❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ MY IMMORTAL VALENTINE ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ he was mortal, his life a spark; but to her, he was everything she'd been waiting for. ❜

𝐷𝐸𝐴𝑁 𝑊𝑂𝐾𝐸 up with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his entire body protesting the new day before it had even begun.

The motel room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater rattling against the wall, struggling to keep the cold at bay. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and old wood, the kind of scent that lingered in every rundown place they stayed in.

His muscles ached as he shifted, turning his head to glance at the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed faintly—5:47 AM. Too damn early.

He stretched out, his body groaning in unison with him, the movement slow and stiff like an old engine trying to turn over. Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the hardwood floor a sharp contrast to the warmth of the crumpled sheets.

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the remnants of sleep. His hair stuck out in all directions, wild and unruly, and the faint stubble on his jaw caught the dim light from the lamp he'd forgotten to turn off. He was just about to let out another groan when he felt a presence—too close.

His head snapped to the side, and there she was. Amaraelia. Her face was so close that he could see the faint shimmer of her celestial grace in her eyes, like stars trapped in an endless void. His breath hitched for half a second, his instinct to jump back barely restrained by the sheer shock of her proximity.

"Jesus," he muttered, his voice rough from sleep. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"All night," Amaraelia replied without missing a beat, her tone calm, almost serene. She tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a soft smile as her gaze roamed over his disheveled appearance. Her expression held an odd mixture of curiosity and fondness, like she was admiring a rare and fascinating creature.

Dean blinked, his brow furrowing as he tried to process her answer. "Right," he drawled, dragging the word out as if it could buy him time to figure out what to say. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, running a hand through his mess of hair. "Let's not do that anymore, okay?"

Amaraelia's smile faltered, the corners of her mouth tugging downward ever so slightly. "Why?" she asked, her tone genuinely puzzled, as if the thought of her behaviour being unwelcome had never crossed her mind.

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but it was Sam's muffled voice that cut through the awkward silence. "Because it's creepy. And weird," Sam muttered, his face still buried in the pillows of the other bed. His words were slightly garbled, but the irritation in his tone was unmistakable.

Dean pointed toward Sam without looking, his gesture half-hearted but emphatic. "What he said," he added, as if to drive the point home.

Amaraelia frowned, her brows knitting together as she glanced between the two brothers. Her hands rested delicately on her lap, fingers intertwining like she was trying to puzzle out some complex equation.

"Creepy?" she repeated, the word foreign in her mouth, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief.

Dean sighed, the sound heavy as he pushed himself up from the bed. His bare feet padded against the cold floor as he moved toward the tiny kitchenette, where the remnants of last night's coffee sat forgotten in the pot. He grabbed the handle and poured the dregs into a chipped mug, the dark liquid steaming faintly in the chilly room.

"It's not... Look, it's just a human thing, okay?" he said over his shoulder, his tone exasperated but not unkind. He turned back to face her, leaning against the counter with the mug cradled in his hands. "We don't usually... sit and stare at people while they sleep. It's weird for us."

Amaraelia tilted her head again, her frown deepening as she considered his words. The soft glow of the rising sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting golden light across her features. She looked almost ethereal in the morning light, her celestial presence somehow both subtle and overwhelming.

Sam groaned from the other bed, finally rolling onto his back. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were bloodshot as he glared up at the ceiling. "Can we have one morning—just one—where we don't wake up to something weird?"

Dean chuckled despite himself, the sound low and dry. "Not likely, Sammy," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. The bitter liquid jolted his senses awake, the warmth spreading through him like a small comfort against the chaos of their lives.

Amaraelia remained quiet, her gaze shifting to the floor as if she was mulling over Sam's and Dean's words. Her hands rested motionless in her lap, her expression unreadable.

Dean sighed again, softer this time. "Listen," he said, his tone gentler now. "It's not that we don't appreciate... whatever it is you're trying to do. Just... give us a little space, okay?"

Amaraelia nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I understand," she said, though her voice carried a hint of reluctance, as if she wasn't entirely convinced.

