Rating: PG-13 for swearing.
Summary: She comes to him in the form of a girl with blue jeans and pigtails. Oneshot. Humor. Written for spn_challenges's "Dumb Monsters" challenge.
She comes to him in the form of a girl with blue jeans and pigtails.
Dean’s playing pool in some bar in Michigan while Sam is sleeping off the last remaining affects of the flu. She pinches his ass as he’s taking his shot and remarkably he’s still able to make it.
“You’re pretty good at this game.” Dean would like to tell her that he’s good at a lot of games and if she wanted, he could show her some.
“I get a lot of practice.”
“And you make a lot of lucky shots.”
Dean lines up his next shot, eight ball, corner pocket and politely tells her, “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
A biker named Harold tells him, “Shitty luck,” and Dean gives him fifty bucks.
A day later in a gas station about a hundred miles down the road a kid on a scooter scratches his car, a bird shits on his freshly washed windshield and Dean realizes he left his electric razor back at the motel.
They’re hunting a nymph terrorizing a campsite in northern Michigan a couple days later when Dean’s gun jams and he gets a face full of pixie dust.
Sam shoots the nasty little creature and tries not to laugh as he helps Dean wipe the dust off his face.
They do the best they can but pixie dust is a bitch to get off your skin and as they’re walking back to the Impala they pass a couple of frat boys with beers in their hands and glints in their eyes.
“Dude, try the strippers without the glitter next time.”
Dean goes to flip them off but trips on a discarded beer bottle only to end up face first in the mud.
Sam tries to make him feel better by saying, “At least it covers the glitter.”
It doesn’t help.
There’s a stubbed toe in Ohio, a chipped tooth in Indiana, and a shaving accident in Illinois.
Dean comes out of the bathroom with little spots of toilet paper on his face and announces to Sam, “This is bullshit.”
Sam would have answered if he could have stopped laughing.
In Montana they’re dispelling a poltergeist when Dean takes a tumble down a flight of stairs. He sprains his ankle, rips his jeans and somehow manages to lose his favorite handgun in between the top of the stairs and the bottom.
His favorite Motorhead tape gets caught in the tape player in the car on the way back.
The light in the motel room burns out as soon as Dean flicks it on and that’s the final straw.
He marches to the Impala and yanks open the trunk, swearing as he pinches his finger somehow and he pulls out all of the good luck charms he carries.
Two rabbits feet, a horseshoe, and an assortment of amulets and pendants. He stuffs them all into his pockets and heads back to the room.
Sam is waiting inside, unsure whether to laugh or be worried.
Dean stands still in the middle of the room for a good five minutes.
“That’s more like it.”
He collapses onto his bed.
It breaks underneath his weight.
“Son of a bitch!”
It takes a lot of research and a lot of coffee and a lot of, “Calm down, Dean,” ’s and “We’ll figure it out, Dean,” ’s but Sam finally figures out what is going on.
“You pissed off Lady Luck.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“When did all of this start?”
Dean thinks really hard and accidentally bites his tongue. He ignores the way Sam snickers.
“Back in Michigan, when you were getting over the flu.”
“Okay, then you had to have run into her there,” Sam looks pointedly at his brother. “Did you meet any girls while you were there? Any that were extra flirty? Talked about luck maybe?”
It only takes Dean half a second to remember the girl with the blue jeans and the pigtails.
“Son of a bitch!”
Sam drives the entire way back to Michigan. Dean sits in the passenger seat with the good luck charms on his lap and his head down and his eyes wide. He’s jumpy and phobic and he barely moves a muscle, afraid that if he breathes wrong, he may just choke on air.
They go back to the bar where it all started and Sam has to hold Dean’s shoulders and he escorts him inside.
Dean spots her from across the room.
“Just go and apologize,” Sam assures him.
Dean’s rubbing a rabbit’s foot in each hand as he walks over.
When she turns around she recognizes him first thing with an, “Oh, it’s you.”
“I’m sorry.” Dean doesn’t waste any time.
“What are you sorry for?”
“Whatever the hell I did to piss you off.”
“Well if you don’t even know what you did, how can you be sorry?”
Dean is desperate.
“Look, lady, in my line of work I can’t afford to have this kind of bad luck. Skill’s just not good enough.”
She pats his shoulder as she walks by. Dean turns around and Sam raises his eyebrows from across the room. Dean shrugs at the same time a waitress walks by. He accidentally knocks a pitcher of beer off her tray and onto a biker sitting at a table.
Dean’s still fingering his rabbit’s feet as the biker’s fist meets his eye.
The emergency room is busy and Dean ends up having to wait for over an hour to see a doctor.
A black eye, bruised jaw and a broken arm apparently aren’t severe enough to warrant worry.
“I don’t get it,” Sam complains. “You apologized didn’t you?”
“I mean, she said ‘okay’ and everything, right?”
Sam is baffled.
Dean is traumatized.
A nurse with blonde hair, big boobs and bright lipstick is standing in front of him. Dean looks wary.
“Oh you poor thing,” she says and puts a hand on his head. “We’ll get you fixed up. But first, let’s get you out of those clothes.”
A slow grin breaks Dean’s face.
Sam shakes his head.
It must have been his lucky day.