Author's Note: Just a quick warning… This probably goes without saying, but Abaddon is not a nice person, and the genre of this story is Horror/Angst for a reason… Enjoy!

SPN

A heartbeat later, they arrived in a pitch-black chamber that was so dark, Sam wondered if he lost his vision. When Abaddon let go, dumping him on a hard concrete floor, he couldn't even see his hands in front of him. The air was cold and damp, reeking of sulfur, and nearby, he overheard the sound of dripping water. Where the hell were they?

"I wish I could offer you better accommodations," Abaddon teased, circling around him. Sam tensed, following her voice apprehensively. Granted, he was trained to fight with a blindfold, but not against demonic Knights of Hell. He braced himself for an attack, but Abaddon kept her distance. "It's a shame, really. Western architecture leaves a lot to be desired. I wish I could set you up in a nice Gothic throne room, but we'll just have to make due with what we have."

"Throne room?" Sam couldn't hide his bewilderment. What the hell was she talking about?

"Well, you are the Father's vessel," she playfully replied. "You deserve the very best, little prince."

Sam tasted bile in the back of his throat. "Don't call me that!"

She chuckled, still circling him like a vulture. "Well, if you prefer, I could always call you his little bitch." She was suddenly next to him, cuffing the side of his head with enough force to knock him on his back. Lights flashed like fireworks before his eyes, and he almost passed out. Meanwhile, Abaddon straddled his torso and sat down, planting her knees firmly on his arms, facing his legs. "You know," she said. "I could warm you up for him." Her hands fondled his waist.

Sam bucked angrily, straining against her weight, but she was too strong. "You can torture me all you like, but I'm not telling you anything!" He wasn't bluffing. After everything Lucifer put him through, he had an extremely high tolerance for pain.

"Oh, I don't think torturing you for information will be necessary," she assured him, slowly unbuckling his belt. Sam groaned as she tugged it free. "My sources tell me you're addicted to demon blood. What's that like?" She slid the belt under his thighs, wrapped it around, and cinched it tight.

"Don't!" Sam objected, but naturally, she didn't listen. He writhed miserably as she kept talking.

"I have a theory, when you're ready for your next fix, you'll prove much more cooperative." Sam recoiled, fighting the urge to vomit. Torture was one thing. Withdrawal was another.

Keeping his arms in check with her knees, Abaddon slid closer to his feet and fiddled with her own belt. "We can still have fun, though. Can't we? I need to thank you for setting me on fire." She looped it around his ankles, and when she was satisfied with his restraints, she squeezed his knee. "Do you like it gentle, Sam? Or do you like it rough?"

"Go to hell!"

"Rough it is." She climbed off him, but he didn't have time to reach either belt before she kicked him in the chest. Pain radiated through his whole body, and he crumpled, gasping for breath. Then, she seized him by the throat and hauled him off the ground—her grip was like a noose, strangling him, and he panicked, grappling frantically to tear free. She barely seemed to notice, dragging him across the room like a rag doll.

"Don't trip, now," she advised as they came to a staircase, but with his legs hampered, his feet slid awkwardly up each step. At least it wasn't a long climb—six or seven steps total—but then Abaddon was shoving him onto a hard chair, and he remembered how she mentioned a Gothic throne room. His blood ran cold. Oh, God, where was Dean!?

Releasing his neck, Abaddon grabbed his arm and yanked it over his head. Sam coughed, too oxygen deprived to resist, despite the terrifying rattle of a chain. Moments later, a shackle snapped firmly around his wrist. "No…"

"You like that?" she asked, sitting on his lap.

He tried hitting her with his free arm, but she was ready for it, and easily caught his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, making him grimace.

She chucked. "I know it's dark, and you can't see, but I hope you appreciate where you're sitting. We might not be in a real throne room, but I promise you're on a real throne. I had my people fetch it all the way from Europe. It's quite opulent—worthy of a prince like you." Sam thrashed as she wrenched his arm up and shackled it just like the other. He was stuck.

"There," she said smugly. "Now, when his majesty rises, you'll be ready for him in the seat of honor."

"That's never going to happen," Sam objected, pulling on the chains, testing their strength. Unfortunately, they were quite secure and offered very little slack. "My brother's going to kill you."

"Oh, I can't wait to find your brother," she replied, brushing a hand through his hair. He tensed, leaning as far back as the chair would allow. It wasn't enough. Abaddon leaned in—he could feel her breath on his face. "I can't wait to scratch that tattoo off his chest and take possession of him. With that Mark on his arm, he's more desirable than ever, and I will have him."

Sam shook his head. "You're delusional."

"I'm a visionary," she argued, stroking his cheek with unsettling tenderness. "And when I get my hands on him, I'm going to make him do all kinds of nasty things to you. If I can wait that long." Her lips found his, and she pressed against him eagerly. Sam moaned, turning his head away in disgust, but it was hardly an improvement. She simply licked her tongue over his face and sucked on his ear.

"Stop!" He bucked wildly, desperate to knock her off his lap, but she wouldn't be dislodged. "Abaddon, stop!"

She sighed. "You know," she whispered in mild frustration while snagging a fistful of his hair. "That's really distracting." She forcefully jerked his head back, and he gasped in pain. While his mouth was open, she took the opportunity to stuff in some kind of cloth. It was thick, and it weighed down his tongue, muffling his protests. Before he could spit it out, she sealed it in with a long strip that she tied behind his head.

"There," she said, squeezing his face in her hands. "If you're not going to answer my questions, then why should you speak at all?" She kissed his forehead.

Panicking, Sam renewed his struggles, fighting for all he was worth, and thank God, Abaddon relented.

"Oh, all right!" she exclaimed. "We'll wait for Dean, if that's what you really want." She laughed, petting his hair. "In the meantime, why don't I make you more comfortable?" She adjusted her weight to lean over the side of the chair. Sam couldn't see what she was doing, but when he heard the rattling of more chains, he had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like it.

SPN

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