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spn fic: Under My Skin
Title: Under My Skin
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4,600
Summary: Dean wants to keep Cas close.
Notes: Loosely inspired by the instagram pic of Jensen getting a tattoo. Loosely. This picks up after 13x02, but it isn't exactly a coda. Vague spoilers for the 13x03 promo. I take no responsibility; Anna and Bexy didn't stop me when they had the chance.
[AO3]
Under My Skin
"Sit down. And here —" Dean huffs and wings the motel Bible toward the couch. "Read a book."
The kid opens it right to the Song of Solomon. Dean clears his throat and turns back to the nightstand.
+
"Is that —? Are you reading the Bible?"
Cas tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "I'm reading a love story."
+
A couple days after they get back, a dead body turns up just over the Colorado line in Burlington. The Denver Post calls it a mauling, but the moon cycle is right, and the guy was found in an alley behind a bar. The article doesn't mention his heart, but that's the kind of thing cops hold back to weed out copycats and serial confessors. Dean packs a bag and grabs an extra box of silver bullets from their stockpile in the basement.
The kid pulls another runner while Dean and Sam are arguing about whether to bring him along or leave him behind. One second, he's standing there, watching them yell; in the next, he's just gone. No wingbeats, no ozone spark, no electric rustle in the air. Just — poof.
"You've got to ease up on him," Sam says, as they're tramping across the flat, scrubby patch of land behind the bunker. "You can't keep kicking him just because you're hurting."
Dean stops dead. He's out of breath from stumbling over rocks and wading through knee-deep thickets of prairie grass. Sweat is prickling the back of his neck. His grief is a lead weight in his gut.
Hurting doesn't even cover it. He hasn't felt this low since Sam bled out in his arms in Cold Oak. At least then, he'd had an exit strategy. It was a shitty exit strategy, but it was something. Right now, he's got nothing.
Sam continues, "Look, I know you blame him for Mom, and for Cas, but he —"
"Damn right, I do," Dean admits. He clenches his hands at his sides. "If he hadn't —"
"Dean," Sam says sharply. His hair is straggly and limp from the damp, night air. "That's not fair. I mean — yeah, you're right. If not for Jack, Cas wouldn't have been at that lake —"
"Nope."
"But," Sam insists, holding up his hands. "But Lucifer — he's been gunning for us since he got topside. There was always a chance that one of us wouldn't make it."
"So, that's it?" Dean snaps. He kicks a rock toward the murky shadows hugging the frontage road. "You — you're gonna give me the That's The Job speech and I'm supposed to just — to just —" He grits out a noise and rubs his face. "Fuck."
After a pause, Sam says, "He's just a kid, Dean. He's a kid who lost his mom and doesn't understand the bizarro shit that's happening to him." He sighs under his breath. "I can relate."
A train whistle blares in the distance. Dean grunts, "Whatever," and turns away.
+
"I have faith."
"Really? In your unborn baby God?"
"Yes."
+
Whatever the kid did to Asmodeus must have spooked him; they don't run into him while they're tracking down the werewolf. They don't bump into any angels, either. Still, Dean isn't taking any chances. On the way home, they stop at the Walmart in Hays to restock their salt and butane and to grab the kid some more clothes. Then they head down Eighth Street to a tattoo joint called Pricks.
As they walk in, Sam tells Jack, "Okay, remember what I said." Ganking the werewolf took the whole weekend; Sam spent most of their downtime talking the kid through some hippie, self-help, positive affirmation crap. "Just keep telling yourself you want this. That you need it."
"Okay," Jack says, nodding. His hair flops over his eye. "I'll try."
They go with the same stuff as before — a pentagram to keep the demons out, and a weird sigil Sam swears will hide the kid from Heaven. There's nothing they can do about Asmodeus — the lore can't decide if he's an archdemon or a fallen angel, and all bets are off either way — but their batting average is so low right now that Dean's willing to call two out of three a win.
Jack flinches a little when the needle first hits his skin, but he doesn't short out the equipment this time. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles go white. He glances at Sam and Dean, then breathes in and out, in and out.
The buzzing starts making Dean itch, so he looks at Sam and asks, "You think it's gonna stick this time? I mean, Cas — he always made it sound like their meatsuits heal on autopilot."
Sam hesitates before saying, "Yeah, but he's not in a vessel. Not really. It's his body, so... he — I don't know. Maybe he can control it."
As soon as the artist is done, the ink on Jack's chest gutters like a candle. He closes his eyes again and takes a few more deep breaths. A beat passes, then another. Then the ink darkens and holds.
"Great," Sam says, smiling. "You — that's great."
The artist sets the gun on the tray and reaches for a packet of gauze. On the wall behind him, there's a framed, eleven by fourteen close-up of a woman's back piece — a kneeling angel with her hair drawn over her shoulder and her wings folded in front of her body. A broken halo is angled above her bowed head.
"So," the guy says slowly. "Who's next?"
"Just him, today," Sam says, handing over a wad of cash. "We're —"
"Me," Dean says. He still has an itch under his skin, even though the buzzing has stopped. "I'm next."
Sam cocks an eyebrow at him. "Dude. Are you —"
Dean cuts him off by tossing him the Impala's keys. "Take the kid to lunch. I'll call you when I'm done."
+
"Cas," Dean hisses, clutching at the sheets as he fucks up into Cas' fist. He's so close, so close — fuck. "Cas, please."
Cas hums out a noise and leans down to mouth at a spot below Dean's ear. He strokes his hand up Dean's dick, running his thumb over the head. He slides his other hand up to Dean's shoulder — that shoulder — and the liquid tension in Dean's gut finally snaps. He arches up, coming and coming as a moan shudders in his throat.
Cas just stays there for a moment, breathing into the sweaty curve of Dean's neck. Then he sits up and mojos them clean. He touches Dean's shoulder again. The hand print is long gone, but it still makes Dean shiver.
