[ he doesn't openly state it's a truce, per se, but abaddon's been around the block a few times. she knows the shape of a truce, even if one describes it as something else. he asks she meet him at an abandoned building, one that had previously held a bar. he tells her through the only safe route he knows how — through someone else, where she inserts a part of herself inside of them to see what they've seen. it's clever and smart, but it ends with a bloodied body in the end, anyway. ]
[ the thing is, abaddon doesn't like the taste of truces. it means defeat, that she is not an abominable force. knights do not lay down their swords for a few simple words said between enemies. she does not trust truces. she has stabbed the winchesters in the back previously, and while they had their revenge with a case of cement, abaddon knows hunters are stubborn and grudgey beings. she does not want to walk into a trap, but she understands it's not a trap with the information he lets her have through their third party — the brother, whom she had seen such a display of affection for previously, is tiptoeing the line between earth and hell. and perhaps the true ruler of hell can help him. ]
[ sam winchester is on the brink of death. castiel has been clipped of his wings. and all of heaven is in uproar. there is no one left to help him; all their bridges are burned, all of their guardians are dead. abaddon knows her position on the chessboard, and she knows that dean winchester is very aware of it, too. a pawn cannot help another in their time of need. it's the queen, and the knight, that can. a make believe king cannot help — not when his playing is sloppy, filled with grudge tactics, and poorly articulated bloodshed. crowley's craftsmanship needs much work. ]
[ the bar is dark and quiet. it reminds her of the warehouse they had awoken her in, putting her back together as if she were humpty dumpty. this building has been abandoned, used to simply house those humans who have nowhere to go and no one to support. but he has a bottle of liquor in front of him at the table he sits on — or slouches. dean winchester's posture reminds her of one who is defeated. the men of the 1950s didn't wear their white flag so heavily, with a hunched back and a scowl on their faces. her heels click, echoing within the space. she's composed (literally, no stitching on her neck, no blood dripping from her face) while he's falling apart at the seams. ]
Hello, boys. [ she glances around, a tiny smirk on her red lips. ] My mistake. We seem to be down one.
♥ slight au for s9, apologies if this doesn't make sense/have correct facts
[ the thing is, abaddon doesn't like the taste of truces. it means defeat, that she is not an abominable force. knights do not lay down their swords for a few simple words said between enemies. she does not trust truces. she has stabbed the winchesters in the back previously, and while they had their revenge with a case of cement, abaddon knows hunters are stubborn and grudgey beings. she does not want to walk into a trap, but she understands it's not a trap with the information he lets her have through their third party — the brother, whom she had seen such a display of affection for previously, is tiptoeing the line between earth and hell. and perhaps the true ruler of hell can help him. ]
[ sam winchester is on the brink of death. castiel has been clipped of his wings. and all of heaven is in uproar. there is no one left to help him; all their bridges are burned, all of their guardians are dead. abaddon knows her position on the chessboard, and she knows that dean winchester is very aware of it, too. a pawn cannot help another in their time of need. it's the queen, and the knight, that can. a make believe king cannot help — not when his playing is sloppy, filled with grudge tactics, and poorly articulated bloodshed. crowley's craftsmanship needs much work. ]
[ the bar is dark and quiet. it reminds her of the warehouse they had awoken her in, putting her back together as if she were humpty dumpty. this building has been abandoned, used to simply house those humans who have nowhere to go and no one to support. but he has a bottle of liquor in front of him at the table he sits on — or slouches. dean winchester's posture reminds her of one who is defeated. the men of the 1950s didn't wear their white flag so heavily, with a hunched back and a scowl on their faces. her heels click, echoing within the space. she's composed (literally, no stitching on her neck, no blood dripping from her face) while he's falling apart at the seams. ]
Hello, boys. [ she glances around, a tiny smirk on her red lips. ] My mistake. We seem to be down one.