Excalibur Tattoo Parlor, 2001

"So, have you ever gotten a tattoo before?"

Dean opened his eyes, looking down at the focused artist. "Uh no, no." He was tense, his jaw set and gripping the arms of the chair. The artist was calm, and the woman at the front desk was cracking her gum, seeming to not have a care in the world.

"I can tell you know. I mean dude look at yourself. You look like you're about to explode," he said with a slight laugh. "I haven't even finished the design yet. You still have time to back out."

A laugh left Dean, sharp as a dagger. The idea of backing out of something so minor compared to the pain he faced on a daily basis was a joke. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Then why the nervousness, I'm a nice enough guy," the artist said, raising his eyebrows. "Is it the needles?"

"No, nothing stupid like that," Dean said and frowned, shaking his head. It was the fact that it was permanent, and it was something that was undeniably him. 11.8.83. To most they were meaningless numbers, but to him they were his call to work, to hunt.

"So Dean, I made a couple designs. I mean you did just give me numbers which is weird," the artist said and looked at Dean. Everything about this was a bit weird to him. It wasn't everyday that people walked in without an appointment and asked for a tattoo that was just a series of numbers. He was used to tattooing dates of course, birthdays, births, deaths, and weddings were all common, yet the last tended to get covered up soon after it was made. However he wasn't used to being glared at so aggressively simply for asking what the date meant. Most were happy to share, but from what he could tell so far the man sitting in the chair in front of him was anything but the average person. It was with some hesitance that he slid his designs over.

The first was gothic lettering, fairly common in tattoos. The second was a swirling lettering, a more feminine choice but then again the artist knew nothing of Dean. the last was unique, looking like it had been crudely carved into wood with a knife.

"That one," Dean said with little hesitation, jabbing his finger at the third design.

"Okay, and where are we gonna put this beauty?"

"My leg, right here," Dean said, setting his hand on the outer side of his left calf. "How much am I going to owe you for this uh…"

The artist raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? I told you my name when you came in."

"Yeah, of course! Just one more time?"

The artist rolled his eyes, not going to put on a show of faux politeness for a man who had barged in and not even bothered to remember his name. "Oliver, my name is Oliver."

Dean nodded and rolled up his pant leg, then leaned back in the chair, setting his jaw. His eyes were closed again, and Oliver couldn't help but roll his.

"Jesus man you're more dramatic than the teenagers who come in here. Just talk to me or something, all right?"

"Sure, sure." A long pause. "The music in here is shit."

Oliver looked up and raised his eyebrows, not responding for a moment. It was classical music, Bach if he was hearing correctly, and certainly not "shit." He didn't expect everyone to share his music taste, but certainly not to openly bash it. "Yeah? What sort of stuff do you like then?"

"Good music for one. Classic rock you know?"

"Yeah? What bands?"

"Led Zeppelin is probably my-"

"I haven't heard a single one of their songs in my life," Oliver interrupted, looking up at Dean and giving him a smirk that was almost proud.

"What?"

"Yeah, I don't really like rock. I mean who the hell do you think picks out the music in here?" Oliver asked with a laugh, gesturing around them with one hand.

Dean went silent again, and Oliver simply focused on his work. Maybe a more average approach was needed. "So, got a girlfriend?"

"Hm? No," Dean said and looked down at Oliver.

"Boyfriend then?"

"No! I'm not… not that it's wrong I'm just… not. It's okay if you are, obviously. Are you going to get started soon?"

Oliver laughed softly, smiling a little. It was a typical reaction, and one he was used to at this point. "I did, right when I told you that I've never heard a Zeppelin song. I figured the shock would distract you. I am by the way, gay. You seemed to wanted to make sure I know how okay that is."

Dean shifted slightly, clearing his throat. "Well yeah, you know. It just isn't for me."

Oliver nodded, humming a bit as he worked. "So Dean, what are you in town for? Not that I know everyone in town, but you're in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey. You seem like a somebody."

"I'm FBI, can't talk about what I'm doing," Dean responded, a prepared lie. After all his line of work required that.

"Really? So I've got a cute young FBI agent with me," Oliver teased, smirking. "Not every day."

"Hey listen, I already told you-"

"I know, but hey, it's an observation," Oliver said. "Would you rather I call you ugly?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Guess not…"

"Any siblings?" Oliver asked as he worked, figuring a topic change might help Dean ease up. It seemed to have the opposite effect.

