#( side thread: abaddon. );;

[cainiine-a]

@zealctry

The rain taps gently against the colored windows of this holy abode ( a rhythmic mantra, a prayer, a funeral song; he hasn't quite decided what it sounds like the most and, maybe, it isn't for him to decide yet ), trying to at least wash the mosaic off of the sin festering within its walls when it cannot reach the one inside oblivious to it all. Or perhaps these are god's tears, lamenting the subsequent fall of another one of its priests, heaven's last attempt to clean him off of his intentions as though he still cares about anything sacred, anything divine. Because what do these saints matter to him now when hell has offered itself oh so temptingly to him? With promises of riches and power in a tongue too sweet to decipher the consequences laid beneath, and the lord of all these gifts able to fulfill his every desire? He will offer him entrance upon this damned earth and, in return, will make him his own Mephistopheles.

Lightning strikes somewhere in the distance of a tar-black sky. The painted glass stones of Jesus nailed to the cross shine brightly onto the dimly lit walls of the church but the Father is too lost in his own fantasies to lift his gaze from the ground, too hypnotized by what lingers beneath. If only he did, maybe he would have questioned the way the blood dripping from the saint's hands looked oddly black.

The smoke of the incense burning out is still sickeningly intense. But on a night like this, he supposes, nothing feels ordinary, normal. The rows of pews feel vast, as though they multiplied to fit all of hell within them and in the growing darkness, he almost feels as though someone is already sitting there ( a shape, seated in the last row, its figure a blur ). A trick of his nerves, certainly, and yet a bead of sweat is still running down his temple the moment he extinguishes another candle with distracted, callous fingertips. A breath, a shudder. He closes his eyes, shaking his head, and pretends he did not see.

Because soon it won't matter. Soon he will summon the one of the bottomless pit. Soon It will gain a body and won't It reward him greatly for it? It will. Certainly, It will. It must. His index fingers hovers over Its sigil, trembling, and without closing the book he sets out into the night to find it a suiting vessel.

It has to be good. It has to be. The father walks around the alleys, walking around the homeless nestled into nooks and crannies with gentle steps but the way he clings onto his umbrella and stares at them with furious, blazing eyes betray him. He needs a vessel. They are not good.

But one is. He finds him at a bus stop, a little punk of a man pressed into its farthest corner and he briefly wonders if he is naive enough to believe that the bus will still come. Or that this is his shelter for the night. He smiles, expression warm but empty, his cassock fluttering in the growing wind. Something within the deepest abyss of his mind chuckles; this one.

" Not the best time to be out, my son. Are you in need of shelter? "

[zealctry]

@cainiine / Abaddon said: " I am deeply in love with you. " (( because Aba is feeling oddly affectionate wtf ))

the gravitas of the words slides along his spine in the worst of ways. ( like being thrown, suddenly and all at once, into ice-cold water. )

              “ . . . ”

for a split-second,  he wonders what Abaddon expects him to say in reply. or if he expects him to say anything whatsoever, let alone anything that he wants to hear ( is there even such a thing? ). wonders how much he knows him, or how much he thinks he does. he doubts that reality and wishful thinking can ever intersect there. on either side. but lingering on that inconsequential thought is unnecessary  —useless, really— and so he casts it aside in favour of the immediate.

eyelashes flutter, and he doesn’t allow himself to be pulled too deeply into the flow of things. resists long enough to brush his mouth against those lips, chasing away ( or is it after? ) those words, and pulls back. ( at the back of his mind, he is hyperaware of just how stiff every muscle in his body has become, and wonders, once again, if he is drawing any sort of (sick) pleasure from that realization ; if he even notices. the thought makes his mind reel, mental fingers darting out blindly for a thread of sanity to grasp onto before he sinks too deeply into the storm of this. there are many things that Hidan is willfully ignorant of, blind to. he is especially oblivious of anything that traverses too close to his heart. otherwise, his world would crumble and burn like a house of cards. )

              “ . . . ”

lips part even as his hands still from their lazy caress across that cheekbone, and for a moment, he looks on the verge of saying something. ( he’s always liked the word retaliation because it meant it was simply returning a favor. . .. no matter how brutally he is inclined to do it. keeping the scales balanced, so to say. )  but then the moment flees, races past, and his mouth morphs in nothing but a thin, tightly-pressed line.

                ( say, if you could erase me from your mind, would you? – oh god. yes. of course it’s only ever yes. to me, you’re dangerously close to becoming a catastrophe. )  something ugly rears its head into his thoughts, and suddenly he wants to laugh and throw it back in his face—— throw his ring back, too, in ( mimicry ) mockery of what Abaddon had once. . .  ( he’ll never forgive him for that. no, not ever. Hidan forgives as easily as he forgets, and he has a very, very good memory. he’s never forgotten a wrong done him, and he’s never once forgotten a face. a dangerous combination.)

              “ . . . ”

instead, he lets his forehead fall, resting against that shoulder, and heaves a sigh. he doesn’t ask for it, but expects to be held anyway. until he builds himself back up, enough to pull back, tilt his head to the side with an amused little expression, the budding traces of a smirk lingering in his voice, and say:

              “ yeah? of course you are~ after all,  I’m amazing, seriously. ”  there’s no trace of hesitation on his tongue, even if his eyes might tell a different story.    “ but you know I’m not built that way, right? ”  I doubt I’m built like that. I’m not a

[antigonewinchester]

The Mark & Hell, part 2

(Previous posts: Intro post; Dean & Hell, season 4; the Mark & Hell, part 1; Dean & Hell redux.)

Now, back to the actual Mark of Cain arc proper.

Broadly, I see the MoC arc as a plot about the destructive nature of revenge, both for oneself and for others, in a similar vein to John in seasons 1 – 2 and Sam in seasons 1 and 4. For John, his primary focus was hunting down the YED, and if people got hurt or even killed in the process, that was just the price he had to pay. It was only after Dean’s near death that John decided to choose family over his revenge quest, sacrificing the Colt and his own life to save Dean. After Jess’s death, Sam became similarly obsessed with revenge, but eventually chose family over revenge in not killing John / the YED in 1x22. In season 4, however, Sam couldn’t forget Lilith murdering Dean and his own failure to save Dean from going to Hell, even after Dean had been resurrected, which led him down a path of bad choices that ended with him killing Lilith and uncaging Lucifer. In season 9, Dean loses faith in his ability to help people, deciding instead to focus on the “hunting things” side of the family motto, taking on the Mark to get the power to kill Abaddon. That choice, however, takes him down a spiral of increasingly brutal and eventually revenge-driven violence over the rest of the arc.

Through this lens, it’s fitting that Dean’s revenge arc would then draw on his time in Hell, given how he talks about torturing in 4x11, with its intersection of enjoyment, violence, and revenge (“Me? I did it for the sheer pleasure…. I enjoyed it, Sam. They took me off the rack, and I tortured souls, and I liked it. All those years, all that pain. Finally getting to deal some out yourself. I didn't care who they put in front of me. Because that pain I felt, it just slipped away.”). Over the MoC arc, there’s again an intersection of these threads. One aspect that also makes Dean’s revenge arc a bit different as compared to Sam’s is how it draws on the idea of Dean as a soldier, with Dean’s dark descent paralleling not just other fictional warriors but also real-life soldiers affected by the trauma of war.

In 9x11, Cain compares himself to Dean, with the narrative framing them both as killers and that quality making Dean worthy of taking on the Mark. I’ve written previously about how I wasn’t quite sure how to approach this “Dean as a killer” theme – why does Dean get labeled as such but not Sam or Cas, who’ve also killed? What I’ve settled on in my read is this idea stands in for Dean as a soldier, a prominent theme that manifests through the series in many ways.

CAIN The mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy. DEAN You mean a killer like you? CAIN Yes. DEAN Can I use it to kill that bitch? CAIN Yes. But you have to know with the mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost. DEAN Yeah, well, spare me the warning label. You had me at "kill the bitch". CAIN Good luck, Dean. You're gonna to need it.

First, there’s John treating hunting like a war and Dean like a soldier under his command, becoming his “drill sergeant” and training him as a hunter from an incredibly young age. While both Sam and Dean were made to hunt by John, contrast Dean and Sam at about 9 years old: John was giving Dean a loaded gun and telling him to protect Sam, while Sam was just learning the supernatural was real. Even when Sam was made to participate in hunts, he was often put into a non-combat, research role, as compared to Dean accompanying John in the actual hunting and killing of ghosts, werewolves and other supernatural creatures.

Next, Dean compares his time in Hell to serving in a war in early season 5:

DEAN You know your way around a gun at all? [AUSTIN expertly disassembles the gun.] Hm. Where'd you serve? AUSTIN Fallujah. Two tours. Got back a little over a year ago. Takes one to know one. Where'd you serve? DEAN Hell. AUSTIN [AUSTIN snorts, amused.] No, seriously. DEAN Seriously. Hell.

When Cain was turned into a demon by the Mark, he specifically became a Knight of Hell. Knights were a class of medieval soldier who often served a lord or retainer, offering their military services in a time before national armies. Dean similarly becomes a Knight when he’s turned into a demon at the end of season 9.

Finally, Dean’s time in Purgatory is framed as a combat experience, including him having symptoms of acute PTSD on his return to earth, a not uncommon experience for soldiers returning from war.

In 8x01, Dean specifically describing his last year as being like warfare: “[It was] bloody. Messy. 31 flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360-degree combat.” In their article PTSD Basics, the National Center for PTSD lists 4 major symptom categories, all of which Dean experiences to some degree over season 8 (and can be similarly seen after his return from Hell in season 4):

Reliving the event (also called re-experiencing symptoms);

Avoiding things that [reminds someone] of the event;

Having more negative thoughts and feelings than before the event; and

Feeling on edge or keyed up (also called hyperarousal).

In terms of “reliving the event,” Dean re-experiences his time in Purgatory through memories and flashbacks. His first memory of Purgatory in 8x01 actually draws on war movie imagery, with “Dean [standing] transfixed in front of a vending machine, and two boys run past pretending to shoot each other, [being] a reference to the final scenes in the movie The Hurt Locker, where a bomb disposal expert finds it hard to adjust to civilian life after coming home from Iraq.” (Trivia & References). In 8x02, Dean has a direct flashback while interrogating a suspect on earth, reliving his experience torturing a monster for information in Purgatory and confusing that with his current situation. In 8x07, despite knowing that Cas is gone, Dean hallucinates seeing Cas on earth looking like he did in Purgatory.

In “avoiding things that reminds [him] of the event,” Dean’s intense leap back into hunting and drive to close up the Gates of Hell, particularly given his relative disillusionment with hunting in season 7, can be seen as a way for him to avoid thinking about his past year in Purgatory.

Fitting with this avoidance, Dean keeps his space from Benny when they first arrive back on earth, telling him during their phone call at the end of 8x01 that “maybe until [they] both adjust, it's best [they] don't talk for a while”. He also doesn’t want to talk about Cas when Sam prods him as to why Cas isn’t with him. There’s also Dean misremembering / forgetting exactly what happened in Purgatory: Cas deliberately letting go of his hand instead of by accident. Under “having more negative thoughts and feelings…” category, the article expands on it and mentions that “[someone] may forget about parts of the traumatic event or not be able to talk about them.” This detail could fit both Dean’s false memory of what happened to Cas and his reticence to talk about it.

Finally, in terms of “feeling on edge,” Dean definitely comes back with an emotional intensity after Purgatory, fitting with how the article describes this category of symptoms: feeling “jittery, or always alert and on the lookout for danger… [and being suddenly] angry or irritable.”

While part of the fun of Dean and Benny’s relationship is definitely in its gay subtext, their relationship can also be read as reflecting the incredibly strong bonds soldiers form with each other during combat and war, willing to risk life and limb to help each other survive. Dean and Cas’s relationship in Purgatory fits into this type of relationship as well, particularly considering Cas’s own past as a soldier of Heaven, with Dean’s insistence on staying in Purgatory until they can find Cas being somewhat reminiscent of a “no soldier gets left behind” mentality.

My interpretation of what Cain means when he describes the affect of the Mark, it’s “great burden,” maybe even “a great cost,” is also influenced by the ‘Dean as a soldier’ idea. The cost that Cain is talking about is, I think, the Mark’s power sending its wielder into a berserker state. I’ll be expanding up on this idea later on, so for now I’ll just say that a soldier going berserk, or entering a state of hyperviolence unconstrained from usual morality, usually occurs after intense combat trauma, and has been depicted in stories about fictional warriors as well as something that happens to soldiers in real life wars.

Sources

“4.11 Family Remains (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 21 Nov 2012.

“5.02 Good God, Y’all (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 28 Mar 2014.

“8.01 We Need to Talk About Kevin.” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 19 Sept 2019.

“8.01 We Need to Talk About Kevin (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Jan 2013.

“9.11 First Born (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Apr 2021.

“PTSD Basics.” U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, 30 August 2022.

[impala1967dwinchester]

Dean Winchester- Summer of 14'

*Credit to gif owner winchestergifs*

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Crowley

Summary: Dean and Crowley's summer was far from pg-13, and the only one that can remember anything is Crowley. Leading to some interesting tension between the two after Dean is turned back into a human.

Warnings: M&M, Sex, Smut, feelings, Unforgiving emotions, 3rdpov, mention of OG characters, Mention of death, Mentions of violence.

A/n- @firefly-graphics for dividers and headers.

Main Master List // Dean W. Master List

Word count: 2.1k

Crowley used to have no common thread of respect or care in the world of the humans that plagued the earth. No heart for the common man, or how the deals he made had such a harsh effect on them. Ten years never seemed like a lot to Crowley, but to the humans on earth, it was grave. So grave that most wouldn't even know that they were being hunted down by what 'hunters' called the scum of the monsters. Sure there were lots of monsters, you had a variety of things to choose from. Werewolves, Vampires, Siren, Ancient gods, and goddesses. All above them though Crowley saw himself as the king of Hell.

The king of Hell wore a sharp protected shield around what used to be called his heart. He didn't have one, but that was before he met the 'Winchesters' in particular a certain older, cocky son of a bitch Winchester. The one that knew he was hot shit and took advantage of it whenever he could when it came to the many bars he visited over his long lifetime. There were few things that Crowley would ever admit to doing or feeling for that matter. The top one on his list was "Dean Winchester" the one that he fell in love with, during the summer of 14'. It started all at once, and very quickly for the two of them. Or I should say when Dean was resurrected as a demon after his experience with the Mark of Cain. Dean's trip out of the bunker, and to every single bar in the states.

