Chapter Text
The first tattoo Castiel got was done out of necessity, not desire. He scraped together enough money to afford the shop’s minimum, walking out with warding etched into his side. The shop was nice enough, especially for the price, and the artist’s hand was steady enough to ensure the warding would hold.
“Why now?” The artist was just making conversation, transferring the pattern to the stencil. They had no idea what Castiel had been though, what could happen if he didn’t go under the needle. They didn’t know he was only partially-protected, the incantation being all that would keep him from Heaven’s watchful eye.
“It was time,” Castiel said.
“Been thinking about it a lot?”
“I suppose.” Cas traced his bare ribs absently. “Not very long, but very often.”
“Watch out,” the artist said. “You’ll get addicted.”
That tattoo was now eight years old, thoroughly healed over and faded ever so slightly from washcloths and shirts passing over it each day. Castiel caught sight of it sometimes, in the mirror, though he rarely gave it mind. It was simply part of his skin, like his wedge-shaped navel where Jimmy Novak once had an umbilical cord, or the small bumps he would sometimes find around his nipples. Differentiating marks, sure, but no more unique or remarkable than another body’s.
Dean felt the same about his anti-possession tattoo; Cas knew this, he asked.
“Do you find your tattoo important?” He questioned, sitting with Dean at a Panera Bread. They were driving back to Kansas from Michigan and Castiel had mentioned that he’d never had a macaroni and cheese bread bowl. Fifteen minutes later, Dean was dragging him inside.
“My tattoo?” Dean asked, sucking a drop of mayonnaise from his knuckle. “I dunno, I mean, it’s kept me from having some demon jump my bones a few times, so that’s a bonus. Some people think it’s hot. I don’t think about it much, to be honest. Gets lost in all the scrapes and scars, you know?”
“Do you think it’s hot?” Cas asked. Dean had raised his sandwich back up, ready to take another bite, but left it held in front of his parted lips.
“I mean, uh, I guess. Tattoos are hot in general, so, sure. Why’re you asking?” Cas could see irritation crawling over Dean’s features. He wasn’t mad, not really, but he was uncomfortable.
“I was thinking about my own,” Cas admitted. “I’d gotten it the last time I was human. I thought I might commemorate the occasion again.” Cas took a bite of his own food. The macaroni was thick and rich, the bread crisp and soft. He was still acclimating to human eating patterns after losing his grace, but this wasn’t overwhelming his senses. It was warm. Comforting. Nothing like the cold, hollowness he’d felt before as a human. There was nothing vacuous about his stomach now.
“Out of the Empty, under the needle, eh?” Dean kidded, though his voice sounded strained. It always did, when Dean spoke of the Empty. It had only been three months between Cas’ sacrifice and Dean’s tight grip on his shoulder, pulling him back to Earth, but the Dean to which he returned had changed. He was thinner now, quicker to melancholy. Cas tried to be funny, to say things he thought might make Dean laugh. He watched Dean take a bit of his sandwich, a bacon crumble dropping out the bottom and onto his plate. He hoped Dean would pick it up. Eat it.
“In a manner of speaking,” Cas said. “I think it would be nice to decorate my body.”
“And that’s why you wanna know if tattoos are hot?” Dean asked. He ate the bacon bit. Cas’ heart squeezed. “What...you wanna look good for the fellas?”
Cas’ heart squeezed again. He’d been back four weeks. He hadn’t planned on coming back at all. When Dean didn’t address his confession, he didn’t bring it up. When Dean had burst into Cas’ room one week after his rescue, panicking after a nightmare, and gasped out, “That was -- I didn’t deserve that, Cas,” before hyperventilating, Cas didn’t upset Dean further with a repetition. Twenty days had passed since, and neither said a word.
“I think I’m plenty attractive,” Cas said. Dean coughed around a chip. Cas glared at him, though the look was hollow. “But if I’m going to live in this body until I die, I might as well enjoy it.”
Dean’s whole face twitched, eyebrows shooting up and furrowing down in the span of only a few seconds. “Well,” he said, “can’t fault you there. You know what you want to get?”
