A/N: I don't even know what this is, okay?
Every night, the Devil comes to Sam and whispers sweet nothings in his ear. He wraps curious fingers around Sam's wrists and drags him down, spreads him out on the bed like a fine canvas.
Sam is his to touch and explore, an endless stretch of skin to bruise and claim and ruin. Deceptively gentle hands press white marks into his hips, throat, wrists, thighs, ribs - by morning they will be purple and blue, fingerprint medals of ownership that Sam will wear with a lazy kind of beauty.
Of course, they never last for long. Come midday there is a second archangel in Sam's bed, and this time it is Sam who drags him down with hands tangled in his hair and murmured prayers of devotion and praise.
Gabriel kisses and touches as if he were a precious thing, breakable - he is not, but Gabriel need not know that. He worships the human with his mouth, soft and silent against the height of Sam as he licks the bruises away and breathes heat into Sam's bones.
When the evening comes around again, the Devil is always appreciative of his freshly-cleaned canvas.