Fiction 37b37- Nec Aspera Terrent

Series Title: 37 By 37

Story Title: Nec Aspera Terrent

Author: Restive Nature

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Supernatural. They belong respectively to Eric Kripke. No infringement is intended and this fiction is for private enjoyment only. The song mentioned within although referenced only by title, belongs to it's artist and label.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Straight Supernatural

Type: Angsty

Pairing: None

Summary: Response to the Tattoo Challenge at the Nuns With Pen site. Challenge listed below

Spoilers/ Time line: General for Supernatural, but after John has passed away.

Feedback: Always welcome!

Distribution: Ask first please.

A/N: Challenge is as follows-

We had a discussion about why exactly Dean dosn't have a tattoo and we felt he REALLY should. Maybe he got it during a drunkin night at a bar. So here is your task, if you choose to accept it, Give Dean a tattoo.
Here are things that MUST be in-
1. It must be somewhere hidden.
2. the tat must be something interesting and not very Dean.
3. Sam must find it.

By Deanaholic at NWP

Nec Aspera Terrent

He had noticed it when he had helped Dean strip his boots from his feet. The obviously broken rib that Dean had sustained had kept him from bending over to take care of the task himself. His older brother had gotten his ass handed to him, that was for sure. And the only thing that kept Sam from reaming on said ass about it, was the fact that Dean had stepped in between him and the spirit that had been able to manifest some physical form.

That was the chastisement Sam would take him to task for. Even as much as he knew that it would be pointless. They could be little old men, gray and bent over walkers and canes and somehow his big brother would jump in before anything, any harm could befall Sam. That still didn't change how it made him feel inside though.

But now, with a slight smirk, tossing the stinky sweat sock aside, since it had been a very long day, Sam turned his brother's foot just slightly and stared at the sickly yellow of one of those annoyingly perky faces. A smiley face. His older brother had a smiley face tattooed on the inside ankle of his right foot.

“When did you do that, and please let there be a hilarious story behind it?” he demanded, partly because it was an anomaly for Dean to have anything that cutesy anywhere near him and also because he was trying to distract Dean from the pain in any way possible and this seemed as good as any.

“Do what?” Dean asked, his voice tired as he used the first aid scissors they'd gotten from a drug store to cut away the fabric of his t-shirt. It was a hell of a lot easier than trying to remove it as he normally would, yanking it up over his neck and head. Dean was not going to be able to lift his arms above his head, not without running the risk of puncturing his lung. And it wasn't as if the shirt was a loss. It was grimy and nasty and torn up, much like Dean's torso. Once he looked at his brother, kneeling on the floor beside the bed on one knee, his arm resting on the other, his face curious and slightly amused, even if it was just a cover for the concern that welled in his eyes.

Sam, knowing he had his brother's attention, glanced down and poked at his ankle again. The responding twitch was instantaneous and Dean flicked his toes, as if trying to drive Sam's fingers away. “Oh that,” he muttered and remembering not to shrug, contented himself with an underhanded floppy toss of the damaged shirt to the trash bin. “Got drunk. Some chick was showing off and complaining about her new tat on her ankle. If I remember correctly, I said they weren't that bad. She dared me to get one on my ankle and then I'd see how painful it was that close to bone.”

“Was it?” Sam wondered.

“Dunno,” Dean's voice was slurry with pain and fatigue. “I was drunk Sam. Woke up the next morning, chick in my bed, bandage on my ankle.”

“But a smiley face?” Sam teased as he pushed up from the floor and went to retrieve more supplies. Both men knew that he'd have to wrap Dean's ribs.

“She dared me,” was the simple explanation that had Sam rolling his eyes.

“And does this little girlfriend have a name?” he wondered aloud. “And what are you, in fifth grade?”

“Harmony and no, I was drunk,” Dean reiterated, his words clipped and dark. Sam wasn't so surprised by that. He returned to his brother and knelt once more, setting the gauze and then the long ACE bandage on the bed. He grabbed for his brother's foot again, while Dean was unable to get away. He did look ready to kick Sam, but Sam was prepared for that, hence why he had chosen his brother's bad side.

“It's funny,” he smirked once more, peering at the tattoo, poking one finger at it. “Is that...?” He looked a little more closely, noting that instead of a thick circle outline, it was thinner, broken, surrounding the yellow circle of the face itself. “Is that script?” he wondered, intrigued now.

“How the hell should I know?” Dean demanded irritably. “I never look at the damn thing. One of these days, I'll probably get it lazered off. If I ever get the time. Or the money.”

“What does it say?” Sam murmured, about ready to get down on his hands and knees. He didn't want to just yank his brother's foot up and knock him off balance and he was pretty sure that Dean wouldn't lift it up like a good little patient.

“Is it really important right now?” Dean sighed and Sam, hearing even more weariness knew that this could wait. Especially since, if he got Dean vertical and sleeping, then he could look at his brother's ankle more easily then.

“No, right, sorry,” Sam apologized swiftly. He turned his attention to helping his brother patch himself up.

*****

Dean had known that it was only a matter of time before his brother discovered the tattoo. Living in as close as quarters as they did, it was practically a certainty. But still, he didn't want to have to explain the why and what and when. Those memories that the tattoo were associated with were still painful.

Painful enough that shortly after Sam had left them, to go to college, with his father falling apart but at the same time, harder than ever, Dean had been drinking more than ever. What he had told Sam about being drunk, when he conceived of the tat, was true. But by the time he had reached the nearest reputable parlor, he had sobered up quite a bit. And there had been a girl named Harmony. She'd been the tattoo artist.

When he had told her what he wanted, she had said that it would be no problem. She loved doing free style script. But Dean had wanted it sort of disguised. The real message within the facade. And while he had looked over her wall of art, drawings, pictures, offerings, the girl had been humming something that sounded familiar and vaguely reggae-ish. When he had turned and asked her, she had smiled, turned up her radio ad the nauseating strains of Bobby McFerrin's song “Don't Worry, Be Happy” floated over to him. His eyes lit on the smiley face and he knew right then that it was perfect.

Their world might be falling apart, but it would go on. That much was obvious. They might have lost Sam to his perception of 'normal', but they still had other lives to save. And Dean, the stalwart son and soldier that he was, would happily go into that battle, a heavy metal song in his heart, a smile on his face. A smile that would endure when all else fell away to ruin.

“Nec aspera terrent,” he whispered to himself, remembering, as Sam was busy in the bathroom of their current rundown little crappy motel room. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt that Sam would be getting another gander at his tat. And he knew that his brother's brain wouldn't let him rest until he had deciphered the Latin inscription and what it meant. That was, if he didn't recognize it off the bat.

Laying his head back on the slightly flattened pillow, Dean remembered how Harmony, a strange quixotic mixture of hippy and biker chic, what with the beads and skirts and arms full of tattoos that weren't just wanna blessed be's henna, had been bent over his foot, her tattoo gun moving fluidly in her hands.

“That's really pretty,” she had sighed without glancing up. “What's it mean.”

Dean had simply smiled down at her, at one, at peace with this choice. “We shall overcome,” was his only reply.

The smile she had given him was beatific before she returned to her work. And the smile that he had given her had brought her to his room and then his bed. And now, knowing that there wasn't much he could do to stop Sam's little quest that would keep him busy and his brain occupied for all of five minutes, Dean allowed his memories of the rest of that night, to lull him to a quiet sleep.

Permanent Facial