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“Shit!”
Dean’s boots skidded across the ground just as a massive claw ripped through the air, missing his face by inches and slamming into the ground behind him. He dropped low, rolled under the snapping jaws of the six-eyed wolf he was fighting and tried to place as much distance between them as he could.
“Goddammit!” he growled, backpedaling and narrowly avoiding a second swipe that tore through the air and slammed into a tree. The impact split the trunk into thousands of shards that exploded outward, stinging his face.
Dean twisted away and ran three steps, four, then stopped dead and turned. No point in running. This thing would just chase him until it tired him out, caught him, and tore him apart.
The wolf towered over him. Easily the size of a carriage, its white fur was mostly covered in black corruption, matted with patches of ooze that pulsed out of infected rot. Its six eyes glowed black like onyxes and locked onto him, all shimmering with something unnatural—Dean didn't know what. Its breath came in short hissing wheezes. The monster’s snout was dripping with foul black blood, and the broken remains of Dean’s short sword could be seen jutting from between its black-stained yellow fangs.
“Great,” Dean muttered. “That was my best sword.”
The wolf roared, a horrible screeching howl that sent birds shrieking all around them and emptied the canopies of all other hidden critters.
Dean rolled his neck until it gave a satisfying pop, ignoring the ache in his side and the slow trickle of blood down his left temple. He pulled his twin knuckle-knives from the holsters strapped on his lower back. The steel gleamed under layers of dried blood and forest grime, and the etched sigils along the grips glowed faintly with silver light.
“All right, you son of a bitch,” Dean muttered as he lifted his fists onto a guard position and tucked his chin down. “Let’s fucking dance.”
The wolf lunged.
Dean channeled and the world slowed.
His magic surged from his core, not outward like fire or thunder, but inward. It twisted through muscle and bone, strengthening them tenfold. His reflexes sharpened, his heartbeat synced with the pulse of the sigils in his weapons.
He sidestepped the initial lunge, pivoted on his back foot and slammed his fist, knife and all, into the creature’s snout as it passed. The enchanted strike cracked teeth and knocked the monster’s head sideways midair. It crashed into the earth, skidding through the underbrush and tearing up a trail of dirt and corrupted blood.
Before Dean could celebrate the wolf recovered, unnaturally fast, and lashed out with a hind leg. The blow caught Dean in the stomach, sending him flying backwards and into a tangle of roots and bushes. Air left his lungs and his vision blurred. When he tried to stand something cracked in his chest.
Pain flared hot and bright.
“Okay,” Dean groaned, dragging himself upright a little slower. “That’s at least one rib… maybe three. Awesome.”
He planted one foot, then the other, and pushed the rest of the way upward. His legs trembled, blood was seeping through his shirt from an unknown wound. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.
The wolf circled him like the prey he was, black ooze dripped from its maw, its body sagging with wounds but still very much alive. Its eyes fixed on Dean with what felt like hate, or maybe hunger.
Either way, he wants to kill me for sure, Dean thought as he cleaned sweat dripping down his forehead with the back of his hand. He grinned, and rasped. “You’re still ugly.”
He surged forward without a second thought. His knives flashed in quick brutal arcs: one slashed across the wolf’s front leg, severing a tendon, and the other jammed deep into its shoulder. The sigils detonated small bursts of force on contact, designed not to kill but to maim. Blood, black with corruption, sprayed across Dean’s arms.
The beast roared and spun, trying to catch him in its jaws. Dean ducked under the snapping fangs, kicked off a tree root, and launched himself over its back. Midair, he twisted, slashing a jagged line across the wolf’s spine before landing in a crouch behind it.
“Come on!” he shouted. “You’re gonna need all six eyes to keep up with me, bitch!”
The monster charged blindly, more instinct and anger than strategy now.
Dean stood still, breathing through his nose. Focusing his magic into his muscles and bones. Control was all he needed.
His right hand clenched and the sigils in the knife pulsed harder, he diverted his magic inward even more, reinforcing his spine and his injured ribs. His body burned with energy, thrumming with the kind of power the guilds called useless.
They didn’t get it.
He didn’t need fireballs or thunder falling from the sky as weapons. He was the weapon.
The wolf leapt again.
Dean dropped low, making sure he was under the wolf. The moment its front paws cleared him and he had access to the beast’s belly, he surged upward with a brutal uppercut. The augmented force behind the strike lifted the wolf into the air and crashed into a tree to hard the trunk split.
The impact echoed throughout the forest.
Dean stumbled backward, chest heaving, blood trickling from a split above his eyebrow he’d somewhat acquired in the attack. “Yeah,” he muttered, hands shaking. “That’s what I thought.”
But the wolf didn’t stay down.
It rose, limbs trembling, one leg clearly broken, but it still snarled at Dean. It had no sense of pain left, the corruption left nothing behind but rage and anger.
And Dean… was out of luck.
One knife gone, stuck in the wolf’s flank. The other? Broken in half when he slashed at the beast’s spine and struck bone. His body screamed from too many wounds. His magic burned low, flickering like a dying ember on his nightly fire.
He kneeled on one knee and his fingers brushed against his last hope. The throw-knife he liked to keep there as a last resort. Small, silver, razor-thin and deadly.
It was etched with his most dangerous sigil: a delayed detonation.
“Time to go boom,” he muttered as he stood. Wiped blood from his eyes and faced the beast in front of him.
The wolf, indifferent to its many injuries, barreled forward.
Dean didn’t move.
He waited.
And just before the wolf lunged, he threw.
The knife whistled through the air, a streak of bright white light followed it until it embedded between the wolf’s eyes.
The sigils activated when the magic flow stopped.
BOOM.
The forest around them lit up with white magic.
The shockwave hit Dean like a warm embrace. Trees around him bent backwards, earth cracked beneath the corpse, and the wolf’s skull shattered in a shower of bone, corruption and blood. It collapsed mid-lunge, skidding onto a broken heap, black blood oozed onto the floor.
Dean stood frozen. His ears were ringing. His vision was blurred.
And then… silence.
The forest held its breath.
Dean slowly staggered towards the body, reaching for a small hidden flap stitched into the inside of his leather vest. He worked the edge loose until he was able to pull out a compact leather pouch.
Inside he had a small cloth-wrapped bundle of coarse salt, a few strips of dried tree bark carved with sigils that would help it burn faster, and a tiny vial of oil infused with iron and sage. Old purifying tricks that he’d learned from Bobby.
