Written in Ink

AN: It's been exactly six months since the final SPN episode aired and my heart still breaks for these boys. Sam and Dean deserve so much more smiles and lighthearted moments, so here's a rather fluffy piece. I imagine that the boys have had the tattoos for a while even before 3x12 'Jus in Bello' when we first got to see them. So, this story is set vaguely in late season 2 on a reasonably calm day, sometime after 2x17 'Heart' because we got to see Sam's chest in this one – definitely devoid of the iconic tattoo.

And most importantly: This story is dedicated to my dear friend shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod who shares my love for SPN and J2's tattoos and who's been supportive and kind and overall, just wonderful! :) Please go take a look at her stories, she's amazing!

Supernatural isn't mine.

Enjoy!

Empty, sunlit roads lay ahead and the sweet sounds of Led Zeppelin hung in the air. The Impala rolled smoothly as ever over the concrete, passing by endless landscapes of fields and trees. There was no soul to be seen. It was just the two of them. Dean and his baby. Well, and his little brother.

"We should get inked," Sam suddenly startled him from the side.

Whoa.

"What?" Dean shot him a sideways glance, turning down the volume of the music. Neither of them had said anything for at least an hour – something Dean had been totally fine with – and yet this was his brother's conversational gambit?

"Tattoos, Dean. We should get tattoos."

Dean huffed. "Dude, I'm not an idiot. Lemme rephrase. Why?"

He'd honestly never pegged his shy kid brother as an enthusiast for body-modifications. Sam sure was full of surprises. Dean's focus drifted from Sam to the empty road and back. His little brother was slouched in the seat, his hands fumbling with a neatly folded piece of paper. Dean arched an eyebrow and waited for him to respond.

"I've been thinking," Sam said, turning towards his brother. Yeah, no kidding, Dean could see that. Sam's forehead was drawn in lines like it always was when he was thinking too hard. Apart from that, he seemed more or less relaxed – which was a nice change. "Those anti-possession charms Bobby gave us… I know you lost one of them last week."

Dean glared at Sam, not even noticing the apparent change of topic. "I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"I—" He gave up.

Dean groaned. He thought he'd hidden it pretty well when he'd forgotten about the charm in his jeans pocket that had consequently clunked around in the washer of a laundromat. And he'd made damn sure to fish the pint-sized thing out of the depths of the washer afterwards, too. It had only happened once. Alright, twice. But it wasn't like they only had one charm each – they had about twenty of them scattered all over the Impala, their duffels, the pockets of their jeans… and yeah, maybe one of those twenty had gotten stuck permanently in a stupid, greedy washer. So what? Nineteen should still be fine, right?

"So? Mr. Perfect has never lost anything?" Dean's gaze flicked from Sam to the dead straight road again, but he could still see the eye-roll.

"No, yeah, that's the point. These charms are tiny in case you haven't noticed. We could both lose them, Dean. Or, I don't know, for some reason maybe we don't have them at hand when…" Sam trailed off.

When another demon came looking for them? When another hellspawn decided to take Sam, or maybe this time Dean, for a spin? When these scumbags wanted to use them as meatsuits again? It didn't slip Dean's attention how Sam hadn't said if. Encountering demons was no longer a vague possibility but lately had become a very real threat. Dean couldn't deny that it was just a matter of time until it happened again.

So yeah, that was a valid point, Dean conceded. Looking for his little brother all over the country for more than a week and finding out an evil black-smoke-freak had been riding his body the entire time, had not exactly been a pleasant experience. For either of them. He knew that Sam was still feeling tainted, dirty, like Meg possessing him had left an indelible stain on his soul. And it hurt to know that Dean couldn't do anything about it. The damage was done. And they both weren't remotely interested in a repetition. Dean sensed that this was where this conversation was headed: avoiding another horror trip of demon-possession at all costs.

And suddenly, their nineteen protection charms didn't seem enough at all. He quickly looked at Sam, his grip on the steering wheel subtly tightening. He just nodded, urging his brother to continue.

"So, I was thinking we could get some anti-possession protection that's a bit more… permanent," Sam said.

Dean's eyebrows rose to his hairline, finally making the connection. "Anti-possession tattoos, that's your idea?"

"Yeah."

Dean hesitated. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam repeated.

