his own thighs. Sam holds his breath, waiting for the angel to get up and go, but he doesn't. He just stays there, silent and waiting.

It takes Sam a handful of shaky breaths before he realises that Gabriel's making a point.

There's no push, there's nothing but the rush of his breath across Sam's mouth. The angel's eyes are dark and fixed, sharp and real in a way he's never seen them before. And when he leans in again Sam doesn't push him away, he holds the weight of him and murmurs half-broken words against his mouth.

Gabriel shushes him quiet and catches his jaw, kisses him until he stops trying to make words at all. It's rough and messy and human, and when he pulls away he's breathing hard too.

"You are not a game, Sam Winchester," he says fiercely.

Sam drags him closer at the words. Let's Gabriel's fingers push hair off his face and look at him, really look at him.

"You'd be surprised what I'd do to have you," Gabriel tells him. "And I can do almost anything."

"That's pretty arrogant," Sam says. He's touching now, daring to. Uncertain but weak enough to want it anyway. Just faint presses of mouth and scrapes of teeth.

"I'm an angel, it comes with the wings."

Sam's hands fist in the warmth of Gabriel's shirt, pull him in tight. He bites at the corner of the angel's mouth, and doesn’t protest when Gabriel tangles a hand in his hair and pulls his head round. Voice a breathless hiss in his ear.

"No games, no angel magic. Just do what you want, Sam, whatever you want."

Which is how Gabriel ends up pressed back into the sheets, Sam's knees spreading his thighs so he can slide up between them. He pins him there and stares down at him. Let's the seconds drag out until there's a low, impatient stab of heat and he has to shift and press and push into the matching line of hardness inside Gabriel's jeans. Makes the angel choke out a breath and reach up to catch his hair again.


They fall into something that just a roll and dig of sensation. It's rhythm-less and greedy and broken far too often for harsh biting kisses and the catch of teeth at jaw and throat.

Until Sam can't breathe like that. He has to shove up onto his hands and grind down into Gabriel like he can't stop. A reckless, graceless, messy shove. He watches Gabriel swallow and shudder and hiss out barely coherent words and Sam can feel that rush of wet, aching heat building that tells him he's going to come without ever even opening his jeans. Judging by the fierce dig and pull of Gabriel's fingers and the way he's murmuring Sam's name, over and over, he's not going to be the only one.

It's messy and breathless and far too quick. Sam ends up with his forehead pressed to Gabriel's and his fingers digging bruises into the angel's unbruiseable skin.

"No games," Sam asks thinly.

"No games," Gabriel promises.