“I have a few ideas,” Cas said, ripping off a shred of his bread bowl. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Wait,” Dean said, mouth teasing into a smile. “A few ideas? You plan on getting blasted?”
“If that’s what it’s called,” Cas said. “I appreciate tattooing, I see no reason not to cover myself in it. There are many things I’d like to wear on my skin.”
“Huh,” Dean said. His cheeks had flushed slightly and his Adam’s apple bobbed more significantly when he swallowed. Cas wished desperately his grace hadn’t evaporated when the Empty spit him out; he could have easily cured Dean of whatever cold he had coming on. It was likely exacerbated by his weight loss. Cas watched him pick up the other half of his sandwich.
Dean’s elbow jutted out, knocking into Cas’ hand. “You want another?” Dean asked, nodding toward Cas’ plate. Only remnants of his meal remained. Cas barely remembered tasting it. For all the access he had now to food, his body only remembered its scarcity.
“No, I’m alright,” Cas said. He wasn’t hungry. Dean was.
“Okay,” Dean said, teeth ripping into layers of meat and lettuce. Cas watched his throat fill out when he swallowed. “But I’m getting us a dozen bagels before we hit the road. Jack loves them.” He winked at Cas.
“Good to know,” Cas said. He had missed less, this time, than he had when Jack was first born. But the boy had continued to grow, to discover himself, during the three months away. Cas had come back to a child who had read Percy Jackson novels, who loved basketball, who hated key lime. Dean had taken it upon himself to fill Cas in. Dean was the reason Cas didn’t miss more. Dean was the reason he left at all.
The car ride back was uneventful. Cas was in charge of music, a responsibility bestowed upon him some years back. He fell back into his pattern: two classic rock songs, one modern rock song, one pop song, like it was a worn leather chair. A classic song was playing, an old Poison one about roses having thorns. Dean leaned into Cas’ space, his hands casually flopped across the Impala’s steering wheel. They’d driven this road before. This was a comfortable path to go down.
“Y’know,” he said, “there’s a tattoo parlour not far from here. If you want to check it out.”
“Now?” Cas asked.
“Sure,” Dean said. “I mean, Sam and Eileen aren’t exactly on pins and needles waiting for us to get back. We can make a detour.”
“I hadn’t thought of tattoos in such immediate terms.”
“Well, I mean, you don’t have to get one today. But you gotta make sure the shop is clean. That the people are nice. That they’re not -- not -- uh, gonna be jerks. About you. Or whatever.”
“I appreciate the concern, Dean, but I’m plenty capable of handling a few homophobes.”
Dean coughed. Hacked, really. His cold was progressing. Cas furrowed his brow, waiting to hear phlegm. Dean simply swallowed.
“Uh -- yeah -- uh, I didn’t mean, I mean, I know that, but still, wouldn’t you rather not deal with it anyway?”
Cas looked up toward the Impala’s roof. The faintest outline of a boot, where Dean had once popped the frame back into place through brute force, was stained into the vinyl. Cas had been alive for that, but “off the deep end,” as Dean called it. More things to miss.
“I’m sorry - I didn’t --” Dean said, abruptly righting himself back into the driver’s seat.
“No, it’s not that,” Cas said, “You’re right. I would appreciate seeing the shop.”
“Yeah?” Dean said, eyeing Cas. “Okay, uh, let’s check it out.” He turned off at the next exit, down a side road Cas had never taken before.
The tattoo parlour was at the end of it, part of the strip mall that capped the road. ‘Needlepoint Tattoos’ was emblazoned above the door in graphic letters that reminded Cas of graffiti. Dean pulled into the parking lot, sliding into a spot just to the side of the store, in front of a dry cleaner’s. He leaned forward, peering at the studio.
“Looks like your kind of place,” he mused. Cas squinted.
“What makes you say that?”
“Needlepoint...you like crafts…” Dean said, swaying back and forth like he was putting the two pieces together. Cas leaned forward, mimicking Dean. The shop seemed clean from the outside. A neon open sign glowed in the window.
“Want to go inside?” Dean asked, interrupting Cas’ evaluation. Cas sat up, watching Dean. Dean’s eyes were wide, earnest. He might just be gaunt.
