Chapter Text
It’s not professional to fuck up a tattoo just because you’re checking out the customer.
Dean wishes he could amend that rule, if only because the customer in this case is really, incredibly, exceptionally hot. The way his nose scrunches just a little bit, the clench in his jaw as he’s biting his teeth together to stave off the pain. His eyes are a bright, crisp blue, steely with determination, and Dean appreciates the gritty guys just as much as the ones who practically tremble through their first ink.
But this guy, though. This guy’s been through it before. Aside from the obvious other tattoos adorning his torso (and probably… other places) Dean knows the look. The practiced way of brushing off the pain, the forced steady breathing. Aside from a few ticks here and there when Dean hits an especially sensitive spot, he could be meditating.
Castiel is his name, and when Dean had badly joked, “and getting tattoos is your game?” with an appreciative nod towards the rather grotesque, frayed rope inked around his neck, he had just earned himself a slitted gaze and uncomfortable silence.
“I hear you’re the best,” Castiel had said, dark rimmed eyes looking Dean up and down across the counter like he wanted to take a bite out of him. And yeah, maybe Dean’s a sucker for someone who looks like they could fuck him against the nearest wall without breaking a sweat, and maybe his knees were a little weak behind the counter from a mere glance, but hey, he’s still a badass. He’s kicked some heads in in his day. It’s kind of impossible to avoid when running a tattoo parlor.
He threw on the humility with as much grace as he could muster, smiled with a dismissive, “According to some.”
Castiel’s eyes had flashed, and he turned his head artfully, light catching on his multiple face piercings (eyebrow, nose, snake bites), and sniffed, disinterested, but Dean could see him practically jonesing for some ink.
“A client actually just cancelled on me,” Dean had informed him (which was a lie, actually. It was his day off and he was only in to pick up some documents, but hey, tattooing a guy like this was better than a day off, anyhow.) He arched an eyebrow, a challenge.
“Yes,” Castiel said immediately, fast enough to make Dean think he had heard wrong.
Dean tried to hide the genuine smile that was working its way across his face, replacing it with a smirk.
“I hadn’t even finished my sentence,” he said wryly, “but ok. Let’s get you set up.”
They had gone through the preliminary stuff, and when Dean had asked Cas(tiel) what he wanted, the guy had just looked at him and said, “surprise me.”
Dean had almost choked, but composed himself fast enough to say, “uh. Are you sure?”
Cas tilted his head, considering. “They say you’re good,” he said, “Prove it.”
Dean swallowed hard.
***
It would have helped if Cas had mentioned he wanted the tattoo on his hip bone, for christ’s sake. It would at least have prepared Dean slightly more than Cas just stripping off his shirt while his back was turned.
Cas’ left hip is pierced, two silver studs jutting out just so, (pants shoved down enough that Dean can easily get at the skin) and Dean is working on his right side. He’s actually sweating, and has his tongue jammed between his teeth so hard he’s afraid he’ll draw blood.
Workplace erections are really, really awful. For the most part (along with gradually earned sexual maturity and incredibly loose jeans) Dean can keep them at bay, but in the line of work he’s in, it most definitely is a situation he still sometimes finds himself in. An unfortunate side effect of an otherwise great job.
To Dean, a generally closed off and emotionally hands free kind of guy, he has to say there’s something incredibly attractive in a person who gains pride through their body mods and art, like they’re baring their souls for the entire world to see. Not to mention the fact that bodies- and people, in general- are just so damn appealing.
And Cas, with his lined eyes and fifty million piercings and tattoos and smugness that hangs about him like a particularly demure coil of smoke from the end of a delicately held cigarette, the intricate map of art across his body down to the fucking heavy boots he clomped in here wearing --
Yeah. Dean feels like he knows the guy already, could know him and never stop wanting to know him. He’s a sucker for confidence, drawn to self-assurance like a moth to a flame.
