I busy myself with work, planning the next Weston's After Hours, and getting ready for Thanksgiving. It's enough work to mostly avoid Cas. I can't stop thinking about everything Ashley said. I always thought that I destroyed whatever I touched, that I ruined what I had with Cas because I couldn't imagine having something I wanted. But I also know that was me being overly deprecating. If what Ashley had said was true, was I destined to love people and push them away?

     So I'm avoiding Cas because the idea of being around him right now, not knowing what we are and under the blanket of guilt Ashley's provided is simply too much with everything else going on. It's not that hard because Cas is picking up extra shifts at work, too.

     On the night of Weston's After Hours, Fiona and Antonio come in early to assist with me my prep. I'm working better than expected but not at the same speeds I'm used to. Antonio's in a bit of a rage about what happened, cursing about the utter indecency of people. Fiona keeps giving me these concerned looks like my mental stability might be in question. It might be, honestly, because I can't stop thinking about Cas. He's been here almost everyday, checking the wound, my pain and mobility. My doctor removed the stitches earlier this week, adding in some surgical glue in parts of it that hadn't quite healed yet.

     It's been a slow recovery and I'm constantly reminded of its existence by the quiet throbbing in my arm. Its easy to ignore until Cas gets around and then I want to scratch at the spot. I don't understand it.

     After Hours goes smoothly but the following week is Thanksgiving and the stress doesn't stop. Wednesday we'll only be selling pies, and we'll closing early so I can get the place ready for Thursday. The headcount is looking like sixteen people. I invited Tasha, but she's taking her daughter to her parents for the holiday. Ashley and Ibrahim were also invited but they're going out of town. Cooking for sixteen people is not an easy feat when you've got to make like seventeen different dishes. Thanksgiving is a little bit of a dramatic holiday.

     I close and lock the front of Weston's before I hole up in the kitchen Wednesday evening to start cooking. I sent Dolores and Charles home because I don't want them breathing down my neck while I try to do as much of the cooking that can be accomplished the day before. I'm going for a homestyle Thanksgiving, very classic.

     I'm in the middle of layering the mac and cheese in a dish when my phone rings. I check it and it's Luke Doucet so I send him to voicemail. He calls back and I ignore it again. When the phone rings a third time, I'm ready to chuck it at the wall but it's Cas. I pick up.

     "Hey, I'm outside," he says.

     "Front or back?" I ask.

     "Back."

     When I get the door, Cas says, "I love that we're locking doors now. But I think I need an honorary key."

     "What's an honorary key? Wouldn't it just be a key?"

     "Well, honorary because you can't just be giving your key out to everyone. I'm a trusted, veteran employee. Hence, honorary."

     "Right, honorary. I'll have one made up for you."

     We walk into the kitchen and Cas takes off his coat, setting it on one of the bar stools. "So I've come to be your kitchen elf."

     "My kitchen elf?" Sometimes I think Cas speaks a whole other language that only he knows.

     "Yeah, like a house elf? But for the kitchen. Basically put me to work."

     "You offer very little skills in the kitchen."

     "That's rude. I'll have you know I haven't burnt anything in years."

     "Which was also the last time you cooked anything?"

     "Precisely." We both laugh. Cas unfolds the fabric in his arms. "Look, I even bought an apron with me. That makes me legit."

     "Alright, alright. I'll put you to work. Come on."

     Cas and I end up cooking into the night. He's a lot more helpful than I remember, taking direction well. We finish before midnight, which is good because the turkeys have to go in the oven and are at home.

     "So that's it?" Cas asks as we move the last trays of food into the fridge.

     "That can be done tonight, yes," I say.

     "And how do you feel? Sore at all?" he asks, reaching over and touching my arm where the bandage is. I'm not feeling sore until he points it out. Now I've got the distinct urge to scratch.

     I shake my head. "No, I'm good."

     Cas eyes me wearily, says after a moment, "You've run yourself ragged this week. You could've cancelled the After Hours, you know."

     "I could say the same about you."

     He laughs. "It's busy during the holidays. Do you know how many people have fallen off their roof in the last week?"

     "I can imagine," I say.

     Cas is staring at me. Its the same look I've seen before like he wants to say something but he doesn't know how. Finally, he goes, "So are you done for the night, then?"

     "Just about. I've got to put the turkey in the oven. But that's at home."

     "Oh," he says. "Do you need help with that?"

     Realization dawns on me. "Well there are two turkeys so..."

     "Great, I'll meet you at your place."

     Cas actually beats me to my place. When I pull in, he's waiting outside breathing white clouds into the air like he's smoking. "You know," I say when I get out. "You get on me about lifting my arm in the air and yet you're driving at speeds that'll kill you instantly. How's that fair?"

      "Because who wants to survive a car accident? What if I lose a limb or my speech or something?"

     "People live like that," I tell him with a shrug. We walk up the pathway together and I let us inside.

     "Of course they do. But doesn't mean I could. Do you know how much I speak in a given day?"

     "Oh, I'm fully aware," I say and he laughs.

     "I actually got a speeding ticket recently, which is like really rude because it was Officer McGuire who dated my mom in high school. He could've been my dad."

     "Good," I say as I pull the turkeys out of the fridge in their respective bails. "Observe the speed limit now."

     "Alright, so what are we doing with these birds? Wait, don't tell me I have to pull all the gunky stuff out of the center because I can't do it. I refuse."

     "You can stitch peoples bodies back together but you can't remove some giblets?"

     "That's exactly what I'm saying, yes."

     "Well, I already did that. We just have to dry, butter, and season them so I can get them in the oven."

     "Easy enough," Cas says rolling the sleeves back up of his shirt. I've already made a compound butter and seasoning mix, so it actually can't get any easier for Cas. We remove the birds from the brine, pat them dry, and get them into their baking dishes. There's no art to applying the butter, you just paint the bird basically.

     "I mean this very nicely, but you smell. You smell like the inside of a spice cabinet," Cas says when we've finished and tucked the turkeys into the oven. They'll slow cook through the night.

     I look down at myself. I'm covered in a little bit of everything I cooked with today. I feel greasy. "Yeah, I need a shower," I say.

      "So do I," Cas says starting towards the stairs. "I'll join you."

      He says it so casually. Doesn't even look back as he walks upstairs. I follow, staggering behind him. This is exactly what Ashley wanted me to avoid but here we are. It's barely been two weeks since he was here, sharing my bed with me, and I miss it. I want it.