“No, Dean, I want to sit outside,” Cas said, deadpan. Dean flinched back.
“Sorry, I know, I should’ve, this was stupid,” He rushed out, staring into his lap. He reached for the gearshift. Cas grabbed his arm. Dean’s head snapped over to look at him.
“I want to go in, Dean,” Cas said. Dean’s brow furrowed. Cas dropped his arm. He could feel the leather slide against his rough palm.
“But you --”
“I’ve been informed I was ‘getting funnier’. Apparently I was lied to,” Cas said. Dean’s lip wobbled for a moment before cracking into a grin.
“Whoever said that was a damn liar,” Dean said, mirth sweeping up across his freckles and dotting his eyes.
“I was also told that when we humans want something, we lie. I don’t want to go in,” Cas said, letting a smile give up the joke. Dean laughed wholly at that, throaty and rich.
“Man, someone really fucked up your human training,” he said. Some of the laugh died on his lips. Cas wished he knew a joke, a quip, anything to bring it back to life. Dean just flashed a smile instead. “Well, come on, then,” he said, climbing out of the car.
Cas followed him, stepping up onto the curb. Dean flung open the door of the parlour, nodding for Cas to step inside. A bell rang on the doorframe.
The inside of Needlepoint Tattoo was bright and clean. Cas liked it immediately. Smaller sketches were framed on the wall. Some had price tags stuck on their corners. The reception area was small but comfortable. The hum of a machine filtered from the back. The man at the counter looked up when Cas entered. He was tall, broad, with a full brown beard and a well-fed stature. Cas’ mouth watered, thinking of Dean’s cooking, Dean eating, Dean filling out to a healthy frame. He thought of the ease of getting a snack. He thought of the bagels in the backseat.
“Hi there,” the man said, “Something I can do for you fellas today?”
Cas had nearly forgotten that Dean followed him into the shop. He was there, though, right at Cas’ side, bumping him with his elbow. Cas stepped forward, offering his hand.
“Hello, yes,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo. My, uh -- Dean remembered your studio.”
The man shook his hand, firm and friendly. “We do some work for you?” He asked Dean, eyes flicking over Cas’ shoulder. Dean shook his head.
“No, just driven by before. Thought we would check out the place.”
“Didn’t think so,” the man said. “We don’t forget faces ‘round these parts.” He winked at Cas. Cas flushed. Was this putting down roots? Collecting faces, places, until you became tangled up in something simple and domestic?
The man had shifted backward, giving Cas more room to breathe. “My name’s Howard,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Castiel,” Cas said. “This is Dean...like I said.” He glanced back at Dean, who was watching him carefully. Evaluating how well he played his human role?
“Nice to meet you,” Howard said. “What were you thinking of getting done?”
Cas’ gaze snapped back to Howard. He felt himself turn red. “I have a few ideas.” He didn’t elaborate.
Howard didn’t seem fazed. He plucked a business card from the stand on the counter, circling a number and handing it over to Cas. “Well, we’ve got an email. If you decide you want to get some work done with us, feel free to send your ideas over and we can do some planning. One hundred an hour, shop minimum of sixty-five, and we’re closed on Wednesdays.” He smiled at Cas.
“Thank you,” Cas said, pocketing the card. “Your shop is lovely.”
“Thanks,” Howard said. His eyes shared the pride Dean’s did when he pulled a lasagne from the oven. Cas turned away, meeting Dean’s eyes. They looked...hurt? Hungry?
“We can go, Dean,” he said, taking a step toward the door.
Dean jolted into action, pushing through the doorway again and holding it for Cas. They settled back into the car. The tape had turned over, a Marianas Trench song about ‘one love’ momentarily filling the car before Dean reached over, muting it.
“Dean?” Cas asked. “Are you alright?”
Dean’s eyes snapped up to meet his own. They hadn’t lost their hungry look. He plastered a grin across his face, winning smile lost at his cheeks. “You, uh, you and Howard seemed to get on well,” he said.
“He was very nice,” Cas agreed. “I liked the shop. I think I’ll return.”
