Chapter 2

We stayed close to the Bunker while we waited for Rowena, other than a solo grocery run I made to Lebanon the day after we called her. Dean's behavior wasn't much different than before, other than an increased tendency towards short naps and even less interest in "rabbit food"—though I found his new game of randomly pouncing on me when I came into a room a la Calvin and Hobbes far less hilarious than he did, particularly since his feline form was just as heavy as his human one.

I had to admit though that the good points of this situation generally outweighed the bad so far, such as the comfort of knowing where he was at any given time, the convenience of communicating effortlessly through thought and emotion, and the ease of casting the spells I cautiously used to learn more about what had happened. Suddenly being able to move mostly small objects with my mind almost instinctively was more disturbing, though fortunately it wasn't accompanied by any head-splitting visions this time around.

Rowena arrived on the third day after our call, sweeping in looking fabulous as always in a short burgundy dress, wide gold belt, knee-high red boots, and a fur-trimmed black coat. "Hello, boys! Ye dinnae get into any mischief while ye were waiting, I hope?"

I smiled and took her bag. "No, we're doing fine. Thanks again for coming!"

"Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" she said briskly as she walked into the library and sat down at one of the tables. "Start by showing me the spellbook, if ye would."

I brought her the grimoire, while Dean left the room and came back shortly with tea and blueberry muffins. She flipped through the pages until she got to the familiar ritual, which she studied intently for a while. So as to not disturb her, I leafed through a book on dispelling magic at the other table, and Dean sprawled in a chair across from me and tooled around on his tablet.

"It's just as I thought. The woman definitely perverted the standard spell to her own ends. The alterations, though utterly appalling, were also quite clever," she admitted grudgingly. "Ye said that she tried this out on several others unsuccessfully before Dean?"

"Yeah, she used three guys from town as guinea pigs first. I found their bodies when we were searching for her, and it—it wasn't pretty." Dean shuddered slightly at the memory.

"Sadly, that's nae unexpected under the circumstances. This is complex magic even before she mucked around with it, and on top of that nae every person is suitable to become a familiar—something which I assume she wasnae careful about determining when choosing her victims. We're fortunate that it worked better when she cast it on Dean," she said. "Normally the binding should've worked as well, but it's nae surprising it dinnae given it's the two of ye."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It's quite obvious, Samuel. This Madeline Andrews person couldn't force your brother to bond to her because his soul already belonged to someone else. In fact, he didn't need to make a conscious choice—the ritual likely latched onto the connection already formed between ye," Rowena explained. "Surely this shouldnae be a revelation to either of ye?"

Dean shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I . . . I guess not. People are always going on 'bout how we're 'dangerously codependent' or whatever, and Ash did say something way back 'bout us being soulmates. But other than winding up in Heaven together, we've never seen a—a tangible effect before."

"There ye have it! Now come here so I can take a closer look at ye to see if we can unravel this mess," she ordered. Dean rose and walked over to her, and she took his hands and closed her eyes. She opened them a few minutes later, looking regretful. "It's as I feared, lads. The magic has woven throughout Dean's being and is an intrinsic part of him now. To remove it, he'd have to be unmade and rebuilt from scratch, which is nae something any mortal is capable of, not even a practitioner as knowledgeable and powerful as myself!"

I slumped down. "Are . . . are you absolutely sure there's nothing to be done?"

"I'm positive, my dear boy. As that skank told ye before, the change is permanent. But look on the bright side, Sam. As ye might've seen already, the familiar bond will improve your abilities and give ye more power, while Dean will share in the benefits that practicing the arte can give ye, such as longevity, extended youth, and accelerated healing," she pointed out. "The only major downside is that it can make you both vulnerable—if one of ye dies, the other isnae likely to survive for long. It's one reason why few witches take a familiar despite the benefits, that and there's simply not many who choose to become familiars to begin with. But given your history, this isnae much of a change for ye two."

"What about . . . can Sam force me to do shit, like what that Spencer douchebag did to his familiar?" Dean asked.

