Supernatural - Chapter 39: The Best Birthday (Patreon)

Chaos had taken over Ed's studio.

They'd all been awake the entire night, yet nobody seemed interested in sleeping after they returned. Cameras and storage drives crowded the tables. They hadn't even brushed the dust from their clothes before gathering around the computers to argue about how the first episode should be edited.

Dean and Sam had two reasons for sticking around. Murphy had asked for a copy of the recordings, but there was also far too much incriminating material from the night before. Fake police badges, firearms, salt rounds, human bones in the basement, and two men who had once appeared on the FBI's wanted list. If Ed's crew broadcast everything as it was, the brothers would be inviting trouble.

The first batch of files had barely finished transferring when the footage jumped to the underground bunker.

There, right in the center of the frame, stood Sam in his wrinkled birthday hat. Spruce had apparently taken his cameraman duties very seriously. The lens stayed on Sam's face for several seconds, even creeping closer for a slow zoom.

Dean bent double laughing.

Seated beside the computer, Sam watched the entire close-up without changing his expression. Then he looked at Spruce, who had been so eager to cooperate the night before. Spruce immediately bent over the cables, studying them with the concentration of a man who'd just found his life's work.

"I knew it."

Dean was still laughing when the next clip showed the grounds outside the Morton House. He stood beside Baby, typing a reply on his phone. After slipping it away, he reached up to straighten the collar of his jacket.

Suddenly Sam didn't feel nearly so miserable.

And there was better footage to come. As the camera panned along a corridor, Dean visibly stood taller when it turned his way. Another clip caught him smiling at something on his phone. Sam settled back in his chair. Perhaps that ridiculous birthday hat hadn't been such a disaster after all.

Dean reached out and paused playback. "Think carefully before you laugh. I can always burn the birthday-hat footage onto its own disc for Murphy."

Sam hadn't quite managed to suppress his grin when Ed dragged the playhead ahead.

This time Sam appeared on the screen again.

Just as the camera swung toward him, Sam briefly lifted a hand to fix his hair. It was an almost invisible gesture, but not when an entire room was scrutinizing the recording frame by frame.

The room went quiet for half a second.

Dean turned his head slowly toward his brother.

Sam kept his eyes on the monitor, his face a little too composed. "Keep going."

Dean laughed harder than ever.

Once every recording had been imported, the brothers waited until the Ghostfacers were busy debating episode titles and an opening sequence. Then they copied the footage Murphy wanted. Sam had hoped to quietly dispose of the birthday-hat clip, but Dean guarded it with fierce determination. The discs they made for her ended up containing every second, completely uncut.

They checked that Murphy's discs played properly. The remaining footage wasn't so fortunate.

When Ed and the others wandered into the kitchen in search of the last of breakfast, the Winchesters moved quickly, wiping the original files that exposed their identities and showed their hunt.

Hard drives, tapes, and storage devices were erased or wrecked as necessary. By the time the crew realized that most of the footage that could have made them famous overnight was unusable, Baby was already several streets away.

Dean slipped the disc case into an inside pocket of his jacket. Only then did the exhaustion of a sleepless night begin to catch up with him.

Sam checked their travel time. Even if they stopped for a short rest, they could reach South Dakota by that evening. He folded the map again while Dean steered Baby toward Sioux Falls.

Neither suggested getting a motel room for the night.

It was February 29.

When Murphy drove down the gravel lane for the second time, much of the snow beside it had melted.

The old gray-and-white house emerged beyond the trees. Its porch railing had been replaced, the cracked steps repaired, and the gutter that once banged against the wall in windy weather was finally secured. Only the rusty swing in the yard remained unchanged, swaying gently in the breeze.

She went to inspect the garage first.

All three doors had been serviced, and the old wiring and heating had been repaired. Standing in the middle, she checked the layout. Baby would fit with enough room to open both doors fully, while the left-hand side had been reserved for a lift and a workbench.

She'd deliberately left the remaining decisions alone. Dean would undoubtedly have opinions about the garage. A great many opinions, probably.

That thought made her smile.

Upstairs, very little else had changed. Her south-facing bedroom was ready, but the other two rooms still held only the most basic furniture.

The others could decide which rooms they wanted.

The east-facing room in the attic was much the same. An entire wall had been left clear for future bookshelves. She'd put off buying a desk and chair, too. It would be better to visit a furniture store with the others and let them choose.

Her last stop was the basement.

The damp walls had been treated, the equipment area and agreed-upon defenses installed, and the secondary exit beyond the trees was usable. Murphy tested the final lock before she finally allowed herself to relax.

