Just because you've endured hardship doesn't mean you've grown. Some people just learn to drown more quietly." — Guts (Berserk)
———
"This is so fucking unfair."
Kenshin groaned, though a grin clung stubbornly to his face.
"I know, right."
Dean rolled his shoulders, working out the lingering strain.
"I suddenly regret not training harder."
Aelric stepped in to join them.
"To think you'd waste your talent," Dean teased, summoning a sword from the storage ring on his finger.
A sleek black-bladed katana slid into existence—its gold tsuba intricately worked, its hilt wrapped and segmented, a short chain dangling from the pommel. A dark scabbard, trimmed with gold filigree and set with emerald accents, completed the piece.
"Hey, baby."
Dean caressed the still-sheathed blade with reverence.
Sam, now standing beside Rhaegar, dragged a hand down his face.
"Nice sword," Kenshin said, smiling.
"Hehe. Baby, this is Kenshin. Kenshin, this is baby."
"Eh…"