The older brother turned to his sibling, surprised. Sam looked absolutely sincere. "You wanna get a tattoo? You? A real one this time?" Dean clarified. "You know it's not gonna come off like that stick-on Care Bear you wanted so bad when you were four."

"I know, that's the idea," Sam shot back, not even protesting. He snorted, "And yeah, I remember why I wanted it in the first place. That was around the time my big brother kept bragging about his epic Smurfette stick-on tattoo."

Another glare was sent Sam's way just as he finished signing air-quotes around the word epic.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean grumbled. Truth be told, he had been kind of proud of the pretty Smurf on his biceps back then. And of course, he had scraped up his meager allowance to get his annoying little brother that stupid Care Bear stick-on tattoo. More than a hint of amusement crept into his voice when he said, "That little blue lady was awesome."

That's when both their faces broke into genuine smiles. Sam and Dean took a moment to quietly enjoy the lightness of their current situation, the brotherly banter, and the reminiscence of actual happy childhood memories. The tension in Dean's frame loosened once again as he uncurled his stiff fingers from the wheel just enough to get the blood flowing again. He relaxed back against the seat, turning his attention to the endless roads ahead again.

The comfortable silence stretched on until Dean finally cleared his throat. "So, how did you come up with that, huh?"

Sam immediately picked up on what Dean meant. "Read something about protective rites and these really powerful glyphs in one of Bobby's books."

"Of course, you'd be reading about stuff like this. You sure this would work?"

"Yeah, well, I think it's worth a shot. All kinds of cultures have been using protective tattoos for millennia. People in ancient Egypt, Celts, Polynesians…" Sam rattled off, then added, "Ötzi the Iceman had tattoos."

"Nerd," Dean wisecracked. "Didn't save him from getting ganked though, now did it?"

Dean quickly glanced at Sam in time to see his expression falter. For a moment, Sam was stunned into silence. Ha, gotcha, Dean smirked to himself. His egghead brother obviously hadn't expected him to know a damn thing about this 5000-year-old European mummy. Still, Dean had to give him some credit. That kid brother of his was too damn smart for this world. It had never occurred to Dean that they could get protective tats. But he had to admit that it was a perfectly obvious solution to his – uh, their – problem of losing those stupid charms.

"What, Dean?" Sam finally asked, back to his usual know-all self. "Are you scared of needles?" he quipped.

Dean shot his little brother an annoyed glance and found that Sam was smiling, dimples and all. It was a sight for sore eyes.

"Nah. I'm a warrior, dude." Dean's expression instantly switched to a wide grin. He could almost feel how his brother tried hard to look annoyed when he was actually amused.

After a beat of silence, Sam asked, "So, what do you think?"

Dean only needed about half a second to think this through. "You know what? I gotta hand it to you, that's actually not a terrible idea. Makes sense. So yeah, let's get those tattoos."

"Wait—really?" Now it was Sam who seemed surprised that Dean had caved in so quickly.

"Really."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

Dean huffed. "Stop asking already before I change my mind, would ya?"

There was a minute of silence, then a tiny nod. Apparently, Sam had not expected the conversation to go so smoothly and wasn't sure how to go on from there. Dean smiled, enjoying this momentary speechlessness to the fullest. Open roads ahead, a quiet but content little brother by his side – Dean was savoring the moment as best he could.

Besides, it really was a good idea, and – unlike his brooding brother – once Dean decided something sounded good, he didn't need to mull it over forever. Not even when the idea included getting a permanent mark on his body. So many people got tattoos nowadays, musicians, athletes, actors – half of the barflies he hooked up with had the names of past lovers engraved in their skin. Well, he wasn't quite there yet but getting a tattoo that was both protective and would make him look even more of a badass than he already was… why not?

In secret, the thought of getting some awesome black-and-white body art had crossed his mind once or twice before. Maybe something on his shoulder or on his chest, yeah those were good places. And maybe something representing the freedom of a life on the road? Or better yet, something eternalizing the most important thing there was to him – family. Yes, it was sappy, and it was corny, but Dean had never really gotten anything for himself. He didn't need expensive watches or any of that other luxurious crap most people seemed to crave. But a family tattoo? That would be nice.

