Intersection of Thunder Road and Blueberry Hill, Saturday Night
Sam still didn't like leaving Phoebe alone, not with everything that had been happening lately, but every now and then he did have things to do . . . and he knew her housemates were more than capable of keeping an eye on her anyway.
Still, as he headed home on his motorcycle tonight, he found himself pausing at the turn onto Blueberry Hill, gazing up the road and wondering if he should go up and check on her . . . if she wasn't sick of him yet.
For someone who'd spent a decade in a career where quick decisions were crucial to success, he felt incredibly indecisive at the moment, for which, as he lit up a cigarette and continued to debate the pros and cons of going home while idling at the intersection, he was kicking himself profusely.
He did recognize Anders. He had once belonged to him as well, and he had even shared her with him. But Anders had betrayed him and tried to take Phoebe as his own. No one could attempt that and live. From the shadows, he swept his hand out, knocking both Anders and motorcycle to the ground.
Sam swore -- or tried to, anyway, before the impact knocked the air from his lungs -- when he felt the invisible force slam into him and send the bike spinning away as he himself hit the ground hard. Wincing from the jolt of pain that shot through his left arm when he put weight on it, he tried to get back to his feet, reaching for the heavy flashlight he kept in his back pocket.
He growled lowly, wondering what to do with his prey. Fast, get it over with? Or slow, to punish him. Both options were equally appealing. One thing was certain, he would do it up close, not from a distance with fire. He wanted to see his face as he died. But that didn't mean he couldn't play a little first. The lit cigarette rose from the ground where it had landed when Sam fell, embers burning as it zoomed toward Sam's eye.
His arm hurt -- possibly broken, he couldn't be sure -- and Sam's attempt to get up utterly failed, just in time for him to see the glowing tip of the cigarette darting toward him. "The hell?" Sam gritted out, swatting at the cigarette with one bare hand.
He chuckled softly, moving closer now. As Sam's head turned in his direction, he kicked at the dirt, sending it flying into his eyes. "You thought you could take her from me, didn't you?" he said, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable from disuse.
"The hell are you talking about?" demanded Sam as he rubbed at his eyes, futilely trying to clear the dirt from them. Must be some demon from that portal, like Phoebe had said . . . one who'd developed some kind of sick fixation on her. "Oh, hell, no . . . if this is about Phoebe, leave her the frak alone, she doesn't belong to you!"
"She is mine!" he roared, reaching down and hauling Sam up by his shirt, then flinging him against a tree.
Sam distinctly heard two ribs crack as he slammed into the tree, then crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry. "She damn well isn't," he hissed through the sudden burning in his lungs, and tried once again to struggle to his feet. He managed to make it halfway this time, doubled over against the tree trunk, his vision still blurred from the dirt and the pain and one hand against his damaged ribs.
He seized Sam by the throat, dragging him up and pinning him to the tree trunk. "She is," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Nothing you can do will ever change that."
There was no way someone with strength like that wasn't demonic; he could tell by the futility with which he struggled against his attacker's grip. "She --" Sam gritted his teeth and forced the words out despite the sensation that his windpipe was being crushed. "She's not yours, you deluded frakking bastard!"
"She's mine!" he hissed. "But you won't live long enough to see that I'm right." An athame appeared in his hand, and he pressed it against Sam's stomach.
"You sick motherfrakker," snarled Sam. He still couldn't see, but there was no mistaking the feel of the blade against his stomach, and he went rigid. I promised Phoebe she wouldn't lose me, and I'm not breaking that promise! Gritting his teeth as the tensing of his muscles shot pain through his body, Sam tried to lash out with a kick at his assailant's knee.
He grunted, but didn't let go, then thrust the blade into Sam's belly. It felt good to have blood on his hands again.
"Son of a --" Sam coughed violently, but still tried to get his less injured arm free to take a swing. Unfortunately, that was where his ribs were cracked, and the effort only aggravated his pain.
He vanished the athame and caught Sam's wrist as he tried to swing. The sound of bones being crushed was another reminder of what he was. Demon, not human. Humans were weak, like this one.
Sam howled with pain, the sound strangled and cut off as he choked on his own blood. Somewhere inside him, though, a rage of his own was building up, and he had no intention of giving up. Ignoring the pain from his torn stomach muscles as he did so, he tried again to wrench his body away from his attacker's grip.
Sam was strong, but he always had been, hadn't he? His prey tore himself from his grip and fell to the ground. He would not allow Sam to escape, however. Drawing back his foot, he savagely kicked Sam in the kneecap.
Sam had heard that sickening crunch on the court before, though he'd never been the one to feel the accompanying pain that ripped through his leg as his kneecap all but disintegrated. "Bastard," he hissed, fumbling with his one working hand for a rock, something, anything to throw in the direction he thought his attacker was.
"Why don't you just die?" he snarled. How Sam was still moving was incredible. He crouched down beside Sam, seizing his jaw in one hand.
Sam glared, unseeing, at his attacker. "Promised her," he spat out through the blood in his mouth, "that I wouldn't leave her. You're not gonna make me break it."
"Yes, I am," he snapped, drawing his hand back to backhand Sam across the face. "She. Is. Mine."
Sam felt a tooth or two come loose and nearly choked on the fresh influx of blood into his mouth, but spat it out and snarled, a wordless gesture of defiance. He'd lost a hell of a lot of blood by now, though, and his hold on consciousness was becoming more and more tenuous. "Go to hell."
"Already been there," he said. He straightened, looking down at the broken body at his feet. Something felt . . . wrong. He couldn't bring himself to deliver the killing strike. Better to let Sam bleed to death, he justified it to himself. There was no way a human could survive those injuries. He delivered one last kick to Sam's torso, then turned and stalked away.
