SPN

More often than not, Abaddon preferred to skip the foreplay and jump straight to the torture. Anticipation might have a way of enhancing the overall experience, but she rarely had the patience for it, and she didn't really need it. Torture was gratifying enough on its own. Sam, however, was obviously a special case, and he deserved special attention—particularly if he spent any length of time down in that cage, as the rumors implied. Their Father in Hell could be a hard act to follow, and if Abaddon was going to make an impression on the boy, she had to go the extra mile.

Sliding off his lap, she shoved a chain under his thighs and wrapped it around—over, under, over, under… His legs were already hampered by his belt, but why stop there? She wrapped the chain all the way to his ankles, pulling it as tight as possible and adding the necessary padlocks to keep it secure. Naturally, Sam tried kicking her, but she was ready with iron fetters that would anchor his feet to the floor. When she snapped them on, she relished the sound of his frustrated grunting.

But she wasn't done yet. Standing up, she produced a sharp knife and began slicing his jacket and shirt sleeves. "Careful," she cooed when he tried twisting away from her. "I don't want to accidentally cut you." Much to her amusement, a muffled objection escaped his gag. Oh, she loved it when they tried to talk! He was panting miserably by the time she removed his upper garments—she never understood why humans cared so much about their modesty, especially when they had such fine bodies, but if stripping them caused such distress, who was she to complain?

Standing back, she took a moment to admire her work. (The windowless room didn't supply any light whatsoever, making it impossible for Sam to see, but Abaddon's vision was exceptional, regardless of the dark.) She couldn't help but smile; he was so perfect. She climbed back on his lap, unfazed by his squirming, and slowly ran her hand from his cheek down his neck, to his chest. She playfully caressed his anti-possession tattoo, which looked recent, before continuing on down his abdomen to his waist. She slipped her hands underneath him, groping his ass while searching the back pockets of his jeans to confiscate a jackknife and a set of lock picks. Tossing them to the floor, she progressed to his front pockets and dug out his phone and wallet.

"You don't need these, do you?" she asked, discarding them. He bit down on his gag, furious, but helpless. "No," she teased, petting him affectionately. "From now on, I'll grant you everything you need."

He threw himself forward, as far as the chains would allow, to slam his head on top of hers. The onslaught was forceful enough to knock her backwards, and she hit the ground with a wild laugh. "WHEW!" She sat up, grinning gleefully. "Oh, baby, you do know how to please!" She quickly reached for another length of chain and began threading it under the armrests, over Sam's waist, and behind the back of the throne. She continued wrapping it around like a seatbelt five or six times before padlocking it in place. Sam grunted pitifully as the iron links dug into his skin, which only served him right. "You have no one to blame but yourself, little prince."

Satisfied, she returned to his lap and brushed the hair from his face. He was still struggling, but his new restraints left him sufficiently impotent. He wasn't going anywhere—and neither was Abaddon. "It could still be awhile before your cravings return," she whispered thoughtfully. "But that's okay. I don't mind waiting here with you."

Just to make him uncomfortable, she settled in on top of him, resting her head against his chest while lightly tracing his clavicle with her finger. At first, his muffled protests were angry and frustrated, but then, as five minutes became ten minutes, as ten minutes became twenty, his aggression gradually succumbed to pure, delicious agitation. Abaddon relished the way his body trembled beneath hers, and the smell of his sweat was delightful. She couldn't help but taste it, eagerly licking his skin—much to his disgust.

"Isn't this nice?" she teased, snuggling against him. "I could just stay like this forever."

SPN

"Dean… Dean… You need to wake up."

Castiel's distant, nebulous voice was growing more and more distinct, jolting Dean back to consciousness. He found himself lying over the sheets of his bed in the bunker, fully clothed—thank God—with a grim-faced angel staring at him. What the hell? When did he fall asleep?

Oh, that's right. He and Castiel had been 'calmly discussing' their options in the library when the son of a bitch raised two fingers to his head and knocked him out. Cheap shot. Dean groaned. "Cas? What time is it?"

