Supernatural - Chapter 14: Good Luck Can Kill, Too (Patreon)

After leaving Bobby's house, Dean followed Murphy's directions toward New York State.

Neither brother knew what was waiting for them near Buffalo. All they knew was that Murphy had been urging them that way for days, absolutely certain they'd soon hear something connected to John.

Dean had asked her about it once, only to be told, “It's not time yet.”

He'd rolled his eyes at her in the rearview mirror but hadn't pushed any further.

They stopped for gas along the way. While Dean filled Baby's tank, Sam headed to a vending machine outside the convenience store for a few cans of soda.

Murphy stayed in the car and straightened up her laptop bag.

She coiled her charging cable again and checked the battery on her new phone. By the time she looked up, Dean had finished with the gas pump, but Sam was still gone.

A little later, Sam finally came back toward Baby with the drinks.

Murphy watched him through the window. He was walking faster than when he'd left, his shoulders were tense, and he'd squeezed a shallow dent into one of the cans. Something had happened.

She didn't ask immediately, merely looking up at him as he settled into the passenger seat.

Sam passed Dean his drink and set Murphy's can in the back. Then he went quiet.

Dean opened his soda and took a sip. Several seconds passed before he noticed his brother wasn't talking.

“Something wrong?”

Sam stared ahead, apparently deciding where to start.

“Ruby came to see me.”

Murphy stopped what she was doing.

Dean turned toward him at once. “What did she do to you?”

“Nothing.” Sam shook his head. “She knows we've figured out she's a demon.”

Ruby hadn't bothered pretending otherwise. When Sam had asked her outright, her eyes had briefly gone solid black before returning to normal. She'd been remarkably calm about it.

It was almost as though having her identity exposed meant she could stop wasting time on tedious games and get down to business.

“She says she can save you.” Sam looked at Dean. “She couldn't understand how we knew about Lilith, but she says she can help us find her and break the deal.”

Dean didn't look remotely pleased.

“How thoughtful,” he said dryly. “A demon drops by to offer to help us find another demon, and she'll save my life as a bonus.”

“I didn't agree to anything.”

“But you wanted to.” Dean knew the little brother he'd raised far too well.

Sam didn't deny it.

Silence settled over the car.

Murphy studied Sam's profile. He'd told them what happened, but he was still gripping his soda so tightly that his knuckles had begun to turn white.

He knew Ruby was dangerous. He knew it was almost certainly a trap.

Yet if there was even a one-in-ten-thousand chance she meant what she said, there was no way he could dismiss it completely.

Dean understood that, too. It showed in the way his expression grew darker by the second.

Murphy waited a moment before speaking. “Ruby doesn't intend to break Dean's deal. She can't, either.”

Sam turned toward her.

“Her idea of saving Dean is getting you to believe that following her directions to Lilith will solve everything,” Murphy explained. “We were already looking for Lilith. She's just trying to make herself look like the quickest way to get there.”

“Why does she want me to go after Lilith so badly?” Sam asked.

“Because she needs you to end up right in front of Lilith.” Murphy didn't explain what came after that.

All three of them knew Lilith held Dean's contract and that sooner or later they'd have to confront her. Ruby wasn't giving them a new goal. She was trying to control the route they took to reach it.

Sam glanced down at the can in his hands. “If she really knows where Lilith is, maybe we can turn that to our advantage.”

“Maybe,” Murphy agreed. “She's got the knife we need, and she knows how to repair the Colt. Anything else she tells us might be useful, too.”

Sam looked up.

“But wanting her to tell the truth doesn't make it true,” Murphy said, meeting his eyes. “And don't go anywhere with her alone.”

“I told you about her this time,” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah.” Murphy nodded. “You did good.”

He hesitated, caught off guard by how naturally she'd praised him just for volunteering the truth.

It also gave him the bizarre, faintly horrifying feeling of being complimented by his mother.

Dean looked between them and let out a long, weary sigh.

“Okay. Are we done talking about the demon's 'good news'?”

Murphy considered the question. “There's bad news, too.”

Dean closed his eyes as though gathering the last of his patience. “Let's hear it.”

“Remember Gordon?”

Sam's expression changed immediately.

Dean whipped his gaze toward her in the rearview mirror. “Hold on. How do you know about Gordon, too?”

Murphy only smiled. She knew about Gordon, all right. She'd even found it strangely sexy when Sam twisted the vampire Gordon's head off with his own power, then looked at Dean with that perfectly innocent, bewildered expression.

She leaned against the back seat and went on. “He's still in prison, but that won't stop him from trying to kill Sam. He'll call other hunters and persuade them to do it for him.”

“Gordon thinks I'm a demon,” Sam said, his voice cold.

