Ficlet: Abaddon, pear-tree
On the first day of Christmas, there's an Abaddon ficlet involving pears for cassiopeia7. Underneath the cut for mentions of gore, torture and Abaddon being a dick.
Slippery pear juice runs down over her fingers and she licks them clean with professional interest. There used to be a story, oh back when even she was young, about how Lazarus-the-beggar's brothers screamed as they burned, and begged their brother for water. Filled with compassion as sticky-sweet as pear juice, he begged to be allowed to convey them some, only to be informed that the passage between heaven and hell was impassable. Abaddon suspects that if God's still around, she'd get on well with him. Compassion has always seemed such a peculiarly human trait. She leans forward, and lets a drop of pear juice roll down her finger and splash on tortured lips, watches detachedly as the thing in front of her screams.
It's been a while since she's been so hands on. A Knight of Hell has their dignity after all, dented as it is, since the news about Crowley, but she feels the fresh urge to be back in the game, and she's been a woman of action since before the rack first shaped her (or at least so she thinks, it has after all been a very long time). But the Winchesters, sniveling crawling worms that they are, fit only to be crushed with with a boot, pose some inexplicable threat, not just to her but to anything that gets in their careless, thoughtless way.
This is why she's here, this is why she's slipped into Hell's ante-chamber and found the soul that she wants, almost unrecognisable now as a soul, so very close to not remembering anything at all. Some people it takes days to break, others years. The ones who shouldn't be there take the longest. She's heard of Dean Winchester's forty years of writhing, and was mildly impressed, but there are a lot of souls, oh such a lot of souls down here, and if every one of them turned, well there'd be more torturers than tortured and where would Hell be then? This one's been waiting a long time for the tap, hasn't got their black eyes yet but oh they beg so pretty for them, for a chance at that knife.
It's taken a very long time for her to learn a shred of subtlety, but after all she's never needed it before. To crush, to rend, to destroy, had been her task and she'd taken to it with ease. She leans out and catches the slithering, squalling thing that's birthed from the darkness of the rack, lets it smear her shoes and her jacket and her face with the last heaving sobs, before she takes it by the hand and leads it to the exit, watches it shed its skin for a final time and blink with black eyes. A very long time indeed but it's been worth it.
The thing that was once Bela Talbot crawls its way out of hell and Abaddon laughs as she rolls up her sleeves and helps midwife another one of the Winchesters mistakes into the world, because there's so very many of them, so many overripe fruits dangling from the Winchesters very own Tree of Knowledge, just waiting for a chance, and it's taken a long time for Abaddon to know the true power of tools but now that she does? They'll know it too.
Slippery pear juice runs down over her fingers and she licks them clean with professional interest. There used to be a story, oh back when even she was young, about how Lazarus-the-beggar's brothers screamed as they burned, and begged their brother for water. Filled with compassion as sticky-sweet as pear juice, he begged to be allowed to convey them some, only to be informed that the passage between heaven and hell was impassable. Abaddon suspects that if God's still around, she'd get on well with him. Compassion has always seemed such a peculiarly human trait. She leans forward, and lets a drop of pear juice roll down her finger and splash on tortured lips, watches detachedly as the thing in front of her screams.
It's been a while since she's been so hands on. A Knight of Hell has their dignity after all, dented as it is, since the news about Crowley, but she feels the fresh urge to be back in the game, and she's been a woman of action since before the rack first shaped her (or at least so she thinks, it has after all been a very long time). But the Winchesters, sniveling crawling worms that they are, fit only to be crushed with with a boot, pose some inexplicable threat, not just to her but to anything that gets in their careless, thoughtless way.
This is why she's here, this is why she's slipped into Hell's ante-chamber and found the soul that she wants, almost unrecognisable now as a soul, so very close to not remembering anything at all. Some people it takes days to break, others years. The ones who shouldn't be there take the longest. She's heard of Dean Winchester's forty years of writhing, and was mildly impressed, but there are a lot of souls, oh such a lot of souls down here, and if every one of them turned, well there'd be more torturers than tortured and where would Hell be then? This one's been waiting a long time for the tap, hasn't got their black eyes yet but oh they beg so pretty for them, for a chance at that knife.
It's taken a very long time for her to learn a shred of subtlety, but after all she's never needed it before. To crush, to rend, to destroy, had been her task and she'd taken to it with ease. She leans out and catches the slithering, squalling thing that's birthed from the darkness of the rack, lets it smear her shoes and her jacket and her face with the last heaving sobs, before she takes it by the hand and leads it to the exit, watches it shed its skin for a final time and blink with black eyes. A very long time indeed but it's been worth it.
The thing that was once Bela Talbot crawls its way out of hell and Abaddon laughs as she rolls up her sleeves and helps midwife another one of the Winchesters mistakes into the world, because there's so very many of them, so many overripe fruits dangling from the Winchesters very own Tree of Knowledge, just waiting for a chance, and it's taken a long time for Abaddon to know the true power of tools but now that she does? They'll know it too.