Roadhouse Ink, Part One

[epicycles]

Masterpost | Part Two

~~~~~~~~~

Dean has always been an eye-catching guy.

People look at him. It used to be because he was being deliberately charming. Or sometimes it was because of the car, or the Fed suit, or his attitude. Or it was because he was covered in blood or ichor and even in an interstate 7-11 that attracts attention. It used to end with a trip to either a girl's apartment or a jail cell.

Now, of course, people look at him for an entirely different reason.

"Nice tats," the barista says, handing over his change. She's got dyed black hair, a nose ring and a labret.

She's also got a really lovely tattoo of an orchid on the side of her neck and Dean gives her his best smile. "You, too."

Three years ago she definitely wouldn't have been his type, but three years ago he didn't have full right and left sleeves -- tattoos flowing unbroken from his shoulders to his wrists -- plus a half-dozen other stray pieces of ink scattered here and there.

Three years ago he also didn’t walk with a limp from a busted knee, but he prefers the punk chicks over the pity fucks, thanks. The tattoos at least make people assume he screwed up his knee crashing a motorcycle, which is almost as badass as what really happened.

"Who does your art?" the barista asks, passing him his coffee with a napkin that almost definitely has her phone number written on it.

"The art’s all mine, my buddy Ash did most of the ink. Here," Dean fishes in a pocket and comes up with a business card. "Come by sometime, we’ll do something real special for you."

Roadhouse Ink, the card says. The logo is a flaming pentagram, the twin of the tattoo on Dean’s left upper chest.

That was his first. His second was for protection against witchcraft. His third was the Four Symbols off Led Zeppelin IV. He’s lost count since then, but he remembers what all of the mean. There’s one for his dad, one for his mom. The one for the Impala got his whole forearm, now that Sam’s the one who drives her on hunts. Sam drew the one for himself - it’s not Dean’s prettiest ink but he wouldn’t change one line of it. All the others Dean drew himself.

He’s gotten good at drawing, now that he doesn’t hunt anymore.

And he’s not on a hunt now, so why is he getting a terrible creeping feeling up the back of his neck? The feeling that used to mean "something horrible is about to leap out at you from the dark." But he’s not in the dark, he’s in a coffee shop, so what the fuck is going on?

He takes his coffee from the barista, too distracted for more than a cursory flirt, and moves to a spot close to a door with a good view of the café. It’s full of business people getting their caffeine fix and hipsters writing screenplays on their Macs. Everyone at least looks human and none of them are paying him any attention.

Except one of the businessmen - he looks rough, like he’s trying to drink enough coffee to make up for a week of missed sleep, and he’s staring at Dean with serious blue eyes. He looks away when Dean catches his eye. Probably just staring at Dean’s tattoos, but there’s something off about his eyes, like they’re just a little too blue and Dean’s still got that fucking creeping feeling.

He finishes his coffee too fast to really taste it and leaves. Business Guy doesn’t follow and neither does anyone else. When nothing else happens on his entire walk, he figures it’s just his mind playing tricks, making up dangers because he doesn’t see enough real ones. Going nutty from getting benched. It happens, and he shakes it off easily enough.

Still, he doesn't quite feel safe until he's pushed open the door to Roadhouse Ink with its ridiculous bell and crossed the Devil's Trap into the only hunter-owned-and-operated tattoo parlor in the country.

~~~~

Dean's always had a sneaking suspicion that Ellen is psychic.

Not full-blown, "I see dead people and they tell me not to eat the fish tacos" psychic, but the eyes in the back of her head, spookily accurate bullshit detector, kind of psychic. The kind Dean's always associated with mothers. And hunters, actually, which is just weird, now that he thinks about it.

Ellen's a mother and a hunter and she is downright eerie sometimes. Like right now. A girl just came in the door, a fucking knockout - dark hair, dark eyes, just Dean's type. She's wearing a tank top and Dean knows, he knows that she's here for a tramp stamp. She looks around the studio, eyes passing right over Ash and Pamela to land on Dean and she smiles this little sexy smile and Dean is so in. Before she can open her mouth he's imagining the feel of his hands on the small of her back as he draws out a tribal swirl and butterfly with the needle. His best "how-you-doin'" grin is just starting to spread on his face when, like the voice of a cruel and vengeful God who doesn't want Dean to ever get laid again, Ellen's voice comes booming from her office in the far back room.

"DEAN PATRICK WINCHESTER GET YOUR BUTT IN HERE."

Dean winces. The Knockout raises a mocking eyebrow and he's struck out. No use explaining that Ellen is not actually his mother no matter how much she may use his full name, or that Dean is totally justified in feeling intimidated because she's a terrifyingly good shot. He sends the Knockout a rueful smile that she ignores completely in favor of sliding silkily into Ash's chair. Great.