Softly, Cas says, "His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me."
"I, I — uh." Dean closes his eyes. He says, "I don't remember," because he doesn't. Not really. But sometimes — somtimes, he dreams of an impossibly bright light. Of a heat that burned cleaner and hotter than the fires in the Pit.
After a pause, Cas says, "You were magnificent."
"I was a demon," Dean says, flushing.
A smile tugs Cas' mouth. He murmurs, "Well, no one is perfect," and leans down for a kiss.
+
"Alright," the artist says. He has a spike through his lip and holes in his ears the size of quarters. "What'll it be?"
"I, um — a hand print." Heat crowds up underneath Dean's jaw. "A right hand, about —" He holds up his own. "A little bigger than mine."
It must not be the weirdest thing the guy's ever heard, because he just shrugs and says, "Alright," again. "Where?"
Dean touches his shoulder. "Here."
"Do you just want the outline, or do you want it filled in?"
"I — filled in. Red."
The guy pauses for a second, tapping his fingers on the edge of his tray. "Solid red's going to look bloody." He points to a flash sheet on the wall, full of neat lines and whorls and swirls. "How about a little blackwork through it? Just to break up the color a little."
"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. He can already feel it on his skin — the weight of Cas' palm, the curve of his fingers. Warmth curls into his gut. "Yeah, that works."
+
The bed dips as Cas sits up on his knees. Sweat is beading in the hollow of his throat, and a slow flush is spreading down the center of his chest.
"Dean."
Dean should help him a little — he should roll him over and get his mouth on him — but killing Cain left him with an empty tank. Besides, it's nice to just watch. Cas is gorgeous like this — his hips working, his thighs tensing, the head of his dick slipping through his fist.
"Yeah, c'mon," Dean says, sliding his hands up Cas' thighs. Cas' skin is burning hot. "Come for me."
Cas makes a low, dark noise. He jerks into his hand, his eyes glinting. The lights dim a littile. Come drips over his fingers.
Dean reaches for something Cas can clean up with — his mojo is rotting faster every day — but Cas grabs his arm. He gives Dean a long, narrow look, then presses his come-sticky hand right over the Mark.
"Hey," Dean hisses. He's too exhausted to get it up, but a dangerous, electric heat crawls through him from head to toe. "What —?"
"Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth," Cas says quietly. A muscle tics in his jaw. "You're mine, Dean. Cain's curse can't have you."
"I'm alright," Dean insists. He isn't — the truth is, he's barely holding it together — but there's not much he can do about it. "You gotta stop worrying about me and start looking out for yourself. Your juice —"
Cas huffs. He gives the Mark another squeeze before climbing off the bed.
+
"Okay, wait," Dean says, propping the trunk open with an old sawed-off. He leans in and pokes around for their box of salt rounds. "You're thinking two spooks?"
Sam says, "Maybe, yeah," and stuffs a crowbar into his bag. "The witnesses all described a man, so Elmer is definitely in there. But he killed his wife before he killed himself, so —"
"So, she might be unsettled, too." Dean's shoulder itches; he slaps at it a couple of times before digging under a pile of butane bottles. "Whatever. We'll barbeque both of 'em."
"Uh..."
Dean turns to look at Sam so fast he nearly cracks his head on the trunk lid. "Christ. Please tell me they weren't cremated."
"Well, Miriam was buried in that cemetery we saw off the highway. But Elmer —" Sam grimaces slightly. "No one ever claimed him, so the county torched him and dumped him in their potter's field."
Dean sighs. His shoulder still itches. The tattoo guy gave him something to put on it, but he left it back at the motel. He frowns at the inside of the trunk for a second, then grabs the jug of holy oil. He shrugs out of his flannel and tugs up the sleeve of his t-shirt.
He forgets Sam hasn't seen it yet until Sam says, "Is that —? Oh." His eyes widen. "Oh."
A short, tight silence pushes between them. Dean never told Sam that he and Cas were — that they were. But he always figured Sam knew; they weren't exactly hiding it.
Finally, he sloshes some oil into his hand and asks, "You got something to say?"
"No."
"Great." The oil goes on thick and stinks like myrrh. Dean wrinkles his nose. "You — where's the kid?"
"I'm right here," Jack says, walking up behind Sam. "The house is empty."
Dean says, "Great," again and hands the kid a shotgun. "Let's go see if Elmer and Miriam are home."
+
Dean paces the length of his bed, tapping the feather against his thigh in time with his steps. The clock on his nightstand says it's after midnight, but he's too keyed up to sleep. He hasn't heard from Cas in weeks.
Sighing, he walks over to his desk and sinks into his chair. The legs wobble and creak. He runs the feather between his fingers a few times, then sets in in his lap and rubs his face.
"My soul failed when he spake," he mutters. Anxiety gnaws at his gut. "I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer."
He grabs the feather again and worries the quill point against the pad of his thumb.
"Alright, Cas. You know I ain't much for praying, but you ain't answering our calls, and I —" He lets out another sigh. "Kelly's still in the wind, and you — I'm really getting worried."
His rubs his face again. The feather smells like the Impala's trunk, but also a little like Cas — ozone and fresh-cut grass.
"We talked about this. You promised — after that shit with Lucifer, you promised you wouldn't drop off the grid anymore. If you can't come home, at least call me and lemme know that you're okay."
The clock ticks and ticks and ticks.
+
The wraith is a crafty sonofabitch — so crafty that it takes Dean and Jody four days to find him. But once they manage to pin him down, they get him dusted by late afternoon. After they drop Patience off at Missouri's place, they head into downtown Lawrence to grab an early-bird dinner.
