Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 16: Claire Novak, the Fourth

“Are you going to find Claire?”

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your hand in your hair after having just woken up after a ten-straight-hour hibernation. You looked up at the angel, your eyes still nearly crusted shut from the night crusties that even you got while sleeping (human or otherwise, they were nasty buggers), before shaking your head.

“I have been awake,” your voice was coarse when you spoke, a direct result of your most recent slumber.  “For less than thirty seconds.” You cleared your throat. “Word to the wise, Castiel? Coffee.  Then chat.”

Castiel flew off and you shook your head, collapsing back into bed. 

Castiel, of course, was back within seconds, this time handing you a cup of hot coffee.

“Claire.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“I got you coffee.”

“Castiel,” you snapped at him, only raising your head a moment before the angel shoved the coffee mug into your face, never spilling it but making sure it was close enough that you could feel its warmth.  Cussing, you sat back up and grabbed the mug from him, ignoring the small bits of liquid that fell over your skin.  After taking a drink and realizing that it had been made exactly as you liked it, your eyes widened and you looked up at the angel.  “How did you know—“ 

“Dean was in the kitchen.  He made it.”

“Oh.” You nodded before taking another drink.

It even had the small shot of Bailey’s. Impressive.

“Are you going to—“

“If you ask me one more time, Castiel, I’m going to cut off a wing.” Castiel’s eyes widened at this and he nodded, taking a moment to imagine what that would be like before turning to scuttle out of the room—interesting choice, you thought, that he walked rather than flew.  You simply shook your head and smirked, drinking the coffee in a sad attempt to wake yourself back up.

You remembered Sam telling you that it was odd that such a strong creature had such ridiculous needs—this only a few days after he had finally accepted that maybe you were worth keeping around (this having taken place only a couple years after your meeting for the first time)—to which you simply shrugged.

“Everyone has a weakness, I suppose.”  You had told him, and you shrugged once again after he asked you what would happen if you didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, whatever.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t leave or put off long enough to eat a burger.”

You stood from the bed and were slow to get dressed, still slightly sleepy as you did so.  Within a few minutes you had tossed your backpack over your shoulder and were walking from the guestroom, the coffee in one hand while you struggled to put a gun in your beltline with the other.  Instinctively your first stop was the library, and when you got there you saw Sam in the same place he was when you went to sleep.  You froze.

“Did you sleep, Sam?”

He looked up at you, eyes slightly wider than usual from an obvious attempt to stay awake.  He stood quickly, setting the book on the table in front of him, before grabbing a pile of clothes that had been sitting on another table. Walking over to you with a slight stagger in his step, Sam smiled and handed the clothes to you—as if you hadn’t noticed that he was so sleep-deprived.  He was basically wasted.

“I cleaned these for you,” he said and you took the clothes from him, your eyes narrowed at the younger Winchester.

When he asked you why you were looking at him so funny, you scoffed.  “You’re a zombie right now,” standing on your tip-toes to get a closer look at the damage on his face, you clicked your tongue.  “What’s it been 48 hours, Sam?”