Ok, this is just a one-shot story that I thought of last night. There's probably not gonna be a sequel unless somebody asks for one. I know I'm usually a Dean/Calleigh shipper, but this popped into my head so I'm going for it. It's a Sam/Calleigh one shot with a mix of Dean/Calleigh during the year before soulless Sam found Dean. SO, I hope you enjoy it. If not, please don't make it known lol. Reviews are, as always, welcomed :)

Guilt, as Webster said, is the fact or state of having committed an offense, crime, violation, or wrong, especially against moral or penal law. What he forgot to say, was how it starts in the pit of your stomach, and slowly consumes you whole. How it plagues your every thought, your every feeling. How it brings you to your lowest point of vulnerability and you can't seem to escape from it. And how it haunts you day in and day out like a sad ghost who wants answers.

And right now that ghost is haunting me.

It greets me in the morning when I wake up. It watches me as I get ready for the day ahead. It sits at the table beside me while I eat my breakfast and drink me coffee. It's in the passenger seat of my car as I drive to work. It follows me down the hallways during the days at the Lab. And it cuddles me in my bed as I cry myself to sleep.

It only took one night, one man, one escape to get me infected with this horrid disease they call guilt.

It was a hot, humid, barely-able-to-trudge-through-the-heat kind of day, when he showed up on my door step. Looking back on it now, I really wish I had gone into work that day.

But I didn't.

No, I stayed home, cleaned my house, watched some TV, and opened the door when a tentative, yet determined hand knocked on my door. I smiled as his deep, hazel eyes connected with my green. I opened my arms as his big frame leaned in to hug me. I ruffled his thick, long brown hair like old times. I led him into my home, my sanctum, and sat with him on my couch as he told why he was there. I gladly helped him with his research on the thing he was hunting. I helped him clean his guns and prepare for the fight ahead of him. I fed him before he left, because I just couldn't let the boy go out on a hunt hungry. I walked him out to his car and hugged him tightly, whispering kind goodbyes in his ear.

I watched his car drive away from my house and I silently prayed that he would be ok. That he would get rid of the evil that was killing these innocent people and make it out alive. I walked back into my house just as it began to rain, thinking that that would be the last time I would see him.

But I was wrong.

Four hours later, coming close to Eleven o'clock, just as the wind picked up and the thunder made itself known, I heard a pounding on my front door. I leaped out of my bed ,in nothing but a blue tank top and plaid shorts, and raced down my hallway. I threw open the door with my pistol behind my back for safe measures. The sight before me sent shivers down my spine.

There he was, soaked to the bone, leaning against the door frame, as blood seeped through his shirt and his hand that was holding his stomach. I tossed my gun onto the table and went to his side. I wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led him to my bedroom. I helped him onto the bed and sprinted to the bathroom where my first aid kit was. I met him back in the bedroom with worried eyes and trembling hands.

I cut through his shirt with scissors and silently apologized for ruining his clothing. He laughed and then winced as I slightly grazed his wound. The werewolf he was after put up quite the fight before he shot him down with the silver bullets in his gun. I ran to the kitchen to grab the six pack of beer out of my refrigerator. He was grateful and drowned the first one I gave him as I washed the wound. He drowned one and a half more as I began stitching the wound up. By that time, my own beer was gone.

I never looked away from the wound as I stitched it up and wrapped a bandage around it securely. I was quite proud of my work and looked back up at him with a wide grin before telling him he would be fine. He smiled back and his dimples took me off guard. His deep hazels pools never looked away from me as he whispered thank you. I don't know if it was the alcohol, or just the setting, but suddenly the room felt like a sauna as he gently grazed my bare knee with his hand. My breath caught in my throat and my cheeks felt like they were on fire. I jumped from the bed and made an excuse of taking the rest of the beers to the kitchen.

I made my way to the kitchen with a pounding heart and sat the beer on the counter. I gripped the white marble as I tried to steady my heart beat and my hormones.

Every thought in my head was telling me this was wrong and that he should leave, but my body was saying the exact opposite. I knew this was wrong on so many levels. One, he was at least eight years younger than me. Two, he would without a doubt leave in the morning. And three, I had a complicated relationship with his older brother. That was it. There was nothing more to think about. I was not gonna give in to my body, and I was sure as hell not gonna give in to him.

My thoughts along with my pounding heart kept me oblivious to the footsteps behind me. I nearly had a heart attack as I felt big, calloused hands envelop my tinier, soft hands. His breath was hot against my neck and goosebumps exploded onto my skin. I tried to protest, but it came out more of a moan as his soft lips made love to my neck. My knees buckled under me and his arms sprung into action around my waist. He turned me around to face him as he pulled back from my neck.

I felt like a little girl as he effortlessly lifted me onto the counter top. Our eyes never left each other as he slowly leaned towards my lips. Any ounce of self control that I had left flew out the window as he whispered my name against my lips. Our mouths locked and our hands explored. I caressed his rock hard abs as his hands stroked my thighs. I opened my eyes as I felt myself being lifted onto him. My arms wrapped around his neck as he carried me to the bedroom. He set me down on the bed and flung his wet, blood stained shirts across the room. His lips met mine again as hovered above me.

As clothes were ripped off, and skin was ravished, the flashbacks started in my mind: Dark green eyes shining, big hands running through short spiky brown hair, the smell of a familiar leather jacket, the way my name rolled off his tongue with that southern, been-everywhere accent, smart ass comments that could make me livid and corny jokes that could make me laugh hysterically, perfect pick lips that made me swoon, the sound of that car as it drove away, and the way it broke my heart into pieces.

Guilt filled my stomach, my eyes, and my whole being as I made love to Sam Winchester that night. While all the while I was thinking of Dean.

I woke up the next morning in an empty bed with guilt-ridden, broken heart. If I could take it all back, I would. I would never had answered the door. I would never had helped him with his research. I would have never stitched him up. And I would have certainly not made love to him.

But I can't take it back. I can only wait.

I can only wait for the call, the knock, the text, anything from him. I can only wait to look into his eyes and break down in tears. To tell him everything that happened with trembling lips and shaky hands. To beg for his forgiveness and plead for him to take me back. To ask him to forget everything that I did to him. To wait painfully for him to respond and to pray to the Heavens that he still feels the same way about me. And if he doesn't, then I can only wait for the sweet call of death.

But until then, I'll stick with my ghost and cry myself to sleep. I'll go through the days wishing I could take it all back. I'll lay in my bed and daydream that it was Dean instead of Sam. I'll fake the smiles and the laughs to convince people I'm fine. I'll live my life with that constant reminder in the pit of my stomach of what I did.

And I'll think of him every second of every day. And I'll wait.