Fic: Never Say Die (8/16)
Title: Never Say Die (8/16)
NEVER SAY DIE
The rain started before lunch and became steadily heavier all day. This put Dean in a terrible mood, because he wanted to go swimming. Also, the cabin roof leaked.
Several pans and bowls were scattered around the cabin's two rooms, catching the rain falling through the roof. The rain forced them to stay inside and the inactivity drove Dean crazy. He tried to fill the time by working. He cleaned guns and sharpened knives. He checked the salt supply and made use of the rain to replenish their supply of holy water. The pan nearest the door still had a rosary at the bottom of it. Dean wondered idly if the leaky roof would dilute the holy water or if the rain would sort of get automatically blessed by dripping into the pan.
The area around the iron stove was clear of leaks, so that was where they ended up, playing Poker by candlelight and the glow of the stove. Poker wasn't much fun with only the two of them playing: they both knew each other too well. Dean always knew when Sam was bluffing. Sammy had a hundred little tells that only someone who knew him the way Dean knew him would notice.
They'd been playing cards together since Sammy's hands got big enough for him to shuffle a deck. They played loud games of Snap in the back seat of the Impala while Dad drove them from one hick town to the next. They played Gin Rummy with a marked deck on long nights waiting for Dad to come home from a hunt. Then real gamblers' games as they got older, and Dad taught them the many variations of Poker and lectured them both long and often about never gambling what they couldn't afford to lose.
Dean squinted at his cards and lightning flashed again. Dean counted the seconds in his head until the thunder: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one- and the thunderclap came, echoing off the mountains around them.
Dean tossed his last dollar onto the pile on the table. "Show me your cards, Sammy."
Sam laid the cards down slowly, one at a time, with a shit-eating grin on his face. Two sevens, two deuces.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Not bad." Then he tossed his own cards down. "Read 'em and weep," he crowed.
Sam grinned back. "That ace was up your sleeve."
Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "You callin' me a cheat?" he demanded.
"No, I'm calling you a Winchester." Sam shook the sleeve of his own shirt and a couple of cards fell out. "It doesn't count as cheating," Sam said, "if I see you doing it."
"Bitch," Dean accused good-naturedly.
"Jerk," Sam returned.
Dean pushed his chair back from the table. "You want another beer?" he offered, heading for their stash. As he passed the window, some movement or trick of the light outside caught his attention. Dean, instantly alert for trouble, moved closer to the window, peering through the glass into the darkness.
That was when he heard it: the low growl of a huge dog. Dean saw nothing, but the sound was close, terribly close. It was not unexpected, but the sound sent a chill through his body and drained the blood from his face. For a moment, Dean couldn't even move.
He had convinced himself it would be a kind of relief when the time finally arrived; as if the waiting was the worst part. He had been wrong.
"Dean? You see something out there?" Sam called.
Dean turned around just as lightning flashed again, bleaching out the cabin for an instant. "Nothing," he lied, well aware that his voice would betray him. Thunder rolled around the cabin, but the barking of the Hell hounds was louder. Surely Sam could hear it? The wind rattled the cabin door.
Dean swallowed, hard. "I'm gonna take a walk." He tried to make it casual, as if he did this all the time.
Sam moved toward him then and Dean couldn't meet his brother's eyes. The pain was too raw in Sam's face. He knew.
"Don't..." Sam began, reaching out to Dean.
"I have to go, Sam. God! I wish I didn't but..." And then Sam touched him and the shield Dean so carefully built up dissolved. Without thought, without even knowing he was going to move, Dean was in Sam's arms, hugging him, tears filling his eyes and he knew Sam was crying, too. Dean's tears were fear, yes, and grief. He was losing Sam all over again and this time there was no fixing it, no deal to be made, no miracle cure to find. Sam held him like he would never let go and Dean didn't want him to.
Dean didn't know, or care, how long they stood there like that. Sam's body warmed him; the silence held all of the things neither of them could ever say aloud.
It was Sam who pulled away first. "I'm coming with you," he announced, in a voice that brooked no argument.
"Like Hell you are!"
"Try and stop me."
Dean shook his head. "Sammy, you can't do anything. It's too late for that. And I'm not gonna let you try. Don't make me stop you. I don't want that to be the last..."
"Damn you, Dean!" Sam burst out.
Dean laughed shakily. "Already done, I think." He met his brother's eyes unhappily. "C'mon, Sammy." There were no jokes left in him, no smart-ass remarks, no deflecting grin. Dean wanted this moment to be honest, if nothing else in his life ever was.
