Skidding around the corner, Sam slipped in the blood pooled on the floor and fell hard, helped along by the weight of his ghoulish pursuer crashing into him from behind.
Frantic, Sam flailed around for a weapon, grabbed something and slammed whatever the hell it was into the creature's face.
It screamed, then surged at him with an incoherent howl of rage.
Sam swung again, then again and again, until its face was bloody mush and it was dead on the floor.
A familiar voice, the sound of running feet and Dean was crouching beside him.
"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry. You were fuckin' right." He pulled Sam up. "Shit, damn it! You okay?"
Speechless, Sam hung in Dean's arms, staring stupidly at his brother, then at the decimated clarinet clutched in his hands. Its mouthpiece was gone, the body shattered, the keywork and tone holes clotted with blood – it was fucking beautiful.
He looked back at his brother. "I always wanted to play an instrument."
Dean started to laugh.