open ; arrival } { if it wasn't for bad luck I wouldn't have no luck at all
While that hadn't literally been the worst day of his life, it came close. He blamed his dad. He blamed Bela Lugosi, or, Bela Talbot. He blamed the criminals that opened the damn box. He blamed the freakin heater that overheated while he sat doing nothing. But, most of all he blamed the foot. The freakin rabbit's foot cut off on Friday the 13th under a full moon. And, why was he the one to have the bad luck? What had he ever done? Besides, get his mother's friends killed -- very indirectly. He was finished with this day. Dean could drive. They were out 40 grand thanks to Bela. Sam was exhausted. He was going to sleep. That was his right. So, he settled in.
They had stopped at the motel so Dean could take out the bullet. He had gauze over it now and he had taken a sleeping pill. Fuck it. He was going to sleep this horrible day away.
He was going to forget his bad luck and the hunters that had tried to kill him and he was going to get some shut-eye.
Shifting, thanks to the two pills, he didn't realize the car seat had become a bed. He stretched out, dreams of a better day playing out in his mind. His arm sat to the side. He stretched out, trying to get comfortable in the seat. The flesh wound wasn't comfortable and he shifted again, his mouth dropping open.
They had stopped at the motel so Dean could take out the bullet. He had gauze over it now and he had taken a sleeping pill. Fuck it. He was going to sleep this horrible day away.
He was going to forget his bad luck and the hunters that had tried to kill him and he was going to get some shut-eye.
Shifting, thanks to the two pills, he didn't realize the car seat had become a bed. He stretched out, dreams of a better day playing out in his mind. His arm sat to the side. He stretched out, trying to get comfortable in the seat. The flesh wound wasn't comfortable and he shifted again, his mouth dropping open.