It started when Dean claimed, promised actually that after killing and finishing off Abaddon he would kill Crowley too. Sending him off with the blade was a bad idea to start, the mistrust and abandonment weren't what Dean needed at the moment. But neither of them could come to realize what had started in that little trip they'd taken to meet Cain. When Dean is brought back as a demon, Crowley sneaks every time he possibly can into spending his time with Dean. Trying to befriend him, making Dean the best soldier he can be. Hell that was Dean's turned into, a knight of hell. The mark of Cain brings a different and more complex side to Dean. One that Crowley wasn't yet ready to deal with, but all is fixed when Dean and Crowley have a rather exciting time at a bar in the deep south of Tennesse one night.

You see the two of them had walked in. A tall brunette worked the bar, and well everyone was paying attention to the dirty blonde, a strong-looking lumbar jack that had walked through their bar's door only a moment ago. Crowley nobody noticed, everyone was too distracted by the man standing next to him. As they made their way to the bar, the young lady was at the side in a second. Tits hanging over the edge of her shirt, and partially falling out of their confines. Dean was quick to make conversation, his voice was like honey, and was sharp like pine cones that fell from autumn trees. He asked for a whiskey, and Crowley never got to order that night. That bartender was enthralled by the way that Dean held himself. Shoulders held tall and a strong jaw-line was all it took for a woman to drop her panties for this man.

That night Dean got drunker than a skunk. Crowley watched and didn't say a worded, as he saw Dean reach over the bar, and slap the bartender's ass. He didn't say anything as he watched the two of them bash and hit every wall on the way back toom. He watched closely on Dean and how his mouth molded around the bartenders. How Dean gripped her ass and pulled her close against him.

He yearned for a connection like that. Something that was moldable, breakable, and never had to be dealt with again. And all within a night. She'd never leave that motel room once Dean and she arrived there. After becoming a demon and having the mark of Cain this was Dean's official first kill. Crowley couldn't tell if it was by accident, or for the thrill of what it could feel like to take the life of her. What Dean didn't know or come to realize was that he had killed her, while he was fucking her. Chocked her out, so badly that he had actually killed her with his bare hands.

Crowley being the nasty fuck he was, sat in the corner of the room the dark corner of the room. Watching looked up every so often caring to note that the bartender's color in her face was draining quickly, yet Dean showed no signs of stopping. His trance was cut short, when Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, all Crowley could think of was 'There went making you into a knight of hell, so what you killed a girl. Not like it hasn't happened before.' Crowley decided on not saying anything, instead of sort of sweeping in and trying in the best way he could to show compassion for the newly knight of hell and demon.

"Dean, you'll have to excuse me." He said to Dean, Dean's horrified face was hard not to react to, so Crowley didn't. Picking up the limp body of the bartender, he moved her to the little couch in the space of the motel room. Dean's horrified look hadn't left his face. Crowley came back to the side of the bed, disposing of his coat, his white sleeves rolled up his arms, in an effort to be more demanding. "Dean I need you to come back and realize that you're a demon now." Crowley continued on as Dean's widened eyes shifted across the room and landed on the limp and dead body of the bartenders.

"I...", "You...", "Is she?", Struggling to get words out of his mouth Dean fumbled and landed on Crowley finally. Crowley wasn't one to sympathize with the human up above, but something about Dean made his melt in just the slightest. "Dean," He said reaching out. "Dean, you'll be fine. You won't remember what happened here in the next week. How about we go back out for another drink huh?" Crowley tired, but it was a worthless try, Dean was stone in that bed. Nothing was moving him. Years of spending his life-saving people's lives had hit him hard when he had taken a life.

Crowley stepped back and watched him for a moment, or so. Watching the way that Dean's eyes glossed over, and how Dean stayed motionless in the motel's shitty bed. Covers bunched up at his waist. Crowley had not once been one for affection. But that night something changed in him. Something that Crowley didn't know what to call. After that Dean stayed away from that bars, and the women. Focusing more on the first blade, and the time he was spending with Crowley. Sure Crowley was most definitely using Dean to get what he wanted, but there was also something else. The more time Crowley spent with Dean the less he could convince himself that the dead feeling in his cold heart was going away any time soon.

One night after a rather long chat in a scattered off ratty motel. Crowley couldn't help, but zone in on Deans' plump lips, and his slicked-back dirty blonde hair. The whiskey and black coffee scent that almost nearly knocked Crowley off his feet every morning he'd pop into the motel. Always keeping track of where Dean was going wasn't rather hard considering all he could think about and smell of Dean.

Six months after Dean had been turned into a knight of hell, and a demon. He exposed to Crowley in a deep conversation that years after Sammy had left that he had ventured out of his comfort zone. In short, Dean had told Crowley that had fucked around with guys. Any guy that bought his drinks he would let fuck him. It didn't matter, they'd drag him out of the bar's loud setting and to the side of the bar. Near the trashcans and leftover cigarette butts. Nothing was more exhilarating than having a stronger buffer man push Dean against the scratchy brick wall. Leaving dark and imposing hickeys along Dean's shoulder and neck, all while the other men would grind their impressive sex. Sex was always the first thing on Dean's mind, but that wasn't a surprise to Crowley.

What the surprise was when Dean reached over the table in the motel room, gripping Crowley's hand. The 353-year-old wasn't at all prepared for the shock, but the comforting feel of Deans' hand around his own. Crowley looked up from their hands, Deans face only got closer. "I'm not saying that I'm smart, but I noticed the way that you stare at me. I still remember the first night I felt you watching me and that... I notice things, Crowley." Dean spoke to Crowley. A speechless Crowley wasn't normal. Dean took his chance that night.

Closing the space between the two of them. Dean smashed his lips up against Crowleys. It was awkward at first, but when Crowley realized what was going on he just let his body do something that he had been touching himself to. Crowley did something that he hadn't allowed for in ages. He let go. He let down walls of protection, and let Dean in. Crowley didn't realize just how much Dean wanted him. Crowley would say it was just as much as he wanted Dean. Their mouths moved in unison, teeth clashing and groans erupting from the both of them.

Crowley only let go enough for drag in a breath, and with their hands still stuck together. He dragged the both of them to the ratty motel bed. According to Crowley, it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a snap of his fingers. Within seconds the shitty bed was still shitty, but sheets were replaced with whiter, and cleaner versions of themselves. Dean didn't care he just yearned for the touch of Crowley's lips against his own again. Dean was the most submissive person that Crowley had met in a century.

The last submissive person that Crowley had been introduced to was in 1914. The bright side of London had brought Corlwey to a deal with A young woman named Lillibet. Her fair skin had given her bright lips and dark lashes nothing else to look at. A real movie was what she had made the deal for. Back then Crowley wasn't as harsh with his deals. The now ten years in 1914 used to be 25 years. More deals were being made during the period. Crowley couldn't remember how it happened, but even after that deal with Lillibet. He had found himself traveling to London, searching for her. Looking out for her hit movies. When he finally did find her, she was down on her knees quicker than the churchgoers.

Endless nights that Crowley took advantage of Lillibet. She was a submissive girl. Liked whatever Crowley liked. Her arms tied up above her, she was more than game for it. Her legs opened wide and left in a spread eagle. She wasn't one for letting Crowley not get what he wanted. Now here he was again a century later. A beefcake of a man under him. Just looking up at Crowley. That innocent look, that was the look of 'take anything and everything from me tonight, please' A look that he had seen in Lillibet eyes so many years prior.

He looked down at Dean, doe-like eyes looked back. Giving in, Crowley let himself go. Falling forward Crowley crashed his lips into Deans. Something that Dean was more than ready for. His arms wrapped around Crowley's shoulder only dragging him closer to him. Making out was never Crowley nor Deans style but something was different here, here with them. The space was reopened when Dean began to buck up against Crowley. Nothing was more agonizing than the feeling of Dean's rock hard-on thrusting upwards towards his own.

Crowley went to snap his fingers. The notion of removing clothes wasn't what Crowley wanted to do. He just wanted to take what he was claiming his own now, not after removing clothes. But Dean shook his head. His fingers slip from Crowley's shoulder, down his chest, and finally to Crowley's belt. The eye contact was intense. Nothing was more important than this exact moment. After Dean was able to get Crowley's belt off, it wasn't hard for the rest of their clothes to find their new and found home on the ratty nasty motel's floor.

Naked was not a feeling that either of these men liked. But they were unbothered by the feeling as the two of them lived in the moment. A moment that Dean never in his life thought he'd be back at. Dean watched as Crowley arched a brow. His eyes gazed at Dean's body. Dean wasn't one to be self-aware, but right now he was. Aware of his dripping cock, his pudgy sides from the bar food, and junk food that he consumed. Dean was also aware of the way that Crowley tried to keep all of the attention on Dean and not on himself. Dean noticed the rock-hard cock between Crowley's legs. Dean noticed the way that Crowley's fingers felt as they smoothed over Dean's thighs.

An odd, but exciting feeling. "Are you ready?" Was all the words spoke between the two as Crowley prepped Dean. Dean shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on Crowley's hazel eyes. The tension between the two disappeared once Crowley had slipped into Dean. From there on out for the rest of the night. Dean was loud and dragged his blunt nails down Crowley's back. Dean didn't remember just how close his knees could reach his chest. Crowley's thrust didn't stagger and maybe he could say that was because he wanted this to last for as long as possible or because he wasn't ready to have this be awkward the next morning. Moans were bouncing off the walls, and groans from Crowley were like music to Dean. This didn't stop them from going again and again. Days and nights of being together were spent with Dean on his knees and looking so innocently up at Crowley with his cock in Dean's mouth. Nothing stopped the two of them, that was until Sam came in trying to save his brother.

I forgot to mention that they only ever fucked after a kill. A kink that Crowley didn't know that he had. The blood that was smeared on Deans hands and face was just a more definite feature to why Crowley wanted Dean even more. But when Sam came into the picture Crowley knew, he knew deep down that their time together was over. Overcut at the stem of the flower they'd grown together. Crowley let Dean go. Built all those walls up again. Lied to Dean about things and worst of all helped Sam turn Dean back. Back to the man that Crowley hated with every notion in his body.

Crowley watched as Dean took the last syringe of blood. Dean's head dropped, and Crowley's heart cracked. A million pieces just barely being held together. All hope was lost when Dean looked up, black eyes gone. And the innocent doe-like eyes popped up. The first words that Dean had spoken were like a waterfall of emotion for Crowley. Crowley knew that he'd never feel anything real with anyone. Crowley knew that in the long run, they'd break up in the end. It was a fair and long run that they had together.

"Why is Crowley here?" Those were Dean's first words after being a demon. It hit Crowley like a ton of bricks that Dean didn't remember, or maybe he didn't want to admit that he remember the summer of 14' with Crowley and that was okay. Crowley knew that he had to rebuild all of his walls, nothing this time around would break them. Dean didn't remember what happened, but he would get bits of pieces of his time as a demon. a piece here and there of Crowley gliding his fingers through Dean's hair. Or the feeling of Crowley's lips against his own. Dean noticed the way that Crowley only talked to Sam nowadays when it came to needing help. Dean felt the heartbreak but didn't remember it. Heartbreak wasn't something that Dean could remember, but even up until Dean died he still felt that sting of heartbreak deep down, that there was something more between Crowley and him.

Dean hasn't realized it, but he had fallen.

Completed on: 12/12/2021

Posted on: 12/12/2021

Deanie Beanie Tag List: @akshi8278//@kazsrm67//@mrspeacem1nusone//@dilfloverr//@deandreamernp//@deanswaywardgirl//@fofisstilinski//@band--psycho//@wonderfulworldofwinchester//@hit-meup69//@doctorlilo//@flamencodiva//@samsgirl93//@stoneyggirl2//@ijustlearnedtolove-beep-bop-boop//@hobby27//@rach-12

[cherrywoes]

— five

— abaddon

THE JOSTLING OF THE crowd did little to ease your nerves. You were constantly worried that someone would reach into your bag and steal your wallet—the participants looked that seedy to you—or push you so far to the back of the crowd that you’d sustain injuries in the process. You almost regretted standing so close to the fencing when people started throwing confetti and what looked like bras and underwear down into the arena. That was a UTI melting pot just waiting to happen.

A man sidled up to you after a timer started on the tiny bars lining the fence. You would have ignored him, except his features were striking and his hair was one of the more bizarre styles you’d seen—tufts of spikes, each one seemingly held there by gravity alone—and narrowed eyes that were fixed on his phone screen. His name was written on the sleeve of his jacket, but you couldn’t make it out because of the giant wrinkles in the elbow. He didn’t even seem to notice how close he was to you so you subtly edged away, clutching your bag and looking back at the timer which was slowly counting down from ten.

The closer it got to one, the more rowdy the crowd became. You cringed at the loud screams echoing in your ears and the booming music that had started up, likely to drown out the crowd itself for the fighters, and tried to focus on the opening doors in the center of the arena on either side.

An announcer, hidden somewhere in a back room, coughed and tapped a microphone. The speakers squealed and all of the music cut off abruptly, as did the cheering of the crowd, proving your theory about drowning them out wrong.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, devils and angels,” the announcer said after a moment. “How are we doing tonight?”

The resounding responses were loud enough that you almost jumped out of your skin.

“Good, good! As you all know, the betting pool for tonight’s next match is unusually high; but so is the matchup—if you have not placed bets, I would suggest you do so before the end of the three rounds so you can rake in the rewards.” A sly laugh. “Anyway, we have our first contender: Yuriel Bane! Give it up for the human!”

You watched as a man stepped out of the right door. He wore only shorts embroidered with the company name of his sponsor and waved to the crowd cheerfully. You clapped with the rest of them to be polite, but looking around you could tell that no one was rooting for the man—humans never fared well in Eden, you’d heard, at least in places like this.

“What a polite applause,” the announcer noted, a thread of amusement in his voice. “I almost feel bad for him. What do you all think?”

Like you thought, everyone agreed.

“I thought so. Well, of course, he is fighting a devil—a notorious one at that. I’m sure you all know him, or why would you even be here?”

You had no clue who it was but the crowd did. Their shouts and screams were enough to rattle the fence—or maybe that was you just shaking from nerves—and consequently your bones. You’d have a pounding headache after this, you were dead certain.

“Wow, you guys are really excited huh?” The announcer snickered. “Well, there’s no reason to delay the inevitable. Ladies, gentlemen, devils and angels, I give you Abaddon, the destroyer!”

The door opened—but no one was there.

Faster than you could blink, the human man was already on the floor, hit hard enough that he was reeling from the hit. In a few moments he was up and fighting with the seemingly invisible figure—he was hard to keep up with with human vision—and you watched as the man reached back in his pocket and throw a silvery substance in the other fighter’s, Abaddon’s, face. It sparkled in the light as it fluttered to the ground, but the effect it had on him was surprising; he stopped dead in the middle of the ring, right before the human man.

You couldn’t see much or make out a whole lot since his tattooed back was to you, but you could just barely see the blood dripping to the floor so quickly that it was almost like a running faucet.

“Penalty!” the announcer shrieked, panic overtaking his normal voice. “The opponent has used angel dust!”

