Chapter 2

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Bill Griffin turned towards the man and two teenagers as they walked idly around his pawnshop.

The older man, possibly the boys' father, approached the glass case Bill stood behind. "I'm looking for something and an old friend of my pointed me in your direction."

Billy made a face behind his salt and pepper beard, and nodded slowly. "I got a lot of crap in here," he said. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific." The boys approached the glass case as well, each looking just like their older companion in their own ways, confirming in Billy's mind that they were father and sons.

"Well," the man continued, "Bobby Singer sent me to you. Said you were the man that would be able to hook us up with what we needed."

The gears clicked into place as Bill stared at the man in the leather jacket. Bobby Singer pointing someone into his shop could only mean one thing: the men that stood before him were monster hunters.

For years, Bill Griffin had tended his pawnshop without anything exciting happening to him, but then that man; that ratty baseball cap wearing, bearded know-it-all had barged in through the glass doors of his shop and about fell through the first glass case he came to. "I need a silver knife," he had almost shouted at Bill. "Pure silver. Argentinean if you got it."

Bill had what this man had needed and after paying, he had disappeared through the glass doors again, not being seen again for months. The second time Bill had interacted with Bobby Singer; he had brought something to sell: it had been a dagger encrusted with rubies and diamonds. It came in a hilt that was worth more than the Queen's dowry, Bill figured. Dry mouthed and nervous, Billy had offered him a price much lower than the dagger and the hilt had been worth, but obviously, Bobby had been desperate.

Bobby had taken the cash and walked away, leaving Bill with one piece of advice: "Don't friggin' touch it with your bare hands."

"What?" Billy asked, leaning back and pulling his hands away from it.

Bobby Singer turned back towards him, pulled off his stained baseball cap and ran his hand through his hair and replaced the cap on his head. "It's cursed," he said quietly. "The dagger…it's cursed, if you believe in that kind of mumbo-jumbo."

Staring at the man, Billy had licked his lips and glanced down at the blade warily. "Cursed?" he asked. "How do you know something like that?"

"Because it just took me an ancient Mayan spell and about sixty-two of the rarest ingredients I ever heard of to help me grow back this part of my hand."

Bill stared where Bobby pointed to the raw, pink flesh of his left hand. "Re-grow," he repeated, completely deadpan. Bobby nodded. Billy decided to press the matter. "You're telling me that this," he pointed to the dagger on his counter, "cursed off part of your hand and you were able to re-grow it."

Bobby blinked slowly and raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, man," he answered, annoyed. "What, you want me to draw you a picture?"

That conversation had begun one of the most interesting friendships that Billy had ever made. He was introduced to the world of monsters, where your nightmares were real and things you never dreamed of hunted you in the night. Overnight, Bill Griffin had been inducted to Bobby Singer's connections and artifacts off all kinds began to trickle into his shop. Suddenly, he not only had a pawnshop, but he was the monster hunter's number-one supplier of all things holy, protective, pure, and spellbound.

Behind a heavy curtain, of course; you didn't want to scare the Bible-thumpers.

Now that these men stared at him from in front of his glass display case, he knew that they were here for something that he most likely had stored in the back of his shop. "Well, gentlemen," he began, stepping from around the glass case. "You're probably looking for something on this side of the veil."

He held open the curtain that hid the boxes of cursed objects, ingredients for rare spell work, daggers made from varying trees and roots, and the centerpiece of it all: a black book bound in human flesh that Bill had won at auction almost five years ago. Bobby himself was unable to translate the ancient text that was scrawled through the book, but he knew someday, someone would pay a pretty penny for that monstrosity. Every once and awhile, Bill swore he could hear the book breathe.

The man stepped inside the curtain and glared at the book, which sat in the middle of a painted Devil's Trap in the middle of the wooden floor. "You should probably have a line of salt around that too," he muttered, gesturing at the book.

Bill nodded. "Oh, I do," he said, smiling. "The paint of the trap has about six pounds of kosher salt mixed in. Holy water too."

The man smiled lightly and nodded. "Bobby was right," he complimented. "You know your lore."

"Bill Griffin," Billy said, extending his hand towards the man in the leather jacket.

"John Winchester," the man answered, taking his hand and shaking it heartily. "These are my boys, Sam and Dean."

The boys nodded, lingering near the entrance of the back room. Bill nodded in reply and turned back to John. "What are you here for, Mr. Winchester?"

…

Hours later, John, Sam, and Dean Winchester walked towards their glossy black Chevy Impala, laden with heavy books and three elm daggers, hoping to kill the next monster they had on their list. On his last trip out to the car, Dean, the older boy, hesitated at the glass case in the entryway of the shop.

"How much you want for the forty-fives?" he asked, pointing to The Twins.

John and Sam hesitated in the doorway, waiting for Dean.

"Sorry, boy," Bill answered the teenager. "Those are on hold for a friend of mine. If he don't want them tomorrow morning when he comes, I'll give you a call."

John tilted his head at his son. "What do you need a set of forty-fives for? You've got your own."

"But there's two," Dean argued. "Two's always better than one."

Rolling his eyes, John nodded to Bill. "Thank you for your help," he said. "I'm sure we'll be back sometime soon."

Dean hesitated a moment longer and winked at Bill. "Let me know if your buddy doesn't take them off your hands."

Billy Griffin winked back at Dean. "You got it, son," he said, watching the glass door swing shut behind them.