Not all tattoos have stories or meaning behind them, Dean knows. In his spare seconds before putting the needle back to skin, he’s been examining the tattoos covering Cas’ torso, trying to figure out which ones are which. Cas has a great variety of images splashed across his chest, full of abstract forms that look like hellish and divine deities fighting an all-out multidimensional war on some sort of ethereal, foggy battleground. There are the faces of devils and angels and demons splayed across his skin, fighting the (good?) fight, beams of light opening in the opaque, grey sky above them all, shining down on select warriors like they are the chosen ones who will lead their species to victory. The scene wraps around his back, over his ribcage and all the way up to the base of his neck, where a pink moon sits at the top of his spine, capping off the ink. The canvas below, on his back, is a continuation of the scene from the front, free formed deities with lightning in their hands and sheathed in armor made from no manmade material Dean can discern. Some of them look more bestial than human, some more other, alien. Dean can’t tell what they’re fighting over, but there’s fire and smoke in the background, sinkholes opening up and cracks in the earth forming. Not a human in sight, from what Dean can tell, but all the troops who are down bleed regardless.
There’s a figure right above the hip Dean is working on, decidedly androgynous, obviously a celestial being of some kind. A soft light emanates from their form, face benevolent. They’re undeniably a part of the fight, but somehow removed from it. They aren’t wearing armour, but swathed in a soft gray robe. They look like they’re waiting.
The entire scene almost looks like one of those overcrowded Renaissance paintings, with a decidedly softer color palate and harsher subject matter.
Cas’ arms, though; his sleeves. Those are a different story.
Jade twisting, curling, reaching stems, circling his arms and crisscrossing like a particularly unruly city grid complete with roundabouts and construction zones and parks that have been abandoned since those classified experiments in the 50s. Vines that hug his forearms and biceps, not mirror images, but continuations of each other, even though they never cross the expanse of his torso to meet. Dean thinks of the Garden of Eden, of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. He’s sweating already, but the emeralds of the plant life make him think of jungles, steamy southern climates he’s never visited, but it’s not hard to picture the heavy mist of rainforests coating him, making the short hair at the back of his neck curl and dark spots appear on his tshirt. Bright blooms appear at seemingly random intervals, huge, cheerful flowers of varying shades from the color palate of a particularly striking sunset. They’re beautifully textured; a big purple one right above Cas’ left elbow looks fuzzy to the touch, like the softness of a lamb’s ear, while there’s a deadly looking yellow one, smaller, spikey looking, just off to the side of his wrist.
The grand design of the vines ends at his wrists, but skinnier tendrils snake across the backs of his hands, two intertwining as they follow the path through each knuckle- some following the lines of his veins, some not- and end right before the cuticle of his fingernails. From there, the two tendrils break apart, tracing just outside line of his nails, and then come together again, around to meet at the tops of his fingertips, where each tip has its own specific plant or flower, making it looks like Cas has been kissed by Mother Nature herself, one chaste peck for each soft fingertip.
Flowers grow out of his fingertips; life bleeds from his palm anew and green.
He is a garden.
Dean is suddenly unsure of his own contribution to the incredible mosaic that is Castiel. It seems paltry by comparison.
The needle stills, hovers, and Cas looks down, not at the tattoo, but at Dean. His expression is bold, playful.
“Don’t tell me you’re finished yet,” he mocks, borderline scornful. There is no real heat to it. “From what I’ve heard, the famous Dean Winchester never finishes this fast.”
Dean flicks his gaze upward to meet Cas’, doing his best to refuse to be flustered.
“No worries,” he says, edging the words in steel because Cas looks like he can take it, “What I do is art, Castiel,” he continues, putting emphasis where emphasis is needed. “True art takes time. Consideration.” He presses a palm to Cas’ flat stomach to steady him, even though he’s solid as a rock already. “Care.” He finishes, emboldened, and gets back to work.
