Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.
Jake's POV:
Bad luck. I'd like to say I don't believe in it. I'd like to say that it's all just a bunch of crap, a nice and tidy way of excusing the actions of other people, or even yourself. I'd like to think that we're in charge of our own reality, not fate or destiny, or luck, good or bad. But I can't truly say or think those things, no matter how much I may want to.
Look at me, at my life. How could you account for the things that have gone so right, the best that I have? I met my wife when I turned too fast at the counter at Starbucks and spilled my latte all over her. She didn't get burned because the textbooks she was carrying took the brunt of the spill. She laughed and said it didn't matter because it was the end of the semester and she had just finished her final for that class so she didn't need the books anyway. She didn't drink coffee. She was there to get some hot chocolate for a sick friend. I never go to Starbucks, but my coffee maker broke the day before. Neither of us are from Nevada, had no real reason to go school out here, yet there we both were. Perfect. Fated. Lucky.
Of course, we also had an unplanned pregnancy, a baby to care for while trying to build a business, a nest egg sunk into a dilapidated and haunted house, and thousands of dollars in student loans all to contend with in our first year of marriage. Bad luck? Maybe.
How about now? The Bed and Breakfast makes next to nothing. Sure for the first couple of years we did all right, but now? It's been six months at least since we've had a paying customer. Sal's doing telemarketing on the side, which she sucks at because she always feels bad for interrupting people's days and dinners, and I, with my MBA, am managing a garage to make ends meet. Which they still don't, meet that is. But still, should I blame that on some sort of bad luck, or just admit to making some poor judgement calls for which my daughter will pay – you know, when we finally decide to sell her on the black market so we can swing the car payment. Hey, kids are great and all, but she can't carry me to and from work.
I don't know. I don't know. But at this moment, I'm leaning towards the idea that there definitely is such a thing as bad luck. And the reason why is because I can almost smell it oozing off the Winchester brothers.
I'm finishing up the last of some over due paperwork when I see them saunter into the garage. After signing the final form and tossing it into one of the haphazard stacks on my desk I walk out of my glass fishbowl of an office to greet them. "She looks good," I say as I approach, and Dean gives me an exhausted smile, a rather limp handshake.
"Thanks," he says through a sigh. "What do I owe you?"
I shake my head. "Not a thing. All she needed was some more coolant, a little break. Desert's hell on cars, especially the older ones."
"We prefer the term classic," Sam chimes in, all counterfeit smiles.
I look at him only briefly before gasping. "Oh, man, you look like shit!" His T-shirt is soaked with sweat and blood, parts of it dried brown, parts still burning red. There's a bandage taped to his head, just below the hairline. Most of it's concealed by his hair, flopping over into his face, but I can make out a little bit blood that's made its way through the gauze. "Sal didn't tell me you were hurt."
"Yeah, well, she doesn't know," Dean says, and I can see that he means to keep it that way, that he purposely didn't tell her so she wouldn't go into worry overdrive. And I'm thankful for that. "At least let me pay for the tow."
"Naw, really, forget about it. Besides, we're the only decent sized garage in the area so we got the other two cars too. Truck's totaled, but we should make something off the Camry." He nods his understanding, but I can see that he really wants to offer payment again. He's just that kind of guy, doesn't like owing people, definitely doesn't like charity. We have that in common and it only adds to my respect for him. But because I understand how he feels I find myself saying, "If you really want to pay me back you could help Sal out with some advertising stuff." He perks up a little, eager to help, and I'm reminded of when we first met, how ready he seemed to do whatever he could around the house for us, like he was repaying some debt I know he didn't owe me.
"Yeah, whatever you need."
"Just basic stuff," I say, leading them to their car. "I think she made up some flyers with coupons or something. If you could just drive them around, you know, when you get a chance, not right now or anything." He nods again and then looks up at his Impala, his face brightening as he runs his fingers across the hood.