Sam hugged him close again. He rested his face on Dean's shoulder. He said nothing.
Dean pulled away before Sam could feel him shaking. He glanced over to the bed, where his leather jacket waited for him. Then he thought, Why bother? The rain couldn't hurt him now. Instead, Dean picked up one of the newly cleaned shotguns. He loaded the gun with rock salt.
Dean would pay his due. But he intended to go down fighting.
Sam hadn't moved. Dean looked back at him, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. Dean reached for the door handle and turned it. The door flew open, wind and rain blowing into his face. Dean looked at Sam once more and walked out into the night.
Dean's boots slipped and slid on the wet ground, making it difficult to run, but run he did. At first, Dean told himself he only wanted to get away from the cabin, so Sam would not witness whatever was going to happen to him. Dean figured it wouldn't be pretty.
He heard invisible hounds behind him. Adrenaline surged through his veins and he dodged through the trees, running for himself, now, not for Sam. Dean ran for his life. He ran for the sheer joy of stealing one last minute from the Hell hounds at his heels. He knew they would get him in the end. This wasn't about trying to get out of his deal. It just wasn't in him to lay down and die without a fight.
His foot caught in something and he fell headlong into the mud. The Hell hounds closed around him, snarling and barking. Dean could feel them, hot breath on his skin. Shit, he could smell them! He rolled onto his back and raised the shotgun. He fired blindly into the pack. They barked louder, but it sounded as if they were backing off. Dean felt a grin touch his lips. Good to know they didn't like rock salt. He abandoned the now-empty gun and scrambled up. He took off into the dark woodland.
He heard the Hell hounds ahead of him as well as behind. They were pack hunters, of course. Predators. They would surround him and run him down. Lightning tore through the woods and in the flash he thought he saw a clear path to his left. Dean plunged off in that direction. The ground seemed more solid beneath his feet: rock, perhaps, instead of mud, but still his feet slipped on the wet ground.
Branches whipped Dean's face and neck; twigs caught on his wet shirt. Cold rain plastered his hair to his head and trickled down his neck. Dean slipped and his foot sank into water up to his knee. It was a stream, flowing downward into the lake. Dean stayed in the water and waded downstream. He didn't really believe the water would throw the Hell hounds off his scent, but what did he have to lose? Loose stones shifted beneath his boots and he wasted a precious second to duck down and grab one. Ammo, for his last stand. It would be soon.
The stream ended in a waterfall and Dean slid down the rocky falls on his back. His head plunged under the water and the sudden cold made him try to take a breath. Water filled his nose and mouth and he coughed, panicking for a second before he found air again. Rocks bruised his legs, his butt and - painfully - his spine.
Dean's breath came in short gasps; his muscles screamed for respite. Dean couldn't stop. He climbed out of the water and found himself at the lake's edge. Where was he? Which way was the cabin?
An invisible mouth breathed down his neck and a claw raked his back. Dean felt his shirt tear, felt his blood flow. He put on a fresh burst of speed. The baying of the Hell hounds was deafening and terrifying. Rain pounded his shoulders. He saw lightning flash, splitting the clouds above the mountains. He couldn't hear the thunder over the Hell hounds' barking.
They were playing with him, Dean realised suddenly. The Hell hounds could have taken him down at the stream. Instead they were following behind him, letting him think he was getting ahead. They were guiding him in the direction they wanted. And Dean was letting them. He wasn't thinking like a hunter any longer.
He squeezed the rock in his hand and, at last, Dean had had enough.
He stopped running.
With the last of his breath, he screamed his defiance into the night. "You want me, bitch? Come and get me!"
And a voice answered him. A voice Dean obeyed so automatically that he never stopped to think it was impossible. His father's voice shouted over the wind and the thunder, "Dean! Hit the deck!"
Dean flung himself down as gunfire exploded around him. He looked up, disbelieving, to see John Winchester bearing down on him through the storm.
When he watched Dean walk out, alone, into the storm, Sam would have given anything, absolutely anything to save him.
That was, he knew, the point. In the yellow-eyed demon's master plan, Dean's soul was supposed to be hostage for Sam's co-operation. Sam would have gone along with whatever Azazel demanded as the price for Dean's soul, and, once he started down that road there would have been no turning back for him. But Dean ended that when he killed that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Dean saved Sam, as he'd been saving him all of Sam's life, but Azazel's death could not save Dean's soul. Someone else held that contract.