Ellen's generally willing to cut him a little slack but he can't dally forever so he pushes himself to his feet. His knee barely twinges; it's a good day today, so far. No cane, and he'll probably sleep without the painkillers. He still takes it slow on the walk back to the office, but only because he needs to be kind to his knee and not at all because he's afraid of what Ellen is going to do to him.

Ash gives him a solemn salute as he passes. "Vaya con dios, my friend."

"If I'm not back in ten minutes, send help," Dean answers. Ash totally would, too. He's the kind of guy who would fake a small fire to save Dean from a brutal ass-chewing. Dean might even forgive him for getting to tattoo the Knockout.

The long hallway that leads to Roadhouse Ink's back rooms is usually when Dean's knee starts to spontaneously give him trouble, but this time he gets about halfway down when he hears a familiar voice and he covers the rest of the distance in the closest thing he can manage to a sprint.

"Sammy!" Dean gets two paces into Ellen's office before he's enfolded in one of his brother's giant hugs. "You son of a bitch, why didn't you tell me you were back in town?"

Sam laughs and squeezes Dean again before loosening his grip enough to let Dean breathe. "A certain someone wanted to surprise you."

That same someone smacks Dean's arm painfully and then he's grabbed again in another bear hug, this one from much lower down. Jo may be tiny but she still manages to squeeze the stuffing out of him. "Dean!"

Dean wishes he could pick her up and twirl her but his knee isn't quite that good today (or ever), so he settles for trying to squeeze the stuffing out of her in return. "Jo! Have you been keeping my little brother out of trouble?"

"Sure, but it's tough sometimes. He never knows when to duck." Jo elbows Sam, who rubs the back of his head ruefully. Dean eyes him.

"You get whacked on the head again? Is that why you're back? Jesus, Sam, I keep telling you--"

"Dean, I know, it's not--"

"Boys." Ellen cuts in forcefully, before yet another round of Why Aren't You More Careful and Didn't You Learn From My Mistake (with a couple of side orders of Whose Fault Was That Anyway) can begin. "Happy reunion. Remember?"

She demonstrates by wrapping Jo up in a soft motherly hug, which Jo returns in full measure, then they both turn to Dean and Sam and make a "see how it's done?" gesture.

No way. Winchesters do one "glad you're back" hug per hunting trip. That's the rule. Dean and Sam avoid eye contact until Ellen gives up.

"Fine," she says. "Take Sam to say hello to the old coot while Joanna and I catch up."

"Yes ma'am!" Dean snaps a salute and limps out, Sam close behind.

Bobby -- the aforementioned old coot -- is also thrilled to see Sam, as are the other denizens of Roadhouse Ink. Sam gets a "Glad you're back, boy" and another hug from Bobby, a wave and an offer of beer from Ash, a kiss on the cheek and a slap on the ass from Pamela and round and round it goes. Of all the things Dean misses about hunting, it's pretty low on the list, but he still kind of wishes he could go away sometimes just to get the warm welcome home. Hunters know how to appreciate it when someone comes back.

Finally Dean manages to throw everyone out of the employee break room and lock the door. Sam sags into a chair and Dean gives him a look that's only half-sympathetic. "Dude, try living with them."

"I don't know how you manage it," Sam says, sighing as Dean slides in to the seat across from him.

"Yeah well I don't know how you manage hunting with Jo. I'd have permanent bruises." Dean looks at his arm critically where Jo smacked him earlier -- he can't see any bruises under all the ink, but he knows they're there.

Sam laughs. "She never hits me."

"I can fix that, I still have some stories she hasn't heard." Dean looks at him for real now, just the two of them. Checking Sam over with his eyes for bruises of his own, stitches, new scars, bags under his eyes. Sam looks good, this time. Not a walking corpse like last time or a human punching bag like the time before. "You okay? Really?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam rolls up his sleeve to display a band-aid halfway up his forearm. "That was the worst hit I took the whole time. The hit to the head was a pillow from a scared eight-year-old who thought I was the ghost, that's all."

Dean narrows his eyes. "You better not be bullshitting me."

"I'm not," Sam says with neutral honesty.

Two years ago, this would have been a fight. It would have been Dean twisted up in knots because he couldn't be out there watching Sam's back himself, it would have been Sam guilty about the reason Dean couldn't be there, it would have been Dean trying to keep some control from afar and Sam getting more and more frustrated and lying and pulling away, just like with Dad. But they've had this fight, they've had it a hundred times or more, and it's over. This is what they have now. Dean compresses all his mother-henning into one burst and Sam doesn't lie to him.

Dean gets up and hobbles to the fridge for a beer -- the welcome wagon took a lot out of his knee -- and Sam lets him. This is another fight they've had, over and over, and over again until they don't have to have it anymore. Sam doesn't help unless Dean asks, and Dean always asks if he needs it. They've got a system.

