It was a surprisingly quiet April night for one Mary Campbell-Winchester as she waited for her husband-to-be to return from his lateshift at the garage. With Mary pregnant and out of commission, he'd had to start working longer shifts to be able to pay for food and the car (a beautiful Impala, and even though that wasn't what they were originally going to get, she loved it dearly). She was sitting on their bed, reading an old book that her father had gifted her, that, to her shock, wasn't hunter related. It was a storybook full of old fairy tales, and even though they were macabre in every sense of the word, she found herself liking the strange stories, because at least these she knew were make believe. She was reading through the original telling of "Snow White" when the lights began to flicker, and it was only a second later that two men were at her bedside. The first man was quite short and had dirty blonde hair, warm amber eyes, and a disarming smile. The second man, who was slightly taller than his companion, had dark bedhead, piercing blue eyes, and a tan trench coat. "Who are you, and how did you get into my house?!" He practically shrieked, curling around her swollen stomach in an unconscious effort to protect the unborn child growing there. The one in the trench coat was the first to speak, his voice gravelly yet filled with grim emotions. "My name is Castiel, and this is my brother Gabriel. We are angels of the lord." Mary stared incredulously at the so-called 'angel', before snorting out a laugh. "Right, and I'm the queen of England." She replied sarcastically. "Seriously though, what kinda demons are you, being able to just appear out of nowhere?" The shorter one had the audacity to laugh, while the taller one tilted his head, eyes squinting as if he were confused (and if Mary was to let herself think at the moment, he probably was). This time, it was the blonde that spoke to her. "We know you don't believe us, and it is a lot to claim to be an angel, but it's true. The two of us are angels, and we're here to help your child." Mary blinked up at him, hand resting on her stomach as she allowed herself to untense, but only slightly, so she could see the pair easier. "How exactly will you do that?" The taller angel, Castiel she thought it was, stared at her with sorrowful blue eyes. "Your firstborn has to deal with much loss in his life, including your death," Mary gasped at that, "and when his younger brother, your last child, is killed by a demon, he sells his soul to get him back, and I end up raising him from Perdition." Mary wanted to ask more questions, but he raised his hand, demanding silence from her for the moment. "I grew extremely close to him, and we were… friends. The only thing I want for him is happiness, which is why I enlisted the help of my brother here." Gabriel smiled at her, picking up on where his brother left off. "So, I came up with the idea of going back in time and, giving him a little makeover while still in your stomach, so he won't take a nose dive into the pit! Plus, he'll be much more durable. Quite possibly immortal, so I think that it is completely in his best interest for you to allow us to help." She didn't truly trust them, but felt that she was being forced into a corner, and sighed. "Fine. You can do whatever it takes to help, as long as it won't hurt him." Castiel seemed to stare into her soul when he answered. "This will be painless, I assure you. I wouldn't agree to this either if it would cause any harm whatsoever. In fact, it will protect him against demons and other dark creatures that may wish to make him suffer. We swear on it." Mary took a deep breath before nodding her head. "Then, go ahead I suppose." The dark haired man (she idly wondered if he was possessing someone like a demon would) touched two fingers to her forehead, and she was out like a light. The angelic siblings each held a hand over her stomach, the soft light blue glow of Grace emitting from their palms and transferring into the swollen skin, and the precious life that grew within it. After they felt they gifted the baby enough Grace, they removed their hands. Just in time to hear the door downstairs open. By the time John Winchester's heavy footsteps reached his bedroom, the two were gone without a trace, although if Mary were still awake, she may have been able to hear the sound of fluttering wings. The man smiled down at his beautiful wife, and caressed the distended skin of her stomach, where his child was growing. His growing family. He slept peacefully that night, unaware that his firstborn child had been changed, and so had the poor thing's destiny.
Of course, Mary never spoke of her meeting with the angels to John. Not only because it made her seem like an irresponsible parent, but also because John knew nothing of the things that went bump in the night, and she would like to keep it that way for as long as she could. So, the meeting stayed between her and the two brothers.
Mary knew the angels were watching her as she gave birth to her firstborn son. It wasn't like they told her, or she could feel their eyes on her. It was closer to a mother's intuition that anything else, at least that she could think of while in extreme pain. And watch they did. They both felt twin feelings of joy and elation when Dean Winchester, the most Righteous Man to be named by God himself, breathed his first breath. While Gabriel immediately used his Grace to hide the tiny wings on the baby's back, Castiel was in awe of the beauty of the soul before him. Human Dean's soul was the most bright soul he had ever had the pleasure of seeing, but this new soul was entwined with Grace, powerful Grace, and it shone brighter than most stars in the galaxy, a beacon to any angel watching over Earth. Except for the fact that it still belonged to a Nephilim, and the angels living in Heaven ignored them on a good day, no matter how brilliant their soul, so he knew Dean would likely be safe. And in case he wasn't, he would watch over him. When Mary was able to hold her son, she softly fawned over him, his hidden wings especially, cooing playfully, calling him her precious little angel.
For as long as Dean could remember, his mother called him her precious little angel, and would gently comb her fingers along the grain of his soft, downy wings. Every night, after singing to him, she would tell him that he had angels watching over him, and when her time came to join them, they would protect him. To him, her word was truth as if spoken by a God, so when she told him to not let anyone ever see his wings, he didn't question her, just did as she asked. The only time he ever asked a question, he asked if he could show his father. She told him John couldn't know about them. So he wouldn't know about them, for as long as he could hide it.
