Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine.

Three years, five months, seventeen days after Cas finally Fell (for good this time, his angelic Grace shoved into Purgatory with all the souls) he finds himself standing outside a two-story house in Pontiac, Illinois. The shrubs are immaculate as ever, the drapes shut, and he knows they still live here. They never could let him go. After all, what if he came back? If they moved, he would never find them. Cas thinks about knocking. Thinks maybe if he apologizes enough, they'll let him in.

In the end, he walks away. He doesn't see the blonde teen in the upstairs window. He doesn't see her turn away, reach under her bed, pull out her book of warding symbols. He doesn't see her cleaning a shotgun on the off-white carpet, surrounded by purple walls and pink bedding and pictures of when her mother smiled. He never knows if she would forgive him for taking her father away. She never gets the chance to know if she would, either.

Cas is a decent tracker now. He has a blue Suzuki motorcycle and a black backpack and very few weapons. Some salt, some holy water, a couple knives, the angel blade. He has no contacts, no outside help. He doesn't need them. If he had people, he'd probably betray them.

He found the blade next to him after he woke in the warehouse. After the eclipse's end pulled the souls and his Grace into Purgatory. After the agony sent him into blissful oblivion. After Cas's prayers for death weren't answered. He found himself on the dirty, bloodied floor, throat sore from screaming, trench coat wrapped around him like a blanket, angel blade by his hand. Winchesters gone, demons gone, angels gone. He doesn't like to speculate about what happened, but sometimes—when it's late and a hunt's gone badly and he's had a little too much to drink—he imagines Dean tucking him in and giving him the blade. It's one of his more ridiculous fantasies.

He's more than a decent tracker. It's how he's managed to avoid Sam and Dean this long. He knows they're looking for him. Whether Dean's planning to kill Cas on sight or offer him forgiveness he doesn't deserve, Cas doesn't know. He doesn't know which would be worse, either. He doesn't know which he wants.

They're going to find him sooner or later. And Cas is tired. He's so very, very tired, and it's for this reason alone that he aims his motorcycle southwest and tries not to think about the last time he saw his former family.

Cas has also become a pretty decent liar. One day, he'll stop pretending it was Dean who taught him. He'll stop pretending that he was ever anything other than cold and calculating.

Dean hangs up and barely restrains himself from throwing his phone against the motel room wall. As it is, the phone ends up bouncing off Sam's pillows and hitting him in the knee. Sam glares.

"Dude, what was that for?"

Dean wipes a hand across his brow. "Claire Novak. Says Cas showed up in front of her house a couple hours ago, stood around for a bit, then took off."

"Damn." Sam puts down the salt rounds he's packing. "I'll—I'll get our stuff. You go start the car."

Grateful, Dean nods. It's become a script between them. They get a lead on Cas, Sam packs up their stuff, Dean disappears to the Impala. It's been three and a half years and dozens upon dozens of leads and Sam doesn't think Dean will ever get over what happened. Even if they manage to find Cas—

If they manage to find Cas, Sam has a feeling Dean will end up being the one running.

Dean wants to drive straight through the next night, but Sam insists on stopping. They're in Missouri, somewhere in the middle of the Ozarks, and Dean threatens to drive on without him.

Eventually, Sam gets enough whiskey in his brother to avoid that fate, and they pass out in their ten millionth crappy motel room with plans to continue on in the morning. Somewhere around 4 a.m., though, things change drastically. Despite the whiskey, Dean's the one up like a shot at the knocks on their door. Knife in one hand, gun in the other, he carefully turns the knob.

"Hello, Dean."

The weapons clatter to the floor.

They sit on the step outside the motel room. Sam's still asleep. Dean stares at the stars. Cas stares at the woods.

"So," Dean says.

"So," Cas echoes.

"You look good."

Cas snorts. Dean frowns, realizing how unconvincing he is. Cas hasn't changed his clothes in seven years. He's wearing the same white dress shirt and black slacks that he wore several lifetimes ago, when he was the angel who raised Dean from Hell and scared the crap out of him. The same blue tie, still askew, he wore to announce his godhood. They've been ripped and badly re-stitched, bloodstained and mud-caked and ruined. His trench coat and suit jacket are gone. His hair is longer, tousled, and while it looks like he picked up shaving at some point, he hasn't quite gotten the hang of it.

Dean risks a glance at him. His expression is strained, and he looks like he's going to bolt. Dean doesn't blame him. If their places were reversed, he'd probably run, too. Hell, he has no idea why he hasn't, except that maybe he's still a little drunk. He wonders if maybe he should offer the rest of the bottle to Cas. Or if that would just make things worse. Knowing his luck, probably.

"Why'd you come back?"

Cas shrugs. "Seeing that house again, remembering… and I've gone a little crazy."

"I forgave you a long time ago. You know that, right?"

Cas flinches away. "That's not why I'm here," he says. His eyes flicker towards Dean, and though the moonlight's hardly enough to be certain, Dean thinks he looks furious.

"Hey. No. I didn't mean—"

"I don't want your forgiveness."

Dean sighs. "Okay. Okay, fine." He grabs Cas's hand. Cas freezes. "I don't really want to talk either."

Dean wakes up the next morning in the backseat of the Impala. He's alone, dressed only in jeans. His chest is freezing and covered in a light sheen of dew. Sam is banging on the window. He squints in the harsh early morning light and drags himself out.

"Dude, what happened?"

Dean shakes his head. It hurts. "Too much to drink, I guess," he grumbles. Sam sighs and finishes dumping their bags into the trunk. Dean slides into the front seat and pulls something off the dash.

"What's that? Sam asks, climbing in next to him. Dean clenches his fist around the object.

"Nothing, Sammy," he says. "Nothing." They set off for Pontiac. Dean ignores the way Sam looks at him like he already knows.

Somewhere in Nebraska, a fallen angel in torn clothes rides a blue motorcycle between rows of wheat. His shirt is parted, his neck bare.

Somewhere in Illinois, a hunter drives the wrong way through rows of corn. He crushes a blue tie in his hand and doesn't cry.