Dean nodded back, draining the rest of his coffee before setting the mug down on the counter. He glanced at Sam, who had thrown an arm over his eyes, clearly trying to steal a few more minutes of rest. Shaking his head, Dean turned his attention back to Amaraelia.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together. "Let's figure out how to deal with whatever apocalypse-level crap is waiting for us today."

Amaraelia's smile returned, faint but genuine, as she rose gracefully from her seat, wings fluttering softly behind her. "As you wish," she said, her tone as serene as ever.

Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes, muttering under his breath as he reached for his duffel bag off the floor, placing it on the bed. "Just another day in paradise."

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑀𝑂𝑇𝐸𝐿 room door clicked shut behind Sam, leaving behind a faint draft that rustled the edge of the curtain. Dean stood by the dresser, facing the mirror, his hands fussing with the knot of his tie.

The air in the room was a mix of stale cigarette smoke and cheap detergent from the bedspreads, overlaid with the faint scent of leather from Dean's jacket hanging off the chair. His reflection stared back at him, unimpressed, as he tugged at the fabric around his neck.

Amaraelia perched on the edge of the bed nearest to him, her gaze fixed on him with unblinking curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, much like the way a puppy might respond to a new and unfamiliar sound. Her wings shifted behind her, the soft, faint rustle of feathers barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning unit in the corner.

Dean could feel her eyes on him, an unbroken, almost palpable weight of attention. It wasn't just her looking at him; it was the way she saw him, like he was something to be studied and understood.

The sensation wormed its way under his skin, leaving him uncharacteristically uneasy. He tugged at the tie again, muttering a curse under his breath when it didn't sit quite right.

Finally, he turned to face her, leaning back slightly against the dresser as his hands dropped to his sides. His eyes met hers, a mixture of bemusement and discomfort flickering across his features.

She sat motionless except for the faint, rhythmic sway of her wings, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The sunlight streaming through the blinds caught the edges of her feathers, making them glimmer faintly like gold dust.

"You, uh..." Dean's voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain, as he gestured vaguely toward her. "You're gonna need to change into something a little more... fancy."

Amaraelia blinked, her head tilting the other way now, like she was processing the request. Her gaze dropped momentarily, scanning the suit he wore, the crisp lines of the jacket, the neatly pressed shirt, the tie he still hadn't gotten quite right. Her lips curved into a soft, almost amused smile as she looked back up at him.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asked, her voice light and genuinely curious, though there was a hint of mischief in her tone.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it further, and let out a sigh. "Look, you might think celestial chic is working for you," he said, gesturing toward the simple white dress she wore, flowing and ethereal, paired with bare feet that looked untouched by the world. "But where we're going, you'll stick out like a sore thumb."

Amaraelia glanced down at herself, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her coat as if seeing it for the first time. Her wings shifted again, brushing lightly against the headboard as she stood. She stepped closer, her bare feet silent against the worn carpet.

"I don't know how to... blend in like you do," she admitted, her voice softer now, her brows knitting together in genuine concern.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous habit betraying the irritation in his tone. "It's not rocket science, sweetheart. Just pick something that doesn't scream 'heavenly messenger.' You know, like pants, shoes—maybe a blouse. Something you can move around in without drawing every eye in the room."

She considered this, her head tilting again as her lips pursed thoughtfully. "You want me to look human," she said, more a statement than a question.

"Exactly," Dean replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the dresser. He met her gaze, his expression softening despite himself. "We've got a job to do, and walking into a morgue with an angel who looks like she stepped out of a Renaissance painting isn't exactly gonna help."

Amaraelia smiled faintly, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she nodded. "I'll do my best," she hummed, gently getting up to head over to the bathroom for privacy, as she had now learned that's what humans do.

Dean watched her go, his eyes following the trail of her wings until they disappeared behind the door. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and turned back to the mirror. His fingers found the tie again, and this time, it slipped into place with surprising ease.

"Clueless, lovestruck angel," he muttered to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This is gonna be one hell of a day."

