#SamGabeHSAU --

"So," Gabriel says on the phone to Sam that night. "I think I'm gonna do it."

"Hm?" Sam's got one eye in the Renaissance and another on American Idol and is only one-third paying attention. "Do what?"

Gabriel clears his throat. "Audition."

American Idol drops out of the picture and now Gabriel's got two-thirds of Sam's attention. The Renaissance has to linger there or he'll flunk his pop quiz. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're gonna have to help me, though."

"Yeah, of course!" Sam's grin is wide as the sky. "Just name it, man."

"Can I..." Gabriel sounds so shy it's kind of bizarre to imagine it's really him. "I don't know, can I practice for you?"

The idea puts little butterflies to work churning up Sam's stomach, but only in the best possible way. "You, uh... you wanna come over here? We haven't had dinner yet."

Gabriel's "yes" comes faster than the speed of sound.

And that's how Dean and Gabriel end up on opposite sides of a dinner table, staring at each other over apricot chicken, a definite chill in the air. Sam fears he may have made a colossal mistake, especially when Dean reaches deliberately for the drumstick Gabriel was going for, grabbing and gnawing on it greedily. Gabriel watches, stunned, and when Sam sees his fist clench under the table, he reaches out and covers it with his own hand.

The surprise of the touch jolts Gabriel enough that he relaxes.

"He's still kind of pissed at you for picking on me," Sam says in a low tone. "Once he realizes you're a good guy, he'll cut it out."

Gabriel nods, mollified -- or maybe just distracted. He pulls his hand away and stares at it for a minute, then resumes eating without a word.

Mom takes it upon herself to break the silence. "So, Gabriel," she says, pronouncing his name eloquently and politely, "Sam tells us you're going to be auditioning for the school play."

Gabriel glares at Sam. So much for broken silence. Sam isn't cowed, though; he looks up at Mom and smiles. "Gabriel's really good."

"And will you be singing a song?" The way Mom says it makes it sound like it's an elementary school production of Peter Pan, and now Sam does want to cringe.

Thankfully, Gabriel finds his voice. "The drama teacher told me to sing something by Elvis."

"Oh!" A comfortable chuckle wafts over from the far end of the table. Sam never expected Dad to chime in, but not only has he made himself heard, he's now looking pleased as punch, cheeks pink over his scruffy chin. "That takes some guts. Can you swing your hips, then?"

"Dad!" Sam is ready to hide under the table.

Dean jumps up. "I'll show you how it's done, dude." He thrusts his hips forward in a motion that most sane parents would surely find embarrassing. Dad's applause is yet another reason for Sam to hide under the table.

And then Gabriel gets up. And does Dean one better.

And sings, in a perfect Elvis wail, "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog."

Mom and Dad both applaud. Sam peeks out from the fingers he's plastered over his eyes.

Dean breaks in. "Cryin' all the time." He circles his hips and throws his head to the side in a classic sneer.

Dean's eyes and Gabriel's meet. And all at once they're both circling the table, wailing in unison, "You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine!"

Embarrassed as Sam is, at least this means Dean's not going to hold a grudge. But Sam might just have nightmares about rhinestone jumpsuits tonight.

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