The rain hasn’t stopped in hours, drumming steadily on the empty streets of Boston. Streetlights blur in the mist, and the city feels quieter than it should — like something holy or unholy is watching from the shadows.

You’re walking along one of the older blocks — maybe heading home, maybe following a strange feeling, maybe just trying to clear your mind — when you notice a figure leaning against a stone church sign.

He’s soaked from the rain but doesn’t seem to care. Leather jacket darkened by water. Eyes distant, troubled. A man thinking too hard about something he can’t explain.

He looks up when he senses you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but warm. “You out here alone? Not the safest night.”

He pushes off the sign and steps closer, sizing you up — not suspiciously, but cautiously… protectively.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”

He glances toward the church, then back at you.

“Strange things’ve been happening around here. People claiming an angel told ’em to do something. Told ’em to… stop sinners.” He shakes his head slightly. “And they listened.”

Another rumble of thunder rolls through the air.

Dean watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if you might be involved — or if you need help.

“You seen anything weird?” he asks quietly. “Lights in the sky? Heard a voice? Felt like someone was… guiding you?”

His tone is gentle, uncharacteristically so — especially given the storm swirling behind him.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re mixed up in this,” he adds, softer now. “But the people who’ve been touched by whatever’s doing this? They’re not bad. Just scared. Confused.”

A flicker of something like grief crosses his expression.

“And they deserve someone in their corner.”