Sending a silent thanks to his old teacher Dean scattered the salt, some dried tree bark and a few drops of oil to cover the bones as best as he was able. With a grunt he knelt and used his trusted flint to start a fire.
The bark caught quickly, igniting all around the bones and cleansing them of any remaining corruption. Dean stepped back as the flames spread and consumed the remains. He watched until the last curl of smoke faded and only ash remained.
The grass around the ash pulsed once, then began to grow. Tiny vines crept forward, covering the burnt ground completely. Flowers bloomed, white and small with glowing centers.
A gift from the forest.
Dean let out a long, slow breath and slumped backward onto his ass. His ribs felt broken, his vision swam from the pain, and every inch of him screamed with magical overuse.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I fucking hate corruption.”
—
Above him, the trees swayed. High in the shadows of the canopy, a shape sat, silent, sleek and ancient. Two bright blue eyes opened in the darkness of the shadows. The Familiar watched as Dean stood, collected his remaining weapons, and left the area.
He’d watched countless mages stumble through Pontiac Forest. Arrogant conjurers who flung fire and destroyed, more than protected, the forest. Desperate children who begged for a bond they did not understand. Most died. Some survived.
But none fought like this.
None used their body as their weapon.
None purified the earth after a fight with corruption.
Intrigued, the Familiar watched.
—
Later that night Dean sat in front of a small fire, a thin column of smoke rose into the dense canopy above. He’d removed his vest and used what remained of his shirt to wrap around his injured ribs. He rolled his shoulders once, winced, then focused on the task at hand.
His knuckle-knives sat across from him, still filthy from the fight. They looked rough. Black residue dried in layers along the grooves in the steel and blood had caked onto the sigil-etched handles.
Dean used what remained of his shirt, a bit of the oil that remained and got to work.
"Time for a little cleaning,” he muttered to the blade, voice dry and rough from disuse. “You deserve it."
He snorted softly to himself and scraped the gunk off the first blade, careful not to damage the sigils. Talking to your fucking weapons—what would Bobby say now? He tried to infuse them with his magic, but it flickered. He was dangerously depleted. It had taken everything he had not to pass out over the smoldering corpse before. Getting clean and wrapping his wounds had helped physically, but he still needed more time to replenish magically.
"You're a beauty, you know that?" he said to the first knife as he finished cleaning it. Taking the second one and restarting the process, he continued, "Some folks might think you’re just a hunk of metal, but you're a lifesaver."
Cleaning weapons wasn’t just maintenance. It was meditation. His hands moved on muscle memory, learned from long nights in Bobby’s forge and longer nights practicing all kinds of moves with them. It was a shame his short sword had not survived the fight.
Looking down at his two clean knives he traced the engraved sigils with care. "Still sharp and in one piece," he said as he sat back and exhaled. The ache in his ribs made him flinch and rethink moving from his current spot. "At least you're doing better than me."
He laid down slowly, taking short quick breaths to avoid his ribs from aching. “Son of a bitch,” he finally exhaled and relaxed on the ground. His stomach growled at him, so he blindly reached into his pack, pulled out a strip of dried venison, and bit down. It was tough as leather and tasted like ash but he didn’t care.
He chewed mechanically, the small fire danced in front of him reminding him of the reason why he was here in the first place.
Two Months Ago
Screams echoed down the main road of Lawrence’s town center. The forest around them had vomited monsters straight into their streets. They were small, corrupted animals, easy enough to kill on their own, Dean had done it many times before.
But there were so many.
Dean ducked under a half collapsed archway, eyes burning from the smoke coming from inside.
“Anyone in here!?” he’d been pulling villagers out of burning buildings. The fires had been set in desperation by the villagers themselves, hoping to drive the creatures away with it. Fire alone wasn’t enough, though.
When no one responded Dean spun towards the town square, short sword out. One of the beasts, a fox-like thing with too many teeth and oozing sores, was tearing into a closed door. He didn’t hesitate.
Dean let out a roar and charged, catching the creature by surprise. He slashed his blade in a sharp ark and cut off its head in one strike. The sigils etched on his blade flared with magic.
He pushed himself up from his stance with a groan. How many had he killed already? He’d lost count.
“Dean!”
He turned. Kevin Tran was running towards him, a shovel in his hand.
“Has the guild been called yet?” Dean yelled.
Kevin nodded, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Yeah! Almost an hour ago. I activated the red and blue sigils myself. I hope the guild gets the message and makes their way here quick. ”
Dean’s face twisted in anger. “Those sigils are instant. If they haven’t shown yet, they probably don’t think it’s a priority.”
Kevin shook his head. “Why wouldn’t they think it’s a priority? They have to!”
Dean swore and started walking away. “Don’t hold your breath, kid.”
He didn’t wait for Kevin to respond; the kid knew where to go if he wanted to be safe. Dean had to keep looking for villagers that still needed his help.
—
After killing three more corrupted forest animals he found Bobby’s forge on-fucking-fire.
Dean saw the smoke before he saw the flames. From afar he could see the roof he’d helped Bobby patch last spring was already caved in. He ran faster. When he reached the open bay doors the heat hit him like a wall.
“Bobby!”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He plunged inside, ducking under a fallen beam, navigating the forge by memory alone. Fire was everywhere;, the forge would not survive much longer.
“Bobby! Where the fuck are you, old man? Answer me!”
He found Bobby near the anvil, half buried under a collapsed rafter, legs hidden beneath it.
“Dean…” Bobby’s voice was hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not leaving you in this damn inferno.”
Dean dropped to his knees and braced himself. The beam was heavy, but not impossible. He closed his eyes, channeled what little magic he had left into his limbs, and lifted.
Bobby groaned but didn’t cry out. His face was pale. Sweat, ash, and blood mixed on his brow.
Dean dragged him clear just before another support came down missing them by inches. He hauled Bobby out into the street and collapsed beside him, both of them coughing hard.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Dean panted. “Don’t you dare, old man.”
“I’m not dying,” Bobby ground out. “Idjit.”
Dean didn’t let himself react. Not yet. He squeezed Bobby’s shoulder and forced a nod. The night wasn’t over yet.
—
It all ended right before dusk. Half the villagers were wounded. Five had not made it through the night. Bobby, the man Dean considered a second father figure, had probably shattered his spine trying to save his forge. The village healer did what she could, but without high-grade magical healing, there was no hope of reversing the damage.
The guild sent its mages to help two days later.