“Exactly. So if you meet hunters you don't recognize, don't assume they've come to help.”

“Can't the guy just sit quietly in prison?” Dean demanded.

Murphy gave him a look that clearly said, What do you think?

After two seconds of silence, Dean started Baby again.

“One demon wants to use Sam, and one psycho hunter wants to kill Sam.” He steered out of the gas station. “You're a popular guy today, Sammy.”

“Thanks,” Sam said without expression.

“Anytime.”

The Impala headed back onto the highway.

...

Not long afterward, an unfamiliar cell phone ringtone sounded inside the car.

All three went quiet.

Dean checked his phone. “Not mine.”

Sam pulled out his own. “Not mine, either.”

The ringing continued.

Dean suddenly remembered something and had Sam open the glove compartment. Inside was an old-model cell phone.

“Dad's phone?” Sam asked in surprise.

“I've kept it charged.” Dean took it and glanced at the unfamiliar number on the display. “In case somebody he used to know ever called.”

He answered and switched on speakerphone.

A manager at a storage facility in Buffalo was calling. He wanted to know whether they knew a man named Edgar Cayce.

Dean recognized the name at once. It was one of John's old aliases.

John had rented a storage unit under that identity for years. Someone had recently broken in, damaging the locks and part of the facility. The manager had been ready to call the police, but decided to try the tenant's contact number first.

Dean quickly talked him out of involving the police and got the unit's exact location.

When the call ended, both brothers turned toward Murphy. She already had a map out and was checking where they were.

“So that's why you wanted us in Buffalo? You were waiting for this call?” Dean asked.

“Yep.”

“You already knew somebody was going to rob Dad's storage unit?”

“Yep.”

“Then why not go there earlier? We could've waited inside and caught the two thieves when they showed up. Wouldn't that have been easier?”

“Because messing with the timeline too early could set off things nobody can predict.” Murphy traced a route across the map. “If I can keep everyone safe without interfering ahead of time, that's what I'll do.”

Dean regarded her in the rearview mirror and offered a concise verdict. “Chicken.”

“Thank you.” Murphy didn't look offended. “Careful chickens tend to live longer. Besides, I'm not gambling with your lives.”

Sam examined the map. “We're already pretty close.”

“Then let's go.” Dean pressed the accelerator. “Let's find out what treasures Dad's been hiding.”

...

The storage facility was in Buffalo's Black Rock neighborhood.

Once the manager had confirmed their identities, he showed the three of them the damaged unit and pointed out the bloodstains on the ground.

At least one of the people who'd broken in had been hurt.

Dean waited until the manager left before opening the unit.

Behind the door was a crude but deadly shotgun trap. Anyone who forced the door would be greeted by a blast from the weapon aimed straight at the entrance.

Of course, somebody had already triggered it.

“Looks like Dad really didn't want strangers touching his stuff.” Sam examined the broken cord.

“He could've at least told us this place existed.” Dean stepped inside.

The unit was crammed with weapons, ammunition, and supplies for hunting supernatural creatures. John hadn't mentioned it in his journal. Apparently he'd kept this place as a secret storehouse for dangerous equipment.

The brothers soon discovered several of their own things among the clutter.

Sam lifted a dust-covered soccer trophy from a shelf.

“My district championship trophy. I won this in '95.” He wiped away the dust with a complicated look on his face. “I thought it was gone.”

Dean pulled a roughly made sawed-off shotgun from another box.

“First gun I ever built. Sixth grade.”

He sounded as proud as if he were showing off a masterpiece.

Murphy stood quietly to one side, leaving them to their discoveries.

She watched Sam run a finger over the name engraved on his trophy, then saw Dean examining the small, long-useless gun.

John had remembered these things.

For reasons she couldn't understand, though, he'd found it easier to pack them into boxes and lock them in a secret storage unit than to tell his sons he'd kept them.

“Over here,” Sam said suddenly.

A row of wooden boxes sat at the back of the unit, each carved with peculiar symbols.

The symbols suppressed the power of cursed objects, keeping whatever was inside from affecting the outside world. But there was a conspicuous empty space on the dusty shelf.

One of the boxes had been stolen.

“That's what they took,” Sam said.

“It held a rabbit's foot,” Murphy supplied immediately. “Anyone who touches it gets unbelievably good luck. But once they lose it, that luck turns completely against them.”

Dean looked over. “How good are we talking?”

“Good enough to win the lottery on a whim or make an enemy's gun jam the instant they try to shoot you. With that rabbit's foot involved, those things don't just become more likely. They're guaranteed.”

“Sounds pretty sweet.”

“You missed the other half. Anyone who loses it dies within a week. First the bad luck starts small, then it keeps getting worse.”

