The thing about Gabriel is, he has a smart mouth. A big mouth, too. Sometimes that’s a good thing - when they’re fucking, when Gabriel sighs and moans and screams under Sam’s mouth, when he babbles for harder, faster, yes, Master, please, anything, want it, when Sam orders him to describe what he wants done to him and Gabriel does so, in vivid, crystal detail.
Sometimes it’s not such a good thing.
All of Sam’s orders (other than get on your knees, because Gabriel always obeys that one, drops like he was made for it and clasps his wrists behind his back and looks at the floor as he waits) tonight have been met with sighs, with eye-rolls, with sarcastic comments and flirting and innuendo. Which is funny, when they’re not in a scene, but right now they are, and it’s disrespectful. Sam’s had enough.
"Knees!" he barks, for the second time tonight, and Gabriel drops without hesitation from where he’d risen to take his clothes off, let Sam cuff his hands behind his back, knees bruising against the thin carpet over the floor. "Good. Good boy, well done." Gabriel may be being a pain in the ass, but he still deserves to be told when he’s done well - when he’s misbehaving even more than when he’s being good, Sam’s found, needs the praise to ground him and remind him of why he usually obeys.
Sam crosses the room, crouches down in front of the archangel, pressing a finger under Gabriel’s chin and raising it until they’re eye to eye. “I’m going to gag you,” he says, and smiles at the shiver that runs through Gabriel at the words. “Because I’m fed up with your language and your attitude. And then I’m going to take you over my knee and beat you until you’ve convinced me you’ve learned your lesson and can behave. Do you understand?”
There’s a pause, and then Gabriel nods, eyes flickering away from Sam’s and fixing on the wall behind him. Sam lets go of his chin, slaps him, grabs his hair. “Do you understand me?” he repeats, voice insistent - he needs verbal consent for this, they’ve not done this before. He has to make sure Gabriel’s okay with this.
"Yes, Master," says Gabriel, swallowing hard and looking up at Sam with something between adoration and anxiety. He’s been bad, he knows he has, and when Sam dishes out punishment, he doesn’t pull his punches. It’s exactly what Gabriel wants, of course it is, they’ve talked about this. A lot. He doesn’t want a couple of slaps on the ass and a bad boy as an incentive to behave himself because it won’t work, won’t give him what he needs.
It doesn’t make him any less anxious, though, even though he knows he’ll be floating high and blissful by the end of it, redeemed and perfect in Sam’s eyes, his sins absolved and a warm hand on his cock as a counterpoint to the pain.
"Colour?" asks Sam, and his voice is a little gentler, a little concerned. His grip on Gabriel’s hair gentles, fingers smoothing through it and scratching over his scalp with just a hint of nail.
"Green," Gabriel reassures him, ducking to stare at the floor, only for Sam to tug his head back up with a narrow-eyed look of concern. "Green, honest. Really fucking green. Like grass, or green icing, or- fuck, I don’t know. Green stuff."
Sam laughs, lets go of his head, nods. Pushes a ring of keys into his hand. “If you need to stop, or slow down, let go of these, and I’ll ungag you.”
And just like that, Sam’s gone, and Master’s back, fingers harsh and nails biting as he digs them into the sides of Gabriel’s mouth, pries his jaw open to push the ball of the gag between his teeth. The strap bites into the sides of his mouth a little, and when Sam buckles it behind his head, his hair gets caught, but the pain’s good, perfect.
The panic that wells up in his throat is not. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realised that just having his mouth blocked - even forced open as it is - would take him back. Take him back to pain, a needle through his lips, neat black stitches and the laughter and the blood trickling down the back of his throat, and the pain…
He can do this. He can. For Sam.
Sam misses the tinkle of the keys hitting the floor. The noise of the toys shifting in the box they use to hold them (and Sam really needs to tidy them up, organise them, at some point, but that’s not a thought for now) and the pulse of blood in his ears covers it as he selects a thick leather paddle for warming-up, and a thin cane for afterwards. If he hits hard enough, Gabriel might even bleed, and that’s just perfect.
He deposits the toys on the bed carefully, walks back over to where Gabriel’s still knelt on the floor, trembling - in anticipation, fear, want, need? Sam’s not sure, but he likes it.
And then his bare foot comes down on the keys.
He’s on his knees in front of Gabriel before he knows what he’s doing, fumbling behind his head for the buckle of the gag and undoing it, tearing it off, not noticing the strands of golden hair that come with it in his concern. Now he’s close enough, eye to eye, he can see the panic written across Gabriel’s face, the rapid rise-fall of his chest, the way every muscle’s taut and shaking like he’s bracing for a hit, and it makes Sam feel sick to know he’s the one that’s done this.
"Gabriel?" he asks, sliding the ball out of Gabriel’s mouth and discarding the gag, running gentle fingers through Gabriel’s hair and across his cheek - his own hands are trembling now, even as they slide down to the quick-release of the cuffs around Gabriel’s wrists, discarding them too and pulling the archangel onto his lap. "Gabe, answer me, c’mon."
"Red," is the first thing that comes out of Gabriel’s mouth, hands shaking as he reaches up to grab at Sam, twist fingers into Sam’s shirt and cling like he’s afraid Sam will disappear. "Really, really fucking red, like- fuck, fuck, red, get it off-“
"It’s gone," promises Sam, pushing the gag a little further away from them. He sits there and strokes Gabriel’s sweat-soaked hair, the nubs of vertebrae down his back, the wings of his shoulder blades and whisper nothings to him, words of praise and reassurance and pleading. Gabriel’s safeworded before now - when Sam’s hit too hard or for too long, when the names Sam calls him have slipped over to the wrong side of humiliating, when the overstimulation is too much and Gabriel simply can’t come one more time. But this… this is different. “It’s gone.”
"Good," says Gabriel, venomously against Sam’s neck where he’s buried his face. The trembling’s slowing, but he’s still shaky, voice raspy and low like he’s been screaming himself hoarse. “Good, fucking- shit, Sam, I didn’t think it’d- I didn’t realise it was going to be so bad, I’m sorry.” He lets go of Sam with one hand to drag shaky fingers through his hair, breath leaving his chest in one long exhale. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
"It’s okay," says Sam, easily, gently, still touching Gabriel, no judgement in his voice, and Gabriel loves him for that.
"It’s just," he says, voice sticking in his throat, and he couldn’t say this if he didn’t trust Sam as absolutely and completely as he does, more than he’s probably ever trusted anyone but his Father and a select few of his siblings. "It’s just, a while back, I- my lips had a disagreement with a needle, and I couldn’t talk for a while, and- occupational hazard of being a trickster, but-" He can’t get the rest of the words out, but he doesn’t need to, just clings to Sam and pants into his neck to get his breathing back to normal, eyes scrunched tight shut to try and block out the memories crowding at the edges.
"It’s okay," repeats Sam, kissing the top of his head, voice carefully even - and Gabriel knows there’ll be words about this later, discussions, attempts to work out if Gabriel has any other triggers they’ve not noticed. But now’s not the time for that. Now is the time for cuddling Gabriel, touching him, spoiling him and helping to ease him down from the sharp shock out of subspace he’s just experienced. "No worries. How about a bubble bath?"
"Fuck yes," breathes Gabriel, hugging him closer. And then, right then, he remembers exactly why he fell in love with Sam Winchester in the first place. "Yes, please."