Angel dust; you knew the name. It was a particularly harmful substance to devils, used to exorcise the weaker ones from the human world and potentially fatally wound a higher ranked one either in Eden or on Earth. Judging by the nosebleed this Abaddon had, you judged he had to be pretty powerful.

Beside you, the man mumbled,”Oh, shit,” but not for the reason you suspected.

“The medic has requested the match to be paused,” the announcer said after a moment. The crowd was so silent you could have heard a pin drop. “Please wait a moment.”

A man in scrubs appeared from the right door and escorted Abaddon to a folding bench in the corner that you hadn’t noticed before. He stepped in front of the devil before you could get a good look at his nose, swiping what looked like an alcohol wipe over the blood to clean it up and examine his nostrils. Whatever he saw clearly wasn’t cutting it and he made exaggerated movements while he was speaking, pointing harshly to the human man and then seemingly getting angry at the devil when he didn’t respond.

After a few tense minutes, the medic packed up and gave the crowd a thumb’s up, indicating that everything was okay. No one said a word.

You watched the medic leave and then looked back to the bench, curious to see what the angel dust had done exactly, when your body rapidly caught up with what your eyes were seeing—your heart dropped to your stomach so fast that nausea hit you square in the gut.

You knew this devil—except he hadn’t been a devil. Had he? Or… was he one all along?

Oikawa Tooru.

Your eyes were fixed upon him like spears of unholy fascination. He sat upon the medic's bench as if it were his throne, legs bent and spread lazily to make room for the growing puddle of blood at his feet. The muscles in his arms flexed, ropes of black ink and skin and brands moving with the sleek subtlety of a panther ready to strike.

He was agitated. Angry. Pissed off.

You could see the smoke curling up from his shoulders and billowing from his nose and mouth. It was a stark contrast to the pale gray of the fog machine, a brilliant white and rolling into the air. You could feel the nervousness and anxiety coming off of the man beside you in waves, his concern trained on the man in the ring.

"Fuck this shit." You could read his mouth from where you stood twenty feet above behind a steel cage. "If he wants to toss the rules, I can toss the goddamn rules."

He was up and off the bench before the medic could finish sewing up the gash on his cheek. His opponent wasn't expecting it--not the blatant disregard for rules or the superhuman strength behind Oikawa's punch.

You heard the crack of a neck snapping before you saw it. His head lolled back and followed his body in a swift motion, hitting the concrete with a solid thump. Blood wept from a wound at the back of his head, creating a horrific halo around his corpse.

Oikawa Tooru emerged the victor.

But when he turned, ready to raise his arms for the victory cheer, he caught your eye. You hadn't wanted him to, had meant to leave before he ever turned around and caught a glimpse of your coat.

His nose flared, muscles bunching tight like live wire. He could smell you now, over the throng of people tossing money into the pit and the blood streamlining down his cheek, and your blood heated in your veins, responding to a painfully familiar call.

You were caught.

Your first instinct was to run. To run far, and fast, and away from this man, who you had no idea was a devil, or even a man who could kill someone so easily. You couldn’t even focus on the dead body in the middle of the ring; your eyes were pulled to Oikawa’s—or Abaddon’s— like magnets, surprised at the familiar color and the unfamiliar emotions in them.

You had no chance to escape.

He was scaling the fence before you could even blink, faster than a bolt of lightning, and was in front of you within a breath, breathing hard and streaked with blood droplets across his chest and neck. You instinctively looked up at his face, red with blood and his own nosebleed, and felt two hands creep up the sides of your neck and face—gentle, soft, as if they hadn’t just battered the life out of a man just seconds before. You felt blood, warm and wet still, smear down your skin with the movements of his fingers against your skin.

It almost felt like those days back at the orphanage.

And then, shattering your innocent thoughts of your past together as children, Oikawa pulled you into a bruising, soul shattering kiss.

                                               MASTERLIST.

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[sophi-s]

Day 29 #Grief

Whoops. I actually ended up writing a short piece for this one as well and uh... I think I accidentally created a new ship... :O

To Mourn Together

By: sophi-s (me)

Franchise: Darksiders video games

Words: 1 961

Warnings: None

Characters: Uriel, Nathaniel, Abaddon (mentioned)

_________________________________________

With utmost certainty, one could say it was one of the brightest nights in the White City. Of course, with the buildings in the color of gilded snow, every night seemed bright. But that one particular night the full moon spilled its cold, silver light all over the angelic city, bathing it in a pale glow that reflected in the smooth surfaces and illuminated the warm darkness as the gentle gusts of wind blew through the quiet and empty plaza.

Aside from the sentries patrolling the streets, all of the Heaven's denizens were long asleep in their homes. All of them.

Except for one.

A figure of a lonely angel threads lightly through the city, grand white wings folded neatly at his sides, just like his hands behind his back. His golden battle armor is discarded in favor of a simple set of clothes. There's nothing threatening him after all. Lost in thought, he doesn't acknowledge guards greeting him as he passes by. He walks seemingly without purpose, reconsidering the not so recent events.

Your friend serves the Shadow.

The Archon? Corrupted?!

Impossible!

Leave me, Horseman. I must think of what to do now…

He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. One hundred years. It's been over one hundred years since all of this happened. And yet, all this felt far too fresh in his head. As though it happened merely yesterday. Sweeping his gaze over his surroundings, he realised he'd left for the outskirts of the White City, where the grand Tree of Life stands tall and magnificent as it has since the day Heaven was created. But to his surprise, he wasn't alone here after all. At the foot of the Tree, his keen white eyes spotted another angel. A woman. The same silver hair, any other angel possesses, fluttering on the wind, wings of golden, radiant feathers slumped sadly against her back as she stood there, gazing out at the locked gate to the Well of Souls. Strange. He assumed he would be alone.

Since he wasn't trying to sneak up on her, she heard him approach quite early and whipped around to face him, her own robes billowing, but the moment she laid her golden eyes on him she simply sighed.

"Oh. It's just you, Nathaniel.."

"So it is."

Nathaniel murmured, silently wondering who she'd been actually expecting, and stood for a few long moments, looking at her. A black ribbon with a darkened feather tied around her right wrist caught his attention and something twisted painfully in his chest. Even blackened and bathed in Hellish corruption, the ribbon was unmistakable and the feather spoke for itself..

"What are you doing here, Uriel?"

He found himself asking nonetheless. It's been a long while since they last talked. After all, Nathaniel had been sent away from the Hellguard shortly after Uriel joined their ranks. And it was so long ago.. Humming quietly, Uriel turned away to look up at the Tree's tangled canopy of small fluttering leaves.

"A year…"

She sighed when Nathaniel came closer and stood beside her, watching her stare into the black sky where the moon gazed down on them like a gigantic, round eye.

"It's been a year since Abaddon died.. exactly a year, day to day."

Nathaniel nodded in agreement, looking at Uriel's fingers absent mindedly stroking the end of the ribbon tied around her forearm. Even though he'd been away from the White City for quite some time, rumours about the commander of the Hellguard reached Nathaniel even in Lostlight. If they were true, then no wonder Uriel takes Abaddon's demise so personally. He could only imagine what was going on in her head throughout this year. He wasn't going to stop her from spitting out what she'd been choking up inside of her.

"And yet.. I still sometimes wonder. If I should've done something. Stopped War… I don't know."

"He'd been the Destroyer, Uriel. As much as I disagree with it, you couldn't do anything else for him."

Furrowing her eyebrows, Uriel huffed and lowered her head.

"I know. But… I still have this in my head. The sight of him reaching out to me for help. What if…"

She hesitated, something that was very unlike her. Nathaniel raised his eyebrows curiously, waiting for her to speak up. He had his suspicions from the moment Death brought the news of Abaddon's fate and he couldn't help but wonder if Uriel thought the same way.

"I refuse to believe he'd planned it from the beginning. What if all of it wasn't his choice? He can't have been in his right mind! What if before War killed him, in his last moments Abaddon, the real Abaddon, came back? What if… there was still something worth saving in him?"

Nathaniel's suspicions turned out to be true. She thought just like he had. Now it was his turn to look up at the sky. Indeed, there was something so enchanting about this particular night..

"I wondered myself, Uriel. Many times in fact…"

The younger angel crossed her arms and glared down at her boots as though they'd done something wrong. The branches of the Tree creaked mournfully as the wind tugged on them and ruffled feathers of both angels standing below. Its gusts were getting stronger and its voice whistling against nearby structures brought to mind a sorrowful cry of a lost soul.

"Abaddon taught me everything I know. I had known him my whole life. It feels so… empty without him."

I can't believe he's gone. That's what she truly meant to say and Nathaniel knew it but said nothing of it. He knew that feeling quite well. Better than most. Abaddon had been his friend after all…

"Sometimes I feel like he's still here. Watching over me like he always has.."

Uriel chuckled humorlessly, as though she meant to laugh off the ridiculousness of her claim but Nathaniel didn't feel like laughing. He laid his hand on Uriel's shoulder, nearly making her jump in the process.

"Who says he isn't?"

He could clearly see her jaw visibly clench tightly at his assumption. Not that he could blame her. Nathaniel knew all too well what Uriel was going through. He didn't want anyone to feel like he does and he wished to offer her comfort, compassion. But it's not easy to do so while he grieves as well.

"Do you think I could've changed it?"

Uriel suddenly asked, making Nathaniel's eyebrow wander up.

"During the initial Endwar.. Do you think if I was a little faster back then…"

"Uriel."

The deep tone of his voice had just the result he was counting on as she cut off to finally look him in the eye. Nathaniel placed his other hand on her other shoulder and said sternly

"Even if so, it doesn't change anything. We can't turn back time. Thinking this way won't make you feel better."

"And how could you possibly know?"

It was just the matter of time before Uriel snapped and brushed Nathaniel's hands from her shoulders. There was fire in her eyes, burning like the hottest blaze of Hell.

"You don't know how I feel."

Frowning gently, Nathaniel heaved out a long suffering sigh.

"Quite the opposite in fact.. I know exactly how you feel…"

This seemed to have given Uriel a pause.

"I've known Abaddon even longer than you have. He was my close friend, one of the very few I had. When the news of his fall reached me I kept wondering if it would've been different if I was there. This one, wretched thought stayed with me for a whole century, like a festering wound that refuses to heal. If you seek understanding, I assure you, you will find it in me."

Would it have been different if I knew of the darkness that threatened Lucien? Sometimes he still has those doubts... In shock, Uriel opened her mouth a couple of times only to shut it again as she couldn't find suitable words. Until..

"I'm… sorry. I had no idea…"

With an unhappy smile, Nathaniel shook his head. He wasn't going to take offense. Grief does strange things to people. Uriel snapping at him wasn't the worst thing that could've happened.

"Past cannot be changed. Blaming yourself will not bring you peace of mind. We must march into the future."

Snickering quietly, Uriel looked away.

"You speak words of wisdom.. But I cannot decide if they help me either."

Humming thoughtfully, Nathaniel measured Uriel. Her heart was bleeding profusely, even though she kept it hidden away. He knew how to recognise inner turmoil. From his own experience.. Fortunately, he knew just the way. And honestly, after all this.. Abaddon's treason, Lucien's collapse into the hateful darkness.. he probably needed it as much as she did. Carefully, but insistently, Nathaniel reached out to Uriel and gently pulled her into his arms.

"Nathaniel? What.. are you doing?"

Uriel didn't stop him, probably because of confusion and surprise. Not getting pushed away was a small victory in itself. He was more than happy to explain it to her. Going back to memories of that peculiar human who accompanied Death everywhere always warmed his heart.

"A good friend of mine had told me once that embraces can bring comfort. Especially in sorrow. Does it help you ?"

For a long moment Uriel didn't answer. She was thinking. Up this close Nathaniel could feel her heart rapidly hammering against her ribcage. But then she finally returned the embrace and placed her head on his chest with a heavy sigh.

"It does. Even if a little.."

A tiny note of wonderment in her voice was barely perceptible but definitely there. For a few minutes both angels stood like that in silence before Uriel spoke again.

"Do you think he's at peace? Abaddon, I mean…"

Staring at the shorter angel in his arms, Nathaniel harrumphed. The Charred Council was surely bent on condemning Abaddon, sentencing him to damnation even after his death. He only hoped that the Horsemen made short work of them before they were able to fulfill their dire promises and cast the already tormented soul into Oblivion. Nothing was sure. The only way to confirm either was to travel to the Kingdom of the Dead. Nathaniel couldn't say for certain that Abaddon has his rest or if his spirit in this very moment wastes away in nothingness. The mere thought made his stomach churn. But he didn't speak his fears out loud. He didn't dare.

"I do sincerely hope so…"

An answer as good as any, he supposed. It wasn't a "yes" but neither it was a "no". Perhaps it would be just enough..

"Thank you, Nathaniel.. I'm glad you came here…"

Somehow, an odd, heavy presence lingering about was abruptly lifted from the air when Uriel whispered into the edge of his coat but stayed motionless where she was, unwilling  and not ready to pull away just yet. Mourning is always easier with a companion. For just a second Nathaniel could've sworn he saw something… someone… move out of the corner of his eye but just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. It was most likely nothing. Just a fleeting trick of his imagination. Nathaniel rested his chin on top of Uriel's head and closed his eyes, listening to the wind blowing gently overhead and to her heart beating right next to his own. Two different rhythms that seemed the same. He didn't wish to leave just yet either. Luckily, he didn't have to. There was no need for hurry. It was still the middle of the night. No one will see them here, vulnerable and weak, slowly mending their broken hearts from the pieces.

They still had time…

_________________________________________

Bear with me, I just wanted those sad dorks to lift each other's spirits up. It's not my fault that I'm so trash 😂

At least I drew Nathaniel properly, as I promised :P

Darksiders Inktober drawing prompts by @imagine-darksiders

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was DAMIEN WARD, a HALF DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as the LEADER of the VICES. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

Damien Ward’s advent had been wrought long before he had entered the world. A slice of carnage, the Antichrist would be spat out into the earth, falsely draping himself over God’s ethereal throne; though he would never quite fulfil this prevision, he is a force feared nonetheless. The Son of Lucifer was tucked away in Hell’s mouth when he was only a child—there, his providence burgeoned beneath Judas’s watchful gaze. Since razing his father, Damien has served as the self-anointed Vice of Wrath and Leader of the Vices, positions counterpoised not merely by his birthright but also the throes of fidelity he is capable of stirring. Woven by sublime beauty and lurid horror, he is able to enchant most to his wicked will, a sense of torment and unease washing over all those who dare venture close, and as he moves, a hollow cold moves with him. One seems to understand him as a creature cut from calamity. His touch causes things to rot by subjecting it to an expeditious ageing process: anything his fingers brush over is reduced to ash. Just as God had forged the world, pulling his Creation from his rib, Damien is its ruination, the ability to rend apart God’s cosmos his own. Angels are immune to his touch, fashioned as they are from divinity, though this does not diminish his power. The prodigiousness of his abilities often wander beyond his command, and thus he has resolved to wearing protective gloves, forged from crushed angel’s wings collected in the first wars on earth, to maintain control of his skill. Unlike his hordes of beasts, Damien wears no wings, but instead has the red mark of Ouroboros branded into his neck: a symbol of rebirth and death, marking out what might once have been his world to come.

