twentysomething

Title: Baby, It's Cold Outside

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Sam/Gabriel, background Dean/Cas

Summary: None of this is really important right now, except that it means they're in the middle of the most barren-ass part of the continental United States and it's December and Sam swears the heat isn't on.

Length: 900 wordsish

Warnings: Sam Winchester is a whiny bitch.

Notes: This is like an old-school Canadian Shack challenge that I thought up as I froze to goddamnass death in my bed on the last cold night of spring. I was thinking that angels are probably pretty warm- keeping all that Eyeball-Searing, Fierce-Bitch Smiting, Not-On-Any-Flatbread glory up in your meatsuit, you know.


They're in Nowherefuckingnearcivilization, Montana, and Sam thinks he's freezing to death.

The third time Dean had hit the rumble strips, they'd given in and gone for the nearest motel, because that was better than crashing and dying on the way back to Bobby's after a particularly rough salt and burn- seriously, buried in seven different places- in eastern Oregon. It had rained the whole time and Dean and Sam had escaped pneumonia by the skin of their teeth. Cas doesn't get sick, or at least, hasn't- he's not fallen, but he sleeps and eats and has sex with Dean, so Sam doesn't know what is going on there, other than that he doesn't want to ask.

None of this is really important right now, except that it means they're in the middle of the most barren-ass part of the continental United States and it's December and Sam swears the heat isn't on. He also thinks the blankets are out of a production of Annie or something, because this is like, Little Match Girl Dying in the Snow shit, seriously, it's fucking cold.

Dean is totally oblivious to this, and the rest of the world, because he has an angelic space heater attached to his side like a growth. Sam swears angels run a couple of degrees hotter than regular people, like those fucking Twilight werewolves or some shit, because the apocalypse had gone down in the middle of July in Death Valley- someone had a terrible sense of humor- and driving around, crammed in the backseat with Cas and Gabriel on either side of him, God giving directions from shotgun? Yeah, that had given Sam a preview of what Hell was actually probably like.

And while it had sucked extreme ass then, Sam would probably punch a baby to be in Dean's place- although snuggling with Cas would be gross and messed up and Dean would probably kill him to death. They'd gotten the very last room- although who the crap else was in this freezing death pit still goddamn baffles him. Dean had passed right the fuck out as soon as they got in, Cas shrugging and getting in with him in the bed closest to the door. Sam's been staring at the ceiling, dying slowly for two hours and he is never going to feel warm again, because he was going to get frostbite and die, and so would be the inglorious end of Sam Winchester.

He's thinking about getting up and maybe putting on a fourth pair of socks, but he's managed to stop cold air from leaking directly against his skin, and he doesn't want to risk losing that, when all of a sudden, he's not the only person in the bed anymore.

"If you were complaining any louder, Helen Keller could hear you," Gabriel mutters against Sam's throat and holy shit- he's better than an electric blanket and a snuggie and a hot bath in one. Sam could probably be sued for harassment with the way he's clutching at Gabriel, trying to get as close to him as possible for sweet, sweet body heat.

This is most definitely not within the boundaries of the weird flirtation they’ve been subtly engaging in, around the epic romance that is Dean and Castiel and Undying Love, and the Stopping the Freaking Apocalypse, but Sam thinks that since Gabriel started it by teleporting himself into Sam’s bed, he’s in the clear.

"Warm," Sam chatters, rubbing his icy face against Gabriel's shirt. He feels the amused huff of breath against his hair.

"Nice to see you too, Sam," Gabriel says, but he's a couple steps short of outright sarcasm, so Sam figures he sort of actually means it. Gabriel's skin feels sun-warm, like he's been basking out somewhere, storing up radiant heat, because he's not getting any colder, even as Sam fervently wraps his stiff fingers around Gabriel's waist. He's only wearing a thin, worn cotton t-shirt and soft, ragged flannel boxers and Sam rolls his eyes, because of course Gabriel is wholly unaffected by the fact that it's -2 degrees outside, and maybe only just above freezing inside.

Gabriel slips his hands under Sam's hoodie and two t-shirts, and Sam tries not to moan even as his eyes reflexively roll back into his head. This is better than sex, he swears. Gabriel's hands are dry and hot, sliding smoothly against Sam's sides, and they're surprisingly large for a guy who doesn't even really come up to his shoulder.

"You only say that because we've never had sex," Gabriel muses quietly against Sam's hair as he tries to curl closer.

"Stop reading my mind," Sam argues, but there's no actual irritation behind it because Gabriel could be detailing his plan for world domination right now, and Sam wouldn't care as long as he was still blissfully, delightfully warm.

"I'll bear that in mind. Will abandon scruples for snuggles," Gabriel teases him. Sam really wishes he could argue with that, but he's finally regained feeling in his face and he's not going to look the gift horse in the mouth. "If I'd known how hard up you were, I would have tried to feel you up first." Sam snorts quietly.

"I don't put out on the first date," he mumbles, because now that he's actually sort of warm, the exhaustion is hitting him hard, and his eyelids are nearly completely shut. Gabriel smiles, and Sam knows, because it's pressed into his temple.

"That's a lie," Gabriel says, almost fondly. Sam smiles.

"Yeah, okay," he says, and falls asleep.




(Seriously, someone find me a fucking awesome Gabriel icon. I HAVE NEEDS.)