They end up at a dumpy little place a few blocks from the university. Its windows are dirty and only half its neon sign is lit, but the A-frame chalkboard outside the front door promises real mashed potatoes with the open-faced pot roast sandwich. Jody is brave enough to try it, but Dean sticks with a bacon cheeseburger. His fries are soggy. His coffee is thick enough to chew.
"So," Jody says, quirking an eyebrow. "This is your hometown."
"Yep," Dean grunts.
Jody snorts under her breath. She says, "Fine, don't tell me about it," and puts some pot roast into her mouth.
They scuffle a little for the bill. Dean wins; he tosses some cash on the table after draining the last of his terrible coffee.
Outside, he asks, "You think Patience is gonna be alright?"
"Yeah, I do." A motorcycle screams past them as she continues, "But if she isn't... well. She's got my number."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "You and your damn orphanage."
"Hey, buster. What about you?" Jody nudges his arm. "I mean, come on. Lucifer's kid? Really? That could only happen to you."
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, hugging her goodbye.
The Impala is parked a block away, down the narrow alley that separates the diner from a coin-op laundromat that's crowded with college kids and a photocopy place that's closed for the night. The next shop in the row has bright orange lights glowing in its windows. Dean can't read the sign, but he can hear the telltale buzz of a tattoo needle.
He only hesitates for a second before opening the trunk and grabbing one of Cas' feathers. When he walks in, a chick with bubblegum hair and stars curving up the side of her neck looks up from a sketchbook and smiles.
"Hey. You looking to get inked?"
"Yeah."
She nods and taps her pencil on the counter. "You got something in mind?"
"Yeah, I — this." Dean sets Cas' feather on the counter, then pushes up his right sleeve and shows her the inside of his arm. "Here."
+
Dean hits the ground hard, grunting as something pops in his shoulder. His lip is split; blood is filling his mouth. He chokes on dust for a few seconds, then heaves himself over and gropes around for his blade.
Sam stumbles past him. He ducks a punch, then shoves Ruby's knife into the demon's gut. The bastard drops like a stone, but that still leaves three for Cas. Dean tries to get up, but pain screams up his arm, throbbing into his neck. He hisses out a noise and forces himself to his feet.
Cas gets one of the demons around the throat. A beat later, light is flaring out of his nose and mouth, and his feet are scuffing against the floor. Another demon lunges in, but Cas just whips his blade around and plants it in her chest without really looking at her. Both demons hit the deck; Cas steps over them and turns toward Sam.
The last demon slams his fist into Sam's jaw. Sam sways but keeps his feet; he swings his knife wide, barely grazing the demon's side. Dean can't move his arm, so he runs at the bastard and barrels into him from behind. He lands facedown and skids into Cas' feet. Cas yanks him up by the collar and stabs him right in the throat.
Once he's pulled his blade free, he walks over to Dean. "Are you all right?"
Dean's arm is on fire, but he huffs and says, "I'm — are you alright?
"They all hold swords, being expert in war," Cas murmurs, leaning in to touch Dean's forehead. "Every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night."
+
Dean gets the sacred heart after ganking a shifter in Des Moines.
It's a bad gig; it takes them a full week to find the sonofabitch, which gives him enough time to kill three more people. He slips into Dean's skin twice, and once they finally corner him, he beats Sam half to death. Jack heals him, but he's so angry and scared that whatever he does nearly brings the whole warehouse down on their heads. It also leaves Sam's ears ringing for the next four hours.
They grab diner at a kebab shop across from their motel, then head few blocks down to blow off some steam at a dive called Sharky's. Underneath the cigarette smoke, the place has floor to ceiling wood paneling and worn half-moon booths the color of dried blood. Sam sticks to soda and plays pool with Jack on a table with a short leg. Dean chats up the bartender through most of his first beer; after his second, he walks over to the tattoo shop across the street.
The heart he picks is wrapped in a vine of roses and thorns and pierced by three swords. He tells the guy to do the flame on top in blue and white instead of yellow and orange, and he has him resketch the swords into angel blades. He gets it right where his spine curves into his neck. It hurts more than his shoulder, but less than the inside of his arm.
He doesn't tell Sam and Jack where he's going, but they're waiting outside when he's finished. It's a cold night; storm clouds are gathering above the uneven sweep of Sharky's roof. Dean shivers. A knife-sharp wind cuts through the alley as he digs his keys out of his pocket.
"Another one?" Sam asks.
An empty soda can rolls past Dean's feet. "Yeah."
Jack says, "Oh, is it for —?" but cuts himself off when Sam clears his throat. After a pause, he tries again, asking, "Can I see it?"
"It's all wrapped up," Dean says, shaking his head. "Maybe when we get home."
+
Dean catches Cas' face with both hands. He rubs his thumb at the corner of Cas' mouth, then teases it across Cas' lower lip, then leans in and kisses him, easy and slow. Cas makes a noise into it, something soft and pleased, so Dean slides one hand to the back of his neck and curls his fingers in his hair.
A minute, then another. Then Cas pulls back enough to say, "Dean, I have to go," against Dean's mouth.
Dean says, "Okay," but he leans in and kisses Cas again. He hooks his fingers in Cas' tie and tugs at the knot until it loosens. He pops the first two buttons of Cas' shirt and palms the hollow of his throat.
"Dean."
"Yeah, okay." He knows Cas has to leave. But Cas nearly died the other night, so he drags a wet, open kiss down the line of Cas' jaw. "Okay."
Sighing, Cas tips his head to the side. "Dean, please." He rebuttons his shirt and straightens his tie. But instead of moving away, he noses at the shell of Dean's ear. "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."
"Hey, if you're trying to get me to stop, that ain't the way to do it."
Cas smiles at him. "I really have to go. But I — I'll only be gone a few days."
"Alright," Dean says, nodding. "Alright." He rests his forehead against Cas' for a second, then pats Cas' hip and walks over to his desk. "Here. I made you something."
"What is it?"