There are a lot of fights they don't need to have anymore, Dean thinks. He's not sure whether it's a good sign that they're learning to compromise, or whether it means they've drifted too far apart to find new things to fight about. Or whether they don't fight because Sam is always out hunting with Jo.

And Dean is always here.

But Sam's back, after too the fuck long, so Dean's going to get the full story while he can before Ellen drags him back to work. "So? Kill anything good?"

A chupacabra, apparently, among other things. That's one for Bobby's books. Dean's going to lose a couple of bets once word gets out.

"And I got one for you guys," Sam says, taking another swig of beer. "Local guy, from the next town over. Demon possession."

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. "Demons? Within twenty miles of here? Do they have a death wish?"

Sam fiddles with his beer bottle. "I think they've got something planned. They’re definitely getting bolder -- we’ve exorcised three in the last two months, and that’s just us. Ellen said hunters all over the country have been seeing more and more demons."

"Shit." Something big is probably going down. Something big is always going down, and it is never ever anything good. "What happened to the meatsuit next door?"

"Jo took care of it" -- Dean smirks at that and Sam rolls his eyes without pausing -- "but he was pretty freaked out. I gave him your card, told him to come here, I figured you guys could give him the works."

The works being a general rundown on the ghosts, ghouls, beasties and things that go bump in the night, along with some lovely ink to go with the lecture -- tattoos for protection against demon possession, against witchcraft, against everything that Bobby and Ash have been able to come up with. Dean has the full set. So does Sam, some of them put there by Dean himself. But Sam stopped there, keeping the clean-cut shiny exterior he needs in order to talk to witnesses and pretend to be a fed. Dean doesn't have to pretend anymore, so he never stopped.

"Great," Dean says, unenthused. He doesn't really like inking newbies. The ones who are here because they have to be, not because they want to be.

He really hates the ones who get here too late. "Never again" is a terrible thing to have to write on your skin.

He'd much rather be writing snippets of the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock on the inside of some co-ed's wrist, thank you very much.

Speaking of which, the Knockout is probably done by the time Ellen knocks on the break room door and tells Dean to get the fuck back to work. She's more polite to Sam, who declines her offer to stay and heads off to eat all Dean's food and steal his bed. Dean really needs to find a couch that will fit Sam's freakish height, if only so he doesn't get booted every time Sam wanders back into town.

Before Dean lets him escape to wreck Dean's apartment, he collars Sam to ask in a lowered voice, "Hey, not that I'm not happy you're here, but did you come back for a reason? You on a hunt?"

"What? No, we were here anyway for the demon, so we decided to stop by," Sam frowns, already starting to switch over into hunter mode. "Why? Did you see something?"

"No, but...keep an eye open, okay Sammy? I just got a weird feeling."

Sam nods. Dean may not hunt anymore, but his instincts still work and Sam knows it. "I will. You call me if you do see something, okay?"

Dean laughs and shoves Sam out the door. "I promise, I won't go chasing vampires down alleys by myself. Now beat it before Ellen chokes me with the power of her mind."

With Sam gone and no clients around, Dean's free to try his charm again. He heads over with the very fake intention of observing Ash's handiwork. Which is good, as always. Ash is always good with the detailed stuff. So detailed, in fact, that there's a tiny demon protection tattoo hidden in the intricate design of the butterfly's wings. There's one co-ed who won't be playing meatsuit any time soon.

This is a pretty demon-proof town, to tell the truth. Roadhouse Ink has a long wall of ready-made designs to choose from, and nearly every single one conceals a symbol of occult protection. Pretty much all the bikers, college kids, goths, punks and general iconoclasts of the town are off-limits to monsters. Any demons want to throw a party, no one will be there but grannies and corporate tax lawyers.

They'll probably have to move on, soon. Dean likes it here, he likes the coffee in particular, but one town that's immune to demons won't do much good in the long run, especially if Sam’s right and Hell is trying something topside. So they stay moving. Ellen Harvelle's Floating Tattoo Parlor, making demons homeless one town at a time.

Bobby will grumble but Ellen will set him right. It took a crowbar to get him out of that salvage yard and it's taken a bulldozer to get him out of every town since then, but Ellen's mystical scary powers extend to making her husband do whatever she wants, eventually. This place will be particularly hard though, since Roadhouse Ink has an upper floor of unused rooms that Bobby's been using as his Hunter HQ and ersatz library. As much as Bobby complains about idjits he's clearly gotten used to having everyone within easy reach.

And this town is starting to get a little creepy, anyway. Dean still feels on edge, something itching at the back of his mind. If demons are up to something, Roadhouse Ink is a pretty tempting target, so he’s all in favour of moving that target as far and as often as possible.

Dean must be getting tired because he's gotten so lost in thought he's forgotten to hit on the Knockout. She's already getting up, tugging her shirt back down (damn), thanking Ash and collecting her stuff. Dean's tired but he isn't dead, so he manages a charming smile and an appreciative glance as she walks past him to the door.