Sam had to watch his brother walk out, alone, into the storm. He flinched when the door slammed behind Dean. Sam wanted, so badly, to walk out there with him. But this was the last thing Dean ever asked of him. Sam understood his brother's need to do this alone and he had to honour that, no matter how much it hurt.
He leaned his forehead against the cool window. His breath fogged the glass and he wiped it off with one hand. He saw a flash of light out there in the distance: a flash that wasn't lightning. Sam didn't care what it was. He didn't give a crap about anything but Dean, who was dying. It was only the long years of training that made him peer through the glass, seeking a better view of that flash.
It was a car, or maybe a truck, coming up the track toward the cabin. Sam couldn't think who might have reason to come here, especially in this storm. He'd never known demons to drive, but this could only mean trouble.
Sam went for the guns. Thanks to Dean's insistence on cleaning them earlier, the three shotguns were lined up against the wall, all newly cleaned and oiled. Sam loaded all three: two with rock salt, one with buckshot. He picked up his semi-automatic and slid the clip out. It was fully loaded. Sam rammed the clip back into place and pushed the gun through his belt at the small of his back. Then he picked up one of the shotguns and went to the door.
He could use something to kill about now.
The vehicle was an SUV. It was almost at the cabin. Sam could barely see anything through the driving rain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the landscape for an instant and revealing several people inside the Jeep. It was gone before Sam could recognise anyone. He wasn't even sure if they were male or female. He stood in the doorway of the cabin and waited.
The Jeep halted and someone leapt out of the back. "Sam!" Bobby yelled, running toward him.
Sam hurried down to meet Bobby. The rain drenched them both in seconds; Sam paid no attention. "Bobby? What the hell...?"
Bobby had to shout to be heard over the wind and rain. "Is Dean inside?"
An hour before, Sam would have thrilled to hear those words. Now, he felt only despair. Oh, God. No. Not now it's too late! Sam shook his head. He tried to say, "He's gone," but the words stuck in his throat.
"Sam?" Bobby yelled.
Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did you find something?" he managed to ask.
"Not something," Bobby answered. He looked back over his shoulder. "Someone."
John's original plan was to give Bobby time to explain his presence before he showed his face. John had trained his boys well enough that he was sure neither of them would readily accept him, back from the dead. But it was obvious from the moment he saw Sam that Dean wasn't at the cabin. John was out of time.
John reached up to break the devil's trap for Ruby. He felt very uneasy about allowing her to help, but he believed she had bound herself in a deal with Sam. If her story was true, if it was true, then she had no choice but to keep her end of the bargain. John suspected that the instant she was free of her deal, she would try to rip out his heart and feed it to him. But for now she appeared co-operative.
He climbed down from the Jeep and ran toward his son. He saw Sam recognise him and start to aim the shotgun. Bobby laid one hand on Sam's gun, stopping him from aiming it.
"Sammy, where's Dean?"
"He's gone." Sam's face showed his utter shock, but his voice was steady. "Just minutes ago. Dad...is it really you?"
John was desperate to hug him, but he settled for grasping Sam's arm firmly. "It's really me, son. I know about Dean's deal. I know how to get him out of it."
"You're too late - " Sam began.
Ruby appeared at his side. "Dean's still alive. But you don't have long."
"Ruby?" Sam exclaimed.
"Focus, Sam!" John snapped. He half-expected Sam to argue with him, but Sam nodded curtly. John turned to Ruby. "Do you know where he is?"
"Dean? No." She tossed her head angrily. "But I can feel the Hell hounds. I can take you there."
John pulled Sam to one side, telling Ruby with a look to stay where she was. Sam followed John's lead so John took him to the cabin steps. "Son, Dean doesn't have long so just answer my questions. Okay?"
"Yes!" Sam slicked his wet hair back from his face.
"Do you understand what the demon did to you? Do you know what you are?"
Sam frowned. "I think so. I know what he did the night mom died." Sam sounded scared.
John hadn't counted on Sam's fear. "Son, we can save your brother, but it will only work if you can accept what you are. Embrace it."
Sam shook his head in denial. "No! Dad, I can't! You don't understand..."
John shoved Sam up against the cabin wall. "Yes! I do!" he shouted over the thunder.
Sam was still shaking his head. "Dad, I have to fight this every fucking day! You can't know what they want me to do."
