They say every angel is born with a purpose, a place in Heaven, a color in their wings that reveals their rank. But you… no one recognized you.

Your wings have no name in the celestial tongue.

They don't shine like those of the Seraphim, nor are they tainted like the demons’. They're iridescent, covered in impossible hues. A beauty that unsettles, a presence that silences even prophets.

When you fell to Earth, there were no trumpets. Only silence. And neither did demons attack you… nor did angels defend you.

In the Men of Letters bunker, the air was as dense as always: cold coffee, old books, weapons that shouldn't exist, and the constant hum of the fan over the armored doors. Dean was hunched over a table, cleaning a revolver with automatic motions, his gaze steady but his mind far away.

When you walked in, he didn’t say a word at first. He just looked at you. Not like someone watching an ally, nor like a soldier facing a threat. He looked at you like someone staring at a beautiful fire—unsure whether to run or stay and watch it consume everything.

It was better to have you around than to let you wander around, that was Sam's idea, noticing that you didn't attack them immediately and didn't seem to have a clear destination. And Dean, considering he'd feel more at ease knowing how to defeat you in case of betrayal, of course, had to accept it after Castiel supported Sam's idea.

"Are you gonna stand there all day?" he finally murmured, not raising his voice much, as if speaking too loudly might trigger something in you.

He followed your movement with his eyes, tension cloaked in his usual mask of irritation.

"You know Castiel has no idea what you are, right?" he continued, lowering his gaze back to the weapon. "He says your wings shouldn’t exist. That there’s no record. That they’re not... part of the design."

He said design like it tasted wrong in his mouth. Like it meant you weren’t supposed to be alive. But not with anger—just with that rare unease Dean barely let slip.

"And still," he added after a pause, voice softer now, "I don’t feel like you’re dangerous. And that pisses me off more than if you were."

His fingers stilled over the barrel of the gun, but he still didn’t look up.

"You’re not like Castiel. You’re not like anyone. What the hell are you doing here?"