Hell's Bells Part 4: Won't Take No Prisoners, Won't Spare No Lives
Title: Hell's Bells Part 4: Won't Take No Prisoners, Won't Spare No Lives
Authors LJ Username: safiyabat
Artists LJ Username:disreputabled0g
Pairing(s): Meg/Abaddon
Rating:PG-13
Wordcount: 16,603
Summary: The final showdown. A little something for everyone.
Warnings: Gore and violence. Also trigger warning for some nasty gendered slurs.
Link to fic masterpost here. Read previous chapter here.
Link to art masterpost here.
Meg wouldn’t have described them as “ready” when the time came for the final showdown with Crowley. Sam hadn’t found a way to remove the Mark from Dean. He’d found some way to “maybe numb it, possibly, I mean it worked for Cain right?” but he hadn’t found any way to definitively erase that taint from his brother’s arm or his soul. They hadn’t shut down all of the soul-stealing factories or even found them yet. They hadn’t brought on all of the old guard - Hegel was a particular holdout - and they hadn’t prevented Crowley from making more alliances with non-demonic creatures. Meg even suspected the old goat of tying a few angels into his gross little web.
What they did have was Crowley running scared, and by “scared” she meant running harder and faster than he’d been running during the Apocalypse or maybe even when Castiel had decided to crown himself God. That meant he was desperate, and in his desperation he had collected Dean Winchester and given him the First Blade. The results were predictable, because of course he hadn’t given him the Blade while he was anywhere near Sam. According to Sam - who was the only living witness, other than Crowley - the only thing that had brought Dean down from whatever the effect of the Blade was on him was Sam’s voice.
So even though they weren’t ready, even though it wasn’t the right time, they had to bring all of their forces to the field of Crowley’s choosing and fight it out with him there. “I hate this,” Meg fretted as she sent word to her allies and those under her command. “I hate the thought that we’re dancing to his tune, even a little bit.”
“I know.” Abaddon carded her fingers through Meg’s hair. “I’m not exactly a fan myself. But this is something we can do, Meg. It’s not ideal, but we can still win this.”
“How is it a win if Dean has the Blade?” she seethed. “He can kill you with that thing!”
“He can,” she admitted with a smirk. “Doesn’t mean that he will.”
“You sound like Sam.”
“He does have intelligent things to say every once in a while. Not often, but sometimes.” She kissed her. “Come on. Tomorrow is big. Let’s make tonight big too.” She helped Meg off with her shirt, and Meg helped her off with hers. They took their time with each other that night; it wasn’t like they needed to sleep, all of the preparations that could be made had been made and if tonight was going to be their last night together then Meg was at least certain she was going to make it count.
Morning arrived far too quickly for her tastes, but she got up and prepared to head out anyway. The battlefield chosen was a clearing in a state park in Massachusetts. Odd that such a bucolic location would be the site for what was certain to be a slaughter of epic proportions but what could you really do? At least this way fewer civilians would be likely to get caught up in the crossfire. While neither Meg nor Abaddon had a problem with the death of innocents they both had a strong preference for those deaths to be deliberate, not something that just kind of happened because someone wasn’t paying attention. It was about quality, really. Plus no one really wanted to listen to Sam get his guts all tied up about it.
Their quarry stood across the field from where Abaddon’s host materialized, Meg having fetched Sam on her way in. Crowley stood at the center of a long line of creatures - mostly demons, but he had a few werewolves and shifters and even a couple of vampires with him too. He sneered when he saw Abaddon’s cohort. “Whore,” he greeted Meg. “And Moose. After all I’ve done for you.” He turned his attention to his true rival. “Adopting Azazel’s orphans, are we Abby darling? Or just Lucifer’s sloppy seconds?”
Meg snarled but a pale, elegant hand on her shoulder calmed her. “Sam’s doing what’s right for his family,” Abaddon informed the salesman coldly.
