❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME? ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ He was made of earth, fragile and fleeting,
but she'd trade her wings to be a part of his world. ❜

𝐷𝐸𝐴𝑁 𝐷𝐼𝐷𝑁𝑇 think. He moved. Instinct drove him forward, shoving himself between the two angels like a shield, heart pounding hard enough to feel in his throat. His boots scuffed against the old motel carpet, the smell of smoke and ozone lingering from the crackling energy Amaraelia had been summoning.

The flickering light from a broken lamp threw jagged shadows across the peeling walls, making the room feel smaller, more suffocating, as if the fight had pulled reality too taut.

His eyes locked onto Amaraelia's, not daring to waver. She was still radiant with power, her eyes flickering with a golden glow that spoke of something ancient, dangerous.

But as soon as he stood in her path, the fierce light dimmed, like a candle struggling against a sudden gust. She blinked, the tension in her shoulders softening by a fraction, the wrath in her expression melting into something confused, even vulnerable.

"Dean," Castiel's voice cut through the crackling stillness, low but resonant with authority. "Step aside. This fight is not for a mortal to witness." His tone was calm, but there was an edge there, a quiet plea that warned of the danger.

From behind him, Castiel's wings unfurled in an effortless sweep, dark and massive, brushing against the edges of the room. They stirred the air, carrying a faint scent of wind and ancient power, a reminder that this was an angel prepared to act.

Dean clenched his jaw but didn't move, his chest rising and falling with steady, deliberate breaths. "No," he said, voice gravelly with resolve. "You want a fight, fine. But it's not gonna happen with me standing here."

Amaraelia's lips parted, a flicker of something unspoken behind her gaze, before they pressed into a thin line. Her grace dimmed entirely, the glowing embers in her eyes snuffed out like dying stars.

She straightened, the tension still coiled in her frame, but the raw fury had been caged, for now. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms until her knuckles whitened. "You shouldn't get in the way of things you don't understand," she murmured, voice softer now, almost regretful.

Dean shook his head, his voice rough but steady. "Try me."

Behind him, Castiel's wings folded back slowly, reluctantly, the glow in his eyes fading as well. The air shifted, the charged atmosphere easing, though the room still felt heavy with unspoken things, like smoke lingering after a fire.

Amaraelia's gaze didn't leave Dean's face. There was something raw in her expression, something not quite anger, not quite sorrow. "You don't know what I could do," she whispered, the words trembling, as if they were meant more for herself than him.

Dean smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe," he said, voice quieter now. "But I know what you didn't do."

She frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"You didn't kill me," Dean said, his tone softer but still firm. "You could've, just now. But you didn't."

For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the faint creak of the motel walls settling around them. Amaraelia took a step back, her gaze faltering, and for the first time, she looked unsure. The air cooled, the oppressive heat of power finally lifting, and Dean let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"We need you," Dean said finally, his voice low, rough with sincerity. "For the fight against Lucifer. Because yeah, maybe you see yourself as evil... but you're not him."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unpolished, like they'd cost him something to say. His green eyes, tired but unwavering, searched her face for any flicker of understanding. The dim motel light cast long shadows over the room, catching the edge of his stubbled jaw and the weary lines etched deep from too many battles, too many losses.

Amaraelia didn't speak right away. Her lips pressed together in a hard line, her gaze still locked on him. Her body was tense, but her grace—wild and radiant just moments ago—remained dimmed, simmering beneath the surface but no longer spilling over.

She tilted her head slightly, the movement slow, deliberate, as though she were weighing his words, dissecting them for lies or hidden motives.

"You think you know what I am," she said at last, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. It didn't rise in anger or crack with emotion—it was steady, cool, laced with something bitter. "You think not being him is enough?"

Dean didn't flinch. "It's a start," he replied, his tone softening, like he was trying to soothe a cornered animal. "I'm not saying you haven't done things. Hell, we've all done things. But you're still here. You still stopped when I stepped in."

Amaraelia's eyes narrowed, a flicker of defiance sparking to life. "I stopped because you were in the way."

"Exactly," Dean said, stepping forward just enough to close some of the space between them. "You could've thrown me aside like nothing. Burned me out with a thought. But you didn't." His voice dropped lower, gentler, like he was laying down his weapon. "You're not him."

For a moment, something fragile surfaced in her expression—pain, regret, maybe even fear—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She clenched her jaw, eyes shifting away from his to stare past him, toward Castiel, who stood silently watching, his face unreadable but his presence calm and steady.

"Lucifer is destruction," Dean continued, not letting the silence drag too long. "You—" he paused, as if struggling to find the right words. "You're not. You want to prove it? Help us. Help us stop him."