The usual hum of magic marked their arrival. Dean stood near enough the transport sigils that he made it there quick enough to see the grass glow a soft blue before three figures made it through.
A female mage stepped through first—tall, composed, every hair in place. Her robes shimmered with silk-lined silver. She held a long staff that had been polished to a mirror sheen. Her familiar followed: a white serpent, easily ten feet long. It slithered around her feet and observed him with a quiet hiss.
Behind her came Jo Harvelle and Charlie Bradbury, two young girls that had been taken from this village as apprentices when they had shown magical talent a few years ago.
Charlie hesitated when she saw Dean.
“Hey…” she said softly. “Dean.”
He didn’t respond. His jaw clenched.
She looked down guiltily.
“Where is the village leader?” asked the female mage.
“I’m in charge for now.” Dean answered coldly. The serpent hissed at Dean probably communicating something that only his mage could hear.
“You will address me properly, peasant or I shall take my leave.” She looked at Dean with contempt, as if he was even lower than the bug she squashed under her boot. She actually looked kind of familiar, did he know her from somewhere?
“And what shall I call you when you haven't even told me your name, mage?” Dean tried to sound polite, but he probably failed.
“I am Ruby Cortese, Fire Mage of the Northwestern Guild. This is my familiar Lilith,” she motioned to the snake still slithering around her feet. “And the two apprentices accompanying me today are Charlie and Joanna.”
Ah, Sam’s Ruby. He remembered her from his time with the guild. His brother had been really close to her. “Well, I apologize for not giving you a better welcome, Mage Ruby. As you can see, we’ve had a trying few days.” Dean said sarcastically.
Ruby looked around. “So this is Lawrence?.”
“Yes. What’s left of it,” Dean said, voice flat.
Jo shifted uncomfortably. Charlie glanced worriedly at the few buildings still standing behind him. Ruby glared at him.
“We are here because we received an emergency summons. Someone in your village council triggered the red sigil?” she looked around as if expecting to find a corrupted beast just around the corner. “Where is the emergency?”
“The red and blue sigils were triggered three days ago, Mage Ruby. The whole village was on fire, corrupted creatures were all around the town. You won’t find any now.” Dean explained. “We have the injured resting in Missouri’s healer cabin that have been waiting to be cleansed by a mage healer for just as long—”
“So the beasts have gone?” Ruby interrupted Dean. “You know your town will be fined for breaking the red sigil unnecessarily.”
“The sigil was broken three days ago!” Dean exclaimed.
“Guild resources are not on stand by to be used when small issues arise in small villages.” Ruby said arrogantly.
“This was not a small issue. I killed more than ten corrupted beasts myself, you can see the damage, I can even show you—”
Ruby raised a hand, silencing him. “You’re lucky, Winchester. Most augmenters wouldn’t have survived a night like that.”
“Oh, so you know who I am?” Dean asked. Figures she knew of him.
Ruby stared at him. “I know you were never going to be part of the Guild. That door was closed the moment your magic refused to manifest properly.” Her stare sharpened. “You think the Guild didn’t have expectations for your family? You’re John and Mary Winchester’s son. You and your brother were supposed to be brilliant. You were supposed to be powerful. A legacy. Instead all we got was a run-away… and this.” She gestured at him, dismissive. “A forge rat.”
Dean laughed bitterly, not even acknowledging her mentioning his brother. “Yeah. At least this forge rat was here to protect Lawrence when people were actually being attacked.”
“Guild affairs are none of your—”
“Save it,” Dean snapped. “We buried five people yesterday. Bobby Singer’s in bed with a crushed spine and three others are also in immediate need of medical attention. Did you bring the healer we asked for?”
“Apprentice Bradbury knows basic first aid spells. She can take a look at your injured.” Ruby signaled for Charlie to go with a lazy wave of her hand.
“Right away, ma’am.” Charlie scurried to the healer’s cabin. Dean doubted she would be able to help those suffering from corrupted injuries, even the most powerful healer mages struggled with cleanses like that and it was even less likely that she would know what to do to help Bobby either.
“What about the east wall? It’s held up with spit and prayers. I’m guessing your other apprentice will be sent out to help with that?” He knew Jo’s magic was not strong enough to help the repairs of the wall, he was just being petulant.
Jo murmured, “Dean, please—”
“No. I want to hear her explain why I had to fight off a pack of corrupted animals with my bare hands while the fucking Guild twiddled their thumbs and sat on their asses. Then they send out unskilled apprentices to help and expect us to pay full price?”
Ruby turned away ignoring anything else Dean had to say. “I won’t waste my time here any longer. We’ll begin the perimeter sweep.”
Dean barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, so now you're doing a perimeter sweep. How thoughtful of you.”
“Standard procedure,” Jo said quietly before turning to follow Ruby and a hissing Lilith.
Dean stared at them a moment longer. “Yeah, whatever,” then shook his head and turned away.
—
Bobby lay propped against a mound of cushions in a newly built bed in the healer’s hut. His face was pale, beard unshaven but, according to Missouri, he was doing better. At least Charlie was able to help with the pain. The villagers with corrupted injuries were sent through the portal when their corruption proved too advanced.
Obviously, Dean thought as he sat beside Bobby with a tired sigh.
“Guild’s gone?” Bobby asked gruffly.
“Mhm,” Dean nodded.
Bobby didn’t say more so Dean continued,“they swept the woods, burned a few trees and called the area cleansed. They even charged us for it. Said they couldn’t spare a healer and sent Charlie in here instead.”
Bobby nodded and let out a dry grunt. “She was here.”
Dean stared at the man. “They didn’t care, Bobby. Not even a little.”
“I know.”
“I thought they’d at least… pretend.”
“No point pretending when you think you’re better than everyone else,” Bobby muttered.
Dean looked at him. “What do we do now?”
Bobby turned his head slowly. “We start rebuilding, reset the protection wards around the perimeter, and heal our wounds. You go find a familiar.”
Dean blinked. “What?”
“You’re not a blacksmith, son. Not really. You can’t pretend that you are, not after what you did to protect us. The way you fought—that was more than muscle. That was magic. Augmenter magic.”
“Yeah,” Dean looked away. “But the Guild doesn’t—”
“Screw the Guild,” Bobby snapped. “You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing it for us. For this village. And if you want to keep fighting, if you want us to survive the next time something worse comes—and it will—then you need to step up.”
Dean said nothing for a long while.
Bobby added, softer now, “You have so much talent, Dean. I have never known anyone with your skills before. Go to Pontiac Forest. Walk it. Let it judge you. Let them see what I see.”