The house was still mostly empty. Even so, she could already imagine Baby in the garage, books filling the attic, and jackets and hunting gear dumped beside the entrance after a job, before anyone had a chance to put them away.

All it needed now was its people.

By the time she returned downstairs, the contractor handling the handover had the paperwork nearly ready. The property was in Bobby's name, which meant he had to sign the legal documents. Murphy only needed to approve the remaining repairs and final payment.

The contractor soon drove away, leaving the yard quiet again.

Bobby shoved the last sheet into a folder. "There."

Murphy was still studying the repair checklist. "There what?"

"The house officially belongs to me now."

She looked up.

"Legally," Bobby added, utterly straight-faced.

Murphy stared at him for two seconds. "You'd better remember who paid for it."

"Whose name's on the deed?"

"Bobby."

At last he smiled, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and tossed them over.

Three identical keys landed in Murphy's palm with a faint metallic clink.

She looked at them for a long moment.

At Christmas, she'd told them her present would take a while to be ready. At last, it was finished.

She closed her fingers around all three keys.

That was when her phone rang.

One look at the name on the screen pulled Murphy's thoughts sharply away from the house.

"Tell me you've got good news."

"Seems it's your lucky day after all."

There was noise around Bela, as if she'd called from outdoors. She dispensed with pleasantries and gave Murphy the answer she'd spent months pursuing. On Oaths, Bonds, and the Ownership of Souls had appeared in the final auction catalog. The sale was scheduled for March 8 at a private estate in the northern suburbs of Chicago.

Murphy straightened and listened intently to the rest.

Bela had checked the old book's provenance again. The auction house's photographs, details of the binding, and past collection records all lined up. As far as they could establish, it was the very volume they'd been looking for.

Getting inside, unfortunately, would be another matter.

Only buyers registered in advance would be admitted. The principal buyer had to provide a verifiable identity, a credible account of where the money came from, and evidence of available funds. Anyone accompanying them also had to be registered. The approved list would close in a few days. Bela could arrange an introduction, but Murphy would have to supply everything else.

"What kind of funds are we talking about?"

"Six figures at a minimum," Bela replied. "And they'd better believe you can actually afford to spend it."

Murphy hesitated.

It was more than she'd expected. She could raise the money, but after buying a house, the prospect of laying out another six-figure sum for a single book hurt.

"Fine," she said. "You arrange the introduction. I'll handle the rest."

"Now that's the sort of client I like."

Bela promised to fax the full catalog and vetting requirements to Bobby's house later. Their identities, bank records, and the relationships between everyone attending had to be ready before registration closed.

After the call, Murphy let out a long breath.

She'd chased that book for months. She hoped it would finally give her the answer she needed. Otherwise, she'd have to consider much more drastic measures.

Bobby was leaning against the doorway. He waited until she put the phone away. "Bela?"

"Yeah." Murphy nodded. "It's confirmed. The book goes up for auction in Chicago on March eighth."

Bobby looked relieved for a moment, then frowned. "Chicago. Of all the places. Finding somewhere to park in that city is harder than getting rid of a ghost."

Murphy laughed and put a hand in her pocket, her fingertips brushing the three new keys.

The house was finally theirs, and they'd found the book. Only a few hours earlier, Dean and Sam had messaged from the Morton House to say everyone had made it through the night.

Her luck today was getting ridiculous.

"This is the best birthday I've ever had," she said, almost to herself.

Bobby had already turned toward the car. At the word birthday, he spun around.

"Today?"

"Yep."

He looked her up and down, surprise swiftly giving way to annoyance. "You've spent your whole birthday running around with me, and you're only telling me now?"

Murphy didn't understand the problem. "Was I supposed to make an announcement?"

Bobby tugged the brim of his cap sharply downward.

Then he tucked the document folder under his arm and marched away.

She stared after him before hurrying to catch up. "Are you angry?"

He walked faster.

Not until they reached the car did he yank the door open and turn to glare at her. "Because right now you're driving me nuts just by being here."

Utterly confused, Murphy got into the passenger seat.

Somehow, she didn't think he meant that.

...

Darkness had fallen by the time Baby rolled into the junkyard.

Murphy sat at the dining table, working on the identities they'd need for the auction. At the familiar rumble of the engine, her fingers stilled over the keyboard. Then she remembered that the brothers had been awake all night.

She'd expected them to stop somewhere along the way and sleep.