“I mean -- you seemed to get on,” Dean said. “You know, like you could get off.” He looked especially sick.
Cas stared at him, searching for sense in the strained lines of Dean’s smile or the way his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Tight grips.
“You mean sex,” Cas concluded. Dean huffed a laugh.
“Yeah,” he said. He looked away from Cas.
“No,” Cas said.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Dean said, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the parking lot. “I mean, Cas, you were pretty smitten with him.”
“I liked how he looked,” Cas agreed. Dean’s face twitched again. “He’s broad. Strong. Well-fed.”
“That’s what got you?” Dean asked. Cas’ gaze crawled along the quick slope of Dean’s shoulders.
“I appreciate a man who lets himself indulge,” Cas said. The night before, Dean had eaten two burgers. Cas had relished in the pink color they brought to his skin, the shine the grease had given his lips.
“Hah,” Dean said. “I guess I get why you liked me. Sober and scrawny isn't quite the same,” he quipped. Cas opened his mouth, but Dean turned the music up before he could say a thing, letting his hand rest by the volume button, protecting it from Cas. The tape had turned over yet again. Dua Lipa sang about new rules.
Getting home took only ten more minutes. Jack was waiting at the bunker’s door, gardening gloves hanging off his hands. Dean and Cas stepped out of the Impala, waving back at the boy.
“Dad!” He called, hand raised. “I weeded all of the flowerbeds today! The hostas are looking better!”
“That’s fantastic, Jack,” Cas said. Dean caught his eye, the first time in fifteen minutes, quickly shifting his gaze to the backseat. Cas grabbed the box of bagels. “We brought things from Panera.”
“Bagels?” Jack asked, smiling. “Have you tried the cinnamon swirl one? With the honey cream cheese?”
“I have not,” Cas admitted, walking up to hug his son.
“Oh, you’ll love it!” Jack said, arms stretched out around Cas to keep dirt from getting on his coat. “We could do that for dinner?”
“Actually, kiddo, Sam should’ve taken some ground beef out earlier today,” Dean said, opening the bunker’s door.
“He did!” Jack said. “But he and Eileen are out. They went on a date,” he leaned in on the last words, like he was admitting a secret. Cas raised his eyebrows, playing along. Dean rolled his eyes. The trio made their way inside.
“Did they say if they’ll be back for dinner?” Dean asked.
“No, they’re gone for the night. I guess Eileen wants to go bowling,” Jack said. He tossed his gardening gloves into one of the bunker’s storage rooms, converted into a gardening haven.
Dean threw him a thumbs up, taking the bagels from Cas and heading off to the kitchen. Cas watched him leave, watching the slump of his head as it hung down from his neck. He could imagine it held high, lifted by the thrill of a successful hunt, a memorable night out, a good meal. He wished he could raise it, by some miracle. Dean didn’t hunt much — hadn’t at all since Cas came back. Michigan had been administrative. They’d never picked up a gun. Would a hunt, a full hunt, lift him higher?
“What did you and Dean do?” Jack asked. “You got back late.”
“We didn’t mean to leave you,” Cas said.
“It’s no big. I played PlayStation for a while and then gardened. It was nice to have some ‘self-care time,’” Jack said. Cas tilted his head. “Sam taught me that,” the boy added.
Cas nodded, remembering one of Sam’s many recitations of a podcast he’d listened to about mediation or B-12 supplements. “We went to a tattoo parlour,” he said. Jack’s eyes widened.
“Did you get a tattoo?” He asked. He looked over Cas’ body, like he’d be able to see ink through his shirtsleeves.
“No,” Cas said. “But I think I will.”
“Can I get one?” Jack asked.
“Definitely not,” Cas said.
“When I’m older?” Jack asked.
“When you’re older,” Cas agreed.
“Can we get matching ones?”
“Sure, Jack.”
“Matching what?” Dean asked, passing through the war room. A kitchen towel was flung over his shoulder. Cas’ stomach fluttered.
“Tattoos!” Jack said. “Dad and I are going to get them --” Cas raised his eyebrows. “-- when I’m older,” Jack added. “Do you want to get matching tattoos with us?” He asked, smile open and innocent.
