Summary: Why did the black cat cross the road? To ruin Dean Winchester's day, that's why. In honor of my 66th fic on this site, a silly story about bad luck, posted on a Friday the 13th. As for the title, see username. Meow.
Story Idea: Credit goes to DamaDeHonor. She's my good luck charm. The magic mushrooms told me so. They were very persuasive.
6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6
Why Did the Black Cat Cross the Road?
His life has been full of bad luck. It's not that he's overly superstitious; he's just had a disproportionate amount of bad things happen in his relatively short life.
Big Bad Number One: Mom died. It started Dad on a crusade to find the thing that killed her and to kill it in return. It ruined Dean and Sam's childhoods. November second was a bad day.
There's something to that, too. There's a system to this whole bad luck business. For one thing, November second is 11/2. If you add those two numbers, you get thirteen. Friggin' thirteen! Worst number ever, aside from 666.
And speaking of 666, Bad Omen Number Two is Dad dying. Dying, ha. Like it was all natural and shit, right? Supernatural, is what it was. And what day was it that Dad made his stupid deal with the stupid demon that killed Mom and Jess? That's right, ladies and gentlemen. June sixth, two thousand and six. 6/6/06. 666.
And then there's his birthday. Forty years to the day (note forty is a Biblical number—Great Flood, anyone? People died, man) before his birth, there was this huge earthquake in Chile that killed a bunch of people. In 2006, Disney bought Pixar. Winston Churchill died in 1965. January twenty-fourth is a bad day. A very bad day.
Still not convinced they've had it in for him from the beginning? How about this: Anagrams.
Shuffle the letters in his name (that's DEAN WINCHESTER, for those of you who haven't figured it out yet), and you get a bunch of nonsense words (and a few awesomely funny what-the-friggin'-hell ones in the mix, like SANDWICH ENTRÉE and TRAINED WENCHES), but you also get CHEATED WINNERS and INSANE WRETCHED. How is that not a bad omen?
Or maybe it's simply being a Winchester. WINCHESTER makes WRETCHES IN and SCREW EN HIT. Pretty apt, don'tcha think?
Still, getting in the Impala after a day full of spilled salt, broken mirrors, and walking under ladders (accidentally, man, not on purpose—what kind of idiot would do all that on purpose?), tired and sore and bleeding, he gets the feeling that his luck's about to turn.
His baby. There ain't nothin' bad about his baby. She's a black cat that'll make other people's luck bad if they cross her. She's his good luck charm. Nothing bad happens when she's around.
Dean pats her steering wheel and Baby purrs in contentment.
6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6-6
AN: Aww, Dean! Don't be so depressed. They first sold canned beer on your birthday (1935). You like canned beer, don't you? Mmmmm, beer.