how the world ends
Killing Abaddon was bloody. Sacrificing a score of innocent humans to ensure the spell keeps Abaddon dead, even bloodier.
When he sucks in warm air, all he tastes is salt and pennies on his tongue.
Details register like glass shards in his skin; he’s standing up, he’s stumbling forward and shit goddamn fuck he can feel that Mark on his hand, the skin itself is curdling and twisting into tight knots that pull at his scalp and follicles like a sinkhole. If there were screams of the people he murdered he’s long since forgotten how they sounded on his ears, no sound but the quiet echoes in his head. It’s nice, the quiet. He’s so used to the buzzing that’s kept on and on in his head, hordes of furious bees that won’t lay off and explain so clearly the reasons for Cain’s hobbies when they met. The buzzing won’t stop, never stops unless he sinks his knife into flesh, snaps a spinal cord or smothers someone’s final breaths. If he stops, the peace lasts for a few minutes, maybe an hour, before the bees are back and nesting against his cranium with a sting that never fades behind his eyes.
When he kills, it’s quiet. In some sick twisted way, he thinks it’s always been quieter up there when he kills.
He’s lost track of how long it’s been quiet by now.
The spell. He kicks aside someone’s intestines and steps on an arm, bent askew, to grasp for the alter he’d set up. A recipe, Crowley had explained, slipping it into his pocket with a glance that Dean would have considered pitying, had it been anyone but the King of Hell; A recipe to destroy a Knight of Hell, with all the necessary ingredients.
One Mark of Cain.
One worthy soldier.
One stabbed Abaddon.
Twenty human sacrifices.
And this. Here. Now. The icing on the cake.