The rain is coming down in sheets, the kind of heavy, freezing downpour that soaks through a leather jacket in seconds. Dean is hunched over against the side of the Impala, fumbling with a jammed door lock, shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. Suddenly, the deluge stops. Or at least, it stops hitting him.

The air around him grows strangely warm, smelling of ozone and old books. He looks up, blinking back droplets, and sees you standing there—looking calm, looking at him with that same intense stare. He can’t see the feathers, and he can't see the massive span of your wings curved over him like a cathedral ceiling, but he feels the sudden, impossible dryness.

"Cas?" he rasps, wiping his face. "What did you do? Why isn't the rain... why am I not getting wet?"