Dean stopped in his tracks. His eyes flickered between Cas and Jack. He looked like he wanted to frown, catching it at the last second and flipping the corners of his lips up. “No way,” he said, “Knowing you two, you’ll get a shooting star. Or a cartoon cat.”
“Those are great ideas,” Jack said, nodding. “If you change your mind, you can join us. Though I think we’ll get ones for just us, too.”
Dean smiled at that. It looked genuine. “Thanks, kid,” he said. “Dinner will be ready in forty, so if you want to shower, now’s the time.”
“Okay!” Jack said, mimicking Dean’s thumbs-up from earlier. He bounced down the hallway toward his room.
“I’m -- I’m gonna change,” Dean said. He threw his hand up in an aborted wave, dipping out of the room again.
Cas dug his hands into his pockets. His fingers closed around the business card Howard had given him. He walked into the library, running his finger along the edge. Sam’s laptop was charging on the table. He cracked it open, logging into his profile. He pulled up his email, and composed a message.
He was the only customer at Needlepoint Tattoos. Howard had emailed him back immediately, offering for him to come in first-thing the next morning, to which he’d readily agreed. Sam and Eileen hadn’t even caught him before he left, sleeping in after being out all night. Jack had been asleep, too, indulging in his teenage frame by sleeping until eleven nearly every day. Dean had been awake, though, sipping a coffee and reading a book. Deadeye Dick. Cas had gone into the kitchen for his own coffee.
“Morning,” Dean said, looking up. “Hey, going somewhere?” His brow furrowed, taking in Cas’ appearance. He’d dressed in jeans and a tee shirt with a dark, loose flannel, per Howard’s recommendation. He supposed it was still rare to see him dressed-down; he still donned his suit many days and preferred soft, terrycloth fabrics when he was milling around the bunker or making quick trips to the grocery store.
“I am,” Cas said. “I’ll be back.”
“Where’re you goin’?” Dean asked, slurping the words around his coffee.
“Needlepoint,” Cas admitted. He poured his coffee. He didn’t look at Dean.
“Oh,” Dean said. “Going through with it, then?”
“Yes,” Cas said. He braced himself.
“What’re you gettin’?” Dean asked. Cas released.
“A tattoo,” he said. He waited to hear Dean swallow. He heard the ceramic mug settle on the table.
“Gotta say, man, it’s hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic when I can’t see your face. Are...are you joking? Or...not telling?”
Cas turned to face Dean. Dean looked pale. The chili he made didn’t do enough to bring him back. He’d looked so beautiful the night before, layering his bowl with spaghetti and cheese. Cincinnati-style , he called it. The secret ingredient was a dash of chocolate. He was so warm, moving through the kitchen, prodding Cas to try it, try it, before making up a plain bowl. Cas wanted to suck the spices from his fingers. He wanted Dean to twirl spaghetti around his tongue.
“Not telling,” he said. He turned back, quickly. He grabbed two of the bagels they’d bought, tossing them into the toaster. He peeled back the lid of a cream cheese tub. Honey-walnut, just as Jack suggested.
“Okay,” Dean said. He spoke slowly. “Is it...personal?”
“I suppose,” Cas said. He depressed the toaster lever. He took a breath. He felt lightheaded. He felt tired. “It is, to me.”
“Okay,” Dean said again. “Will I get to see it after?”
“You didn’t see the first,” Cas quipped. The toaster popped his bagels up. They singed his fingertips when he transferred them to a plate. Dean was quiet. The knife crackled over the toasted bagels when Cas smeared cream cheese onto them.
“Cas,” Dean said, when Cas marched over to the kitchen table.
“I don’t want to share this with you, Dean,” Cas said, quickly. “Please respect that.”
“Okay,” Dean said again. His voice stayed slow. It dimmed, though. But Cas was closer. Dean didn’t need to shout. Cas took a bite of his bagel. It was rich, too, like the macaroni. “What time do you think you’ll be back?” Dean asked. “I’m probably going to finish this --” he held up his book, “-- by three. We could go to the bookstore?”