All it gets him is a cheeky little half smile, like she’s laughing at a joke only she gets. Dean finds it oddly familiar, and there’s a flash in her eye that he could swear he’s seen before. "Do I know you?"

She laughs and pats his cheek. "Nice try," she says, and Dean's definitely struck out. Oh well.

His cheek tingles oddly.

"Dean?" Ash asks. "You okay?"

"What? Fine. Hey, can you lock up for me? I'll cover for you next week, but I'm beat."

"And Sam's home. I know how it is, hombre. I will face the dragon for you."

Dean grabs his jacket and claps Ash on the shoulder as he makes for the door. "I owe you one, man."

Ash gives a little salute, and the stupid bell on the door rings again as Dean hits the street.

It's cold and dark, with a smell like rain in the air. Dean turns up the collar of his coat and heads for the bus stop. He gets halfway there when the tingle on his cheek starts spreading, numbing his face, his lips. Not good.

He turns as fast as he can manage, trying to race the numbing feeling to the door of Roadhouse Ink. If he can make it inside, there's wards and Devil's Traps and Ellen and Bobby ready to shoot whatever is causing this in the face, but the street spins around him. His knee locks up and he goes down.

He goes for his phone but it's a fucking touchscreen and it's just a blur. He doesn't need to see to get the gun he still keeps in the pocket of his jacket, but he barely touches metal before everything falls away into darkness.

~~~~

He wakes up in Roadhouse Ink.

Dean blinks.

For a few seconds, he thinks that it was a dream. That he fell asleep waiting on Ash and the Knockout, and everybody closed up and locked him in because they think it's funny, and he had a weird dream, that's all.

For a few seconds. Then he realizes it sounds wrong, it smells wrong, and the walls are the wrong shade of red.

Shit.

He fakes a yawn and casually reaches for his jacket, still lying on the back of his chair. He lifts it and immediately notices the weight of the gun is gone. Shit, shit shit.

"Okay," Dean says to the air. "You got me. Now who are you and what the hell do you want?"

"Dean," comes an oily, oddly familiar voice. "I'm impressed."

Dean turns his head and suddenly there's a man sitting, lounging on the counter, one knee up and his weight on his hands. He's oddly familiar, the same as his voice, then he tilts his head and smirks and Dean's got it.

The Trickster.

He groans. "You."

"Me," the Trickster's smirk turns into a grin. "Did you miss me?"

"Absolutely not." He needs to think about this for a second; precisely how fucked is he? The Trickster is obscenely powerful and dedicatedly capricious, so Dean could end up torn to pieces by vengeful pink butterflies at any moment. Then again, the Trickster seemed to like him last time they met -- at least he seemed unwilling to kill Dean outright, preferring to fuck around with chainsaw massacres and foxy boxers. But that was years ago, right before Dean fucked up his knee, and he's surprised the Trickster remembers him at all.

Though Dean did ram a giant wooden stake through his heart, so that probably stuck in his mind.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Dean asks.

"What, the stake? Please." The Trickster unwraps a lollipop and pops it in his mouth, ostentatiously dropping the wrapper on Roadhouse Ink's pristine floor. Dean grits his teeth and reminds himself this is just some kind of weird illusion. "Why'd you think that would work anyway?"

Dean frowns. "That's how to kill a trickster, right? Stake dipped in blood?"

That gets a surprised laugh. "What? You think I'm a Trickster?"

Huh. This is not going how Dean expected. "Yes?"

The probably-not-a-Trickster-so-now-Dean-doesn't-know-what-to-call-him tilts his head. "Why?"

"Well...you mess with people. You can manipulate reality. And all the candy bars, come on!"

"Stereotyping. Just because I like Milky Way’s and ironic vengeance you assume that I must be a Trickster." The not-Trickster pops out the lollipop and wags it at Dean. "I find that racist."

Dean physically cannot stop himself from rolling his eyes. "So what are you, if you're not a Trickster?"

Instead of giving Dean a real answer, or even a joke one, the not-Trickster just looks at him. Serious, for the first time since Dean met him. His strange brown-yellow eyes narrow, considering, and Dean feels uncomfortably exposed.

The thing's trying to work out if he can trust Dean, he realizes. Whatever he is, it's a secret -- telling Dean will tell him how to actually kill him. But despite that, he is thinking about telling Dean, so that means he must have a very good reason. And why is he even here, anyway? He obviously isn't here just to fuck with Dean, because showing himself this early would ruin the trick, and while this version of Roadhouse Ink is a creepy inaccurate copy it doesn't seem to be a dangerous one, so what trick is he even playing? Why come to Dean in the first place?

"Holy shit," Dean says, "you need my help."

"Are you kidding me? Why would I possibly need your help? Did you forget the whole manipulate-reality, powerful-beyond-your-wildest-dreams thing? What would I need your help with, gun shopping? Flannel fashion advice? How to suck at killing trickster gods?"