“Sam has never given a crap about his family,” Dean spat. Meg hadn’t noticed the Mark on his arm the last time she’d seen him but now, with his sleeves rolled up and the damn thing glowing and pulsing like a lava floe, she couldn’t very well ignore it. “Or maybe he just likes that side of his family better, is that it, Sammy? Huh?”
“It’s the Mark talking, Sam,” Meg warned him in a low voice. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I could blow him into a thousand shards if you’d like,” Tammuz offered, not unkindly.
“The Mark, remember?” Sam’s mouth quirked up a little. “But thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
“Are we going to talk, Crowley? Or are we going to settle the problem of Hell once and for all?” Abaddon wanted to know. “Because you bringing your little dog here and the First Blade kind of suggests that the time for talking is long since over.” Meg eyed his troops. They’d been strung out across the treeline so that it looked like there were a lot of them, but there was only one line of them. There were a lot of creatures, both demonic and other, getting in the way of her senses but she didn’t get the impression that they had any reinforcements en route.
Crowley gave one of the nastiest smiles she’d ever seen and opened up a curse box. “Let’s dance then, shall we?” Dean had already reached in and grabbed the First Blade by the time that the words were out of Crowley’s foul, bearded mouth. Once it was in his hands there was nothing left to say or do but fight.
Fortunately fighting was something that Meg actually enjoyed. She released her hounds. She’d lose some of them and that wasn’t something she looked forward to but this was war and some losses were inevitable. They might not be able to do much against the werewolves or the shifters, but a hellhound could certainly behead a vampire with its jaws and it didn’t take long for her pets to do exactly that.
Meg of course had other concerns. She set a course due Crowley, fully intent on getting his slimy skin between her hands and tearing it from his frame with nothing but her teeth and claws. She could do it too, she was older than he was and she was Azazel’s daughter to boot. The problem was that Crowley’s loyalists expected her to charge him and deployed to defend him. She punched through the meatsuit of one enemy and spread its ribs wide, damaging it to the point where the demon inside was forced to smoke out and go find another host. Her angel blade found a home deep in the skull of another assailant - there was no way it was going to fake its final death the way she had faked hers. A werewolf charged in and bit into her side, tearing a chunk out of the tender flesh of her abdomen and the shirt that covered it. She grunted in pain and stabbed it with the angel blade, which worked as well as silver when it came to such things. A human would have been incapacitated by that bite. Meg was not human. She was thousands of years old and the pain just added fuel to the fire that was Meg. She lashed out with her power and caught a shifter as it tried to stab her with a silver knife - really, what did it think that was going to do? Its head exploded, neatly solving the problem of the lack of silver as she turned her attention to another nameless demon that was trying to hamstring her. Such an act would definitely impede her ability to either kill Crowley or defend Abaddon and that was simply unacceptable.
An explosion rocked the field and Meg found herself thrown to the ground by concussive force. Sam stood with a repurposed whiskey bottle maybe thirty feet from a circle of char and destruction; a few flames licked at the edges. His expression was grim but his expression was always grim. He might have also been cut or stabbed or something; he was bleeding a bit from the arm but it didn’t seem to bother him much. Meg took a moment to check on her lover. Abaddon had not been knocked down by the blast; she was fortunately far enough away from it that she’d been able to withstand the force. Ten bodies had piled up around her and while plenty of splatter had decorated her beautiful face none of it seemed to have come from her. Even as Meg watched Abaddon grabbed another demon and drove her angel blade right up into the creature’s skull from behind the chin. There was another Crowley supporter they wouldn’t be seeing again.
Meg scrambled to her feet faster than the demons around her and took out another two before they recovered from the blast. All around her she heard the baying and barking of her hounds, the screaming and the snarling of the combatants. She tore into a vampire - who cared if the blood got into an open wound? She was immune to their disease. When the next blast shattered the air Meg was ready for it and she didn’t fall. She was more than happy to stab through those who did, of course.
