Something soft lay beneath me. Eyes still firmly shut my fingers spread to find cotton sheets. Pain stabbed through a nerve in my neck and several muscles in my arms and legs began to ache as I sat up. Something in my back clicked. I blinked sleep from my eyes as the dark room around me came into focus. Empty shelves to my right, an ajar door just beyond them, through which was seeping light and muffled sounds. To my left was an empty space, the far wall obstructed by a cabinet with an older looking TV and a wardrobe, its heavy doors closed.

My legs shook but held my weight, so I gingerly stepped forwards and made my way towards the door. The muffled sounds grew slightly louder—notes of heavy bass and the smash of drums accompanied by the wail of an electric guitar—and I headed towards the music, clearly coming from a door a few yards down the hall as it stood a few inches ajar. Light thumps could be heard along with the clunk of something glass meeting wood.

I edged along the hall, stone floor cold under my bare feet, and peeked through the space between the door and its frame. The song changed with a clash of cymbals into Don't Fear The Reaper as I took in the room. High ceiling, classy oak tables and chairs down the far end of the room where the stereo was situated. Three snooker tables all with red tops and ebony frames and leather pockets divided the room, their cues in a holder on the far wall with stubs of chalk. Two green and red dart boards were lined up next to it, one so old a great crack in the cork ran diagonally through its centre and the wire was riddled with rust and bent in several places, the other was newer and being used. On the chalkboard next to it in boyish handwriting were the words CROWLEY CAN KISS MY ASS and I'M GONNA STAB ABADDON IN THE FACE along with a score tallied fifteen. Dean had his back to the door and was pulling five black and silver darts from the board. He was in a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue shirt with its sleeves pushed up to the elbows—the shirt hugged his torso but fell away from his stomach a bit, the muscles in his shoulders well-defined by it. A strange burn-like mark was revealed on his right forearm, the reddish pink skin slightly swollen. His hair was unkempt and slightly damp, there was a slight slouch to his shoulders that could have only been from fatigue.

As he turned I thought he would see me, but he wasn't interested in his surroundings. Before he threw the darts again he picked up a glass tumbler from the bar to the right of him and downed the amber liquid. He coughed once as the alcohol surely burnt his throat and he slammed the glass back onto the bar. The darts thudded into the board as he threw them as hard as he could.

I nudged the door open, surprised it didn't squeak as he tallied a few more onto his score, yanked the darts out and walked back to position, not even stopping when he saw me. He kept repeating his actions until the song ended, and in the lull I finally saw the purple bags under his eyes.

"What?" The word was curt and sharp.

"N-n-n-nothing." My mumble was lost in the loud opening guitar riff of the next song. He ignored me and I him as I ambled through the room, running my fingers over tables and examining chips in the polished wood. We must have spent almost twenty minutes this way, because six songs later Sam walked into the room and, glaring at his brother with what could only have been frustration in his eye, turned the music off completely.

"I've been calling out to you for fifteen minutes!"

"Now you've got my attention." Dean had poured himself six more drinks since I'd entered and was now onto his seventh.

Sam let out a strangled sigh and ran a hand through his long brunette hair. "Have you been drinking all day?" Dean grunted. "Wait, while I've been up there alone trying to figure out a way to track Abaddon you've been sculling whiskey? Seriously, Dean? I thought we were going to kill her and then get rid of Crowley—or are you too buddy-buddy with him now? Don't want to gank the king of Hell anymore—" I hadn't noticed the tang of alcohol in the air before, but now it hit me and I felt slightly dizzy. I grabbed the nearest chair for support. "—What, are you slacking off now and being selfish? You even woke her up!"

"N-no, he didn't. I-I could barely hear the m-music from my room." Sam gave me a very skeptical look; hazel eyes focusing on my pale hand gripping the chair back supporting me rather tightly. "D-d-do you guys have anyth-thing to eat? I-I'm starved." The scepticism turned into a small but friendly smile and Sam gestured for me to follow him out of the room, which I did.

"Sorry about that." Sam's voice lowered to a normal volume, losing its judgmental tone.

"I-it's okay."

I trailed him down a few twisting hallways until we reached a small kitchen. Cabinets, a fridge and bench tops lined the far and left walls, a metal table with individual stools that were welded to the table sat along the right wall. Sam sat me at the table and I watched quietly as he whipped up a cold-chicken and salad sandwich with mayo. He set it in front of me with a glass of water before sitting on the stool opposite, hands clasped loosely and resting on the tabletop.

I ate the sandwich in record time, my stomach never feeling emptier. I sipped at the water as Sam began with the questions I'd been waiting to be voiced. "What happened back there with Crowley? Why were you there in the first place?"

I merely shrugged. I couldn't answer even if I wanted to. I had no inkling in the slightest how I'd ended up there or what caused me to attack that demon. It had appeared to me that Crowley had lead the boys to the mansion, but from what Sam told me they and the king of Hell weren't on the best of terms as he wanted Dean to kill Abaddon—the last Knight of Hell created by the one and only Cain—before she took over Hell. From what Sam told me, this demon was the worst of all demons—even more so than Crowley—which was a feat unto itself. She survived decapitation, dismemberment and her meat suit being burnt to a crisp by Holy oil.

"S-s-she sounds t-t-t-terrifying." I mumbled, frustration building up in the form of a burning heat in the pit of my stomach. Why could I not voice my thoughts?

"I have one more question, and then I won't press you for anything more until you're ready."

"O-okay."

He smiled that small friendly smile at me again. "What's with the stutter?"