"Music," Dean says, handing him the tape. "Good music."
Cas just looks at him for a second. "You — you made this for me?"
"I — yeah." Dean's face flushes. "You gotta listen to the whole thing. The last song is, is — uh." He clears his throat before continuing, "Just listen to the whole thing."
"Okay," Cas says, smiling. "I will."
+
Ink Spots is up in Hastings, across town from the Walmart they visit every month for butane and salt. It's on the bottom floor of a three-story brownstone that looks like it was built in the twenties and probably used to be a bank. A brass bell jangles when Dean opens the door. Inside, Dean smells latex and rubbing alcohol. Country music is humming from a boombox sitting on the front counter.
He hands the lyrics he wrote out to a dude with Willie Nelson hair and tobacco-stained front teeth. He stacked them in three lines — should I fall out of love, my fire in the night, to chase a feather in the wind.
"Zeppelin," the dude says, nodding. "Very cool. Did you have a font in mind, or —"
"No. I, uh —" It's in Cas' handwriting, or as close as Dean could piece together from the notes Cas left him over the years. "Just like that."
+
Before they leave, Dean walks back over to Cas' pyre. It's cold now, just a black scorch-mark on the rocky shore. Behind it, the rising sun is glinting off the water. Every breath Dean takes tastes like smoke and ash.
"Set me a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm," he whispers. His throat is closing up. "For love is as strong as death; jealousy as cruel as the grave."
+
Dean stays in the shower a long time, breathing in soap and steam as the spray beats at the knots in his shoulders and back. The plumbing rattles. Water runs down his arms and legs and skitters against the tiles. He leans his head back for a few seconds, then tips it forward to stretch out his neck. He looks at his latest tattoo, an Enochian letter C.
Putting it over his heart meant crowding it up against his pentagram. The chick who did it tried to talk him into moving it to the other side, but Dean hadn't cared about looking "balanced." He'd cared about keeping Cas close.
He just got it a couple of days ago; his skin still feels tight, and the ink is still heavy and black. He washes it carefully before turning off the water. He pats it dry, then covers it in a thin layer of holy oil. The oil is still wet by the time he towels his hair and pulls on his sweats, so he walks out of the shower room shirtless.
Jack comes out of his room as Dean walks down the hall. There's enough room for them to pass, but they both pause, watching each other. After a beat or two, Jack cocks his head to the side. His hair is combed back today instead of hanging over his eye.
He studies Dean's tattoo. Sam's been teaching him Enochian, so he knows what it means. Quietly, he asks, "Is that for my father?"
Dean starts to say, "He ain't your father," like he usually does, but it doesn't come out. He clears his throat. "I — yeah."
"You miss him."
"Yeah."
"You want him back."
A sad ache digs underneath Dean's ribs. "'Course I do."
Another beat passes. Suddenly, Jack's eyes burn gold. The air in the hallway shifts; Dean can feel it crawling over his skin.
"Dude." Dean takes a step back. "Don't —"
"I can do it," Jack insists. His voice is wooden and clipped, like it always is when he's trying to wrangle his juice. "I think — I think —"
Dean says, "Dude," again and takes another step back. His shoulder hits the wall. A weird feeling churns in his gut, a confused mix of terror and hope. Jack scares the shit out of him sometimes — he tore open a Devil's gate with nothing but his mind — but Dean wants — he wants — fuck.
Jack grunts out a noise. He reaches out and presses two fingers to the center of Dean's tattoo. Something jolts through him — not the familiar, chilly sweep of an angel's grace, but something sharp and dangerous, seething with raw power. Gasping, he bats Jack's hand away, but the furious sparking inside him doesn't stop, doesn't stop.
Everything tilts to the side. The air shifts again, a gust of reverse pressure that pounds in Dean's ears. He sinks to the floor, unable to breathe. Jack's eyes dim. His knees buckle, and he slumps back against the wall.
"Damn it," Dean barks. His heart his beating too hard, too fast. "I fucking told you, you —"
"Dean?" Sam calls out. He sounds panicked and rough. A moment later, he runs into the hall, looking wide-eyed and white around the mouth. "Dean, you — come here. You won't — just come here."
+
"Much of the time, I'd rather be here."
+
Dean touches Cas' hair, his face. He fists his hands in the front of Cas' coat. "You — you're —"
"Dean," Cas says softly. He palms the side of Dean's neck, stroking his thumb at the bolt of Dean's jaw. "Dean."
Dean lets out a shaky sigh and pulls Cas into a hug. He smells the same — ozone and fresh-cut grass. His skin still burns hot. Dean tucks his face against Cas' neck and breathes him in.
Cas says, "Dean," again and presses a kiss to Dean's temple. He slides his hands over Dean's shoulders and down his arms. He pauses at the feather tattoo. He makes a soft noise and traces its lines with the tip of his finger.
"I — it's yours," Dean says, shivering.
"I know." Cas touches it again, skimming his fingers down the length of it. His voice dips as he continues, "I recognize it."
"I missed you."
Cas nudges at Dean's arm until Dean turns, then runs his hand over the heart and the lyrics underneath it. He kisses them both, breathing out against Dean's skin. He turns Dean again and fits his palm to the tattoo on Dean's shoulder. Carefully, he touches the C on Dean's chest.
"You brought me back."
Dean shakes his head. "No. Jack — he did it."
"He did, yes. But you helped him find me. I don't think he could've reached me, otherwise." Cas kisses Dean's jaw and touches the C again. "Behold, thou art fair, by beloved. Behold, thou art fair; thou hast dove's eyes."
Dean shivers again. "You — you gotta — I'm." He clears his throat — once, twice. "I need you. If you die on my again, I'm —"
"I won't," Cas promises. "I won't."
