Author's Note:

This story came about after some speculating about the end of the series. I was thinking about how it MIGHT end, (hopefully not anytime soon) and then Dean had to go and say something in Crossroad Blues – well, let's just say one thing led to another.

And I admit, I sort of cobbled together several different versions of the Arthurian Legend here. I claim creative license and beg forgiveness from those more scholarly than I.

Thanks for reading.

-T

P.S. You might want to have a tissue handy.

---

Sam lay at the base of a wall, sprawled out on his back staring up at the high ceiling of what looked like a warehouse. His first waking moment left him disoriented. Where was he? How did he get there? Why did his body ache like it did?

With a groan he pushed himself upright.

Light streamed in through the high windows. Dawn had come to chase away the darkness. Sam sat staring at the dust swirling in the sunbeams as he dabbed blood from his brow with his sleeve. His mind was a jumble of disassociated thoughts and fragments of visions that may or may not have been dreams. There was something missing. He paused as he realized what it was.

The voices were gone. The whispering voices that had plagued him for weeks, that urged him toward a frightening destiny, were gone. His vision was clear. He no longer saw death and pain and fear every where he turned. The desire to bring those things upon others had fled. It was all gone.

Sam choked out a cry of relief. He'd struggled for so long against the madness he could hardly comprehend being in charge of his own mind once again.

It was over. He'd been saved.

But how? What happened?

He fought desperately to remember as he braced himself against the wall and slowly pushed himself to his feet. His eyes darted around the open expanse of floor in front of him. There was a thin layer of sand spread out across it, an unusual sight inside what looked like a manufacturing plant of some sort. Sam moved stiffly away from the wall to examine it more closely.

Footprints and scuff marks had pushed the sand aside in places, revealing white chalk markings drawn upon the concrete floor. Crouching down beside one such bare spot, Sam cleared more sand away with the edge of his hand, uncovering a series of sigils hidden beneath.

He recognized them.

"Devil's Trap," he whispered.

A flicker of memory stabbed at him, producing pain. He pressed the heel of one hand to his temple.

A yellow eyed man stood upon the sand, inside the circle. Winds tugged at his hair and clothing. His face twisted in a sneer as he shouted at another man standing just beyond the chalk lines.

"You're a fool. My son is on his way, you can't stop us both."

"Shut up you bastard! He's not your son!"

Sam blinked. The pain faded. His vision cleared. He remembered hearing the call, wanting to obey it, but fighting not to do so. Part of him knew if he sided with the demon the consequences would be deadly, the price higher than he was willing to pay. Yet another part of him wanted nothing more than to join it, take what it offered him, and ignore the plight of those he now saw as beneath him. It was a feeling almost like lust, a sexual need. He had suddenly understood what fueled the actions of serial killers. Killing was a drug, and death the greatest high. Pain just sweetened the pot.

The demon was gone, that was obvious, and the lustful need to spill the blood of innocents had faded away into nothing but nausea and guilt. He could not remember if he had actually killed anyone. If there was blood on his hands he didn't know about it. There were more blanks in his memory than just those of the night before.

He rose, letting a handful of sand trail through his fingers. A dark object lying in the sand attracted his attention. He moved toward it, cocking his head to the side as he tried to identify it. It lay on the opposite side of the circle, just inside the circumference line. Sam bent and picked the thing up, balancing it in the palm of his hand.

"An athame?"

"An athame, an old one, a very old one."

"Dean, you'll never get close enough to use that thing."

"Yeah? Watch me."

There was nothing left of the blade. The rune inscribed iron had disintegrated. It was gone completely. Only part of the hilt remained, blackened and charred, little more than a lump of coal. It had once been wrapped in dark leather, but that had been burned away. A blob of melted iron was all that remained of a Celtic cross once ornamenting the butt of the dagger.

The combatants faced off on either side of a chalk line. Dean braced himself against the winds battering his body. Legs splayed, shoulders thrown back, he looked the demon in its yellow eye and issued an unspoken challenge. It smiled back from within the poor schmuck who now housed it.

"The very instant you step over that line, I'll rip out your throat."

"Oooh! Promise?" Dean chuckled. "I don't think so."

Sam groaned. He remembered stalking slowly toward the circle from the darkest shadows of the room. Dean hadn't seen him. The demon knew he was there. It had called him after all.

"Do you honestly think you can kill me with that little pig sticker?"

"I can. And I will."

