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The First Blade vibrated in the hand of the One worthy to wield it. It had so longed to be covered in the blood that would complete its purpose and finally that thirst was being quenched.
Dean’s eyes flickered black as a twisted smile cracked his face. His shattered brother laid at his feet, blood seeping from a dozen slashes Dean, himself, had put in Sam’s body. Dean flexed his free hand, cracking his knuckles before balling it into a fist again, the skin broken from meeting Sam’s skull over and over.
“Sammy,” Dean growled, amused. “When are you gonna learn, little brother?” He brought his fist down on Sam’s face again. “What’s best for you is to hate me.” He shook out his fist, flinging the blood from Sam’s mouth to the ground.
Sam barely reacted. He didn’t flinch away anymore. He couldn’t. Just his eyes moved from Dean’s boots up to the hand that held the donkey-jaw knife covered in Sam’s own blood, up to Dean’s sweat-soaked shirt, to Dean’s frightening, smiling face as he peered down at him with sick affection. From Sam’s collapsed throat, through the bile and saliva and blood that hung in his mouth, Sam wheezed a reply.
“I wish… I could hate you…”
Dean raised his eyebrows as if he understood, then the Blade met Sam’s body one last time.