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"...fine. You're right. I need your help. Are you happy now, you dick?"

"Fucking thrilled, thanks." Dean leans back in his chair, in control of the situation at last and feeling smug about it. He lets it show on his face and it earns him a scowl. "What can I do for you? I'm guessing you're not here looking for some ink."

The Trickster makes a little finger gun and fires it at him. "Got it in one."

Dean boggles. "What? Really? You popped me into Bizarro World so you could get a tattoo? That's...nuts."

"Dean, Dean, Dean, you should know that nuts is nothing where I'm concerned."

He has about a million questions and objections running through his brain, but the one that makes it to his mouth is, "You don't look the type."

That gets him a laugh, but a surprisingly hard, bitter one. "You'd be surprised. Want to compare?"

With a feral grin, the Trickster hops down from the counter and strips off his green over-shirt. He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and Dean really does not like where this is going.

"Whoa, hey now--"

But the Trickster keeps stripping, pulling his shirt off to reveal a broadly muscled back. There's a dab of something dark at the base of his spine, disappearing below the line of his jeans. There are fine lines in and around it -- it's obviously a tattoo, but Dean can't see the design from here and he's not feeling any urge to get a closer look, no sir.

Then it moves.

Dean nearly leaps out of his seat as the dark shape suddenly expands, stretching black and dark blue tendrils across the Trickster's skin. The lines curl up over his back, his shoulders, along his arms, his hands, his fingers. They wrap around his chest and slide up his neck to twist over one cheek. The lines are delicate and strong by turns, almost like a full-body tribal-style tattoo except there's something different, something meaningful, in their not quite random paths. Dean's suddenly reminded of a book he saw once in Bobby's library on Arabic calligraphy, the swirling lines of words becoming art in themselves.

Dean can feel his mouth drop open.

"You're a djinn."

The Trickster-djinn nods. With the tattoos, it's like he's grown larger somehow, his presence expanding to fill the room. He looks older, more severe, more graceful and more dangerous than ever before. There's something powerful in the way he stands, something proud in the turn of his head. Dean's never really been as frightened of the Trickster as he probably should have been, but now all he wants to do is run.

His mouth, however, has never been attached to his brain. "Now I know to bring a silver knife next time."

The flash of anger in the djinn's face is thunderous and Dean suddenly realizes he may have just made his last mistake.

"Okay, you know what? Never mind. This was a bad idea in the first place. Sorry Dean, it's been fun, but I'm gonna have to take my business elsewhere."

The djinn raises his hand, fingers ready to snap Dean out of existence. Dean winces in anticipation but he only has time to wonder vaguely if Sam will ever find out happened to him when suddenly a voice breaks in.

"Gabriel. Stop."

And he stops.

Deans squints an eye open, enough to see the Trickster-djinn -- whose name is apparently Gabriel, which is a little anti-climactic -- lowering his hand. "I told you to wait, Cas."

"You also told me you wouldn't hurt anyone."

Gabriel throws his hands in the air. "I give up! I had a very carefully thought-out plan but clearly neither of you is going to cooperate."

He crosses his arms over his chest, which is probably meant to be intimidating or at least petulant but it looks so much like the image of a cartoon genie that Dean feels a little bubble of hilarity rise in his throat. Gabriel pins him with a glare before it can turn into a laugh and Dean coughs instead.

"Who's your friend, Gabe?" he says insouciantly, spinning his chair around.

There's another djinn standing behind him, where the hallway leading to Ellen's office should be. He's wearing a suit and tie and a tan trenchcoat, bizarrely, but there are lines of ink trailing up from his collar and down from his cuffs, showing he's more than just a tax accountant. He has dark hair and tired blue eyes, and something about him is oddly familiar.

"You," Dean says, eyes widening. "I saw you this morning. At the coffee shop."

"Yes."

"Djinns drink coffee?"

The djinn's lips quirk up. "On occasion."

"Hey. Back here, hot shot." Hands land on the back of Dean's chair and he's spun back around to face Gabriel. "I'm the one you should be worried about right now."

"I don't think you are," Dean says, putting it together in his head. Sam might have the brains in the family but even he never had instincts like Dean. "I think Columbo over there is the one you need me to help. He's what, a friend? Family? And you said you wanted ink, so I'm guessing there's something going on with those tattoos of his that you think I can fix. Am I close?"

Gabriel stiffens, then his shoulders slump. "You're a pain in the ass, Winchester, you know that?"