John looked into his son's eyes. "Sammy, oh, Sam, don't you get it yet? What you are is not who you are. You still have choices. Come on, Sam." Come on, Sammy. This is the only way. The one thing John never expected was Sam's resistance.
"You told Dean he'd have to kill me. Can you do it, Dad?"
Sam meant it. Shit. There was no time to argue. John met Sam's eyes and lied to him. "It won't come to that, son. But if it does, yes. I can. I will."
Sam closed his eyes for a moment. "Alright. What do I have to do?"
Relief flooded through John. "There isn't time to explain. Just follow my lead."
"A clue would be nice!" Sam protested.
John had to smile. Sam was right, but John couldn't risk saying too much aloud. Who knew what was listening, tonight? "Do you remember when you were about nine, a book of Scottish ghost stories you found in school?"
Sam looked at him like he was crazy. "Yes, but - "
"You remember me taking my belt to you not long after? You remember why I did that?"
Sam's eyes went wide and John knew he understood. "Dad, that was a game! We were kids!"
John nodded. "If you were just a normal kid, yeah. But you're not, Sam. If you are what you were meant to be, it wasn't just a kid's game. Son, it's all I've got. Can you do this?"
Sam hesitated. He was looking past John. John turned to see Ruby watching them.
"Tick, tock, guys!"
Sam said, "You're certain this will save Dean?"
John answered honestly. "I can summon the demon and I can get this started. He'll be forced to deal with you. But you're the one who'll have to finish it."
Ruby yelled again. "Hey!"
Sam moved forward. "Alright. Let's go."
Ruby looked at Sam. "You'll need a knife. And I can only carry two of you."
"That's not gonna work," John objected.
She rounded on him. "That's the way it is, dumbass! I've only got two hands. You want to walk? He'll be dead before you can get halfway."
Sam produced a knife from his sleeve. "What do you need?"
John stared at him. Did he really trust this demon? Damn it, but they didn't have a choice! He turned to Bobby. "Better get inside the cabin. Arm up."
Bobby nodded. "We'll be ready."
Ruby ignored them. To Sam, she said, "I can't do this without a sacrifice. Blood. Don't blame me, that's just the rules. Cut your left hand."
Sam didn't argue, he just cut his palm open. Rain mingled with his blood as he held his hand out to her.
"John. Your turn."
John didn't like it, but he complied, offering his right hand to Sam's blade. He held still while Sam drew the knife across his palm. The pain was sharp. The pain was nothing. He said to Ruby, "You get us to Dean, then get the hell out, understand?"
She gave him a look that clearly said she had no intention of sticking around. That was fine with John.
Bobby threw John a shotgun. John caught it just as Ruby took his hand in hers. "Walk," she instructed.
They walked. Suddenly they were walking beside the lake. There was no warning, no sensation of movement. They were just there. Lighting tore through the sky above them.
John heard Dean's shout. "You want me, bitch? Come and get me!"
He whirled, swinging his shotgun upward. "Dean! Hit the deck!" John fired without waiting and Dean dropped to the ground just in time. Sam followed John's lead, firing into the darkness. Father and son moved as if they'd rehearsed it, each dropping their shotgun, drawing a handgun and firing together into the darkness. They both ran to Dean.
"Sam, give me your knife," John ordered, and Sam obeyed, offering him the knife, hilt-first.
John knelt in the grass. There hadn't been time for the cut in his palm to close, but he scored it through again anyway. Blood welled around the knife. John whispered the invocation, letting his blood fall onto the grass. "I conjure and command thee, O demon..." Thunder roared, drowning his words. "Baruc, Patachel, Alcheeghel, Cebon..." It was magic of the darkest kind, summoning demons. John got to his feet, praying he'd got this right. He shouted the forbidden name at the top of his voice. "Beelzebub! Show yourself!"
It was as if the storm itself held its breath.
In the moment of silence, John held the knife out to Sam as if returning it. But he didn't give Sam his own knife. It was Ruby's blade he offered. He could tell from Sam's momentary hesitation that Sam recognised it. Without a word, Sam slid the knife into his sleeve.
The only sound was the rain, a constant splashing on the surface of the lake, a loud patter on the grass, on John's skin.
Dean was staring at John, his expression horrified. John wished there were time to explain. He tried to convey with a look that it would be okay. A look was all he had time to offer.