Sam grunted, but he barely felt the pain as consciousness slipped away from him. "Promised, damn you. Not gonna . . ."
[OOC: Preplayed with the ever fabulous holdingontolove. NFI, and identity of Sam's attacker NFB, OOC welcome. Aftermath to follow . . .]
He did recognize Anders. He had once belonged to him as well, and he had even shared her with him. But Anders had betrayed him and tried to take Phoebe as his own. No one could attempt that and live. From the shadows, he swept his hand out, knocking both Anders and motorcycle to the ground.
Sam swore -- or tried to, anyway, before the impact knocked the air from his lungs -- when he felt the invisible force slam into him and send the bike spinning away as he himself hit the ground hard. Wincing from the jolt of pain that shot through his left arm when he put weight on it, he tried to get back to his feet, reaching for the heavy flashlight he kept in his back pocket.
He growled lowly, wondering what to do with his prey. Fast, get it over with? Or slow, to punish him. Both options were equally appealing. One thing was certain, he would do it up close, not from a distance with fire. He wanted to see his face as he died. But that didn't mean he couldn't play a little first. The lit cigarette rose from the ground where it had landed when Sam fell, embers burning as it zoomed toward Sam's eye.
His arm hurt -- possibly broken, he couldn't be sure -- and Sam's attempt to get up utterly failed, just in time for him to see the glowing tip of the cigarette darting toward him. "The hell?" Sam gritted out, swatting at the cigarette with one bare hand.
He chuckled softly, moving closer now. As Sam's head turned in his direction, he kicked at the dirt, sending it flying into his eyes. "You thought you could take her from me, didn't you?" he said, his voice hoarse and unrecognizable from disuse.
"The hell are you talking about?" demanded Sam as he rubbed at his eyes, futilely trying to clear the dirt from them. Must be some demon from that portal, like Phoebe had said . . . one who'd developed some kind of sick fixation on her. "Oh, hell, no . . . if this is about Phoebe, leave her the frak alone, she doesn't belong to you!"
"She is mine!" he roared, reaching down and hauling Sam up by his shirt, then flinging him against a tree.
Sam distinctly heard two ribs crack as he slammed into the tree, then crumpled to the ground with a strangled cry. "She damn well isn't," he hissed through the sudden burning in his lungs, and tried once again to struggle to his feet. He managed to make it halfway this time, doubled over against the tree trunk, his vision still blurred from the dirt and the pain and one hand against his damaged ribs.
He seized Sam by the throat, dragging him up and pinning him to the tree trunk. "She is," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Nothing you can do will ever change that."
There was no way someone with strength like that wasn't demonic; he could tell by the futility with which he struggled against his attacker's grip. "She --" Sam gritted his teeth and forced the words out despite the sensation that his windpipe was being crushed. "She's not yours, you deluded frakking bastard!"
"She's mine!" he hissed. "But you won't live long enough to see that I'm right." An athame appeared in his hand, and he pressed it against Sam's stomach.
"You sick motherfrakker," snarled Sam. He still couldn't see, but there was no mistaking the feel of the blade against his stomach, and he went rigid. I promised Phoebe she wouldn't lose me, and I'm not breaking that promise! Gritting his teeth as the tensing of his muscles shot pain through his body, Sam tried to lash out with a kick at his assailant's knee.
He grunted, but didn't let go, then thrust the blade into Sam's belly. It felt good to have blood on his hands again.
"Son of a --" Sam coughed violently, but still tried to get his less injured arm free to take a swing. Unfortunately, that was where his ribs were cracked, and the effort only aggravated his pain.
He vanished the athame and caught Sam's wrist as he tried to swing. The sound of bones being crushed was another reminder of what he was. Demon, not human. Humans were weak, like this one.
Sam howled with pain, the sound strangled and cut off as he choked on his own blood. Somewhere inside him, though, a rage of his own was building up, and he had no intention of giving up. Ignoring the pain from his torn stomach muscles as he did so, he tried again to wrench his body away from his attacker's grip.
Sam was strong, but he always had been, hadn't he? His prey tore himself from his grip and fell to the ground. He would not allow Sam to escape, however. Drawing back his foot, he savagely kicked Sam in the kneecap.
Sam had heard that sickening crunch on the court before, though he'd never been the one to feel the accompanying pain that ripped through his leg as his kneecap all but disintegrated. "Bastard," he hissed, fumbling with his one working hand for a rock, something, anything to throw in the direction he thought his attacker was.
"Why don't you just die?" he snarled. How Sam was still moving was incredible. He crouched down beside Sam, seizing his jaw in one hand.
Sam glared, unseeing, at his attacker. "Promised her," he spat out through the blood in his mouth, "that I wouldn't leave her. You're not gonna make me break it."
"Yes, I am," he snapped, drawing his hand back to backhand Sam across the face. "She. Is. Mine."
Sam felt a tooth or two come loose and nearly choked on the fresh influx of blood into his mouth, but spat it out and snarled, a wordless gesture of defiance. He'd lost a hell of a lot of blood by now, though, and his hold on consciousness was becoming more and more tenuous. "Go to hell."
"Already been there," he said. He straightened, looking down at the broken body at his feet. Something felt . . . wrong. He couldn't bring himself to deliver the killing strike. Better to let Sam bleed to death, he justified it to himself. There was no way a human could survive those injuries. He delivered one last kick to Sam's torso, then turned and stalked away.
Sam grunted, but he barely felt the pain as consciousness slipped away from him. "Promised, damn you. Not gonna . . ."
[OOC: Preplayed with the ever fabulous holdingontolove. NFI, and identity of Sam's attacker NFB, OOC welcome. Aftermath to follow . . .]