The door to the bathroom creaked open, revealing Amaraelia's hesitant frame as she stepped into the room. Her brows were drawn together in mild confusion, her lips pursed slightly as if she were unsure of her choices. She smoothed her hands down the fabric of the outfit she had conjured, her movements deliberate, almost self-conscious.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty, her head tilting just a fraction as she waited for Dean's reaction.

Dean, still fiddling with his jacket, turned at the sound of her voice, expecting something simple. Instead, he froze mid-adjustment, his hands dropping to his sides as his gaze swept over her.

She was wearing a crisp white blouse tucked neatly into a fitted grey blazer, its sharp lines accentuating her slender frame. At first glance, it seemed like she had nailed the concept of "professional attire," but his eyes didn't stop at the blazer.

Below it, she wore a grey skirt—if it could even be called that—so short it barely grazed the tops of her thighs. Her legs were bare, smooth and pale, and she stood there in a pair of impractically high heels that looked more suited for a runway than a morgue.

The air between them felt charged, and Dean swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He quickly averted his gaze, his ears burning as he tried to muster a coherent response. "Uh..." was all he managed at first, his voice catching in his throat.

Amaraelia's frown deepened. She glanced down at herself, smoothing the pleats of the impossibly short skirt with an air of practicality. "Is this incorrect?" she asked, her tone curious, not understanding the blush that was creeping up Dean's neck or the way his eyes darted around the room, pointedly avoiding her.

Dean coughed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to pull himself together. "It's, uh, not exactly... morgue-appropriate," he muttered, his voice gruff. He kept his focus on the wall behind her, anywhere but her legs.

Amaraelia's wings shifted slightly, a soft rustling sound filling the silence as she looked at him expectantly. "I studied the clothing humans wear in professional settings," she explained, her voice calm but tinged with a hint of defensiveness. "This seemed appropriate."

Dean let out a breath, his hand running through his hair as he dared another glance at her. "Yeah, no offense, but I think you might've been looking at the wrong kind of professionals,." His lips twitched into a wry smile despite himself, though his blush hadn't faded.

"Oh," she hummed, her head tilting as she examined her reflection in the room's cracked mirror. Her hands smoothed down the lapels of the blazer with an almost human-like nervousness, though her expression remained calm, unbothered by Dean's scrutiny. The quiet rustling of her wings filled the silence like a whisper against the motel's tired walls.

"Yeah, oh," Dean shot back, his tone dripping with exasperation. He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts to keep it in check. He was trying to focus, but damn it, she made it difficult.

Amaraelia's wings fluttered again, the movement delicate and rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Dean tore his gaze away from them, clearing his throat as he forced himself to focus. "Screw the clothes," he muttered, gesturing vaguely at her. "But those wings? Not exactly FBI standard issue."

Amaraelia turned to face him fully, her brow knitting slightly. "Why does it matter? They are a part of me," she replied, her voice calm but laced with a quiet defiance.

Dean let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he pushed off the dresser and grabbed his jacket from the chair. "Yeah, and they're gonna be a part of our cover getting blown if you don't hide them. Last I checked, glowing wings don't scream 'federal agent.'"

Her gaze followed his movements, her curiosity piqued as he shrugged on the jacket. The way he moved—quick, efficient, and with a kind of rugged confidence—always fascinated her, though she didn't fully understand why. She felt her wings twitch again, this time involuntarily, as if responding to the energy he exuded.

"Fine," she said after a beat, her tone softer now, almost contemplative. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and the room seemed to dim for a fraction of a second. When she opened them, the wings were gone, leaving behind only the faintest trace of warmth in the air where they had been.

Dean nodded, satisfied, though he couldn't help but miss the way the wings had filled the space with their quiet beauty. "There we go. Now you look like a regular pencil-pushing Fed." His smirk returned, but it lacked the usual edge, replaced instead with something softer, almost fond.

Amaraelia raised a brow, her lips curving into a subtle smile that hinted at amusement. "Is that what you aspire to be, Dean Winchester? A pencil-pushing Fed?"

He snorted, grabbing the car keys from the nightstand. "Hell no. But today, we're playing pretend." He gestured toward the door, already moving to open it. "Now let's go. We've got dead bodies to check out and not a lot of time to do it."

