"Dean, I want you to show that picture to Cas." It had taken Sam some time to contemplate the time he and Gabe had shared, a thought that ebbed across his consciousness. It never felt awkward, just… calming. Like Gabe had said, not exciting or exhilarating, just friendly and full. Gabe was a person that one needed to contemplate before making a decision about. Sam still didn't know exactly who he saw Gabe as, and at times it felt like he never would.

However, he had had the idea that maybe the picture he had snapped of the angel would bring some light to Cas. If Cas had come out under that statue, it must be of some significance to the man.

"Really?" The word was tinged on the edges with loss of hope.

"Yeah. Apparently, it's really important to him. Gabe and I can't be there this week because this place needs a deep clean, but you gotta give it to him."

Sam heard a quick sigh from the other end of the phone. The loud sound of shower water hitting the drain soon erupted through the speaker, "Ok. I have a picture for him too, so that'll work."

"Good. Bye, Dean."

"Bye, Sam."

Too monotone, Sam worried, too dead. So structured he thought he might burst into some melancholy song about his brother next, with dimmed lights in his eyes. And yet Dean clicked off without a thought, his eyes glazed and feet heavy. He was so close to giving up, and welcomed this script of how life should go. Too alive, Dean worried, too full.

They say the strongest sense is the smell. One that rushes up to your brain in a flurry of memories, and many agree with that statement. Think about it. That one smell that sends you back to that friday in sixth grade, or the meal your grandma would make whenever you went over. The sense of smell is a very powerful weapon.

Cas smelled something. It came from a crack in the window of the community room. Cold, a bit too cold for his liking, but crisp enough that it blocked out the heavy air around him. The warmth caused by rushing, crazy bodies. Sweat pouring from them at times. This air was different. It smelled of the scarlet oaks and the sweet red and white cedars, of the Virginia willows and black chokeberries he remembered would brush his leg every so often on hikes. He could imagine them all, orange against the blue of the sky. A burning red consuming leaves, leaving nothing but branches.

So, he sat by the window and breathed it in. His hair did not blow in the breeze, and he found his body soon curled , like a fetus soon to be birthed by this air. He wrapped his trenchcoat around his body more, his head tilted toward the window, and sighed. This was good. The sweet bay mongolia and the pitch pine agreed.

After some time, time that felt both drawn out and fast, too quick to grasp but too slow to follow, she was there.

This morning, Amara's hair was messier than usual, yet still held that charm she always carried. A charm that took advantage of him and twisted his emotions in ways he would never understand. And, here she was again, taking his happiness and grinding it to infected pulp.

What do you want? Cas glared, and hoped she understood him.

"Castiel, I want to talk to you." It was so innocent how she said it. Like a little girl asking for a new set of red legos. Yet, he tugged on the cusp of his sleeve in wait.

"I want to… apologize. Tell you why, maybe." She forced out a smile, stitched with black thread like her shirt.

Cas could almost feel the flames erupting from his ears. Explain? Explain? What was there to explain. There's no reason anyone human would do what she did.

The shake started in his fingertip, barely noticeable to the untrained eye. Then it spread, up his hand and wrist, flowing to his shoulder blade and back. To the brain and the heart, everywhere. Everywhere a steady pluck of forgotten heartache. Cas just closed his eyes, the tears flowing freely, scrunched in the wrinkles of his aching face. The Redwood that blazed through his nose was nothing now, just a reminder of what never could be again.

"You'll have to face the truth, Castiel. Just listen to me. It was for your own good," She was so damn toxic, Cas couldn't help but scream. And scream. And lift his fist and smash her nose to bits as the convulsions didn't stop. An array of anger and utter fear, until white- sleeved arms grabbed him, pulling him away from his enemy. The kicks did not subside, until a forced sleep took them with it.

….