A column of flame burst from the ground between John and Dean, from the place where John's blood fell. It shot straight up like a geyser, easily twelve feet high. John stepped backward as the blazing heat scorched his skin. Then it was gone. In place of the fire stood the demon John had summoned. Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies, adversary of angels.
What his boys might be seeing, John didn't know. He saw a demon in the shape of a man. His features were in darkness so all John could see of his face were the eyes: glowing, red eyes. The "man" was as tall as Sam, but thin and wiry, his shoulders narrow so he looked unnaturally tall, out of proportion. Though it was hard to tell in the dark, John thought his clothing was black, a neat suit. It reminded John of a priest, without the collar.
John moved quickly to stand at Dean's side. Sam was helping his brother up. They stood, one on each side of Dean, guarding him.
John aimed his gun square between those scarlet eyes. "Call off your Hell hounds!" he ordered.
"Dad, no!" There was real terror in Dean's protest and John understood, but he couldn't even spare a glance for Dean now.
Sam said sharply, "Dean, be quiet!"
Beelzebub's livid gaze held John. Its voice was like nails on a blackboard. "You dare to summon me for this? This soul is mine, freely sold and the full price paid."
John held his gun steady, pointed at the demon's head. Bullets were useless against something like this, and John knew it. It was the gesture that made his point. "Your contract," John said steadily, "was never valid." Demons could read minds; it would read the truth of his words.
Beelzebub pointed to Sam. "Then the other boy's life is mine."
Dean shouted again, "No!"
"Demons," John said scornfully. "You never read the fine print." He lowered the gun and gestured toward Dean. "Dean has kept every part of his contract. Here he is, ready to give up his soul. He's tried to stop me twice just while we're standing here. Your terms haven't been broken. But Sam never agreed to your contract. You can't hold him to it."
"I claim my due, then," the demon rasped. "This soul."
This was the moment. It was up to Sam to finish it. All John could do now was give Sam his cue and pray like crazy he would follow it.
"Like I said," John answered, "you should have read the fine print. Dean's soul wasn't his to sell." John risked a glance at his boys. He saw Dean react to his statement but mercifully he stayed silent. Sam was simply standing there, rigid, watching the demon.
The demon laughed. It was a horrible sound, like nails on a blackboard. "A desperate lie!" he declared.
Sam moved forward, right on cue, and John could breathe again. His face was a mask of hatred and anger. "No lie. Dean is mine and I won't let you take him."
Beelzebub's eyes flashed with fire. "The contract was freely made."
"But I have the prior claim," Sam answered firmly.
"You think you can fight me for him? You don't have the power, boy."
John edged closer to Dean's side, leaving the field for Sam.
Sam laughed. "Maybe you're right." He spread his hands wide in an exaggerated shrug. "Still, you know what happened to the last demon that went up against me and my family."
Careful, Sammy, John warned silently, but this was Sam's play now. All John could do was be ready to back him up.
Beelzebub turned his face toward John and Dean. John braced himself for the onslaught but Sam gestured abruptly, flinging up one hand as if to catch something invisible. He stepped in front of them, a living shield for his family.
Sam glanced back over his shoulder. "Take care of Dean," he ordered.
Sam advanced toward Beelzebub. The demon pointed to them and a jet of flame flew past Sam. John pulled Dean out of the way, dragging them both to the wet ground. He saw Sam block a second blast with his own body.
Dean yelled, "Sam!"
John clapped a hand over Dean's mouth. "Don't distract him!" he snapped. "It's Sam's fight now." He removed his hand.
Dean turned frightened eyes to John. "Dad? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?"
If you were dead, son, you'd be in Hell and believe me, you wouldn't need to ask.
"No, son." John added no explanation, as he would have for Sam. Dean, unlike his brother, wouldn't demand details in the middle of a crisis.
Dean slumped to the ground, as if all the strength suddenly left him. John saw that his shirt was badly torn at the back, and there was blood on it.
"How bad are you hurt?" John asked.
Dean shook his head. "It's nothing."
They both heard Sam cry out in pain. Dean looked up to where Sam had been, and in the next flash of lightning, John saw Dean's terror for his brother.
Satisfied Dean was okay, John turned back to the fight. By the time he looked up, it was over.
From the moment Dad gave him Ruby's knife, Sam understood what he was meant to do.
They had all told him he had power. Missouri Mosely, Ava Wilson, Azazel. Jake told him that all he had to do was relax into it. Sam had felt it that night, like a fire burning deep inside, and it scared the crap out of him. He slammed a lid on it, nailed it down tight and prayed that Azazel's death meant it was over. He told Dean it was gone: no more freaky visions. He told everyone that, as if wishing the thing could make it so.
