The problem, Bela finds, with Devil's Shoestring is that it only keeps the Hell-hounds at bay. Getting off the phone with Crowley yields no results — just the warning, in his now-familiar, all too pleasant snark that she had best see Lilith's will done and Sam Winchester, shall we say, inoculated, or else she's going to get an up-close and personal meeting with the favorite of Crowley's Hounds, time is of the essence, Bela, tick-tock, tick-tock. The whole notion turns her stomach, and even splashing warm water on her face in the Hotel Canaan's bathroom sink doesn't take away the chill that's settled down, deep inside her lungs.
— It was warm that spring, too, back at her parents' house, especially considering the normal April climate in their town was cold, and dreary, and wet. Little Abby loved the swings, and the feel of the grass beneath her bare feet, of the soft earth between her toes — her school skirt swished around her knees and tickled, and for the first time in ages, Abby laughed, deeply and earnestly, and she enjoyed it — it was just like having an early summer — except for when her Father noticed. His eyes flashed and the too-familiar scowl came back to his face…
Bela feels her whole body clench up — lungs, muscles, and all — her arms quiver and her heart pounds as she drops onto the counter, arms shaking to keep her up — a giggle escapes her, quite involuntarily, as she feels something smooth running under her feet — but there can't be anything. The floor here is tile, clinically cold, and even if it weren't, she's wearing heeled boots, not shoes that would grant any access to her skin… What's happening to her, she wonders, staring at her reflection as she drags the towel down her nose and cheeks. The wide eyes and the pallor seem so unfamiliar, but, then again… she hasn't seen them for ten years, not really.
— It wasn't warm in Father's room, and it never had been — Abby couldn't remember any time it had ever felt anything less than frigid. As he dragged her down the corridor, his fingers clenched around her wrist like a vise. He jerked her arm so much that it hurt — it hurt as though he'd set her on fire. And his words flew back at her like poison arrows: "For God's sake, Abigail — don't you have any sense of dignity? Any pride in yourself? In our family, or in what it means to be a Talbot?" She tried to answer, tried to think of anything that she could say, but all that came out was a series of moans and whining noises, and one stray, "Father, you're hurting me…" None of them seemed to land. He just kept bringing her toward the big, heavy door — the one made of polished oak…
Bela swallows thickly, feeling her knees start to wobble for the first time. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his figure — the tall, foreboding man with the dark hair, Andrew Talbot, who always wanted a son and couldn't have one, in his well-cut suits, his Oxford shirts and ties… She feels a chill on the back of her neck that smells just like his favorite scotch. For the first time in ten years, she feels the firm hand pushing into her hip, grabbing her hard enough to leave bruises where his fingers rest — she can feel them starting to form, besides… She hears his throaty whisper, "Now, Abigail — why don't you be Daddy's good girl?" — but when she looks for the hand, she can't find it. When she turns to face him where she's sure he should be, he isn't there.
She takes a deep breath. It's not until she forces herself out of the bathroom, turning off the light behind her, and not until she sees the leggy, pageant girl brunette (with a crown, and an Easter egg pink dress with sequins, and a winner's sash draped across her skinny shoulders — all the works) sitting on her bed that Bela thinks she understands — "Lilith," she says with a sigh, needlessly — because who else would let herself in like this, and who else would care enough to bother (aside from Dean, who's long gone by now) — but just in case the bitch sent some other demon to do her dirty work, the way she did when Crowley came to take the Colt.
"You should sit down, Princess," Lilith tells her, voice lilting as she cocks her head. "You're hallucinating. Stress makes it that much worse, you know."
Bela nods, shortly and curtly, and all but flopping, she joins Lilith at the edge of the mattress. Her next sigh is heated, and aggrieved — and she doesn't understand why Lilith's come at all, or why she has to feel those chilly fingers trailing down her cheek, caressing her the way a lover would. "Where did you find this girl?" Bela snaps, nose wrinkling up at the thought and then further as Lilith tells the story of how she was passing through the Miss Teen Vermont pageant and just needed this girl so badly, and the little redheaded thing she was riding had gotten boring, Bela; she just had to have a change of pace. The chill hits Bela deeper, now, at all of these words. She's heard about Hell before — she knows that the best she can hope for is a future like this, a future wherein she rips girls and innocent young women from families and from friends who actually care for them, putting them through experiences that make her own look like child's play… or an eternity on someone's rack. "This is your fault," she hisses, glaring daggers at Lilith.
Lilith only rolls her eyes. "Muffin, we could spend forever going back and forth about whose fault it is, but do you really think that'd save you now?"
Shaking her head, Bela whispers, "No. …I know it wouldn't. Nothing can—"
"Well, something could, but then… my sweetest, nicest, sugariest sugarplum explained the new clause on your Deal to you, didn't he?"
Bela nods. "But neither of you understand — nobody does — I didn't have a choice…"
— Father always liked it when she called him 'Daddy.' "Father sounds so formal, don't you think?" he asked her once, while he was slipping off her skirt and underpants — the pink ones that he'd bought her for Christmas, and snuck her as a "special present," after Mother's fifth gin-and-tonic had shunted her to bed. As he brought little Abby's back down to the mattress, he shushed her, whispering that she shouldn't cry, or make a sound, or they'd get caught and she'd be in for a world of trouble — "Everyone is going to think that you're a whore, Abigail. They know that I'm upstanding — they know that I give money to charities, and to foundations — all I have to do is tell them that you seduced me…" — and then came the pain as he thrust into her…
Despite herself, Bela feels her eyes warm up as they start misting over. She bites into her lower lip, which trembles the same way her knees just did in the bathroom — and the pain jolts through her, the same way that it did then, burning like it's fresh again. A sob staggers past her lips. Lilith shushes her, whispering sweet nothings about how she doesn't need to cry, and how she was right to have a Crossroads Demon do her no-good parents in — she snakes her hand around to Bela's other cheek, and turns her face around, bestows on her the gentlest kiss Bela's had in all her twenty-four years. "You might not even need to go to Hell," she says, all too softly. "Just go get in your car, and go kill Sam Winchester for me — alright, sweetheart?"
Bela nods. As she makes her exit, as she feels the cool metal of the pistol against her palm, she tries her best to ignore Lilith's sing-song taunt: "See you soon, dearest…"