Skin
Rating: PG (bad language)
Characters: John POV with mention of Dean and vague Sam
Summary: Have you ever wondered why the boys don't have protective tattoos?
Author's Note: Thanks to
tigriswolf for a quick beta. Personally, I have nothing against tattoos; I just wonder why the boys don't have any. There has to be a good reason, right? Kripke owns all of the Winchesters and doesn't share, tag-nabbit.
Skin
Skin is the body’s natural barrier - germs, splinters, internal organs - anything that’s supposed to stay out or stay in is bound by that thin layer of meat that slides over the muscles. It’s the largest organ of the human body for a reason. God or whomever knew what He - or She….hell, maybe It - was doing when He enveloped the fragile little things called humans in that extra layer of wrapping.
Skin is God’s gift - that film of protection granted the weakest of Creation’s beings, the ones with such delicate souls, those so easily tempted or damaged or stolen. It’s like a metaphysical seal saying we’re USDA choice and FDA approved - still factory fresh.
See, skin is what makes us human. Without it, we’d be no better than the demons we hunt - formless entities made entirely of what might be a soul if allowed to fester and grow within a protective shield of skin.
Skin holds it all in, keeps it focused, gives it purpose - being all collected together like that, crammed into such a compact form, gives the soul time to gain strength, to expand, and to learn.
It’s why humans start out so small. ‘Cause that means all that big, open might-be-soul is all crushed together in a space far too tiny to contain it comfortably. Demons don’t have that regulation. It’s what they need…want...why they keep coming after a human host with some kind of abnormal fixation. They don’t understand it, but they need the confines of a human body so they can think clearly.
By that time it’s too late - damage is done. No way to fix what’s already broken. That’s why demons are so fucked in the head - didn’t have the proper restrictive shell when developing to stay sane.
Dean asked for a tattoo once…and only once - made sure of that. He wanted to project the image of teenage bad-ass to go with the nomadic digs and the black muscle car that made the small town girls melt in his backseat. He pleaded, in that off-hand (oh-no-it’s-not-really-all-that-important-but-it’d-be-cool-ya-know), yet tactical way teenagers do, saying what a fantastic idea it would be to get a great big protective sigil tattooed on his back (and maybe a little AC/DC tat on the arm ‘cause the chicks would really dig it, Dad). He pointed out how useful it would be to have protection you couldn’t lose (like condoms, heh-heh, just kidding, Dad. No, sir, I realize that’s not funny) making him a possession-free right-hand man of God, slaying evil and reaping his 72 virgins as he may.
He didn’t realize what he was asking.
Tattoos are a doorway. Lines of ink carved through that defensive human shield, eating away at that barrier that keeps us safe from outside harm.
Makes sense, doesn’t it? What opens out, demanding protection, can also swing in, inviting unwanted invaders into the secure, warm haven offered by that sweat-slick outer casing.
The idea behind a protective sigil scored into the flesh is a sound one - leaves hands free for weapons, you don’t have to worry about forgetting anything. Always better to fight with two hands than just with one, right?
Here’s where our own skin betrays us. Yeah, it’s our first line of defense, but it’s got its weaknesses.
Every drop of sweat seeping from those tiny pores, every ripple of muscle beneath the taut skin over bone corrupts the integrity of the tattoo, erodes the barrier just a little bit more - the protective properties of the blood-carved rune are rendered null if even the tiniest change alters its surface.
That’s why tattoos as a defense don’t work. To be effective, things like that are supposed to stay rigid, strong, unbending - change makes it useless.
People change, bodies change - the image stretches and fades. Those tiny hairs that warn you when danger is coming mar the purity of the protective cast.
Think of it like a salt line - it only works when it’s solid. A single grain out of place lets the evil in, whether you want it there or not.
Same thing, except it’s your own skin that’s betraying you, laying out the welcome mat for unwanted visitors.
It’s like I tell my boys - your body’s a temple. Treat the inside like shit if you want - drink, eat, and fuck anything that stands still long enough - but leave the wrapping alone.
In the end, that’s what’s gonna keep you safe.