"Two-twelve in the morning," he replied, as precise as ever. "Come with me. I have a lead, and you're not going to like it."

Damn. Swinging his feet to the floor, Dean clambered after his friend, who was already on his way into the hall. By now, it was going on forty-four hours since Sammy disappeared—almost two whole days. Thanks to their brief conversation on the phone, Dean knew three things. The kid was alive. (Good!) He was thinking clearly, which meant he had his fix. (Not good!) And he was scared. (Crap!) He actually feared detoxing more than he feared hallucinating Lucifer!

Oddly enough, in hindsight, that wasn't too surprising. Even when Sam was locked in the psychiatric ward of that hospital, sleep-deprived and at his breaking point, he could still contain himself. Most of the time, anyway. He resigned himself to a slow, miserable death and coped with remarkable stoicism.

But during withdrawal, he couldn't control anything—not even his own body! They had to chain him to the friggin' bed to keep the blood from tossing him around the room. The sound of his screams made Dean flash back to hell, and he didn't want to consider the source of those cries—the unspeakable torture. During withdrawal, Sam lost everything—every shred of strength, hope, dignity, faith, and self-possession—and it was no wonder he would rather die than suffer through it again.

They had to find him. Now.

Eventually, they reached the library where an open laptop was sitting on the desk. Castiel motioned for Dean to take a look, and he quickly obliged, observing a news website with a video segment called, "Eight Dead in Magical Murder Spree."

Magical Murder Spree?

Dean hit play and watched closely as a well-dressed woman appeared on the screen. "This is Jewell Myers reporting outside Prosperity's Bar and Grill in downtown Tulsa. Earlier this evening, five men and three women tragically lost their lives during an incident that witnesses are now calling a magical rampage."

The camera cut to a devastated group of survivors. The girls were obviously hysterical, crying and talking over each other, trying to make sense of a senseless ordeal while their boyfriends failed to comfort them.

"It was crazy!"

"She killed him with her fingernails!"

"How's that even possible?"

"She was able to throw three large men across the room without even touching them!"

Cut back to Jewell Myers. "To corroborate these claims, one witness has released live footage from the event, taken with a phone camera. The material you are about to see is violent and may not be suitable for children. Viewer discretion is advised."

A moment later, the scene changed to inside the bar. Dean stiffened as he caught sight of Abaddon mutilating a man with her bare hands. Son of a bitch! The camera was shaking as everyone panicked, but the footage was unmistakable—an unarmed woman was picking off a bunch of people with superhuman strength.

Suddenly, Abaddon turned her attention from a blonde girl with a guitar over to a tall, furious young man, and Dean's heart sprang to his throat.

"Sammy!"

Abaddon approached his brother with typical haughtiness. Dean couldn't hear what they were saying, but if he had to guess, they were probably discussing an obvious stalemate. Abaddon reached up to stroke his face. Sam grabbed her wrist; she grabbed his other wrist. Sam managed to punch her, and she retaliated by wrenching his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees.

With the bitch distracted, the crowd began scrambling for the exits.

Abaddon glanced up.

Sam tried tearing himself free.

She grabbed him by the neck.

They vanished, literally into thin air.

As Jewell Myers appeared back on the screen, commenting on the video, Dean sat in complete shock. He had just seen his brother kidnapped by a friggin' Knight of Hell! For all he knew, Sam could be dead by now, and the thought left him paralyzed. Oh, God! No. This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

"Dean?" Castiel asked in a gentle voice. "If she wanted to kill him, she would have, just like her other victims. Sam's alive. You need to believe that."

Dean nodded, but wasn't remotely encouraged—his imagination was frantically listing the different ways Abaddon might treat a prisoner.

Just when he thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse…

Meanwhile, the Mark on his arm began to burn.

SPN

Author's Note: Honestly, I'm surprised we don't see more of the media on the show. They'll cover anything to boost their ratings, and some nosy reporter could potentially be as troublesome as the police. IDK. Anyway, I really hope you liked this chapter. More of Sam and Abaddon coming soon!

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