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It started out normally. The Winchesters (they’d claimed Cas was one of them long enough that he’d begun thinking of himself as part of that unit) had been working a case, if you could call it that. It was incredibly straightforward — at least by their standards — and it only took them a day or so to track down the spirit, its corpse, and a lighter. Before they’d skipped town, the child residing in the home said spirit had been plaguing had tugged on Castiel’s trench coat.
“Excuse me, sir, can I give you this tattoo?” she said, sweetly albeit a bit shyly. The “tattoo” in question was a bright butterfly in different shades of purple, blue, and pink. “I wanted to thank you for getting rid of the ghost, but my mom wouldn’t let me get anything for you. She doesn’t think the ghost was ever there.”
Touched by the gesture, Cas accepted, thanking her quietly. He didn’t understand children (he didn’t understand humanity, really, though that was less obvious now), but he enjoyed their company all the same. They hadn’t been exposed to the crushing reality of the world, and the vein of innocent goodness that had been the shining feature of God’s creation was more distinct. Dean had often compared him to a child in the early stages of their alliance, and when he looks back on that time with the experiences and knowledge he’s accumulated since then, he sees the similarities. He’s lived (and died) more in these past few years than he did in the thousands of years before he met the Winchesters.
On the drive back to the bunker, the conversation the brothers engaged in (a petty “argument” about Star Trek, whether Spock or Data was the better character. Cas was on Sam’s side, “Team Data”.) buried his thoughts about the butterfly tattoo he’d been gifted. He didn’t think about it until a few days later, when he put his hand in the pocket of his coat and found it. Not wanting the little girl’s gift to go to waste, he peeled off the plastic layer and placed the tattoo on the back of his hand. When he removed the paper, the sight of a colorful insect filled him with a strange, inexplicable sense of joy. Dean made a sarcastic comment about it when he saw it, but the mood stayed with Castiel until the butterfly faded a few days later.
He didn’t think of the butterfly tattoo and its effects again until a couple months later, when he spotted a pack of similar temporary tattoos on a “B&B quest,” as Dean liked to call the late-night voyages for bacon, booze, and whatever else struck the fancy of sleep-deprived hunters between the hours of 1 and 3 am. Sleep deprivation, of course, had no effects on Cas, but in his years on Earth, there was just something about being out and about when much of the world was inside and asleep that changed his behaviour and let down his guard a little. Perhaps because of this, he snagged one of the packets and deposited it in the cart. For the next few weeks, he constantly had at least one butterfly on the back of his hand, and that happiness he’d felt with the original gift re-emerged with every application of an image.
After that, every time Castiel saw a pack of temporary tattoos, he purchased it. At first, it was just butterflies, but later on his collection expanded to include flowers, animals, and even a few superheroes. It didn’t seem to matter what the subject was, as long as there was some sort of design on his hand, that euphoric feeling remained.
Eventually, Sam inquired as to the purpose of the tattoos that were constantly appearing on the angel’s hand. Cas recounted the story of the little girl who’d bestowed upon him the first butterfly, and the joy that seemed to follow them. The Winchesters seemed content, if a little confused, with this explanation, and things carried on as normal for the next few days.
Amidst the preparation for the next big battle, Dean asked for one of Castiel’s tattoos. Cas gave him a green butterfly. To his surprise, Dean placed it on his cheek. Sam seemed bemused by it, but requested one as well. Thus, Team Free Will walked onto the next battlefield adorned with a butterfly. And when they returned home, bloody and bruised but triumphant, more butterflies appeared on their bodies.
At some point, Dean suggested getting a permanent butterfly tattoo. Sam replied with a snarky, “didn’t realize you were a basic college girl,” but agreed anyhow. They returned home that night with a butterfly on the inside of each of their wrists; a stark contrast to the only other tattoo any of them possessed, the anti-possession sigil.
When the inevitable happened and both Winchesters died, permanently despite all Castiel’s efforts, he laid the remnants of his tattoo collection to rest in the pyre with the brothers. It had become their thing, the butterflies and other designs, and he wouldn’t — couldn’t face them without the presence of the humans who had awakened him to the mostly wonderful world of humanity. He was truly alone; even when he’d felt alone before, the Winchesters ended up forgiving him and bringing him back in. Jack was still there, and Castiel appreciated that, but he… wasn’t the same. As the bodies burned, Cas — this was the last time he would think of himself as “Cas” for a long time, the Winchesters had given him that name and he couldn’t bear to use it if they couldn’t — glimpsed a butterfly soaring away into the sky. He dismissed it, but a corner of him kept going on about the symbolism of it.
Later, not long enough for Castiel to feel normal again but long enough that the initial sharp stab of pain to have “subsided” (that wasn’t the right term, it hadn’t lessened, just mutated) into a dull ache, he was caught by some of his old brethren. They spouted the usual monologue: he was a traitor of heaven, personally responsible for the fall and everything else that had befallen the angels since. Apparently, they’d decided it was their mission to assassinate him. They nearly succeeded, though that was mainly because Castiel didn’t see a point in being alive anymore. Just before the killing blow was dealt, however, Castiel saw that butterfly tattoo the three of them all had. His life flashed before his eyes — his true life, not the thousands of years he’d spent as heaven’s mindless drone, the life he’d had with the Winchesters — and it ignited something within him. He dodged the blow, retrieved his blade, and left the alley with several more wings burnt into it than there had been when he entered.
Years later, he couldn’t say how many, Castiel was in a grocery store (he was working a case and running low on salt) and saw a pack of temporary tattoos. Nostalgia washing over him, he picked up the pack. After the spirit had been dealt with and he’d returned home (it wasn’t really home without the Winchesters, but what else could you call it?) he stuck a paper onto the back of his hand, not looking or caring what the design was. When he peeled back the paper, a bright butterfly in different shades of purple, blue, and pink looked back up at him.
Cas smiled.