The door creaked as he swung it open, and a cool breeze wafted in, carrying with it the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt and damp earth. Amaraelia followed him out, her footsteps light and deliberate, as if she were walking on clouds instead of solid ground.

Amaraelia's brow furrowed as she stepped outside, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked up at the overcast sky. The thick, oppressive clouds had hung low all day, casting a dull, gray hue over everything around them.

The air was heavy with the scent of rain, damp earth, and the faint tang of oil from the road. A gust of wind swept through, making the trees nearby sway in a rhythmic motion, their branches creaking and groaning under the weight of the storm that had yet to break.

She stood still for a moment, her expression unreadable, but her presence seemed to shift the very energy around her. With a soft hum of concentration, her hand raised slightly, her fingers tracing an almost invisible pattern in the air. A low, vibrating hum echoed in the distance, barely perceptible, like the calm before a storm's release.

The temperature shifted, becoming milder in the span of seconds. The wind slowed, and the heavy weight of the clouds seemed to dissipate, breaking apart as if pushed away by an unseen force.

The sun's warmth began to seep through the clearing sky, casting soft golden rays across the parking lot. The storm, once poised to strike, faded into nothingness, leaving only a calm, peaceful quiet behind it.

Dean, standing just behind her, had watched the transformation with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. His eyes narrowed at the sudden shift in weather, his jaw clenching as if irritated by the ease with which she manipulated the world around them.

He had been through enough with angels—he knew what they were capable of—but it still didn't sit right with him. There was something about how effortlessly she altered the world, how she bent the air and the earth to her will, that made him uncomfortable. It reminded him too much of the power that could undo everything.

She slid into the Impala with a satisfied hum, the door creaking slightly as it closed behind her. The soft scent of her perfume, a mix of jasmine and something earthy, lingered briefly in the car, blending with the familiar leather seats and the faint remnants of engine oil. The air inside the car was warmer, a stark contrast to the lingering chill that had once hung in the atmosphere just outside.

Dean let out a long breath as he watched her settle in, his eyes following the slow, graceful movements of her as she adjusted the collar of her blazer. Her wings, no longer visible, still seemed to fill the space around her. It was a subtle, ethereal presence that almost hummed with a life of its own. He felt it in his chest, a kind of energy that prickled the skin, even if it wasn't immediately visible.

"Angels," Dean muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he pushed open the door and slid into the driver's seat, his hands gripping the worn leather of the steering wheel.

The familiar scent of the car—wood smoke, old books, and faint traces of gasoline—seemed to ground him as he started the engine with a low rumble. The purr of the Impala was always a comfort, like a steady heartbeat in the chaos of everything else.

𝑆𝐴𝑀 𝑃𝐿𝐴𝐶𝐸𝐷 the damp bag of fast food on the table, the soft crinkle of the paper wrapping the greasy contents briefly filling the room. A faint scent of fries and cheap burgers wafted through the air, mixing with the stale smell of the motel.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed intermittently, adding to the sterile, dismal atmosphere of the room. Amaraelia, still perched on the edge of the bed, watched the exchange from across the room, her eyes darting between Sam and Dean, her posture relaxed but attentive.

Dean, who had been hunched over the laptop on the table, paused mid-typing, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food. His stomach growled loudly, as if agreeing with his sudden change in focus. He turned toward Sam, raising an eyebrow as he eyed the bag of food, his fingers already twitching in anticipation.

"How'd it go?" Dean asked, his voice gruff but tinged with hunger, his gaze flicking back to the bag. The room, with its faded wallpaper and mismatched furniture, felt suddenly smaller, almost suffocating under the weight of the situation.

It was a far cry from the chaos of their hunts, but still, there was something about the stale air that felt tense, like they were on the cusp of something they weren't entirely ready for.

Sam sighed, his posture slumping as he let his coat fall to the back of the chair. He ran a hand through his damp hair, clearly exhausted. "No EMF, no sulfur," he said, his tone a bit defeated as he sank into the chair with a tired groan. The frustration in his voice was palpable, the weight of the investigation pressing down on him.

