I wrote a thing. I sort of really doubt that End!Verse will happen, but this is a version of what I think could happen because of Dean's mark. Nothing slash but Abaddon gets pretty touchy-feely. Warnings in tags. Second part coming soon! First Tumblr fanfic, I hope you like!

We will always end up here.

(Part 1)

"So, Dean," she cooed, red hair draping her face in shadow. "I heard you accepted the mark of Cain. That true?"

Dean struggled vainly against the ropes that bound his wrists, ankles, waist and neck to the chair, wincing as they seared him like no earthly rope could.

"What the hell is this?" he shouted, sweating.

She smiled. "Ah, so it is in you. This is what you get for whoring yourself out to Crowley." Abaddon stepped up to him and traced a red nail along the rope at his throat, the barest pressure of her finger causing it to bite into his skin. Even so, he noticed her grimace when she touched the bindings.

"I had some subordinates tie you this way. The rope is harmless to demons, but tortuous to Knights. Shame I can't drag you bound into Hell, but this way, I avoid the risk of a newborn cub clawing open my chest," she tipped her head to the side and stroked his lip, "And you look so deliciously weak."

The last comment was not effectual in making him forget the first. "Newborn cub?"

"Cain's precious little Knight. So raw. I'd bet you haven't even slit a single throat with that bone of yours."

He barred his teeth. "I've had one in mind."

Her eyes caught a devious light. "Exactly." She pulled back his sleeve and revealed the mark that had made them equals. "But we can't have that, can we, Dean? Of course, not. Even a bear will cower in the right cage."

"Is that your plan, then?" he spat, "Keep me here and run your ass back to Hell?"

The smirk on her red lips felt like a slap in the face. "Sweet boy. You've no idea what's happened. Allow me to fill you in."

She bent over him, careful to avoid the ropes, and placed a kiss below his ear. A nervous shudder steamrolled down his spine.

"Crowley's so-called 'campaign' was, shall we say, a royal disaster. My soldiers would have gutted him themselves, but … well, what queen doesn't love to get her hands dirty?" A low laugh echoed from the base of her throat into his head. "Every masochistic kink has a limit. Naturally, the very literal ripping of his crimson soul was too much."

Dean swallowed. Crowley had tortured, kidnapped, abused and tricked he and his family for years, and yet the smarmy bastard hadn't been all bad. For a salesman of Hell, he was a downright saint. And now she had Hell in the palm of her manicured hand.

"Ah," she whispered, "Mourning your King? Well, imagine my delight when I had dealt with you and that buttoned-up Brit, to find that Metatron had discovered your little hideout."

Dean's heart dropped.

"He left Sam to me, but Castiel was no match. I imagine your new God is having trouble deciding whether to slit your angel's throat yet again and collect his stolen grace, or to rip out each feather of the forgery that is his wings."

"Cas," the moan of terror escaped his lips without his consent, and he never noticed, what with the fire of guilt and agony burning through the lining of his stomach. Or perhaps that was the cruel rope around his waist.

Abaddon suckled the tender lobe of his ear and stroked his sweaty hair. "And of course, Metatron read me the last instructions from his precious demon tablet."

"What instructions," Dean demanded, choking on grief.

"You take the bait so easily, lover. It's simple. I hold the key to the Cage."