"Easy to say from over there. Go ahead, Dean. Cross the line. Kill me." It made a "come and get me" gesture with its hands. Its piss-colored eyes glimmered in the darkness. "What are you waiting for?"

Shaking his head, Sam paced around inside the circle, as if he himself were trapped. He'd been coming to take what had been given to him in his dreams. It had spoken of a reward for his loyalty, promised him what the demon itself most wanted. It would give him the first taste of Dean Winchester's blood. It would give him the kill. Sam couldn't resist the promise. The desire to kill had overwhelmed his ability to think straight, understand what he was doing. He'd focused on the man standing on the edge of the circle without a shred of recognition. He would tear him apart, slowly, limb from limb, savoring his screams.

"I'll even make you a deal, Dean."

"I don't deal with devils."

"Liar."

"Okay, I don't deal with YOU." Dean raised his chin. His expression was confident, defiant. "But I'll listen to what you have to offer."

The demon chuckled. It was buying time for Sam to make his move. "I'll tell you what. If you somehow manage to kill me, I'll free your father."

"Why don't I believe you?"

It laughed. "Oh, you can believe me on this, because I have nothing to lose."

"Cocky son-of-a-bitch." Dean's eyes narrowed, a lazy smile spread across his face. "Do me one more then, since you don't have anything to lose."

"And what is that?"

"Your death frees my father, my brother, and all the others you marked."

"And I suppose you want steak knives with that too? Consider it done." It laughed. "But you have to kill me first."

Sam clenched his fist around the remains of the athame. He remembered only bits and pieces of how they'd come to have it. Over the past few months the voices in his mind had been growing louder, his lapses into strange, silent trances coming more frequently. Sometimes he would find himself lost, wandering alone down the highway on foot until Dean, or Jo, or Ellen found him. He wouldn't remember how he'd gotten there, only that he'd been called. IT had started calling him then, making promises, showing him things he normally would have found repulsive. It undermined deeply ingrained morals and whittled away at propriety.

His brows dipped in a frown. He'd attacked Jo once, dragging her into the basement, one hand pressed firmly over her mouth to stop her from screaming, the other pulling at her clothes, unbuckling his own belt. That he remembered, because he'd tried to stop it. His mind and body hadn't been in sync. His actions were out of his control. The words he said were not his own; they issued from the diseased part of him, the part touched by the demon. Dean showed up just in time and beat the crap out of him.

He'd come to his senses sitting in a storage room with Jo holding an ice pack to his rapidly blackening eye. Outside in the barroom, Ellen screamed at Dean.

Jo was scared, but she was also pissed.

"Touch me again and I'll cut it off, Sam."

"Oh, God, Jo. I'm so sorry..."

They didn't go anywhere near the roadhouse after that. Dean kept Sam close, under careful watch. In recent days he had gotten little rest. He was afraid, and perhaps rightly so, that Sam would kill him while he slept.

Communication with Ash was limited to phone conversations and email.

"I think I may have something."

"This better not be a freakin' snipe hunt like the last time, Ash." Dean switched the phone to his other ear as he fought to control both it and the Impala's steering wheel.

"No, no, man. Would I steer you wrong?"

"Dude, you did steer me wrong."

"Okay, uh...so would I steer you wrong again?"

"Ash..."

"Yeah, okay. So here it is. I found a knife, an old witch blade. People say it's one of the most powerful ancient artifacts in the world except for some of that Egyptian stuff. If it won't kill a demon, nothin' will."

"Who says?"

"Hunters. Hunters from the U.K., and they know their stuff. Ain't noplace more jacked up with supernatural shit than over there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Supposedly this knife used to be owned by a guy named Ambrosius Aurelianus. Ever heard of him?"

"No." Dean mouthed the word at Sam, who raised an eyebrow and nodded. Dean's scowl deepened. "Ambrosius? Isn't that a froo-froo drink?"

"No. Ambrosius was a fifth century British king or somethin'. Legend says he fathered a bastard son – Merdinus Anglicus."

With a snort, Dean rolled his eyes, obviously loosing patience and simply wanting to get to the point. "This is important why?"

"Merdinus." Sam murmured, echoing Ash's voice coming from the phone. "Translated from the name Myrddin, or Merlin."

"You've got to be kidding."

The athame had a history all right, beginning with Ambrosius' death. He'd died on its blade at the hands of his brother, Uther Pendragon, during a disagreement over who would rule Britain. Uther's son Artorius – a.k.a. King Arthur - lost his life to it too when he was murdered by his own son. Some tried to say the little athame was the true Excalibur. Others claimed it had been stolen from the Goddess Morrighan. Regardless, once caught up in the King Arthur legend, the dagger's true origins were lost. Eventually it seemed to simply vanish from the annals of history.

