One small act can hold great consequences and change the course of the future. What if Azazel had died years before he could make Sam one of his 'special children' and the Winchester brothers never grew up in the hunting business?
Instead of knives...
"Some things are better left undisturbed. Don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, and no trouble will come to you."~ Bobby Singer
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"I'm uhm," Sam stammered out, seeing nothing beyond the gun pointed at his head. His hands became somewhat clammy as his shirt awkwardly stuck to his neck. Yet he did not dare to move an inch to ease his growing nerves. Perhaps he should have gone to this one university a few hours further either way.
"Well? What is it? I don't have all night to deal with snot-nosed brats like you," the man grumbled back, gaze unwavering.
"I-I'm Sam," he finally managed to say, "Sam Winchester. Are you... Bobby Singer?"
"Winchester," he mumbled so lowly that Sam barely caught it. "What do you want?" He added, much louder now.
Sam decided to take that as a yes. "According to your website you are a specialist of weapons and artifacts... and I have a weapon I cannot find anything about," he stumbled out, still slightly unnerved by the gun pointed at him.
Bobby lowered his gun and pushed the door open. "Well, in that case, you might as well come in. And hurry up, the night can be dangerous with all things going bump in the dark," he turned around and strolled inside, clearly expecting Sam to follow him. "Don't mind the mess, I wasn't exactly expecting company."
After standing stupefied in the doorway for a while, Sam followed cautiously, his curiosity to find out more about the weapon getting the best of him. Perhaps it was a good idea that Mark didn't come with him after all, he realized, for Sam had no idea how he would have reacted to this grumpy old guy with the gun. In an odd way, a way unfamiliar to himself, Sam wanted to protect him from that. He blinked at his own thoughts, shaking his head lightly. I barely know the guy, he told himself, yet it sounded empty in even his own mind. He stepped further into the house, closing the door firmly behind himself as he went after the old man.
The first thing that Sam noticed, were the books. Countless books - and stacks of paper - lined the walls and covered basically every available surface. Most of them appeared to be rather old as well - and not all of them were written in English. He thought he could recognize Latin amongst them. "You like books?" Bobby asked, noticing where his attention has gone off too.
"Yeah, I do," Sam replied, his gaze settling back on the man.
"Either way, let's get to business," Bobby said as he rearranged some papers on his bureau. "You said that you have a weapon," he looked up when he said that, "so I suggest that you show it to me."
"Alright." Sam's hand went underneath the jacket he wore over his flannel shirt. He took out the blade which he had wrapped in a towel, held together by a leather strap. Silently, he put it on top of some books and unwrapped it, revealing the blade it contained.
Bobby leaned closer, frowning slightly as he stepped forward. "May I?" When Sam nodded, he carefully picked it up. Sam watched as he turned it around a few times in his hold; inspected the engravings on the handle and the blade's design. "It's lighter than you would expect," the man muttered, "and has an unusual design."