But of course, there had always been more important things, more monsters to kill, so he'd never gotten around to actually do it. Dad probably wouldn't have approved anyway, well or he wouldn't have cared at all, like he hadn't cared about a lot of stuff normal people did for fun. Dean had never told anyone, not even his brother. So, even though he tried to keep his excitement in check, Dean now was more than thrilled by Sam's suggestion.

It was settled.

"Uh, so…" Sam muttered, still sounding mildly confused that this had gone over so well. He cleared his throat, then Dean heard a faint rustling sound barely drowning out the soft grumble of the engine. "I've already got a design here," Sam said quietly and held out the piece of paper he'd been clutching in his hands.

Again, Dean arched an eyebrow. "You've really done your homework, huh?"

Sam chuckled, slightly nervously if Dean wasn't mistaken.

He first checked the rearview-mirror – still no other cars around – then peeked at the sheet Sam was shoving at him. He was looking at a black-and-white picture of a familiar mystic symbol. He'd seen a version of it before in some of Bobby's ancient books. The prominent lines of a pentagram were circled by a defensive curve and something that vaguely resembled flames, like a ring of fire. The print was a bold tribal kind of pattern – no, wait… it actually looked like the neat, black lines had been hand-drawn with a sharpie. Dean looked up at Sam, studied the expectant eyes for a second, then forced himself to focus on the road again.

"You drew this yourself?" he asked.

Sam pulled back the paper and carefully folded it up again. "Yeah."

And even without looking Dean could feel his little brother's wary gaze on him. Sam was obviously uncertain whether Dean liked the design. Of course, the older brother had noticed the attention to detail and the way Sam had drawn every single line meticulously like the geek he was. He knew Sam wasn't exactly an artist. He'd seen his brother's kindergarten drawings, and frankly, his skills hadn't gotten any better over the years. But he was a perfectionist, and the drawing Dean had just looked at was testament to the fact that once Sam set his mind on something, he could do pretty much anything. His sketch looked exactly like a textbook print. Dean was honestly impressed. And on the side, he wondered how long Sam had been planning this. How long he might have wanted a tattoo as well.

He didn't just like the design. He loved it.

"Not bad, Sammy," Dean finally said approvingly. He clapped his brother on the shoulder, squeezing once then letting go. When he quickly looked to the side, he saw Sam's face light up with joy. Dean returned the expression, feeling something light and warm blossoming in his chest. "And you want us both to get the exact same thing, maybe even in the same place?" he asked, facing the road again.

"Yeah?" Sam half stated, half asked.

Dean chuckled. "Like friendship bracelets."

He was joking, of course, but a part of him wasn't. A great deal of the world's finest tramp stamps was probably the result of either drunk bets or people wanting a partner tattoo with their friend, significant other… or their brother. He'd heard a story or two about people getting tats in memory of their loved ones or extraordinary experiences they had gone through together, good or bad. Well, God knew Sam and Dean had plenty of these kinds of stories to tell themselves, usually on the bad end. Was it that far off for them to get friendship tattoos? Or brotherhood, whatever. It did sound kind of amazing.

None of that made it past Dean's lips though. No chick-flick moments.

Sam thankfully went along as he groaned dramatically, "What? No. Man, you're such a child." However, he spectacularly failed at hiding his radiant smile.

Dean couldn't help but laugh. "It's fine," he amended. "Where do you want them, Samantha?"

Grinning at Sam to get a glimpse at yet another signature eye-roll was totally worth the smack to the shoulder he got in response. As a consequence, momentarily swerving into the oncoming lane was less fun, but Dean expertly got the Impala under control in no time.

Sam blew out a breath beside him. "Don't care," he said flatly, and Dean noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sam's expression suddenly darkened. Wait, his little brother wasn't that upset about the girly nickname, was he? But then Sam clarified, "It's not like we'll ever get stuffy white-collar jobs that would require covering up tattoos."

As far as Dean was concerned, if they didn't get black teardrops on their faces, they should be fine. The year wasn't 1950 after all.

But of course, it wasn't about that.

And just like that the atmosphere in the car shifted from light-hearted banter to tense unpleasantness. Dean's grin faded. In an instant, his knuckles were back to their colorless, tight grip around the steering wheel. And maybe his foot settled a bit heavier on the gas. If Sam noticed the slight speed-up, he didn't mention it.

