Dad.
She stops trying to hug him when she's five. She's pretty sure he loves her, it's just that he doesn't like to show it, or he doesn't know how. Maybe it doesn't matter which one is the reason. She knows physical affection makes him uncomfortable, so she just doesn't do it anymore. But that's okay. By then she's already realized that a father isn't necessarily a daddy—and that she has two other people to hug anytime she feels like it.
Dean.
Brother. Protector. Father. Friend. Dryer of tears. Green eyes and quick wit, teaser and scolder and hair-rumpler and forehead kisser. Home.
Sam.
Brother. Comforter. Teacher. Strong arms and bear hugs, helper and confidante and sense-maker and empathizer. Home.
Friends.
They move around too much for her to make friends that stick. It can be lonely sometimes, but mostly it's just life. It's all she knows and all she expects ever to know. Besides, she has her brothers, and they play with her as much as they can. Sometimes they take her to the park and let her do kid things while they watch from not too far away and talk family business or scope out what Dean calls "MILF"s and refuses to define for her. Once she meets a girl her age on the swings who asks her where she lives. When she says a motel, the other girl laughs. Callie doesn't like to be laughed at. She hops down from the swing and kicks the girl in the shin. The girl's mother swoops in like an angry hen and starts scolding Callie. They're there in a heartbeat, Dean scooping Callie up in one arm while Sam apologizes to the mother. "I don't know where your parents are, but that little girl needs to learn appropriate behavior," the woman directs at Dean, whom she seems to have pegged as the one in charge. Sam makes Callie tell the girl she's sorry, and then Dean hands Callie off to him and orders them to the car. He hangs back and Callie never find out what he says to the lady that makes her eyes widen and her lips press together so hard it looks like she's sucking on a lemon. Dean doesn't like it when people mess with his siblings, even when they're the ones who started it.
Car.
The backseat is her favorite bed, Sam's knee her best pillow, classic rock and gritty voices her ever-present lullaby. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Death.
She doesn't remember her mother, but she knows the story well enough. And she knows Sam and Dean have a different mother, and that something horrible happened to her when they were little. When they drop her off at various places while they go on hunts, she lies awake at night and thinks of what it would be like to lose one of them. Because it's dark and because she is alone, she lets herself cry.
Nightmares.
She knows that monsters are real, vampires and ghosts and ghouls and werewolves and skinwalkers and things she doesn't even know how to pronounce. She knows this, but it's not monsters that haunt her dreams. And when she wakes from one with tears on her cheeks and horror in her soul and crawls into bed with one of her brothers, curls up with a fist full of his shirt and breathes in his scent to reassure herself that he's real, it doesn't take long before she's lulled back to sleep by light snoring, falling easily into better dreams where everyone is safe and happy and alive.
Temper.
She has Dean's temper. Flash and flare, brash and blazing. But once unleashed, it's quick to abate. Sam, though. He burns slow, simmering, so when he finally lets go for real, even their father doesn't see it coming.
Goodbye.
Sam leaves and Callie tries to follow. Not because she loves him more than the others, but because they aren't going anywhere.
Hole.
His absence punches straight through the fabric of their family, leaving ragged edges and limp threads. Dean rarely teases anymore, and his smiles don't touch his eyes. Dad speaks less and even more gruffly. The backseat is too big.
Hate.
"I hate him," she says, and Dean just smiles sadly and nods his understanding, hoping it makes her feel better to give this pain a different name.
Invisible.
They don't notice her enough. She wonders if she's becoming invisible. So she steals Dean's gun and sneaks out to shoot bottles off the fence. She thinks she's getting pretty good at it, too, until he descends on her like an angry bear, fierce and thunderous and punishing. She's not invisible, after all, she thinks after, when she's lying facedown on her bed and crying into the pillow. She makes a note to remember that.
Work to do.
She refuses to look at him when he climbs in next to Dean, and when he reaches for her hand she retreats to the far corner of the backseat. But when he's not looking, her eyes are glued to him, tracing his profile, the shaggy hair sticking out slightly behind his ears. She wonders how it's possible to love someone so much and want to kill them at the same time. She falls asleep to the sound of their voices, and with a small smile on her face.
END.
So I know this one wasn't exactly what I promised at the end of SKL, but I enjoy these little writing exercises and find that they keep the wheels turning. I thought those of you who enjoyed that story might like this, too. I do have another one in the works (a "plottier" one than this). That being said, I'd love to know what you thought of this. Thanks, as ever!