"...hate you," Sam mumbles. There's a lot more he'd like to say, but he can barely muster the energy to lift his head and glare at Gabriel. His whole body feels like a boneless heap of humming nerves.

Gabriel pats his hip consolingly. "We should do this again sometime."

"No," Sam says grumpily, levering himself into a sitting position. There's sweat cooling on his skin and he aches in new and interesting ways. "I don't even like you."

"Keep telling yourself that," Gabriel says smugly. "I'll be back."

He grins, snaps his fingers, and vanishes, and Sam curses quietly and lets his head fall back against the headboard.

It's not until after he's managed to drag himself into the bathroom for a shower that he sees them. Hickeys. Dozens of them, scattered across his torso and bitten into the sensitive skin at the hollow of his throat. Tentatively, he lifts a finger to touch one on his neck, and the sense memory hits him in a rush of heat: Gabriel's mouth gliding across his skin, latching, catching, murmuring absolutely filthy nothings just loud enough to hear. Sam closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them again his reflection is flushed and stunned.

He is so screwed.