Amaraelia's breath hitched, her shoulders rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm. The fight seemed to drain from her, replaced by something hollow and uncertain. She glanced at Dean again, this time not with anger, but with something softer, something broken.

"And if I can't?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling with a vulnerability she hated to show. "What if I'm too much like him?"

Dean's expression softened, and for a second, the hardened hunter was gone, replaced by the boy who still believed in saving people, even the ones who didn't believe they could be saved.

"Then prove yourself wrong," he said quietly, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief that he stopped the potentially world ending fight between the angels.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑀𝐸𝐴𝐷𝑂𝑊 stretched out like an endless quilt of wildflowers and tall, whispering grass, its beauty softened by the fading gold of a setting sun. The air was warm, thick with the mingling scents of blooming flowers, sun-warmed earth, and the faint, sweet tang of crushed grass beneath them.

The distant hum of bees danced in the quiet, interwoven with the gentle rustle of the wind, as if nature itself held its breath for this moment.

Amaraelia's head rested against William's chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath a comforting rhythm against her cheek. His arms encircled her, not with the fierce grip of a warrior but with the gentleness of a man who cherished every second of stolen peace.

His fingers, rough from work but careful, traced slow patterns along the curve of her shoulder, lingering as though committing the feel of her to memory.

He sighed softly, leaning back into the plush cushion of the grass, his body sinking as though the earth itself had softened just for them.

"I wish I could meet you here all the time, my lady," he murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth, the clipped elegance of his accent lending weight to each word. The way he said it was reverent, like a prayer spoken under his breath. His lips brushed the crown of her head, the barest of touches, more like a caress.

Amaraelia let out a soft hum, a sound that seemed to rise from somewhere deep within, rich and content. She tilted her head, nuzzling her nose beneath his jaw, inhaling the scent of him—like fresh rain on stone, clean and grounding, mingled with something warmer, distinctly human.

His pulse beat steadily beneath her lips, a reminder of his mortality, fragile and fleeting. She closed her eyes, wishing, just for a moment, that they could stay here forever.

The breeze stirred again, cool fingers threading through her hair, lifting it to dance lazily around them. She felt the tension melt away, her wings relaxing against the grass, the feathers shimmering faintly in the fading light, delicate as spun silver.

Each brush of the wind teased the edges of her grace, but here, with William, it was subdued, quiet, as though it too found solace in his presence.

"I'll find a way," William whispered, his lips close to her ear now, the words soft but resolute, as if the strength of his conviction alone could alter fate. "One day, I'll find a way for us to meet here without worry. No stolen moments. No secrets."

For a moment, her breath hitched. The reality of his promise tugged at something deep inside, and her smile faltered, just for the briefest heartbeat. She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes luminous with the faint, eternal glow of her grace, soft like embers in the twilight.

"And what if the stars forbid it?" she asked, her tone light, teasing, though the weight behind her words trembled on the edge of sorrow.

His chuckle was low, warm, and it rumbled through her like distant thunder. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. "Then I'll steal them, too," he said, his grin mischievous, boyish, yet the seriousness in his voice made it clear: he meant every word. "For you? I'd steal the stars."

A laugh, bright and soft, spilled from her lips, her wings fluttering gently at his declaration. "Silly human," she teased, the words a melody, her smile radiant, outshining the setting sun. The warmth of it made her seem less celestial, less divine—just a woman, basking in the presence of the man she loved.

William reclined further, propping himself on one elbow, plucking lazily at a cluster of daisies beside him. His fingers toyed with the stems, twirling them absently. His eyes sparkled with that playful glint she had come to adore, the golden flecks catching the fading light.

She tilted her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder like silk spun from moonlight, and narrowed her eyes at him in mock suspicion. "What?" she asked, curiosity tugging at her voice.

He didn't answer right away, just watched her, a soft smile curving his lips, the kind of smile that held secrets too precious to speak aloud.

Finally, he shook his head, chuckling. "I think you're adorable, darling," he said, the affection in his voice like the warmth of a fire on a cold night.

Her eyes widened briefly, and a faint blush bloomed across her cheeks, delicate and lovely, though her wings fluttered with delight.

Before she could respond, William leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, as if the world outside this meadow had faded entirely, leaving only them.

Silence settled over the meadow again, broken only by the lazy hum of the bees and the soft sigh of the wind. Amaraelia's eyes fluttered closed, the warmth of his kiss still imprinted on her skin, and she murmured, half-laughing, "Adorable."

Her eyes opened, meeting his gaze, sparkling with a mix of amusement and something deeper, something that felt like forever. "You're insufferable," she added with a soft laugh, though the joy in her eyes betrayed her.

"And yet," William whispered, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her skin with the gentleness of a lover who feared he might break the moment, "you still let me stay."

