"This sword," Sister Margaret said reverently, "was used by my great-great-grandfather to repel a dragon attack in 1850. It has remained embedded here ever since."
Dean stepped forward, gripped the hilt, and pulled hard.
The sword did not budge.
"It has some kind of selection magic on it," Sister Margaret explained. "Legend says only a hero acknowledged by the sword can draw it. Of course, I don't entirely believe that, but the fact is, no one has moved it even an inch in over a hundred years."
Dean stared at the sword for several seconds, then suddenly did something that made Sister Margaret's eyes widen.
He drew the new hunting knife forged by Grayson and pressed its tip against the joint between the dragonslaying sword's hilt and blade.
"Listen, I don't know whether you're some kind of magic sword or sentient sword," Dean said to the dragonslaying sword, his tone as serious as if he were negotiating. "But a girl has been taken by a dragon, and we're going to save her. You choose: either let us pull you out nicely so we can go chop up that dragon, or—"
He flexed his wrist slightly, and the hunting knife's sharp edge pressed a white mark into the dragonslaying sword's hilt.
"I'll cut you out of this damn rock. Do you know what my knife is made of? Angel Feather powder and Hellfrost Iron. Cutting through an antique like you would be like slicing butter."
Curator Margaret opened her mouth, momentarily at a loss for words.
Sam stood to the side with a hand to his forehead, wearing an expression that said, I knew this would happen.
In the silent chamber, the only sound was Dean's hunting knife lightly scraping against the dragonslaying sword.
The sword did not react at all.