Dean knew they'd be looking for him. He just fought his way out of a high security prison, for god's sake. If he hadn't been their first priority, he would have been concerned. But plastering his mugshot all over the news? That seems a little excessive.

He'd planned on keeping a low profile anyway. He values his freedom too much to do anything extreme. He grabs a few wallets in passing, just for a bit of starting cash, but that's about the extent of his crimes. He's determined to start over. He's not going to become some perfect, law-abiding citizen — that would be damn near impossible — but he doesn't want to kill people for no reason. Unless his own life is at risk, he doesn't want to have to hurt anyone. Seven years in one of the most secure prisons in the country is enough to teach you that murder isn't a game, and that pit in your stomach when you know you could get caught at any moment is not the good kind of butterflies.

By the first morning after his escape, Dean has only knocked out one person, and that was only to switch clothes. He's only stolen six wallets, totalling about $500, which is more than enough for now. He's about ready to find the nearest bus stop when he catches a look at the local paper, and his face staring right back at him kind of puts him off. He has to admit, though, that he's never been more appreciative of his Blue Steel than he is at this moment. At least it's not an ugly mugshot making the papers.

But this is a problem. He can't risk taking public transportation if the whole country's looking for him. Granted, he doesn't know for sure that the search is that big, but with his track record, he'd be surprised if it wasn't. Concerned citizens wouldn't want him on the street any more than the cops or the feds would. Every person he passes is a threat.

This leaves him three options. Option one: he could stay put and wait for this to blow over in hopes that people forget his face in a week or two, and risk being caught because he's staying in the same area as the prison he just busted out of. Option two: he could make the journey by foot, and risk getting caught by traveling out in the open. Option three: he could write a letter in hopes that the FBI decide to trust that he's not going to hurt anyone, and risk getting caught because... well, he's writing a letter to the FBI.

So, obviously, he goes with option three, because he never said he was smart.

~~

Dean starts his journey south, not because he expects to get far but because he doesn't want to break into someone's house in the middle of the sunny afternoon. He keeps his head ducked and doesn't talk to anybody, just following the roads and seeing what happens. He's not entirely sure he's still going south by the time the sun sets, but he doesn't really care. He'll take a bus down to Palo Alto in a week or two. He's mostly just trying to get away from the prison right now.

As soon as he deems it dark enough, he smashes through a window of the nearest house he can find. It's a pretty decent house, so he's sure they can afford to fix a broken window. He sneaks through the house, trying to be as quiet as possible — if he wakes up the inhabitants, they're going to call the cops, and there's no guarantee Dean would even notice until they busted through the front door. He'd like to think he could still outrun them, but he's not as young as he used to be.

Dean had been planning on finding some paper to write on, but though he has no difficulty finding a Sharpie, there's no paper to be seen. Naturally, he turns back to his old Bloody Valentine ways and heads to the kitchen wall -- just, not to write with a toothpick dipped in blood. Sharpie will do just fine.

"Hey, it's Dean. I wouldn't know how to contact the feds myself, but I figure y'all usually make your way to my crime scenes, and a break-in is a crime scene, right? I just wanna let everyone know that I'm done killing people. I've hidden from the law most of my life and I'm decently sure no one's gonna find me, so you might as well call off the search parties now. If you have anything to say to me, I'll check in on whatever bs press conference Michael gives, so that's how you can contact me.

Dean glances around the room, then grabs a steak knife from the counter. It looks clean, which is about all he needed. He glides it across the palm of his hand and bites back a quiet groan before heading back to the wall. With his finger, he traces a heart, signing the initials "B. V." in his blood next to it. Satisfied with that, he grabs a paper towel and wraps it around his palm. This is nice. He says it's him, he tells them the deal, he gives them a way to contact him, he signs it so they know...

He grabs the Sharpie again and writes an extra little note under the heart.

"Yes I know these notes are usually in blood but that's a lot less appealing when I'm using my own."

Just in case they didn't believe him. Sure, he's not doing this the usual way, but that doesn't mean it's not him.

But he still feels like he's missing something. He runs through the list again. He introduced himself, told them what's up, gave them a way to contact him, signed it, and added a little extra insurance that it's him. So what's he missing?

Oh.

Duh

He forgot to write his little bit to Cas! As if that wasn't half the damn point!

"Sorry, Castiel. I know I said I'd play along, but I got bored and you were nowhere to be seen. Still, I miss our chats. Call me when you get this. I think it'll be the last number I give you."

He writes his new burner phone's number — he nabbed $500 dollars; he's allowed to blow a little bit on a chance to talk to his friend — and then he's gone, long before anyone realizes he was even there.

Logically, Dean knows that reaching out to Castiel like this is what got him caught in the first place. He knows he shouldn't try it again, especially now that every law enforcement officer and a good chunk of citizens in the country must know his face. But he really started to consider Castiel a friend — not in that weird way he did when he was on the run, but a real, honest-to-god friend. He wants to say one last goodbye before he slips away forever.