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[He's silent for a long moment after Castiel stops speaking, as if waiting for more. He is waiting for more. This can't be it, this shut door, this closed avenue, another dead end to add to his collection. And every time he thinks he's done - that the search is over, that the part of him that searches has finally shriveled and died, or learned better, as it should have that day, in that damn parking lot in the middle of the burning city, when Caine turned his back on him and said, without so many words, stop - stop wasting the time you don't have left - ]

This isn't fair, [he croaks, voice breaking, childlike with frustration. Even the cultivated careful neutrality of his pronunciation goes and lets Castiel hear the roughness of his true, native Scouse. A human voice.] It isn't fair that I can't even stop hoping...