Cas had been moved to the B-wing, Dean soon found out. The phone call had been curt, but Dean was getting tired of hearing the receptionist's voice anyway. The B-wing was for the violent ones. Those who were a danger to themselves or others. Four cinder block walls with some bars for windows, that was Cas' new home.

This would not have been so terrible. It was for everyone's safety. And yet, that meant no visitors for at least three weeks. That was the minimum until they could do a stability test. Alone in solitary for three weeks. The walls surrounding a confused and scared little feather. Dean hated the thought.

Castiel had punched Amara. She seemed to stir something up inside of him. Like a match that could quickly burst him into flame. He had seen the mixture of fear and hatred in his eyes when she had pressed up against Dean. A teenage- like angst that bubbled in her presence. Something had gone on between the two, and Dean suspected it was going to be a pretty detailed puzzle, especially since they were family.

Luckily, they allowed the B-wing patients to receive letters. No phone calls yet, but letters. Dean knew Cas would want scrapbook letters. Ones with little stamps and stickers of puppies and birds. Pencil marks and coffee stains and random strips of tape. Cas would press it to his nose and sniff it, guessing how old the coffee was and if Dean had had sugar in it or not. He almost never guessed right, but that never dulled his game.

Dean had just one simple dilemma; he had no idea what to write about. Nothing was really…. happening. The house was quiet, only the occasional stir of old floorboards in the deep night. The brewery was the same, crowded at night and light in the mornings. There were no stories to tell to Cas. No adventures filled with epic tales. He was no mustang galloping across open green fields, racing the eagles that flew so eagerly above him. He was simply Dean Winchester. A man whose best friend shook in the presence of others, and screamed when his hand brushed skin. And yet, he was also a man who loved that friend, and would sing to his quaking heart until he sang back.

But that was not enough. While Cas would enjoy a poem about how distinct the creak of the steps was, Dean felt that was… too little. Not enough. It would degrade him over time. Even now, his nightmares showed Cas banging on the stone walls, drops of blood pouring from his knuckles. He had to do more.

Dean looked beside him, the sun finally sinking over the horizon. The only remnant was a thin line of light that showed itself over the horizon. His eyes continued down. He looked at the carpet and noted it needed to be cleaned; then to his lamp, which was probably very hot now; then to the nightstand. And on that nightstand, the mustang. The mustang on the bright green hill speckled with wild flowers. He remembered the picture of the small hill in the heart of the pine barrens, so masterfully gorgeous in its being. He could surely send that to Cas.

But that was not enough. He needed more. More adventure and stories and pictures and songs. The pine barrens couldn't be the only place to hold such beauty.

Then he remembered: the map. The map Cas had drawn on in red sharpie, marking destinations he wished he could see, finally falling in the homeland of the horse. The places where Dean could imagine Cas dropping his trenchcoat on the grass and running freely until he collapsed with a laugh onto the ground. And even then he would just watch the clouds roll by, knowing that the light fire that burned inside him was true happiness.

Dean suddenly knew exactly what needed to be done. For both of them to last these three weeks, he would follow the map, exactly as Cas had imagined. He would take pictures and voice recordings so vivid and so often, Cas would feel like he was there. And finally, at the home of the mustang….

He did not know what would happen there. Maybe something spectacular; maybe nothing at all. Nevertheless, he needed to get there, soon, and find out exactly what would happen. He had three weeks until he could see Cas, and those weeks would be filled with all the photos and sound tapes he could stuff into little white envelopes. This would keep both of them sane… hopefully.

He looked to the foot of the bed, where both of their packed suitcases for the road trip still sat. They beckoned him to pick them up, throw them in the back of the Impala, and drive at ninety until Cas would kiss him again.

But it was late, and the sun was long out of sight. Tomorrow, he would drive. He would blast his favorite classic rock until the squirrels sang with him, and when the black hills were in sight, he would remember. Remember Cas. Remember the undying love he had for his dark-haired husband. But most importantly, he would remember to smile. That's what would keep him alive.