--
Tattoo inspiration:
Handprint: [x]
Feather: [x]
Sacred Heart: [x]
Enochian C: [x]
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: NC17
Words: ~4,600
Summary: Dean wants to keep Cas close.
Notes: Loosely inspired by the instagram pic of Jensen getting a tattoo. Loosely. This picks up after 13x02, but it isn't exactly a coda. Vague spoilers for the 13x03 promo. I take no responsibility; Anna and Bexy didn't stop me when they had the chance.
[AO3]
"Sit down. And here —" Dean huffs and wings the motel Bible toward the couch. "Read a book."
The kid opens it right to the Song of Solomon. Dean clears his throat and turns back to the nightstand.
+
"Is that —? Are you reading the Bible?"
Cas tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "I'm reading a love story."
+
A couple days after they get back, a dead body turns up just over the Colorado line in Burlington. The Denver Post calls it a mauling, but the moon cycle is right, and the guy was found in an alley behind a bar. The article doesn't mention his heart, but that's the kind of thing cops hold back to weed out copycats and serial confessors. Dean packs a bag and grabs an extra box of silver bullets from their stockpile in the basement.
The kid pulls another runner while Dean and Sam are arguing about whether to bring him along or leave him behind. One second, he's standing there, watching them yell; in the next, he's just gone. No wingbeats, no ozone spark, no electric rustle in the air. Just — poof.
"You've got to ease up on him," Sam says, as they're tramping across the flat, scrubby patch of land behind the bunker. "You can't keep kicking him just because you're hurting."
Dean stops dead. He's out of breath from stumbling over rocks and wading through knee-deep thickets of prairie grass. Sweat is prickling the back of his neck. His grief is a lead weight in his gut.
Hurting doesn't even cover it. He hasn't felt this low since Sam bled out in his arms in Cold Oak. At least then, he'd had an exit strategy. It was a shitty exit strategy, but it was something. Right now, he's got nothing.
Sam continues, "Look, I know you blame him for Mom, and for Cas, but he —"
"Damn right, I do," Dean admits. He clenches his hands at his sides. "If he hadn't —"
"Dean," Sam says sharply. His hair is straggly and limp from the damp, night air. "That's not fair. I mean — yeah, you're right. If not for Jack, Cas wouldn't have been at that lake —"
"Nope."
"But," Sam insists, holding up his hands. "But Lucifer — he's been gunning for us since he got topside. There was always a chance that one of us wouldn't make it."
"So, that's it?" Dean snaps. He kicks a rock toward the murky shadows hugging the frontage road. "You — you're gonna give me the That's The Job speech and I'm supposed to just — to just —" He grits out a noise and rubs his face. "Fuck."
After a pause, Sam says, "He's just a kid, Dean. He's a kid who lost his mom and doesn't understand the bizarro shit that's happening to him." He sighs under his breath. "I can relate."
A train whistle blares in the distance. Dean grunts, "Whatever," and turns away.
+
"I have faith."
"Really? In your unborn baby God?"
"Yes."
+
Whatever the kid did to Asmodeus must have spooked him; they don't run into him while they're tracking down the werewolf. They don't bump into any angels, either. Still, Dean isn't taking any chances. On the way home, they stop at the Walmart in Hays to restock their salt and butane and to grab the kid some more clothes. Then they head down Eighth Street to a tattoo joint called Pricks.
As they walk in, Sam tells Jack, "Okay, remember what I said." Ganking the werewolf took the whole weekend; Sam spent most of their downtime talking the kid through some hippie, self-help, positive affirmation crap. "Just keep telling yourself you want this. That you need it."
"Okay," Jack says, nodding. His hair flops over his eye. "I'll try."
They go with the same stuff as before — a pentagram to keep the demons out, and a weird sigil Sam swears will hide the kid from Heaven. There's nothing they can do about Asmodeus — the lore can't decide if he's an archdemon or a fallen angel, and all bets are off either way — but their batting average is so low right now that Dean's willing to call two out of three a win.
Jack flinches a little when the needle first hits his skin, but he doesn't short out the equipment this time. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles go white. He glances at Sam and Dean, then breathes in and out, in and out.
The buzzing starts making Dean itch, so he looks at Sam and asks, "You think it's gonna stick this time? I mean, Cas — he always made it sound like their meatsuits heal on autopilot."
Sam hesitates before saying, "Yeah, but he's not in a vessel. Not really. It's his body, so... he — I don't know. Maybe he can control it."
As soon as the artist is done, the ink on Jack's chest gutters like a candle. He closes his eyes again and takes a few more deep breaths. A beat passes, then another. Then the ink darkens and holds.
"Great," Sam says, smiling. "You — that's great."
The artist sets the gun on the tray and reaches for a packet of gauze. On the wall behind him, there's a framed, eleven by fourteen close-up of a woman's back piece — a kneeling angel with her hair drawn over her shoulder and her wings folded in front of her body. A broken halo is angled above her bowed head.
"So," the guy says slowly. "Who's next?"
"Just him, today," Sam says, handing over a wad of cash. "We're —"
"Me," Dean says. He still has an itch under his skin, even though the buzzing has stopped. "I'm next."
Sam cocks an eyebrow at him. "Dude. Are you —"
Dean cuts him off by tossing him the Impala's keys. "Take the kid to lunch. I'll call you when I'm done."
+
"Cas," Dean hisses, clutching at the sheets as he fucks up into Cas' fist. He's so close, so close — fuck. "Cas, please."
Cas hums out a noise and leans down to mouth at a spot below Dean's ear. He strokes his hand up Dean's dick, running his thumb over the head. He slides his other hand up to Dean's shoulder — that shoulder — and the liquid tension in Dean's gut finally snaps. He arches up, coming and coming as a moan shudders in his throat.
Cas just stays there for a moment, breathing into the sweaty curve of Dean's neck. Then he sits up and mojos them clean. He touches Dean's shoulder again. The hand print is long gone, but it still makes Dean shiver.