"Technically yes, but a witch could do that to anyone with the right compulsion spell. Since we're talking about Sam here, I dinnae think ye have to worry," she replied. "That does bring up a good point though. I've long thought that ye have the potential to be an excellent warlock, given your natural abilities, studiousness, and discipline—and now your very own familiar—but ye need training. The Men of Letters likely left you plenty of resources, and I can provide whatever they lack, as well as hands-on instruction."

"Oh! That . . . that hadn't really occurred to me, with everything else going on. I'll . . . uh, need some time to think about this," I said, feeling rather awkward.

"Of course!" Rowena pulled a notepad closer to her and wrote for a couple of minutes, then handed it to me. "Here are some books that would be good to start with, should ye be interested. If there are any that ye cannae find, or if ye want to go further, then give me a call. I should be in the area for a few more days, if ye need me to come back."

"You're not staying here? We got plenty of room, and we wouldn't mind the company," Dean suggested.

She smiled and patted his arm. "Thanks for the sweet offer, but I'm afraid the accommodations in your Bunker dinnae meet my usual standards. There's a quaint historic hotel about an hour south of here that I've been to before, though that was quite a while ago. You're welcome to join me there for dinner later, if ye'd like. Until then!"

I stared up at the door after she left. "Well, crap!"

I turned to face my brother dejectedly. "I'm sorry, man. I was really hoping Rowena would figure out a way to fix this, that she'd find something I missed. I—I'm not sure what to do now . . ."

"I think we can agree that we ain't doing anything drastic—no damn crossroad deals or finding some deity to bargain with or whatever, 'cause shit like that's never worked out well," Dean stated firmly. "Which doesn't really leave any other options on the table, not unless we manage to get Jack back, since this is well above Cas' paygrade."

"So what, we just have to accept this mess?" I asked.

He came over to stand behind me and started to rub my shoulders. "It ain't that bad when you think about it. Being a familiar ain't gonna hurt me or anyone else—it's not gonna kill me or make me hafta eat people or anything shitty like that. As for the whole 'more likely to die if the other does' thing, like Rowena said, that's not much different than how we are already—we've both been fucking disasters whenever that's happened before. We just hafta do our best like always to not get dead, and when that does happen eventually . . . at least we know we'll be together in Chuck's creepy Stepford Heaven.

"But it looks to me like there's a lot more good coming outta this than bad. We now always know where each other is, which will be damn useful if we ever get separated again. Having a direct line into each other's heads will take some getting used to, but it ain't like keeping shit from each other has ever helped us—something which we've finally figured out after way too long. When I'm in cat mode, I'm stronger and faster, can jump, climb, and see in the dark better, and of course got fangs and claws, all of which could be invaluable during a hunt," he pointed out.

"What about how it's also ramping up my psychic abilities and my uh, witchy potential—neither of which you've ever been a fan of?" I retorted.

"Things are different now than how it was years ago—hell, I'm different now. We know witches who are cool, like James, Max, and maybe Rowena, if she's serious 'bout turning over a new leaf, just like we've met vamps, werewolves, and shit who are decent people. Plus you should know by now that there's pretty much always a 'Sam exception" to nearly every rule in my book," he replied. "Even your spooky woo-woo powers ain't so bad anymore. My issues with 'em back then were more 'bout first Azazel and then that bitch Ruby fucking with your head, and the demon blood addiction didn't help. Without all that baggage, your abilities ain't no different than what Missouri, Pamela, or Magda had—and both them and your improved spellcasting will be handy when dealing with the wacky or evil shit we come across."

I looked up at him in surprise. "You're serious? So you'd be fine with me learning more from Rowena?"

Really really, kiddo. If that's what you wanna do, then knock yourself out and become Ginger Junior! Dean leaned down to drop a kiss on my lips. "As for me, I'm glad I turn into something awesome instead of a pigeon or salmon or Chihuahua—and now I can totally do the Red vs. Blue puma bit!"

Well then, if you're okay with all of this, then I can't think of a serious objection either. I'll keep an eye out in case something turns up in the future that could undo the ritual, but I won't sweat it. I reached up and squeezed the hands that were still massaging my shoulders. "One thing I'm curious about though is the collar—I figured you'd be bitching about that and trying to get rid of it!"

