The brothers were out—Dean chasing a lead on a wendigo sighting two counties over, Sam buried in lore at the library, both of them still treating you like the kid sister who needed minding even though you'd been hunting solo longer than most people lasted in this life.

Gabriel lounged on the sagging armchair like it was a throne, legs kicked up on the scarred coffee table, golden eyes tracking your every move with that lazy, predatory amusement he never quite turned off. You'd been ignoring him for the better part of an hour, methodically cleaning your favorite silver knife, the one with the worn leather grip that fit your palm like a puzzle.

He snapped a cherry lollipop out of thin air and popped it between his lips with a theatrical click. "Y'know, sugar," he drawled around the candy, voice honey-smooth, "watching you sharpen that thing is basically porn for hunters. All that focus. All that repressed aggression. Kinda hot."

You didn't look up. "Go bother someone else, Gabe. I'm not in the mood for your shtick tonight."

He tilted his head, grin widening just enough to show teeth. "Ouch. And here I thought we were past the whole 'attempted murder' phase. I even brought candy." He conjured a second lollipop, red wrapper crinkling as he tossed it onto the bed beside you. It landed perfectly, like he'd rehearsed the trajectory.

You finally glanced at him; only a glance, quick as a blade flick. His vessel was the same as always: messy dark-blond hair, that ridiculous tan jacket, eyes that sparkled with too much knowing. But there was something else tonight. Weariness, maybe. Or longing. Hard to tell with him; he wore masks like other people wore socks.

The first time you'd met him (back when he was still playing Trickster) he'd tried to kill your brothers in increasingly creative ways. You'd been the one to figure out the pattern, the one who'd stared him down in that warehouse and said, calm as anything, "You're not fooling anyone, candy man. We know what you are." He'd laughed in surprise and instead of smiting you, he'd winked and vanished in a swirl of caramel smoke.

After that, he kept showing up. Flirting shamelessly. Calling you "cupcake," "sweetcheeks," "little Winchester doll." Dean threatened to exorcise him on sight; Sam lectured about celestial power imbalances. You rolled your eyes, traded barbs, pretended it was nothing. But it wasn't nothing anymore.

He snapped his fingers. The room shifted—just a little. The fluorescent buzz from the hall died. Suddenly it was only the two of you, the wet patter outside, the metallic scent of gun oil on your hands, the sugary cherry on his breath when he finally stood and crossed the small space between you.

He leaned one hip against the dresser, arms crossed, watching the way your fingers tightened on the knife hilt.

"You gonna keep pretending I'm the enemy forever?" he asked, softer now. No sarcasm. Just quiet curiosity laced with something that sounded almost like hurt.

You set the knife down. Slowly. "You're an archangel. I'm a hunter. My brothers would lose their minds."

"Yeah. Dean would probably try the ol' angel blade to the heart. Sam's more the disappointed lecture type." He shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave yours. "Doesn't change the fact that every time I think about leaving for good, I end up right back here."

He stepped closer. "I used to run from everything," he murmured. "Family drama. Dad's big plan. The whole cosmic soap opera. Ran so far I pretended to be a pagan trickster for centuries. But you..." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. "You make me want to stay put. That's new. And terrifying."

The bedframe creak as you shifted your weight. You stood. Slowly. "This is a bad idea," you whispered.

His laugh was soft. "Baby, my whole existence is a bad idea. Doesn't mean it isn't worth it."

He reached out, fingertips brushed your cheek, light as a feather, tracing the line of your jaw. You didn't pull back. His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.