So a brand new completed story in ten chapters. I'm going to try and post one chapter every other day, as I don't like to keep people waiting for updates, and a huge thanks to all those who reviewed my last story. You all made it a great experience to be posting on this site. Thank you!

The Rapture

Chapter 1 – A big freaking girl's knife!

White Mountain National Forest

North New Hampshire, South West Maine.

Monday, April 7th 20:18pm

ooooooo

"Well, definitely not the best hunt ever but by no means the worst, huh?"

Dean was feeling decidedly 'chipper' as he swung his legs into the driver's seat and settled next to his brother. All in all, a good day - no blood, no concussions, no police, and no one dead except the sucky creature-feature. Yeah, today was definitely a good day.

Sam, on the other hand, sat distinctly 'un-chipper', a dark mood invading his features, eyes refusing to acknowledge his brother. He tensely focused on the dashboard as drops of thick, gloopy black mud clung to his bangs.

His voice was quiet, but razor sharp. "You pushed me into that river, Dean."

"Yes I did, Sammy. Saved your life, too! No need to thank me by the way." Dean leaned forward and slapped his brother's chest with the back of his hand, then paused - as he examined the brown muck that stuck to his skin. He chanced a quick glance at his soaked passenger, and instantly regretted it. Boy, he did look pissed.

"I smell like a sewer." More of a growl this time.

"Yeah, well, wasn't exactly a piece of cake for me either y'know." Mildly uncomfortable, Dean cleared his throat. "Lost those two silver throwing knives when that werewolf went in the river." He let out an exaggerated, wistful sigh. "I loved those knives, dude."

"You 'stole' those knives, Dean."

Putting on a dramatic show, Dean looked deeply insulted. "Sammy, I liberated those knives from someone who didn't appreciate them. And yes, you do smell like a sewer, but 'cos I'm such a great and fantastic big brother, I'm gonna let you ride in my car anyway."

He smiled, and then chewed at his bottom lip as he took one final look at the muddy mess that was Sam. "Um, just keep your ass on the towel okay? Mud's a bitch to get off the upholstery."

Glaring daggers at his brother, Sam made a slow and exaggerated movement to ensure none of him dared touch Dean's baby.

"Y'know Sammy…" Dean pointed and circled his finger in the general direction of Sam's face. "…some people say that mud's great for the skin." He tried his best wolfish grin but Sam remained silent, still glowering at a fixed point on the dash as Dean turned over the engine.

He tried again. "Soooo, time for a motel. Get you cleaned up - good beer, good food, bad women...not necessarily in that order. What do you say bro, huh?"

Nothing, Nada, Zilch.

'The silent treatment, oh boy, so what are we now, an old married couple?' Dean gunned the engine as he pulled the big Chevy out onto the road, trying to decide how long would be an appropriate silence before he switched on the music. Okay, so desperate times call for desperate measures. Dean wracked his brain to think of something to do, to cheer his brother up. He remembered seeing a 'nice' looking bed and breakfast a few miles back - not their usual dive, but they could afford it for one night. And when they'd stopped for food, he'd seen Sam looking in an odd little second-hand shop window. There were lots of old knives in there; maybe they should go take a look.

'Oh Jeez,' Dean cringed inwardly at his own thoughtfulness. 'If we are an old married couple; I'd just better be the dude!'

oOo

The Treasure Chest

Outskirts of Lancaster

Tuesday April 8th 11:15am

ooooooo

"Can I help you boys with anything, or are you just browsing?"

Dean glanced from the low cabinet to the small hunched old man behind the counter. "Just looking." He tapped the glass with a finger. "You got a lot of knives in here."

"You interested in knives, son?"

"Collector." He'd used the lie so many times it tripped off his tongue like his best hook-up line.

"Well, it's your lucky day son, had a delivery just last week - load of stuff from a house clearance over on Pine. I do believe he was some sort of a collector, too. You should take a look." The old shop keeper had definitely perked up at the possibility of a genuine customer. With a new spring in his step, and without waiting for an answer, he bustled off into the back room where he could be heard, banging and clattering as the search for whatever he was looking for became a frenzy of activity.