Characters: John POV with mention of Dean and vague Sam
Summary: Have you ever wondered why the boys don't have protective tattoos?
Author's Note: Thanks to
tigriswolf for a quick beta. Personally, I have nothing against tattoos; I just wonder why the boys don't have any. There has to be a good reason, right? Kripke owns all of the Winchesters and doesn't share, tag-nabbit.
Skin
Skin is the body’s natural barrier - germs, splinters, internal organs - anything that’s supposed to stay out or stay in is bound by that thin layer of meat that slides over the muscles. It’s the largest organ of the human body for a reason. God or whomever knew what He - or She….hell, maybe It - was doing when He enveloped the fragile little things called humans in that extra layer of wrapping.
Skin is God’s gift - that film of protection granted the weakest of Creation’s beings, the ones with such delicate souls, those so easily tempted or damaged or stolen. It’s like a metaphysical seal saying we’re USDA choice and FDA approved - still factory fresh.
See, skin is what makes us human. Without it, we’d be no better than the demons we hunt - formless entities made entirely of what might be a soul if allowed to fester and grow within a protective shield of skin.
Skin holds it all in, keeps it focused, gives it purpose - being all collected together like that, crammed into such a compact form, gives the soul time to gain strength, to expand, and to learn.
It’s why humans start out so small. ‘Cause that means all that big, open might-be-soul is all crushed together in a space far too tiny to contain it comfortably. Demons don’t have that regulation. It’s what they need…want...why they keep coming after a human host with some kind of abnormal fixation. They don’t understand it, but they need the confines of a human body so they can think clearly.
By that time it’s too late - damage is done. No way to fix what’s already broken. That’s why demons are so fucked in the head - didn’t have the proper restrictive shell when developing to stay sane.
Dean asked for a tattoo once…and only once - made sure of that. He wanted to project the image of teenage bad-ass to go with the nomadic digs and the black muscle car that made the small town girls melt in his backseat. He pleaded, in that off-hand (oh-no-it’s-not-really-all-that-important-but-it’d-be-cool-ya-know), yet tactical way teenagers do, saying what a fantastic idea it would be to get a great big protective sigil tattooed on his back (and maybe a little AC/DC tat on the arm ‘cause the chicks would really dig it, Dad). He pointed out how useful it would be to have protection you couldn’t lose (like condoms, heh-heh, just kidding, Dad. No, sir, I realize that’s not funny) making him a possession-free right-hand man of God, slaying evil and reaping his 72 virgins as he may.
He didn’t realize what he was asking.
Tattoos are a doorway. Lines of ink carved through that defensive human shield, eating away at that barrier that keeps us safe from outside harm.
Makes sense, doesn’t it? What opens out, demanding protection, can also swing in, inviting unwanted invaders into the secure, warm haven offered by that sweat-slick outer casing.
The idea behind a protective sigil scored into the flesh is a sound one - leaves hands free for weapons, you don’t have to worry about forgetting anything. Always better to fight with two hands than just with one, right?
Here’s where our own skin betrays us. Yeah, it’s our first line of defense, but it’s got its weaknesses.
Every drop of sweat seeping from those tiny pores, every ripple of muscle beneath the taut skin over bone corrupts the integrity of the tattoo, erodes the barrier just a little bit more - the protective properties of the blood-carved rune are rendered null if even the tiniest change alters its surface.
That’s why tattoos as a defense don’t work. To be effective, things like that are supposed to stay rigid, strong, unbending - change makes it useless.
People change, bodies change - the image stretches and fades. Those tiny hairs that warn you when danger is coming mar the purity of the protective cast.
Think of it like a salt line - it only works when it’s solid. A single grain out of place lets the evil in, whether you want it there or not.
Same thing, except it’s your own skin that’s betraying you, laying out the welcome mat for unwanted visitors.
It’s like I tell my boys - your body’s a temple. Treat the inside like shit if you want - drink, eat, and fuck anything that stands still long enough - but leave the wrapping alone.
In the end, that’s what’s gonna keep you safe.