THE HISTORY.

DROWNING TW, GORE TW

Monstrosity is a necessary ingredient in beauty. So the woman who would be his mother had always believed. Everything beautiful was also dreadful, because it was twisted and full of fear. Wild from violence, it demanded your horror; it needed you to be afraid. This was what had brought her before the dais of the Morning Star: though there was something crooked in the angel, there was also sublimity, that filial breath of God still curled timelessly around his rib. She mouthed a prayer, not for the beast entombed in Hell, but the changeling, half-angelic, his ancient wings spread so wide that they swallowed up the sun. The worship of Lucifer was hardly extraordinary, dipping hands into black rivers and coming up with gold, but falling onto your knees for the Light Bearer was a marvel. As if by some numinous draw, God’s dwindled torch tore his way up through the earth, she was that much of a wonder to him. The woman understood him; when she gawped into his eyes, she appeared to seize something masked in him; she seemed to know precisely who and what he was, far before that secret had betrayed itself to him. His ambition hooked itself around her worship, and though she hoped he would stay with her, he refused. Instead, he parted from her with a gift. From their courtship grew something entirely unexpected: a child. Lucifer cradled the boy in his arms, a creature that should not exist, but nevertheless did. Such was Lucifer’s power. Yet, a prophecy girdled itself around him. The portent held him captive. The Son of Lucifer will eat the world, the soothsayer foresaw. He will put his mouth to the earth, skies, and ravines deep below. He will chew up and spit out all things, even the Morning Star. Though he could not bring himself to kill the child, a seed of strife spread like sickness in Lucifer’s chest. He fled uneasily back to his caves, leaving mother and child behind. He hoped never to see them again.

Though Damien seemed to be an enchantment of his own, his mother conceded she found him, at times, quite strange—yet that, she supposed, also made him beautiful. That was what she had come to love in the Morning Star, no? Beauty, like a breath of winter that climbs your spine. But when she held Damien in her arms, tickling his feet or cupping his cheek, he would not laugh, he would not blink, and the feeling dug deeper. When they walked together in the forest, his cold hand in hers, savage beasts and ferocious animals seemed not merely allayed by his presence but, by some odd providence, drawn to him. Slowly, the woman began to imagine the rot that spread from the centre of her child’s heart. She saw how he had inherited his father’s blasphemy, which before she had refused to see, and she watched as the final morsel of divinity ebbed, wave-like, away from him. She winced as it buried itself beneath the soil. She could not escape his unblinking gaze, the muscles in his face refusing to jerk upwards, even when the child had cause to smile. Damien Ward looked always like a cold creature who never changed. His parentage hung above his mother like a dark blanket, and after eight years of contrite motherhood she finally found herself at the end of her thread, the yarn red as blood. Fog wound itself around the trees, and when the mist had cleared a scene of terror washed over her: there lay a body lying limply in the moss; she watched as the wolves walked meekly to join Damien at his side, their bloodied mouths licking gently at his fingers. Something evil had revealed itself to her that day and, unable to bear the plague she’d wrought, she stepped into the river and felt its waves wash over her.

Her death seemed to stir something powerful below the ground and, its summon extending a dark, claw-like hand beneath the soil, Judas answered its call. Something primal began to knot itself together then: if Damien could run with wolves and bend them to his will, emerging high above them, then perhaps he could also do the same in Hell. Lucifer’s progeny was a source of wicked admiration to him, but he was also, he remembered, his ruin, and thus the impassible ravine grew between them. Damien let his father drape his dark divinity over him, all while his stare burned through bone to reach the throne. After all, Lucifer hadn’t carved his crown to create a legacy. He’d carved it to rule. Damien wouldn’t find a father in the Morning Star, but he found the mite of one in his Right Hand, Judas. He guided him like a beast untethered through the orbit of Hell, ingratiating themselves with all the spectres they might one day cup in their palms. Judas taught Damien how to whittle a lie with his tongue and when to loosen the knot; how to inspire conjoined loyalty and how to galvanise a legacy of fear. Ruinous, the demons flocked to him and, mantled from Lucifer beneath their shadowy veil, the Antichrist began to steal carvings of his father’s kingdom. After an epoch of collusion, the soothsayer’s words attached themselves to Damien like marionette strings and, feeling their strange movement, he felt compelled to follow them. Razing his father from his throne, Judas’s cadaverous hand behind him, hordes of beasts gnawed hungrily at his split kingdom—chewing his father up in his maw, he spat him out, an umbral crown resting on his brow. At Judas’s own encouragement, the Antichrist shaped his infernal army and, curse-spun, a score of ghosts turned their teeth to earth.

Their scourge lasted what must have felt like a millennia: Damien took the world in his teeth and shook it violently, chewing until he reached bone, while Judas built. Always, as he was tearing and grinding, spoiling and shattering slices of the world, there was Judas lingering, wraith-like, behind him—sculpting the wreckage. The Son of Lucifer stood vanward at the front of a legion of terrible monsters, turning their blades and claws on those who had once been God’s heavenly servants; loss or victory, Damien made relics of them, towed by his coven of beasts. He ate away at cities, pulled down what remained of civilisations, making ruins of things that once held fast—before long, the torrid Southern Lands were firmly clamped within his grip. When the demons were done carving their kingdom from the ground, the threat of the Heretics was stiffly dissolved, and Damien Ward settled himself in an invisible throne, a mass of angelic vestiges displayed deliberately around him. As his father had done once. At last pleased with the empire, which was his in all but name, he sighed; the Antichrist yawned out a new age. And yet, the shadows around him have begun to stir. Black-mouthed, they threaten to gorge themselves on pieces of him. After all, what are you to do when your divine purpose is stolen from you, when your reason for existence is, at last, fulfilled? Are teeth not made to chew? What remains for the howling stomach to sate itself on except a dull sliver? Though Damien continues to be feared as much as he is revered, the needle-prick of his claw begins to lose its hold. Stomachs churning with something dark and vicious, a listless hum starts to burn through his kingdom—and at its centre, something new begins to sprout.

THE CONNECTIONS.

ABADDON, AZAZEL & JUDAS: Dynasty. He was not made to be loved, but he is anyway. On earth, the Antichrist had run with a pack of wolves, far more attuned to their monstrous mores than that of humanity, and in Hell he was no different—all devils, they love each other like animals. While the demons were bent on tearing their king from his throne, they seemed happy to bow reverently to another monarchy which naturally grew in its stead; though Hell had cast out its crown, it seemed to return, ghost-like, to settle itself on each of their brows—and Damien felt he was above them all. He spoils Azazel wildly; though they fight as often as they show affection, he has no scruples about answering her every whim. Though there are times he finds her almost too spoiled to bear, he recognises his share of blame in that. Thick as thieves, it is practically impossible to tell her no. In Abaddon, he finds a strangely distant sort of maternal figure capable of embracing the parts of him that his biological mother never had been. Though she tends to abstain from passing comment, he often feels her cold, tender judgement on him. As for Judas, their relationship is infinitely more complicated: he is at once the closest thing he has ever had to family and his severest enemy. Everything he is flows directly from Judas; peeled behind his dark eyes waits every shred of advice he has ever been offered, every word of comfort, every strategy, suggestion, scheme. It is due to Judas that Damien can settle himself over their kingdom and silently call himself king—yet, is Judas not king too?

RAUM: Vassal. He doesn’t always have such personal relationships with those who promise to serve diligently under him, but Raum, he is willing to admit, is the exception that proves the rule. Damien had given something to each of his Vices: a common enemy to sink their fangs into, a kingdom to take up the cudgels for—yet he had offered Raum something more. He had offered her a purpose. The two have spoken at length over her hope to repossess that lost flake of her past, and while he’d first sympathised with her hollowing plight, he offered an alternative. Instead of searching for your history, why not cut out your future? Like stars, he plucked her dreams from the sky and offered them to her, turning them over in his infernal palms; ever since, her loyalty has hardened like alloy. It is to Raum that Damien most often turns for advice, feeling the heavy ambition of his Right Hand eat like plague at the room; having put her energy into the future they might sculpt rather than the fragments of the past she could never know, they make a decidedly visionary pair. Though whispers of dissent begin to girdle around his leadership, Damien knows well that this is a fealty that cannot be broken. Raum, after all, has made a home of his shadow.

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Little Echo. Estienne is unimpeachable evidence to the world that those who are exactly alike do not always get along. Sometimes, a likeness shared is often the cause of intense dislike. With a huff of insolence, Damien acknowledges that the tale of the Antichrist is well-known, whispers of the dark and ruinous monster that chews on pieces of the world, and thus he supposes that the emergence of an imitator is only natural. An imitator, after all, is all they are: an impressionist, an echo, a morsel of his wicked self. Estienne thinks of themself as something like a god; both beastly and beautiful, they arrange a thousand mirrors around themself and drink up their image. Full of malice, this only causes Damien’s lip to curl. At the Antichrist’s fingers waits the power to eliminate all life, taking what is gold and turning it to putrid rot, but Estienne is only the dulled shadow of a shadow—and there were already plenty of those in Hell when he’d left it. Damien tells himself that they’re hardly worth his time, that once you ignore a pest it inevitably fades from view, but Estienne draws his hatred nonetheless. He may think of them as nothing more than a splinter of the profanity long settled into his bones, but there is evidently something in them that causes him to recoil. Rotten, he makes sure Estienne knows of his disdain.

NERISSA: Agenda. It is to Judas that he has always turned to for schemes, but Damien delights in the fact that this is a plot he has hatched entirely of his own accord. Like cadaverous, wandering ghosts, the Horseman are a deep pool of limitless potential: like dipping a hand into an unfathomable milky void, it is possible to touch them and still learn nothing new about them. They are entirely without definition. In Nerissa, however, he has identified a point of recognition; they are a beast, and they feed on it. She gives way to aggression and wrath in a way similar to himself—while his is a cold outrage, like the breath of winter, theirs is hot as coals. There’s camaraderie amongst monsters, and while they have yet to coax out all of each other’s secrets, they have decided that they must stick together; after all, in times of peace, monsters are so few. What Damien hopes to gain from the relationship is less clear, though—a bloodied ribbon binds them together, but since the fall of Lucifer, Damien has found himself reneging on his promises of desolation and wastage. Nerissa, on the other hand, was wrought from calamity; perdition follows their every step. Though there is much they share, there is also much that sets them apart.

Damien is portrayed by Woo Do-hwan and was written by CAS. He is currently TAKEN by MAL.

[carnagebled-a]

A LIST OF THREADS FROM MY OLD BLOG THAT I WANT

hunger games!au

hazel being stabbed instead of eddie au 

an affiliated poly coven that has s/ex with each other constantly

a fem!reddie inspired ship 

can you imagine Lilly as Barry’s handler 

more cops x lilly ships

Barry and Lilly during the events of ronnie/lily

caroline and alicia and seraphine and hope twin/doppelgänger aus !!

Michael!Millie

au where everything’s the same in IT chapter two except Hazel’s dead and she’s the witch that torments Bev

a michael x abaddon ship

alicia vs legacies!clarke (or a ship)

a c.laire n.ovak x seraphine ship

an ideal s.pn ending would be jack and seraphine killing c.huck and a.mara and being the new light and darkness

demon!blood eileen

mark of cain!seraphine

l.egacies!hope to trigger her vamp side and I need lizzie to be a heretic sired to her

a ship like James and Alyssa from teotfw

a nerd/goth affiliated ship

a  cop/detective friendship with lilly like doug judy and jake in b99

fbi agents fall in love while undercover au

affliated oc twins where one’s a cop and one’s a killer and they both don’t know their profession

tWILIGHT AUS

[cainiine-a]

@necrcmance​

“ So first you tell me that you want to throw me into a pool of holy water and now you put my face on your blog? I must say Malcolm, I’m getting mixed signals here. “

[stusbunker]

Known: Case of the Weak, Part C

A Supernatural DARK Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean x Demon!Reader, Dean x Female Vessel OC, Sam, Alan OMC, Crowley, Abaddon

Summary: The Winchesters do what they do, Chloe is still a bit occupied, our reader waits for the bus and Abaddon meets her match. Not anything worth warning you about, unless you haven’t watched season 9. And if you haven’t what are you doing here?! xoxo Stu

Series Masterlist

Still in Rock Springs, WY

April 12, 2014

“Exorcizamus te-,” Sam’s voice rang out behind you, Dean’s face smugly twisting with vindication.

“Omnis immundus spiritus,” you continued, whispering in disbelief beneath your breath. That made Sam stutter briefly as your eyes went black against the chant. You reached out to stroke Dean’s face, but he ducked out of your reach, swatting your new vessel’s hairy arm away.

“omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii,” Sam spoke louder as he stepped closer.

“Figures.” You sighed dramatically before squaring your feet, preparing for another vacancy. “Good luck and take care of our girl,” you said directly to Dean’s stunned face, ignoring Sam’s looming sneer. You jumped from Alan’s body and out through the bathroom window out to the limitless night sky.

*^*

“What the hell was that about?!” Dean shuttered against the uncomfortableness, catching the guy in front of him before he hit his head on small table. Alan’s eyes blazed open, panic and confusion escaping in gulps and off-putting moans. “Hey, man it’s going to be okay. We gotcha, just breathe.” Though still visibly annoyed Dean’s tone seemed to soothe the recently unpossessed man to functionally acceptable levels.

“What the hell, who was she?!” Alan glared at Dean like he had kicked a puppy.

“That was a demon,” Sam sat on the table top and began to give the spiel.

“Why was she was obsessed with you?! Her mind was filled with you doing all sorts of awful things, man.” Alan started to get scared again as he tried to reason with the memories of his possessor and the reality in front of him.

Dean cocked his head and met the accusations with a rueful squint. “Forget about that bitch, demons mess with your mind. Make you see things and worse. I think it’s time you go home, maybe get drunk and sleep this whole night off, like a nightmare, mhmm?”

Alan left on shaky feet, the world wider and darker than he had ever imagined. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean carefully moved CC back to their room, playing drunk themselves as to why they were carrying an unconscious woman into their hotel room. After securing the doors and windows, they were able to think about their next steps.

“Where’d you think it went?” Sam was watching Dean carefully, unsure of how much it was run-of-the-mill demonic manipulation and how much of the bravado was sincere.

“How the hell should I know? Did you see that, man, it tried to put the moves on me,” Dean scrunched his face before stepping back to let Sam check on CC himself.

