Abigail was waiting on a bench for Dean and Cas to return. She was still recovering from being forced through TV land by the Trickster, who so conveniently happened to be Gabriel, the archangel. Sam had been right to "play their roles". But something had bothered her since getting free. In nearly all of the roles, she was on the sideline or acting as a minor character. Not that she wanted the spotlight: but when the boys needed her help, nothing could she do. For instance, in the Nutcracker, she was one of the girls giggling and prancing around in barely any clothes. She was not able to get close enough to help either Winchester and instead watched their pain until the next scene.
The only time she had a true role was in playing cop-and-robbers. She had been in hot pursuit of a suspect when he led her into an ambush. Dean was too far behind to be of any help. When he reached her, a knife was buried in her abdomen, blood leaking everywhere. He dropped, shaking, and clutched at her, not sure where to hold but at the same time grasping every inch of skin or clothing he could reach.
"Abby, baby, you're fine. Look, it's nothing…" he was muttering and tried to staunch the bleeding. She thought she should be feeling weak; the pain was certainly real. Hating herself, she knew what she needed to do. Lifting a hand, she caressed his face, smiled and went limp. He caught her hand and pressed it to his stubbled cheek, willing the life back to her. His cry wrenched her heart. But she was not really dead, just the officer she was playing. Not quickly enough, the scene had changed and she opened her eyes to Dean's stunned and livid features. The knife and blood were gone. He wrenched her into his arms.
"It's okay, I'm okay," she whispered. "Play our parts, remember?" But the tears on his face were too much. Kissing them away gently, trying to hold him together, Abigail waited until Dean was in some state of calm. His brokenness was not something she was eager to experience again.
A flutter, like a cloak swishing. When she looked over, Zachariah calmly sat beside her. One foot rested against the opposite knee.
"What do you want?" she growled.
"The trees are beginning to change color. It is beautiful," he spoke pleasantly while observing their surroundings. She crossed her arms. No point in pushing; he would talk soon enough. This angel liked the sound of his own voice too much. Eventually, Zachariah faced her. "You do not have a role in this war. Your presence is a distraction."
"Do you think I care about your opinion?" she scoffed.
"You stay and try to postpone the inevitable but Sam and Dean will say yes."
"No, they won't." But hidden in the dark recesses of her soul were fears that either boy would submit to the angels' will.
Zachariah observed her, like he was not used to defiance. "There is nothing for you in this plan."
"I don't care whether or not some role was cast for me at the beginning of the universe. I am not leaving. My job here is to protect them." She gripped the back of the bench and leaned forward, until their noses were inches apart. "What are you going to do? Kill me and you lose any possibility of Dean saying yes. If you kidnap me I swear I will kill myself just so I can't be used as leverage. So go ahead and do whatever it is you were doing." She leaned back, smug smirk fighting dominance on her face. Zachariah's neck and face were purple with fury. Without a word he vanished in the twitch of a muscle.
It wasn't much, but it felt good to win against an angel.