"I do my best."

Gabriel puts a hand on the armrest of Dean's chair, his face with its fierce tattoos only a few inches from Dean's. "You're right. That's Cas, my little brother. And I need you to fix him. And if you hurt him, if you even twitch the wrong way -- you can't even begin to imagine what I'm capable of. Now are you going to help us, or not?"

His eyes bore into Dean's. Dean can see so much in those yellow-brown eyes, probably more than Gabriel intends to show him. Anger. Determination. Fear. This really is Gabriel's brother, and he really does need Dean's help. That's the only thing that would bring Gabriel here, would make him lay out all his vulnerability in Dean's lap like this.

His little brother. Shit. When did monsters start having families?

Ah, what the hell.

"Okay. I'll do it."

Gabriel sighs, pulls back out of Dean's personal space. "Thank you."

Dean wants to snipe at him for that, but there's something about Gabriel's weary sincerity that he just can't bring himself to mock. Instead, he turns back to Cas. "So, Trenchcoat. What'll it be? Rose, skull, or barbed wire?"

Cas's eyebrows furrow. "I don't understand."

"He doesn't get out much," Gabriel says to Dean. "Show him, Cas."

Cas nods and starts loosening his tie. What is it with djinn and stripping? He's not objecting to the view, but hey, inappropriate much. The tie hits the floor, then the coat. Then Cas is unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it down, and his tattoos come into view. They're much like Gabriel's, flowing and intricate and full of some kind of meaning that Dean doesn't quite grasp. The lines aren't as dense, they don't cover him quite as completely, but they look brighter and newer like they haven't had time to truly settle into his skin.

Then Dean sees the blood. "Hey, hey, what's that?"

Cas looks down, like he's forgotten. There's a hole, a puncture, high on his side just below the curve of his ribcage. It looks like it was made by a knife. Blood trails down from it, staining the waistband of his dress pants, old and dried and black.

Dean stands and takes a step without thinking about it, stumbles when his knee locks. Then Gabriel puts a hand on his shoulder and forces him back into his chair over Dean’s protests. "No, hey, you need to let me see him, he needs medical attention, you should have taken him to a doctor, not a tattoo artist--"

"Wait," Gabriel commands.

Dean makes another half-hearted attempt to get up but Gabriel's grip is like iron. And Cas doesn't actually look too put out by the stab wound. He’s slouched over but it looks more like exhaustion than pain, and he isn’t favoring his side at all. Dean sits back. "Okay."

"Turn around," Gabriel says to Cas.

Cas drops his shirt to the floor and turns his back, and Dean sees the problem.

It's like a blackboard covered in chalk and someone's wiped a wet rag straight across it. The tattoos curl around his sides to his back, like Gabriel's, but there's a huge gap, a blank space, just missing. It's not natural, it's not part of the design. It's been erased.

Dean tries to get up again and this time Gabriel lets him. He limps over to Cas, who waits patiently as Dean touches a finger to the ink, to the edges where the ink stops. He can't feel a difference but Cas shudders like it hurts and he snatches his hand back. "What happened?"

"That," Gabriel says, voice dark with anger, "is from one of you fucking hunters."

"Silver knife dipped in lamb's blood," Cas says.

"They got you good, huh? But what about the tattoos, what caused that?"

"The knife. The wound itself isn't important, the loss of the markings is the real injury."

"Fixing the hole won't do anything," Gabriel says. "Fix the tattoos, the hole will close on its own."

"So the tattoos, they're what? Some kind of health bar, like in a video game?" Dean asks.

"More like a reflection of inner strength, a reflection which goes both ways. A drawing on the surface of a mirror," Cas answers.

"What?"

"It's--"

"Magic," Gabriel interrupts. "It's magic. All you need to know is what you need to do."

"And what I need to do is to fill in these gaps? So that's why you made this fake Roadhouse Ink, you need me to have access to my equipment." Dean traces a finger along one of the lines, carefully not to touch the empty areas that might hurt. "I hope you have a design for me to follow."

Gabriel nods. "I'll draw it out for you."

Dean stands back and thinks. If hunters did this, it's possible that he's helping the enemy here -- Gabriel's not exactly an angel, and he has no idea whether Cas is as bloodthirsty as his older brother. And they did kidnap him, like a doctor in a mob movie. But Cas doesn't look bloodthirsty; in fact he looks tired and a little sad. And Gabriel is a live wire of energy, worry and hope, and he's risking his own life and his brother's by telling Dean all this. Dean's pretty sure this isn't a trick, but this is the Trickster so what the fuck does he know?

It’s not like he really has much of a choice. Gabriel won’t let him go unless he fixes Cas, and anyway Dean’s not a complete asshole.

In the end, there's only one thing he can do.

"All right. Let's get started."