“I’d like that,” Cas said, grateful for the change of topic. “I should be back by then. It’s somewhat small,” he admitted. Dean’s gaze hardened on him. There was a time when he could read the man’s mind. Now, it seemed Dean was trying to read his.
“Great,” Dean said. His voice didn’t match his vocabulary. “Hope it goes well,” he said. “You get a bad vibe, you get out of there. I don’t care how burly that Howard guy was. Hepatitis is a bitch.”
“Noted,” Cas said. Their eyes met for a moment. They smiled. Cas’ heart squeezed. He took another bite of his bagel. Dean watched him lick cream cheese from his finger. Cas tilted the plate toward him. “Would you like some?”
“Naw, Cas,” Dean said. “You eat. You need it.”
“You do, too,” Cas said.
“I’m not the one getting jabbed by needles today.” Dean winked. “Besides, I’m eyeing that box of Cookie Crunch.”
“Save some for Jack,” Cas said, biting into his second bagel. Dean rolled his eyes, standing and walking over to the pantry. He poured himself a big bowl, filled it with oat milk, and sliced bananas on top. He plunked it back down on the table, dropping back into his chair.
“I know you’re trying,” Cas said. Dean looked up at him, spoon dangling from his mouth. Cas hoped his tongue had gotten every last drop of milk.
“Hmm?” Dean hummed, digging his spoon back into his bowl.
“With Sam, with the oat milk,” Cas said. Dean scoffed. Cas kept speaking anyway. “He sees it, you know, when you shop. I appreciate it, too, though I think I’m partial to cashew milk.”
“You like rich things,” Dean said, quietly.
“I do,” Cas said. “I liked these,” he said, looking down at his empty plate. He’d tasted the first bagel, at least. “I know you’re trying with Jack, too,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” Dean mumbled.
“It’s everything to me,” Cas said. Dean stopped eating. Cas wished he could take back the words.
“It’s nothing,” Dean repeated, face flushing. He dug his spoon back into his bowl. Cas soldiered on.
“It’s not. I know -- I cannot understand what you did. To Jack. Nor can I understand what he did to you. I was...too absent. I became the distant father I resented, the father Jack didn’t deserve. I should have been there. I could’ve --” Cas’ throat dried up. His coffee did nothing to wet it. Dean grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it. Cas’ eyes flickered around the room.
“Hey, hey, Cas, Cas, come on, come back down, it’s just us, we’re here, we’re safe, you’re okay, I’m here, Cas, I’m here, come on back now, it’s alright, you’re alright, we’re okay,” Dean said, comforts falling from his lips like hail. Cas felt them bounce off his eardrums. They never seemed to reach his brain.
Dean squeezed his shoulder again. He had moved around the kitchen table, straddling the bench to sit across from Cas. His other hand moved up to Cas’ face, holding his cheek.
“I’m here, you’re here, it’s alright, come on now, you’re okay, you’re safe, I’m safe, we’re alright, you’re alright, hey, Cas, hey, yeah, just like that, come on, come with me, come on back, yeah, Cas, hey, yeah, hey, just like that,” Dean said, holding Cas’ gaze every time his eyes rolled past Dean’s. Cas could feel him squeezing his shoulder, kneading it under his palm.
“What just --” Cas said, jerking back into his body. His skin hummed, like a river ran right underneath it. His face tingled. His lungs burned.
“A panic attack, Cas,” Dean said. He furrowed his brow. “You don’t remember?”
“The panic? I just felt it, I feel it,” Cas said. Dean’s hands had pulled away from Cas when he jerked, but now one returned to his shoulder. It squeezed him once.
“Cas, this isn’t your first panic attack,” Dean said. “You had one two days ago.”
“I did?” Cas asked.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Big one.” He huffed another laugh. It was mostly air, no humor at all. “Actually, I’m not surprised your brain keeps you from accessing them. They’re pretty scary.”
“I’m sorry,” Cas said.
“I mean,” Dean said, rubbing his neck. “I spent some time in there. Spent as much as you, I might freak, too.” He cringed. At the memory of the Empty, Cas concluded.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Cas clarified.