Sam climbed out of the passenger seat carrying a small cake in a neatly wrapped box. Dean went around to the trunk and took out a paper bag whose brand Murphy recognized without needing to read it.

She watched from the porch. "Did you buy pie, too?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean shut the trunk and walked toward her with the bag swinging from one hand. "Who made a rule saying birthdays are for cake only?"

"So the pie's my present?"

He faltered, then recovered. "Everybody gets some."

Sam walked past him with the cake, clearly fighting a grin.

Murphy stepped aside to let them through. As Dean passed, he produced a disc case from the inside of his jacket and pressed it into her hand.

"The thing you asked for."

"The footage?"

"All of it."

Sam had barely crossed the threshold, but at the words all of it, his expression turned distinctly unhappy.

Murphy glanced between the case and his face. "What's wrong?"

Dean was quick to answer. "Watch it and find out."

Sam stopped and drove his shoulder into Dean's.

Dean staggered sideways half a step and laughed. "Easy there, Sammy. It's all in the details. The details!"

The brothers argued their way inside. Murphy stayed on the porch laughing, then carefully put away the discs.

Bobby had evidently changed his plans for dinner before the boys arrived. He refused to admit he'd gone to any extra trouble for somebody's birthday, though. When Sam's cake reached the table, he sampled a bite and promptly complained that it was too sweet.

Dean disagreed so strongly that his own slice vanished in under ten minutes. He even stole the last corner of Sam's piece while his brother was talking.

Dinner was nearly over when Bobby disappeared into the kitchen.

He came back with a bottle.

Dean spotted the label and sat up at once. "You've had an eighteen-year-old Macallan hidden away?"

"Gift from a few years back."

"And you never opened it?"

Bobby put it on the table. "Was saving it for something worth drinking to."

Dean immediately slid his glass forward.

Bobby eyed him. "Not you."

Murphy laughed out loud.

Dean didn't even have the decency to withdraw his glass. "That's fine. It's not my birthday anyway."

Bobby poured Murphy a modest measure first, then served the brothers and finally himself. Their glasses touched. He didn't make a speech, merely looked at Murphy and said, "Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

It was stronger than the drinks Murphy usually had, but surprisingly smooth. After the first mouthful went down, warmth gradually spread through her throat.

Dean was plainly more accustomed to good whisky than the rest of them.

Sam was perfectly normal through his first three glasses. He continued eating and discussing the Morton House with Bobby. By the fourth, he was talking much more than usual, laughing for ages at things he'd normally barely find amusing.

Halfway through his fifth, Dean described Ed's expression on discovering the ruined recordings. Sam tipped back in his chair and laughed until he seemed worn out. Then he began to tilt sideways, slowly settling his head right onto Murphy's shoulder.

She turned to look at him.

He looked back. Their faces were close enough that he flashed her a delighted smile, then went on listening to Dean without changing position.

He apparently had no plans to sit up again.

Murphy had watched Sam get drunk on the show. She remembered how cheerful he became after a few drinks. On a screen, it had been adorable. Having an enormous real-life Sam leaning against her was another experience entirely.

Especially when he was this clingy. He reminded her of a dog that had grown far beyond any reasonable size yet still believed it took up no room at all.

She held back a laugh and let him stay there.

Dean seemed thoroughly used to this side of his brother. He only looked over when Sam began earnestly insisting that Ed's team would definitely hunt more ghosts next time. "Sammy, maybe you ought to drink some water."

"I'm fine," Sam declared.

Apparently determined to prove it, he even sat upright.

That lasted less than half a minute.

When Murphy set the auction paperwork faxed over that afternoon on the table, Sam promptly crowded close again. This time he didn't put his head on her shoulder. Instead, he wedged a leg beside her chair and bent over the pages to read along.

Fortunately, the alcohol hadn't entirely dulled his brain. After turning two pages, he stopped at the section about accompanying guests. He studied it for a moment, then reached over and touched the hand with which Murphy held the paper.

"Here."

She followed where he was pointing.

"They check your connection to the other guest, too," Sam said. He thought about it a little longer. "So you can't claim you only just met."

He sounded perfectly serious, though his hand stayed where it was. At first his fingers rested against the back of hers. Somewhere along the way, he began holding two of her fingers and absently swinging them back and forth.

Murphy glanced down.

Sam remained absorbed in the documents.

Oh well.

"We need to establish a history together beforehand," she said, reading on. "We could pose as a couple, or as husband and wife."

Sam considered it, frowning. Then he suddenly offered, "Engaged."

Murphy turned toward him.

He seemed more impressed with the idea the longer he thought about it. His eyes brightened. "That would work best."