Dean took advantage of the disturbance to watch his brother, taking note of Sam's smiling reflection as he leaned down and peered into another glass fronted cabinet. Dean was always on a high when Sam was happy; it was good to see, and it was about time. If he were to be honest, this last hunt had been way too close. He'd barely had time to push Sam out of the way before that werewolf made him its next meal. He'd seemed slower, not quite himself but Dean couldn't figure out why. 'Needs a break, that's all, and he'll be just fine.'

The small corner shop was full of musty old books, parchments and assorted strange oddities - far more than should actually fit onto the narrow shelves, and Sam was definitely enjoying himself. He looked like a fat kid in a cake shop.

"Hey Dean, look at this."

He wandered over to where Sam stood, and looked over his brother's shoulder at the object of his attention. Under the glass protection he wasn't surprised to see another large, shinning blade. It was big, not quite a machete, and the metallic edges were narrower; tooled - but it was, without doubt, a knife created for a purpose.

"Yep, it's a big freaking knife, Sammy."

"I mean this." Sam gestured to the swirling, geometric patterns etched into both sides of the reflective, gleaming metal.

"Hmm. Pretty! So it's a big freaking girl's knife." He planted his hand firmly on Sam's shoulder, and smiled wide. "Want me to buy it for you, sis?"

Mentally counting to ten, Sam sighed and pressed on, eyes still glued to the blade. "That - means something, Dean, I've seen it before, just not sure where, maybe in dad's journal."

Dean looked past his brother and noticed the shop keeper on his way back with the box of promised items. He whispered as he nudged Sam in the ribs with an elbow. "Bullshit detector in high gear dude, here he comes. Think he wants to sell us something, poor, deluded fool."

"Here we go gents; this was quite a haul if memory serves." The old man beamed at his potential customers, with an ever so slightly hungry look in his eyes." Some pretty rare pieces in here, I think you'll find."

Sam pressed his finger to the glass and pointed to the etched blade. "Excuse me, sir, what can you tell me about this?"

The seller turned his attention to Sam and appeared truly delighted at the request. "You got a good eye, son, that's true workmanship; pretty rare too, won't find anything special as this anywhere round these parts." He removed the knife from the cabinet, and placed it carefully in Sam's outstretched hand.

Seeing the weapon up close, feeling the weight roll against his skin, Sam was mildly disappointed. It was nothing like the stout heavy hunting knives he was accustomed to, and it was an insulting excuse for Dean's Bowie. But there was something in the swirls, etched on the cold metal that caught in his mind. "Do you mind me asking where you got this from?"

"Hell, I don't remember son, that thing's been here for ever…" The shopkeeper let out a long wheezy chuckle. Then he seemed to remember he had a fish on a hook here, a fish that may just have a fat wallet in his pocket. He cleared his throat and composed himself. "What I mean to say is … this particular item is obviously very old, and would probably only appeal to an expert ….such as yourself."

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked up at the ceiling, as though the rafters were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

The salesman spoke with a twinge of desperation as he felt the sale slip through his fingers. "Course, if you're interested in finding out more, I do know of a local historian, bit of a weapons expert by all accounts. Can probably tell you all you want to know."

Sam appeared genuinely interested as he smiled at the old man. "Don't suppose you have a contact number do you. And, how much is something like this worth, anyway?"

15 minutes later

Dean marched down the street so fast even Sam's long legs were working overtime to keep up. "Dude, how many more times, we do not buy. We wait till night, and we borrow? Hundred bucks for a knife, bro - that's just crazy."

Knowing his brother's anger was just for show; Sam didn't hesitate to goad him on. "Come on, Dean, like you couldn't make that back in ten minutes on the pool table."

Dean paused in his tracks just long enough to realise he'd been paid a compliment, but refusing to be sidetracked, he raised one hand. "Totally not the point, Sammy. True, but totally not the point."