Dean's interest evaporated. He looked almost horrified. “That thing's evil! Do you know how to destroy it?”

“Build a fire in a cemetery, add bone ash and cayenne pepper to purify it, then burn the foot.” Murphy pictured the scene from the show. “That's all I remember. We'll have to ask Bobby if there are any other steps.”

Her gaze moved between the brothers and settled on Sam.

“When we find it, nobody touches it barehanded. Wrap it in a cloth before you pick it up.”

Sam pointed at himself. “Why are you staring at me when you say that?”

“Probably because you look like the unluckiest person here.”

Dean snickered.

Sam sighed and turned his attention to the storage unit's surveillance equipment.

The intruders hadn't covered their license plate. The footage gave them the car, and the registration led them to the owner's address.

It took a few hours to reach the apartment building.

As they came up the stairs, a middle-aged man carrying a medical kit stepped out of one of the apartments.

There was still blood on his hands. He muttered about how lucky it was he'd served as a combat medic in Vietnam. Otherwise, the poor bastard inside would probably have bled to death.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. Murphy stared at the closed apartment door. Apparently the rabbit's foot was already working.

A man laughed excitedly inside.

“Another royal flush! That's twice in eight hands!”

A second voice sounded far less delighted. “Yeah, you're having one hell of a lucky day.”

They'd heard enough. Dean kicked the door open and leveled his gun at the two men inside.

Playing cards and a heap of recently won cash were scattered across the table. Wayne, one shoulder wrapped in bandages, was holding the rabbit's foot. When he saw the three intruders, he instinctively tried to hide it.

“Put it down,” Dean ordered.

“Who are you? Cops?”

“No.” Murphy stayed by the door and pulled it shut behind her. “But we're here to recover something that was taken.”

Grossman was the first to charge.

The apartment was too cramped to risk firing without hitting someone else. Murphy stepped aside to avoid Grossman's punch and drove an elbow into his ribs.

At the same time, Wayne caught Dean off guard and knocked the gun out of his hand.

It hit the floor and somehow discharged.

The bullet struck a radiator, ricocheted at an absurd angle, knocked the gun out of Sam's hand, and finally shattered a table lamp.

“You've got to be kidding me.” Murphy had never seen anything like it outside a screen. For a second she could only stare.

She was about to help Sam when Grossman caught her clothing from behind. He yanked her off balance, forcing her to turn and deal with him first.

Dean slammed into the table, sending its contents bouncing into the air.

The rabbit's foot flew from Wayne's hand, sailed halfway across the room, and landed on the floor near Sam.

Grossman had Sam pinned to the ground, one arm locked around his throat.

Sam stretched toward his fallen gun, but it was out of reach.

The rabbit's foot lay on the other side.

“Sam, don't...!”

Murphy hadn't finished speaking when Sam grabbed it.

Everything changed in an instant.

Wayne snatched up Dean's gun, aimed at Sam, and pulled the trigger. The weapon jammed.

Panicking, Wayne looked down to check it. His foot caught a raised edge of carpet, and he toppled backward over the sofa. His head struck the wall, knocking him unconscious.

Grossman reached for Sam's gun just as the bookshelf behind him began to shake.

Books came crashing down on him, burying him beneath a pile. The impact sent Sam's gun flying, and it landed neatly back in Sam's hand.

Silence fell over the apartment.

Murphy straightened up, looked at the two men sprawled on the floor, and then at the rabbit's foot Sam was clutching.

She stared for two seconds.

“Didn't I tell you not to touch it?”

Still on the floor, Sam looked perfectly innocent. “The situation changed. It was kind of an emergency.”

“Right.” Murphy let out a long breath.

Dean climbed to his feet and examined his jammed gun in disbelief.

“This gun has never jammed before.”

“So you believe it brings good luck now?” Murphy asked.

Dean's expression changed as he gazed at the rabbit's foot.

“Yes, I do.”

That look of near-religious devotion told Murphy everything she needed to know. He was already dreaming up some very unhealthy ways of getting rich.

She sighed.

“Let's get out of here.”

...

Not long after they left, Wayne woke up on the apartment floor.

The incredible luck that had protected him only minutes earlier was gone.

He stumbled into the kitchen. An empty liquor bottle rolled toward the sink at his feet. Wayne turned on the faucet and splashed water over his face. As he turned away, his foot came down on the bottle.

He lost his balance instantly.

He fell backward, striking the back of his neck against a barbecue skewer that had just been placed in the dish rack.

...

The moment they left the apartment building, Dean made a beeline for a roadside convenience store.

He came out carrying a stack of scratch-off lottery tickets.

Murphy wasn't remotely surprised to see them.

“Just testing something,” Dean insisted.

“Sure.” Murphy leaned against Baby. “They're only lottery tickets. Scratch away.”