Softly, Cas says, "His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me."
"I, I — uh." Dean closes his eyes. He says, "I don't remember," because he doesn't. Not really. But sometimes — somtimes, he dreams of an impossibly bright light. Of a heat that burned cleaner and hotter than the fires in the Pit.
After a pause, Cas says, "You were magnificent."
"I was a demon," Dean says, flushing.
A smile tugs Cas' mouth. He murmurs, "Well, no one is perfect," and leans down for a kiss.
+
"Alright," the artist says. He has a spike through his lip and holes in his ears the size of quarters. "What'll it be?"
"I, um — a hand print." Heat crowds up underneath Dean's jaw. "A right hand, about —" He holds up his own. "A little bigger than mine."
It must not be the weirdest thing the guy's ever heard, because he just shrugs and says, "Alright," again. "Where?"
Dean touches his shoulder. "Here."
"Do you just want the outline, or do you want it filled in?"
"I — filled in. Red."
The guy pauses for a second, tapping his fingers on the edge of his tray. "Solid red's going to look bloody." He points to a flash sheet on the wall, full of neat lines and whorls and swirls. "How about a little blackwork through it? Just to break up the color a little."
"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. He can already feel it on his skin — the weight of Cas' palm, the curve of his fingers. Warmth curls into his gut. "Yeah, that works."
+
The bed dips as Cas sits up on his knees. Sweat is beading in the hollow of his throat, and a slow flush is spreading down the center of his chest.
"Dean."
Dean should help him a little — he should roll him over and get his mouth on him — but killing Cain left him with an empty tank. Besides, it's nice to just watch. Cas is gorgeous like this — his hips working, his thighs tensing, the head of his dick slipping through his fist.
"Yeah, c'mon," Dean says, sliding his hands up Cas' thighs. Cas' skin is burning hot. "Come for me."
Cas makes a low, dark noise. He jerks into his hand, his eyes glinting. The lights dim a littile. Come drips over his fingers.
Dean reaches for something Cas can clean up with — his mojo is rotting faster every day — but Cas grabs his arm. He gives Dean a long, narrow look, then presses his come-sticky hand right over the Mark.
"Hey," Dean hisses. He's too exhausted to get it up, but a dangerous, electric heat crawls through him from head to toe. "What —?"
"Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth," Cas says quietly. A muscle tics in his jaw. "You're mine, Dean. Cain's curse can't have you."
"I'm alright," Dean insists. He isn't — the truth is, he's barely holding it together — but there's not much he can do about it. "You gotta stop worrying about me and start looking out for yourself. Your juice —"
Cas huffs. He gives the Mark another squeeze before climbing off the bed.
+
"Okay, wait," Dean says, propping the trunk open with an old sawed-off. He leans in and pokes around for their box of salt rounds. "You're thinking two spooks?"
Sam says, "Maybe, yeah," and stuffs a crowbar into his bag. "The witnesses all described a man, so Elmer is definitely in there. But he killed his wife before he killed himself, so —"
"So, she might be unsettled, too." Dean's shoulder itches; he slaps at it a couple of times before digging under a pile of butane bottles. "Whatever. We'll barbeque both of 'em."
"Uh..."
Dean turns to look at Sam so fast he nearly cracks his head on the trunk lid. "Christ. Please tell me they weren't cremated."
"Well, Miriam was buried in that cemetery we saw off the highway. But Elmer —" Sam grimaces slightly. "No one ever claimed him, so the county torched him and dumped him in their potter's field."
Dean sighs. His shoulder still itches. The tattoo guy gave him something to put on it, but he left it back at the motel. He frowns at the inside of the trunk for a second, then grabs the jug of holy oil. He shrugs out of his flannel and tugs up the sleeve of his t-shirt.
He forgets Sam hasn't seen it yet until Sam says, "Is that —? Oh." His eyes widen. "Oh."
A short, tight silence pushes between them. Dean never told Sam that he and Cas were — that they were. But he always figured Sam knew; they weren't exactly hiding it.
Finally, he sloshes some oil into his hand and asks, "You got something to say?"
"No."
"Great." The oil goes on thick and stinks like myrrh. Dean wrinkles his nose. "You — where's the kid?"
"I'm right here," Jack says, walking up behind Sam. "The house is empty."
Dean says, "Great," again and hands the kid a shotgun. "Let's go see if Elmer and Miriam are home."
+
Dean paces the length of his bed, tapping the feather against his thigh in time with his steps. The clock on his nightstand says it's after midnight, but he's too keyed up to sleep. He hasn't heard from Cas in weeks.
Sighing, he walks over to his desk and sinks into his chair. The legs wobble and creak. He runs the feather between his fingers a few times, then sets in in his lap and rubs his face.
"My soul failed when he spake," he mutters. Anxiety gnaws at his gut. "I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer."
He grabs the feather again and worries the quill point against the pad of his thumb.
"Alright, Cas. You know I ain't much for praying, but you ain't answering our calls, and I —" He lets out another sigh. "Kelly's still in the wind, and you — I'm really getting worried."
His rubs his face again. The feather smells like the Impala's trunk, but also a little like Cas — ozone and fresh-cut grass.
"We talked about this. You promised — after that shit with Lucifer, you promised you wouldn't drop off the grid anymore. If you can't come home, at least call me and lemme know that you're okay."
The clock ticks and ticks and ticks.
+
The wraith is a crafty sonofabitch — so crafty that it takes Dean and Jody four days to find him. But once they manage to pin him down, they get him dusted by late afternoon. After they drop Patience off at Missouri's place, they head into downtown Lawrence to grab an early-bird dinner.