“Yeah, pretty clingy, for a demon,” Sam acknowledged offhandedly as he checked CC’s eyes, not sure what he was looking for beyond reaction to light, which he hoped was normal. She was breathing and her heartbeat was steady. “Think Cas can swing a visit or are we really going to send you back in?”

Dean stared at Sam like he had something on his face. “What?”

“Yeah, that came out wrong.”

^*^

The road was endless and smooth, the slight breeze swaying the massive vehicle enough to keep up the illusion. The trucker played a slightly staticky station, humming along at random. She knew he would have had a GPS or the CB going if he was real, but he was just another ferryman. If everything was so obvious, why couldn’t she work out what decision she had to make? Chloe huffed, shifting against the seat belt as the heat waves rose before them in wilted warning.

“You know you ought to have just stayed home, don’t ya?”

She closed her eyes against the accusation, however gentle. “Nothing back there has to do with what’s happening to me now.”

“Well, there’s nothing out here for you that’s gonna help until you know the question.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you could just tell me and save the return trip?” CC didn’t want to be rude, it was a free ride and he had been nothing but kind. Even if he kept changing faces, Bobby, Rufus, Roger, Reynolds, Ellen, and now it was Pastor Jim. It was the faces that didn’t turn up that made her uneasy, her mother, the other elders, John even. The one face she had never seen that she longed for above all others.

“Can’t tell you something you already know.”

“If I wanted to answer a riddle, I would have found a bridge,” CC grumbled, rolling the heavy crank in the door, needing to stick her head in a wind tunnel for the sheer mindless pleasure for a few minutes. She let her eyes tear and her hair trail behind her to inevitable knots. The sun was warm, and the air dried the trails of saline as fast as they formed. The hiss of brakes and the sudden pull of gravity broke through her revelry. She fell suddenly against her chest strap. Confused, she looked back to see the driver’s side door hanging open. An ear-piercing screech followed by a jarring thud forced her to see what her guide was up to. The entire trailer had been unhinged, whatever load left precariously angled against the blacktop.

“What’d you do that for?!”

Geoff’s mischievous smile greeted her, his eyebrows waggling conspiratorially. He swung back into the seat and started the engine, spinning the unweighted cab deftly on its remaining ten wheels. “Better?”

“We’ll see.” Chloe held onto the handle above her head, a hopeful glimmer spread through her.

^*^

Dean didn’t know what he had expected, but the potion still tasted like the wrong end of a junkyard dog. He sucked it back as Sam watched with a look of sheer disgust on his dumb face. Dean inhaled the musty motel room air and coughed, the taste burned, spreading through his chest. He didn’t know why exactly, but he dropped down beside CC’s body, and threaded his hand through her cool fingers. Before he could finish listening to Sam’s instructions, Dean drifted away.

He awoke in the passenger seat of the Impala, parked at an awkward angle in a forgotten, yet familiar driveway.

He knew he was younger, by the easy roll of his shoulders and the old leather jacket stuck with sweat to his face, while bunched against the window. The Mark blatantly missing from his forearm as he brushed down his sleep-ruffled hair, he checked his face in the sideview mirror. For a second, he thought he saw a gangly Sam in the backseat, but as soon as he turned around, he realized he was alone. Good, Sammy should be watching out for them in case the demon returned, not jumping headfirst into CC’s head. He felt bad enough about doing it without her knowledge, even if invading privacy was par for the course of desperate times.

Dean climbed out of the car, closing the door with a resounding clunk. He walked up to the old cast iron framed porch. The inside door swung open before Dean could knock, his hand held precariously in the air as he breathed out his greeting, “Uh, hi.”

“Go home, Dean.” Old Man Collins was exactly like he was the last time Dean saw him, in a word, dead. The entire right side of his face was peeled off, he remembered the chunks the wendigo had slashed from the ancient hunter before they had found him. Luckily for the situation at hand, his clothing was obscuring the more grotesque wounds. “This isn’t about you, boy.”

“Sir, I, uh,” Dean opened the screen door and met Chloe’s grandfather’s deep-set eyes. “Look, I need to find her, she got possessed on my watch and I need to make sure she is okay. I fucked up, bad and its on me to fix it.”

“Save your guilty sob story, son. That thing had its sights on you before CC showed up, but it’s not why Chloe’s gone. Not really.”

Dean’s mouth froze open, brow pinched in confusion. “Okay? But I need to know that CC is going to wake up.”

“She’ll live.”

“Forgive me, but that’s not too reassuring.”

The old man walked away, back into the house and settled in the recliner near the half wall between the living room and the kitchen. Dean followed, looking around as if someone else would appear at any moment. “Sit down, since you can’t bother to listen to reason, at least relax.”

The television was on, but the sound was off, an outdoor channel with fly fishing tips flickered on the old console set. They sat in uncomfortable silence before Dean stood suddenly. “Do you know when she’ll be back or, do I need to hop in the car and track her down?”

“She’s on her way now, but you’re going to leave before she gets here. She has enough things she needs to answer to without you mucking it up.”

“But I can help.”

The old Cheyenne man stood to size up the spunky upstart hunter. “You really can’t. You know I’m not Old Man Collins, right?”

Dean paused, nodding slowly. “You’re part of Chloe’s subconscious.”

“Yeah, the logical, bullshit free part. So, take that shiny black car and get. Before I start listing the reasons why you are no longer welcome in my home.”

“But, Cease and me–,” Dean gestured awkwardly then fumbled for words, the more he thought and spoke, the more he realized the apparition before him was right. Amused acknowledgement sparkled in the man’s dark eyes as Dean’s sheepishness stilled his tongue. “Is she going to wake up?

“That’s up to her, but she’ll live, neither Hell nor Holy water can snuff her out so easily.”

The walls shook and the sun set in a blaze as if in time-lapse, the dark room groaned as Dean caught himself on a lamp stand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not for you to know. Now, go. She can’t face what’s in the woods until you’re gone.” Dean felt lightheaded, he struggled to hold himself upright. Old Man Collins approached him, patting him firmly on the back. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“No, wait, Mr. Collins, please–,” Dean sat up, wrenching CC’s arm up as he turned to face the dream in which he was no longer welcome.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice and face were suddenly close as Dean squinted into the dim morning light.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean groaned, untangling CC’s hand from his before kicking his legs off the side of the bed.

“What happened?”

“I got kicked out. Couldn’t even get to her.”

“By whom?”

“Her grandad.” Dean shrugged. “Well, the stubborn ass part of her brain that showed itself as her grandad.”

“Huh.” Sam chewed on the information.

“Yeah, well, good news? She’s fine, physically, apparently. So, what’d you say we head home? Get her set up in safety while we wait for her to come to?”

Sam nodded, watching Dean’s disappointment bury itself behind action and planning. They carefully laid her in the backseat, consequently, it was still early enough for them not to draw any concern from other guests. Sam paid for both rooms, while Dean stopped to gas up her truck. Simple, easy tasks, busy work to be done as the Mark made its renewed presence known, tingling along his skin.

^*^

Denver, CO

Slipping back into your dissipated form was overwhelming, especially as you traveled farther away. You tested your limits, spiraling as fast as you could go, paying little mind to direction or destination. Experiencing the world as a raging cloud of damnation meant you sensed emotions and actions instead of seeing them. You bee-lined toward a city, with vessels to spare and fear and anger pulling you from your own thoughts. Thoughts of the ultimate rejection, and the look on Dean’s face as he let Sam’s words sweep you into the dust bin. Like you were nothing, or nothing more than the kill of the week.

If you had a gut, it would have rolled with your swift descent.

In the formlessness, with the vast sea of humans littered beneath you, every molecule of your being seemed to hum. Emotions and justifications rushing through your thoughts as you streaked against the heavy spring air. You were bombarded with their feelings like sound vibrations, rattling from an untested speaker system. When you found a corner where a pair of people sat, drenched in fear and lust, you landed at last.

The man was buzzed, but you weren’t sure if it was the gin or the pain killers for his back that were making everything fuzzy. They were on a bench, waiting for a bus. The African American woman sitting on the furthest edge away from the portly white man, who had clearly been making her uncomfortable. Once you got your bearings, you turned to her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s going to be out of commission for a while.”

She muffled a shriek and called on her savior as you stood and sauntered down the street.

*^*

May 6, 2014

Humboldt Hotel

Cleveland, OH

Dean’s body pulsed with purpose, defined by the certainty of his mission and its now tangible completion. If he could just keep Sam from getting in the way; it would be clean and quick. God help him, Dean’s brother always questioned direct orders; Dean tried to come off as practical, cautious. Meanwhile he was jonesing for the fight. The elevator seemed to take forever, the Penthouse unrestricted to even the likes of him, which set his hunter’s logic from four to twelve in the time it took for him to breach the top floor.

Crowley was scared, but he wasn’t stupid. The minion went down easy, almost too fast for him to enjoy it. Before Dean could continue his search, she was there. The Ginger Bitch herself, red lipped and gloating. He couldn’t wait to finish this, and the tug of a not-so-distant strand of memory told him that even this demon couldn’t hold him for long. The lethal combination of the Mark and the Blade only increased his confidence. The Knight that would be Queen was his to finish, if he could just get his ass off of this wall.

Abaddon wasn’t fucking around either, she knew he was her biggest threat despite her haughty sass. She didn’t even hesitate to throw everything she had at him. As the First Blade slipped through his fingers, Dean’s resolve stuttered, but the pull from the Mark centered him, honing the rage and blood lust to draw the weapon back into his grasp. At the moment of reconnection, Dean knew she had reached the bottom of the barrel, her powers no longer strong enough to contain him.

He didn’t register Sam’s entrance, or Crowley’s astonishment, he narrowed his eyes and stalked toward his prey. It was almost sad how easy it was now, the mangled bone slicing into her voluptuous vessel, impossibly smooth and satisfying. Once he had a taste, he needed more. Abaddon’s cries a siren’s call. Dean hacked into the demon, even as the flashes of her essence faded. The blood smattering his face and the floor, it’s warmth delicious, but the hunger never abated. It was only Sam’s voice breaking through the fog that got Dean to look beyond the corpse before him and his need to destroy.

The tunnel vision righted, and Dean was himself, or the new version of himself, the marked and armed version. Letting Crowley talk his way out of their demands, Dean knew that his list of potential kills held few as deserving as the King of Hell. But a Winchester didn’t back out on a deal and Crowley had done right by them, until CC’s face floated through his thoughts. He never even asked whose stooge had made a vegetable of her. Unfounded retaliation sounded perfectly acceptable now. The calm returned, because Dean would find the demon and he would take his time.

Tags: @mogaruke @dontshootmespence @mrswhozeewhatsis@smi727@sassykayla255@supernaturalboi@dumbthotticus@eve05glee@veroinnumera@spn-dean-and-sam-winchester@fanfictionrecommendations-com@soullesscollection-world 

Next Chapter: Angels are Assholes

[antigonewinchester]

The Mark & Hell, part 3

(Previous posts: Intro post; Dean & Hell, season 4; the Mark & Hell part 1; Dean & Hell redux; the Mark & Hell, part 2.)

9x11 is also the episode that explicitly continues the thread of Dean enjoying violence and using that violence to externalize his own pain, particularly with violence as revenge, a prominent aspect of his time torturing in Hell as well as in hunting generally.

Before giving him the Mark, Cain tests Dean to see how strong he is, letting several of Abaddon’s demon lackeys into the room:

DEAN So, this is your play?! Corn?! What am I not getting here? I mean, it's not like you're a coward. CAIN Since when does the great Dean Winchester ask for help? Well, that doesn't sound like the man I've read about on demon bathroom walls. Maybe you've lost a step. Let's find out. [He snaps his fingers and the door (and the fridge in front of it) fly open and STALKER DEMON and a GIRL DEMON rush in. CAIN snaps his fingers again and the door slams shut in front of the others outside.] CAIN [to the demons] Oh, don't mind me. [motions to DEAN] Enjoy yourself.

Dean then fights and kills the demons when they attack him, proving his prowess as a warrior to Cain.

In 9x19, “Alex Annie Alexis Ann,” Sam and Dean help rescue Alex, a teenager who was kidnapped by vampires as a child and then raised by them without being turned. Alex and her story loosely parallel not just aspects of Dean and his upbringing, with both of them helping their families on hunts, but also Dean’s time in Hell, with both Alex and Dean held captive and becoming the focus of an abusive faux-parental figure (the Mama vamp for Alex, Alastair for Dean).

Both Dean and Alex are framed as enjoying violence and hurting others in this ep. For Dean, there’s first when he confronts the vampire Dale:

DEAN You don't want to talk. No skin off my back. 'Cause you see, a blood-sucking, body-chipping vamp – that's bad enough, but vamps… that kidnap kids… Well, I'm going to enjoy putting you down. DALE Of course. Oh, I knew this was about Alexis. I warned mama that girl would screw everything up for us one day.

Near the end of the episode, Dean is attacked by the vampire Connor and fights back, killing him. Afterward, he and Sam talk about it:

SAM Nice work back there. "Look at me, bitch"? DEAN Well, hey, you got another snappy one-liner, I'm all ears. SAM What I'm saying is – it looked to me like you were enjoying it. Maybe too much. DEAN And? Well, sorry for not putting on a hair shirt. Killing things that need killing is kind of our job. Last I checked, taking pleasure in that is not a crime. SAM Right, but...

Dean is all in on hunting here, and particularly the killing side of it. If he’s not good enough to be a savior anymore, then he can at least take some satisfaction in still knowing how to kill, and killing vamps that have kidnapped kids in the bargain. There’s also a quasi-revenge element to Dean’s violence, not only for the vampires having hurt children and kidnapped Alex, but for Dean himself. When Connor attacks Dean, he pins Dean against the wall and goes for his throat, with Dean then getting out of his hold, pinning Connor against the wall, and cutting off his head, killing him in a similar way to how Connor was going to kill Dean moments ago. Dean’s line before he kills him – to “Look at [him], bitch” – also has connotations around humiliation, domination and control. It sounds, perhaps, like something demons could have said to Dean while he was being tortured in Hell, or that Dean himself could have said to one of his own victims.

For Alex, Dale is the one to frame her using this language:

[*FLASHBACK* There is a small flashback to ALEX in a bar getting hit on by a creepy man. She smiles at him and they leave the bar together. Then they are in the house and the man starts to make his move] MAN Come on, sweetie. Aren't you gonna give me a name? ALEX It's... Ann. MAN Mm. Sweet Ann. You got any idea what I'm about to do to you? ALEX Yeah. I do. Nothing. MAN What the… Is this a party? [ALEX'S brothers all walk in and they start to feed on the creepy man *END FLASHBACK*] DEAN She's your lure. DALE Best a vamp could ask for. And you better believe you don't get that good at it unless you enjoy it. In her own sweet way… Girl's as bloodthirsty as any vampire.

