Had Cas understood how unsatisfying anyone other than Dean would be, he would have never made this decision.

In fact, he regretted drifting every moment that he touched a woman's soft hair or her lips touched his skin. Dean had taught him pleasure and pain. He had taught him to fear and to fight. He had taught him to love and to lose. Cas liked to think that he had taught Dean things as well, but he didn't know what. Maybe just that a friend could leave for no reason and with little warning, that a man was a man whether he had once been an angel or not.

Today, he decided that it would be different. Rolling a woman off of himself and crawling over another, he reached for the pills that Dean had told him would drown the ghost pain of his lost grace. They had. They let him forget, sometimes, that Dean was gone. He opened each purse, took the cards and the money, stuffed them into his pockets and went out. The iPhone in his hand gave him hope—dialing a number that he should have dialed every day for two years.

"You've reached Dean. Need me bad? Call again."

The angel didn't leave a message, he couldn't talk. Regret took his throat tight and squeezed until he couldn't breathe. So instead of leaving a message, he just dropped the phone on the couch and kept walking.

This was the ninth such message Dean had gotten. He had told Sam about the first, only about a week after Cas had bolted, and the second two months later, and then he stopped ranting about the empty messages. Instead he took them as some consolation that the angel was alive, that he was wandering and lost, and that this abandonment was real, but that Cas was somewhere safe.

Sam told him not to get his hopes up. He told him not to listen to a four minutes message of nothing while he went to sleep. He said it was unhealthy. Dean didn't point out that it was just as unhealthy that Sam moved a twenty-three second message from Jess detailing the aftermath of a chemistry test from one phone to another since she had died.

Sam attempted to push Dean back towards women, hoping he'd find another Lisa, someone who could at least distract from the hole in Dean's heart. Hunts had come and gone, so did months and seasons. His brother still smiled that smile that was a lie.

Sam missed the angel. He knew his sadness was different. Dean stared out windows. His eyes went dull at memories and the name. The angels had gone and sometimes Dean would sit around and pray to everyone he could think of. Samandriel had answered once, but it was only to ask that the prayers stopped.

Cas prayed too. He didn't pray to anyone or anything in particular. God had long ago abandoned his creations.

"Castiel? What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah. I noticed." The voice was cold. It made him hurt, and he reached for the pills tucked into the front pocket of his discarded pants.

"Damn it. Are you a junkie?"

"No. Just in pain. My grace didn't mend itself properly after the fall."

"You're fucking high."

"I'm actually quite low. As are you, or you wouldn't be having intercourse with a stranger."

Castiel had slept with nearly five-hundred people since he had left Dean. Some were young, adventurous, and full of passion. Some were old, lost, and bitter. He liked neither. Sometimes they were in groups and sometimes they were singular. They would never be Dean. They would never help him feel lost in another's soul.

He picked up a phone that he had taken and dialed the same number. Ten digits. Then he waited.

Dean looked at the phone as it buzzed.

"Want me to answer it, Dean?"

"No."

"What if it's him? We could tell him where we are. I'm sure he'd be here in minutes."

"What if it's not." Right now Dean could pretend. He could say that the silent message that was left would be Cas safe and calling to say he was okay—even if he never really said it.

Sam didn't have the patience for this. Dean had looked empty for too long. He dialed the number this time. "Hello, Cas?"

"Sam."

"Hey. You want to meet up with us?" He said the location off the back of the motel key.

Dean was washing his face and glanced in the mirror as he heard the door open. "Sam, where have you been? You got pie, right?"

When the door to the bathroom opened, he saw shaggy black hair and a new leather jacket. Dean only missed the overcoat for a moment, as he spun around to stare into blue eyes. "Cas." He wanted to sound pissed, but it hadn't worked out with the lit in his voice.

"Hello, Dean." It was all the angel could think to say.