When we first met, most of our conversations revolved around that car. There was talk about the spirits that were haunting my house – man, I still can't even think about that with a straight face…spirits, ghosts, haunting – and later some discussions about how to lay the floors or put up drywall, but somehow it always came back to cars. Maybe it was just our only shared interest at the time, since I couldn't even say the word ghost without giggling and he wouldn't know a jigsaw if it sliced off his finger, which did almost happen once.
I heard him, though, talking late at night with Sal. She never sleeps much and it seemed like he always had something keeping him up too. I never interrupted, just eavesdropped until their voices lulled me to sleep. I know his mother died when he was very young. His father's the one who taught him about all the ghostly stuff, and his relationship with him was…strained. He never used the word abuse, not that I heard anyway. But I did see his face one day when Sal, broke with worry and exhaustion, overworked, overwrought, and just plain irritated, reached down and spanked a screaming Callie. I saw all his color drain, his jaw go slack, and his eyes drift, like he was remembering something long ago. And I saw his face contort painfully when Cal cried out and started balling. His cringe wasn't one of disgust or anger, just a pure and sickening sort of recognition. I remember looking at him, hearing my daughter crying in the background, my wife mumbling apologies to her, and wondering if anyone else had ever seen that face, the one I'm sure he did all he could to keep hidden.
But that wasn't the only time I wondered that about Dean. He had so many faces, so many masks, that even after nearly four months together, working together, living in the same house, sharing a six pack on the back porch nearly every one of those days, I still couldn't say I really knew the man at all. He had a cocky face to mask the fact that he knew nothing about carpentry, and a legitimately knowing one to show that he legitimately knew about certain other things. He had a special friendly and open grin he used when talking to Sal, the kind she always manages to bring out in people, and a goofy over-exaggerated one he wore just to make Callie laugh. The one time I remember him mentioning his brother – to me anyway, I know he talked about him a lot to Sal – his face relaxed more than I think I ever saw it do, complete with a shy and crooked smile, and his eyes went unfocused, almost dreamy, like he was reliving…good times. It was the absolute antithesis to the look I saw when Callie got spanked.
The expression he has now is one of relief, and it seems genuine, but I can never really tell. Dean's a man who hides behind so many different faces, so many different masks, that I doubt even he knows which ones are real are which are just fabrications of a distraught mind trying to remain hidden. But he seems more at ease than when he first entered, now that he knows his car's all right, can feel the fully intact metal under his hands. "She saved our lives, you know," he says rather absently, still fingering the shiny black surface.
"Yeah," I say as I watch Sam nod in agreement. "I was thinking when I got there how lucky you must have been that she stalled when she did." I say lucky not because it's just something you say in a situation like this, but because I really do feel that's what happened here. They finally happened upon some good luck. It's about time.
"We should get back," Sam says, and I hand him the keys. He tosses them to Dean and goes to climb into the passenger side. "Sal probably still needs some help hunting down that rat."
I laugh, remembering the account she gave me over the phone earlier this morning. Huge thing, scared the Bejesus out of me, took off straight for Dean who screamed like a little girl – don't him I said that. "Yeah, well, it's probably long gone by now," I say, knowing full well it's nothing but an irrational hope. "Besides, when she sees you, she'll probably forget all about that and just wrap you up in a blanket and coddle you 'til you suffocate."
"There's something to look forward to."
Dean starts the engine and Sam gets in. I lean down to say something through the open window. "You know what? You guys have had a rough day. What do you say we hit the town tonight?" I don't really know if it's a good idea or not. They look beat, and a bit bloodied. And quite frankly, even though they had a little bit of good luck, what with avoiding the accident and all, I'm still convinced they may be magnets for the bad. Part of me doesn't even want to take them to the strip, the last thing I need is a couple of cursed brothers following me around a casino. But if anybody needs a break and a night out it's these boys.
They look at each other briefly, asking, answering, and deciding all with a shared glance. Then they both shoot smiles and nods my way before waving and driving off.
A/N: Not too exciting, but wait! Next we get to have some fun in Vegas! I haven't really decided what might happen there, so I'm open to suggestions. Anywhoo, until we meet again...review, review, review!