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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

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Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 20: Unfortunate Soul Marks

Dean knew two things since he was born – his birthmark was in the shape of a dick, and his soulmate was a complete and total one. Because the mark isn’t only embarrassing, it’s impossible to hide. Which explains the latter. Who else but a total jerk would lay their privates on someone’s forehead? And, in true Winchester fashion, that kind of man would be the love of his life.

He lowers the brim of his hat, cursing as wind whips across the sandy beach. “Fuckin’ beach,” he grumbles, “fuckin’ outdoors…” Having a dick stamped on his face meant Dean preferred not leaving his house. Growing up, he was the definition of an indoor kid. When he did leave his house, Dean practiced safety measures like having long bangs, wearing bandanas and hats, using concealer; it never worked as well as he hoped. Countless times these measures failed and exposed his shame to the world. Made school all the more difficult once the other kids realized what that shape meant.

Dean never had many friends. No playdates, parties, or sleepovers. Not many people wanted a human unicorn hanging around them, despite how Mary tried encouraging him. All he could do was count the days until he graduated high school. Started working at his uncle’s auto shop soon after, as promised. Keeping his head buried under car parts saved him from many social interactions, where eyes could stare at his forehead and turn every conversation awkward. There was no need for him to ever leave the safety of the little bubbles he had.

Except Sam. Used his intense puppy dog eyes, convinced Dean he would like the beach. As if being abandoned by his little brother and his soul mate were what he always wanted. They had a cute story. Sam took sign in college. One day, his tutor reached over during a lesson. Corrected the bend of his pinkie finger with her thumb and pointer. Sparks flew while the grey blobs of their marks darkened before disappearing immediately. A flip switched, and both he and Eileen knew what it meant.

That’s probably the only part Dean looks forward to, when meeting his soulmate. The cause of his suffering was also who can save him from it. Once the shadow dick vanishes, maybe then Dean could enjoy the beach. Or his life. Although starting over at twenty-five seems too daunting. Better he sticks with what he knows.

Like how he hates being outside. Especially at the beach. This close, winds from the sea blow with all their might in their attempts to steal Dean’s hat. Straw shield billowing from each impact. Dean keeps a hand firmly fixed atop his head as he wandered, protecting it. Pushing down hard enough he caused a minor headache not even kicking wet sand and trickling surf could heal.

Dean also hates this hat. It’s not something he would wear, better for old women in gardens on sunny days. However, of his collection the straw provides perfect concealment.

If it would just stay on.

A few kids run past, Dean tipping its edge further down until he cannot see. Waiting for them to pass. He knew the earful that waited should one of them catch sight of his mark, and then raced off for a parent. Asking questions, pointing, getting Dean in trouble for something he had no say in.

They leave with no trouble. Dean sighs in relief, body untensing. As this happens, a sharp gust strikes from behind. His hat tumbles out of his grip, skipping across the sand.

Dean waits a beat. Then, he races after it.

Chasing, one hand stretched far but never quite there. The other plastered over his forehead like an awkward bandage. If he used both, snagging his runaway hat would be much easier. It’s too risky, though. So Dean continues with his self-inflicted handicap. Blindly following as the accessory leads him towards a far part of the beach.

It’s close. His fingers are nearly around it. Dean needed a burst of speed, and it would be in his grasp. He adds –

Slam!

Down. Darkness. Dean groans, dizzy from the collision. A sharp hiss greeting his own voiced pain, telling Dean he slammed into another person.

Collateral damage, a Winchester specialty.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean says, forehead burning. He wonders if hitting another person could cause blunt force trauma. At least enough for skin to break. A bloody wound is the last thing he needed. “I was chasing my hat and –“

“I noticed,” the stranger says, deep voice sending chills down his spine. “Just as I was getting out of the water.”

“Again, sorry.” He rises, “I’ll just be out of your…” Dean trails off, finally opening his eyes. The first thing he focuses on is a large, familiar shadowed dick. Then, he sees its true color reveals itself as grey transitions into tan. Which means… “Holy crap.” Dean looks at the other man. “Your soul mark was on your dick?”

“I… yes, it…” He blushes, blue eyes comically large at Dean’s blunt observation. Running fingers through wet locks, he stammers, “I’m sorry, that you had to hit into – you were bent over, so of course – wait. What do you mean by was?”

“As in… not there anymore?”

The man looks at his dick, choking on a gasp. Seeing what Dean does. “It’s gone,” he says, glancing back at Dean, “I thought that was only supposed to happen when you met your –“

“Yeah.” He doesn’t seem like a complete and total dick. His soulmate is awkward, confused, slow on the uptake. He’s also gorgeous, fit… and, well, Dean already knew how gifted he was. Although that doesn’t explain why. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“Uh…” he frowns, head tilting sideways, “this is a nude beach.”

“A… a nude beach,” Dean scans the area, noticing many others who have chosen limited clothing for their stay. Many of them watching Dean and his soulmate with interest, heads turned their direction. Judgment hidden behind shaded lenses. He shrinks under their stares, rubbing at his forehead. Not that he has to worry, his mark should be gone. Years of practice are hard to overcome. “Is there anything on my forehead?”

He studies it for Dean, shaking his head. “Why should there be?”

“That’s where my mark was,” Dean explains, “where… your dick was.”

“That’s… awful.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, leaning back. Hat miles away by now, not that he cares. His hands settle in his lap as he kneels, waves crawling forward and rushing over them. “I can fill in the blanks, though, over some food?”

Smiling, finally, the man agrees. “I’d love to…”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” he says, tasting the word in his mouth. Enjoying it, if the curl of his lips means anything. “My name’s Cas.”

“Cas.” Dean mirrors his expression, “I like that.” And he thinks he likes Cas. They… clicked. Hopefully the other man can prove having his dick on Dean’s forehead for twenty-five years was worth it.

Dean has no doubt it was.

(Day 19 - Flipped?)

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