When Dean first had the urge to see what his wings looked like, he was 4 years old, and his baby brother Sammy was 3 months old. The wings were pretty small, only as long as his nubby arms and going down to the small of his back, and they reminded him of Cupids. Their color started off pure white, then tapered off into a dark grey, with a few electric blue highlights thrown in. They were extremely soft, and felt like a blanket when he wrapped them around himself (and, when he was home alone for hours on end, his baby brother, who would coo and gurgle and overall enjoyed being inside the cocoon of fluff and darkness). So he decided that his wings were pretty cool, and even though he wanted to show them off, his mother's words would ring in his head, and he would instead keep them hidden.
After his mother died, Dean felt like crying every second of every day, but then he would hear his mother saying that one day she would have to leave him, even if she didn't want to, and that the angels would make sure he was protected in her place, and he felt all warm inside. Of course, not everyone gets over grief as well as he did, namely his father. John-or sir, but not daddy, not anymore. He lost that right when he lost his wife-had become an alcoholic, a man living only to get revenge for the death of his beloved wife (who he fought with constantly, and would leave alone for weeks at a time after they had a fight). Ever since that fateful day, he had begun to train a 4 year old Dean to become a hunter, and when Sam learned the truth when he was 8, he started to teach him too. This made it even harder for Dean to hide his wings from his father. One day, he let his curiosity get the better of him, and asked a question he would soon regret asking. "Sir, are angels monsters too?" John paused in cleaning his guns for a moment before laughing humorlessly. "Kid, even if angels did exist, they ain't human, and if it ain't human, it deserves to die. No exceptions." Those words pierced Dean's delicate heart, though he made sure not to let it show on his face and nodded his head in understanding. His father thought he was a monster… He did his best not to cry.
When John found out about Dean's secret, the boy was 8 years old. Dean had been in the middle of changing his shirt when the bathroom door burst open (he didn't usually do that, it almost never happened, that Dean forgot that it did) and he saw his father standing in the doorway. He had felt his heart stutter in his chest when he saw the large man in the doorway, and his wings unconsciously curled around his frame in a sort of comforting/protective mechanism. Their movement seemed to bring John back from his thoughts, and the man glared at the young child with obvious disgust, and roughly gripped him by his soft right wing. Dean shrieked with pain at the harsh grip, but didn't resist the pull in fear of hurting himself even more. He was thrown to the floor gracelessly while John pulled something out from behind his back. When he looked up from the stained motel carpet, he swore his heart stopped beating, and that his face paled drastically when he saw the knife in his father's grasp. Before either of them could move an inch, every light in the room popped, the tv exploded, and suddenly a man stood before them, with hair as black as night, and eyes that reminded Dean of the ocean. The new man was glaring daggers at the hunter, a low growl stuck in his throat, and barely concealed rage dancing under his borrowed skin. "Who d'ya think you are?!" John snarled, but the man didn't react. "My name is Castiel, and the boy you were about to harm is under my divine protection." Dean could only look up at the man in awe, not only because of his courage, but because of the six wings that decorated his back, all of them black, yet looking as though they were covered in little, multicolored stars. They were… transfixing, and the boy found it harder to focus on much else, although it did occur to him that this Castiel was an angel, because no way could a human (or anything else that may grow wings, like he himself did) could look as beautiful as he did. His father glared harder than he ever had before. "That thing ain't no boy! It's a fucking monster! How else do you explain those wings on his back?!" He couldn't help the tears that slipped from his eyes at his father's cruel words, because they only made him feel worse about himself. In the time it took to blink, Castiel was holding him in a gentle embrace, the way his late mother used to after a nightmare, and he couldn't help but snuggle into the angel's arms, feeling at home there, surrounded by a familiar scent and warm arms. He felt happy for the first time in four years, and he was so immersed in the new, comforting feelings, he didn't realise that he had even fallen asleep in the first place (without Castiel's help too). When Castiel felt that the nephilim (and best friend in another timeline) was comfortable in his arms, he turned to face John, who had pulled a gun when he wasn't paying attention. Castiel lifted one of his arms slightly, and the man found that he couldn't breath. He dropped the weapon to grasp at his throat, trying fruitlessly to gain more precious oxygen. He looked up into the enraged blue eyes of the monster currently holding his oldest son. "You are very lucky that I am currently not permitted to kill you just yet." The angel snarled out protectively. "I am giving you one warning, John Winchester, that if you ever attempt to harm Dean in any way, I will not hesitate to rip your throat out. Am I understood?" The choking man nodded as best he could, and was promptly dropped on his ass while he greedily gulped down oxygen. Castiel held Dean in his arms for a few more moments, brushing the hair from his forehead, and laying a gentle kiss there, before settling him down next to his deeply sleeping brother (how he didn't awaken during Castiel's entrance, the angel did not know). Dean wouldn't remember this day, and would be left unaware of the existence of angels until the time was right (although, the boy would continue to dream of galaxy wings and the smell of freshly baked pie for years to come).
When Sam turned 10 was when he learned about his big brother's wings. Dean thought that he would freak out, but the kid found them to be pretty awesome. By that time, Dean's smaller pair of wings made themselves known, already nearly as long as his primary wings, and he had four wings in total. His younger brother was ecstatic about this. If his baby bro had a bad day at school, he would wrap him up in his wings and keep him there until he fell asleep. Those were nice times. The times before grew into a jerk like most teenagers did, and would take out his angst on the only other person in his vicinity, who was usually Dean. Before he decided that he didn't like hunting, or his hunting family, and shut them out of his life completely. That was a hard time in Dean's life, and he found himself dreaming of those beautiful wings more often than not, hoping against hope that running away wouldn't bite his brother in the ass. But of course, when has anything gone well for a Winchester.