And then there was Crowley. Crowley didn’t lead like Abaddon led. He hid behind his followers, only bothering to fight when someone got through the thick screen of beings shielding him. When he had to he could certainly hold his own, Meg had experienced that first-hand, but he had always preferred to let others do the dirty work for him. He was more in favor of hurting others when there wasn’t much they could do to hurt him. He watched as Dean slowly advanced toward Abaddon, not really much caring about his own followers’ steady decline even though Sam’s demonic Molotovs were taking out a good twenty of them at a time. He watched the action and occasionally directed a follower but for the most part stayed out of the fray directly. Meg stayed aimed at her target. She felt the blows as they came in at her - a knife to the leg, a bite to the arm that burned like fire, a thousand little cuts and scrapes and bruises and cracks that might have put a human or even a lesser demon out of commission - but she had a goal and that goal was not much taller than she was and wearing a wool coat in May.
It probably took fifteen minutes of hard fighting but she made it to his side. “Did you miss me, Crowley?” she growled, grabbing his collar and spinning him around.
“Meg,” he spat. An angel blade appeared in his hand. Funny how everyone seemed to have those things these days; she supposed she had Clarence to thank for that. “Funnily enough, I did. Never thought I’d see you spreading it for the world’s angriest ginger though.”
She parried his attempt to put the angel blade into her heart. “Funny thing about relationships, Crowley,” she pointed out as she directed a kick at his knee that reversed the joint. He staggered backwards but managed to right himself. “They work out better when you don’t use terms like ‘whore’ and ‘spreading it.’”
“Why sugar coat it, sugar?” he sneered. “It’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it? Cozy up to the people with the power to keep yourself comfortable and safe.” He gestured and she felt a tug on her being, the black smoke being pulled out of her vessel. She was stronger than that.
She exerted her will and made a gesture of her own and felt the energy he was directing at her rebound on him. The best way she could think of to describe it would be the way a rubber band snapped back when it broke. She followed it up with a stab at the side of his chest as he blinked in confusion that he just barely managed to block. “Jealous much?”
“I am your king!” he roared as he riposted, aiming at the center of her chest. His blow was sloppy - he let his emotion get in the way of good sense and good technique. She was able to turn aside to avoid the blow while stepping in, grabbing his hand and pressing in to force him to drop his blade. His round face went from red to white in an instant and she kicked him into a kneeling position. He smirked, smarmy to the last. “Is this for Lucifer?” he sneered, recalling the last time she’d been about to kill him.
“No, pig,” she spat. “This is for me. And for Hell.” And she plunged the blade, true and sure, into his heart. Just to be sure, after the lights finished flickering, she stabbed him in the neck and the skull. Crowley would not be returning.
Most of Crowley’s minions had been dispatched, too. Not all of them, and their side had suffered losses too, but they had enough people to take care of the mop-up operation so that the big guns could take care of defending Abaddon from Dean. Tammuz, wounded, had joined his queen in fighting against the new Cain. The problem of course was that he hadn’t made a deal to try not to kill Dean, and the ancient devil had both self-defense and a strong dislike of the elder Winchester to motivate him. Meg raced forward to try to step in, only to find herself pulled back by Sam. “What the Hell are you doing?” she demanded. “I can’t let him hurt her!”
“I have a plan,” he assured her. “I’m just going to really, really need for you to be ready. All of my focus is going to be on Dean, so I’m going to need you and Abaddon to keep hold of Tammuz and take care of the blade, okay? We can use Crowley’s curse box. Nice work with him, by the way.”
“What are you going to do?”
He pulled something out of his pocket - a red ring. Meg could feel the power radiating off of it. “It’s War’s,” he informed her. “Well, it was. We cut it off of him back in the day. It should amplify… I’m hoping that this will work on whatever it is I’m able to do with Dean. The blood. Whatever.”
“That’s an awfully big gamble, Sam.” She frowned.