Dean stared at the broken man in front of him. A man that believed in him more than anyone else. They couldn't rely on the Guild to keep them safe anymore, this latest attack was proof enough. Dean could protect Lawrence. He had proved to be strong enough. He just needed a little more help, and he would find that help in Pontiac Forest.
So he nodded.
“I’ll go.”
Present
The fire had burned low, but Dean didn’t feed it. He stared into the coals, his food forgotten beside him.
He touched the hilts of his knives. The sigils glowed faintly, pulsing strong with just-renewed magic.
Bobby had believed in him, when no one else had.
Let the forest judge me, huh? Dean thought.
“Yeah,” he said aloud. “Let’s see if I pass muster.”
—
From behind the forest foliage two sapphire-blue eyes observed.
The familiar easily followed the man around the forest. His clumsy movements were effortless to hear and his tracks uncomplicated to follow.
Climbing atop an evergreen, the familiar lay stretched across a wide, moss-covered limb, silent and still. His black panther form was nearly indistinguishable from the forest’s shadows, only a slight outline of glowing sigils gave him away.
The panther tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he watched the man clean his weapons beside a fire. There was nothing graceful in the way he moved. His body bruised and stiff, covered in his ruined clothes as a makeshift bandage.
His magic was flickering, nearly completely spent, but he continued to clean his blades, talked to them in whispers and bled his remaining power into them.
After a harrowing battle, the man endured, planning ahead for the next battle to come.
He had not expected to ever be intrigued by a human mage. They rarely lasted enough to catch his notice. The familiar disliked when they came throttling into his forest with entitlement surrounding them like a bad smell. He never approached them.
But this man was different. He used his body like a conduit; he was an augmentor.
He is like me.
Below, the man leaned down on the ground, eyes closing despite the aches in his body. A hand rested near the hilt of one of his cleaned knives. The receding firelight cast him in a gold and orange shadow, painting every old scar and new bruise as a mark of his endurance.
The familiar did not approach him.
For now, he would watch.
—
Days passed. Dean wasn’t sure how many, it was hard to keep track of time in Pontiac forest. Telling day from night was harder the deeper he walked into the forest. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt sunlight on his skin.
He’d used the last of his cleansing oil and salt the day before and eaten his remaining dry meat after a fitful rest. Sometimes he was lucky and foraged where he could but his luck didn’t last. Hunger had turned into a constant ache in his belly.
At first, it was the kind of exhaustion Dean could push through, a dull ache in his limbs, the constant hunger under his ribs, his magic flickered low inside him. But now, he was reaching his physical and magical limit.
Slowly but surely the forest was consuming him.
It was changing around him. What once felt like a place where he could survive, hunt for food and find shelter now pulsed with decay.
Trees changed first, bled black sap, bark peeled in thick curls, revealing black rot underneath. He’d stopped lighting fires, even the firewood around him was consumed by blackness, unusable.
Then were the animals: small game disappeared completely, birds lay still on the ground, twisted in unnatural shapes, and the air reeked of death and old blood.
He slept less, moved quieter and slower, but never stopped for long.
The last thing he noticed was so subtle he almost missed it. The air had grown heavy, breathing was difficult, magic moved sluggishly through his body. His weapons, once tuned to his pulse, felt heavy and quiet in his palms. He still cleaned them, kept their edges sharp, it was all he could do.
Then he smelled it.
Sulfur. Thick, wet and sticking to the back of his throat like ash.
The air shifted around him.
Dean had barely enough energy to curse as something stepped into the path across from him.
It looked human. Almost.
The figure was tall and lean. Wearing the ruined remains of an old mage’s battle cloak. Dean remembered seeing pictures of past wars in books where mages wore them.
Its clothes weren’t what surprised Dean the most, it was its skin. It was pale, almost waxy, stretched tight over bones that didn’t move quite right, black veins covered every piece of visible skin. And the eyes—-
They were yellow.
Then it spoke.
“So, you are the one the forest has been whispering about,” it said with a voice so emotionless it made Dean’s skin crawl. “The unbonded augmentor.”
Dean didn’t flinch. He forced his legs to stay locked and raised his fists in a loose guard.
“Guess I’m more popular than I thought,” he rasped, his throat so dry he was sure he could taste blood when he swallowed.
The demon responded with an exaggerated sniff, making his nose and face distort obscenely. “You reek of desperation, human. Your magic is almost nonexistent, and your exhaustion is palpable. Why don’t you just give in? You would make an excellent subordinate.”
Dean could imagine what that meant all too well. He could picture all the corrupted creatures he encountered in his life. No way he would ever agree to a life like that.
“I’m gonna have to decline. Too stubborn. You wouldn’t like it.”
The demon grimaced, anger clear in its features. “I’ve gutted mages with more magic than you’ve ever dreamed of having, human.”
“Yeah? Bet none of them stabbed you in the eye.” He responded, gripping his knuckle-knives and transferring as much magic as he dared into them.
The demon laughed. A slow, low sound that made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end.
“They all begged for their lives before they could try.”
Dean’s grip on his knives tightened. “They weren’t me.”
The demon lunged, sudden and fast, faster than any other beast Dean had fought before.
Dean ducked under its swipe, knife flashing as he cut across its midsection. Black ooze sprayed, thick and sulfuric, sizzling where it landed on moss. The demon hissed but didn’t slow. It moved like it didn’t care about pain.
It spun, its clawed hand slashing across Dean’s arm, easily tearing skin. Dean ignored the pain as best he could but staggered back, and brought his blades up in a defensive cross.
The demon charged again.
Dean met it mid-swing, steel crashing against bone. His knife caught the demon’s forearm and almost sliced it off. The creature didn’t stop, one clawed foot catching Dean in the stomach and launching him back into a tree.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He collapsed to one knee, gasping.
The demon stalked forward, arm already healed. It dragged its claws against the foliage around him, leaving deep gashes on bark that smoked with corruption.
“Give up, mage,” it said. “No one is coming to save you. You’re already mine.”
Dean spat blood, swayed back to his feet. “If you’re gonna kill me, quit talking and do it. Nobody likes a monologue.”
“Where is the fun in that? I want to hear you beg.”
Dean smiled, slow and bloodied. “And I want a hot meal and a bath. Guess we’re both gonna be dissapointed.”
The demon snarled and attacked again. It apparently didn’t have a sense of humor. Go figure.