No one knew where it went. It was never mentioned again in any form until rumors started circulating that the legendary dagger had somehow found its way to the New World. It did not resurface until the nineteenth century A.D., in Tenneesee of all places, and from there it went to North Carolina, where it currently resided. It was the crown jewel of a collection of similar weapons owned by a modern witch named Katherine Batts.

"Uh, and don't piss this chick off, okay?" Ash warned.

"Why's that?"

"Well, she's kinda sorta related to old Kate Batts."

"The Bell Witch?"

"Uh, yeah. You make an enemy of her and she'll hold a grudge for a REAL long time."

"Terrific."

North Carolina was where Sam finally escaped. The madness took hold, the voices drove him away. Memory came only from the few tiny fragments of sanity he'd managed to hold on to. He remembered taking the car. "Your brother's little talisman," the demon called it. Bereft of transportation and weapons, Dean was virtually powerless, but no less dangerous. Sam knew better to underestimate his brother's resourcefulness. He knew Dean Winchester far better than the demon. He would come after them. He would hinder their plans, prevent Sam from taking the things he desired. Get rid of Dean and Sam could fuck that little blonde bitch as much as he wanted.

The demon offered itself up as bait and Dean couldn't resist, especially since he'd managed to sweet-talk Katie Batts out of the athame. He'd made his way to the warehouse and hid the Devil's Trap under a layer of sand. If he had a back-up plan, as he had with the she-demon at the crossroad, it didn't matter. Battle lines were drawn, the final conflict began, and Dean thought he'd caught a demon.

He hadn't realized they'd lured him there to kill him.

But where was this place? Sam didn't know. Were they still in the Carolinas, or had they gone further afield?

And where was Dean?

"Dean?" He turned around, his quest for answers quickly put aside in favor of another priority. Where was his brother? "Dean!"

His head hurt. He clutched at his temples and gasped out a curse.

He'd pin the bastard up against the wall, eviscerate him, and leave him to suffer. After a while Sam would kill him, and his death would undo the spell fueling the Devil's Trap. His father, his real father, the one who had marked him as a child, would be free. It would only be a matter of time before Sam could prove his loyalty.

The body may have been the product of John Winchester's seed, but not the mind. One only had to look at the elder son to see that. There was the son of an ignorant auto mechanic. Dean could have never earned a full ride to one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. Sam's academic brilliance was solely the work of the demon. It had gifted him with intelligence, and much, much more.

He materialized out of the shadows, his eyes locked on the leather clad shoulders in front of him. An arched brow, a single thought, and Dean would be hurled across the room to be crucified upon a cold, hard concrete wall. The athame would open his gut as it had Ambrosius' centuries ago. It would be brother against brother once again. Sam could almost hear the blade rejoice.

"DEAN!"

There was no answer, only the echo of his own voice coming back at him from the shadows. Most of the other windows were boarded up, save for the ones surrounding Sam. He stood in the sunlight, squinting into the dark corners. He called for his brother again, and again there was no answer.

He turned rapidly, searching desperately...

At the base of another wall, shadowed by a boarded up window, lay something dark and bulky. Sam had first thought it was only one of the misshapen machine parts scattered throughout the periphery of the room. A second look revealed contours softer than steel – curved and organic. A third glance revealed the glimmer of something damp upon the floor nearby.

Raising his head he took a deep breath, and beneath the smells of dust, mildew and old motor oil, he caught the all too familiar scent of blood.

"Oh God!"

What had called the demon to the Winchester family in the first place? Sam suspected his own latent psychic abilities. With the proper switches flipped on, those latent abilities would wake and be more than a little useful to him in the future. The demon flipped the switches, and twenty-two years later Sam began dreaming of Jessica Moore dying in a burst of flame.

Sam's psychic abilities were well established, not so his brother's, but he'd long suspected Dean's flashes of insight could be accredited to something other than coincidence or brilliant deduction. Dean's abilities were deeply buried, and would remain buried. They were, however, definitely there – just not so accessible.

They tipped him off to Sam's presence. Dean abruptly turned away from the demon to face his brother for the first time in days.

"Sam!"

Sam smiled at him and snarled. "Hello, Dean."

He raised his chin, and his hand, calling on unseen forces to lift Dean from his feet, to throw him across the room and away from the circle. It would be only seconds before he would have his prey at his mercy.

