He sets the suitcase down again so he can lean against the wall for a breather, but one eye cracks open to stare at the archangel in mingled confusion and disbelief. It's the same oddly reassuring, 'humans are flawed' sentiment he broke out when going toe-to-toe with Lucifer, thrown down with the same casual lack of fanfare that makes it sound almost sincere.

'Sincere' is not the first thing that comes to Sam's head when he thinks of Gabriel.

Still, he thinks wryly, if he's stuck in a shady-as-fuck hotel with no way out, at least he has a vaguely familiar face trapped here with him. It's not his first choice of company, sure, but as long as he doesn't swing back to his routine of dicking around, the most they'll have to get on each other's cases about is whatever apparent philosophical disagreement Gabriel has to people trying to close the literal Gates of Hell.

"You're still kind of a dick." Not all that creative, but Sam's too tired to think of anything else. "Just don't pull anymore infinite Tuesdays, and we'll be good."