There was truth in the lie, but lie it was. The power was a simmering volcano inside. It seemed to erupt when he lost control through anger or fear. It happened with Ruby. It happened with Gordon. But most of the time, Sam's fear was what kept him in control of it. He remembered how the power shattered Ava's sanity. He remembered Jake, and knew that if he let this monster inside have its way with him, he would never come back from it. The power was evil.
But for Dean, for the brother he loved more than anything in the world, Sam took the seal off that inner volcano.
The demon Beelzebub mocked him, arrogant in his immortality. "You think you can fight me for him? You don't have the power, boy."
Sam laughed derisively, because he knew that wasn't true. This thing that wanted his brother's soul was dead. Sam hadn't thought he could hate anything more than he'd loathed the yellow-eyed demon, who murdered his mother and Jessica and even his father. But this demonic bastard had done far worse. It threatened Dean.
"Maybe you're right." Sam took a step forward, spreading his hands wide. He used the moment to examine the area, finding the things he could use. A fallen branch, sharp rocks, uneven ground. Perhaps even the lake itself. "Still," he added, "you know what happened to the last demon that went up against me and my family."
It was a poor threat, and Sam didn't expect it to be effective. He wanted the demon to see him as overconfident.
The most frightening thing to Sam wasn't the thought that he might lose this fight. It was how easily Sam knew he could win. The power in him wanted this. It wanted to be let loose, to fight, to tear, to kill.
Sam knew, before the demon moved, what it was going to do. Sam flung up a hand to block the blast of power that would have sent Dean flying into the trees. Incredibly, it worked. Sam expected it to hurt, the way his visions always hurt, but the action felt smooth as silk. He hadn't even needed the gesture; he could have done it with a thought.
Oh, God, what's happening to me? What am I becoming?
This is how we save Dean.
"Take care of Dean!" Sam threw the words back over his shoulder, never considering that it was John Winchester he was ordering around. John who gave orders, who never took them. He moved forward one more step.
The sudden jet of flame took Sam by surprise, because he'd never seen a demon do that before. It shot past him. Intense heat singed his hair, steam rose from his rain-wet shirt and he smelled the sulphur. He knew Dean was the target.
Stay the fuck away from my brother, you bastard!
Sam felt his eyes change as the volcano of power inside finally erupted. Beelzebub aimed a second jet of flame at Dean. Sam leapt into its path. The flame engulfed him. Sam's shirt burned away where the jet of flame touched, plastic buttons melting painfully into his skin. But the fire itself could not touch him. His waterlogged jeans were suddenly boiling hot and Sam yelled in pain. But pain only made the fire in him burn hotter.
Not even knowing what he would do until he acted, Sam struck out with his power. He saw Beelzebub recoil, saw blood spray from his neck in a wide arc. Sam fell to his knees. Pain weakened him, but he wanted to appear weaker. He needed the demon to come to him. He gestured, gathering pebbles from near the lake and pelting the demon with them. He paid no attention, as Sam expected.
Beelzebub smiled, sensing victory. He moved toward Sam and he held his breath.
The instant the demon was within range, Sam attacked.
All of the anger and terror and gut-wrenching grief of the past year erupted inside him. This demon was the cause of all of it. Sam attacked with his fists. He was no longer thinking of this as a duel he must win. He just wanted to hurt it. His rage translated to strength and he dragged the demon down. It was strong, and it fought him. He felt invisible knives slash his skin, felt blood flow, but he ignored the pain. Power surged in his blood.
Ruby's knife, hidden in Sam's sleeve until that moment, fell easily into his hand. Sam plunged the knife into the demon's heart. He felt power crackle across his skin. There was a fiery light from the wound he had made. He pulled the knife free of flesh. Blood pumped out after the knife, coating the blade and Sam's hand, his arm, his body. Sam stabbed Beelzebub again and again. Only when he was certain, absolutely certain, did Sam stop.
He straightened, turning his face upward into the driving rain. He still straddled Beelzebub's body - a broken, human body now - and blood ran down his bare chest, mingling with the rain. Sam raised his hand, letting the knife fall to the grass.
He had forgotten about Dean. He had forgotten everything. The power Sam had so long denied pulsed in his blood and Sam knew he would never be the same again.
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