Hold Off the Earth Awhile
Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.
Pardon the delay. The Sunday afternoon nap was impossible to resist yesterday.
Chapter Three
Dean watched the tattoo artist fly through the window in a shower of glass. For half a second, he seriously considered putting the car in reverse, driving back to the motel and going back to bed. It would be so much simpler than dealing with whatever this was. And honestly… he just didn't have the energy to deal with this now.
Dean blinked and the next thing he knew, Sam was already out of the car and headed toward the shop. Great reaction time, Dean mentally scolded himself. He was just so tired. He was tired of being tired.
Dean sighed and pulled himself out of the car. He walked toward the shop, keeping one hand on the gun tucked at his back, hidden beneath his jacket as he scanned the interior of the business. There wasn't anything to be seen however and he let his gaze drop to Sam who was kneeling in front of the still-stunned businessman. The guy looked like he'd had the wind knocked out of him and he had little nicks and cuts all over his exposed skin.
"You ok?" Sam asked.
The man took a second to think about it and finally nodded. His tattoos were just as striking as they had been before and Dean felt a shiver start at the base of his spine and work its way up. The cuts from the glass made it look like the vines themselves were oozing blood.
Sam stood and reached out to help the man off the ground. As his tattooed hand met Sam's, Dean clenched his teeth tightly to keep from snapping at Sam to get away from him. "What happened?" Dean asked instead.
Bud Mortimer shook his head, glass tinkling as it fell from his hair to the pavement. He glanced toward the interior of the business and suddenly took a step back. Sam and Dean both turned to look as well, but there was nothing to see.
"What?"
"It's… it's not possible."
"Try us," Sam said, putting on his sincere, understanding tone.
"I need to… to board up the shop." Mr. Mortimer took a deep breath and walked toward the door as if he were walking into battle, heavy determined steps.
Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm and once again Dean keep himself from shouting a warning not to touch the tattooed man's skin. "What knocked you through the window?"
Mr. Mortimer shook Sam's hand off and then he laughed, though it sounded near hysteria. "I thought we were finally rid of him." He laughed again, hysteria blending into tears. "I was so happy when he finally kicked off, I wanted to dance on his grave. As a matter of fact, I did… sort of."
The man shook his head and walked into his shop, heading straight for the back. Frustrated, Sam looked at Dean, who thought he'd like nothing better than to walk across the street and sit down at the diner for a while. Instead, he walked to the trunk of the car and found Marigold.
His favorite sawed-off shotgun was a soothing weight in his hand and he simply stood at the trunk for a few extra seconds enjoying the reassuring feel of her in one hand, the trunk lid pressed against the other, the Impala's bumper pressed against his knees.
He could still see the empty trunk from his djinn-induced dream. Although the thought of being a civilian had appealed to him, even then he'd felt a twinge to think that Marigold wasn't there. She'd been with him through thick and thin for too many years and, civilian or not, he'd wondered how his wish could have left her behind. He liked to think that she'd been stashed away somewhere in his home with Carmen, ready and waiting in case of a burglary, but maybe Marigold had found a happy home as well, being some other hunter's wingman. Wing-shotgun… whatever.
"Dean?"
He looked up to see that Sam was beside him and Dean guessed he must have been standing there too long. Sam was looking worried again and Dean mentally cursed himself for spacing out. "Yeah. I'm coming. Just figured we might need some firepower if Casper's gonna be throwing people through windows before we can get Bud out of here."
Sam nodded and shut the trunk as Dean stashed Marigold inside his jacket to hide her from anyone watching the show. They hurried back to the shop and walked inside just in time to see Mr. Mortimer pulling sheets of plywood from a back storeroom along with a hammer and a box of nails.
"Hey, Bud," Dean said curiously. "You seem pretty prepared there."
Sam moved to help the man and Dean knew it was because they needed to get the guy out of here as quickly as possible. In the meantime, Dean was on sentry duty.
"This isn't the first time he's broken out that window," Bud answered. He laughed again, that semi-hysterical laugh that meant he was close to a real freak-out.
"Who's he?"
"He is… was the bane of my existence. He's completely nuts. He's broken out this window half a dozen times. He follows me around, chases off my customers, or at least scares the crap out of them."
"And he's… dead," Dean observed.
"Well… yeah. 'Bout a month ago." Bud just looked at Dean for a moment, his eyes wide and frightened. He then picked up the plywood he was holding and hurried outside to nail it in place. Sam looked at Dean, shrugged, then followed Bud outside.
Denial… Sometimes Dean sincerely wished he could manage it. The truth just seemed to have a way of smacking him in the face no matter what he did. Even in his dreams of paradise, the truth followed him, hounding him until he snapped back to ugly reality.
Dean followed the others outside and watched as Bud and Sam quickly began boarding up the shop. Dean noticed there were people watching from the diner across the street, but they didn't seem to be doing more than stare so he chose not to worry about it.
"This guy have a name?" he asked.
"Jacob something," Bud replied around the nail he was holding with his lips.
"You don't know his name?"
"It's not like I was friends with the guy!" Bud said angrily. "He was a menace and crazy as a bedbug!"
"Crazy how?" Dean asked.
"Full on schizo. Paranoia, hallucinations, hears voices… He even has crazy-guy hair."
"Sounds like someone I know." Dean smiled, looking at his brother, who turned briefly to glare at him.
"He's convinced that tattoos are the mark of the devil," Bud continued. "He actually attacked a couple of people who had tattoos. The cops put him in the mental hospital every so often. They'd keep him long enough to put him back on his meds and then cut him loose. He's goes off the meds and goes right back to being nutty as a fruitcake, threatening anyone with a tattoo who comes near him."