Dean dodged left, rolled low and slashed behind the demon’s knee, his knife digging deep making it stumble. Dean kicked it and surged forward in the same move, driving his knife up towards its ribs.
He was too slow.
The demon caught his wrist mid-strike and snapped it sideways with a sickening crack. Dean howled in pain and dropped the knife.
“You fight well,” the demon said. “But you’re still weak.”
Dean kneed the demon in the gut and headbutted it hard enough to make its nose explode in black blood. He reached for his backup throw-knife, if you could call a piece of bone that, only to grunt in pain as his broken wrist protested.
The demon struck him across the face, sending him sprawling.
His vision doubled. The half-healed wounds reopened and started bleeding. His broken wrist burned with pain from the elbow down. He tried to stand, to keep fighting, but his body wasn’t listening to him anymore.
“You were never going to make it out of here alive,” the demon whispered. “You will die and your body will become mine.”
Dean lay sprawled in the moss, gasping in pain, his blade knocked somewhere into the dark forest. He could feel blood pooling under his body, sticky and hot. His magic sparked weakly, warning him of the cost of overuse.
The demon loomed above him. “The next time you wake, you will be mine.” It tilted its head slowly, mockingly, raising its arm for the final strike.
Then, it suddenly stopped mid-swing.
From the darkness between the trees, a black panther stepped into the clearing. Dean was barely conscious, but he could sense that this beast was powerful. It was nearly twice the size of a normal panther, and laced with magical sigils that shimmered across its dark fur like constellations. Its eyes glowed sapphire blue, bright with so much power Dean could feel it radiating from the beast even with his eyes closed. It was like nothing he’d felt before.
The demon stood frozen in place.
With every step the panther took its body lowered close to the ground. Dean could see its strong shoulders and hips rolling in a silent rhythm. Its paws landed carefully on the ground spreading slightly to muffle any sound.
The panther paused completely, its tail flicking just once, its ears angled forward, and its bright sapphire eyes locked unblinking on the snarling demon.
“You. Why do you interfere?” The demon snarled, “Why now?”
The panther didn’t respond.
Instead, it lunged.
The panther hit the demon like a lightning bolt of living magic. It slammed into the demon’s chest and sent it flying backwards. It skidded across the dirt, tearing up roots and stone before it stopped against a crumbling log.
The demon howled, already back on its feet, but the panther was faster.
He was everywhere at once.
Dean could barely keep up, blood loss taking its toll on his conscience, but he couldn’t look away.
A blur of teeth and claws, sigils flaring blue with each strike. When the demon raised its arms to defend itself, the panther’s claws tore through them– muscle, bone, and corruption ripped away like it was nothing.
The demon lashed out wildly, its claws catching the panther’s flank, but there was no damage. Didn’t even slow the panther down. It twisted around, struck low and pounced again. Its full weight crashing down with the sound of the demon’s ribs cracking.
Dean watched, dazed and half-conscious, as the demon that nearly killed him was torn apart with the same precision he’d seen in Bobby as he hammered steel into shape. No wasted strength. No mercy.
The panther stalked it, muscles rippled under its sleek coat, each step bringing it closer to its target. The demon didn’t make it very far. The panther let a final pulse of light with one strong paw pressed to the back of the demon’s head.
Dean could swear he heard a voice whispering something low, ancient words that felt magical but before he could even try and understand them the demon let out a choked hiss. Its body collapsed inward, dissolving into ash and tar.
The panther stood still for a long moment.
The corruption around it started clearing slowly. Dean could feel the air around him whistle in relief as the smell of sulfur dissipated completely.
Then the panther turned to look straight at him. Bright eyes completely focused on his fallen form.
It padded over to Dean, slow and deliberate. Each step brought the hum of magic with it. Dean could feel it resonating with his own weakened core.
Dean blinked blearily, barely lifting his head as the panther crouched beside him. Its warm body pressed to his injured side.
“Hey,” Dean turned to look at the panther. “Am I gonna be lunch?”
The panther made no sound. He simply leaned in, pressed his nose to Dean’s temple and began to purr.
The vibration rippled through Dean’s bones.
Low-frequency magic flooded into his skin, sinking all the way into his bones. The pain on his side, instantly dulled. His broken arm finally stopped burning.
Dean sagged back with a ragged exhale of relief.
The panther continued to purr, its heavy body curved protectively around Dean’s broken one. The steady rumble was the last sound Dean heard before he finally passed out.
—
Dean came awake slowly.
Dean shifted with a groan, blinking up through the canopy of trees. His body still ached, but not the same way as before, more like it hurt after a long day of blacksmithing. The pain was dull, manageable.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but there was still warmth pressed against his side. The massive panther lay curled around him like a wall of protective magic. Dean could see the slight change in its fur color where its amazing sigils still glowed a faint, steady blue.
Dean blinked. “...Huh. Guess I wasn’t hallucinating the big cat.”
The panther lifted its head and turned to stare right at Dean. Its blue eyes were still bright with magic, like nothing Dean had seen before.
After a moment it stood, stepped back and began to change.
It wasn’t a violent change, no flashes of light or bones cracking. It was just…as if a shadow peeled away from dark fur.
One breath later, a man stood in front of Dean. He blinked a few times, too exhausted to trust what he was seeing.
The man stood tall, broad through the shoulders, chest solid, built like he’d been carved out of stone. His thighs caught Dean’s eye—because he was trying really hard not to look at other things—they were thick, corded muscle, strong in a way that spoke of raw power. It was the kind of strength Dean understood instinctively: not superficial or delicate, but made to endure long hours of hard work.
Dean swallowed, throat dry, eyes dragging up despite himself. Every line of the man radiated quiet force, restrained but lethal. There was no weakness in him, Dean was quite impressed with what he saw.
The man was also tall, bigger than what his panther form would imply, his skin was a sun-warmed bronze, marked faintly with the same glowing sigils that had adorned his fur before. His hair was black and tousled, falling over his brow and around his ears. Finally Dean stared straight at his eyes— the same sharp, unnatural blue as before–-glowing faintly in the shadows of the clearing.
And—the man was completely naked, standing there in the moss like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Dean let out a shaky breath, forcing sarcasm to the front because it was that or admit the awe curling in his gut.
“You know,” Dean cleared his throat and carefully pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the tree behind him. “...Not gonna lie, you’re a hell of an upgrade from the oversized housecat routine. Watching you transform like that? …Still creepy as hell.”
The man squinted slowly and tilted his head, unblinking.