Stopping dead, Sam grabbed his brothers' elbow, forcing him to a halt. "Dean while were on the subject, I am officially uncomfortable with us stealing weapons, especially from nice people trying to make a living."

"Noted, Sammy. From now on, we only liberate or borrow weapons from deviant, underworld, low life types, just like us. You happy now?" Shrugging his arm gently out of his brother's grasp he started walking once again, this time a little slower.

oOo

The Twilight Rest Bed & Breakfast Inn.

Lancaster.

Tuesday April 8th 19.10pm

ooooooo

Dean tugged on his brown leather jacket and checked himself one last time in the small mirror by the door. "So, you really gonna spend the night talking to this knife expert, rather than wine, women and song, Sammy?"

"Thought you were planning on playing pool and making some money? Where's the wine, women and song come from?

Dean grabbed his keys and wallet, and smiled deviously at his brother. "Always be prepared for anything, bro, one of dad's favourite commandments. Or have you forgotten all of those, now that big old brains of yours is full of college speak?"

Sam looked up and couldn't help but smile at his brother's enthusiasm. "I don't think dad had alcohol and sex on his mind when he came up with that one."

"Don't you believe it, Sammy! I'm out of here; someone has to have some fun tonight. Later, bro."

As the door closed Sam checked his own wallet, he had money for a taxi and enough for a few beers once he got back. Picking up his jacket, he made his way out into the cool evening air and headed for the main road to hail a cab.

oOo

The residence of Professor E. Mackenzie

263 West Grove, Lancaster.

Tuesday April 8th 20:00pm

ooooooo

"Hello, Professor Mackenzie? My name's Sam. I phoned earlier, about the knife."

Sam stood on the polished doorstep and held out his hand to the distinguished, grey haired gentleman who opened the door. He was greeted with a wide, welcoming smile.

"Ah yes, please come right in, always nice to meet a colleague." He turned and led the way, gesturing for Sam to follow.

"I'm afraid I'm strictly an amateur, Professor, and I'm really just after some information." Once in the comfortable living room, Sam was directed to a huge overstuffed armchair.

"I was just making a hot drink, may I get you one?" The old man stood by the kitchen door and smiled, his twinkling blue eyes - appraising his visitor. He had a distinct air of confidence and order about him, much like some of the teachers at Stanford and Sam instantly liked him.

"Um, thank you, whatever you're making will be fine."

It only took a moment for him to return with two steaming mugs of bitter black coffee. Sitting on the other chair he brought the drink up to his nose and breathed deep, obviously enjoying the aroma. "So - Sam, is it? What can I do for you?"

Sam took a deep draught of the dark liquid, it tasted very good. "Well, as I explained on the phone, I've just bought an old knife from a local dealer, and it seems to be covered with very deliberate symbols. I wanted to find out what they mean." Sam reached into his pocked and withdrew a sheet of paper, covered in ornate, detailed designs. He held it out to the older man who took it eagerly.

"Hmm." Professor Mackenzie retrieved his glasses from the table next to his elbow, and putting them on, concentrated on the page in front of him. "Have you got the knife on you, by any chance?"

Sam took another gulp of coffee and shook his head. "No, I didn't think to bring it, sorry." He cringed inwardly at lying to the older man, but wasn't about to admit that his brother had forbidden him to bring it, as it was technically Dean's knife since he'd had to pay for it.

"That's a shame, but never mind."

Sam opened his mouth, about to say something, but suddenly realised he'd forgotten what it was. Trying to catch the errant thought, he became aware of a small and distant ache in his temples that hadn't been there a moment before. He looked at the floor; it wasn't as solid as it should've been. It squirmed under his feet, so he relaxed back in the chair, quickly, before he fell, allowing his body to settle into the overstuffed cushions. Raising his eyebrows, he blinked a few times to clear his head, and moved his lips to speak again, but his mouth was stuffed with cotton wool.

Professor Mackenzie was walking over to him, and Sam watched the triple image intently as he crouched on his haunches, and fixed his eyes on the younger man. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with pity. "Just relax Sam and close your eyes. This won't hurt a bit."

oOo

TBC