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do you remember standing on a broken field
It starts the moment Dean Winchester makes the first cut.
Abaddon does not flinch, does not hiss, her eyes black and bright and steady on him as he works, his own hands professional and ungentle as he methodically dismembers the limbs of her vessel.
He's good at this in a way that strikes her as familiar. Even his hesitations are familiar, subtle pauses where he searches for a tool and cannot find it, or seems to expect something of her-- and then she understands, and her smile is wide and brilliant.
Dean is one of Alastair's. She would know that precise craftsmanship anywhere.
He doesn't answer when she asks him about it, of course (as well he wouldn't, he's treating her like a soul on the rack, and the gibbering filaments of tortured souls aren't worth a demon's dedicated time), but she has her answer when his pupils dilate at the mention of his old mentor's name.
Alastair may be long dead in this timeline, his old apprentices dead or scattered or traitors, but entirely by accident she'd managed to find one still remaining.
Of course he's currently imprisoning her, but Abaddon is not one of the Seven for nothing. She waits in pieces, conserving her energy, before calling on a dreaming human nearby, whispering into his head for several nights until he sleepwalks to her location and goes about putting her back together. His stitches are sloppy and she promises herself another chance at Henry Winchester's grandson, as soon as she opens the time rift again to get back to the moment of her arrival in the future. This time, she wants all of them. Henry, Sam, and precious skillful Dean.
The rift doesn't oblige, imprecise thing. It sends her back but too far, past Henry's arrival, all the way to the previous year, and she storms down into an unoccupied corner of Hell in frustration, choosing to give up time travel and focus on a secondary task in the meantime: ousting Crowley. That, she muses, will occupy her time nicely while she waits for January 2013 to roll around. Hell is a patchwork of chaos now, small groups of demons controlling territory like feudal lords, others fleeing for the surface. Crowley is an oily weasel but he's also a very smart, very paranoid oily weasel, and taking over Hell isn't about deposing him in open combat, it's about commanding the loyalty of his demons. She carves out her own little kingdom, absorbing or destroying others that come to face her. Most of them believe she's just a minor demon using the name of something long extinct. Others remember her, or remember her reputation, and offer their fealty immediately.
From them she gets the full story of everything she's missed, the Winchesters, the Apocalypse, Azazel and Alastair and Lilith. And angels. She hasn't had a proper battle with angels for centuries.
They let her know that Dean Winchester has been lost to Purgatory for a year, but she knows he'll manage to crawl his way out somehow (he must, if she had happened upon him on Earth in 2013), and eventually her patience is rewarded. Rumors start to fly of a terrible vicious creature lurking in one of the forgotten corners of Hell, a place full of cracks and rifts and the awful things that come slinking through sometimes. Even in Hell there are things that eat demons, and many of them come from Purgatory. Reports come to her of the creature's bloodlust, the precise lines of the injuries it leaves with blades, how it cuts through demons and damned souls with equal passion. How it recognizes some of them, sometimes, and asks for its master like it doesn't understand that Hell has changed.
Abaddon dons her black armor, reforged and polished, and goes to see Alastair's last apprentice in his natural habitat. ]
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[ She curves two fingers against the mound of her sex outlined in leather, pushing her hips forward into it and smirking the whole way. ]
Satisfying you in the dark?
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I never fucked him up like that.
[ He's fucked him up in a million other ways, ways he can't even remember, but he'd never-- never. ]
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He would have been able to see it, in your mind.
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[ Yes, and even more so now, which is what's really unsettling. He knows he's not a demon, not yet - that takes longer than he's been down here but he can feel it creeping up into him, over him, swallowing him up. ]
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Maybe I'm a sucker for unrequited love stories.
[ The words ghost over his ear as she starts a slow grind against him, nothing for his benefit at all, just satisfying herself against the hard muscle of his thigh. ]
Maybe I want to know what little Castiel Fell for.
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He fell for humanity.
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[ She allows claws to form at the tips of her fingers, raking delicately through the not-fabric of his clothes and into the smooth flexing muscles of his back as she rubs against him. ]
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You don't even know him.
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It's not that complicated, Dean. He Fell for you.
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He sucks a breath in, holds it, and then releases, shutting his eyes tighter. ]
He's a moron, it's a problem.