He slips on the final number, fingers still damp from the rain, and the first ring only lasts a split second before it's cut off with a click. For a moment he thinks he's misdialled. There's just static, rushing like water, and he can't tell if it's silence on the other end or a dropped line or a failure to connect to anything in the first place.

Rain keeps thundering down, a deluge on the fiberglass roof, leaking through, and he presses the reciever harder against his ear, just in case.

"Hello?" he says.

There's an intake of breath on the other end, short and sharp.

"Dean?"

It's tinny and too far away, but it's still Cas' voice; he'd recognise it anywhere.

In the beginning he thought it gravel-rough and grating. Now, he thinks the sound is closer to a loveworn record, crackling warm.

Even one syllable, distorted as it is by distance, takes his quaking nerves and stills them.

"Yeah," he smiles into the reciever, "it's me."

There's a pause, and Dean hears nothing but rain whipping against the glass of the phone booth, water getting kicked up by a fast-moving car zipping by on the street outside.

"I wanted to stay," Castiel says, as sincere as Dean's ever heard him, and something in his voice makes Dean's chest ache with need.

"It's okay. I just..."

Dean closes his eyes.

"You wanted to talk," Castiel says, then pauses, swallows audibly, "about you and I."

It's the closest either of them have come to flat out saying it aloud, and for a few seconds, Dean is afraid to acknowledge it at all. It's a knee jerk reaction, something instilled deep, a remenant of the man his father raised him to be, and with more effort than he wants it to take, he pushes past it.

"Yeah," Dean breathes, and even that much lifts a weight off his chest, "it's been... I mean, I've tried to... when I've prayed..."

Dean lets his head thud back against the side of the booth, dragging his lip between his teeth and exhaling slowly. A reckless little part of him just wants to blurt out what he's feeling, just let the words come cascading, consequences be damned, in the hope that they'll blindside Castiel so much that he won't be able to help himself from just coming back. I wanted to kiss you tonight, he'd say, and Castiel would appear out of thin air, right here in the phone booth. I've loved you for so long, he'd say, and Castiel would press him up against the cool glass, wide-eyed and breathless, and his lips—

A peal of thunder, much closer now, pulls him out of his head. He sighs.

"I really don't want to do this over the phone, Cas."

"Nor do I."

There's the clink of a spoon on china in the background, and Dean pictures him stirring sugar into coffee. Imagines him in the kitchen at the bunker, sitting at the counter while Dean makes breakfast, smiling at him over his mug. It's going to drive him crazy, he thinks, waiting for Castiel to come back. Since leaving Biggerson's, it's been one fantasy after another, and he's sure he hasn't daydreamed this much since he was a teenager. Admittedly, most of the things he's been imagining have been considerably less pornographic and far more romantic than anything his teenage mind would ever have occupied itself with, but by sheer frequency and feel-good factor, these have already blown the old ones out of the water.

"It was good seeing you tonight," Castiel goes on, "after your prayers today, it was more difficult than usual to stop myself from returning. I think... I think I needed it. You, I mean. Your company."

Right now, Dean can relate. It's never easier to feel the distance than when you're stuck talking to someone on a payphone when they should be with you. Watching as lightning splits the heavy cloud, he wonders where Castiel is now. If he can see the same sky. Love seems to have turned him into a sap, and he can't even find it in himself to be embarrassed by the thought that if he and Castiel are watching the same lightning strike, perhaps they aren't really apart at all.

"I wish I were still there."

"Then come back," the words slip out of their own accord, and Dean just counts himself lucky that it wasn't a different three, "you don't have to do this alone."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

The question is colored with a million others, and Castiel, whether through some angelic hearing or just his knowledge of Dean's tone, seems to hear the underlying hurt, loud and clear.

"This isn't about trust, Dean," he says, hitting the nail right on the head, "I trust you with my life. The tablet won't let me have help."

"It's controlling you?"

"No, it's... when anyone else gets close to it, anyone who might have some use for it, regardless of their intent, it..."

He trails off, and Dean waits.

"It burns," he says, finally, though from his tone Dean suspects it's an understatement, "it resonates with power. It's a warning. I fear that if I don't keep moving it will explode."

"If it's so dangerous, then maybe you should let it. Not when you're holding on to it, obviously, but..."

"I'd considered it."

"And?"

"Without being entirely certain that it would work, it's far too risky. Not to mention the explosion could potentially be catastrophic. I won't be responisble for any more..." he pauses, takes a breath, "I can't allow that to happen."

A memory of a motel room in Oklahoma comes flooding back, a memory of Castiel with shaking voice and downcast eyes, telling him of the devesation in Heaven, of the guilt that plagued him. Dean wants to let him know it's okay, that nothing like that will happen again, that he won't let it. But it's futile. He knows first hand that guilt that big only gets bigger the more people tell you it's okay; forgiveness that feels undeserved doing nothing but highlight the fact that you're sure you're not worth it. He'll still try, of course, when Castiel is back. Make him see that he's worth everything. But for now, Dean decides it's better not to dwell.

"So what's the plan?" he asks.

"As yet, there isn't one. I've been hoping a solution would come to me."

"Do you think there might be something written on the tablet that could help?"

"Perhaps... but I can't read it, and I can't bring it to a prophet," Castiel says. There's a crackling on the line, "hold on."

A high-pitched whine sounds, followed by buzzing, and Dean holds the reciever away from his ear. It goes on for close to two minutes before Castiel speaks again, a little out of breath.

"Sorry about that. They were getting close again. I had to fly through six more towns to lose them."

"How often do you have to do that?"

"It varies, but anywhere from four hundred to a thousand times a day."

"Jesus. You've been doing this the whole time you've been gone?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Cas."

"For what?"

"You must be exhausted."

"I was, but I feel much better now. Particularly now. It's not the same as being with you, but... I had been hoping you'd call," Castiel pauses, and when he speaks again, he sounds almost shy, "Your voice is remarkably soothing."

Dean smiles, warmth spreading up his neck and his cheeks as all uncertainty about Castiel's understanding flies out the window. There's no doubt in his mind that it was an attempt at flirtation.

"Glad I could help," Dean says, wishing he could do more, and he's about to say as much when a robotic voice announces that he needs to deposit more coins.

"Hey, the payphone's nearly out of time," he shoves in his last quarter to buy an extra minute, "I'll call you when I get home."

Realizing how pathetic it sounds, he clears his throat and clarifies.

"You'll, uh... you'll need my new number."

"Okay."

It's not entirely the reason, but Dean figures Castiel probably knows that already. He's not sure why he's even trying to pretend to be nonchalant about it. It's a stupid game, really. Both of them know exactly what they want to say, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion that his attempt at being subtle in his prayers this morning was a complete failure. He wouldn't be surprised if Castiel could actually hear him right now, the way his thoughts were so intensely focused in his direction.

Should have just kissed him when I had the chance, Dean thinks to himself again.

He's about to say goodbye when an idea flickers into existence.

"Do you know how to work the camera on my phone?"

"I... yes." Castiel clears his throat a little awkwardly, and Dean fights the urge to ask what he's been taking pictures of to make him sound like that.

"Chuck's number is in my cell. If you send him a picture of the tablet, do you think he could work off that?"

There's silence for a few seconds, and Dean's ready to repeat the question when Castiel speaks.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"You're a genius."

Dean laughs. Before he can respond, "That's what I keep telling people," the timer runs out.

For a guy whose call just got cut short during a thunderstorm, he's pretty optimistic. He grins the whole drive back to Lebanon.