“Either way, his attention is on me.” He slipped the ring on his finger and stepped forward. “Dean!” He called. There was no response. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes and exhaled. “Dean!” he tried again, and Meg felt it this time. His voice was deeper, clearer and it echoed off the very trees. It spoke to the black smoke inside her. It spoke to the seething hate that roiled inside every demon. It spoke to the need to destroy, to fight, to win. Tammuz was the first to pause, then Abaddon, and finally Dean. He didn’t lower the Blade, but he did pause. The sweat dripped from his body and his muscles vibrated with tension, but he wasn’t attacking anymore. “Drop the Blade, Dean,” Sam urged. He stepped forward and if he’d seemed tall before he seemed to stand about eight feet tall now. Plaid had never looked so majestic.
“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean spat. “Siding with demons again. This is just like you.”
“I said to drop the blade, Dean.” His tone was less gentle. Meg would have dropped the blade. None of the other demons - on either side - moved.
“And I said fuck you, Sam.”
Sam stepped in closer. The brothers were toe to toe now. “Drop the blade!” Sam barked, and finally something involuntary in Dean’s brain kicked in because the bone dropped from the elder brother’s hands. Sam clutched the shorter man to him in a mammoth hug as Meg took the opportunity to telekinetically remove the blade from the ground, bringing it over to the curse box and locking it up.
She turned around. The touching hug moment was over - Sam had used it to slip a pair of bespelled handcuffs onto Dean and was now checking him over for injuries. Sam himself was bleeding in a few places but didn’t seem to be terribly concerned about it. He frog-marched Dean to the car and Meg returned to her queen and lover.
Abaddon’s bloody hands caressed her face. “You’re hurt,” she commented, turning her head to the side.
Meg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The suit will mend. Or I’ll find a new one.” Now that Meg was done with all of the drama and the fighting and the immediacy of needing to act she could admit that she was actually in a lot of pain. Maybe it was indeed time for a new host body. “You deserve something better anyway.”
“If you want a new host body get a new host body, but don’t do it for my sake,” the redhead told her. “You’re the perfect consort no matter what skin you’re wearing, although I have been enjoying the things we do with you in that skin.”
Meg’s heart picked up at the word “consort.” “Seriously?”
“I didn’t win it all by myself; I’m certainly not going to try to rule it all by myself.” She wrapped her arms around Meg and pressed their lips together, rulers returning to their kingdom together.
Authors LJ Username: safiyabat
Artists LJ Username:disreputabled0g
Pairing(s): Meg/Abaddon
Rating:PG-13
Wordcount: 16,603
Summary: The final showdown. A little something for everyone.
Warnings: Gore and violence. Also trigger warning for some nasty gendered slurs.
Link to fic masterpost here. Read previous chapter here.
Link to art masterpost here.
Meg wouldn’t have described them as “ready” when the time came for the final showdown with Crowley. Sam hadn’t found a way to remove the Mark from Dean. He’d found some way to “maybe numb it, possibly, I mean it worked for Cain right?” but he hadn’t found any way to definitively erase that taint from his brother’s arm or his soul. They hadn’t shut down all of the soul-stealing factories or even found them yet. They hadn’t brought on all of the old guard - Hegel was a particular holdout - and they hadn’t prevented Crowley from making more alliances with non-demonic creatures. Meg even suspected the old goat of tying a few angels into his gross little web.
What they did have was Crowley running scared, and by “scared” she meant running harder and faster than he’d been running during the Apocalypse or maybe even when Castiel had decided to crown himself God. That meant he was desperate, and in his desperation he had collected Dean Winchester and given him the First Blade. The results were predictable, because of course he hadn’t given him the Blade while he was anywhere near Sam. According to Sam - who was the only living witness, other than Crowley - the only thing that had brought Dean down from whatever the effect of the Blade was on him was Sam’s voice.
So even though they weren’t ready, even though it wasn’t the right time, they had to bring all of their forces to the field of Crowley’s choosing and fight it out with him there. “I hate this,” Meg fretted as she sent word to her allies and those under her command. “I hate the thought that we’re dancing to his tune, even a little bit.”
“I know.” Abaddon carded her fingers through Meg’s hair. “I’m not exactly a fan myself. But this is something we can do, Meg. It’s not ideal, but we can still win this.”
