(no subject)

[elinorwise]

"So, what's the plan, fearless leader?" Dean says, gaze flicking briefly to Sam.
Sam ignores him. Sam ignores him because he's feeling kind of wrathful and powerful and downright Antichrist-y right now, and that doesn't mesh well with acknowledging the presence of pretty, human Beloved Consorts right beside him.
The sensation is both like watching the scene from a great distance and being the very center of the scene, its focal point. He watches the behemoth with the same mildly frustrated indulgence of a parent whose child is knocking down cans in a grocery store.
And then he raises his hand, and the behemoth looks at him, and the behemoth quiets into plaintive growls.
Turning his palm to face the earth, Sam lowers his hand. Slowly, growls fading into susurrations, the behemoth crawls back into the chasm, hooves pawing at the ground as it goes and sending up smoke. There's a lot of behemoth to get back into Hell so the process takes a while but Sam is calm, unhurried. A breeze touches his hair as the sun appears between the descending creature's horns. Its shadow falls away.
Eventually, there is nothing but the sulfurous glow of the split down the street and the distant, fading sound of the behemoth's breathing.
Sam lets his hand drop.
"He can do that," Dean says into the awed silence, "but he can't pick his own damn towel up off the floor after he takes a shower."

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