Sam was fast. Dean was faster. Instantly he saw the danger he was in, throwing out a breathy curse as he fled to the only place in which he could find relative safety. In his current state, corrupted by the demon, Sam would not be able to follow.

Dean stepped inside the Devil's Trap.

"Dean? Dean!"

Sam went down to his knees. His hands shook as he touched Dean's shoulder. There was no sign of life, even as Sam carefully drew his brother's body up into his arms, peering anxiously into his still, pale face. Blood made his hands slippery, hindering his efforts. It had pooled in the hollow of Dean's chest, soaked his clothing and now ran freely from his nose and mouth. Sam couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it didn't really matter considering the extent of the other more obvious injuries. Dean's right arm was black and blistering with burns from fingertips to elbow. Every other limb seemed to be broken in at least one or two places. An ugly gash cut a bloody path through his hair.

If he wasn't dead, he soon would be. Sam desperately called his name again, and was shocked when there was a response.

Dean's eyes fluttered open.

The demon struck like a snake, fast and hard, and not as powerless as it had led them to believe. It was an ancient entity that had been roaming the Earth for ages. Its power was more than enough to overcome the restrictions of a flimsy human spell. It had Dean in its grasp only seconds after he stepped into the circle.

In a sick parody of dance, the demon grabbed Dean by the arm and spun him around backward, pinning him against its own chest. The arm twisted and snapped, breaking just above the elbow. His brother's agonized scream cut through the foul voices in Sam's head and struck him in the heart. He faltered.

"No," he gasped. "Dean."

Pain was only a minor distraction. Teeth clenched, muscles straining, Dean reversed the dagger he still held in his free hand. With all his strength he drove it back behind him, forcing it deep into the demon's possessed body. He aimed upward, digging in from abdomen to chest, seeking its heart. The demon writhed in pain. It might have attempted an escape had Dean removed the dagger, but he didn't. He tightened his grip instead, refusing to let go. The demon was held fast, trapped within its host, and Dean wasn't about to let it get away.

Retaliation was swift. The demon had more than one weapon at its disposal. Invisible claws dug into Dean's body, tearing at his chest and abdomen as they had done once before. Blood began seeping up through his t-shirt. The demon increased the pressure on Dean's broken left arm, wrenching it up behind him. It wrapped its fingers around his right wrist, trying to pry his hand away from the dagger's hilt. Dean prevailed despite the pain. His grip did not falter and the athame remained fixed in place. The battle hit an impasse. The combatants remained locked together, neither one willing to give up their advantage, nor yield in any way at all. It had become a battle of wills.

Sam saw the color run from his brother's face. Sweat beaded up across his forehead. The demon's sneering face hovered close to Dean's cheek. It snarled as it sank its claws further into its victim's flesh, and howled as Dean gave the dagger a vicious twist. Blood soaked into the sand at their feet as Sam paced back and forth along the edge of the circle.

His mind swung between two extremes. Grief and fear warred with an obscene sense of arousal brought on by the scent of blood and the sight of the deadly battle waging before him. Two bodies locked together, shuddering in the throes of death... it was too much like sex, too much like some hellish, bloody porn. He wanted in on it. Wanted to taste the blood and feel the pain.

Dean's cries of pain cut through the madness. Sam heard him groan as he pushed the athame deeper.

Abruptly, Sam stopped pacing. His body trembled. He felt the threads holding him in thrall to the demon began to part one by one. He gasped as the tie was severed. His brother had cut him free.

"Sam, the journal!"

"Suh...am..."

"Shut up. Don't talk." Sam's vision blurred. His own pockets were empty. He fumbled through Dean's, searching for a phone. "Where's your goddamn phone!"

"In the goddamn car," Dean whispered. Had he not been so weak he might have given Sam a dressing down for stealing said car. Instead his voice took on a frantic note as Sam made as if to go. "Sammy..." He gasped. "Don't leave me."

"The phone..." Sam protested. "I've got to call an ambulance!"

"You put me on a ventilator again...and I'll kick...your ass." Dean ground his teeth, sucking back another gasp of pain. "I'm not...goin' out like that."

"I'm not gonna let you die. Not now..." Sam heard the pleading in his own voice. "Not now, Dean. Not when it's finally over."

"Sammy..."

Sam shook his head, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. "No. I'll...I'll carry you if I have to." It was an empty threat and they both knew it. If he moved Dean another inch it would probably kill him instantly. "Just...please hold on. Dean, please..."

"Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio contra nequítiam et insídias diáboli esto præsídium."

Sam bowed his head over his father's journal, speaking the words as quickly as he possibly could. Dean bought him time, held the demon caught within the circle, impaled upon Ambrosius' dagger. It was wounded, maybe dying already. The exorcism would not expel it, the exorcism would destroy it.

"Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium Dei."

He read on, pouring his heart and soul into the ritual, blocking out the demon's curses and shouts, its ugly threats.

"I'll tear him in half! Do you hear me, Sam! I'll tear him in half!"

He only heard Dean's strangled voice, choking out orders, demanding obedience. The tone reminded Sam of their father, making him wonder if John's spirit hadn't taken possession of his son. Maybe it had.

"Sam! Don't listen to it! It's dying. I can feel it! Keep reading!"

The command ended with a scream.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Tears ran down his face. It grew harder to force the words from his throat. He felt Death lurking in the shadows behind him, waiting for the end. He SAW Death as a vision flashed through his mind. It showed him a future he desperately wanted to deny.

"Promise," Dean whispered. "Promise me, Sammy."

"What? What do you want me to do, Dean?" His voice caught. "Anything. I'll do anything you want, okay, just don't die on me."

"Go back to school." With a wince, Dean paused, caught up in pain for a moment. When it passed he continued, breathless. "Don't...don't do this anymore."

"But. Dad..."

Dean's voice sharpened, strengthened. "Screw Dad," he snapped. The burst of anger borne strength faded with a moan. "There are...other Hunters. Don't...need...you." His gaze turned pleading. "Promise me, Sammy. Promise...you'll...get out."

With trembling fingers Sam gently wiped the blood from his brother's mouth. His voice was rough, and as broken as the body lying in his arms. "Yeah, okay" he whispered. "I promise."

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."

A heavy sulfur scent filled the air, along with an unholy scream the like of which Sam had never heard before. It echoed off the walls and ceiling, sent chills running up and down Sam's spine despite how warm the room had become. The hellish wind kicked up to gale force.

"AMEN!"

He was blinded by a sudden flare of light coming from within the chalk circle. He threw up an arm to protect his eyes, ducking away toward the shadows. Someone shouted his name but in the cacophony of otherworldly shrieking and howling filling the warehouse Sam couldn't tell if it were Dean or the demon.

"Dean!"

He smelled blood. He smelled the reek of burning flesh. Flames shot up from the center of the Devil's Trap.

"DEAN!"

Light exploded outward from the circle, forcing Sam further back. A wave of energy rolled out from the center of the room, forcing the breath from his lungs as it hit him in the chest. His body became airborne as if a giant hand had picked him up and thrown him away. The last thing he heard before he struck the wall was the final dying wail of the yellow-eyed demon.

It was over.

"I promise."

Dean let out a trembling breath. "You...you'll make a hell of...an attorney."

"Yeah?" Sam laughed a little.

Their eyes met. Sam's filled with tears. They both knew what was coming.

"Yeah," Dean said softly. He swallowed, his expression twisted with pain. The look in his eyes cut Sam to the quick. "Hurts, Sammy."

"I know, Dean. I know. I'm sorry...I don't know what to do, I..."

"'sokay." Another painful swallow, an agonized breath, and Dean rolled his head back, lifting his eyes up to a point just beyond Sam's shoulder. He smiled a little. "'sokay, Sammy. 'sokay now."

"Dean? What is it?" Sam jerked his head around, following his brother's gaze.

He caught sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye, just as it began to fade. Tall, broad shouldered, it seemed to nod as the last vestiges of its presence disappeared. Sam caught the achingly familiar scent of leather and gunpowder in the air. The smell brought with it a flood of memories. Some were good and some were bad, but all had a single common denominator.

"Dad?" Sam breathed.

An instant later he knew why it had been there.

"Oh. No. Oh God, no. Please...Dean. Please...don't do this to me!"

Dean lay still and silent in Sam's arms, his eyes open and still turned toward the place where he'd seen their father's spirit. He'd gone in the way he'd always thought their father should have. He died fighting, and winning, the most important battle of their lives.

"Dean?"

There was no response this time, but Sam really hadn't expected one. His shoulders slumped as he bowed his head and gave way to grief. He didn't notice the touch of fingertips rifling affectionately through his hair, nor hear the words whispered softly in his ear.

Ghost hunters referred to them as EVP...

"You better take care of that car."