“How is it a win if Dean has the Blade?” she seethed. “He can kill you with that thing!”
“He can,” she admitted with a smirk. “Doesn’t mean that he will.”
“You sound like Sam.”
“He does have intelligent things to say every once in a while. Not often, but sometimes.” She kissed her. “Come on. Tomorrow is big. Let’s make tonight big too.” She helped Meg off with her shirt, and Meg helped her off with hers. They took their time with each other that night; it wasn’t like they needed to sleep, all of the preparations that could be made had been made and if tonight was going to be their last night together then Meg was at least certain she was going to make it count.
Morning arrived far too quickly for her tastes, but she got up and prepared to head out anyway. The battlefield chosen was a clearing in a state park in Massachusetts. Odd that such a bucolic location would be the site for what was certain to be a slaughter of epic proportions but what could you really do? At least this way fewer civilians would be likely to get caught up in the crossfire. While neither Meg nor Abaddon had a problem with the death of innocents they both had a strong preference for those deaths to be deliberate, not something that just kind of happened because someone wasn’t paying attention. It was about quality, really. Plus no one really wanted to listen to Sam get his guts all tied up about it.
Their quarry stood across the field from where Abaddon’s host materialized, Meg having fetched Sam on her way in. Crowley stood at the center of a long line of creatures - mostly demons, but he had a few werewolves and shifters and even a couple of vampires with him too. He sneered when he saw Abaddon’s cohort. “Whore,” he greeted Meg. “And Moose. After all I’ve done for you.” He turned his attention to his true rival. “Adopting Azazel’s orphans, are we Abby darling? Or just Lucifer’s sloppy seconds?”
Meg snarled but a pale, elegant hand on her shoulder calmed her. “Sam’s doing what’s right for his family,” Abaddon informed the salesman coldly.
“Sam has never given a crap about his family,” Dean spat. Meg hadn’t noticed the Mark on his arm the last time she’d seen him but now, with his sleeves rolled up and the damn thing glowing and pulsing like a lava floe, she couldn’t very well ignore it. “Or maybe he just likes that side of his family better, is that it, Sammy? Huh?”
“It’s the Mark talking, Sam,” Meg warned him in a low voice. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I could blow him into a thousand shards if you’d like,” Tammuz offered, not unkindly.
“The Mark, remember?” Sam’s mouth quirked up a little. “But thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
“Are we going to talk, Crowley? Or are we going to settle the problem of Hell once and for all?” Abaddon wanted to know. “Because you bringing your little dog here and the First Blade kind of suggests that the time for talking is long since over.” Meg eyed his troops. They’d been strung out across the treeline so that it looked like there were a lot of them, but there was only one line of them. There were a lot of creatures, both demonic and other, getting in the way of her senses but she didn’t get the impression that they had any reinforcements en route.
Crowley gave one of the nastiest smiles she’d ever seen and opened up a curse box. “Let’s dance then, shall we?” Dean had already reached in and grabbed the First Blade by the time that the words were out of Crowley’s foul, bearded mouth. Once it was in his hands there was nothing left to say or do but fight.
Fortunately fighting was something that Meg actually enjoyed. She released her hounds. She’d lose some of them and that wasn’t something she looked forward to but this was war and some losses were inevitable. They might not be able to do much against the werewolves or the shifters, but a hellhound could certainly behead a vampire with its jaws and it didn’t take long for her pets to do exactly that.
Meg of course had other concerns. She set a course due Crowley, fully intent on getting his slimy skin between her hands and tearing it from his frame with nothing but her teeth and claws. She could do it too, she was older than he was and she was Azazel’s daughter to boot. The problem was that Crowley’s loyalists expected her to charge him and deployed to defend him. She punched through the meatsuit of one enemy and spread its ribs wide, damaging it to the point where the demon inside was forced to smoke out and go find another host. Her angel blade found a home deep in the skull of another assailant - there was no way it was going to fake its final death the way she had faked hers. A werewolf charged in and bit into her side, tearing a chunk out of the tender flesh of her abdomen and the shirt that covered it. She grunted in pain and stabbed it with the angel blade, which worked as well as silver when it came to such things. A human would have been incapacitated by that bite. Meg was not human. She was thousands of years old and the pain just added fuel to the fire that was Meg. She lashed out with her power and caught a shifter as it tried to stab her with a silver knife - really, what did it think that was going to do? Its head exploded, neatly solving the problem of the lack of silver as she turned her attention to another nameless demon that was trying to hamstring her. Such an act would definitely impede her ability to either kill Crowley or defend Abaddon and that was simply unacceptable.
