In the quiet stillness of a winter morning in 1970, a storm blanketed the edges of a small town in Northern Canada. Snow fell like whispers across the rooftops, muffling the world in silence. Inside a modest wooden house at the edge of town, warmth clung to the air as tightly as the fear and hope that filled it.
Rani Indra Winchester gritted her teeth against the contraction ripping through her body. She was a small woman, her long black hair slick with sweat, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her as her breath came in sharp bursts. Her husband, Thomas Winchester, knelt beside her, whispering soothing nonsense in a voice more strained than calm.
"You're doing amazing," he said, wiping her forehead. "Almost there. Just one more push, Rani."
She didn't reply. She didn't need to. Her focus was locked on bringing their child into the world, here in their quiet home, with only her husband and an old midwife from town standing by to help.
Then, finally—crying.
A sharp, piercing wail filled the room, cutting through the tension like a blade. Rani collapsed back onto the bed, her eyes wet, her chest heaving. Thomas caught their son in shaking hands, blood and warmth coating his palms. He looked down at the tiny thing—slick, wrinkled, alive.
Alive.
"He's perfect," the midwife whispered.
Thomas didn't speak for a moment. He was staring into the baby's eyes. There was something in them—something still, deep, like the frozen lakes beyond the forest. The boy wasn't calm, but there was a strange… awareness in his gaze. A silence behind the crying. A feeling Thomas couldn't name.
He cleaned the boy, wrapped him in soft cloth, and turned to his wife, cradling their son in his arms.
"His name," he said softly, "is Castiel."
Rani blinked, surprised. "That's not on the list," she murmured, weakly smiling.
"I know," Thomas replied, brushing the baby's tiny head. "It came to me. Just now. It feels… right."
He glanced down again and kissed the boy's forehead.
"Castiel Indra Winchester," he said, gently. "Your mother's name should be part of yours. You'll carry it with you. Always."
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, the baby stared wide-eyed at the world, his cries fading as though the storm had quieted for his arrival.
He didn't know it yet, but he was different. And someday, the world would feel it too.Absolutely—this chapter will be intense, emotional, and tragic, showing the trauma that sparks Castiel's powers. Here's a full draft with a grounded tone, staying human and raw, while building toward the supernatural moment.
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1975
Northern Canada.
The wind outside howled with the bitterness of early spring, rattling the windows in their wooden frames. The air inside the house was warm, filled with the low hum of the television and the gentle ticking of a clock on the wall.
Castiel Winchester, now five years old, sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor in his flannel pajamas, clutching a milk bottle with both hands. He drank slowly, eyes glazed, half-watching the patterns in the linoleum. His black hair curled slightly over his ears, and his blue eyes—far too calm for a child his age—drifted from the bottle to the ceiling, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
In the living room, Rani and Thomas Winchester sat side by side on the couch. Her head rested on his shoulder, their fingers loosely intertwined. A nature documentary played in the background, a calm voice narrating the migration of birds.
Everything felt still. Safe.
Until the knock.
No—more than a knock. A pounding. Angry, brutal.
Thomas stood up immediately. Rani sat up, alarmed.
"Who the hell…?" Thomas muttered, already heading for the door.
Castiel stood slowly, bottle still in hand. He didn't understand, but something made his small body tremble.
When Thomas opened the door, a bitter gust of cold slammed into the house. Beyond it stood a crowd—at least a dozen townsfolk, their faces twisted with fear and something uglier.
Hate.
"Where is she?" someone barked. A tall man in a green hunting jacket, shotgun in his hands. "Bring the mutant whore out."
Thomas froze. "Get off my property," he said. "There's no one like that here."
A woman stepped forward, her voice shrill and shaking. "She healed me last week. My leg. I didn't think about it then, but… she used powers. She's a mutant. She tricked us."
"She saved your goddamn life!" Thomas shouted. "You came limping to our door in the middle of a blizzard, and my wife—my wife—helped you when no one else could. And now you want her dead?"
The woman faltered. "She's not right. None of them are. You don't know what she is."
Rani appeared in the hallway. Her eyes met Thomas's, full of quiet fear.
That's when the man in the hunting jacket raised his shotgun—and fired.
The blast threw Thomas backward into the house. He hit the floor with a grunt, blood pooling under him. Rani screamed, dropping to her knees, hands glowing with a soft golden light. She pressed them to his chest, her breath coming fast.
"I've got you, love. I've got you…"
The wound closed beneath her touch. The light faded. Thomas gasped, alive again.
Then another shot.
This one from the woman Rani had healed.
It hit Rani in the head.
She collapsed beside Thomas, dead before she hit the ground.
Thomas let out a roar of grief—and a third shot cut him off.
Silence.
Then tiny footsteps. Castiel stepped into the hallway, bottle forgotten. His small face was wet with tears. His fingers trembled.
They saw him.
"There's the boy," one of them muttered. "Could be a mutant too."
"We can't risk it."
Someone raised a gun. Fired.
The bullets struck him—then fell, clattering harmlessly to the floor.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Castiel cried out. A sound of pain, confusion, fear—but it didn't sound human. It echoed strangely. Windows shattered. The air grew heavy.
"What the hell is—"
Then came the screeching.
A high-pitched, unnatural noise, like a thousand voices screaming at once from inside Castiel's tiny body. White light poured from his skin, from his eyes, his mouth, his hands. The house trembled. The earth cracked.
And then—
A blast of raw energy, too fast to see.
Everyone—every man, every woman outside—gone in an instant. Not just burned. Vaporized. Turned to white flame from the inside out. Bones turned to dust. Screams died in throats that no longer existed.
Even those who hadn't come to the house—neighbors blocks away—fell to the same fate. No one was spared.
And in the center of it all, Castiel stood alone.
The house around him had buckled. Snow drifted in through broken windows. Ash hung in the air like snowflakes.
He stood in silence, glowing faintly, eyes still wet, lips trembling.
He didn't understand what had happened. He didn't know he had done it. He didn't know why the world was suddenly quiet.
He only knew that his mother and father weren't getting back up.