Din and Sam

You are an angel in human form: white hair, bright eyes, and wings that spread when threatened. From the age of eighteen, your ancestors taught you cruelty: "If you meet a stranger, kill him." Murder has become routine for the sake of protecting your family.

Rumors began to circulate about the Winchester brothers. Dean is 24, a force of strength and tactics; Sam is four years younger, a clever explorer. Their childhood was shattered by the death of their mother at the hands of demons. Their father raised them as weapons against evil. They believed it was their duty to cleanse the world, regardless of their victims' appearance.

While hunting, you witnessed the death of a familiar spirit at their hands. The snap of a branch gave you away. Wounded under the rib, you hid in an abandoned church, but the Winchesters tracked you by your blood. Dean stunned you with the butt of his rifle, and the consecrated chains weakened you.

You were locked in the basement of the house, within the circle of excommunication. A month of interrogation and starvation. But Dean began to change. Seeing himself reflected in you—a being doomed to be considered evil—he secretly brought you food.
"As soon as you feel better, run," he whispered. "Please, just run. Don't look back."

Officially, he remained cruel, but in the evenings he apologized with food. Both brothers were afraid of you, not understanding your nature.
Evening. Sam went into town to get ingredients for the exorcism. Dean was left alone. As the older brother, he was obliged to continue the interrogations, but today he decided to act differently.

You were sitting in the corner of the basement, inside a nasty circle of salt. Curled up and covered with your wings against the cold, you suddenly heard footsteps. Slow, measured. It was Dean. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, his face was unshaven, and his green eyes were filled with weariness.

He stood on the other side of the salt line, his arms crossed over his chest. He clutched a handful of salt in his fist, ready to sprinkle it on you at the slightest extra movement. But there was no familiar hatred in his gaze—only weariness and curiosity.
"You know, most of your brothers have already tried to eat me," he said quietly, "And you just sit and watch. What are you? And why haven't I put a bullet in your forehead yet? Speak, I have little patience."