Dean shifted under the stare. “You always this chatty?”
Finally, the man spoke. Voice low.
“No.”
Dean huffed a laugh. “Any reason why?”
“I haven’t had much to say in a long time.”
“Not many people to talk to around these parts, I gather.”
“No.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Dean asked when the man didn’t offer anything else.
The man’s gaze swept over Dean’s busted wrist, his ribs, the dried blood at his temple. His stare lingered, assessing, unreadable. Then he simply said.
“I am Castiel. An augmenter familiar.”
“Are you now? Didn’t know augmenter familiars existed. Figures one of y’all would appear.” Dean huffed, half a laugh. “Name’s Dean.”
Castiel tilted his head slightly, the movement eerily precise. “Your magic… it called to me, Dean.”
“Did it?” Dean’s jaw worked. “I’ve been in this forest for days; didn’t think any familiar was attracted to my magic after all that.”
Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve been watching you.”
“That’s—not creepy at all.”
“I saw you, the real you, blossom in the forest. You fight with instinct, patience, and integrity. That is the kind of strength I have not seen before.”
Dean let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, no offense, but that’s not the review I usually get. My dad, the guild, even my mom, they’ve all said I have weak magic. The wrong kind of magic.”
“They were wrong.” Castiel kneeled down and leaned in. “You should be proud. Your magic connects you to the land, to the wild. It makes your body stronger and your soul brighter. It is rare and unique.”
Dean shifted again, unable to meet the familiar’s eyes for long. He forced a smirk. “You always hand out pep talks to half-dead idiots, or am I just special?”
Castiel tilted his head, expression unchanged.
“Only you.”
Dean looked up, caught in those glowing blue eyes, and exhaled.
“Okay, so…what now?”
Castiel straightened.
“You accept me. Or you don’t.”
Dean arched his brow.
“That’s your pitch? Real smooth, big guy.”
A faint crease of confusion touched Castiel’s brow.
“I don’t understand. Why would this conversation be smooth?”
Dean stared at him for a long beat. Then huffed, shaking his head, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Damn it. You actually mean this.”
Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I chose you, Dean.” Then he slowly placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. His magic instantly responded to the familiar’s touch. It sang inside of him like it never had before.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Dean finally let out a long breath. “...Yeah. Okay.”
—
Later, after Castiel made sure Dean healed enough for a short walk, he helped Dean through the forest. Casitel guiding them deeper than he’d ever dared go before. They came to a stop when they reached a pond, it was hidden in plain sight among ancient looking trees.
The air around it felt cleaner, sharper. Full of magic.
Dean stood at the edge, arms crossed, eyeing Castiel. “What is this place?”
Castiel waded into the water without hesitation. His movements were measured, precise, every ripple controlled. The faint blue glow from the pond reflected off his skin, catching the sigils that traced along his arms. He looked… otherworldly.
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “So, uh. Is this some kind of… magic hot tub?”
Castiel turned, water lapping at his waist, gaze steady. “It is a consecrated spring. The forest’s heart, where bonds are sealed.”
Dean let out a low whistle. “So you are saying, every familiar brings their mage into this water to create a bond? This is where the magic happens, so to speak.”
Castiel shook his head. “No other familiar is connected to the forest like I am. They are unable to reach this sacred place.”
Then he extended a hand. His voice didn’t rise, but the weight behind it carried through the clearing. “Will you come into the water and share your strength with mine?”
Dean froze, staring at the hand, then at Castiel. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t like. Disbelief and nerves prominent in what he was feeling. So, as usual, he tried to laugh it off. “You make it sound like wedding vows, man.”
“It is older than any wedding vows. Older than your guilds, even. It is augmenter magic.”
Dean’s throat worked as he swallowed compulsively. He glanced down at the water, watching the faint glow pulse like a heartbeat. His whole life, his magic had been something to hide, to make excuses for. Something that made everyone, even his family, think less of him. Made him think that there was something wrong with him.
And here was this… ancient, terrifying, familiar telling him he was unique. Special. That he was enough just as he was. He had been chosen just as he was.
“You really don’t do half-measures, do you?”
Castiel didn’t blink, lifted a still-stretched hand a little higher in offering. “No. Not with this.”
Something in Dean snapped. He suddenly felt like he could breathe after years of being choked.
With a deep, shuddering breath he stepped into the water. It was cold at first, sharp as knives against his still healing cuts, then it warmed, almost like it was alive, curling around his legs. He moved closer until Castiel’s outstretched hand was within reach.
Dean’s fingers hovered near Castiel’s for a second. “You sure you wanna tie yourself to me? I mean—I’m a mess, really. I have the wrong kind of magic. My home just burnt down so I’m practically homeless. Never will amount for anything except a small town life. I’m nothing special. The whole damn world’s been saying it since I was a kid.”
Castiel stepped closer, the glow of the pond casting sharp light across his face. His voice was low, steady, but there was a rawness beneath it. Dean hadn’t heard a voice like that from anyone before.
“All your life people have made you think you were less, that you weren’t enough. But they were wrong.”
He reached out, his hand finally closing firmly around Dean’s. The sigils around his body sparked where skin met skin. Castiel’s eyes burned brighter, and his voice softened, breaking with something like reverence.
“I see you. All of you. Your strength, your defiance, your will to fight even when everything tells you to fall. That is what I’ve waited for. You are worthy of this bond, Dean.”
Dean froze, staring at him, the words sinking deeper than he wanted to admit. His chest felt tight, throat thick. Falling back on old habits he covered it with a smirk, but his voice betrayed him, just a little.
“...You really know how to flatter a guy, huh?”
Castiel didn’t flinch, didn’t smile.
“It isn’t flattery. It’s only the truth.”
Castiel stepped closer pulling Dean towards him, until their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the charged air. The light around them grew brighter, searing but not painful, like standing too close to a fire in winter. Castiel’s sigils glowed brighter as his body merged into his panther’s form. His large paws covered Dean’s shoulders, holding him in place.
And then it began.
Dean gasped as something slammed into him, not a force, but a presence. Castiel’s magic brushed against his like a tidal wave testing a dam. It threaded through his muscles, settled in his bones, brushed against the scars on his skin. It didn’t replace him or his essence– it amplified it. His augmenter magic, the thing everyone had dismissed him for, surged.
At the same time, Dean’s magic flowed into Castiel. He felt Castiel take it all in– not greedily, like a thief in the night, but with reverence. A steady rhythm formed between them, back and forth, strength for strength.
