It's late Tuesday night and I can't decide if I should lay in bed in a relentless state of unsleep or go for a run. I can hear the rain against my roof, pelting hard and heavy, know that I'll be drenched before I've even made it a block. The gym is closed by now, too, so that's not an option.

      I'll just lie here, stewing, I suppose.

     I can't stop thinking about Saturday night. I can't stop thinking about Sunday night and Monday night, too. Now that I've established the acceptability of the act, Cas has no qualms showing up for sex.

     I can't stop thinking about Cas. I haven't stopped thinking about Cas since he returned. I fear that I'm making things worse. That he's using me as a physical outlet for his pain and that he's not actually working through that pain.

      It isn't a knock at my door that jolts me but headlights shining through the front windows that light up the first floor. Delta is up on her feet in seconds, Charlie right behind her as they scatter from the bed and race down the stairs. A moment later, the Ring picks up motion outside the door alerting me with a phone notification.

     I turn on my side, sitting up so I can look out over the balcony towards the front door as if I'll be able to see whoever is there. Realistically, the only person it can be is Cas. Maybe Amelia, but she wouldn't trek out of the city and not expect me to pick her up at the train. I'd cancelled brunch plans on her Sunday, lying that I had a lot of work to catch up on at Weston's, which she saw right through. She gave me my space but I wouldn't put it beside her to show up unannounced and corner me.

     I wait for the knock or the doorbell and when it doesn't come I head downstairs to get the door. Cas is standing on the sidewalk, drenched, his white lab coat sticking to him like he's been dipped in Elmer's glue. He's facing half towards me, half away, deciding whether he should stay or go.

     "What's going on?" I ask almost immediately concerned. It's very late, too late for him to be showing up for no reason.

     "Sorry," he says and he doesn't sound right. He won't look at me. "I didn't mean to wake you."

     "You didn't," I say and step out into the rain. "Come inside."

     He doesn't move and something is going on but I can't figure out what. I used to be able to read him so well but now it's like we're caught in the middle of an electrical storm and have lost power, the signal is fuzzy — all static.

     I walk over to him, feeling the rain slick my hair down and drizzle into my eyes. I squint into the darkness as I reach for his hands. They're shaking.

     "Come on," I say again and lead him into the house.

     We stop in the doorway and in the lowlight of the one lamp I've got on, I can see that he is a pasty white. A ghost who's seen a ghost. 

     "What happened?" I ask again. I use both my hands to push back my hair and wipe the rain off of my face. I reach over and do the same to Cas. He could be crying but I can't tell for certain.

     He looks at me, finally, and his eyes are bloodshot. They're empty, too, but I don't expect that to change. They've been like that since he's been back. "There was a school bus accident," he says quietly.

     My breath catches. I know what he's referring to. I was watching the news, saw the dismantled leftovers of the yellow bus, the way the whole body came off of its chassis. Two fatalities at the scene, multiple amputations. All of the kids in grade three.

     I don't know how to be there for him anymore.

     If this was before, I would hold him. I would take him down to the floor in my arms and rock him to an uneasy sleep. But this is the now. Where I don't know my place outside of fucking him.

     If I say I'm sorry, he will walk back out those doors.

     So I don't. I take his hand instead, let him trail behind me like my shadow as I walk back upstairs. Our wet footsteps lead a path to the bathroom. I turn to him, push the lab coat off of his shoulders. His lips are pale, almost blue. He's still shaking, even as I undo the buttons of his shirt and take that off, too.

     I get him naked and usher him into the shower, turning the tap on hot. He doesn't flinch when the water hits him, stands perfectly still as I filter in cool water until its a comfortable heat. I start to close the glass door, but he reaches out quickly, stopping it.

     He doesn't make a sound as he grabs a handful of my shirt and tugs me into the stall with him. I step under the water with him, and he drops his head onto my chest. I run a hand through his hair. The water has undone the monstrosity he's been wearing since he got here. The curls are back and I wrap my finger around one.

     He's the Cas I remember for this one second.

     But then he's saying my name, mumbling it like an omen as he lifts his head and kisses the center of my chest, right where my neckline starts, that hollow spot where the two ends of my clavicle don't meet.

     I don't want to have sex with him like this but I don't know how to say no to him anymore. I was good at that once, at keeping him exactly where I wanted him. Controlling him some part of my brain supplies. I can't control him now. I reach for the shampoo behind him.

     "Turn around," I say and he does.

      I pour product into my hands, lathering them before I bring it to his hair. It's sticky with whatever product he uses to keep it smooth. He moans when I dig my fingers into his scalp, tension leaving his shoulders with the sound. I work the soap through his ends, massaging my fingers along his hairline tenderly, until he's leaning back against me and humming rhythmically to my movements.

     When I'm done, I step back out of the water. "Tip your head back," I command and he does.

     It is still my favorite thing how he listens, how he'll blindly take my direction. I direct the soap down his scalp, watch as it trails along his neck and slips down his back. His body is both familiar and not. His shoulders are broader, tapering into the same tiny swimmers waist I remember. He is smaller, though. The muscles in his back more prominent, sharper. His shoulder blades jut outwards. I have the quell the urge to hold onto him, how I want to feed him and nurse him back to the boy I destroyed.

     When all the soap is gone, I set the bottle back and reach for the wash. I lather that in my hands, bringing them to a rest on his shoulders. I step closer so I'm blocking most of the water. Every article of clothing I'm wearing — tee shirt, pants, underwear — are stuck to me now. But I don't feel them. All I can feel is the muscle under his shoulders and the way his body curves into mine as I bring my hands down his back.

     Cas turns unexpectedly so that my hands end up on his chest, leaving two sudsy marks. He reaches under my shirt, grabs at the heavy fabric and lifts till it's squeezing my neck and landing loudly on the tile.

     I move my hands to his neck, not sure what I aim to do. He won't kiss me anymore.

     He's moving again, tugging at my pants as he drops to his knees. There was a time in my life when this was good. It still is, but it's the kind of good that hurts, too. When you've got a splinter lodged under your nail and you're bleeding as you pry it out, tears pricking the edges of your vision. It gives, eventually, and that release is so satisfying that it's worth the pain of digging.

     I don't last very long and I'm grateful for it. Being with Cas like this is not what I want but I'll give it to him because I'll give him anything. Not for forgiveness, I think. But for change. For him to stop being this person. Okay, maybe for forgiveness, too.

     He's still on his knees, arms wrapped around my thighs. I look down at him, reach out so I can cup his face as I ask, "What do you want?"

     "Take me to bed," he says like he expected the question.

     I urge him to his feet and step out of my pants as I shut off the water and get out. I'm dripping wet but I grab a towel and wrap it around him. I use the ends to dry his face, pat down his chest, smoothing it along his head. He takes the towel from me, performs the same ministrations.

     I take him to bed but I don't sleep with him. I wrap him in a blanket. Maybe if I cocoon his limbs tight enough he'll emerge a butterfly, a different boy than the one that came back home. A different boy than the one who left it.

     "Dres," he says as he drifts to sleep. This time it doesn't sound like an omen. It sounds like a dream. "You're making pancakes in the morning."

     I don't hold him because I can't, because I've got no right to anymore. But I lay there thinking about it until I finally fall asleep.

    When I wake, Cas isn't there.