"Ghost possession and demonic possession are probably out," Sam continued, his eyes briefly scanning the room, as if looking for something that could help him make sense of the mystery.

But all he saw was the same cluttered space they had called home for the past few days—papers scattered across the table, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air, the dim glow of the TV screen in the corner.

Dean, his fingers still itching for the food, leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. That's where I was puttin' my money," he said, his voice thoughtful, but still edged with that sharpness he often carried when the case wasn't going the way he wanted.

He tore into the bag with an almost savage enthusiasm, pulling out a burrito that looked as though it had been stuffed to the brim with every ingredient imaginable. The smell of warm tortillas and spicy meat filled the small room, mingling with the other scents and making Dean's mouth water.

Amaraelia's gaze flicked to Dean as he dug into the food, her expression intrigued. She hadn't seen him like this—so unguarded, so focused on something as simple as food. It was strange, almost endearing in its simplicity, but there was something in the way he moved, the way his hands curled around the food, that made her pause.

It was almost as if he were trying to distract himself from something. Her curiosity piqued, but she didn't ask. Instead, her eyes drifted back to Sam, who was still sitting at the table, looking worn out but determined.

"Nope," Sam said, shaking off his coat and tossing it onto the chair next to him, his body language slumped in defeat. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, thick with the quiet that followed his words.

Dean chewed slowly, considering Sam's words as he chewed. After a beat, he spoke again, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "Well, then what? What do we do now?" he asked, his brows furrowing as he turned the burrito around in his hands.

"Oh, dude, at the coroner's—you didn't see these bodies. I mean, these two started eating a—" he paused, trying to find the right words, his hands moving in exaggerated gestures. "And they just... kept going. I mean, their stomachs were full. Like—like Thanksgiving-dinner full. Talk about co-dependent."

Sam gave a weary laugh, but there was something tired in it, a resignation to the weirdness of their world that seemed to have settled in with them. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples, as if trying to stave off the headache that was clearly forming.

"Well... I mean, we got our feelers out. Not much more we can do tonight. All right. I'm just gonna go through some files. You can go ahead and get going." His voice held a quiet finality, an exhaustion that suggested he was already giving in to the idea that whatever they were dealing with wasn't something they'd solve tonight.

Dean, on the other hand, was still eyeing the food. Just as he was about to take a bite, his gaze flicked back up to Sam, confusion washing over his features. "Sorry?" he asked, not quite catching on to what Sam was suggesting.

Sam, shrugging slightly, waved a hand as he stood up from his chair, the clink of a bottle opening in the background. "Go ahead. Unleash the kraken. See you tomorrow morning." He grinned faintly, though there was a bit of weariness in his eyes.

Dean scoffed, his brows furrowing as he glanced at Sam. "Where am I going?" he muttered, not sure what his brother was getting at. He held his burrito in one hand, still not entirely convinced by Sam's casual dismissal of whatever had been weighing on his mind.

Sam shot Dean a pointed look, clearly amused by the situation. "Dean, it's Valentine's Day. Your favorite holiday, remember?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone half-teasing, half-earnest as he pulled out a beer from the fridge.

"I mean, what do you always call it? Uh, unattached drifter Christmas?" His eyes twinkled with amusement, though it was clear he was just trying to get Dean to lighten up, to take a breath and do something normal for once.

Amaraelia and Castiel exchanged glances, both clearly thrown by the phrase. Amaraelia's lips twitched at the oddity of it, but she said nothing. Castiel, on the other hand, seemed entirely unsure how to respond, his gaze flicking between the two brothers as if trying to process the strange dynamics between them.

Dean, for his part, shot a quick, almost discreet glance at Amaraelia, his eyes briefly meeting hers before flicking back to Sam. He grumbled, clearly trying to downplay whatever was rolling through his mind.

"Oh, yeah. Well... be that as it may... I don't know," Dean muttered, his voice gruff and distant as he finally took a bite out of the burrito. "Guess I'm not feeling it this year."

BACK AGAIN help :,)
i need a shipname for Amaraelia and Dean help are we still shipping Lawchester or does that sound like we're shipping William and Dean????

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

❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 05.01.25 ❞