While one can be skeptical of Dale here, considering he was Alex’s captor, Alex perhaps enjoying aspects of these hunts and her shame around that feeling would then parallel Dean’s enjoyment of hunting / torturing and his subsequent guilt and moral injury. What that enjoyment could mean is quite complicated – finding a satisfaction in helping to kill creepy old men who would go after young girls? taking an indirect revenge on someone who wanted to rape her? just the experience of telling men No and then being able to enforce that boundary through their deaths? – but I don’t think it does Alex any favors to minimize the complexities of her feelings, her experiences as a captive, and how she lived through it. Later on, Alex describes what sounds like a moral injury when talking about hunting to her vampire Mama:

ALEX I love you, mama. I do. I just – I couldn't take it anymore. The blood and the death, the sounds of their screams. I just… I can't do it anymore. And the way I feel afterwards, the guilt… I'd rather die than feel that way again.

She similarly expresses shame about her actions and what she was forced to do to survive when talking to Jody in the final scene:

ALEX No, I'll just throw it up. But, uh, thank you. I want you to know that… When mama offered, I just… I couldn't disappoint her again. I had enough to be ashamed of as it is. Jody, I-I've done things.

Alex not wanting to “disappoint” her Mama also calls to mind how Alastair tried to use his approval of or disappointment in Dean to manipulate him during season 4. The first time is in 4x10:

DEAN hits ALASTAIR with a crowbar. ALASTAIR Dean, Dean, Dean…  I am so disappointed. You had such promise. ALASTAIR attacks DEAN and SAM.

and the second is in 4x16:

DEAN Now answer the question. ALASTAIR Or what? You'll work me over? But then, maybe you don't want to. Maybe you're, ah, scared to. DEAN I'm here, aren't I? ALASTAIR Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the Pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we? DEAN You're gonna be disappointed. [DEAN walks over to the cart.] ALASTAIR You have not disappointed me so far. Come on. You gotta want a little payback for everything I did to you. For all the pokes and prods. Hm? [DEAN is impassive.] No? Um… how about for all the things I did to your daddy? [DEAN's head comes up.]

Finally, there are some uncomfortable sexual undercurrents to Alex and Dean’s hunting experiences, as both of them weren’t only used as lures but as specifically sexualized bait. I’m going to put a pin in this theme now and return to it later on (because frankly I’m still sorting out my thoughts here).

When Dean is under the Mark’s influence in 9x22 and 9x23, he can’t let go of his desire for revenge on Gadreel for killing Kevin and kidnapping Sam, attacking Gadreel when he comes to make amends and help them take down Metatron. Unlike previously over the season, Sam isn’t able to call Dean back from the Mark’s power, and Sam and Cas have to lock Dean up to prevent him from hurting Gadreel or anyone else. However, Dean is able to escape with Crowley’s help, and the two of them work to track down Metatron until Dean and Sam reconnect mid-way thru 9x23. They seemingly go to face Metatron together, but Dean knocks Sam out and then attempts to take on Metatron alone. Unfortunately, even the Mark and the Blade aren’t enough to defeat the angel. Dean loses the fight, with Sam reaching him just as Metatron stabs Dean in the chest. Before Dean dies, he tells Sam, “it's better this way...” because the Mark was “making [him] into something [he doesn’t] want to be,” an echo of what Alex said about how she’d rather die than feel the guilt that came with helping her family hunt and kill people again. But (of course) Dean’s death isn’t the end, as Crowley then uses the Blade and the Mark to resurrect him as a Knight of Hell.

Sources

“4.10 Heaven and Hell (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 13 Nov 2018.

“4.16 On the Head of a Pin (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 11 Feb 2021.

“9.11 First Born (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Apr 2021.

“9.19 Alex Annie Alexis Ann (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 19 Feb 2018.

“9.23 Do You Believe in Miracles? (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 4 Oct 2017.

femmedeanna. “Untitled” (Dean & Alex playing bait for monsters and humans, respectively). Tumblr, 2016.

[alleiradayne]

Killer Queen

Summary: Abaddon has a really shitty day and Ruby takes care of her. Square Filled: Ruby/Abaddon  Warnings/Tags: Heavy BDSM, rough sex, oral, blood, demons, Dom!Ruby, Sub!Abaddon Characters/Pairings: Ruby/Abaddon Word Count: 4010 A/N:  For @spnkinkbingo, this fills the square Ruby/Abaddon, and fits so wonderfully well in Femslash February. A giant thank you to @chiisana-sukima for beta reading and ensuring my BDSM wasn’t too far fetched. Song: Killer Queen by Queen

“Ruby, darling? Be a doll and fetch the harness?” Abaddon chimed as she strolled into the bedroom.

From her chair, Ruby regarded Abaddon. Wisps of her long, red waves strayed from her typically perfect coiffure, and her shoulders hunched as she neared the bed. Ruby stood from her chair and met her there. “Are you alright?”

Abaddon looked to her with a tired smile. “I will be. Once you get the harness. Might as well grab the whole box while you’re at it.”

Shit.

“Is that a good—”

“Ruby, dear, I love you, and I’ll do whatever you want once the collar’s on, but when it’s not, you will do as I say. Am I not your queen?” Abaddon demanded.

Ruby bowed as she rushed from the bed for the closet. Inside sat a large wooden chest, too heavy for her to lift by hand, but with a flick of her wrist, the box slid across the smooth cement floor to the foot of the bed.

“Candles too, please, love,” Abaddon said. “I’m in a mood.”

A mood, indeed. With a snap of her fingers, Ruby plunged them into darkness, and the next ignited an array of candies spread throughout the room. “Better, my queen?” she asked

A pleased hum sang through her nose. “Yes, sweetheart. Now, the collar first, then the harness. We’ll see how things go from there. But definitely leave the box open.”

Fuck. A long night of hard work lay ahead of her. Not that she wasn’t up for it. Ruby had hoped Abaddon might be interested in a little stress relief that evening but she had not anticipated this. Abaddon lay sprawled out on the four-poster bed like a corpse, limbs at odd angles and eyes staring at the ceiling, empty and unmoving but for their slow lids.

Ruby stared at the box, planning her each and every move. Her expertise in torture and lust had earned her this responsibility. And she was more than up to the task. After all, she had seduced and pleasured Lucifer’s prime vessel. Why not a Knight of Hell?

When Abaddon had picked her, Ruby considered herself honored. Apparently, she had come recommended. It seemed her reputation as the demon that fucked Sam Winchester and lived to tell the tale had enticed Abaddon, intrigued her. Ruby thanked whatever power that had granted her the opportunity to serve her queen in the most intimate capacity possible. Call her what you will; a whore, an abuser, a manipulator. If you asked Abaddon, she’d give you the simplest answer.

“The collar, love. Now.”

Her wandering thoughts vanished in a haze of smoke. Ruby approached the foot of the bed and flicked her wrist, the chest opening with a loud groan. Wide as the bed, it contained layer after layer of leather; straps and belts and restraints, all neatly organized, the collar front and center. With great reverence, Ruby lifted the collar from its mount and rounded the bed to sit beside Abaddon, who yet lay motionless atop the plush pillows. Ruby slipped her hand under her neck and lifted her head. She smoothed her red waves aside as she slipped the collar around her thin, pale neck. And after she fastened the buckle, Ruby examined it. Ancient sigils etched into the leather ran the length of the strap surrounded in a language from another millennium. The bloodred dye—Abaddon’s actual blood—had never faded over the centuries, its crimson sheen still red as the day the collar had been crafted. Once around her neck, Abaddon was as helpless as the vessel she possessed, her demonic powers bound as her body. Only she and Ruby knew of the collar and it was paramount that it stayed hidden.

Satisfied with the collar’s placement, Ruby leaned into her ear and whispered, “On your feet. Now.”

Lazily, Abaddon slipped from the bed and stood, her head lolling to one side as though bored. Insolent, then. Fine. Ruby knew how to handle moody lovers.

A snap of her fingers cracked like a whip in the cool dungeon air. Abaddon screamed in shock, her cry cut off as she bit her bottom lip. Ruby smiled her sickening sweet smile as she asked, “Do I have your attention?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Good,” Ruby mused as she neared her. “Did you have a bad day?” she asked as she teased at the neckline of Abaddon’s shirt.

Abaddon nodded. “I did, my queen.”

The tearing of fabric rent the air as Ruby ripped her fingers through her shirt and bra. Try as she might to hide it, Ruby caught the hint of a smile on Abaddon’s lips. Might have to teach her the rules again. “Do you want me to make you feel better?”

Again, Abaddon nodded. Another snap of her fingers struck the invisible lash across the backs of her thighs, and Abaddon shrieked.

“When I ask you a question…”

“Yes, my queen. I wish you to make me feel better,” Abaddon finished.

“Good,” Ruby stated as she motioned to the chest with an open hand. The harness lifted from the box, a gaudy thing of straps and buckles and all manner of delectable restraints, and floated to her outstretched hand. “Strip.”

Abaddon responded with haste, her ruined garment dropped to the floor, boots kicked aside, and her pants discarded. She stood bare but for her underwear, a thong that she might as well have not bothered wearing.

Ruby grasped the fabric with her free hand and jerked Abaddon flush to her chest. Control, the height of responsibility as Abaddon’s domme, slipped from her fingers with her lover so close, bare breasts pressing against hers and her full red lips gaping with want. But she gathered her willpower with one deep breath and repeated herself as sweetly as ever. “I said strip.”

Abaddon whimpered as the fabric of her thong bit into her flesh and tore, Ruby wrenching it in her fist. She discarded it, tossed aside and forgotten. Abaddon remained still as stone, completely bare; ready, waiting.

But Ruby, ever the patient taskmaster, enjoyed toying with her playmates. She waited, eyes boring into the blue of Abaddon’s until she positively hummed with anticipation. And then she struck, two fingers shoved between her thighs and into her cunt to find her soaking wet.

“Naughty girl,” Ruby whispered as she stroked. “Is my little pet eager?”

“No, my queen,” Abaddon answered with a breathless mewl.

Ruby cocked an eyebrow at that. “Really?”

A flicker of lust flashed in her soft blue eyes. “Maybe, my queen.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Ruby cooed as she snatched her hand back. A thin layer of Abaddon’s arousal coated her fingers, examined in the flickering candlelight. Her eyes snapped back to Abaddon’s, and then she said, “Open.”

Red lips parted with another twitch of a smile that Ruby forced herself to ignore. Abaddon would make this difficult. Swift as a cat, Ruby shoved her fingers into her open mouth, and Abaddon sealed her lips around them far too eagerly. That deserved another lesson, one she would not forget. Ruby dragged her fingers from her mouth, red lipstick smeared down her chin, then backhanded her across the face. The split in her lip leaked a drop of blood as Abaddon forced down her wicked grin, not a trace of it found on her face. Reward good behavior, Ruby had always preached, and so, she grasped Abaddon by the chin and licked. The salt of her blood lingered as Ruby then pressed her lips upon hers for a rough kiss. Connected so, she released a trickle of her power into Abaddon, the cut in her lip healing as if it had never been.

Parted, Ruby licked her lips clean of Abaddon’s fluids, then spoke. “Now, then. Step in.” She righted the harness and held it before her.

Abaddon did as ordered, slipping the leather straps up her long pale legs and over her hips. She took the harness in hand and slipped it over her arms and across her shoulders, then returned to attention. Loose, the straps dangled from her lithe frame, and so Ruby twirled her hand. Abaddon obeyed, turning about-face for her.

The groin straps tightened with a rough jerk, as did the buckles at her shoulders and underbust. At the waist cincher, Ruby took her time, a slow pull that forced the air from Abaddon’s lungs. Once completely fastened Ruby summoned additional restraints from the box with a wave of her hand, wrist cuffs and elbow bindings floating with ease. “Onto the bed.”

Abaddon crawled onto the bed and faced the headboard, then froze on her knees. Ruby followed and knelt behind her. She drank Abaddon in from head to toe, red leather biting into the delicate white flesh, the swell of her ass begging for her touch. But Ruby gathered her willpower as she issued another order. “Arms.”

Elbows and wrists met behind her back as Abaddon arched, stretched. As Ruby fastened the cuffs, she asked, “How bad was your day, sweetheart?”

“Dreadful,” Abaddon groaned.

“Aw,” Ruby sighed as she threaded the straps between her elbows. “Demons not playing nice?”

“Do they ever, my queen?”

Ruby laughed as she said, “Hardly, if ever.” Another gesture of her hand summoned the final restraints, a set of thick ankle cuffs. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

As ordered, Abaddon shifted on the bed, her knees wide. Ruby wrapped her delicate ankles in the leather, cinched tight. Pain might be a part of their game, but decidedly not chafing. Fuck chafing.

“Half suspension tonight, my dear,” Ruby sang. “Sounds like you need at least that much.”

Abaddon responded with practiced control. “I abide by your wisdom, my queen.”

“Wonderful,” Ruby chimed as she grasped a chain from one footpost. The metal dragged through the wood with a heavy thud until she reached one ankle and connected the clasp. She repeated the motion for her other leg, and, with both ankles fastened, pulled the master chain taut. Abaddon’s knees slipped another inch apart on the silken sheets, thighs spread wide and flexed as she struggled for balance. Perfectly prepped for Ruby.

From the foot of the bed, she observed Abaddon, so still as she waited for the next order. But Ruby remained silent as she shifted closer, directly behind her. The pale white of her skin contrasted with the leather, a deep red to mask any blood she might—would—draw. Across her ass, bright pink lash marks had begun to fade. She traced those lines with the tips of her fingers, enthralled by the sight. With that thought, Ruby snapped her fingers and the invisible lash struck Abaddon across the supple flesh of her ass, marked with a thin line of broken skin.

A delectable shriek filled the room as Abaddon startled. She bit her bottom lip as her thighs quivered, struggling for balance, for leverage. “Well done, darling,” Ruby moaned as she thumbed the broken skin, blood smeared beneath her touch. “Are you ready?”

“Please, my queen,” Abaddon sighed. “I need you.”

Ruby moaned deep in her chest, the sight of her wanting and the sounds of her begging more than enough to arouse her. Overhead, she grasped the suspension chains and attached them to the harness, then hauled down on the hoist. Pulled up and towards the foot of the bed, Abaddon lifted from her knees barely an inch. That subtle shift of weight from her knees to her shoulders and waist forced her to bow at the hip. Once suspended, Ruby anchored the hoist with a three-overlap lock. Despite their demonic souls and ability to heal, nothing destroyed a session of restraint faster than a failed suspension. Satisfied, Ruby returned to Abaddon, connecting the final clasps to the overhead hoist, lifting her elbows and wrists away from her back.

Finished at last, Ruby admired her work, Abaddon partially suspended, her red hair dangling to the bed. Between her legs, Ruby crawled to the head of the bed and lay beneath her, face to face, to fully enjoy the sight of her craft. The tight straps bit into her flesh, thighs and breasts bulging from their restraints. Though eager to get to work, Ruby reached with a delicate touch to cup one of her breasts, teasing the nipple with a pinch. “You look positively radiant,” she sighed. “So many things I want to do to you. But first…”

With a wave of her hand, Ruby disrobed, her clothing transformed into her own set of straps and buckles and bindings. When the transformation completed, she looked to Abaddon and found her staring at her breasts. “Do you like it?”