They end up at a dumpy little place a few blocks from the university. Its windows are dirty and only half its neon sign is lit, but the A-frame chalkboard outside the front door promises real mashed potatoes with the open-faced pot roast sandwich. Jody is brave enough to try it, but Dean sticks with a bacon cheeseburger. His fries are soggy. His coffee is thick enough to chew.
"So," Jody says, quirking an eyebrow. "This is your hometown."
"Yep," Dean grunts.
Jody snorts under her breath. She says, "Fine, don't tell me about it," and puts some pot roast into her mouth.
They scuffle a little for the bill. Dean wins; he tosses some cash on the table after draining the last of his terrible coffee.
Outside, he asks, "You think Patience is gonna be alright?"
"Yeah, I do." A motorcycle screams past them as she continues, "But if she isn't... well. She's got my number."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "You and your damn orphanage."
"Hey, buster. What about you?" Jody nudges his arm. "I mean, come on. Lucifer's kid? Really? That could only happen to you."
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, hugging her goodbye.
The Impala is parked a block away, down the narrow alley that separates the diner from a coin-op laundromat that's crowded with college kids and a photocopy place that's closed for the night. The next shop in the row has bright orange lights glowing in its windows. Dean can't read the sign, but he can hear the telltale buzz of a tattoo needle.
He only hesitates for a second before opening the trunk and grabbing one of Cas' feathers. When he walks in, a chick with bubblegum hair and stars curving up the side of her neck looks up from a sketchbook and smiles.
"Hey. You looking to get inked?"
"Yeah."
She nods and taps her pencil on the counter. "You got something in mind?"
"Yeah, I — this." Dean sets Cas' feather on the counter, then pushes up his right sleeve and shows her the inside of his arm. "Here."
+
Dean hits the ground hard, grunting as something pops in his shoulder. His lip is split; blood is filling his mouth. He chokes on dust for a few seconds, then heaves himself over and gropes around for his blade.
Sam stumbles past him. He ducks a punch, then shoves Ruby's knife into the demon's gut. The bastard drops like a stone, but that still leaves three for Cas. Dean tries to get up, but pain screams up his arm, throbbing into his neck. He hisses out a noise and forces himself to his feet.
Cas gets one of the demons around the throat. A beat later, light is flaring out of his nose and mouth, and his feet are scuffing against the floor. Another demon lunges in, but Cas just whips his blade around and plants it in her chest without really looking at her. Both demons hit the deck; Cas steps over them and turns toward Sam.
The last demon slams his fist into Sam's jaw. Sam sways but keeps his feet; he swings his knife wide, barely grazing the demon's side. Dean can't move his arm, so he runs at the bastard and barrels into him from behind. He lands facedown and skids into Cas' feet. Cas yanks him up by the collar and stabs him right in the throat.
Once he's pulled his blade free, he walks over to Dean. "Are you all right?"
Dean's arm is on fire, but he huffs and says, "I'm — are you alright?
"They all hold swords, being expert in war," Cas murmurs, leaning in to touch Dean's forehead. "Every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night."
+
Dean gets the sacred heart after ganking a shifter in Des Moines.
It's a bad gig; it takes them a full week to find the sonofabitch, which gives him enough time to kill three more people. He slips into Dean's skin twice, and once they finally corner him, he beats Sam half to death. Jack heals him, but he's so angry and scared that whatever he does nearly brings the whole warehouse down on their heads. It also leaves Sam's ears ringing for the next four hours.
They grab diner at a kebab shop across from their motel, then head few blocks down to blow off some steam at a dive called Sharky's. Underneath the cigarette smoke, the place has floor to ceiling wood paneling and worn half-moon booths the color of dried blood. Sam sticks to soda and plays pool with Jack on a table with a short leg. Dean chats up the bartender through most of his first beer; after his second, he walks over to the tattoo shop across the street.
The heart he picks is wrapped in a vine of roses and thorns and pierced by three swords. He tells the guy to do the flame on top in blue and white instead of yellow and orange, and he has him resketch the swords into angel blades. He gets it right where his spine curves into his neck. It hurts more than his shoulder, but less than the inside of his arm.
He doesn't tell Sam and Jack where he's going, but they're waiting outside when he's finished. It's a cold night; storm clouds are gathering above the uneven sweep of Sharky's roof. Dean shivers. A knife-sharp wind cuts through the alley as he digs his keys out of his pocket.
"Another one?" Sam asks.
An empty soda can rolls past Dean's feet. "Yeah."
Jack says, "Oh, is it for —?" but cuts himself off when Sam clears his throat. After a pause, he tries again, asking, "Can I see it?"
"It's all wrapped up," Dean says, shaking his head. "Maybe when we get home."
+
Dean catches Cas' face with both hands. He rubs his thumb at the corner of Cas' mouth, then teases it across Cas' lower lip, then leans in and kisses him, easy and slow. Cas makes a noise into it, something soft and pleased, so Dean slides one hand to the back of his neck and curls his fingers in his hair.
A minute, then another. Then Cas pulls back enough to say, "Dean, I have to go," against Dean's mouth.
Dean says, "Okay," but he leans in and kisses Cas again. He hooks his fingers in Cas' tie and tugs at the knot until it loosens. He pops the first two buttons of Cas' shirt and palms the hollow of his throat.
"Dean."
"Yeah, okay." He knows Cas has to leave. But Cas nearly died the other night, so he drags a wet, open kiss down the line of Cas' jaw. "Okay."
Sighing, Cas tips his head to the side. "Dean, please." He rebuttons his shirt and straightens his tie. But instead of moving away, he noses at the shell of Dean's ear. "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."
"Hey, if you're trying to get me to stop, that ain't the way to do it."
Cas smiles at him. "I really have to go. But I — I'll only be gone a few days."
"Alright," Dean says, nodding. "Alright." He rests his forehead against Cas' for a second, then pats Cas' hip and walks over to his desk. "Here. I made you something."
"What is it?"
"Music," Dean says, handing him the tape. "Good music."