Dean grinned and thrust the tickets and a coin into Sam's hands.

Sam scratched the first ticket.

Twelve hundred dollars.

Dean whooped.

The second and third were winners, too.

Murphy had been watching with her arms folded, rather entertained. It was only when Dean started toward the store for a third time that she reached out and caught his jacket.

“Okay, that's probably enough.”

“One more round.”

Dean glanced at the winning tickets Sam was holding, then at the store entrance.

“Please?” He turned an almost pitiful look on Murphy.

She hadn't really meant to stop him, only to offer a warning. But when her eyes met Dean's deliberately soft, pleading gaze, her heart gave an unexpected thump.

She froze for half a second. Her fingers had already loosened their grip on his jacket.

“Whatever.” Murphy looked away. “Just remember we have real work to do.”

After scratching the next batch, Dean stood off to one side counting his winnings, punctuating the process with excited little cries.

Sam called Bobby with the rabbit's foot still in his possession.

Bobby swore when he heard Sam had touched it. Then he confirmed the rules Murphy remembered.

A voodoo sorceress in Baton Rouge had made the rabbit's foot a hundred years earlier, and killing people had been the point. Anyone who touched it became its owner. As long as they possessed it, luck favored them. Lose it, and they'd be dead within a week.

“Then why doesn't Sam just keep it forever?” Dean asked, leaning toward the phone.

“Everybody loses it eventually,” Bobby said impatiently.

Murphy told Bobby which purification materials she remembered and asked him to check whether the procedure was complete. He went quiet for a moment before agreeing.

While they were on the phone, Sam noticed something metallic glinting beneath an old newspaper the wind had blown against the curb.

He bent down and picked up an expensive-looking gold watch.

Dean looked at the watch, then checked the lottery tickets again.

“We've made fifteen grand already.”

Sam touched the pocket holding the rabbit's foot. He still looked uneasy.

Murphy patted his arm. “Just keep it safe until we burn it. Put it in an inside pocket if you're worried. Come on, let's eat.”

Dean immediately pointed toward the very conspicuous Biggerson's Restaurant nearby.

Murphy followed his finger, saw where he meant, and refused without a moment's hesitation.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're going to make Sam their one-millionth customer. They'll surround him, take pictures, and post them online.”

Dean glanced at Sam. “Doesn't sound so bad.”

“Then Bela will disguise herself as a waitress and steal the rabbit's foot straight out of his pocket.”

“Okay.” Dean lowered his hand at once. “That sounds bad.”

They drove on until they found a completely ordinary little diner.

Its sign was fading, there weren't any promotions by the door, and only a few tables were occupied.

Murphy stood in the entrance and carefully checked the place.

No balloons. No cameras. No signs advertising a millionth customer.

Hmm. Seemed safe enough.

They'd barely placed their orders when the owner approached with an enormous smile.

“Congratulations!”

Murphy immediately felt a sense of dread.

Pointing at the plate in front of Sam, the owner announced enthusiastically, “Today marks our twentieth anniversary, and this gentleman ordered the one lucky special we're serving! Your entire meal is on the house!”

The other customers turned and applauded.

Dean looked delighted. Sam turned an embarrassed glance on Murphy. Murphy slowly closed her eyes.

Fantastic.

They'd dodged the millionth-customer celebration and walked straight into a twentieth anniversary.

Apparently the rabbit's foot could find a way to make its own luck.

The owner produced a Polaroid camera, intending to put Sam's picture on the diner's commemorative wall.

“No pictures,” Murphy said at once.

“It's only one photo.”

“No pictures.”

The owner looked disappointed but didn't insist. Instead, he had a server bring them a complimentary dessert.

Dean cut himself a huge piece of cake. “Don't you think you're overreacting a little?”

“One lunatic is sending hunters after Sam, and a thief is waiting for a chance to steal the rabbit's foot.” Murphy picked up her fork. “Believe me, I don't enjoy looking like a paranoid wreck.”

Sam was about to answer when his elbow tipped over his coffee.

A waitress passing by immediately bent down with a towel.

“Sorry about that. Let me help.”

The woman had short black hair and wore the same uniform as the other servers. Her smile was polite and perfectly ordinary.

She wiped at the table, edging closer to Sam as she worked.

Murphy glanced at the woman's face, then followed her arm to the hand creeping toward Sam's jacket pocket. Of course. Bela had shown up anyway.

Just as Bela's fingers were about to reach the pocket, Murphy caught her wrist in a firm grip.

Bela's smile faltered for the briefest moment.

Murphy lifted her head and smiled back. “Hello, Bela Talbot.”

Sam and Dean both turned toward them.

Murphy didn't release her grip.

“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”