"Sammy…" Dean mumbled, not sure what to say. He quickly glanced sideways again, seeing for himself that Sam was now looking straight ahead, his mouth in a tight line and his eyes fixed on a spot far away.

Damnit. Not too long ago, Sam had still pictured his future to be that of a lawyer – suits, dress shoes, and white-bread attitude included. Tattoos? If any, they would have been hidden under a pristine white button-down. Not that Sam had ever had the desire to get any in the first place – well, on second thought, Dean was beginning to question that notion. Well, now here Sam sat, flannel-clad, wearing frayed jeans and raddled work-boots just like his brother. Oh and, he usually carried a shotgun or a machete instead of a briefcase. And apparently, Sam had abandoned all hope that it would ever be any different.

Even though Dean was more than happy to have Sam by his side, back in the life, he also knew how much his brother was still struggling sometimes. He had wanted normal so bad. All his life, he'd strived for an apple-pie-life – and for a too short time he'd had it, with his girl, at Stanford. Maybe if she were still around, Sam really would have become that lawyer-wuss Dean would love to make fun of. Maybe he would have been happy. And now, with Jessica and Dad gone, Yellow-Eyes still AWOL, and on top of that crazy psychic abilities, chances were Sam would never get that life back.

It had become rare over the past two years but every so often the weirdest things still ticked Sam off. Sometimes it was the nametag of a gas mart clerk reminding him of a college friend. Sometimes it was a boringly normal salad dressing that he swore was the same that had been served in this little café he used to study in. Today, it was a simple conversation about tattoos reminding him of a life he'd left behind. Well, nothing ever really was simple with the Winchester brothers.

And while Dean himself was totally fine with the roughness of a hunter's life as long as Sam was with him, he truly felt sorry for his little brother.

But before he could say anything else, Sam composed himself. Without looking at his big brother, he cleared his throat, then said, "Anyway… according to the lore, people are more susceptible to possession when their hearts are, uh, sorrowful or heavy. The wording varies, depending on the source. They all mention hearts though. So, I think that's a good place to start."

Thank goodness, back to topic.

Hearts, huh?

Dean stole another quick glance at Sam, his own heart gradually growing lighter again, now that his little brother didn't look like his head was stuck in grief and regret anymore. In fact, a sense of determination had crept up in Sam's expression. That's my boy. Dean's cramped grip on the wheel as well as his lead foot relinquished again, and he allowed himself to shove the painful what-ifs aside for now.

"Aw, Sammy, matching friendship tattoos above the heart? That's poetic," he teased, instantly back to his usual banter.

"Whatever. Jerk." There was no heat behind Sam's words, and his face brightened again. He seemed relaxed, and Dean was beyond grateful for that.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"This really is a good idea," Dean acknowledged. "And I'm glad I've got you to… to do all this research and come up with crazy stuff like this." I'm glad I've got you. "So, let's do this."

He meant it. Getting protective tattoos was a good call, one they should have made a long time ago. Figures that Sam would be the one to bring it up. He was the brains of this operation after all, even if Dean was loath to admit it.

And in secret, Dean really liked – loved – the idea that he and Sam would be getting something together, something unique to remind them of their bond. Not quite friendship bracelets, but symbols of their brotherhood. Symbols of all the crap they had survived together. A visual reminder of what they had always been and were still fighting for. No one would know but them. In a way, their only family left, the Impala, was already tattooed, their clumsily carved initials decorating her interior. And now the brothers would follow her lead. Just like their brotherly love, the tattoos would be etched into their bodies and souls until the end of time.

Dean would get his family tattoo after all.

Ugh, his musings were way too corny to ever be spoken out loud, he just now realized. So, he kept the cheesy thoughts to himself, his fingers subconsciously drumming against the steering wheel. However, when Dean peeked at his little brother again, and he saw his sincere smile, he knew without a doubt that Sam was thinking the same thing.

They really were brothers. And they didn't need a symbol for that. But the thought was still nice.

"Yeah?" Sam tentatively asked.

"Yeah… bitch." Dean smiled.

And the very next day Sam and Dean got matching tattoos.

The end.

AN: Thank you for reading. There's not nearly as much angst in this one as I usually write but I couldn't go without it entirely, oopsie. I'm curious what you think of this. Drop me a note :)