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐷𝐼𝑀 light flickered overhead, casting an anemic yellow glow over the cracked tiles of the motel bathroom. The sink's faucet dripped in a maddening rhythm, the sound echoing in the tiny space.

Dean stood in front of the mirror, toothbrush jammed into his mouth, scrubbing half-heartedly while his eyes kept darting to the open doorway. The smell of cheap mint toothpaste barely masked the lingering odors of mildew and old cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to the walls.

He spat into the sink, the dull splatter loud in the quiet. Wiping his mouth on a scratchy motel towel, he leaned slightly to the side, catching a glimpse into the bedroom beyond.

The room was a typical dive—two sagging beds with floral-print comforters that had seen better decades, walls stained with years of neglect, and furniture that looked like it belonged in a garage sale no one attended.

But none of that held his attention.

His focus was on the two angels seated on opposite sides of the room, radiating tension like the heat from a live wire. Castiel sat rigid in the worn armchair by the window, his trench coat draped over his knees, hands folded tightly in his lap as if restraining himself from something far more violent.

His face was impassive, carved from stone, but Dean had known him long enough to see the subtle signs—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes narrowed with an intensity that could burn through steel.

On the other side, Amaraelia perched on the edge of the bed nearest the door, her posture deceptively relaxed, but her eyes—God, her eyes.

They glowed faintly, a simmering gold, and the expression in them was something wild and ancient, something that didn't belong in a dingy motel room. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, but there was a coiled tension in her fingers, like a cat ready to spring.

The soft flutter of her wings, almost imperceptible, stirred the stale air. She didn't look at Castiel directly, not quite, but her gaze cut toward him from beneath her lashes, sharp and dangerous, like the tip of a blade.

Dean could feel the weight of their hatred pressing down on the room, thicker than the smoke-stained air. He let out a long breath, gripping the edge of the sink.

His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, the kind that settled into his bones after years of hunting, of loss, of war. His body cried out for rest, every muscle aching, every thought dulled by weariness, but how the hell could he sleep with that brewing just a few feet away?

Behind him, Sam moved sluggishly, tossing his duffel onto the bed with a heavy thump. His face was pale, drawn tight with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes stark against his skin. He shot Dean a look, one that spoke volumes without a word: We can't leave them alone.

Dean shrugged, turning back to the mirror. He grabbed the edge of the sink, leaning forward, watching his reflection like it might offer an answer, like it might tell him how to fix this mess. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, grating on his nerves.

Dean, step aside.

Castiel's voice echoed in his memory from earlier, calm but cold.

This fight isn't for a mortal to witness.

Dean's jaw clenched. He wasn't stupid. He knew how dangerous it was—knew that if they wanted to, either angel could rip him apart without breaking a sweat.

But when had that ever stopped him? He couldn't let them kill each other, not when everything depended on keeping them together. He swiped a hand down his face, letting out a low, frustrated groan.

In the next room, Amaraelia's voice broke through the silence. "You're still trying, aren't you?" she drawled, her voice honey-smooth but laced with venom. "Still pretending Heaven will care for you if you're loyal enough."

Castiel didn't respond, but the room felt colder suddenly, the air thick with something unspoken, something deadly.

Dean turned, watching them again. He didn't miss the way Castiel's fingers twitched or the way Amaraelia's wings fluttered, like a warning. His voice cut through the thick, suffocating quiet.

"Enough," he said, stepping out of the bathroom, his voice rough and weary. "You both want to kill each other? Fine. But do it after we've stopped Lucifer."

Both angels turned to him, their gazes like twin storms, but neither spoke.

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We need you," he said finally, his voice softer, but no less firm. "Both of you."

Castiel shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly, but his fingers stopped their restless twitching. He got up and stepped forward, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the worn carpet, and let out a low breath. "Dean," he said quietly, his voice gravelly, as if it hurt to speak, "she's—"

"I know," Dean cut him off, raising a hand. His green eyes were sharp, glinting with both exhaustion and determination. "I know what she is, Cas. And I know what you are. And right now, you're both soldiers in this fight whether you like it or not. So whatever this is"—he gestured vaguely between them—"it can wait."

For a long moment, silence stretched between the three of them, taut and heavy. The air felt too thick, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Finally, Amaraelia sighed, the sound soft, reluctant, but it carried a note of surrender. Her wings folded neatly against her back, and she turned her gaze to the floor, her expression unreadable. "Very well," she murmured, her voice like silk worn thin. "For now."

Castiel nodded stiffly, his jaw tight, but he didn't argue. He stood straighter, his grace dimming further until he looked, at least on the surface, like a man instead of the celestial warrior Dean knew him to be.

