"Would you prefer ground beef or turkey?"

Dean shoots me a glare. "Alight, alright, got it," I say, my hands raising involuntarily in surrender.

"Manly man eats cow beast and laughs in the face of puny poultry," I murmur in what I believe could quite possibly be the most accurate representation of my brother's baritone voice. His glare continues, though I catch a nearly imperceptible lift of his lips on the right side, resulting in the smallest smirk known to man. He reaches down to pat me on the head, a gesture I know he uses to emphasize our nine-inch height difference. It's not my height that really bugs me (5'4'' is totally respectable and the average female height in America, as I keep trying to explain to him). It's the fact that he, Sam, and my father are just so gigantic. You'd think, genetically speaking, I would have been predisposed to be at least a couple inches above average, especially considering the whole being Sam's twin thing.

"You know me well, squirt," Dean smirks fully, his eyes flashing, before edging around me to check out the plethora of jerkies available to him next to the meat section I'm currently perusing. I pick up the protein and balance it on the growing pile currently occupying the metal basket I'm carrying. We've been on the road a while and haven't had a chance to stop by an actual grocery store since a few hunts back, so I'm taking advantage of the veritable selection available in this Californian market. I heft the basket up once more while heading down the aisle, apparently prompting Dean to grab it from me.

"You don't have to—" Dean raises his hand to stop me.

"You cook, I carry," he responds. "But jeez, do we really need all these vegetables? They're heavy," he whines while switching carrying hands and shaking out his other arm.

"You know, eating something green every now and then won't kill you. Besides, don't forget that you're only four years from thirty. Diner food can only be metabolized so quickly in your aging body," I tease him. He pauses to whack me upside the head with a zucchini before continuing. "Haha, you're hilarious, runt. Say all you want about diner food, but it wasn't MY growth that was stunted." Now it's my turn to glare, as I run to keep up with the chuckling asshole headed towards the checkout.

It takes about ten minutes to check out and an additional five for Dean to flirt with the cashier, a young blonde who's basically catatonic at this point, meaning we leave the grocery store around midnight. We load everything into the Impala, the snacks and dry foods in the trunk and the fruits and vegetables in the small cooler I forced Dean to put in the back seat when I began developing a need for occasional fresh produce a couple years back. I love fries as much as the next gal, but I can't deny the benefits of fiber in my diet. I catch my reflection in the window illuminated by the nearby street light and take a moment to inspect the messy bun-like state my mid-length dark hair is currently maintaining on top of my head. I have no doubt I'll blend right in when we get to Stanford's campus, as my hair, in combination with one of Sammy's massive sweatshirts over a pair of leggings, leaves me looking very much like a student in the midst of exams. I even have the darkening bags under my green eyes, the same color as my eldest brothers'. What I really need is coffee, but I've never been able to stomach the stuff, so I resolve myself to just suffer on in hopes of catching some nightmare-less sleep. I slide into the passenger side next to Dean who takes one glance at me before reaching to grab the blanket we keep in the back and tossing it at me. "Try to get some rest, Callie. You look like shit," he says while turning the ignition and patting his leg, indicating the place where my head should go. I snort before laying down with the blanket. "It's not like you look any better," I yawn up at him.

"Yeah right. I always look awesome," he replies while winking at himself in the rearview mirror and placing a hand on my hair to stroke his thumb along my hairline, something both he and Sam used to do when I was young. I giggle and drift off to the soothing sounds of ACDC.

There's a woman on the ceiling. She's blonde like Mary was but appears younger. Flames burst around her, and she screams… "Callie. Cals! Wake up, squirt, it's just a nightmare." I wake to Dean's voice. My heart is pumping and a thin sheen of sweat has settled over my face and neck. When my eyes focus, I can see Dean peering down in concern while he strokes the hair back from my face. "You good?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer slightly out of breath. "It was just a nightmare, like you said."

"Is it the same one you've been having?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Cals, I know you've been having issues sleeping. Is this about the case we worked in New Orleans because –" I cut him off,

"No, no, it's not that. I'm not sure what it is, but don't worry about me, okay? I'm sure they'll stop soon."

"In case you haven't noticed, worrying is in the job description," he replies with a look.

"Yeah yeah, I know. We need to focus on finding dad though, so let's put this on the back burner for now. I'm sure it's nothing, De." I try to get him to move on. Dean and I have become really close since Sammy left for school. We became best friends and stellar hunting partners, though he sometimes reverts back to big brother Dean when he's worried about me or Sam. I try not to give him too much to worry about because I'm sure he's developing an aneurysm now that dad's missing. That's why we're headed to Stanford to get Sammy. Dean thinks we need his help to find dad, and while I've missed Sam more than anything, I still can't help but feel guilty for asking him to leave the normal life he's worked so hard to get, even if only temporarily.

Sammy and I were always very close, nearly inseparable as kids. We always went to Dean for the big stuff, but Sam and I enjoyed knowing even the smallest things about each other. That's why I supported him wholeheartedly when he told me about his aspirations to attend college and stop hunting. While our twinness meant we had a shit-ton in common in terms of thought process, I was always much more inclined to the hunting life than Sam (we also don't actually look like twins either except for hair and cheekbones, go figure). It probably stems heavily from always having to work about three times harder to be just as good as the boys during training and, at some point, I just grew to love the job. However, I also love learning just as much as Sammy, and we always competed academically, pushing each other to do our best even while bouncing around schools. Something neither of my brothers know is that I was also accepted to Stanford; I simply decided I enjoyed hunting and research more than the idea of pursuing a degree before settling down to some normal, boring life. When Sam told me he planned to go to school, I helped him get everything set up, like his room, schedule, and meal plan because I wanted him to live his dream. I was and still am so proud of him for having the courage to stand up to our father, though I wish he'd have left Dean on better grounds than that terrible fight. I still refer to it as Samegedon in my head. Fortunately, we had a chance to say our goodbyes beforehand. We stayed in contact pretty consistently the first few months, but he eventually stopped answering my texts and emails. It hurt, but I'm pretty sure he was just trying to distance himself so he wouldn't be tempted to come back. That didn't deter me though. I've been sending him emails detailing Dean's and I's adventures almost weekly for the past four years and packages containing my famous cookies and books I thought he might enjoy. The lack of response was frustrating at first, evening causing tears at points, but I still love him as much as when he left.

I didn't try to hide our corresponding from Dean, but he didn't seem quite as enthusiastic to keep in touch, except maybe during the times when I was upset, and he sent a nasty letter or two.

"How far are we?" I ask Dean.

"We're here actually. Come on." I glance at the clock.

"Um, Dean, it's 3am. I don't think he's gonna answer the doorbell."

"Good thing I don't plan on using it then," he answers with a cryptic chuckle.

"Those are the kinds of statements that make me nervous," I say, but he's already out of the car and opening my door. I look around as I step out, noticing we're in a nice neighborhood on a street lined with houses.

"Nice place, Sammy," I mutter to myself as we approach the side window of tasteful home. Dean wastes no time in jimmying the window open and offering me a foothold to boost up on. "Let's go, squirt." I sigh but lithely jump up and into the house. Sammy's gonna kill us.