Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 23: Baby

You woke up on the couch the next morning after having slept for about an hour, times approximately 6am to 7am, the sunlight that was beginning to shine through the glass being the thing that woke you.  The light was enhanced through the glass and seemed to be reflecting from every surface of the Falls as well, because when you looked out the window you found that it was difficult to see through the rays of light bombarding your eyes. Deciding to give up trying to sleep, you sat up, rubbed your eyes, and stood, walking into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup of much-needed coffee.

Crowley was yelling at you and it was a struggle not to punch something all the while you were waiting for your coffee to brew; you yelled back, of course, your mental energy nearly enough to make his ears bleed, but the demon never gave up.

(Gragnis so help me if you don’t get those numbers up I’m going to—)

The coffee pot beeped at the same time that you simply sent a high-pitched frequency back to Crowley, the action simple enough to you—it was no more than a projected thought, after all—but you could imagine the scowl Crowley probably held after being on the receiving end.

Dean’s phone had been plugged into the wall beside the coffee pot, the battery having run low after not being charged for a couple days, and you picked it up after pouring yourself a cup of the coffee, seeing that there was a new text.  Normally you would have been cautious, would have woken Dean rather than looking at it yourself, but he was resting and you hated to wake him; besides, it was from Sam. It seemed justified.

I’ve been talking to Cas and we might have a plan.  When will you be back? Was all that the message said.  Looking to answer the second bit, you looked around the hotel room and figured how long it would take to clean up; you had planned to do it manually, hoping that such an action might gain you brownie points from Dean, but after receiving this text you figured the situation had changed enough to warrant a little mental help in cleaning.

The hotel room was, after all, trashed.  You and Dean had stayed up a majority of the last night doing a mixture of arguing, dancing, and drinking, and at one point you had pulled the electric guitar from your backpack and showed him that, yes, you could play that Metallica guitar solo from memory. You weren’t sure exactly how much Dean had to drink—you lost count after a significantamount—but you were positive that he was going to be less than pleasant when he woke.  Keeping that in mind, you elected to stay as quiet as possible so not to wake him, which meant that mental surge was the way to go.

You sat on the counter beside the sink, one of the only clear spaces in the entire hotel room, apparently, and watched as dust, food, empty beer cans, every ounce of dirt rose from the ground, the table, the counter, and began to circle into one, giant ball; within a few seconds the trash receptacle had opened its lid and the dirt and garbage funneled in, nearly filling it to the top.

Taking another drink of coffee, you continued to watch as the picture frame hung itself back up on the wall, the glass mending, the small slivers of wood that had broken from the frame slowly merging back together to make one single, flawless frame.  A light bulb rose from your backpack and replaced the one in the ceiling; the vase that had been full of flowers came back together and filled with water, the flowers finding their way to the trash since they were already dead. Slowly but surely, between each of your sips of coffee, the room began putting itself back together and within a matter of minutes it was as if no one had been there to begin with.

You sighed and hopped off the counter, watching as the dirt and dust you had been sitting on rose and moved to the garbage, as well, leaving a perfectly clean counter top.

By 10am you had showered, cleaned, visited Hell (only to earn an earful from Crowley for ignoring him, and then another earful after you made fun of his mother), sent three more demons out to find Cain, and had been making pancakes when Dean finally emerged from the bedroom, his hair a mess, his eyes now swollen and obviously sensitive to the light after having drank a bit too much the night before. Your back was to the bedroom door while you cooked pancakes over the stove, and you turned to see him when he walked out, grinning empathetically upon laying eyes on the poor man.