a/n: *sigh* I'm never gonna finish Half Life.

I was bebopping around my documents folder (because that's what people do) when I found the first few paragraphs of this. I started it directly after 8x17, and just now finished it up.

You want Megstiel angst? Here's a heapin portion.

And these last three years,
I know they've been hard.
But it's time to get out of the desert and into the sun
Even if it's alone.
-The Format, "On Your Porch"

The angel Castiel was on the run. Like a fugitive he took bus after bus to dirty motel room to dirty motel room. He didn't dare call on his angelic Grace, as doing so would alert Naomi to his presence immediately, and he was trying to stay off her radar. He was very proud of himself for that last bit: thinking in metaphors was an extremely human thing to do, perhaps the most human thing he'd ever done.

Or maybe the second most human thing.

He couldn't look for her without alerting the angels. She had no phone, and neither did he, for that matter. He had no way of knowing her fate. Had Sam protected her as he'd asked? How had Crowley reacted to seeing her again? Not well, certainly, but she was strong…even when weakened by her century plus of torture.

He shifted restlessly in his seat and checked the tablet again. Still safe.

He could find a pay phone. Could call Sam and ask him. Not Dean. Dean would ask a thousand awkward questions and he hated lying to Dean. Sam would be concerned, but he would tell Cas what he wanted to know and let him be.

He offered the waitress a distracted smile as she refilled his coffee. He took a quick sip. Added a package of the white chemical substance labeled non-dairy creamer. An oxymoron if there ever was one, he thought as he stared at the little cup. He set it aside with exaggerated care and dumped in some sugar until the coffee was perfectly sweet.

The restaurant probably had a phone. Back by the restrooms or out in the parking lot, maybe. It would only take a few moments, and then he'd know…for good or ill.

He stared down into his coffee. Spun the white ceramic cup around in its saucer.

He did want to know. The not knowing was making him hurt somewhere deep inside, a pain both dull and sharp, cold and burning, intermittent and always. What a strange sensation. He pressed his knuckles against his chest and considered it. Heartburn? He'd seen those commercials, one with giant food chasing the sufferer across his bedroom as he tried to sleep…truly humans devised innovative ways to torture one another.

But, no. Even though he was on his hundred and tenth cup of coffee in the last twenty-four hours, an angel wouldn't suffer heartburn. At least…not the variety induced by food.

His chin fell toward his chest.

She was strong. She had always been strong. Sam would not have left her, not with Crowley, not after what he'd done to her. Except…except she was a demon, and Sam was a Winchester, and the two breeds did not traditionally make good bedfellows.

Castiel sighed and ran a hand down his face. The only way to know for sure was to call.

He frowned. And then what would he know? That she was alive and on the run again, a hunted fugitive alone and frightened? Or that she was…that he had…

That he had failed her again. Left her again. Lost her again.

What peace would knowing bring?

He brooded down at the table. Drew Enochian symbols into the spilled sugar and muttered soft, meaningless words. The minutes ticked by. The hours. He raised his head.

It was time to move on. He couldn't stay still for very long or they would find him.

He drained his cup and set it back with a quiet clink.

Yes, very well, it was decided. He would call Sam. He would call Sam and ask about Meg and finally know for sure. He fidgeted and glanced over his shoulder.

He would call Sam…from his next stop.

I'm kidding, you guys: I will one day finish (update) Half Life. I'm just a bit stuck right now.

Reviews get you a cup of coffee (or tea or hot chocolate) with Cas!