Each Biggerson's is exactly the same.
The same striped brown velour cushions in the same window-side booths; the same white ceramic mugs; the same ill-fitting maroon shirts on a never-ending parade of tired teenage waiters.
He's been doing this for weeks—flitting from one identical building to the next, just barely keeping ahead of Naomi's ever-watchful eye—and he has the distinct feeling that given the time and resources he'd be able to construct an entirely new restaurant purely from memory.
Some days the other angels are fast, and he is forced to move on within minutes of landing.
Others, he spends hours sitting in booths, on barstools, at small, round tables draining cup after cup of sweet, black coffee.
No matter if he is moving or not, every day, without fail, he has heard Dean's prayers as they lift through the ether to settle warm against his grace.
He thinks about the prayers whenever his resolve begins to waver. Whenever the exhaustion starts to feel like too much, his mission hopeless, his plan feeble, he replays them in his mind, holds onto them like a lifeline.
He remembers the gruff where the hell are you's, the quiet please be okay's, the hopeful we'd really love to see you's. He remembers the prayers that had no words, only feelings. Prayers that came to him late at night; soft, nebulous things the color of Dean's soul.
He hoards those prayers closest of all.
Throughout his weeks on the run, he has taken solace in the knowledge that Dean's faith in him has not gone, even after Naomi's attempt to destroy it.
Somehow, though, after spending a few minutes in Dean's company in Red Cloud, it stops being a comfort. It's not enough to simply know.
Now, more than ever, he wants to go back. He wants to go home.
He hadn't even realized he had one until he started missing it, and now it's unavoidable. A constant itch in his core, pulling uncomfortably. It reminds him vaguely of the stitches in his chest all those years ago when he'd awoken, graceless and lost in a New Orleans hospital, and he wonders at how it can be that such a short time can feel so long.
After he leaves Red Cloud, he flies first to Atlanta, then to Phoenix, to Clearwater. He feels the angels, still far too close, and moves on to Bozeman, keeps flying through Fresno, Spokane, Salt Lake City and Rhode Island.
In Tulsa, a woman eating pancakes at the counter sees him appear and drops her fork onto her plate with a clatter, maple syrup splashing up onto her shirt.
"Apologies," he says, inclining his head, and she stares at him with her mouth half open.
He moves on before she can reply.
St. Louis, Corpus Christi, Odessa and Cleveland all go by in a dizzy blur, a haze of brown seats and bright banners.
He pauses for a moment in Roswell, listening as best he can over the constant hum of the tablet, and hears nothing.
To be safe, he keeps moving, flying on to Fargo, Boulder, Portland, Baltimore, Flagstaff, Charlotte.
Finally certain he's lost the angels, if only temporarily, he lands in a 24 hour restaurant in Peoria, Illinois and sits down by the window. It's raining, and the windowpane is spattered with heavy drops, blown sideways by the wind.
In his pocket, he feels the weight of Dean's phone, heavy against his leg, and fishes it out.
It's different to the last cell he used—only one button, from what he can tell—and he turns it in his hands before pressing the button. The screen illuminates, and he is relieved to see that the many brightly colored icons are clearly labelled by function.
His finger hovers over them as he reads; phone, messages, mail, photos, camera, contacts, maps. He moves back to contacts and presses it with the pad of his index finger. After a moment, though, he thinks perhaps it is too soon to call Sam's number. Despite the distance he has travelled, only a half hour has passed, and he has no idea how far Dean had to drive back to Sam.
He resolves to wait until Dean prays to him. Or an hour. Whichever comes first.
Instead, he looks back over the other options and, curiosity getting the better of him, selects photos.
There are hundreds, and he scrolls through them one by one; Sam and Dean smiling while a red-haired woman stands between them, her arms hooked over their shoulders as she presses a kiss to Sam's temple; the same woman holding up a scimitar, glaring at the camera, though due to the laughter in her eyes she looks more comical than menacing; Dean sitting on the opposite side of a diner booth, face exasperated as he reaches toward the camera; Dean moments earlier, gazing out the diner window, apparently unaware of the picture being taken. Before that, there are many photos of scenery. A wide river, bending around a fallen tree. A long, straight road flanked by tall pines. There's pictures of Sam, the first couple too blurry with movement to make out, then one of him fast asleep against the window in the passenger seat of the Impala with a paper napkin folded into a hat and balanced on his head. A trio of teenagers, two girls and a boy, sitting around a kitchen table with Sam, talking. The Impala, sparkling clean. The Impala, covered in snow and mud and leaves. A pin-board covered with translations and symbols, the prophet Kevin standing in front of it giving a wide smile and a thumbs up. A wide room lined with bookshelves; the scimitar from the earlier photo sitting on display on a low cabinet. Sam, squinting in bright sun with his face covered in a strange pattern of red and white paint, his hair tied back away from his face.
Castiel flicks through a couple more pictures, and stops, his heart in his throat.
Because there's a picture of him—and another, and another, and another, all taken in a row—sitting on the end of a hotel bed with a remote control in his hand. He's smiling at the television, eyes crinkled up at the corners and shoulders relaxed. Happy, even.
He remembers that night; in a time before he had realized he was under Naomi's control, and supposes that he was, in a way.
Dean never told him he took these pictures, he realizes, because he took them for himself. He wonders if there are others, taken over the years without him knowing, and feels warmth unfurling in his stomach at the possibility.
He's still staring at the photograph when he hears footsteps slow beside him, and he turns to find a kind-eyed waitress with flyaway hair smiling down at him.
"Can I get you anything, hon?"
The phone is warm in his hand, and with Dean on his mind, he finds it easy to smile back.
"Apple pie," he says, "and a cup of coffee."