An explosion rocked the field and Meg found herself thrown to the ground by concussive force. Sam stood with a repurposed whiskey bottle maybe thirty feet from a circle of char and destruction; a few flames licked at the edges. His expression was grim but his expression was always grim. He might have also been cut or stabbed or something; he was bleeding a bit from the arm but it didn’t seem to bother him much. Meg took a moment to check on her lover. Abaddon had not been knocked down by the blast; she was fortunately far enough away from it that she’d been able to withstand the force. Ten bodies had piled up around her and while plenty of splatter had decorated her beautiful face none of it seemed to have come from her. Even as Meg watched Abaddon grabbed another demon and drove her angel blade right up into the creature’s skull from behind the chin. There was another Crowley supporter they wouldn’t be seeing again.
Meg scrambled to her feet faster than the demons around her and took out another two before they recovered from the blast. All around her she heard the baying and barking of her hounds, the screaming and the snarling of the combatants. She tore into a vampire - who cared if the blood got into an open wound? She was immune to their disease. When the next blast shattered the air Meg was ready for it and she didn’t fall. She was more than happy to stab through those who did, of course.
And then there was Crowley. Crowley didn’t lead like Abaddon led. He hid behind his followers, only bothering to fight when someone got through the thick screen of beings shielding him. When he had to he could certainly hold his own, Meg had experienced that first-hand, but he had always preferred to let others do the dirty work for him. He was more in favor of hurting others when there wasn’t much they could do to hurt him. He watched as Dean slowly advanced toward Abaddon, not really much caring about his own followers’ steady decline even though Sam’s demonic Molotovs were taking out a good twenty of them at a time. He watched the action and occasionally directed a follower but for the most part stayed out of the fray directly. Meg stayed aimed at her target. She felt the blows as they came in at her - a knife to the leg, a bite to the arm that burned like fire, a thousand little cuts and scrapes and bruises and cracks that might have put a human or even a lesser demon out of commission - but she had a goal and that goal was not much taller than she was and wearing a wool coat in May.
It probably took fifteen minutes of hard fighting but she made it to his side. “Did you miss me, Crowley?” she growled, grabbing his collar and spinning him around.
“Meg,” he spat. An angel blade appeared in his hand. Funny how everyone seemed to have those things these days; she supposed she had Clarence to thank for that. “Funnily enough, I did. Never thought I’d see you spreading it for the world’s angriest ginger though.”
She parried his attempt to put the angel blade into her heart. “Funny thing about relationships, Crowley,” she pointed out as she directed a kick at his knee that reversed the joint. He staggered backwards but managed to right himself. “They work out better when you don’t use terms like ‘whore’ and ‘spreading it.’”
“Why sugar coat it, sugar?” he sneered. “It’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it? Cozy up to the people with the power to keep yourself comfortable and safe.” He gestured and she felt a tug on her being, the black smoke being pulled out of her vessel. She was stronger than that.
She exerted her will and made a gesture of her own and felt the energy he was directing at her rebound on him. The best way she could think of to describe it would be the way a rubber band snapped back when it broke. She followed it up with a stab at the side of his chest as he blinked in confusion that he just barely managed to block. “Jealous much?”
“I am your king!” he roared as he riposted, aiming at the center of her chest. His blow was sloppy - he let his emotion get in the way of good sense and good technique. She was able to turn aside to avoid the blow while stepping in, grabbing his hand and pressing in to force him to drop his blade. His round face went from red to white in an instant and she kicked him into a kneeling position. He smirked, smarmy to the last. “Is this for Lucifer?” he sneered, recalling the last time she’d been about to kill him.
