Title: Tattoo Parlor

Summary: When Dean gets bored, a slightly tipsy Sam comes to the rescue with the most wonderful idea. Oneshot humor.

Author: fairytalemanipulator

A/N: Tattoos have been on my mind recently. A few disclaimers: I think Dean drops the f-bomb in here once. Sorry. Heehee.

Enjoy and review! Love your fairytalemanipulator


"Okay, so when I said I was bored…I didn't mean we had to leave the bar…" Sam tripped on the curb, staggering slightly. "I mean, I was discussing anti-matter with that one girl who—"

"Sammy, does it look like I care?" Dean rubbed his hands together, wincing in the cold wind. "I can't get drunk enough to ignore all the ugly people in that bar,"

"Well that isn't very nice…" Sam pointed an accusatory finger in Dean's face. "Did you just call me ugly?"

"Yeah, gorgeous, sorry, guess you aren't coming back to my place tonight. How much did you drink?"

"Um," Sam waggled his eyebrows in an effort to remember. "This much?" He spread his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, grinning happily.

"Sure thing, Sunshine, let's get you back to the hotel,"

"Dean, look!" Sam struggled to keep his eyes open against the harsh neon lighting of the tattoo salon they were passing. "Hey, let's get tattoos!"

"Dude, remember? We already did, for protection. I ain't inking my body up for nothing."

"You chicken?" Sam stopped, looking at Dean with a silly smile on his face. "Bawk bawk bawk…"

Dean looked around at the few people passing them, raising their eyebrows in curiosity. "Sorry, he's a little challenged, you know?" Dean apologized for his brother, grabbing him by the arms and bringing him into the doorway of the grimy looking tattoo place.

"Sammy, look at this place. You'll get HIV from one stick of the needle. If you really want to get a tattoo, you can get one when you're sober and not in the middle of a crappy ghetto."

"No, I don't want one, I want YOU to get one!" Sam exclaimed happily, pushing through the double-barred doors before Dean's protests could escape his lips.

"Sam…" Dean's curses died on his lips as he followed his tipsy brother into the room, which was not nearly as grimy as it seemed from the outside.

What made it much more delightful might have been the voluptuous brunette standing in the middle of the floor covered in ink.

"Welcome. What can I do for you boys today?" the Sexpot (with a capital S, Dean added) oozed, her bare legs glowing in the fluorescent lighting. Dean didn't fail to notice the snakelike tattoo going up her right leg, from ankle to God-knows-what, he thought to himself, grinning on the inside.

"Well, uh…" Dean cleared his throat, as the amused woman watched Sam blunder his way to the unoccupied chair at the end of the room.

"We were thinking about--"

"What does this do?" Sam grinned foolishly, holding out a tube.

"Err…" the woman intervened, her heels clicking on the floor as she rapidly drew the tube out of the drunken brother's hands. "That's not to play with, sweetie. Do you want to lie down or something?"

"No, I'm okay. You're hot." Sam said matter-of-factly, openly eyeing the brunette. She raised her eyebrows and turned back to Dean, missing the look that he quickly shot his drunk brother. Geez, he acts more like me than I think, Dean thought to himself.

"Anywayyy…" Sam slurred, setting himself down on the raised customer chair. "Dean wants a tattoo."

"Oh really?" The girl smirked, stepping closer to Dean. "What exactly…"—she moved closer to the wide-eyed Dean—"did you have in mind?"

"Well uh, actually…"

"Oh don't tell me you're chickening out," she said softly, looking up into his eyes. Even with her heels on, she was still quite a few inches shorter than Dean. He noticed the star tattoo next to her right eye, winking a bright yellow out at him. Entranced, he allowed himself to be led to where Sam was sitting as she shooed him into the waiting chairs.

"We don't have any customers tonight, it's just me and you two," she continued gently, keeping strong eye contact with Dean. "So please, tell me you'll give me some"—pause—"business."

Dean gulped. "Um."

"Dean, come on, you have enough money, have some funnnn!" Sam said loosely, throwing his arms up in the air and loosing his balance as he did so. Falling onto his rear end on the hard tile floor, Sam looked up vacantly. "Loosen up Dean. God."

Dean's eyebrows were raised so high he wasn't sure if they were currently attached to his face. Role reversal much?

Then he looked at the woman standing in front of him. Christ.

"Uh, I never got your name," Dean said smoothly, feeling his game coming back.

"You never asked," she shot right back, snapping on latex gloves. "So we doing this or not? I mean…you aren't gonna chicken out now, are you?"

Grinning, she pulled out her paper.

Dean sighed. God dammit.

"My name's Candie, by the way," Candie brushed Dean's shoulder as she passed him to get her drawing supplies, sending butterflies throughout his body.

"I'm…I'm Dean," He found himself flustered, which was quite unusual for Dean Winchester. Come on man. Sam's right, you gotta loosen up!

Speaking of the other Winchester…Dean frowned, looking around for his brother.

Oh geez.

Sam apparently had not made it back on the chairs and was, as of the moment, snoring with his face on the floor. Gross.

Candie's clicking heels made their way back to her chair, and Dean caught a slight glimpse of what looked like a dragon tattoo starting at the top of her neck and winding down her back in the backless jersey dress she wore.

"So what kind of tattoo were you thinking of, Dean?"

"Something cool," came the moan from the floor, as Sam miraculously revived himself for a moment.

"Like what, kiddo?" Candie called out, furrowing her brow as she sketched out an idea on her pad. "Kid?"

No response but snoring.

"Okay, looks like we lost him again," Dean muttered, racking his brain for ideas. "So, once, I had this idea for a tattoo…"

:Next morning:

Sam groaned.

In fact, it seemed as if he could do nothing else. Simply cracking open his eyelids was an epic feat.

Finally managing to turn himself over on one side, Sam heard a familiar groan.

"You too?" Sam moaned and groaned his way to lifting himself off of the bed. "God, Dean, what the hell happened to us last night?"


"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, Sammy, I hate your existence."

Sam put one foot in front of the other and made his way to his brother's bed, where Dean was currently curled up in a corner. Sam moved to touch him arm and Dean yelped.

"Dude, get your drunk ass hands off of me!"

He curled up closer with his pillow, whimpering.

"Dean, what the hell," Sam sounded genuinely confused.

"Do you seriously not remember, Sammy?"

"No! And it's Sam!"

"Fuck you."

"Fuck YOU."

"You fucked me!"


"No, Christ! Not literally!"



At this, Dean drew back the sheets, exposing his left bicep. Sam gasped.


Through the clear plastic wrap that covered Dean's large new tattoo, Sam gulped.

"It's a polar bear?"

"You made me do it! And I listened to your drunk ass self!"

"How did you get a POLAR BEAR?"

"I told Candie that I wanted something fierce, like a bear, and she said okay! I trusted her! Women, they're all the same, and this is all your fault, if I had dragged your dumb butt back here…"

Dean stopped. "Sam."

"Sammy, you better get off the floor and stop laughing this instant or I will most likely grab that rickety chair over there and bash your head in with it."


"God dammit," Dean flung his pillow at his brother, and when the mockery did not stop there, he took it to the next level of the big brother handbook.


Wrestling Sam to the ground with one arm in throbbing pain was a mean feat to accomplish.



"I hate you."

"I hate you more."

"It's not my fault."

"I'm so making you get a fucking fairy tattooed on your face."