~~~~~

Really, it isn't that different from any other tattoo. It's still a needle and ink, even if the ink has some weird blue stuff mixed into it and the needle is consecrated silver. There's a bit more ritual around it than Dean usually has to deal with -- Gabriel whispering words in what sounds like Arabic, hands glowing blue over the ink and Cas's back -- but he's been doing occult protection tattoos for years now. This isn't the weirdest thing he's done, not by a long shot.

Once all the fancy stuff is done it's business as usual. There’s a bit of a song and dance about how to do this - Gabriel refuses outright to let Cas lie down, like he thinks all the other hunters will suddenly drop from the ceiling once his guard is down, so Cas ends up awkwardly sitting backwards in a chair while Dean tries to balance on a backless stool pushed as close in as possible.

At first Gabriel (who thankfully put his shirt back on) hovers without seeming like he's hovering, watching Dean's hands like the needle gun is going to change into a real gun at any moment. Eventually Cas tells him to sit the hell down (in slightly more polite terms) and Dean can finally relax, settling into a familiar rhythm.

Cas seems to relax as well, the tension in his shoulders loosening as Dean starts to fill in the missing pattern. He doesn't seem bothered by the pain -- and seriously, some of this has to really fucking hurt -- and lies quietly, staring off at something in the distance. Once Gabriel shuts up it's rather peaceful.

Which Dean can't stand. Sam calls him a frustrated hairdresser but Dean's always been a big talker and he likes the way people get chatty while they're getting inked. Faced with Cas's impenetrable silence and the growing mountain of questions -- starting with "why do djinn need human tattoo artists" and going through "was the Knockout just you in drag? Please say no" and ending up at "where the fuck are we anyway" -- Dean only lasts a few more lines before he cracks.

"So," he opens in a conversational tone. "You two haven't been killing people lately, have you?"

Sometimes even Dean is surprised by his own stupidity. Luckily Gabriel seems surprised by it as well, staring at Dean in open-mouthed disbelief. Cas sighs under Dean in a way that makes Dean think he's laughing.

"No, we haven't," Cas answers, amusement clear in his voice.

"Cas won't let me," Gabriel says and wow, he's actually pouting.

Dean laughs. "Little brothers, am I right? Did he pull the puppy dog eyes?"

Gabriel gestures emphatically at Cas's face. "Look at him! It's like Kryptonite."

Cas shoots Gabriel a reproachful look, and yeah, Dean can see what he's talking about. It's like the world's saddest basset hound is judging you.

"So you knocked off the tricks?"

Gabriel looks shifty. "I wouldn't say that..."

"He's still allowed to play tricks, they just cannot end with permanent bodily or psychological harm, excessive property damage, or the involvement of innocent civilians who do not reach sufficient levels of 'douchebaggery'." Cas sounds like he's reciting a carefully negotiated contract, which he probably is.

"It's awful," Gabriel whines. "Sometimes they even laugh."

"It's a crying shame," Dean says dryly. "So neither of you have been doing any snacking off the human side of the buffet?"

"Eating people?" Cas sounds affronted. "I don't eat people, I eat hamburgers."

"He only eats hamburgers," Gabriel confides to Dean.

"Why would I eat people?"

"Well..." Dean tries to think of a tactful way to bring up the whole living-in-caves-kidnapping-people-and-draining-them-of-some-gross-fluid-or-something aspect of djinn culture. "Don't djinn usually..."

He waves a hand, feeling awkward and kind of like he's asking one of those stupid questions Cassie used to yell at him for, a million lifetimes ago.

Gabriel catches on first. "What, like an Ifrit? Are you kidding me?"

"They're practically animals," Cas growls.

"That's like me asking you if humans fling poop at each other like chimps."

"Okay, sorry!" Dean holds up his hands. "No offense meant."

"We're Marid, about a hundred times smarter and a thousand times stronger. We're more like angels, really, except we have our own minds and we aren't pompous dickbags."

Angels aren't real, Dean wants to say, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't like Gabriel's answer so instead he says, "Are you sure about that?" which gets a frown from Gabriel and a snort from Cas.

He goes back to his work, prodding Cas to turn up on his side a little. "Okay, so you don't eat people and the Trickster's had his style seriously cramped. Why did hunters take a chunk out of Cas here then?"

"Like hunters need a reason," Gabriel says darkly.

"I don't have as much control over my power as Gabriel does," Cas says in an undertone. "I must have been recognized as a djinn."

"And they nearly killed him for it." Gabriel shoves himself to his feet and paces the floor. "If Cas hadn't called for me in time --"

"Who was it?" Dean demands. "Somebody I know?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't know their name. A man with a beard, very tall and very thin. I only saw him for a moment before Gabriel pulled me away."

"You see him again, you tell me. Or any of the hunters at the Roadhouse. We don't put up with that shit around here." Dean ignores the brief stab of guilt that one day, not that long ago, he would have done the same. But time and Sam taught him better. He may not like monsters, he may not trust them, but they don't deserve to die unless they're killing people. Gabriel might have earned a silver knife in his ribs but Cas probably hadn't.

Gabriel looks skeptical but Cas sounds sincere when he says, "Thank you."

"Sure. Though kidnapping me probably isn't going to endear you to anyone around here. Sam's probably going to burst in, guns blazing, any minute."

Gabriel shrugs. "Couldn't be helped. We needed an artist who knew about djinn. It's not a very long list."

