#samdeanbriel

-/-/-/-

Dean watches it sometimes.

So does Sam.

Not because it’s hot, not because it’s good, not because it’s half decent coin in the spank bank.

Mostly cause it’s Gabriel.

It would be nice if it wasn’t Gabriel with a porno ‘stache and entirely naked, but, it’s still Gabriel. The absence aches more than it should. The fact of the matter that he’s dead for real this time stings.

It wasn’t supposed to be Lucifer that put him under.

It was meant to be one of them, Sam or Dean, not one of Gabriel’s own brothers.

-/-/-/-

“Hey, Dean,” Sam starts.

A hum.

“Remember when we first met Gabriel?”

A scoff. “Yeah. Wild night.”

“You think he was propositioning us when he was bragging about having loads of sex?”

Dean nearly chokes. “Sam—!”

“What? I’m just spitballing, jeez.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“He definitely knew it could’ve happened,” Sam mused. “He was an angel.”

“Yeah. The real question is if you would’ve said yes to the janitor,” Dean pressed back.

And they both know the answer is no.

They’ve barely even humored letting Castiel in.

A janitor they had just met?

It never would’ve happened.

Not too soon to say it would’ve been nice.

-/-/-/-

Sam kisses Dean like an animal once he learns that Dean got to kiss Gabriel, like he’ll pick up a trace of the dead.

He knows he won’t.

He knows it’s too late.

He still puts bite behind his kiss.

Dean snaps a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Jesus, calm down.” Breathy, but aware. “He didn’t put his tongue down my throat.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“It was a good luck kiss in The Impala.”

Sam pries away Dean’s hands. “In The Impala?”

“Where else?”

Where else. When else. How else.

It could’ve only been in The Impala.

The same Impala they’ve shared so many times. Kissing. Sleeping. Fucking. Chatting. The one saturated with everything they are and everything they love.

Sam’s breath hitches.

Dean catches it and hoops his arm around Sam’s shoulders and the base of his neck. It’s a rough hug, if it can even be called that. The gesture is taken wholeheartedly.

-/-/-/-

Sam called it proxy sex once.

They both know they can’t call it that when they’ve been sleeping together since long before Gabriel happened.

What else is there to call the weird desperation to get every drop of Gabriel out of each other, though? It’s not grief, that’s for sure. It’s not mourning either, nor is it melancholy. Maybe desperation is the only good word for it.

Desperate is an ugly word though. It’s too raw and unrefined. Everyone knows what desperate means.

You can’t be desperate for something thats dead.

So proxy sex is what it is, because what else could it be?

-/-/-/-

“You think he actually was into getting bitten?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s a porno.” “Yeah, I know that, but, do you think?”

There’s a beat.

“I mean, he set me up with some hot babes while he was sitting in the audience to watch. I don’t see why he wouldn’t like getting bitten, it’s a lot less risque than voyeurism.”

A hum. “He probably was.”

Dean groans, dropping his head.

“What?”

“C’mon man— look at us? What are we fucking doing?”

There’s a long pause.

They don’t break it.