“Just glad you got back quick,” Dean said. He moved back across from Cas, shoving a big spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
Dean had wished him luck again just before he left. It was a kind gesture, but unnecessary. Castiel felt at ease at Needlepoint. His skin hummed with anticipation, but his heart beat steadily.
“Hey, Castiel,” Howard said, venturing out of the back. “Right on time, that’s what I like to see.”
“I respect your business,” Cas said. “You can call me Cas.”
“I respect the nickname,” Howard joked. “You can come on back with me, I’ve got a station going for you.” He led Cas into the back, where one of the tattoo stations was already half-prepped. Cas sat down on the chair, leaning into the padding. Howard sat on a stool beside him, unlocking an iPad.
“Gotta say,” Howard said, clicking through some files. “You’ve got some big ideas for your body. Starting from scratch?”
“In a way,” Cas said. “I’ve gotten tattooed before.”
“Yeah?” Howard said. “Something I can see? I don’t mean to pry, I just like to see how ink heals on someone’s skin before I add more.”
Cas nodded. He peeled his flannel off, then lifted the hem of his tee shirt. Howard gave his ribs a once-over, then turned back to the iPad.
“It give you any problems?” He asked.
“No,” Cas said.
“Then I think we’re good to go. Here, take a look,” Howard said, flipping the iPad to face Cas.
Cas smiled at the design. He and Howard had emailed a few times the night before, hashing out how they would begin Cas’ inking. They’d agreed to start with some of the smaller pieces, to let Cas get accustomed to healing tattoos again, and to give him time to further consider the larger pieces. These were Howard’s concerns.
“It looks perfect,” Cas said. “Exactly as I described.”
“Alright,” Howard said. “I’m going to print your stencil. I need your elbow up on this here pad,” he swung an armrest up from the side of the chair, “Pinky facing me. Then you know the drill: shave, sterilize, stencil, final checks, and then ink.”
“I’m familiar,” Cas said. He smiled at Howard. Howard smiled back.
“Maybe you’ll even give me the story behind this little razor,” Howard said.
“Maybe,” Cas echoed. He didn’t. Howard shaved the size of his arm, placed the stencil, and dipped the needle into the inkpot. He traced the rigid lines, the three-pointed tip, the slim hilt. He shaded the sides, giving the blade depth. Cas told him about Jack’s courses at the day school. He told him about the garden they started. He told him about his dream to raise bees.
“What about that guy?” Howard asked once, wiping excess ink from the blade’s edge. “He part of the bee plan?”
“I hope,” Cas said. He didn’t say more. Howard didn’t press.
Four hours later, three hundred dollars poorer, Castiel walked out of Needlepoint. Saniderm clung to the edge of his forearm. His flannel shielded it from the sun. He unlocked his car, sliding in behind the driver’s seat. He undid the button at the flannel’s cuff, hiking the fabric up to his elbow. He bent his arm, looking at the tattoo. It was a near-perfect replica, save for the center line, which zigged and zagged, up and down.
Once, it was the only thing that could kill him. Now, he was vulnerable to all sorts of maladies and injuries: tuberculosis, sepsis, malnutrition, heartbreak. But he was alive. He was with his son, who grew into a great man with each passing day. He was with his friends, who reaped love from fields of tragedy. He was with Dean, whom he would heal, someway.
Dean tried to heal him; that much was true. He’d been forced into a doctor’s appointment sometime in the days after his rescue, getting a full panel. He’d come back healthy, from a physiological standpoint. The doctor said the nightmares would lessen the further he got from his ‘accident’. They had promised the sleepwalking and the dissociative hazes would lessen when the nightmares stopped. They promised the lapses in memory would lessen when the hazes stopped. Castiel hadn’t been on-time for his tattoo appointment because he’d woken up early; he hadn’t slept through the night. Sleeplessness, too, could kill him now. He would heal. He had to heal. He had to heal Dean.
He carved his heartbeat down the center of his blade. He would not die in a flash of light and a scorch of wings. He would die with a whimper, a sigh, the slowing beat of a tired drum. The blade didn’t scare him. He scared himself enough.