“No, pig,” she spat. “This is for me. And for Hell.” And she plunged the blade, true and sure, into his heart. Just to be sure, after the lights finished flickering, she stabbed him in the neck and the skull. Crowley would not be returning.
Most of Crowley’s minions had been dispatched, too. Not all of them, and their side had suffered losses too, but they had enough people to take care of the mop-up operation so that the big guns could take care of defending Abaddon from Dean. Tammuz, wounded, had joined his queen in fighting against the new Cain. The problem of course was that he hadn’t made a deal to try not to kill Dean, and the ancient devil had both self-defense and a strong dislike of the elder Winchester to motivate him. Meg raced forward to try to step in, only to find herself pulled back by Sam. “What the Hell are you doing?” she demanded. “I can’t let him hurt her!”
“I have a plan,” he assured her. “I’m just going to really, really need for you to be ready. All of my focus is going to be on Dean, so I’m going to need you and Abaddon to keep hold of Tammuz and take care of the blade, okay? We can use Crowley’s curse box. Nice work with him, by the way.”
“What are you going to do?”
He pulled something out of his pocket - a red ring. Meg could feel the power radiating off of it. “It’s War’s,” he informed her. “Well, it was. We cut it off of him back in the day. It should amplify… I’m hoping that this will work on whatever it is I’m able to do with Dean. The blood. Whatever.”
“That’s an awfully big gamble, Sam.” She frowned.
“Either way, his attention is on me.” He slipped the ring on his finger and stepped forward. “Dean!” He called. There was no response. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes and exhaled. “Dean!” he tried again, and Meg felt it this time. His voice was deeper, clearer and it echoed off the very trees. It spoke to the black smoke inside her. It spoke to the seething hate that roiled inside every demon. It spoke to the need to destroy, to fight, to win. Tammuz was the first to pause, then Abaddon, and finally Dean. He didn’t lower the Blade, but he did pause. The sweat dripped from his body and his muscles vibrated with tension, but he wasn’t attacking anymore. “Drop the Blade, Dean,” Sam urged. He stepped forward and if he’d seemed tall before he seemed to stand about eight feet tall now. Plaid had never looked so majestic.
“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean spat. “Siding with demons again. This is just like you.”
“I said to drop the blade, Dean.” His tone was less gentle. Meg would have dropped the blade. None of the other demons - on either side - moved.
“And I said fuck you, Sam.”
Sam stepped in closer. The brothers were toe to toe now. “Drop the blade!” Sam barked, and finally something involuntary in Dean’s brain kicked in because the bone dropped from the elder brother’s hands. Sam clutched the shorter man to him in a mammoth hug as Meg took the opportunity to telekinetically remove the blade from the ground, bringing it over to the curse box and locking it up.
She turned around. The touching hug moment was over - Sam had used it to slip a pair of bespelled handcuffs onto Dean and was now checking him over for injuries. Sam himself was bleeding in a few places but didn’t seem to be terribly concerned about it. He frog-marched Dean to the car and Meg returned to her queen and lover.
Abaddon’s bloody hands caressed her face. “You’re hurt,” she commented, turning her head to the side.
Meg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The suit will mend. Or I’ll find a new one.” Now that Meg was done with all of the drama and the fighting and the immediacy of needing to act she could admit that she was actually in a lot of pain. Maybe it was indeed time for a new host body. “You deserve something better anyway.”
“If you want a new host body get a new host body, but don’t do it for my sake,” the redhead told her. “You’re the perfect consort no matter what skin you’re wearing, although I have been enjoying the things we do with you in that skin.”
Meg’s heart picked up at the word “consort.” “Seriously?”
“I didn’t win it all by myself; I’m certainly not going to try to rule it all by myself.” She wrapped her arms around Meg and pressed their lips together, rulers returning to their kingdom together.