It’s only the buzz of the needle for the next few minutes and the quiet rock station that’s playing from the speakers. Dean allows himself to fall back into his work, relishing the familiarity of his shop and the comforting vibration of the tool in his palm. Being surrounded by the warm, rusty tone of the walls with dark wooden trim, framed photos of the best of the artists in the shop adorning the walls, Dean is in his element. The couches in the waiting area are a chocolate brown, coffee colored, with dark bamboo magazine racks and potted plants filling the rest of the space. Dean can’t see it from here, but he knows it like the back of his hand, the sign out front that says, “The Family Business Tattoo Parlour”.
He’s here doing what he loves, and clients like Cas, ones that provide a challenge, one with an attitude like that, are the clients that remind him of why he loves this job so much in the first place. Tattooing is about more than being able to draw, to ink. More than a steady hand. It’s about reading people, what they want and what they might not even realize they want.
Cas seems like the kind of guy who definitely knows the former, and maybe even the latter. But he also seems like the kind of guy who Dean can push the limits with a little, who would probably like to be pushed. Cas is one of those people with a little extra, Dean thinks. Like that added flick of the wrist he’s seen Lisa use when she’s putting on eyeliner, or the way Jo can throw a bullseye in darts without even looking at the board. Dean’s had the incredible luck throughout his life to surround himself with people like Lisa and Jo, like Sam and Benny and Victor, all with that extra.
He thinks maybe he has a knack for seeking it out, or maybe it’s the other way around and constantly seeks him out for some reason.
Whatever the reason, Dean can feel it. Cas has that extra layer, that trait and oomph that Dean always finds himself drawn to.
It’s an amazing feeling, that connection. Coupled with the fact that Cas has hip bones that make Dean want to cry and eyes that could drill into him better than some dicks, and it’s like his brain is searing, blazing out behind his eyeballs because it knows its seen the best it’ll ever see and it’s all downhill from here.
Cas interrupts his train of thought with a quietly observed, “You don’t have any tattoos… no visible ones, anyways.”
“Yeah?” Dean says mildly, like he doesn’t already fucking know that.
“It’s just…” Cas winces minutely as Dean passes over a fairly sensitive spot, and Dean feels the muscles of Cas’ abdomen jump beneath his hand. “You’re a tattoo artist,” he says, sounding genuinely curious.
Dean shrugs with the side that’s not currently handling a tattoo gun.
“I am,” he confirms, trying to ignore the squirming in his gut. It’s not the first time someone has mentioned his remarkably ink free skin, but it is the first time he thinks he might not mind someone actually mentioning it.
Cas makes a noise of assent, but doesn’t push it. They lapse back into silence while Dean contemplates whether or not to pick up the dropped conversation thread.
Ah, fuck it, he thinks.
“My dad ran this place before me,” he explains, without taking his eyes off the emerging tattoo, and then chuckles. “I suppose the name of the place probably gave that away already.” He licks his lips nervously as he can practically hear Cas’ interest peak. “Ex-navy, covered in ink, professional and not so. He was a great artist, an alright guy, and kind of a shitty dad. After all, I learned almost everything I know from him.” He takes his hand off Cas’ abdomen to wipe his palm on his pants leg, then leaves it on his thigh. He realizes belatedly that maybe that last statement was a little too pointed, or maybe the strokes were too broad. Either way, it’s an uncomfortable small moment of self-reflection.
“Anyways,” he blusters on, “Tattoos always seemed a little too, uh, permanent for me.” He shrugs half-heartedly, what can ya do? “What can I say, I’m your typical jerk with commitment issues that extend way past any kind of relationship outside myself.” He tries to undercut this explanation with as much dismissive non-chalance as he can, because while his words may be honest, his tone doesn’t have to be. Also, pouring your heart out to a client is almost as unprofessional as a workplace boner, so he’s really trying not to go oh-for-two here.
“What about you, man?” Dean asks, before Cas can comment on his own story. “Those are some pretty sick designs.”
