A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched when Sam dug a little too deep on accident. Dean didn't say anything.
In the dark like this, he didn't know how long it took for Sam to get the first pass of the tattoo done. It wasn't art, but he could tell what it was supposed to be. Their limited resources and time had driven his brother to use a different devil's trap design on him, which would at least save him a lot of ink. Still, despite the fact Dean could tell what his brother had drawn on him with the needle - he wasn't sure drawn was the word when it'd been more like countless number of shots in a damn row - he knew Sam wasn't done yet. Had to be at least a couple more passes, 'cause right now the lines were still broken and even one break would render the whole thing a moot point and a waste of everyone's time. He didn't want to go through the trouble of getting the supplies for this, the tattoo, and then get possessed all over again 'cause he rushed Sam.
Dean glanced from Sam's hand to his brother's face. His little brother was still cast half-in shadow as he worked, looking again older than he was. Dean wondered what it'd been like to really die like that, if he remembered anything at all. He didn't think he had - he didn't even remember Dean holding him, bleeding in the mud that night in Cold Oak - but it didn't stop him from wondering anyway. Sammy didn't deserve this life, Dean thought. He'd been trained for it, could handle himself and even kick some ass despite the fancy education, but that didn't mean he deserved to have to live like this. Dean was torn. He'd assumed he'd eventually have to tell his brother the truth, prepare him for when he...well, when he wasn't around anymore, but there was also that niggling voice in the back of his head that wanted Sam to just drop the hunts, the constantly almost getting killed (or actually getting killed) parts, and live a normal life.
Hadn't he done enough?
Why couldn't he live a normal life when everyone else got ot?
Dean knew he'd been thinking it, when he'd been trapped in that djinn's magic acid trip. Did Sam? Did he ever just get tired of all this? Sam spoke up then, Dean glancing back down to the progress he was making and glad for the dim lighting. He put on a casual expression, would've shrugged if it wouldn't have screwed up Sam's work.
"Yeah, I'm cool," Dean said. "Just hope I don't get an infection on top of this."
Sam had done the best to sterilize the tools with what they had, so if he did get infected, he wasn't gonna blame him. Dean just didn't want to have to try to deal with all these hunts while fighting off infection, if he could help it. More blood had welled up as Sam went over the design, patting away the blood with a strip ripped from Angel's sheets, the white turning splotchy even in the crap lighting. At least he wasn't bleeding out, like he'd done in some dumps and Sam had been the only person there to make sure he didn't pass out on the spot on some lumpy motel bed the maids probably hadn't even cleaned in a few days.
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In the dark like this, he didn't know how long it took for Sam to get the first pass of the tattoo done. It wasn't art, but he could tell what it was supposed to be. Their limited resources and time had driven his brother to use a different devil's trap design on him, which would at least save him a lot of ink. Still, despite the fact Dean could tell what his brother had drawn on him with the needle - he wasn't sure drawn was the word when it'd been more like countless number of shots in a damn row - he knew Sam wasn't done yet. Had to be at least a couple more passes, 'cause right now the lines were still broken and even one break would render the whole thing a moot point and a waste of everyone's time. He didn't want to go through the trouble of getting the supplies for this, the tattoo, and then get possessed all over again 'cause he rushed Sam.
Dean glanced from Sam's hand to his brother's face. His little brother was still cast half-in shadow as he worked, looking again older than he was. Dean wondered what it'd been like to really die like that, if he remembered anything at all. He didn't think he had - he didn't even remember Dean holding him, bleeding in the mud that night in Cold Oak - but it didn't stop him from wondering anyway. Sammy didn't deserve this life, Dean thought. He'd been trained for it, could handle himself and even kick some ass despite the fancy education, but that didn't mean he deserved to have to live like this. Dean was torn. He'd assumed he'd eventually have to tell his brother the truth, prepare him for when he...well, when he wasn't around anymore, but there was also that niggling voice in the back of his head that wanted Sam to just drop the hunts, the constantly almost getting killed (or actually getting killed) parts, and live a normal life.
Hadn't he done enough?
Why couldn't he live a normal life when everyone else got ot?
Dean knew he'd been thinking it, when he'd been trapped in that djinn's magic acid trip. Did Sam? Did he ever just get tired of all this? Sam spoke up then, Dean glancing back down to the progress he was making and glad for the dim lighting. He put on a casual expression, would've shrugged if it wouldn't have screwed up Sam's work.
"Yeah, I'm cool," Dean said. "Just hope I don't get an infection on top of this."
Sam had done the best to sterilize the tools with what they had, so if he did get infected, he wasn't gonna blame him. Dean just didn't want to have to try to deal with all these hunts while fighting off infection, if he could help it. More blood had welled up as Sam went over the design, patting away the blood with a strip ripped from Angel's sheets, the white turning splotchy even in the crap lighting. At least he wasn't bleeding out, like he'd done in some dumps and Sam had been the only person there to make sure he didn't pass out on the spot on some lumpy motel bed the maids probably hadn't even cleaned in a few days.