"Just one, Sam. I don't talk to him though."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't my choice. What about you?"

Oliver shrugged. "There's my little sister Jade, she has to be… I think she's fifteen now. Still a kid. It's been awhile since I've seen her."

"Why's that?"

"Not my choice either."

There was nothing said until the tattoo was finished, and then it was simply Oliver explaining how to care for it. The last thing he wanted was for the tattoo to end up a mess.

"So Mister FBI agent, you got any plans for the rest of the night?" Oliver asked, standing and rubbing his hands on his pants.

"No, your town sucks," Dean replied, pulling on his leather jacket and looking at Oliver.

"Why don't we grab some drinks? It's late and I know some places that don't suck."

"They aren't like… you know…"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "I don't think I would take the most aggressively straight man I have ever met in my life even if I was being paid to. Anyway this is a shitty town, we don't even have a gay bar," Oliver said and walked out the door, gesturing for Dean to follow. "Bye Janice!" He waved at the woman at the front who didn't glance up, and shut the door.

Oliver took a moment, just looking at Dean. He was taller and more muscular than Oliver, and even if he said he was straight Oliver couldn't deny the fact that he was a looker. Soft looking lip, amazing eyes, who wouldn't find that attractive? "So, drinking?"

Dean hesitated. It wasn't his style to go out with a stranger. Generally he just went alone, found whoever was willing for the night, then went on his way. Oliver was someone he barely knew, hell barely got along with, and he was actually considering it. "Why not," he eventually grunted out, figuring it was better than spending the night shoving quarters into the magic fingers at the motel waiting for Dad to get back.

Oliver beamed. "Let's go then."

The one trait that Dean and Oliver seemed to share was a love of alcohol. Dean was drinking a beer while Oliver did a shot of something pink and oddly fruity smelling. "Man you are really playing into some sort of stereotype," Dean said, tilting the bottle up and taking another drink.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver said, pulling an exaggerated offended face, that made him look more like a pouting toddler than anything.

"You are doing shots of the girlies drink I have ever seen, and I'm pretty sure you're wearing eyeliner."

"Okay, first these are fucking delicious, unlike that nasty shit, and second I'm totally wearing eyeliner, I look fucking fantastic," Oliver retorted. He stared at Dean for a moment. "You look fantastic too."

"Again, not gay," Dean said and shook his head at the artist.

Oliver reached over and ran his thumb over Dean's lips, smirking a little. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was because Dean was the first guy he had seen in months who wasn't a total jackass, but he wasn't going to pass this up if there was even the slightest chance. "Not even a little?" he slurred out, raising an eyebrow.

Dean froze, stiffening at Oliver's touch. He opened his mouth to say anything but before he could Oliver spoke again.

"I mean it's not like I know you. All you are is Mister FBI, and I'm pretty sure if I call and ask for the cute agent it'll take awhile…" Oliver let out a little hum, realizing maybe he was more heavily intoxicated than originally planned. "If not feel free to slap me man."

It wasn't like Dean hadn't been curious. He could say with full certainty that he wasn't gay, there were plenty of chicks he liked, but it was getting harder and harder for him to say he was straight. He grabbed Oliver by the wrist and pulled him outside, pinning him to a wall. "Like you said, no consequences."

"Well less that and more-" Oliver never had the chance to finish the thought before he was caught up in those damn lips Dean had. Just a few hours before he was thinking what a pity it was that he wouldn't ever get to experience them and now he was getting lost in them outside a shitty bar in a shitty town. His hands moved from his sides to delicately touching Dean's hips, past the jacket, flannel, and shirt for a band that sounded decidedly fake to Oliver and just brushing his fingers against his skin.

In a moment they broke away, breathing heavily. "My place isn't far from here we could-"

"Sounds good," Dean replied, clearing his throat and looking around quickly to make sure no one had seen the spontaneous and very public kiss.

"Oh sugar don't worry, we both know you'll be gone tomorrow," Oliver said and cupped his cheek, giving Dean a bittersweet smile.

Oliver woke up in his bed the next day alone. His head was pounding, it was nearly noon, and if it weren't for the fact he felt amazing despite this he would be convinced that last night hadn't happened. It wouldn't… couldn't happen again. Dean was gone, yet Oliver was left with a nagging, almost painful feeling that he hadn't seen the last of Dean.