Dean slammed the hood of an old Chevy Corsica and wiped what grease he could off his hands. The stupid car had given him shit for hours, leaking fluid and oil all over, and not to mention the "creative rigging" the owner had done to the radiator hose. At least he was finally done and he could go home for the day. God, he needed a shower and a beer.
At his locker, he pulled off the jumpsuit and shoved it into the bin marked "Heavily Soiled." He was grateful Bobby had offered to hire someone specifically for laundry duty; it saved him quite a bit of money. He didn't need a new one every two weeks anymore.
As he pulled his t-shirt back on, a swirl of purple caught his eye and he grinned. His mystery soulmate had gotten better over the years, going from stick figures to complex abstract patterns in no time. Dean remembered sitting in English Lit in high school, watching his arm under his desk as flowers and bees and glittery stripes patterned their way up to his elbow. He understood more about his soulmate through their art than anything he could ever learn in school.
He watched for a few more seconds, then shook his head and continued home.
Later that evening, he'd invited his brother over for dinner. As they sat at the table and talked, Sam grew somber and looked over at Dean. Uh oh. Puppy eyes.
"How come you won't find out who they are, Dean? You wouldn't be alone anymore."
Dean leaned back in his chair, cradling his third beer. This was an argument they'd had countless times. "Because, Sammy, I'm happy right now. I've got a job I love, a good boss, my own place...I don't want a nagging stranger hanging over my shoulder all the time. I like having my freedom."
Despite the defeated look in his little brother's eyes, Dean knew he understood. After he'd graduated, he'd gotten into it with his dad and left Sammy and his mom behind to live on his own. That was almost ten years ago.
"Would you at least try communicating with them? You don't have to meet. At least your soulmate shows you they're there." Sam hung his head, pushing the remainder of his spaghetti around with his fork. He'd confided in Dean one day, telling him he'd never seen anything show up on his skin before. On his eighteenth birthday, he'd called Dean and frantically shouted that he'd gotten one, even if it was just a hastily scrabbled "4:00pm" on his palm, but he hadn't had another one since.
Dean sighed. "Alright. I'll try, okay? But maybe you should, too. Maybe your soulmate is blind."
At that, his brother finally laughed, throwing a chunk of garlic bread at his face.
As he lay in bed that night, he watched the purple swirls and black trees fade away as his soulmate washed them off. Suddenly, Sam's words came back to him and he had an idea. Jumping up to grab a pen, he sat on the edge of the mattress and waited. After a couple minutes, he shuddered a breath and began to write on the back of his hand.
Hi.
He glanced at his watch and counted the minutes. Just when he thought maybe he wasn't going to get a reply, he felt the familiar itch of a pen on his skin.
Hello, there.