"And you picked me? I'm flattered." Dean holds his breath as he inks another line, this one as fine as a strand of hair. "Still, kidnapping."

"We can't exactly walk into a tattoo parlor full of hunters and ask for a freebie."

"You could have tried. We might have listened."

Gabriel lifts a dubious eyebrow.

"I said 'might'," Dean says, to be stubborn. "I guess I should be grateful you didn't just mind-whammy some poor schmuck into being your tattoo slave."

"Thank Cas for that. He's an idealistic little shit."

"He's definitely a good influence on you, I can tell." He can see Cas's smug smile even at this awkward angle. Dean's more than halfway done now, the design is starting to come together. It almost looks like it's stretching out, trying to fill in the gaps of its own accord, but Dean's pretty sure that's just his mind playing tricks. "Why not fix Cas yourself then?"

Gabriel sits down again in a huff. "Can't."

"Can't?"

"Djinn aren't all-powerful. Even me. And one thing we can't do is heal ourselves or each other."

"That seems...kind of cruel, actually." It really does. Gabriel's definitely one of the most powerful creatures Dean's ever encountered, but he can't save his own little brother from dying. All he can do is watch, or beg for help from someone like Dean who has every reason to throw it back in his face.

Gabriel shrugs. "God gave us a weakness for a reason. If we could heal ourselves it would defeat the purpose."

"What purpose, death? Fuck that."

"You're mortal yourself Dean, or did you forget?"

"Yeah, but at least we have doctors. What do you have, me? You guys are screwed."

Gabriel must take that the wrong way because he springs up again, coming back to hover over Dean's shoulder to check his handiwork. Dean sits back and allows it, watching as Gabriel runs a careful hand over the freshly inked lines. It's not exactly sanitary but Dean's guessing hepatitis isn't really a concern here. And Cas seems to appreciate it, or at least the tattoos do, judging by the way they swirl under Gabriel's touch before settling into their proper places.

"You're saving a life here, Dean. Don't sell yourself short," Gabriel says, stepping back.

Saving a life. Dean's tried to think of it that way, after he got benched by his knee. That every tattoo he did with a hidden protective symbol was one person saved, one person who wasn't going to end up cursed or a meatsuit for a demon. But it never really felt that way. Especially not when Sam and Jo would come home, telling their stories. Dean loves Sam, loves Jo too, and he's tried hard not to be bitter, but Dean misses it.

This isn't the same thing, not by a long shot, but it still feels surprisingly good.

Now if only Cas and Gabriel weren't monsters, it'd feel even better.

They settle into silence again, Dean working, Cas resting his head against his folded arms, Gabriel conjuring up a yo-yo to futz with. Dean takes that as a good sign, that he's no longer in danger of Gabriel finger-snapping him into ashes if he blinks wrong.

It doesn't take much longer to finish. The tattoo is definitely adding to itself, the ink stretching away from his needle as he moves it until it's almost more like painting, each stroke leaving a long line of color.

The last few lines stretch across Cas's back of their own accord, joining and sinking in, and Cas takes a deep breath and sighs it out. There's a tingle against Dean's skin like the one he felt before, but it passes in an instant.

Cas sits up and stretches. The stab wound is gone as if it was never there.

"Cool," Dean says, smiling despite himself.

Cas holds out a hand, blue ink trailing up each finger.

"Thank you, Dean Winchester," he says solemnly.

Dean takes his hand with only a moment of hesitation. "No problem."

He grins. "That'll be 200 bucks, by the way."

Cas doesn't take it as the joke Dean means. Instead he turns and gives Gabriel a pointed look.

"What?" Gabriel asks belligerently. Cas just keeps looking, and Dean can see why exactly the Trickster was forced to retire in the face of those sincere, insistent eyes. "Okay, fine."

Gabriel stands up, posture straight, and the tattoos again trace up out of the collar of his shirt. "Dean Winchester, in payment for your services, I am prepared to grant you a boon."

"I don't really need--" Dean tries to cut him off, because he's pretty sure he won't like whatever Gabriel thinks is appropriate payment.

"I will grant you one wish. Choose carefully."

At his words there's a rush of wind, hot and dry, that wraps around Dean and Gabriel in turn before dispersing into a gentle breath of air. The tattoos on Gabriel's face seem to shift slightly.

Dean gapes.

So of course that's the moment Sam and Jo choose to burst in the door, yelling for Dean.

With a snap of Gabriel's fingers, the fake Roadhouse Ink disappears. Dean, his equipment and his chair are thankfully real, but the not-quite-right walls fade into the dirt and grime of an empty warehouse.

Gabriel and Cas are gone.

"Dean!" Sam grabs him, feeling him over roughly for injuries. "Are you okay? What's going on?"

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean says. "Everything's fine."

One wish, the wind whispers in his ear. Choose carefully.

~~~~

Masterpost | Part Two