Dean sees Cas’ chest collapse as he huffs a laugh out his nose, can picture the rueful shaking of his head.
“Bible study,” he says, and laughs again. Dean holds the needle steady until Cas’ breathing evens out, and then continues. “I went to Catholic school, church, and Sunday school as a kid. Suffice to say, I learned a lot about Christianity whether I wanted to or not. I got into drawing fairly early, and this is the product of a warped child’s version of their selective hearing when it comes to religion.”
“Pretty steep creative liberties, huh? Not that I’m saying it’s not some great work, because it is.”
“You’d be surprised at the amount of bloodshed I had to endure during my formative years.”
“That’s worrying.”
“So is global warming. Hey, I turned out okay.”
“That’s… less worrying?”
“There you go.”
Yeah, definitely an intriguing guy.
“What about the sleeves?” Dean asks, because Cas doesn’t seem averse to talking about this stuff. He’s ready to back off at the first sign of discomfort, but he’s not sure if Cas is designed to feel that particular emotion.
Cas laughs, almost self-consciously, which Dean thinks is interesting.
“Uh, flowers are fucking rad?” Cas says, duh implied, and Dean snorts but thinks this might actually be a topic Cas isn’t willing to delve too deeply into. Also interesting. The guy tells him about his Catholic school upbringing and explains away the gore fest on his chest without blinking an eye but ask him about the pretty flowers on his arms and he clams right up.
“They’re beautiful,” Dean murmurs, because he’s not going to not compliment the fucking gorgeous artistry staring him right in the face. It would be like staring at the northern lights and saying, ‘eh.’ “Did you design those as well?”
“Mmm,” Cas nods his assent. “Gardening is a hobby of mine.”
“Geeze,” Dean marvels, “Gardner, artist, walking canvas. I don’t usually make a fuss over clients, but you’re a pretty intriguing guy, Cas.”
“I’m the furthest thing from an artist,” Cas says mildly.
“Hey, man, don’t downplay it,” Dean chides gently. “This is some amazing work you’ve done. It’s something to be proud of.”
This is so incredibly outside his range of typical customer encounters. Even though in this line of work, he sometimes gets to know clients fairly intimately (doing intricate tattoos on an ass can really speed up the bonding process) things never usually take such a personal turn. He can talk flippantly about his work for as many hours as people ask him about it, but with Cas, it feels like this conversation really means something. Even if it’s about something as simple and unremarkable as his life.
“You think?” Cas asks, and there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability in his tone that immediately tells Dean he didn’t get enough hugs when he was a kid. “Speaking of work,” Cas continues, rambling over any possible comfort Dean can offer, “how’s it going down there?”
That’s a phrase Dean is definitely going to have echoing around in his head for the next ten years at least. He clears his throat.
“Uh… We’re… done, actually.” Dean says, surprised. Sometimes, depending on the tattoo, on the client and circumstances, he kind of zones out, lets his hands do the work he’s fairly certain they were created to do.
“Oh.” Cas says, and for a moment he seems disappointed, and then his eyes cast down to the new tattoo on his hip, and he goes incredibly still.
“Oh,” he says again.
Dean’s incredibly nervous. As he’s going through his- and he fucking hates thinking like this because it’s so goddamn pretentious but it’s fucking true- process, he doesn’t ever doubt himself. It’s always that split second when the client sees their completed tattoo for the first time, and he’s not sure his heart is ever going to get used to it. Even though clients generally love it (there was that incident a couple years back with the guy who wanted an “Asian” tattoo that said “wellness” and it’s not Dean’s fucking fault if he gave him the wrong symbols and now has the Cantonese phrase for soup tattooed on his ankle) it doesn’t change that one, genuine moment of fear.
There’s an excruciating silence in the shop for an entire minute. Cas is frozen, staring at the tattoo, and Dean feels himself start to sweat. Oh, god, he shouldn’t have gotten so sucked into the conversation; Cas is going to think the lines are sloppy, he’s going to hate the colors, he’s going to hate the design, he’s going to hate everything.
