Five pm. It'd been five pm when they'd arrived at the abandoned luxury hotel, stuck in foreclosure or maybe probate, dying a slow miserable death as dust settled over gleaming polished banisters, marble bar counters, crystal chandeliers. White sheets draped over antique furniture, leather armchairs, intricately carved stools and side tables.
What had once been the 'gentleman's club,' a space only for the hotel's most esteemed and distinguished male guests, was now back in operation. The covers thrown off furniture, brandy uncorked, the finest crystal tumblers rolling the exquisite, aged amber liquid in them once again.
This time though. This time the brandy went smooth down a woman's throat and the glass was left on the mahogany side table with the brilliant scarlet half-moon imprint of her lips. She was waiting and at six pm. Six pm the death knell would ring.
Five-thirty pm. Five-thirty pm was when Crowley had snapped his fingers to freeze Sam in time before going in. Six-thirty pm was when Crowley assured Dean that he meant Little Brother - Little Moose - no harm but that they had to talk. Five-thirty pm was when Dean had no choice but to listen.
Five-forty pm was when Sam resumed his graceful stealth into the hotel and neither Dean nor Crowley told as they followed in after him. The time lapse went unnoticed.
Five-forty-five and Crowley handed the First Blade over to Dean. He hid himself as the brothers encountered the first wave of demons guarding Abaddon's fortress.
Six o'clock. Abaddon heard the ancient hand-wittled cuckoo birds pop out, sing and spin above the old grandfather clock's softly swinging pendulum. She took another sip of her brandy as the boys arrived just in time.
She used Sam. Slammed him against the wall to slowly suffocate the life out of him.
This was her leverage.
It made Dean angry; it made him desperate; it made him skip the theatrics, cut straight to bargaining, demanding that Abaddon ensure his brother's safety.
He was just wasting his time. She knew he'd agree to all her terms when his brother was dangling like a fish on a hook, choking and turning blue up against the wall completely at her mercy. Dean was wasting time, yes, but...
She really liked watching him beg.
That is, until she heard his last plea: a one-way direct ticket up to the heavens when Little Brother dies.
Taken by surprise, laughter just slowly bubbled out of her and she recalled the story of her mentor. "Isn't it funny," she'd asked, relishing the moment, the look of despair already seeded so deep into those green eyes, "how history repeats itself?"
A new, fresh, entirely pleasant idea occurred to her then.
"Dean," she dragged his name out, "if you want your brother to end up in heaven... Use the blade on him... right now... and I promise I won't hold his soul back."
She smiled and savored Dean Winchester's horrified expression.
"Consider it an initiation rite into my ranks," she offered playfully then paused to let a shadow of lust cast over her features, "and Dean? When you enter into my ranks, you will be top," she paused, tilting her head and licking her lips suggestively, "rank," she finished, grinning.
She added a wink and laughed again at the look of disgust that crossed Dean's face. He swallowed, conflicted, and eyed Abaddon. She betrayed nothing.
"These are my terms, Dean," she said, letting impatience flood into her cold, crisp words.
Shaking, Dean took a step closer to his gasping, writhing little brother. The blade vibrated in his hand and arm, the thing craving blood and Dean... Dean craved blood with it.
"That's right," Abaddon encouraged, "go on."
Six-thirteen and Sam was finally released. He fell unconscious to the floor at Crowley's feet. Less than three seconds later Abaddon's head thunked! and rolled, bloody and jagged, over the Victorian rug. Dean made a quip about getting stains out of it before turning to see Crowley taking his brother's pulse.
"He's alive," Crowley informed immediately, standing back up as Dean slid in to take over, Cain's successor shrinking down back into the one role that ever kept the world ordered for him, kept him balanced.
Six-fifteen. Crowley respectfully side-stepped Sam's unconscious form, Squirrel's universe having narrowed to include only him and his brother, and began to address the remaining demons that'd flown into the gentleman's club. He lazily poured a brandy for himself and made a point to use the same glass Abaddon had used. He wiped the lipstick off first, disgusted. He declared his reign over hell once again and introduced, "hell's newest... or - more accurately - oldest weapon, ladies and gentlemen."
"And if any of you lot get even the slightest tingle to do anything even remotely like what this foolish piece of rubbish," Crowley poured his drink over Abaddon's severed head, "tried to do, know that this weapon is mine. I have his loyalty. He cannot be bought. Am I understood?"
All the demons unanimously nodded.
"Wonderful."
Writer's Note: What'd you think? ;) Next update tomorrow. Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex