Thank you for the reviews! They really mean a lot to me and definitely keep me writing when I'm on the fence about it. Here's Chapter 2. Big thanks in advance for any reviews you take the time to post.


I didn't speak the whole way to Bobby's. That's right. Guess who won the argument about whether or not to dump me. I'm not sure I'd ever been so pissed off and hurt at the same time. Sam clearly felt guilty, and kept puppy-dog-eyeing me from the passenger seat. Each time I met his eyes, I either looked away or returned his glance with my patented Winchester Look Of Death, depending on how I was feeling at the moment.

Dean took a different approach, pretending that he didn't notice the waves of bitterness and brooding and pure black hatred I was emitting on a regular basis. When we pulled up to a roadside diner for an early lunch, I didn't budge from the backseat.

"Come on, Cal, this place don't deliver," he said, leaning back in through his open door.

"I'm. Not. Hungry." I met his gaze steadily, daring him with my eyes to try to force me out of this car.

He stared back for a few long moments, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was tempted, on the one hand, to fall back on his I'm-the-boss-and-you-will-obey M.O., because that's what usually works and that's what he's most comfortable with. On the other hand, he felt guilty and I knew it. He couldn't deny that I had every right to be pissed, and hurt, and all the other things I was, and that made him a little gentler than he might have been under ordinary circumstances.

"Suit yourself," he said, drumming his fingers on the Impala's roof before walking into the diner.

Sam hesitated standing outside the car, looking from Dean's departing figure to me before squatting down to peer through my open window. "Callie, please try to look at it from his side. He's not doing this to hurt you, you know."

I shot daggers from my eyes and they impaled him through the forehead. Well no, they didn't. But I think the look I gave him got my point across.

"And it's not like this is a permanent arrangement. We're pretty close to putting this thing to bed. The second it's safe, we'll be back for you. You know that, right?"

Glare. Glare harder. Maybe you can make his head explode by sheer force of will.

"Will you please come inside and have something to eat? You know Bobby's not the best cook; this might be the last good meal you get for a while," he said, attempting a joke. My glare didn't waver. "I'll buy you a shake," he tried. "Chocolate."

I sighed and turned away. "Just leave me alone, Sam."

He was puppy-dog eyeing me, I could tell without even looking. And if I did look I'd start to feel bad that HE felt bad, and then I'd lose whatever small, evil satisfaction I'd gained from making at least ONE of my brothers feel shitty about what they were about to do to me.

"If you change your mind, come inside, okay? I don't want to leave things this way, and I think you'll regret it if we do."

His footsteps crunched away. I sat still for a few long moments, until the stinging in my eyeballs eased up and I was almost pretty sure I wasn't going to cry. No way would I cry in front of them. And if I cried now, in the car, they'd come back and see my red eyes and hear my snotty sniffles and they'd KNOW and then I'd have to kill them.

I waited till they'd been gone about 10 minutes or so and then got out of the Impala. I leaned against it and stared at nothing. I knew at least two sets of eyes were fixed on me through the plate-glass window of the diner, but I didn't even glance that way. Those eyes were always on me and had been since I could remember. They took overprotectiveness to new heights, those two. I used to think it was a sign that they cared. Now I knew it was something else, at least for Dean. Probably something he felt he owed to Dad, to make sure his bastard child didn't grow up to be a hooker or get turned by a vampire or become a Scientologist or something.

When I was a little kid, and less bitter than I've gotten in the years since, Dean was more than my big brother. He was my bodyguard, my buddy, my teacher, my absolute freaking HERO. With Dad gone more and more, and not really with us when he was around, if that makes any sense, Dean stepped easily into his parental role and, in my humble opinion, did a much better than John did on his best day. One day, when I was about eleven years old and feeling my oats, I walked into the motel room we were currently staying in and right into the middle of a patented John Winchester verbal beatdown. I don't know what Dean had done, but all I had to see was the hurt in his green eyes even as he held his face stony and unreadable, and I was ready to claw our father's face. I stood there for a few moments, my backpack swinging from my hand, until Dad shouted at MY BROTHER that he was a waste of his training and was one day going to get his damn fool self killed, and probably his brother and sister as well. Then I couldn't stay still any longer.

Stepping in front of Dean, facing Dad, I actually pointed my finger at his face as I screamed, "Stop it! Just shut up! You can't talk to him like that!"

Can you believe I lived to tell the tale? Well, I did. In fact, shockingly, Dad didn't react except to lower his own accusatory finger, which had been pointing at his eldest son, and stand there blinking at me as if I were a bewildering figment of his imagination.

Dean, on the other hand, grabbed me by the upper arm and spun me to face him. "Callie!" he barked, pinning me to the spot with his fiery gaze. "Apologize. Now."

I was so surprised I couldn't form words, but my mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish. But … I was standing up for him. Why was he mad at ME?

"Apologize to Dad and then go in the other room and shut the door. Do you hear me?"

My face fell, but I turned back around to our dad and muttered what was probably the least sincere "Sorry" that's ever been uttered. Then I jerked my arm from my brother's grip and ran into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind me.

There had been no more yelling, and I couldn't make out the words Dad was saying even with my ear pressed up against the door. But I knew he was still laying into him. I knew he was still hurting Dean. I knew I was on the verge of hating him.

He left soon after, and we didn't hear from him for a while. I was okay with that. And I got a lecture from Dean about respect that made me roll my eyes and ended up with me grounded.

Grounded from what? Yeah, I never figured it out either. My life was motel rooms and bad movies on cable (when we were lucky enough to be in a room that had cable).

Now, leaning against the Impala and feeling the two sets of eyes watching my every move, I wished Dean had left the keys so I could just drive away. THAT would put a bit of a wrench in their plans. Then again, that would also get me killed when they inevitably caught up with me. And there would be no crossroads-demon-deals for me if I pulled a stunt like that, oh no. I'd be salted and burned and Dean would probably still be yelling at the funeral pyre long after I'd turned to ash.

That's morbid. What can I say; I was feeling morbid. The two people I loved most in the world were abandoning me. And call me crazy, but the way I grew up, abandonment issues were as natural as salting doors and windows, carrying a flask of holy water in my back pocket, eating greasy road food, and not putting my feet on the seats of Dean's precious car.

It was a quick meal. Dean was still chewing when they came out. Sam handed me a to-go cup and I peeled back the lid to see he'd ordered me a chocolate shake. Damn that stinging in my eyes again! I turned away from it, from him. I couldn't.

"All right, let's hit it. I told Bobby we'd be there early afternoon," Dean said as Sam sadly took the rejected shake and tossed it toward a nearby trash can.

They both got in and the engine kicked on with a growl. I just stood there.

"Cal," Dean finally said, not looking at me. "Let's go."

"No," I said. It sounded just as bratty as it looks, just that word, flat and stubborn and final. Except of course it wasn't final, and I knew that, and they knew that, because I never never never won these things. I didn't have a choice, and I knew it and I hated him for making it that way and Sam for letting it happen.

Dean sighed, and I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "I will put you in the car," he said. "Don't make me do that."

"And I'll scream that I'm being kidnapped. I can scream loud."

He rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

Sam muttered something to Dean under his breath, clearly something I wasn't meant to hear. Dean slapped the steering wheel in frustration and then got out of the car. I braced myself, expecting to be seized and thrown into the backseat. Something in his eyes stopped me from bolting.

"Callie, I know you hate me right now. I'm not my biggest fan at the moment either. I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said, and I could hear that he meant it. There was ACTUAL EMOTION in his voice and in his eyes. I told myself not to budge. "But it does. Okay? Can you make this easier for everybody and just cooperate?"

I glared at him. "I've been pretty cooperative, if you ask me," I snapped. "I didn't run off or steal your car or slash your tires while you guys were in there eating, I haven't thrown any sucker punches, I'm still HERE. If you mean you want me to smile and pretend that this is okay with me, that it doesn't make me feel like last week's garbage, then no. I'm not going to make it easy for you."

He closed his eyes against my words. "Cal, you know it's not like that."

"I don't care," I lied badly. Stupid voice was shaking now.

He reached for me. I tried to twist away but he was so much stronger. His big hands held both my shoulders firmly and he trapped my green eyes with his. "We will be back for you. Do you hear me, Callie? There is not a demon or angel or monster in heaven or hell or on earth that can keep us from you. And when it's safe, when I don't have Lucifer's entire posse out for my blood, the first thing I'm gonna do is haul ass to Bobby's and pick you up and we're gonna eat burgers with extra onions and watch shitty horror flicks for a week. I'll even let you have a beer. Right now I need you to trust me that I'm doing what I think is right for you. Can you do that? Can you trust me?"

Tears—dammit, TEARS—slipped out of my eyes and rolled freely down my cheeks. His hands left my shoulders so that he could brush them away with his thumbs. I couldn't speak, but I nodded. Of course I trusted him. I was angry at him. I was SAD. Mostly, I was terrified. Of losing either one of them. But I trusted them, and if I told him I didn't it would hurt him the way Dad had that day so long ago when he'd told Dean he was destined to get Sam and me killed someday.

My nod seemed to set him abruptly at ease, like he'd been holding his breath and that this was all he'd needed to hear. He pulled me roughly into his arms and buried his face in the top of my head, his lips pressing against my hair. I heard Sam step in behind me and wrap his arms around me from the other side, so that I was the middle of a brother sandwich. The tears came harder, my breath hitching and a sob or two escaping against my will.

"It's going to be fine, baby girl," Dean murmured. "It's going to be fine."

I believed him.


Okay, what'd ya think? R&R please!