Chapter Text
Sam and Dean walked into the small tattoo parlor tucked away in the alley. The old, musty smell of long-extinguished cigarettes filled the air as another customer’s screams of pain echoed from down the hall. “Dean,” Sam commented, “are you sure this is a smart idea?” “Of course it is, Sammy. Grow a pair,” the elder Winchester replied before turning to look at the sample designs adorning the wall. He chuckled before asking his brother, “hey I should get this on my ass, right?” referring to a pair of simple black and white angel wings. Sam shot him a dirty look.
Before he could reply, the tattoo artist emerged from the rear workstation, snapping off her gloves while a burly man trailed behind. “So, boys, what can I do for you?” she asked, leaning expectantly on the front counter. Dean removed a crumpled piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and passed it to her. “We both want this done on our chests,” he said as she examined the very crude sketch of an anti-possession symbol. “All right. Seems easy enough. Who’s first?” she asked, before Dean immediately volunteered his brother with a slight slap to the back. Sam retorted with some comment about the older one going first, but the artist had already begun to lead them back to her station.
As Sam removed his shirt, the artist began gathering the necessary equipment for the brothers’ tattoos. She gestured for him to lay down on the table, and tells him that it will only hurt in the beginning. “Don’t pee yourself, big boy,” Dean quipped, causing the tattoo artist to smile and Sam to wish he had brought something hard to throw at him. She wipes down the part of his chest that she would be working on and pours a small amount of black ink into a container. “You ready?” she asks, getting a slight nod as confirmation for her to begin. The slight hum of the needle fills the silence in the room before she asks the brothers what they do for a living.
Dean chuckles and smiles before saying, “We’re, uh, exterminators,” as Sam sharply breathes in. “Sorry, I should have warned you. The chest can be a sensitive area for tattoos,” the artists remarked, “but exterminators? You two don’t seem to fit that mold.” “Yeah? Why would you say that?” “Well, they’re typically scrawny and nerdy-looking, and you two are, well, not.” She wipes some of the excess ink off of Sam. “It’s the family business. Dad did it, we do it, it’s always been like that,” Dean replied. A few minutes of silence follow, before the artist sprays Sam off and commented that he’s done and it’s now Dean’s turn.
Dean hopped on the table and took his shirt off. “Watch how a real man does it, Sammy. Ready, hot stuff?” The tattoo artist rolled her eyes before wiping his chest and beginning his ink. A series of rather creative swears flew from his mouth, causing Sam to laugh and the artist to mischievously grin. “Aw, what the matter hot stuff? Can’t handle the needle?” she asked in a tone thick with sarcasm. “Yeah, Dean. Don’t be a wuss,” the other Winchester followed. Dean glared at his brother. “Shut up, Sam,” he commented, before quietly muttering, “Son of a bitch, this hurts,” under his breath. After what seemed like an eternity, the buzzing of the needle stopped and the artist wiped off the excess ink from Dean’s tattoo. “See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” she asked before playfully slapping his chest. He glared as he grabbed his shirt and gingerly put it back on.
The two hunters and the artist all made their way to the front counter to pay. As Dean removed his wallet, his phone started to play “Carry on My Wayward Son” by Kansas. He looked at the caller ID, which brightly displayed that Bobby was trying to call him. He pressed the silence button. “Remind me to call Bobby in the Impala,” he commented to Sam before his phone started blaring “Don’t Stop Believing.” “He’s calling me too. Do you think it’s important?” he asked, before Dean commented that they’d be out at the car in five minutes and, whatever Bobby had to say, it could wait until then. The tattoo artist handed them a receipt and the boys exited to the Impala. Sam put his phone onto speakerphone as he dialed Bobby’s number.
“Hey, boys,” the voice at the other end said, “were you able to take care of all of the demons I told you about yesterday?” “We think so,” Sam responded, “although there were only 7 at the warehouse. You said there were 8.” “Well, did you get the girl?” “What girl?” Dean asked. “You know, the only female in the group. Brunette, looks like a twig, covered in tattoos…” Bobby began, before perfectly describing the tattoo artist the boys had just encountered. “SON OF A BITCH!” Dean exclaimed, realizing that they had literally just been in front of the head of the clan they just “exterminated.” “You idjits!” Bobby yelled, before hanging up the phone as Dean made an extremely illegal u-turn back towards the tattoo parlor.