I can't stop staring.

     And everything in my body is telling me to look away. That this is not what I need to be seeing. I'm imagining it, too. Imagining Cas with someone, with this faceless figure, who's pressing him into the bed, or the wall, or a chair — wherever they are. His fingers wrapped so tightly around Cas's ribcage that the oxygen exchange ceases and the vessels below his skin scream and the capillaries in the vessels burst from the pressure and the vessels scream again, flooding his skin, leaving a trace of this unknown man all over Cas. The hickey on his shoulder blinks at me.

     "What is this?" I don't know if I'm more disgusted or enraged. Maybe both. "Who did that to you?" I ask and my voice is biting. Definitely more enraged than disgusted.

     Cas sits up, recoils from me like I'm the one covered in someone else's marks. "None of your business," he responds, and he has the audacity to sound annoyed.

     I raise both my eyebrows. "You're fucking other people and you don't think that's something you should've shared?"

     "No, it's not like you're my boyfriend."

     I throw my hands up. "I'm talking about exposure, Cas. Are you at least on prep?"

     Cas makes a disgruntled sound. "Are you?"

     "What? I'm not the one off fucking a slew of random people."

      He glares at me. "You know what? Fuck you, Dres. I don't need this shit. I'll fuck whoever the fuck I want. And you don't get to fucking judge me for it, thank you very fucking much." He reaches for his sweatshirt, yanking it on fast.

     "Yeah, you know, everything you've just said sounds so much more mature since you added ten fucks to it."

     He shakes his head at me, his expression sharp and searing. "This shit is so over."

     "Great."

     "We're done. This isn't happening again."

     "Yeah, okay," I snap. "Fine."

     Cas pushes the passenger door open, hopping out. I'm glaring at the spot he was just in, absolutely fuming. I don't know that there's a single thing in the world that can help cure this pain. It's the kind of feeling that makes me want to act out, do something crazy. I know why people punch walls now.

     "And for the record? I always use protection. Not like you can say the same."

     "I only did that with you," I scream at him, but he's already slammed the door and stormed away. "Fuck, Cas!"

     I hit the steering wheel once, and it feels good, so good that I can't stop. Not until my forearms are throbbing, blood rushing to the surface, making the skin hot and tender. It eases my pain, knowing I'll walk away from this night with different marks on my skin, too.

     I don't know how long I stay there like that, panting and pained. Somehow I make it home. I don't want to be with myself, though. I don't want to be in my head. So I take a couple of the sleeping pills, roll under the covers, press my head into my pillow, and will the night to end.

     I forget that Jack is coming over and that we're supposed to work out together. He shows up at my door, rings the bell twice. I am slow to rouse and sluggish, rolling over onto my shoulder, pushing myself up. My cellphone starts ringing. I tap the screen, picking up the call, and then hit the speaker. "One minute."

     Eventually I get to the door. Jack's wearing loose shorts and a sweatshirt, bouncing on his feet. It's not even seven, yet. "Oh man, don't tell me you're canceling on me," he says groaning as he looks me over. "You look—."

     "Please don't finish that sentence," I say as I brush my hands over my face and into my hair. "Just give me five minutes and I'll be ready to go."

     "We don't have to dude, if you need to catch up on sleep. I know yesterday must've been exhausting. Although...is this a result of yesterday or?" He eyes me suspiciously. I've been pretty mum's the word about Cas lately. I don't even remember the last time Jack and I talked about him.

     I nod my head. "Yeah, result of yesterday, sure."

     He says, "Let me rephrase. A result of yesterday's event or yesterday with Sumner?"

     "You were there. Nothing happened with Sumner." I turn away from him, walking back upstairs. He follows, hot on my heels.

     "So then you and him are what? On good terms?"

     Before I can stop it, I let out a sharp laugh. Cold and cutting. "We're nothing," I say, tone bitter.

     Jack grabs my arm, stopping me as I walk towards the bathroom. "What happened?"

     "Nothing happened," I say unconvincingly.

     "Something clearly happened because last week it was all light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul, my Cas."

     "Lolita? Really?" I shake Jack off. "Nothing happened. Drop it, please."

     He does, thankfully, and I head into the bathroom, washing up quickly so that fifteen minutes later we're on the road. To Jack's credit, he waits till I'm lying on a flat bench with over two hundred and fifty pounds above me before he says, "What did Sumner do?"

     "Jack," I hiss as I push the weight. My arms lock and I bring it back down. Eight. "Now is not,"—I grit my teeth—"the time." I push the weight up again. Nine.

     "Did he say something totally dickish? Cause to be honest, if he did, he's just doing it for effect at this point. He was completely fine at dinner with us." Ten.

     I bring the weight down again. It hovers over my collar. "Will you just tell me what he did?" Jack asks. I try to press the weight up but Jack's resting his hand on the bar. Every muscle in my chest strains to hold it. "I'm not letting you go until you do." I push hard, grunting, and Jack pushes down just as much. Unfortunately, he's got an extra 250 pounds on me.

     "He fucked someone else, Jack," I snap, a hiss really, this angry sound that feels less like words and more like a battle cry. "He. Fucked. Someone. Else." Jack grips the bar, helps me get it back on the rack. I sit up, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath again.

     "Shit," Jack mutters. "Shit. Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

     I drop my head into my hands, focusing on my breath. Between the weight and the confession, my heart is pounding and I feel like I'm going to vomit.

     When my breathings under control, I say, my voice muffled by my hands, "I know that he and I are not. That we're not. Because we're not. But."

     "It's fucked up," Jack says nodding. "He should've let you know."

     "If you saw — he was covered. Covered in bruises and marks and." I pant, feeling nauseated again. "Whatever. It's over. I tried. I really wanted to..."

     "I know," Jack says resting his hand on my shoulder. "I know you did. But at some point Cas has to be responsible for where he goes from here. How he heals. If you've said everything you need to, then there's no reason why you should have to stick around in a situation that's only hurting you."

     "But I haven't said everything. I don't know how to say everything. Every time I think I'm going to get all of the truth out, he doesn't let me."

     Jack pauses for a moment. "You said he sent you letters, right? Maybe you just need to write it all down in a letter and give it to him, instead."

     I blink. Jack's right. And the thing is, I already have.

     When I get home, I unearth all of the packets of letters I'd written over the years to Cas. I've written him so many letters trying to explain why I did it. In an attempt to get him and myself to understand my motives. I used to think that I'd wanted to hurt Cas, that I'd wanted to destroy something. Because maybe I just didn't feel all that deserving of that kind of happiness. Maybe, to some extent, that's true. But I also wanted to give Cas the opportunity at a future, a good life, one where he wasn't tied down to a place or a person. To me.

     I haven't read a Cas letter in weeks. I used to read them to feel connected to him, but since he's been back I've just been going to the source. I must be feeling particularly masochistic because after I shower, and prepare some lunch, I sit down on the couch and start re-reading them, focusing on the good stuff, only. I just want something good.