It was a good point. A married couple would need an enormous paper trail, while an ordinary dating couple might have difficulty explaining shared accounts and money transfers. An engaged couple fit neatly between the two.

"That works," she agreed. "We'll say we're engaged."

Sam looked pleased with himself.

He returned to reading, still holding her fingers. It took him quite some time to notice there was something in his hand. He looked down.

And still didn't release them.

Murphy: "..."

Definitely drunk.

She wasn't about to argue with him in this state. Using her free hand, she turned another page. "Here's the plan. I'll register as the principal buyer, and you can come in with me as my fiancé."

"Sure!"

He agreed remarkably readily. He even lowered the hand he'd been holding onto the tabletop with his own before leaning over the next page.

Across from them, Dean had seen quite enough.

"Hold on."

Murphy glanced up.

His gaze went first to their still-touching hands and then to her face. "Why Sam?"

"I mean, if you need somebody to go with you, how come you've already decided it has to be him?"

Murphy took a moment to consider it. The answer was straightforward.

"Remember that fancy party Bela took you to?"

Dean's expression stiffened.

Murphy helpfully refreshed his memory. "You hadn't been inside for even a minute before you stuck your chewed gum underneath their champagne fountain."

Sam had been slouching sleepily in his chair. At that, he came alive again, laughing so hard that his shoulder pressed against Murphy's.

Dean immediately retaliated. "And what are you laughing at? Who was it that got cornered on the dance floor by some old lady who kept grabbing his ass?"

"Mrs. Case," Sam corrected him with complete sincerity. "And she was actually very nice."

"She grabbed your ass."

Sam nodded. "I know."

He paused, apparently unable to see why those two facts were incompatible, then leaned against Murphy and laughed some more.

His laughter nearly made her lose her own train of thought. She finally managed to bring them back to the point. "Anyway, we need someone who can behave himself for an entire event like that."

Dean, who'd been cheerfully trading embarrassing stories with Sam, suddenly fell quiet.

"Got it." His tone was casual as he picked up his glass and swirled the last of his whisky. He just didn't look at Murphy anymore.

She watched him for a moment.

She'd only meant to tease him about an old incident, not make him feel genuinely rejected.

So she tried to think of what made Dean suitable for the upper-class crowd at a private auction.

He looked fantastic in a suit. That counted.

And he was quick on his feet, wasn't he? He could pick locks, lie convincingly, lift things without anyone noticing. His mind worked sharply and fast when it mattered.

The more she considered her list, the more she suspected she was going in the wrong direction.

Dean evidently noticed how long she'd been silent. He looked over. "Forget it. Don't hurt yourself trying."

"I'm thinking!"

"Somehow that's even worse."

Murphy gave up looking for a sophisticated quality that wasn't there and chose the strongest argument she had. "Your face gives a very misleading impression."

Dean froze with his glass in his hand.

She decided to finish explaining. "You look really good in a suit. As long as people don't find out too quickly that you'd stick chewing gum under their champagne fountain, you'd absolutely look like someone who belonged on the guest list."

Dean studied her for two seconds. "So you think I look good in a suit."

"I've always thought so."

The man who'd been slumped in his chair a moment earlier broke into an unmistakable grin.

Watching him brighten, Murphy wondered if cheering him up was much easier than she'd imagined.

Dean stopped complaining about not being chosen as her fake fiancé. In fact, he cheerfully took one of the sets of screening documents and offered to work through it with them tomorrow.

His sudden eagerness earned him another curious glance from Murphy.

They put the auction discussion aside for the night. The identities and accounts could wait until morning, and Bela still had to take care of getting them recommended.

Seeing Sam nearly asleep in his chair, Bobby cleared the remaining whisky away. Dean kept making fun of his brother's drinking tolerance, but Sam offered only a couple of sleepy retorts before falling quiet.

At last the house wasn't nearly as noisy.

Only a scrap of cake remained on the table, the pie was gone, and auction papers lay scattered between plates and glasses. Murphy leaned back and looked around. Then she remembered what she'd said that afternoon.

"I said it too soon earlier."

Bobby raised his eyes to her.

"About this being my best birthday." Murphy smiled and looked from Bobby to the brothers across the table. Dean was still wide awake. Sam could barely keep his eyes open, but even he turned toward her when she spoke.

"It's now."

Bobby said nothing. He simply collected her empty glass with the others.

Murphy settled against her chair, slipped a hand into her pocket, and found the three keys.

She gave them a brief squeeze before releasing them.