Chapter Two

Sam and John: The end of an era

John: Fine! You wanna leave, you wanna abandon us, that's fine!

Sam: I'm not –

John: But you better stay gone.

Sam: What?

John: You heard me, Sam. You walk out that door now, you don't even think about coming back!

Sam: If that's what you really want.

John: It is.

Sam: Fine.


"No, it was a dagger," Sam repeated to the elderly woman, annunciating as best he could, making sure the store owner in need of a hearing aid didn't think he'd said bagger or cadaver again. "Like a knife."

"Oh, oh," the white haired lady finally seemed to understand. "The dagger, yes, that's been in our store for nearly a decade."

Sam waited patiently for a moment, before widening his eyes slightly, expectantly. "Well?"

He repeated his question of earlier. "Do you remember who you sold it to?"

"Oh, I don't know," she sounded exasperated, "You'd have to check with my husband. He handles those things, or he did."

Sam gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to snap, thinking maybe he should have listened to Dean; perhaps it was too early to resume their usual hunting practices.

"Okay," he drew out the word slowly. "Where's your husband? Can I talk to him?"

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "Who'd you say you were?"

"I'm a police officer." He repeated his cover story, checking the clock on the wall behind her head subconsciously, knowing it was still early.

"You 'aint dressed like no cop,"

"I'm off duty," he explained his civilian clothing. "Do you want to see my badge again?"

She seemed to consider it, weighing the option, Sam kept his teeth clenched. Before she actually vocalized a response, the bell above the door jingled, indicating the arrival of new clientele.

"Hello there," she called to them pleasantly, looking past Sam.

"Hi," one of the two young women called back. "Can you help me out Aggie, I'm looking for a good wedding present. You know Suzy and Carl finally got hitched."

"They did not," The storeowner – Aggie, apparently – exclaimed excitedly, seeming to forget about Sam's existence all together.

"Yep," the young woman confirmed, sharing a grin with her friend. "Few days ago at the

Justice of the peace. They're still on their honeymoon out in the city. We're gonna have a party all set up for 'em when they get back."

"Jesus Heaven and Mary," Aggie laughed, "Well, how'd you find out 'bout all this?" She circled the counter.

"Hey," Sam interrupted before the two could continue their gossip, Aggie turned back to him. "Your husband?" He remained in a respectively quiet voice.

"He's upstairs," she sighed after another brief moment of hesitation, and pointed to the partially hidden stairs to the far left of the staircase. "Listen here," she warned as Sam started to head in that direction, "Mitch… he's been sick for a while now, and he don't need any stress, ya hear?"

Sam, who had expected a story of this nature, nodded and smiled. "Don't worry, ma'am, I just want to ask him a few questions." He would have tipped his hat at this point, had he been wearing one.

"Alright then," Aggie nodded, giving Sam the permission he needed to cross the store and make his way up the stairs.

The tail end of the women's gossiping faded as he ascended the staircase, and was out of hearing range all together by the time he reached the apartment door. Sam took a deep breath and knocked lightly, a big part of him was praying that there would be no answer – that he would have an excuse not to fight this battle.

"Yeah?" A gruff voice called from inside.

No such luck.

Sam called back to the man, using the alias he'd assumed with Aggie downstairs and explained briefly what he wanted. Mitch opened the door without much hesitancy.

The old man was small in stature, but it was an unnatural small, one that indicated clearly that Mitch used to be a much bigger man; until old age and looming death had taken it all away.

Sam and Dean: At the hospital

Dean: Dad looks almost small.

Sam: You should be in bed.

Dean: I never thought dad could look small, ya know? It's wrong.

Sam: You're gonna pull your stitches again.

Dean: Remember when he tried to teach you how to drive?

Sam: Dean…

Dean: Ended up yelling at each other so bad you nearly crashed.

Sam: Dean.

Dean: I had to teach your stubborn ass.

Sam: …and I still crashed.


"I sold that knife nearly a month ago," Mitch and Sam were sitting at the small kitchen table, Sam was sipping the coffee the elderly man had provided for him gratefully, having had only Gas Station sludge yet that morning. "To a girl, few years younger than you, maybe," Sam was eyed curiously.

"I'm relatively new at this," Sam answered the unasked question. "Kind of a rookie."

"Figured," Mitch smiled. "Where's your partner at?" Sam raised his eyebrows, "What?" Mitch defended, "I watch cop shows."

Sam smiled sadly, "Ah, I'm off duty right now," he admitted. "My partner doesn't even know I'm here."

"That legal?" He questioned worriedly.

"Yeah," Sam assured. "Now, Mr. Gr-"

"I told you, boy, call me Mitch."

"Mitch," Sam amended, "This girl."

"Right," he got back to his story, "Not much younger than you, I remember her 'cause she had a…this tattoo, 'round her arm," he used one of his hands to circle his own, "Right below her elbow. Snakes with faces on 'em, horrible image, Aggie went on about it for hours."

Sam's mind went back to his vision – the girl had been wearing long sleeves. "Okay," the younger of the two nodded, "And she bought the dagger a month ago?"

