Abaddon stood among her group and scowled. The lot had gotten slim over the years, but her pickings now were downright pathetic. She had 4 left, men she'd referred to as 'The Horsemen'. They were the best of her secret police force, and they bowed to her will endlessly. They would put a dagger through anyone's skull if she asked them to.

Michael, her son, forbade the use of secret police once he and his brothers came into power. Michael believed that the concept of such a force was one that was better spent on something more public. His belief was that fear and submission derived better from a more visible force than one that was merely a rumor that was whispered inside people's homes.

Abaddon thought otherwise, she firmly stood behind the idea that if you don't know who to trust, out of fear the people may isolate themselves and let there be no room for uprising. Deep down, she thought that Michael's lightening of hand in terms of harshness and newfound leaning towards foolish decorum was disgraceful against the previous rule led by her and her husband.

In Abaddon's mind, she had not arrived a moment too soon. In her mind, she arrived at the precise moment her son needed to be saved from his own distress. The Horsemen stood before her and her mind had officially been made up.

"I want Dean Winchester captured and whatever uprising, no doubt occuring at this moment, ceased. Break the Winchester's bones or cut off an appendage if you have to, but bring him back alive. Have I made myself clear?"

There was an assortment of "yes, ma'am"s from the four men. As they left, Abaddon reached out her hand and put it on the shoulder of the tallest, thinnest man who was the oldest of the group. He stopped, his stance becoming even more rigid.

"My little harbinger, I'm sending you after the boy. Pass on the message. I know you'll do right by me." She smiled, making the man uncomfortable.

He nodded, moving from her hand to tell the others. He was afraid this would happen. He was the most loyal of the group, he had no problem killing anyone she asked- earning him the nickname Lord of Death. However, this time, he didn't like being left with all the work. He caught the others up to speed and left them behind, making his way through the center of town.

His face, skin stretched taunt across his skull made his black eyes seem to gouge from his eye sockets, lips thin and dry. The man was only 40 but looked many years older, the bones in his hands pressing against the skin as though they wished to break free of its confines. His skin pale, the blue and purple veins beneath his skin bulging to the surface, clearly visible even at a distance. His hair which hung limply at the end of his earlobes, stuck out in places, adding to the wild look that he already achieved. The perfect embodiment of death.

He pulled a serrated knife from his pocket, the bone handle's weight feeling something beyond familiar in his hand. His voice escaped from his lips like the quiet howl of the wind through the trees on either side of him. A sound akin to dried leaves crunched underfoot, something only half-there.

"Dean Winchester, I hope you're a fast runner."

...

Dean watched Balthazar in horror, fumbling with his hands and mind to figure out a way to help his former(?) love's brother. Patting around the man's body, he found the source of his suffering. The stitches where his wings had been removed had somehow reopened. Taking a closer look, Dean could have swore it looked as though the stitches had been purposely sliced open. Then again, Dean reasoned, he was far from a medical professional. Dean Winchester was at a loss of how to save him, so he did the only thing that made sense. He supported Balthazar and started hobbling with him towards the manor.

...

And so, everyone within the Roadhouse grouped into duos, promising meeting places among each group. This way, if they were to see Abaddon, they could spread the news to the closest group or even get backup if they wanted to dare confront her directly.

John Winchester, on the other hand, wanted to meet her directly. His only choice was to pair with his son, Sam. Despite Sam's fear of his dad's rashness, he wondered if his dad would actually do it- kill Abaddon. Part of Sam wanted to believe his father could never hurt anyone, but he knew better.

Sam was not blind to his father's past as a hunter, he chose to pointedly ignore it, and therefore feared for his father's safety as well as his own. Sam did not want to be caught in the middle of his father's plans, but based on the rules that had been established among the rebellion he had no choice but to be dragged into the mix.

...

Dean took a break, setting Balthazar down gently against a tree. A pained grunt from Balthazar signalled he was still alive. Good, Dean thought, maybe if I can make it there undectected and get him inside I can find a place to lay him down before heading Michael's way.

Michael, Dean's stomach twisted at the name, he was to die at Dean's hand. He pulled his blade from his pocket and looked it over as his stomach churned. It was not small. The blade was something Dean snagged from Bobby's cabin that had been remenant of Bobby's hunting days, now left as a paperweight to gather dust, to remind Bobby of his years killing angels. Dean knew it wasn't going to be easy, Bobby had even told him so once.

"Killin' people ain't easy, Dean. You would think after a while it gets easier, it doesn't. Blood gets on ya, kid, and no matter how hard you try to scrub that blood away..." Bobby's breath hitched and caught in his throat, "It never goes away, son."