This is the prompt from Carol C.

Gabriel materialized in the indicated location. It was a cheap motel room of course, perhaps a little shabbier than average. The ambient rattling roar of the air conditioner covered the rustle of his arrival.

His quarry sat at the scarred dinette table, broad back to him, head bobbing slightly in rhythm to whatever was pumping through ear buds as he read and made notes on a pad.

Gabriel cleared his throat.

His quarry didn't stir.

"Behold?"

Nothing.

The archangel vanished and reappeared on the other side of the table. "BEHOLD!" he bellowed, flinging his arms wide.

Sam Winchester achieved levitation, at least six inches of altitude straight up. Paper, ear buds, pens, books went flying when his over-sized knees lifted the table as he scrabbled away and to his feet. Sam's eyes were huge and he'd faded to an interesting shade of pale beige under his tan.

That's better.

Sam had his pistol trained on his chest. It wavered a little, but all in all, remarkable aim.

"Oh please. A gun? Really?" Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"You're dead!" Sam tucked the pistol back behind his belt.

"So I've heard, and yet—" Gabriel spread his arms again and cocked his head with a smirk. "Am I alive or am I previously recorded?"

He allowed his form to pixilate and then chuckled, stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "For you, it doesn't matter. I've come to deliver… well, glad tidings is the traditional phrase, if I recall correctly. It's been a while."

"Huh?" Sam gaped like a landed trout.

"I've got news, Bullwinkle," Gabriel informed him flatly. "Listen up."

Gabriel could see suspicion and malice sliding across Sam's shocked features like rain sheeting over a windowpane. So, all recovered and back to normal then. Mustn't have that. "You're going to have a son."

There we go. Sam blindly reached for his abandoned chair and dropped onto it so abruptly that Gabriel expected its spindly chrome legs to buckle.

"I'm pregnant?" Sam wheezed. His complexion drained from tan to beige to parchment in four seconds flat. Must mark that down. Quite likely a personal best.

Gabriel drew the moment out, inscrutable as a mannequin.

"No, you moron," he snapped then and almost lost his own aplomb at the ridiculous relief that washed over Sam Winchester's face. "You're going to have a son in the natural order of such things. So I assume. I'm not one to pry."

He felt his lips try to quirk into a small smile of malicious glee and let them. "But that would have been funny, huh!"

The challenge was to finish the story. The next chapter is the beginning of my continuation.