“I feel like, it um… connects them, but, uh, not obviously? I know that um, I hope I didn’t overstep but it kind of seemed like the way to go and I really liked that, uh, angel or whatever it is right above so I tried incorporating it… um…”
Dean swears he’s a professional. Really.
The tattoo itself is a little different than any Dean’s done before. He started from the very bottom of the scene on Cas’ torso, right under the feet of the figure in the gray robe. Gnarled roots twist out of the souls of their feet; ugly, knotted things. They are the roots of the upside down tree that extends a couple inches down and around Cas’ hipbone, ending in branches that are devoid of leaves. In their place, there are feathers. Tons of small ones, no longer than a fingernail and no thicker than the scroll wheel on a mouse. They are all done in the same colors as the scene on Cas’ torso, soft purples and reds and oranges. Further up the tree (or down, depending on your point of view) the feathers blacken and curl, like the pages of a burning book. Eventually, the very tips of the tree have broken off, charcoal black, and have morphed into the silhouettes of birds, flying upwards and outwards across the expanse of Cas’ hipbone, triumphant.
Dean thinks it’s some kind of weird interpretation of a phoenix, but he’s going to keep his mouth shut until Cas actually says something.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Cas raises his gaze to Dean’s.
“It’s… magnificent.” he says quietly, awed. “Completely and utterly magnificent, Dean.”
“I- wow. Um. Thanks.” Dean says, the relief swooping out of him and melting into embarrassed humility so fast it’s almost dizzying. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, trying not to blush. “I thought the figure there,-” he points to the gray robed being, “-was like, an angel or something, so I figured it would be appropriate.”
Cas’ eyes go wide.
“Dean…” he says, in the tone of someone telling seven year old Timmy the reason he won’t be getting a surprise party this year, “That figure? That’s Death.”
Utter silence. Hearing-a-pin-drop silence.
Then, “Oh.” Dean says. “Wow.” Again. “Wow.” Now with emphasis. “Wow.”
“It, um… It makes sense, though,” Cas says hurriedly. “Like, for me, for this scene, Death is the good guy, y’know? The only one in their right mind, really. He’s here to take these soldiers away from the suffering, and the idea with the feathers? And the birds? It’s like they’re going to finally be free.” Cas smiles fully, for the first time since he walked in. “It’s an amazing fit, really. Absolutely amazing.”
Dean feels his own eyes go wide, and he’s frozen solid for another couple seconds before saying, one more time, “Wow.” He robotically goes for the cleanup kit, and readies a bandage to put over the finished tattoo.
“I can see why they call you the best, now,” Cas hums, and Dean can feel his eyes on him as he gently cleans the area. “It’s like you instinctively knew what I wanted.”
Dean swallows hard.
“Yeah?” he says, throat suddenly gone dry again.
He feels Cas nod as he mmms in assent.
He finishes the aftercare in silence, dresses the tattoo properly. He gives the spiel on at-home aftercare, even though he’s pretty sure Cas knows the deal by now. Cas pays at the desk. Dean walks him to the door, even though it’s literally ten steps away from the desk and he usually waves goodbye from behind the counter.
Cas hovers, hand reaching out to push open the door, but he stops halfway through the action. He glances at Dean, who feels like he’s currently sitting on a live wire.
They remain in limbo for long enough that it becomes extraordinarily awkward, and then Cas seems to finally give up and practically launches forward, crowding Dean against the wall.
“Girlfriend?” he asks, while Dean’s brain short circuits. “Boyfriend? Poly? It’s complicated?” Dean has literally zero words to answer Cas with, and Cas rolls his eyes. “Dean, I’m asking if this is okay,” he says pointedly, gesturing between the two of them.
Dean gets his brain back online enough to say, “Yeah, yeah it’s pretty fucking okay.”
And they’re off.