Even in the darkest hour of the night, New York City was more alive than I had been my entire life, but that wasn't saying much considering my circumstances. To feel the cool breeze nip at my cheeks and the weight of my fraudulently delicate form compared to the freefall beneath me… I was no longer numb, invincible or ignorant to humanity in an ungrateful way.
I was simply alive.
And nothing felt greater than acknowledging what life like, only feeling it.
Delicate feet dangled from the buildings edge, a notebook rested against my crossed thighs as I observed the buzzing life below, legs rocking against pallid brick. The sound of horns, angry drivers and late night party-goers screeched throughout the vicinity, music pumping louder than the sound of the coagulating blood within my head as lights danced, racing to the edge of my peripheral vision to never be witnessed again. Gently, almost as if waiting for company, I tapped my fingers against the leather cover of the notebook in a Mexican wave fashion from pinkie to forefinger, eyes darting across the vista that stretched before me. Was I waiting? Even I couldn't answer that question. Blonde hair billowed against the battering winds, icy blues and pale skin prominent against the most sinister of skies… I was so unnaturally beautiful that I revolted myself… At the very thought of my alabaster perfection my stomach churned, guts twisting in distaste – I wasn't natural, I never would be and now, even though hell had spat me back out after devouring every part of me, I was bitter. So badly had I wanted to be human that I sacrificed my life in order for my brother to maybe one day reach that goal… only to be indigestible.
So lost in train of thought, I hadn't heard the flapping of heavily feathered wings, the light landing of leather shoed feet upon the concrete roof, only the hark of the angel clearing his throat broke my harrowing reminiscing. Still, I didn't turn to face the being, well aware that he was stood, looming over me in his self-taught grace, gazing neither at me nor the view, but at the star-potted sky, like glitter on a sketch book, yet there was no moon to cast it's shadows tonight – a new era was to be born beneath the new moon.
"Disobedience can send your soul where you belong, Elizabeth." He warned, attempting to either threaten or scare me. Little did I care for either; proving his words useless.
"Then why do you falter, Castiel? I'm neither angel nor demon – I'm an ally…" The words carried in a breath, no lie spoken for I kept to the arrangement. For the time being, I was a warrior, returning to an old profession until the time came to take my place as a guardian, wings clipped and powers stripped – mortal form, or so I'd been informed.
"Time's have changed, there's a new order. Down below there's word of your heed on our side; the demon's are strife with anger over your betrayal-" The very thought of an alliance with the poisoned black souls warped my features, somehow perversely pleasing the Angel the very moment I cut him off. "I never served their master, I only incinerated there kind, how can they ask someone so disloyal to take their side in a war I'm slap-bang in the middle of?" If it were up to me, I'd be mortal and far, far out of the way…, I thought inwardly - also taking note of the exploit of my birth name - longing to say the words, but fearful of how true they really were. In the bat of an eyelid, I knew I'd give up my demonic traits, but never the supremacy I so depended on.
In a swaying movement, Castiel perched himself beside me, legs hanging limply off the buildings perimeter, hands firmly gripping the edge; any fall could be mistaken as a fall from grace.
Thankfully, before the elder continued, he carefully worded his phrases, allowing my boiling anger to cool. "…It's time." Finally, I indolently greeted a russet gaze, the two different tones glinting at contact. Castiel, for an angel, was fairly good looking, but as a demon on the whole, I knew that such a thought was atrocious and forbidden… as a human, I believed myself blasphemous.
I tilted my head, looking so intently into his eyes that I watched every flicker and sparkle of the lights from signs off in the distance, almost as if I was trying to read his mind. "The Winchesters need you, Elizabeth. Nothing taken, nothing given – go as you are. Save the brother and protect the hunter."
Dean awoke, startled as his glanced down at his sweat matted chest, arctic and moist to the touch, dark eyebrows knitted ambiguously as he gazed down at it, though more concerned about the dream more than the horrified outcome. "Dean…" A feminine voice whispered on the wind. "You'll be expecting me." Sensing a glowing stare upon his form, neither dangerous nor safe, the Winchester twisted his form to greet it, the outline of a ghostly looking form stood in the threshold of old motel room, immobile between the outdated kitchen and the room in which two separate beds lay, one in which Sam still lay, embracing his slumber like a child. Long, auburn hair, icy blues – that he expected of such a phenomena, it was almost part of the stereotypical rule book. What he hadn't expected was the attire – a mans long, white shirt, two buttons missing enough to reveal the crevice of his cleavage, that dropped just above the knee, the outline of black lace just visible through the shirt…
Then, like a gust of wind blowing away her image, she vanished.