Supernatural isn't mine. Its only my obsession. :(

I notice eyes first. I don't know why, I just always have. Its like the portal into a person's soul. You can learn so much by just a careful glance. Whether they're open or guarded, youthful or old, empty or wise, crazed or calm...eyes are the answer. When they drop their contact with you real fast, that tells you something. When they let it linger, or they search your eyes for an answer to their indescribable problems, that tells you something too.

That's why whenever someone walks into my bar, I try to have some good ol' ojo-a-ojo contact. After you've lived as long as I have, you know that its these little hints that can save your ass. And I like my ass. I've worked long and hard to make it perky.

About fifty years after I first opened my bar was when I met him. I never got his name or anything. I don't even really remember what he looks like. Except his eyes.

Green. Bright, vibrant, beautiful green. The kind of green you always dream of your little babies having. The kind of green you picture in the eyes of Irish goddesses. Such a green that I wanted to scoop them out and put them in my backyard, two small, perfect, vibrant green pools of enigmas inside a conundrum inside a burrito. They were young and happy, but that was a facade. Sure, they could have been young, but not today. Today they were dulled, despite their natural color. It was like the life had gone out of the man. They were the saddest, oldest, wisest eyes I've ever seen. They were calm, but like it was masking a craze. I must have stared at this man for fifteen minutes before he finally cleared his throat loud enough.

He asked for a beer.

A beer? Alright. I gave him a beer. And a shot of whiskey. Actually, four shots of whiskey. Then another couple beers. A few young pretty things walked into the bar during his stay. He perused them with an experienced eye, but dropped his glance back to his bottle before any of the girls could see.

I thought about saying something, but as I opened my mouth he opened his wallet.

"How much?" He'd asked, with a raspy, raw, tired voice.

I bit my lip before I figured I would hate myself not for asking. I leaned over the counter, closer to him. "A story," I whispered. "Tell me your story."

He was stone still for moments. His shoulders tensed and his head lowered so I couldn't see his face -or his eyes. I thought he might've stayed that way forever, except he didn't.

Like a machine, he raised his head and plastered a smile on his face. A blindingly happy smile. I would've believed had his eyes not been brimming with tears.

"He's gone," he choked out, tears threatening to overflow.

"Who?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

He looked me straight in the eyes, and I swore my heart broke that moment I saw the pain in the man's eyes. I regretted not just giving him his tab. Who was I to make him retell this...this terror story?

"Sammy." His voice cracked and so did the dam. Tears streaked down his cheeks and his whole body shuddered in sobs. This man was so utterly broken, so desolate and alone...

So I did the only thing I could. I cried with him.