It works better than Sam expected, which is to say it works at all--not enough holy water in the coke to do more than make the demon yell, but between that and the sudden *sploosh* of the soda exploding out of the bottles, it’s enough for them to get the jump on it. Dean neatly trips the demon into the Solomon’s key, Sam does a quick check for any existing fatal injuries, and five minutes later they have a sobbing, sticky, de-possessed cheerleader on their hands.
“We’re not telling anyone about this ever,” Sam says, because while he’s all for sharing useful tips around what remains of their network of hunters, he’s well aware by now what kind of gossips they all are.
“Next time I’m going to try for a timed explosion,” Dean says, gleeful despite the amount of soda being transferred onto his shirt.
“Fine,” Sam sighs--he recognizes a lost cause when he sees one. “But you’re doing the laundry after.”