Chapter Text
The tattoo gun whirred into life, Dean’s grip tightened on the machine. He didn’t tattoo himself often, but something about the feeling and control of it centered him. The design he was working on, fixing up more like, was a good distraction from today. A day he’d dreaded for so long. Uncle Bobby’s funeral.
And all Dean could do was tattoo a wrench on his arm.
He wasn’t going to let anyone see him cry, or any of that ‘sissy shit’ as his Dad used to say. But he could at least find a way to take the anguish from his chest and make it into something new. Something about this felt wrong though. Getting a tattoo for his uncle’s passing but not his own father’s.
He shook the thought away as soon as it whispered behind his eyes.
He needed to focus. Focus on getting the lines right. Focus on the needle piercing his skin over and over and over and over, until it was the only thing he could feel. Because he sure as hell didn’t want to feel this.
The loss. The hurt. The fact that he’d never see Bobby-
He stopped the gun the moment he felt a droplet run down his cheek to his arm. The leak mixing into blood and ink. He slammed his fist onto the table, then his head fell into his hands.
“C’mon man, get it together,” he choked out under his breath.
He smacked the side of his knuckle hard into his forehead.
The pain attempting to knock the tears out of his skull.
He closed his eyes shut with all the force he could.
He’d be damned if another drop fell.
“Shit,” his laugh was weak and humourless.
He looked down at his unfinished work. His forearm slowly being covered in red. He needed to get this finished before he needed to leave. He needed to go pick up Sam in two hours. He had two hours to get this right. To do it justice. To do Bobby’s memory justice.
He forced down the grief, the guilt, the sadness, and all that other mess in his head. He wiped the blood so he could see his design again.
It just needed shading and it’d be done. It hurt but the hurt was almost comforting right now. And the buzz of the machine gave him a sound to drown out the world.
It’d be under a suit anyways so the fact it’d be wrapped didn’t really matter. He’d know it was there, and that's all he needed.
***
His arm itched like hell, and the tight fabric of his dress shirt certainly wasn’t helping. He stood leaned against his car, holding his arm in the hopes that the pressure would satiate the sensation for now.
The sunlight was bouncing off the windows of Sam’s apartment building and shining directly into Dean’s eyes. Impatient, he tapped his fingers on the roof of his car. It was then that his younger brother finally rushed out of the complex and over to the impala.
“Sorry! Sorry,” Sam raised his hands up after adjusting his tie.
“It’s fine,” Dean smirked, “you’ve always taken forever to get all dolled up.”
Sam only responded with a squint and a sarcastic smile.
As the two got into the car, Dean looked over to Sam while turning on the car, “so, how’s the college life been, Sammy?”
Sam’s gaze, however, was transfixed out the window, “it’s going good.”
Dean knew damn well that answer was bullshit, but that wasn’t something he wanted to get into today. Bobby would know what to say. Dean’s never been great at feelings, or pep talks; nor finding the words his brother needed to hear.
The silence between the two filled the car, even with the windows down the tension wouldn’t let up. Neither wanted to address the coffin sized elephant in the back seat.
Dean just thought about how he could’ve been getting plastered with a chic right now if he wasn’t decent; he could’ve been having enough beers to get himself unable to think a single thing. He didn’t want to let himself think about what he could be doing with Meg, but the thought did cross his mind for half a moment.
“How are things at the tattoo parlor,” Sam slowly dragged out, trying to make things a little less awkward.
“Good,” Dean nodded, keeping his eyes to the road, “there’s a new girl that just started last week. I, uh, met her for the first time yesterday.”
Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him, and he could sense the shocked grin Sam was looking at him with. Sam didn’t even have to say a word.
“It’s not like that,” Dean waved his hand, but it was also a complete lie.
“Fine. It is like that,” the corner of his mouth pulled up a small bit.
“Dude, you met her yesterday,” Sam emphasized.
“Yeah, but she, uh,” he could feel his face get a bit warm, “she seems fun.”
Sam breathed out a laugh, shaking his head, “you always think they’re ‘fun’, but then-”
“But then we go our separate ways,” Dean gestured while holding the wheel.
Sam muttered, “Yeah, usually just so happens when they wanna get serious-”
“Whatever,” Dean rolled his eyes with a painted on grin. A part of him knew just how right Sam was, but Dean also knew what would happen if things ever did get ‘serious’.
“At least I get some, you’re like a damn priest,” Dean retorted.
“Or maybe I just don’t tell you.”
Dean mocked, “Yeah, sure.”
The rest of the car ride, they attempted to talk as normal as possible despite the reason they were even driving together in the first place. Where they were going. They’d have to talk about it eventually. But maybe after a few beers, after the burial. Even then, they probably wouldn’t speak about it at all, they’d just sit there in their unmentionable grief and act as though it were any other day.
Although last time Dean didn’t pry thoughts out of Sam’s mind, Sam ended up in observation at a damn psych ward. Bobby was the one who looked out for Sam after, Bobby was the one who Sam stayed with, not Dean. How was he supposed to help now? He knew how to push people out, not pull them close. And he knew that's what Sam needed, but Dean is useless, his dad’s voice echoed in his skull.
Useless.
***
“So you want 3 dozen roses in bouquets by Friday,” Castiel repeated into the phone.
“Yes, that is correct. It’s me and my wife’s 36th anniversary,” the customer replied with a much too audible smile for the request.
“And what flowers would you like with the roses?”
“Whatever you think would look best!”
Castiel tried his best to maintain his customer service voice, “Would you like them delivered or are you picking them up?”
“Oh! I didn’t know I could do delivery!”
“Yes, with any order,” Castiel’s eyes rolled upwards.
“Great! Can you have them at my house by 6am on Friday?”
That’s hours before the shop opens but Castiel isn’t in much of a position to turn down any business at the moment, “Yes, can I have your address?”
Castiel rifled through his desk scribbled into a notepad he’d managed to bury. He’d have to go pick up more Roses, and spend a few extra hours after closing getting the arrangements just right. He could focus more of his time on this if he had help, but Castiel ran every aspect of the shop; which included standing at the counter, watering and looking after the plants, planning out arrangements, calculating profits made, and everything else in between.
The lord only gives us as much as we can handle, his father’s words twisted through Castiel’s chest, it churned with the guilt of not having as much faith as he should. His father would condemn him for that if he ever spoke those thoughts aloud. Castiel was never much good at following anyone or anything, no matter how hard he tried.
***