The pond’s water lifted around them, suspended in glowing spirals, as if gravity itself had given way to their bond. Their pulses synced. Their breaths synced.
And then, for a moment, Dean wasn’t just himself.
He saw flashes of memories that weren’t his: endless centuries of Castiel roaming the forest, a solitude that felt heavier than stone, watching generations of mages pass him by. He felt Castiel’s ache for connection, for someone who fought not with spectacle, but with soul.
In return, Dean shared everything in him, jagged edges and all. His abandonments and resentments, even the weight of never being enough. But beneath it: grit, loyalty, the kind of stubborn strength that refuses to die even when the world is against it.
The bond locked with a soundless snap. A new heartbeat thrummed in Dean’s chest, steady and strong, perfectly aligned with his.
Dean staggered back, but didn’t let go of the panther before him. His chest was heaving, eyes wide. “Son of a bitch…”
In his mind he heard Castiel’s voice say, “We are bound. Your strength is mine. And mine is yours.”
Dean swallowed hard, still catching his breath. His magic hummed in his veins, more alive than it had ever been. For the first time in his life, it didn’t feel wrong.
It felt whole.
—
The journey back to Lawrence took only three days. Dean was sure he’d ventured into the forest for longer than that but the forest seemed different now. It was quieter, and didn't seem as dark as before. The corruption he’d been fighting to avoid was almost completely gone. Wherever they walked, any remaining corruption evaporated before his very eyes and flowers pushed through the soil where Castiel stepped. Dean couldn’t decide if it was beautiful or unnerving. Probably a bit of both.
He walked a few paces ahead of the panther, still limping a little but too proud to mention it. His magic, on the other hand, hummed faintly under his skin, oddly synchronized to Castiel’s.
“Are you always this quiet?” Dean asked after the silence between them turned unbearable. “Or is this just our newly-bonded awkward phase?”
“I do not experience awkwardness.” Came the familiar’s voice through Dean’s mind. The experience was still new to him, but not as strange as he thought it would be.
“Sure you don’t.” Dean smirked down at the panther, who tilted his head in confusion. The movement so familiar now Dean couldn't help but let his smirk turn into a smile.
“You are still in pain.” Casitel said matter-of-factly, expertly changing the subject.
“I’m fine.”
“You are lying.”
“And you’re too nosy for a cat.”
“I am your familiar.” Castiel rubbed his shoulder against Dean’s leg, instantly helping with the pain. “It is my duty to ensure you live.”
“Well, congrats.” Dean patted the panther on the head. “I’m still breathing, aren’t I? Don’t waste your magic on little things like a bit of pain.”
Castiel’s gaze softened, but he said nothing more.
When the forest finally gave way to open fields, Dean stopped at the ridge overlooking Lawrence proper. The village was smaller than he remembered. Half the houses still under repair, and the largest buildings, the town center and the forgery, had not yet been touched at all. The forge’s roof was still caved in and most of its walls bore the scars of fire.
As they walked by a few homes, they could hear the familiar hum of daily life floating around: a bit of hammering, conversations and laughter. Life was present in the small town, the attack had not been the end of them. And now Dean was bringing something else back with him, something the guild had not been able to give them.
He didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Castiel pushed softly at his knee with his head.
“You are afraid.” The familiar’s voice made Dean realize that he really was–-afraid, that is.
As usual he denied it. “I’m not.”
“You forget I can feel your fear; it is useless to lie to me, Dean.”
“Shaddup. I’m not afraid.”
“You think they will not accept this bond.” Castiel said, blue eyes bright with understanding as he stared up at Dean, the sigils in his fur pulsed with each heartbeat they shared.
“Can you blame me?” Dean kneeled and faced Castiel straight on. “People in this town are normally not welcoming when magic is involved.”
Castiel turned his head, eyes catching the setting sun’s light.
“They will accept this bond, Dean.”
Dean scoffed softly, though it lacked his usual sarcastic bite. “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.” He stood and continued his walk towards the healer’s cabin. “Come on. Might as well get this over with.”
—
The first person to see him was Kevin. He’d been carrying a bucket of water from the well when he froze mid-step, eyes widening.
“Dean?”
The bucket clattered to the ground, making a loud noise that called Linda, Kevin’s mother, and other villagers out of their homes and towards them. Whispers spread the news fast and even Missouri came out of the healer’s cabin, clutching her white apron as she stared at Dean and his new familiar.
In moments there were close to twenty villagers openly staring at him and Castiel. Dean hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected complete silence either.
He could feel Castiel’s power thrumming faintly as the familiar sat beside him, the faint blue from his sigils was visible even in daylight. The bond pulsed like a second heartbeat in Dean’s chest, giving him a feeling of safety. He wondered if the villagers could feel it. A bonded mage always gave off a specific kind of hum; was his bond the same as the others in that sense?
Missouri was the one who finally broke the silence. “Well, it took you long enough.”
Dean’s throat tightened. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Bobby is waiting inside.” The older woman walked back into her cabin without waiting for an answer and the villagers between him and the door moved aside, as if giving him permission to follow the older woman.
“Should we follow?” Castiel asked through their bond.
Dean nodded and walked straight in, ignoring all the whispers that followed them. In the tent Bobby was sitting up, looking a little better than when Dean had left.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” was his gruff greeting.
Dean let out a choked laugh. “Didn’t think you’d see me again, old man?”
“I had no doubt you’d be back, boy.”
Dean smirked weakly. “Thanks, Bobby.”
He stood awkwardly under Bobby’s stare, boots coated in forest dirt, blood and grime all over his clothes. Castiel, still in his panther form, stood silent beside him. Dean could hear the villagers murmuring again, they were all trying to peek in through the windows around them. When he dared look at their faces he saw awe. Kevin even bowed his head slightly—the same way he did when high guild mages visited.
“You look like hell, boy.” Bobby interrupted his staring.
Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, forest hospitality’s not what it used to be.”
Bobby’s eyes shifted to the panther. “And who’s this?”
Dean hesitated for just a heartbeat, then straightened. “This here’s Castiel. My Familiar.”
The words landed like thunder in the healer’s cabin. Dean could even hear someone gasp outside.
The panther sitting next to him blinked slowly, then stepped forward. The movement was silent and as the light touched him, the black fur around his form began to peel away into skin. His shape shifted, lengthening as muscles formed, shoulders broadened and human features emerged.
Castiel looked around the cabin and windows without a hint of self-consciousness. “Hello.”