"That's right," Mitch agreed. "Now you say that dagger's a murder weapon?"

"It's a possibility," Sam told him. "Can you tell me how you acquired it?"

"Came over with Aggie's grandma from Northern Ireland, priced it a pretty penny too." Mitch sounded as if he'd been unsettled by such a young girl buying such an expensive item to begin with.

Sam made a note of this in his police-looking notebook and let silence stretch between them. "Is that all you know about it?" Sam asked, not expecting a real answer, but when Mitch didn't say anything, he looked up. "Mitch?"

"There're legends," he spoke in low, yet doubtful, tone. "Stories that Aggie's family always told. My wife never believed a word of it."

"I need to know everything you know about the dagger, Mitch," Sam spoke firmly, "I believe the girl in possession of it may be using it in a sort of occult practice."

"Occult?" Mitch's eyes widened. "Like Magic? Witches?"

"Yes," Sam answered bluntly, not wanting to beat around the bush. "Like evil witches who practice human sacrifice." And discuss the complexities of demons, he added to himself. "Now I need to know the story."

Mitch sighed, looking like he wanted to protest, but knew it would be fruitless. "Well, okay, it goes like this," he leaned forward, and by reflex, so did Sam. "A young girl, someone born into as family of…evil, will get the knife and use it. Use it draw her own blood and share it with her daughter, then that daughter will do the same."

Sam's brow creased, "And what…"

"It's said," Mitch continued, "That with each generation, the women get stronger, more evil, and they live longer, until one day, one of them becomes immortal."

"They never die," Sam hadn't expected that, hadn't wanted to hear anything even remotely this complicated. "And they keep doing evil. Killing."

Mitch laughed, nervously, purposely trying to break the tension now present in the room. "Son, that's just a story. A legend. Them things don't really happen. People can't live forever."

"In theory," Sam mumbled.

Mitch heard the words, and seemed angered by them. "People can't live forever," he repeated, more forcefully. "If you don't believe that, you 'aint got no right bein' any sort a cop."

"Look, sir," Sam decided to placate him, "All I know it that someone bought that knife and now someone else is missing. Maybe it is just a legend, but if someone out there believes it, thinks they can live forever, then they're more of a danger than you could possibly imagine."

Mitch snorted, "Listen here, son." He growled, "I know exactly what people would do for life. I know dying, I think I know a little bit more about death than you do, anyway."

"What?" The comment nearly took Sam's breath away.

"I'm dying, Sam."


"I'm gonna die, Sam… and you can't stop it."

"Watch me."


"Your father's gonna die," the doctor finally told Dean firmly, after re-stitching the wound in his side. The elder brother had tried to physically beat the doctor into giving him a different diagnosis. "You can't stop that."

"Why not?" Dean had pleaded with Sam after the man was gone. "You stopped it when I was dying. Why can't we do it again?" Tears were clouding his eyes, infiltrating his voice. Sam couldn't move.

"Sammy?"

"You should go see him," he forced the words out. "Sit with him, say goodbye."

"What about you?"

His eyes shut for a moment, in that moment he blocked out reality; the hospital, the sanitizer smell he would connect for the rest of his life, to death. Just like the smell of burning flesh, the sound of fire. So many things led back to death.

So many endings.

"I'll be there soon."


"My dad died two weeks ago," Sam snapped, anger clouding all rational emotion. "Don't you dare tell me I don't know anything about death."

Mitch opened his mouth, but Sam didn't let him get whatever words he was planning on speaking out, all the anger and worry that had been accumulating for the last nineteen days finally rose to the surface.

"How old are you? How many kids do you have? I bet you have great-grand kids, don't you?" It was a rhetorical question by default; Sam didn't stop ranting long enough to let him answer. "My dad was fifty-one, okay? My mom was twenty-seven. My girlfriend was twenty-two. So don't you dare sit there and preach to me about death. Because from where I'm sitting, you're pretty damn lucky."

Mitch seemed struck dumb by Sam's outburst, and the youngest Winchester was out of breath by the time he finished. Tears gathered in his eyes as well, but he blinked those away, annoyed.

"Sam…" Mitch started, and for a second Sam though he was going to offer some epic apology, which the young man wasn't terribly opposed to. If anything, he was sure he deserved it. Yet all Mitch said was, "You're not a cop, are you?"

Sam didn't answer, just continued staring at a spot on the wall, behind the old man's head. "Did the girl pay for the dagger with cash or a credit card?"

"Credit."

"I need to see that receipt." His voice was calm again; had switched to almost emotionless, in fact.

"I have all the receipts in a folder in the bedroom." He paused, either debating with himself over whether or not to say something, or waiting to see if Sam would. Neither happened, and eventually he got up, making his way slowly into another room, which Sam assumed was the bedroom.

As soon as Mitch was out of sight, Sam let his head fall down, resting it heavily on his arms, folded atop the wooden table, knocking the now cold cup of coffee away from him slightly as he did.

"God, Dean," he mumbled to himself. "I need you for this shit." He took a deep breath. "I need you."


I sought my God, but my God eluded me.
TBC...