Dean exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in the room loosen, just a fraction. "Good," he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Now, if you two can manage not to smite each other in the next six hours, maybe Sam and I can catch some sleep before we face the apocalypse. Again."

He didn't wait for a response, turning on his heel and heading toward the rickety bed nearest the window, his boots thudding softly against the floor.

He sank down onto the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking beneath his weight, and began unlacing his boots with slow, deliberate movements.

Behind him, the two angels remained silent, their tension a tangible presence, but for now, the threat of violence had ebbed.

Dean leaned back, letting out a long breath. "Just... try not to kill each other," he muttered, the words barely above a whisper, more to himself than to them. "At least until morning, when me and Sam are awake and can try to stop you."

The room had settled into a heavy, uneasy quiet. The creak and groan of the old building were the only sounds breaking the stillness, the soft ticking of the clock mounted crookedly on the wall like a heartbeat marking time.

Outside, the wind rattled the loose windowpanes, making the thin curtains flutter like restless ghosts. The scent of damp carpet and stale cigarettes lingered, woven into the very fabric of the room, blending with the faint, metallic tang of blood and grace that seemed to hover around the two angels.

Dean lay on the lumpy mattress closest to the window, his body sprawled in the awkward stillness of someone too tired to care about comfort. His boots had been kicked off haphazardly, one lying near the foot of the bed, the other resting halfway beneath the sagging mattress.

His face was slack, the lines of exhaustion carved deep into his features, softening the hard edges of a man who'd seen too much.

His breathing was even, steady, but not quite peaceful—never truly at peace. His chest rose and fell beneath the thin, scratchy blanket, and every now and then, his brow furrowed, as if even in sleep, he was fighting some unseen battle.

Sam was tucked in the opposite bed, curled on his side, long limbs drawn inward, one hand curled loosely beneath his pillow. He breathed deeply, rhythmically, the kind of sleep born from sheer physical exhaustion, though his features were tight, tense even in rest.

The room was too cold, the ancient radiator in the corner barely giving off any heat, but neither Winchester stirred.

Castiel paced near the window, his footsteps slow but deliberate, each step sounding like a soft scrape against the worn carpet. His trench coat fluttered faintly with each turn, like restless wings that couldn't quite find stillness.

His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers twisting in small, nervous gestures, a human mimicry that seemed unnatural on him. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, deep in thought, but every so often, they flicked toward the door or Dean, like he was bracing for something unseen.

On the opposite side of the room, Amaraelia sat perched on a rickety wooden chair she had dragged close to Dean's bedside. The legs of the chair wobbled slightly beneath her weight, but she sat perfectly still, her posture straight, dark wings folded neatly behind her.

The dim light from the flickering lamp on the nightstand caught in her hair, giving it a soft, golden halo. Her eyes, glowing faintly with the remnants of grace, were locked on Dean's face with an intensity that seemed almost tender, yet guarded.

She watched him with a curious, almost childlike fascination, her head tilted slightly to one side. There was something achingly soft in her expression, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something more vulnerable.

Her hand rested on her knee, fingers tapping lightly in an unconscious rhythm, as if she were counting the breaths he took. She leaned forward slightly, the feathers of her wings shifting, rustling softly like silk against skin.

He looked different like this, she thought. Fragile, in a way he never allowed himself to be when awake. There was no sharpness in his jaw, no tension in his mouth, no fire in his eyes.

Just the soft, steady cadence of sleep, and for a moment, she wondered what dreams haunted him in this quiet, stolen hour of rest. She wanted to touch him, just to feel the warmth of life beneath her fingers, but she didn't dare.

Instead, she spoke softly, the words barely a whisper, meant for no one but herself. "You fight so hard, mortal," she murmured, the sound barely carrying over the quiet hum of the radiator. "Even when you don't have to."

Castiel paused mid-step, his head turning sharply toward her, blue eyes narrowing slightly. He said nothing, but the weight of his gaze lingered on her, wary and curious. She felt it but didn't acknowledge it, her attention never wavering from Dean.

"He deserves peace," she continued, softer still, her voice like the rustling of leaves in a dying breeze. "But it will never be his, will it?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Castiel resumed his pacing, but his steps were slower now, more measured, as if her words had reached some part of him he wasn't ready to acknowledge.

Amaraelia let the silence settle again, her gaze lingering on Dean's face, watching the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly with each breath.

The room was still cold, still damp, still filled with the smell of decay and cheap detergent, but in that moment, it felt like something else—like the calm before the storm, fragile and fleeting.

Amaraelia leaned back, folding her hands in her lap, her wings shifting again, feathers brushing against the back of the chair.

"For now," she whispered, barely audible, "this will have to be enough."

IM BAAAACK!!! I love my girl Amaraelia she's adorable

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 30.11.24 ❞