Abaddon nodded, as she said, “I do. You look absolutely ravishing, my queen.”

“Oh?” Ruby asked. “Would you like to ravish me?”

Eyes wide, Abaddon whispered her response. “If you would allow it, my queen.”

From the bed, Ruby lowered the suspension hoist, Abaddon bending at the waist until their lips met. Brief, the kiss lasted a mere second before Ruby grasped Abaddon by the jaw and wrenched her aside. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

Abaddon, a mask of calm disguising her lust, said, “No, my queen. I only wished to pleasure you.”

Another lash across her backside extracted a whimper from Abaddon. “Then you will do as I say,” Ruby demanded as she shifted. Reclined on the pillows at the head of the bed, she lowered Abaddon another three inches, her head between Ruby’s thighs as her knees parted. She gathered her hair in a fist at the back of her head as she looked Abaddon in the eye and said, “Then pleasure me.”

The warmth of Abaddon’s tongue as it slipped between her sopping folds earned her Ruby’s most wanton moan. Her hips rolled, grinding her cunt against her face with demand for more. And Abaddon obliged without needing orders. Her lips sealed around her clit and sucked, her tongue working small, slow circles as Ruby held her fast to her flesh.

“Make me come, sweetheart,” Ruby gasped, “I’m… so close.” Truly, Ruby had never taken another mate quite as capable with their tongue as Abaddon. The woman ate pussy better than anyone she had ever met. The heat of her climax boiled over in a sudden rush of arousal, Abaddon working her flesh to perfection. Ruby gripped her hair tight as her thighs flexed, her entire body taut as the chains that held Abaddon aloft. In a blinding flash of release, her orgasm raged like wildfire through her veins, unrepentant and violent. Her demonic shriek filled the room as Abaddon, relentless, sucked her clean of her cum. Aftershocks of her orgasm echoed across her body, each shuddering flex drawn by Abaddon’s continued assault until Ruby wrenched her head back by her hair. Arousal dripped from her chin, bright red lipstick smeared with it, a pretty mess so deserving of a reward.

Ruby shifted beneath her, face to face once more, and kissed Abaddon deep, tongue laving over hers. She swallowed Abaddon’s moans as Ruby reached between her thighs to tease her clit. She had half a mind to leave her there then, but as Abaddon writhed in her restraints, whimpering, she couldn’t resist pleasuring her thoroughly.

Between her legs, Ruby crawled behind Abaddon and froze a moment to drink in the sight of her ass poised so perfectly for her. Arousal dripped from her flesh, slicked her thighs that quivered with palpable need. A need that Ruby knew precisely how to sate. A delicate nail infused with her power dragged a tendril of hellfire along the supple curve of one cheek, blood oozing from the broken flesh. Abaddon’s cry softened into a mewling moan, music to her ears, as Ruby soothed the sting with her tongue. Against her pale skin, the smear of Abaddon’s crimson blood streaked as if made by a painter’s brush. In a way, Ruby thought, it had been. Abaddon considered Ruby an artist in the craft of pleasure and pain, so often she used her body like a canvas. With the other cheek blank, it called to Ruby, begged for her hand, and so, she obliged.

All five nails clawed into the meat of her muscle, power poured into her grasp as Ruby raked her skin. Abaddon howled in pain, her head thrown back and body convulsing against her restraints. For that, she earned a reminder, and so, with a snap of her fingers, Ruby cracked the invisible lash against her thighs. Deep cuts drew blood that ran to the sheets as Abaddon silenced herself, body stilled but for the shake of her shoulders as she struggled to contain her euphoria.

Ruby sought the solution in the chest, a wave of her hand summoning the gag she thought she might not need. But apparently, Abaddon’s day had been a truly righteous mess and she needed the entire routine. So, bending over her, Ruby stuffed the gag into her mouth and fastened the strap behind her head. “There. Scream all you want now.”

Abaddon moaned as she nodded, relieved for the outlet. Ruby might be a ruthless mistress, but she was far from cruel.

With her attention returned to Abaddon’s sex, Ruby found blood smeared across her skin and along her own body. The lash across her thighs yet bled, and so, Ruby sealed it with a swift touch. She had so much more in store for Abaddon, she didn’t need her vessel bleeding out before she was through. “Better, my darling? Nod for me, please.”

A vigorous shake of her head responded. Perfect. That deserved more than a simple reward. “You’ve done well, love,” Ruby cooed as she dragged another trail of fire along her ass. Abaddon moaned into the gag as her thighs quivered, so near to her end already. “Would you like to come?”

Another nod responded with her whimper, and so, Ruby obliged. With both hands, she grasped Abaddon’s cheeks, spread her wide, then began her feast. Blood and arousal fused for a taste so distinctly Abaddon’s, Ruby moaned into her flesh. Fuck, she was close. The walls of her cunt flexed wildly, tight around her tongue as Ruby penetrated her. Mere seconds of her attention split Abaddon at the seams, her wailing moan muted against the gag as she came. A sluice of arousal rushed over Ruby’s lips, ran down her chin as she pushed Abaddon as far she could stand it, until she whimpered for her to stop.

Ruby withdrew, lips licked clean, and Abaddon slumped into her restraints. Her shoulders heaved with breath sucked through her nose, soft sighs and softer whimpers riding out her high. Pleased, Ruby soothed the lashes and cuts, healing them each with a gentle touch. “That was delicious, sweetheart,” Ruby sighed as she smoothed the pristine skin of her ass. “Are you ready for your final binding?”

Abaddon continued her labored breathing, hesitating but a moment before she nodded, eager once more. “Excellent,” Ruby sang. “I admit, I’ve been looking forward to this part the entire evening.”

One last wave of Ruby’s hand transformed the belt of her own harness, shifting into a holster in which was mounted a long, thick dildo fashioned after that of a hellhound. Deep red, it matched their leather, and Ruby wasted no time in teasing Abaddon with the pointed tip. A shudder of shock coursed through Abaddon at the sudden contact. “Oh, you want it, don’t you? You want my cock buried in your pussy so bad, you ache. I can see it in your thighs, how you hum with need,” Ruby said with a moan. A flick of her fingers unfastened the gag, and it fell from Abaddon’s mouth. “Beg, my dear. Beg for my cock like my good little whore.”

“My queen, please,” Abaddon wailed, “I need it! Please, fuck me, I need you. I need your big cock inside me.”

Ruby teased her a moment longer before grasping Abaddon’s hips, then pressed, the narrow tip gliding between her flesh with ease. With each inch, she spread, the cock wider and wider with ridges and bumps and a spine of rounded spikes that teased her clit as they passed. Abaddon gaped with a silent scream as the dildo filled her, stretched to her limit. When Ruby’s pelvis met Abaddon’s ass, she asked, “And how does that feel, my love?”

Abaddon merely moaned, nonsense falling from her lips. She begged for more, for movement, for friction, anything but Ruby sitting there completely still. Ruby, ever the giving type, obliged with a snap of her hips, violently withdrawing from her, then slamming her hips into her ass, the dildo pummeling her cunt. Another wailing scream rent the still dungeon air as Abaddon’s entire body jolted at the sudden impact, and Ruby moaned her own delighted response. “So needy,” she started as she rolled her hips again, watching the ridges stroking her cunt as she fucked. “So desperate. My little whore needs to be fucked, doesn’t she?”

“Please,” Abaddon begged, “I need more, I need you to fuck me harder.”

Ruby grasped her hair at the back of her head and shoved her face into the mattress. “Like this?” she demanded as she pumped her hips in Abaddon’s ass, the slap of leather on skin echoing through the room. Harder and faster, she pounded into Abaddon, her flesh so pliant in her restraints and her mind so willing. “Answer me, whore. Do you like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes!” Abaddon cried, a string of ancient curses in her demon’s tongue following. As Ruby thrust, Abaddon slipped between human tongues and ancient verses that, were her powers unbound, would have destroyed them both. Long minutes stretched, time distorted for them both, Ruby in complete control and Abaddon at her mercy, of which Ruby had none. Relentlessly, she thrust, pounding the massive cock into Abaddon until she begged her to stop, begged for release, for permission to come again and again and again. When the babbling nonsense fell to helpless whimpers, defeated cries of please, my queen, let me come for you, fuck, you feel so good, please, I need to come, I can’t hold on any longer, please, Ruby poured every ounce of her power into her fingers and drove it straight into Abaddon’s cunt.

The wail of a demon in the throes of death paled in comparison to the sound of Abaddon coming after hours of denial. That demonic scream rattled the chains that bound her as Abaddon’s orgasm ravaged her vessel. Ruby never eased, her violent thrusts pounding through her release as the gush of cum spurted onto her stomach and ran down her thighs. Several minutes passed as wave after wave of climax coursed through Abaddon, each with its own wailing moan. When Ruby withdrew, a flow of thin cum streamed down Abaddon’s thighs to soak the sheets, and at long last, she slumped once more in her restraints, vessel exhausted.

Ruby acted with haste then, her harness and straps vanishing with a wave of her hand and leaving her bare. She lowered Abaddon to the bed by the hoist, unfastened all her restraints in quick succession and returned them to the box. Returned to the bed, Ruby flicked her wrist to turn down the sheets—and in the process, cleaned them of all their bodily fluids—then crawled in beside Abaddon, a heap of useless flesh.

With the sheets pulled to her neck, Ruby cradled Abaddon in her lap, righted her hair once more, and smoothed her lipstick with her thumb. “How do you feel, my queen?” she asked.

Abaddon sighed a long, easy breath. “Like a million bucks. Thank you, Ruby.”

Ruby grinned at that, far too pleased with herself. “Glad I could help. Do you need anything before—”

The sounds of a sleeping dragon held nothing on Abaddon’s snoring. Another pleased grin spread across her lips as Ruby wiggled further beneath the sheets, eager to join her queen in their world of nightmares.

Tags: @atc74 @hannahindie @bevans87 @meganwinchester1999 @plaided-ani-on-hiatus @oneshoeshort @jonogueira @andkatiethings @elfinmox @princessofthefandomrealm @just-another-busyfangirl @jmekitchens @81mysteriouslyme @dolphincliffs @seenashwrite

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ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN KINK BINGO MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[primestartes]

The Warden Crusade

“In this galaxy, sundered by the murderous ambition of damned men and false gods into two, war forever burns. Hope a gilded thread constantly fought by men and women of the Imperium held aloft by the restored Son of the Emperor, Roboute Guilliman. Even in this most grievous of times, the Emperor provides.

Yet, in this battle of hope, evils are exposed from the veil of the faithful. Here, in the Jericho Reach beyond Ultramar’s noble empire; where the alien, heretic, and traitors encroach in an endless war, there is an empire. A mockery of the revived Primarch’s own state-stars. The Sons of Scylla revealed the lies and hubris bore by those who hold his gene-seed. These Wardens of Guilliman, a chapter long once-trapped in the claws of a warpstorm emerges from centuries of forgotten heroism, return not as allies we seek but monstrous pretenders.

As true angels of the Emperor, the Adeptus Astartes whom be risen to stand for his decree and truth, we can not allow this fell corruption to remain.

Even now, the Deathwatch of Acheros Salient assist the vanguard forces against the Wardens’ mortal regiments supplementing their rule, starting on the Post-world of Jammir. We strike world-after-world in honour of the Astartes. We shall not allow another to join Abaddon’s treachery.”

Battle of Travin Plateau Jammir - 033.M42

A half-hour ago, Sergeant Brodd was running through the tall grass from a sudden ambush by his own men. For years, they’ve been fighting side-by-side against the T’au and those in contempt of their Lords’ will. The next, they turned on him with an almost alien look in their eyes right after killed two more traitors. What in Hell was going on? These sudden rebellions have been springing here and about for months. It can’t be the xenos, they weren’t this underhanded.

 No...it must be.

Suddenly a slash of green caught his eyes. He thought it was a branch but it was impossible when the trees were just a yard off. A figure emerged from the grass’ cover, growing increasingly larger like a chameleon. Red lenses glared at him, clad in what was green power armour before it changed into something like sea-moss. One of the Wardens!? The look on the gene-therapied man’s face was one of fear, his hands clawing at the armoured fingers that were wrapped around his muscled throat like a mere child. It was impossible, they were too big yet...the armour look so different. 

There is another Lord-Chapter? 

“W-Why?” He gagged. The helmet, crowned of rearing dog-headed snakes, tilted before dragging the Sergeant close like the sky cried tears of falling comets. A voice, growling of auditory filter, yet whispered from the coldest love. 

“For the Emperor.”

And his life, like that of thousands more on this day, was expunged. Along the Travin Plateau, there was chaos. Guards against guards, the communications scrambling to under the situation and moreso, the sudden report of drop pods falling into select locations. It was hard to collect it all for the Warden Comms. Already, one of the more cohesive units were mobilizing to reclaim a lost base towards the southern swamp led by Fourteenth Company Commander Agemman Krivanec of the Sixth Jammiran Regiment with the assistance of the Eighth Armoured Platoon. 

This force, fierce as it is, provides an apt opportunity. One that the newly arriving Primaris will not deny.

[heavenfiercemoved]

I will get a theme up at some point but my verses as follows:

the  archangel  michael  morningstar  in  all  his  glory.         default  for  most  interactions.

takes  place  in  present  day,  or  present  day  for  your  muse.  he  is  a  WISE  being,  well  beyond  the  billions  of  years  he  has  under  his  belt. note:   if  we're  talking  in  terms  of  supernatural,  I  mainly  place  him  in  season  nine,  with  metatron  and  abaddon  being  his  main  antagonists.  I  can  do  season  five,  but  at  request.

wretched.  aka  dark  michael.     this  would  be  the  version  of  michael  that  will  be  placed  into  my  season  fourteen  supernatural  verse.

a version where the mark takes him over.  BUT,  mostly  it's  POST  CAGE,  in  terms  of  supernatural,  basically  he's  just  more  sophisticated,  conniving  and  cunning  than  lucifer. he  considers  his  brother  to  be  sloppy,  all  over  the  place  and  he  aims  to  do  better.

other world michael,  spn season 14,   by  request only.

I’m still developing this verse,  but I’m ready for it.  I’ll end up creating multiple michaels to support this multi unverse kick they’re going for. whew.

pre-fall.  (  before  the  fall  of  lucifer  )

status:  open  to  God, gods & goddesses, angels, limited humans, and beings around during this time.

fallen.  (  damaged  grace  )

his  wings  are  clipped,  whether  it  be  from  the  metatron  spell,  a  season  nine  au,    or  something  else  caused  his  fall.  not  to  be  confused  with  human.

human.  (  either  fallen  completely  or  never  was  an  angel  )

various  arcs  for  either  side.   human aus will be place here as well.

endverse.

episode The End 5.04 based,  the  FEARLESS  LEADER  finally  has  his  prayers  answered  and  michael  takes  over  to  eliminate lucifer. note: if I write with a lucifer, michael has other plans and I do have a thread idea,  tw  for  torture  though.