Dean could hear the crowd gasp through the windows as Castiel stood tall and unbothered in the center of the cabin, broad-shouldered and completely serene, the faint glow of ancient sigils still fading under his skin. His blue eyes swept calmly across everyone like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Dean stared for half a second, brain catching up way too slow. “Oh, son of a—Cas! You can’t just—” He turned half-away. “Put on some damn pants!”
Castiel blinked, looking down at himself, then back at Dean. “I do not have any.”
Missouri made a strangled sound somewhere behind Dean. Bobby choked on a laugh and sighed, long and low.
“Hell, kid. You bring home a Familiar just to start a scandal?”
“He’s new at this, okay? Still learning the whole ‘modesty’ thing,” Dean said through gritted teeth as he tried and failed to find something to cover Castiel.
Meanwhile, Castiel just stood there, stoic as ever, as if this was all beneath his notice. His gaze flicked to Bobby, unbothered by the chaos his nakedness provoked around him.
“You are Robert Singer. Dean has spoken about you.”
Bobby squinted, crossing his arms. “That’s right. And you are… very naked.”
“It does not bother me.” Castiel shrugged.
“Yeah, well, it’s bothering everyone else!” Dean groaned still trying to find a solution to their current predicament.
Castiel frowned, utterly serious. “Why?”
“Because, Cas—because that’s just—damn it—people wear clothes! We talked about this!”
“Humans are strange.”
Missouri snorted again. “He’s not wrong.”
Bobby, ever the pragmatist, reached over and yanked a threadbare blanket from a nearby cart. “Here.” He tossed it toward Castiel, who caught it neatly but held it like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Wrap it around yourself.” Dean gestured wildly.
Castiel turned the blanket over in his hands. “Like armor?”
“Sure, Cas. Like armor. Whatever helps.”
Castiel complied, awkwardly wrapping the blanket around himself more like a toga than anything remotely normal. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yep. Totally nailed the ‘graceful homecoming’ part,” Dean muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
Bobby studied Castiel, eyes narrowing in cautious respect. “So. You’re the one who chose him.”
“I am,” Castiel answered.
“You sure about that choice? He’s a pain in the ass.”
Castiel’s head tilted slightly. “Yes. I am aware.”
Dean sputtered. “Hey!”
“He is also… remarkable,” Castiel continued without missing a beat.
Bobby’s brow lifted. “That so?”
Castiel nodded. “He fights even when he should fall. He believes even when everyone doubts him. He is—”
Dean cut him off, flustered. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. You’re gonna give people ideas.”
“Too late.” Kevin’s voice could be heard from outside.
The villagers' chuckles could be heard softly through the windows. The tension broke, replaced by warmth, wonder, and a lot of very curious glances.
Bobby leaned forward on the bed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess you found someone who actually gets you, huh?”
Dean looked at Castiel, still wrapped in a crooked blanket, utterly unbothered by the whispers around them.
For a second, Dean almost laughed. Then he just nodded, voice low.
“Yeah. Think I did.”
Castiel looked at him then, eyes steady, voice soft but clear enough for everyone to hear.
“You were worthy.”
The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. They were honest and absolute, the way Cas always said things.
Dean swallowed hard, managing a quiet, crooked smile. “You better mean that. After all this, I ain’t going back to that forest for a new familiar.”
Missouri chuckled. “Come on, you two. Follow me into the kitchen; you’re probably starving, and Castiel needs some damn pants.”
—
Weeks later, the forge was alive again.
Dean stood at the anvil, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the lines of his forearms traced faintly with red sigils. Sweat glistened at his temple. His movements were sure, practiced—each strike deliberate, every breath in sync with the magic pulsing through the metal.
The blade on the anvil glowed faintly gold—the new color of his bond.
Across the room, Castiel watched. He sat at Bobby’s old workbench, hands resting on his knees, utterly still except for the way his eyes tracked Dean’s movements.
“You know, staring like that is creepy, Cas.”
Castiel tilted his head and squinted at Dean. “Watching you is peaceful. You focus completely on your work.”
“Kinda the point, Cas. You lose focus, you end up hammering your thumb instead of steel.” Dean dunked the blade into the quenching bucket; steam hissed up in a wave of heat and magic. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Outside, the village was quiet. After weeks of intensive rebuilding, everything had settled into a new kind of peace.
Dean finally broke the silence. “Didn’t think I’d make it back here again. Even after weeks of being back, I’m still surprised. Figured I’d die in that forest.”
“Mmm,” Castiel hummed in response. “And yet you lived.”
Dean shrugged, drying his hands on a rag. “Yeah. Guess I’m hard to kill.”
Castiel’s gaze softened.
“No. You’re hard to break.”
Dean froze for half a second, the weight of that sinking deeper than he wanted to admit. His throat felt tight, so he did what he always did, he reached for sarcasm like armor.
“You keep talkin’ like that, Cas, people are gonna think you actually like me.”
Castiel tilted his head slightly. “They would be correct.”
Dean laughed under his breath, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Subtlety is really not your thing, huh?”
“No.”
That earned the familiar a grin. Dean reached for the blade, holding it up to the firelight. The metal shimmered faintly, runes etched along its edge, glowing with the same soft hue that flickered in Castiel’s sigils.
“Never thought I’d see my magic look like that.”
“It always looked like that. You just needed to see it.”
Dean looked at his familiar, really looked. The faint blue glow beneath Castiel’s skin pulsed in perfect rhythm with the magic beating inside himself.
Two halves of the same thing.
Dean exhaled, slow and steady. “Guess we’re doin’ okay, huh?”
“We are.”
The forge crackled. Outside, crickets started singing and for the first time in years, Dean didn’t feel the need to chase silence away.
He just stood there, the sound of the hammer still echoing in his bones, Castiel’s steady presence beside him.
And for once, maybe for the first time, that was enough.
—
Generations later, stories would spread of the blacksmith’s apprentice who walked into the deadly forest and returned with a Familiar older than the trees themselves. They said the bond between them protected countless villages without help from any guild, that where their magic touched, corruption could no longer follow.
But those who had the privilege to meet Dean Winchester understood the truth. His worth had never come from power, or blood, or the approval of the guilds. It came from the grit in his hands, the iron in his heart, and the stubborn kindness that refused to die even when everything else did.
And Castiel, a familiar who had watched centuries of mages rise and fall, finally understood why he had waited so long to choose a companion.
Because the worth of a man was never in his magic.
It was in what he chose to fight for.
The end.