A/N: I assume this story/event is something that's going to be fic'ed a hundred times. I can only hope that there is some uniqueness to my take on it. Thanks for reading, and please enjoy!
All that Dean can hear at the moment is the sound of the tattoo gun. The steady hum of the needle as it sinks through Cas' flesh, branding him with the symbol that's basically required if one hopes to survive as a hunter. An anti-possession tattoo- the only thing standing between a human being and a gut full of gnarly black smoke.
Cas is laid out on his front in the chair, arms folded under his cheek. When they'd talked about where he was gonna have the tattoo placed, both brothers immediately nixed the idea of putting it under his left clavicle. That was sort of a Winchester thing, they both reasoned. Sort of their thing.
There hadn't been much argument from the former angel, anyway. He didn't really want to have it in a spot where he'd be able to see it in a mirror. There were enough reminders for him on a daily basis of the fact that he was a fallen angel- that he was human, thanks very much. The thought of having what looked like a fire-ringed pentacle staring back at him every time he got out of the shower didn't exactly fill him with joy.
After surprisingly little deliberation on the matter, he'd chosen to have the ink sewn onto his back, in just about the spot where his right kidney would be. Dean and Sam had both asked him if he was sure, had reminded him that it was permanent, and so hey, maybe he wanted to take more than four minutes to decide. His answer had been to stare at them, grab his coat, and walk out to the Impala.
Two hours later, Dean is so focused on watching the design get etched into his comrade's skin, ears drowning in the low buzzing noise, that he almost misses the quiet sniffle. It's only because the artist stops to let the shudder roll through Cas' body—not wanting the movement to ruin her work –that Dean looks up.
And… what he sees surprises him.
"Cas," he prompts, frowning, and the smirk is audible in his voice. "Are you- are you actually crying right now?"
Except it's obvious that he is- or nearly is. Eyes shimmering with the gossamer sheen of fluid that coats them, lips flattened into a thin line, jaw clenched so tight that Dean wonders if the man might need a mouth-guard.
"Dude," the artist- Gloria –mutters, and Dean glances at her. She's shaking her head at him, wearing an expression that is anything but impressed by his teasing.
Huffing out a sharp breath, Cas glares at him after a pointed roll of his eyes. "It hurts, Dean."
The way he says it, Dean is pretty sure that the words, 'you fucking idiot' would be tacked on at the end there if he were the swearing type. There's no whining in it, no self-pity or annoyance at being ridiculed. Instead it's an agitated statement of fact. Each syllable bitten off at its edges.
Which is when Dean realises that…
Oh.
…Right.
Pain.
Pain is something that Castiel is still getting used to. Jimmy's body and his nerves remember what it means to be injured, of course— to be scratched, cut, burned –but they've been out of use for a half-decade now. Lulled into a long, quiet hibernation, then punched awake with the force and speed of an asteroid strike. For Cas, every touch must be equivalent to breaking into someone's bedroom armed with an air-horn and a flamethrower, both going at full-blast. So, having an ink-tipped needle piercing his flesh again and again and again…?
Yeah.
Well. Dean's sort of a dick sometimes.
Snapping his jaw shut, the hunter sits up and levels his gaze with Castiel's. "Hey," he says, voice low and neutral. Reaching up, his fingers skim across Cas' palm as he takes the other man's hand.
Cas looks at where they're now joined, and then back up to Dean, the question clear in his eyes.
"Just." He jerks his chin at their hands. "Squeeze. When it hurts. This is one of the things you do," he instructs in lieu of an actual apology, tightening his hold a little in demonstration. At the same time, he ignores the confused look that Gloria is giving him. Probably wondering why the hell he's explaining the whole hand-holding-through-pain concept to another adult. This is supposed to be one of those things that people just know, after all.
"It's okay, man," he continues, reaching over for the stool he'd been sitting on a moment ago and repositioning it in his new spot, a little closer to Cas' head. "Hang in there. She's more than halfway through now. And, check it out." With his free hand, he digs into his jacket pocket, and brings up the text he'd sent to Sammy about fifteen minutes ago. "When you're done, there's a bacon-cheeseburger waiting for you back home."
Cas doesn't seem overly moved by this declaration. Nevertheless, after a few more long, calming breaths, he nods first to Dean, and then to Gloria for her to continue. Resting his chin on his fist, he fixes his eyes on a point somewhere on the far wall of the parlour. He only winces a little when Gloria starts again.
"Two," he says a short while later, as he's having the upper-left quadrant of the fiery circle filled in.
"What's that?" Dean asks, leaning forward so he can hear him better.
The look Cas gives him is a solemn one. "Tell Sam to make it two bacon-cheeseburgers."