"Oh, this?" He slid a finger under the band of plaid-patterned leather. "I dunno . . . I honestly barely notice it's there, kinda like it's a part of me now. I guess it might be awkward when we're on a case, 'specially when we're in our FBI duds, so we'll hafta figure out how to cover it up when needed. Other than that though, I don't mind it. Just don't think you can put a fucking bell on me!"

"Alright then." I suddenly laughed as something occurred to me. "It's a good thing that you're not allergic to yourself—imagine how awkward that would be!"

He shuddered. "Fuck no! Permanently having to dope myself up with Benadryl? Uh uh!"

I laughed again, and he mimed a cuff at my head. He then wandered off to the garage to putter with one of the antique cars, while I pulled the list of books Rowena gave me from the library and archives and sat down to start on the first one. Per her suggestion, we later drove down to Wilson and had dinner with her at the Midland Railroad Hotel's Drummer's Dining Hall, where she treated us to their gourmet Chef's Dinner. While we ate, I filled her in on my reading and Dean on how he was adjusting to his new state, and she promised to stop by in a day or two to see how we were progressing.

Upon returning home, we retired to the Dean Cave to catch up on our Game of Thrones DVDs, and he soon ended up curled over most of the loveseat with his head in my lap, purring while I rubbed his ears. Dean then went to take his evening shower—another change was that he'd become even more fastidious, showering at least twice a day even when not filthy from a hunt. While I waited, I rummaged through one of the storerooms to take care of an idea I had.

When I returned to our bedroom, he was stretched out naked in the middle of the bed stroking himself, and it was my turn to pounce on him. Our sex life had always been amazing, but being able to feel each other's physical sensations and more importantly each other's emotions—passion, reassurance, tenderness, and above all love—took our lovemaking to a whole new level—and his increased flexibility and athleticism certainly didn't hurt either. Frankly, it was a little surprising that we weren't spending even more time in bed as a result.

Nearly an hour passed before I finally rolled off my brother and collapsed against the pillows, panting heavily. He immediately curled around me, a satiated purr rumbling through his chest, and we lay wrapped together for several minutes, catching our breaths while our bodies still quivered with the aftershocks.

"I still can't believe how awesome this is! I mean, not that this shit wasn't great before, but now—hot damn!" he declared after eventually swabbing our skin clean and lobbing the soiled washcloth into the laundry hamper. Kinda makes you wonder if the witch community knows what they're missing out on, huh?

Now we see the real reason behind your acceptance of the situation—you're just in it for the hot sex! I teased. "Seriously though, I think that the two of us and James and Portia are more the exceptions than the rule with how we consider each other as equals. According to the lore, familiars were meant to be more like servants than partners, so the dynamic between Spencer and poor Philippe was probably closer to the norm. Adding sex to that kind of power imbalance is asking for trouble, and I imagine the community forbade it altogether after too many cases of abuse."

Well, it works just fine for us, which is what matters. Dean raised his head and kissed me.

"I agree. Along those lines, I've got something for you. You said no bells or anything like that for your collar, but I hope you'll consider wearing this . . . again." I reached into the nightstand drawer, withdrew something, and held it up in front of him—the bronze amulet he used to wear, the one I'd given to him when we were kids and he'd discarded years ago, which I'd kept in my memory box even after it had detected Chuck's true identity, now hanging from a sturdy split ring. I know you also said before that you don't need a symbol to remind you how you feel about me, but. . . . I'm hoping you're willing to reconsider, now that things have been so much better between us for a while.

"As if the big-ass hickeys you constantly leave where everyone can see 'em aren't enough? You really are a possessive bastard, dude," he attempted to joke, but his wide eyes and flushed cheeks told a different story, even without being able to read his surprise, discomfiture, and . . . gratification. Dean hesitated for a moment before continuing, If this is what you really want, Sammy, then I—I'd be glad to.

I leaned over and fastened the split ring to the D-ring on the front of the collar, allowing the amulet to dangle over the hollow of his throat, and then kissed him deeply. What can I say? You're the best hunter, lover, brother, and now familiar I know, Dean Winchester, and you're all mine.