Lucifer has been walking down this lonely stretch of road somewhere in the God's own country between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia for a long time now; he has long since ceased to care about the fact that his vessel looks like some kind of ragged transient, that his feet ache and his legs hurt and being basically human is really an awful state of existence. He wants his Grace back-- he wants to be able to let his Grace come back in full. He wants Heaven to not be empty. He wants a lot of things, but all he can do is walk.

He slows when the car comes up near him, its wheels kicking up a little gravel on the side of the road. He stops and looks in the window at the concerned man within; he sees no malicious intent in the man's mind and soul, a useful little piece of his powers that's still intact. This is not the first person who's stopped to offer him a lift since Bethlehem, but it is the first that he might actually consider riding with.

One of those men who stopped will not be found for a few days. He deserved what he got.

"I'm fine," he says, though it's a half-truth at best. "I'm heading to New York. Going my way?"