"He thinks the devil's after him?" Dean asked. Suddenly his quip about Sam didn't seem quite as funny.
"Yeah. Thinks the devil has 'marked' his people. He went after this lady with a Smurf tattoo of all things. She was trying to give him some money or something and he went psycho."
"Smurf tattoo…" Dean snorted. "Dated… but not exactly what I'd call evil."
"He breaks out my window every once in a while when he decides I'm the leader of the local Satan worshippers. I had to get a Taser to keep him away while I walked to my car. My tats kinda freak him out."
"They kinda freak me out," Dean admitted. "And I'm sane." He coughed. "Mostly."
"So what happened to him?" Sam asked as he and Bud finished nailing the first piece of plywood in place.
"I hadn't seen him in a few days and the cops found him dead in the alley behind here."
"Let me guess," Dean said tiredly. "Died from exposure."
"No shelter back there. Not even a box. Hadn't been eating or drinking properly, not that he ever did. Too crazy," Bud answered. "Nothing really bad wrong with him physically. He just sort of sat down and died."
"Except he just tossed you through your front window."
Bud's eyes flew wide, disbelief and fear evident in his expression. "He… it's not possible. He's dead. I used… I…"
Dean's eyes narrowed and his grip instinctively tightened on Marigold, still held hidden beneath his jacket. "What did you do, Bud?"
"I didn't do anything!" the man said, his voice once again heading toward hysteria. "He's dead."
"You said 'used'. What did you use?" Sam stepped closer to Dean and turning so that they could both face him.
"Wait…" Dean said, something tickling at the back of his mind. "You said you sorta danced on his grave. What does that mean?"
"The perfect revenge," Bud nearly snarled. "I used him for the tattoos."
Dean's jaw nearly dropped open. "Come again?"
"I always keep some dirt on hand. I don't just do memorial tattoos. The tough guys and the Goth types think it's cool to tell people they've got one of my special tattoos. I put a little grave dirt in them. Makes them feel like they're real badasses."
"And," Dean prompted, suddenly beyond exhausted. He had no doubt what the guy was going to say and all it did was make him think he really should have gone back to bed and left this jerk to whatever the ghost wanted to do with him.
"After the city buried him, I went and found his grave and used some of the dirt for the tattoos." The man pointed at them belligerently. "It served him right. He spent years bothering everyone around here. Just because he had some crazy idea about us being marked by the devil, he did his best to ruin my business!"
"He was sick," Sam said angrily. "He didn't know any better!"
"He was a menace and he deserved what he got!" the tattoo artist shot back.
"He spent his life terrified thinking the devil was after him!" Sam roared. "Can you imagine what that's like?"
Dean blinked, forcing himself out of his exhausted haze. He took a good look at his brother, realization dawning. "Sam," he said, putting a hand on his arm.
"And what do you do?" Sam snapped, ripping his arm out of Dean's grasp, all of his fury and attention aimed at Bud. "You turn him into exactly what he was afraid of!"
"It's just DIRT!" Bud shouted back.
"You stupid sonuva-"
"Sam!" Dean barked, finally getting his brother's attention. "We'll take care of it, ok?" He pitched his voice low, putting all the sincerity into it that he could muster. "You hear me? We'll take care of it. I will take care of it." And they both knew that Dean wasn't just promising to put the spirit to rest. He was promising Sam, as he had promised over and over again, that he was not going to allow his brother to be forced into any of the plans Yellow-Eyes had set in motion.
Dean watched as Sam visibly calmed himself, and realized they were both breathing hard. "It's ok," he said again, reassuring himself as much as Sam. "Now don't kill Bud. He's stupider than stupid and a world-class turd, but you can't kill him, all right?"
Sam nodded, closing his eyes as he reined his temper in. "Right. Forgot. Stupidity is not a capital offense."
"Normally, you're the one having to remind me," Dean huffed.
"You got all brooding and I'm goin' off half-cocked." Sam smiled weakly. "The world's upside down, man."
"You're a little touchy on the Big 'D' subject," Dean offered. "I get it."
"Are you two jerks gonna hug," Bud snapped, "or will somebody help me put up this other piece of plywood?"
Sam and Dean both turned to glare at the man. "I could be talked into changing my mind about killing him," Dean said.
Sam nodded, but stepped forward again to grab the other end of the large piece of plywood Bud was holding. They held it up in place and Bud reached into his pocket for more nails.
"You're marked."
All three of the men looked around for the source of the voice, but there was nothing to be seen. No longer caring that they had an audience at the diner across the street, Dean pulled Marigold from beneath his jacket and brought her up, choosing to aim toward the tattoo parlor, since it seemed to be the source of their problems.
The lights in the shops around them flickered and then went out, the neon skull and crossbones sign dying last. Abruptly the plywood that Bud and Sam were still holding was pushed from inside the store. They dropped the board and stumbled backward. Dean caught Sam and kept him from falling, but let Bud tumble to the sidewalk.
All three of the men looked up again, to see a man standing in the now open window of the tattoo parlor. He flickered like a silent movie, gray, dead-faced. His eyes were wide, crazed and rolling. A mass of dirty, longish hair stood out from his head. It was almost as if he'd stuck his finger in a socket and it was standing on end, and Dean realized what Bud meant by crazy-guy hair.
"You're marked," the ghost repeated. Only he wasn't looking at Bud in all of his creepy, tattooed glory. He was looking at Sam. "You've been marked by the devil."
"No," Sam wheezed, sounding like he'd been sucker punched.
"You have to be stopped."
The ghost reached out and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront, yanking him inside the shop through the open window.
More soon…