Cas just looks at him for a second. "You — you made this for me?"
"I — yeah." Dean's face flushes. "You gotta listen to the whole thing. The last song is, is — uh." He clears his throat before continuing, "Just listen to the whole thing."
"Okay," Cas says, smiling. "I will."
+
Ink Spots is up in Hastings, across town from the Walmart they visit every month for butane and salt. It's on the bottom floor of a three-story brownstone that looks like it was built in the twenties and probably used to be a bank. A brass bell jangles when Dean opens the door. Inside, Dean smells latex and rubbing alcohol. Country music is humming from a boombox sitting on the front counter.
He hands the lyrics he wrote out to a dude with Willie Nelson hair and tobacco-stained front teeth. He stacked them in three lines — should I fall out of love, my fire in the night, to chase a feather in the wind.
"Zeppelin," the dude says, nodding. "Very cool. Did you have a font in mind, or —"
"No. I, uh —" It's in Cas' handwriting, or as close as Dean could piece together from the notes Cas left him over the years. "Just like that."
+
Before they leave, Dean walks back over to Cas' pyre. It's cold now, just a black scorch-mark on the rocky shore. Behind it, the rising sun is glinting off the water. Every breath Dean takes tastes like smoke and ash.
"Set me a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm," he whispers. His throat is closing up. "For love is as strong as death; jealousy as cruel as the grave."
+
Dean stays in the shower a long time, breathing in soap and steam as the spray beats at the knots in his shoulders and back. The plumbing rattles. Water runs down his arms and legs and skitters against the tiles. He leans his head back for a few seconds, then tips it forward to stretch out his neck. He looks at his latest tattoo, an Enochian letter C.
Putting it over his heart meant crowding it up against his pentagram. The chick who did it tried to talk him into moving it to the other side, but Dean hadn't cared about looking "balanced." He'd cared about keeping Cas close.
He just got it a couple of days ago; his skin still feels tight, and the ink is still heavy and black. He washes it carefully before turning off the water. He pats it dry, then covers it in a thin layer of holy oil. The oil is still wet by the time he towels his hair and pulls on his sweats, so he walks out of the shower room shirtless.
Jack comes out of his room as Dean walks down the hall. There's enough room for them to pass, but they both pause, watching each other. After a beat or two, Jack cocks his head to the side. His hair is combed back today instead of hanging over his eye.
He studies Dean's tattoo. Sam's been teaching him Enochian, so he knows what it means. Quietly, he asks, "Is that for my father?"
Dean starts to say, "He ain't your father," like he usually does, but it doesn't come out. He clears his throat. "I — yeah."
"You miss him."
"Yeah."
"You want him back."
A sad ache digs underneath Dean's ribs. "'Course I do."
Another beat passes. Suddenly, Jack's eyes burn gold. The air in the hallway shifts; Dean can feel it crawling over his skin.
"Dude." Dean takes a step back. "Don't —"
"I can do it," Jack insists. His voice is wooden and clipped, like it always is when he's trying to wrangle his juice. "I think — I think —"
Dean says, "Dude," again and takes another step back. His shoulder hits the wall. A weird feeling churns in his gut, a confused mix of terror and hope. Jack scares the shit out of him sometimes — he tore open a Devil's gate with nothing but his mind — but Dean wants — he wants — fuck.
Jack grunts out a noise. He reaches out and presses two fingers to the center of Dean's tattoo. Something jolts through him — not the familiar, chilly sweep of an angel's grace, but something sharp and dangerous, seething with raw power. Gasping, he bats Jack's hand away, but the furious sparking inside him doesn't stop, doesn't stop.
Everything tilts to the side. The air shifts again, a gust of reverse pressure that pounds in Dean's ears. He sinks to the floor, unable to breathe. Jack's eyes dim. His knees buckle, and he slumps back against the wall.
"Damn it," Dean barks. His heart his beating too hard, too fast. "I fucking told you, you —"
"Dean?" Sam calls out. He sounds panicked and rough. A moment later, he runs into the hall, looking wide-eyed and white around the mouth. "Dean, you — come here. You won't — just come here."
+
"Much of the time, I'd rather be here."
+
Dean touches Cas' hair, his face. He fists his hands in the front of Cas' coat. "You — you're —"
"Dean," Cas says softly. He palms the side of Dean's neck, stroking his thumb at the bolt of Dean's jaw. "Dean."
Dean lets out a shaky sigh and pulls Cas into a hug. He smells the same — ozone and fresh-cut grass. His skin still burns hot. Dean tucks his face against Cas' neck and breathes him in.
Cas says, "Dean," again and presses a kiss to Dean's temple. He slides his hands over Dean's shoulders and down his arms. He pauses at the feather tattoo. He makes a soft noise and traces its lines with the tip of his finger.
"I — it's yours," Dean says, shivering.
"I know." Cas touches it again, skimming his fingers down the length of it. His voice dips as he continues, "I recognize it."
"I missed you."
Cas nudges at Dean's arm until Dean turns, then runs his hand over the heart and the lyrics underneath it. He kisses them both, breathing out against Dean's skin. He turns Dean again and fits his palm to the tattoo on Dean's shoulder. Carefully, he touches the C on Dean's chest.
"You brought me back."
Dean shakes his head. "No. Jack — he did it."
"He did, yes. But you helped him find me. I don't think he could've reached me, otherwise." Cas kisses Dean's jaw and touches the C again. "Behold, thou art fair, by beloved. Behold, thou art fair; thou hast dove's eyes."
Dean shivers again. "You — you gotta — I'm." He clears his throat — once, twice. "I need you. If you die on my again, I'm —"
"I won't," Cas promises. "I won't."
--
Tattoo inspiration:
Handprint: [x]
Feather: [x]
Sacred Heart: [x]
Enochian C: [x]