[chvrchesrp]

Welcome to CHVRCHES’ sixteenth event!

This event is our fifth missive event, which means a little bit of what happens will be assigned to your muse. This event is a narrative to support your tasks and has only this one part. Assignments are considered game canon, whether or not you explore them deeply. 

The date stamp for the event is Thursday, December 28th, for timeline purposes. You are welcome to continue writing on this date into our real-life January, as we know things are busy right now! In-character speaking, don’t write threads past the event yet—there will be an Epilogue dated for IC-New Years’ Day and our final event on January 13th.

Trigger warnings: death, gore, self-harm mentions.

In the distance, trumpets sound throughout the sky, billowing louder than the wind. They come from nothing and become nothing; the gates of Heaven still closed, those within it deaf to that strange sound and others. The white robed spirits let loose their terrible wailing, still standing outside the Church, still screaming for a justice that hasn’t come. Bodies walk among us, hollow husks and sunken cheeks, wordless and wanting. Some shades sojourn too, translucent memories of once-was lives, pale recollections of the cosmos.

The number of dead walking equal the number of the living.

Elsewhere, God and the Devil are shepherding the vulnerable and weak to safe havens. They salvage what can be saved so that there can be a world left to return to. They pronounce new things as sacred and profane, hoping it will protect more than their reverie. The plan only works if their creations save themselves. Some things are beyond even higher powers. Their Churches must save the world from the Horsemen, because if Death integrates, the Horsemen become immortal and unstoppable.

The integration must be stopped at any and all costs, otherwise the world is just a clock ticking down to its own demise to the beat of Horsemen laughter. Maria and Magda worked out more than a hunch; they believe that this time, between their wit and wisdom, their prophecies and powers, they know who Death is. They know long enough in advance to stop it, and so, tonight is the chosen time. It’s the Last Stand. It’s the End of Days. Or, its their renewal. Everyone prays for the latter with unmoving lips and strong hearts.

It was hard enough to get everyone in the same room, minds to the same task, but after all they’d been through together, there was less distance—and even a touch of camaraderie that hadn’t been there before the Halloween party. It was clear from the failure at the Oscars and the subsequent horrors unleashed that their logic was flawed—but where was the fault? The Grails were the key, but the question was how to use them. Maria realized that, just as God and the Devil were, they had to be shepherds of their own flocks.

Now, everyone was gathered, the bait easy:

They’d told the Horsemen they knew who Death was and they could come and get that individual if they dared face the Churches again. The Horsemen were suitably unimpressed, having had their run-ins with the Grails once already and deeming them a universal fluke. As the groups converged at the Hazard Recreation Center—a place with an open field, a baseball diamond—everything in the air was more palpable. The taste of iron and salt was all around them, a cocktail of foreboding, sweat, and adrenaline.

The joke is this: Death isn’t there, but the Horsemen don’t know that.

As bait, Magda is who they offer: she can talk to the dead, after all. She ticks off all the boxes: connection with Death, oddly missing ever since the last integration, and a Nephilim. Predicting her own downfall was poetic.

The Churches put Magda behind them all, making it so the Horsemen have to go through them to get to her. Belial, laughing, asks why the Horsemen should even bother; if they do nothing, Death integrates all the same, and there is nothing the Churches can do to stop an integration. To which Magda says nothing, too far to be heard, but raises a shining golden gun that Raziel got for her. The statement is clear: she’ll do what she has to in order to prevent her own integration. The Horsemen sense a trap, but aren’t sure what it is. 

Why not kill Magda outright? Why give them the chance to get to her?

The look around and see a number of familiar faces are missing; Gabriel and Lazarus, for example, and Isadora from the Sinners’ board. What could they be up to? Belial looks behind the Horsemen, trying to determine if they’ve been boxed in somehow. He tells his compatriots to be wary, that there might be tricks in the trees that line the baseball diamond, or that they could be hidden under and around park materials. The Horsemen have the power, especially with the Farriers at their sides, so they engage in the fight.

Phase one is to make the Horsemen weaker: take out their Farriers.

THREAD TASKS:

A team comprised of Noah, Adele, and Isaiah go up against Elijah, the easiest one to kill, as a human—though the emotions that arise make this harder than it looks.

A team comprised of Crowley, Olivia, Tabitha, and Zack go to take down Abaddon. Crowley mortally wounds Abaddon with her Grail sometime during this harrowing battle.

A team comprised of Levi, Dom, and Grace go to tackle Heath; this happens last as Abaddon’s blood can be used as poison on the weapon to kill the everstrong Heath.

After their deaths, phase two is the elimination of the Horsemen:

THREAD TASKS:

Cassiel and Shibah (NPC) use the Trepanum Blade to go after one of their own, Donato. The grail that was a gift from Adon, a god himself, to govern one of his once-was angels. 

Satan and Babylon use the Unguis Blade; Crowley delivered it to Satan, its original owner, though he now wields it with different intentions. The Beast and the Harlot go after Belial.

Zoe and Renee use the Tentabis Chalice on one of their own: Kiara, who was once human. Maria loaned the Chalice, realizing both sets of hands on it is the only way it works.

And, in a secret location somewhere in Los Angeles...

THREAD TASK:

Maria, Josh, and Talia are in a dark room with no cell reception and no electricity, nothing that would give them away. Death’s grip on Josh is getting stronger and stronger, as if the Horseman knows his compatriots are here. It senses this is the witching hour.

They know they cannot let Death and Joshua integrate. Though Magda is acting the martyr on the field, it is Josh who fulfills his destiny again as the true Martyr, dying for a cause to save the world. And it falls to Talia to kill him, the unicorn in her own act of sacrifice, tarnishing her innocence for the greater good of the world, not unlike an echo of her lover.

For a moment, Josh lets himself lose control—he trusts Maria to anchor him back when it counts. Josh fades ever so slightly as Death comes to the forefront, eyes immediately on the visible Talia, whom Death attacks, its hands becoming claws that aim to rip out her throat.

Maria calls Josh back to the forefront of his consciousness in time for Talia’s poppet power to ricochet back on Josh/Death. Josh accepts this death and by the invisible hands of a puppetmaster, his throat is torn out, and he dies. The integration is stopped and Death’s energy dies along with him, but it’s not all happiness: Death has left its stain on Talia, too. While her throat is in tact, her body can’t withstand Death’s power. The confrontation with the cosmos kills her, too.

The world is saved. Writers, feel free to have your muses get as injured and/or mortally wounded as you wish in your threads. The deaths of Elijah, Abaddon, and Heath are permanent. Writers of those muses are welcome to continue to write scenes in flashback for the duration of January and are exempt from Activity Checks for the final month, but keep in touch with us and feel free to focus on Feywild. That being said, everyone else, stay tuned for the Epilogue in January for more outcomes of this event.

Thank you all, beloveds, and Happy New Year! What a wild ride!

[memoirsofratasum]

Protector Tarnn: The Desolation

Sanna and I took a couple days for a crash course on skimmer riding and care, but we were on a time limit to get to Sand Jackal Run. So before we knew it we had packed up the Priory books and scrolls onto the backs of the skimmers, bid Khalida farewell, and followed Sahil over the water.

With all the greenery and water at the ranch you’d never know we were actually in the middle of a desert. The only thing marking our location is the Bone Wall that looms over everything. And of course that was right where we were heading. The gate is endlessly patrolled by elite awakened warriors, but the western stretches of the wall are neglected and that’s where Sahil showed us the secret entrance into the Desolation. Or one of them at least, apparently the Order of Shadows is constantly creating and maintaining hidden gaps in the wall.

Once through we were over a lake in the Spillway. We were informed that there was a village called Prosperity to the east but it was best to avoid it unless absolutely necessary. We might be able to pass with some clever lies as Joko supposedly rules the whole world, but our precious collections of Priory writings would put a target on our heads. Instead Salid was taking us south to the Darklands and to the Chantry of Shadows before traveling the rest of the way to the djinn’s city.

This has to be the absolute worst leg of any journey I have ever been on. Skimmers do produce an aura of clean air in order to keep afloat, but that doesn’t change the fact that the Acrid Springs and Sulfur Quarry are aptly named. I never knew that landscape could be quite so yellow. It wasn’t until Salid took us through a back passage in the Darklands that we saw something more normal, namely snow. Apparently these hidden peaks are unknown to Joko as they hold the graves of Sunspears. There is no way the undead king would allow these graves to exist unsullied in his kingdom. I wonder if the Order of Shadows is responsible for keeping the secret. It is very close to their chantry after all.

The Chantry of Shadows welcomed Sahil openly but were a bit more guarded with Sanna and myself. Not rude, just reserved. They did allow us to rest and eat while they gave us news about the area. It turns out we were closer to the Mouth of Torment than I realized. Of course everyone knows about the Mouth of Torment and that it’s in the Desolation but I never expected it to be just past the craggy rock formations we saw coming in. That’s hardly a bone’s throw away! Not that the Order of Shadows would have allowed us to get close to it even on the best of days. And these aren’t the best of days. Balthazar's forged army has taken root at the Mouth and are actively fighting the awakened with the humans of the Order merely being in the way. And on top of that, Joko has been missing for quite some time. The last the spies saw of him was in the company of Balthazar and the thought was they were creating an alliance, but there hasn’t been sign of the king since and the two factions have been fighting harder than ever. Can a god kill an undead for good? No one knows, all they do know is that now without Joko’s leadership the awakened are moving towards Vabbi for some reason and so aren’t making their usual patrols of the region. Ironically this might be the safest time to travel in the Desolation in centuries.

We skirted past the outer edge of the Mouth, heading south through the Vitriolic Rim and Broken Shelf. This area of the Desolation is a little bit more bearable, there was less sulfur and more wild animals. I don’t think I saw a single awakened or forged the entire time. We were just reaching the Alkali Pan, and more sulfur, when Sanna pointed to the sky. Suspended high in the air was our destination, Sand Jackal Run. Our skimmers made short work of the sulfur of the Pan and then the odd sandfall that came down the twisting staircase. I wonder if that’s how the djinn have keep the awakened out for so many years.

At the top of the stairs was a welcomed sight. Huge building of brick and lapis blue paint stood before us and a steady breeze of cool clean air flowed through the archways. We were greeted by Drojkor, an air djinn by the looks of it. I’ve never seen a djinn up close before. Is this what Zommoros actually looks like? I wonder if he’s as well known here as he is in Tyria. Drojkor was very friendly and was eager to see what the Priory was willing to trade (teaching of Raven, apparently djinn really *really* like riddles), in the meantime he half-urged/half-forced us to meet with some of the sand jackals they train here. The djinn here are very proud of their jackals and have been doing a steady business since the Tyrians arrived.

I’m not the biggest fan of sand, but these jackals did remind me of my wolf Valor, only much bigger and sandier. I had to leave him behind at the temple and I certainly missed having a canine companion at my side. Sanna was beside herself with delight, I think it’s an elementalist thing, but I kinda liked them too. You’d never know they were technically minions of Abaddon with how well they behave, from what I gathered the djinn have an extensive training program for them. Even Sahil, who prefers raptors and skimmers, was caught petting one or two, though he denied it.

It wasn’t all petting sand dogs though. We camped the night at the Run and swapped stories with other Tyrians that were staying overnight as well. There were rumors running wild about the commander. Apparently they were the ones we saw fighting Balthazar and, if you can believe it, died and came back to life and are now trying to wrestle control of Joko’s armies for themselves. Yeah right. I’m not going to deny that the commander has done some crazy things, but that’s a bit too much to swallow. Still, it is true that the awakened are marching on Vabbi despite Joko not being at the helm. I’m not sure if I can equate that to the commander’s doing though.

The next morning Drojkor informed us that the Priory offers were sufficient, but while taking inventory the djinn were missing the final findings on some properties of sulfur in one of their scrolls and they could not honor the trade without having it be complete. We were asked to go to the Lair of the Forgotten and give a letter to someone named Aisha Jedgok and retrieve the sample from her so the writings can be completed. Of course the Lair of the Forgotten was nowhere nearby, being clear on the other side of the Desolation, but we still had Sahil with us who said he had an idea on how to get there.

The sulfur rivers cut right through the Desolation and are rarely patrolled even during the worst of times, Sahil figures that they are probably all but abandoned now. I still can’t believe that rivers of molten sulfur are considered areas of safety. But Sahil was right, our skimmers were able to take us to the Lair of the Forgotten without any obstacles in our way.

I’m not sure what I expected in this place, but I can say that ghosts were not it. They were everywhere. But unlike most ghosts I’ve had experience with, they weren’t violent and seemed to be aware of their surroundings, at least for the most part. Sanna started to ask around for this Aisha persona but what caught my eye though were the wardlights that dotted the area. The ghost Godaj explained that they were to deter Joko’s Ghost Eaters, special awakened that consume ghosts simply because the king has no power over that type of undead. The ghosts can be lost forever, but even if they manage to escape they are weakened and are at greater risk the next time the Ghost Eater’s raid the area.

Of course, while this was being explained the Ghost Eaters themselves decided to show up. They looked just like any other awakened and you’d never think they were anything special up until you noticed how they always went straight for the ghosts. And the ghosts were defenseless. Their cries for help are something that I will probably hear for many nights. Of course I and the other Tyrians that happened to be in the area leapt to drive back the awakened, but it was really only a temporary measure. It made me think about what Khalida had said a few weeks ago, about being a protector of the dead. Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous idea.

During the fight Sanna had found Aisha Jedgok and had exchanged the letter for the sulfur sample so we were free to head back to Sand Jackal Run. We had a job to finish but the whole way back I kept thinking about those ghosts, I barely noticed where we were until we reached that giant sand staircase. Drojkor was happy that we got the sample and said that the djinn would get to work finishing up their writings immediately. In the meantime we saw to our skimmers and packed up what was available to take. I don’t know how the djinn do it, maybe it’s their four arms, but by the next morning Drojkor had the finished scrolls on the sulfur to take. He also gave us something else: a stone charm with a familiar rune carved into it. We had apparently made a good impression and the djinn were giving Sanna and myself our own jackals. Not to borrow like with all the other mounts we’ve ridden, but to own for ourselves. The jackals were fresh off of training but they took to our command easily, leaping and blinking with ease. Sahil helped thread the charms onto some leather strings to wear as bracelets so now we can summon our sand jackals whenever we want. Too bad they don’t run on sulfur or water, we are still reliant on the skimmers until we leave the Desolation. But once we return them to the ranch, we will be free to really try out our new mounts.