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Dean knew how this went. He knew the way this world worked. He had heard all of the stories, some millions of times. He knew about soulmates.
On the right arms of every person in this world, from infancy, was the last words their soulmate would ever say. That was just the way their society ran. Soulmates were chosen by fate, an entity people had long ago come to accept as plausible. You won't know their name, you won't know their face, but you will know.
Some people feel it instantly, a small little zing running down their spine at the first moment of eye contact, or the first brush of skin, like a little voice in every square inch of their being echoing, 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you.'
For others, it takes time, work, something that feels like chance. It might start with a set-up by friends, or a blind date. It will go on, both people thinking it is just a little bit of fun before their soulmate comes prancing through the door. Their soulmate has been sitting on the couch for the past few months. One day they'll finally notice that hey, this feels right.
But you can never truly be sure until the rich ebony ink on your arm is red and your soulmate's time has come. They're gone.
Some people 'Redden', as it's called, before they even meet their soulmate. A rare, horribly unlucky few, are born Reddened, a fear that haunts each expecting parent. The lucky ones have words like 'Good-bye' or 'I love you' or 'Thank you' scripted on their forearms.
Dean's arm bore the words 'Excuse me, sorry.'
He had memorized words since he could read. He hated them for almost as long.
When he was a kid, he saw them as just another thing he had to wait for, like driving, or being independent. Once he got into school he thought they were an embarrassment. He was given weird looks from the children who had nice words, words spoken to someone familiar. He had words spoken by a stranger.
Then he entered high school and discovered the art of sex. He fell in love instantly. He was a good-looking guy, he knew that, everyone knew that. He could get laid if he wanted to, and boy, did he want to. He had yet to meet anyone for whom he felt anything remotely 'zingy' for.
But every time he slept with someone, or hell, even flirted, the black ink would flash through his mind, filling him with a small sense of guilt. Then he would get hard and forget about pretty much everything, but you know, there was a moment.
By the time Dean was out of college, he had veritably earned the honor of being called a 'Manwhore' and at first it was almost something he was proud of.
Then the inevitable happened.
Dean grew up.
He got a job as an art consultant for a local museum, he found a nice, affordable apartment in a nice, affordable, part of Chicago, he stopped sleeping around because he found that the random bar chicks just couldn't bring him anything more than a short release, and he didn't want a short release.
He wanted his soulmate.
But he didn't have one.
The black words on his arm were a constant reminder of that fact.
Then, the other inevitable happened.
It was what had appeared in the morning to be just another Thursday. Of course, that's how it always starts. It's just another something-or-other and than, bam, it's not.
Dean had woken up with his alarm like any other day. He had gotten a black coffee from the cafe down his block like any other day. He had gone to work like any other day. He had sat at his computer in his laid-back office browsing online art auctions for something worthwhile.
At almost exactly two in the afternoon, just like any other day, Dean's best friend Charlie Bradbury had flopped upside-down on his couch.
Charlie was an intern for the Head of Tech in their little museum, and her boss was a total psycho. He had her working non-stop and barely let her touch the computer even though she could do his job better than he could before having her morning cup o' Joe.
Yes, Dick was a dick. They all saw the irony.
It had become a tradition for Charlie to find sanctuary in Dean's office for the half-hour lunch break Dick customarily took at this time. Dean had long ago come to accept and expect it, even though the first time it happened he had no idea who the person that had just planted their feet on his lap and demanded a massage was.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
"Hey Charlie."
"Sup Winchester?"
"Trying to work. You?"
"Trying to avoid work."
It was a habitual conversation.
"Guess what happened to me last night," Charlie grinned.
"The Queen of England called?"
"Nope." Charlie grinned. "I think I found her Dean-o."
"Seriously? Get out." Dean pushed away the twinge of anger in favor of feeling happy for his friend."
"I'm serious. Her name is Dorothy Gale and she is pretty much amazing."
"You really think it's her?"
"Yep." Charlie sighed dreamily before sobering minutely. "Dean, she's really great."
"Well, I'm happy for you two." Dean squeezed her leg.
Charlie must not have missed the small glimmer of longing that had somehow found its way into his eyes for a moment because she smiled softly at him. "Hey, don't worry, you'll find them eventually. In the mean time, don't stress on it. Having a soulmate isn't all butterflies and rainbows."
Dean raised a brow at her. "I thought that was the whole point. What's so bad?"
"Well, think about it. You find this incredible person, one who you don't feel like you could ever live without again, but there's a constant reminder that they're going to die tattooed on your skin. It can be a buzz-kill."
Dean nodded contemplatively. "Point taken." He glanced at his watch and stood to put his computer away. "I'm going to get lunch."
"You're hungry?"
Dean paused and had to think about it. "No, I just want to get lunch."
Charlie gave him a look for the strange behavior, but waved him off anyway. Dean pulled on his jacket and headed off.
When he made it to the intersection, Dean stopped again. His go to place for a quick meal was Fabio's Pizzeria off to the right. Dean felt his legs compel him in that direction, but something else compelled him to the left. Oh, wait, there was that new place that opened just a block down. It wouldn't hurt to check it out.
Right?
In any case, despite something in Dean telling him to just go to Fabio's, he didn't. He turned left. Dean crossed the street at the end of the block, weaving through the mass of people from the near-three'o'clock rush. The light turned to WALK and Dean crossed with the throng.
As he was coming up on the sidewalk, Dean bumped into someone. He turned slightly at the same time that person did, not a full turn, just an apology over the back of his shoulder.
"Excuse me, sorry," the man said distractedly.
"My fault, sorry," Dean replied and continued on his way.
Dean walked a few steps before something in him clicked. Something felt off. He turned back, even through every single fiber of his being protested, screaming at him to just continue.
Dean saw in slow motion as the pedestrian sign turned to STOP and cars started to move again. The man Dean had bumped into did not notice, continuing on as if a car hadn't just turned the corner in his direction.
Dean moved forward instinctively, though that might not have been the right word. The voice in the back of his mind yelled at him to stop moving, to turn back and go to the new place, to do anything but what he was doing, which was reaching out and grasping the sleeve of the man's odd treach-coat. Dean pulled the distracted and shocked man back onto the sidewalk and safely out of danger.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"I-I think so. Thank you."
Dean opened his mouth to speak again but a stinging sensation on his forearm effectively stopped him. Dread forming in his stomach, Dean pulled his jacket sleeve up and stared in shock at the words on his arm. More importantly, the red words on his arm.
It had happened. His soulmate was dead. But... it didn't feel like his soulmate was dead. It really didn't. Was he supposed to feel something right now?
"Um, are you okay?" Dean looked back up at the man he had just saved, noting absently that his eyes were very, very blue.
"I... think I am."
The man smiled oddly and held out his hand. "I'm Castiel."
"I'm Dean. It's nice to meet you."
Zing.
There you are.