If I hadn't been raised on the impossible, I might have listened when Dean told me, over and over again, that what happened that night hadn't been my fault. That my desire to have Sam back, no matter how desperate, no matter how much or how deeply I wished that he didn't have any ties to Stanford holding him back from us, had not somehow blown up in all of our faces.

But I didn't listen.

Jessica was dead, Sam was broken, and it was all my fault.

The guilt weighed on me, made me retreat into myself even as my brothers did the same. Dean, primarily from his worry over Sam, who was grieving in such intense focused concentration that we could all feel it coming off of him in waves even as he tried to pretend he was okay. It seeped through the cracks, though, showing itself in a razor edge that hadn't been there before, a heavy silence and a quick temper that was just—so very unlike him. He would flip out on Dean at the slightest provocation, and he was short with me, snappish and irritable in a way that I couldn't remember him ever being before.

To me, that meant that he, unlike Dean, believed it was my fault. So my guilt circled back around on itself, doubling up and strengthening, widening, thickening, darkening, becoming a burden I could barely contain.

And because I'd never been the best at dealing with such complicated emotions, I did all the wrong things, pissing my brothers off with clockwork regularity. Sometimes it was on purpose, sometimes not. But the weeks on the road following Jessica's death and Sam's return were rough, from a little sister standpoint.

One night Sam took me with him to get dinner because Dean was busy with some girl he'd met at a bar earlier in the day. I figured that meant he was hoping to have sex. I was twelve, I wasn't stupid. Dean's jokes and insinuations and Sam's knowing exasperation were enough for me to fill in the blanks. Sam was sullen and irritable, which made me sullen and irritable. He stabbed at his salad like he had a personal vendetta against it, and I complained about my food because he'd forced me to order grilled chicken instead of the burger I'd wanted.

"You eat too much of that crap; it won't kill you to have something that doesn't come out of a vat of grease," he said when I huffed over the plate of chicken and—worse—broccoli.

"Dean eats way more burgers than I do," I challenged.

"Yeah, and the day Dean lets me order for him off the menu, maybe he'll try something other than a heart attack on a plate, too."

"I didn't let you; you just did it," I pouted.

"Yeah, well, one of the perks of being the big brother is that I get to do stuff like that. Now eat; I want to get back and keep going on the research."

I glared. "I'm not hungry."

"Callie, don't be a brat."

"Don't be a jerk."

Sam took a deep breath and placed his fork neatly beside his plate before fixing me with a stern look. "Okay, I'll bite. What is your problem?" he asked.

"What's yours?"

"Right now it's that you're acting like a spoiled five-year-old and you seem hellbent on pissing me off. And guess what, it's working."

"Oh, like it's so hard to piss you off lately. All you do is bitch at me for everything."

"First of all, watch your mouth. I know you don't talk to Dean that way and it's not gonna fly with me, either. Second … maybe the reason you and I aren't getting along lately is that you're pushing all my buttons all the time. I don't know if it's just a cry for attention or growing pains or you're just trying to make me crazy but whatever it is, can you give it a rest? I'm begging you. Aren't you as sick of this as I am?"

I shoved my plate across the table and folded my arms across my chest stubbornly.

"Dammit, Callie, I'm not doing this with you! Eat, don't eat, I don't care. As soon as I'm done here we're leaving, and if you want to starve till breakfast, knock yourself out."

"Oh, I actually get a choice in something? It's a flipping miracle." I scooted out of the booth and stood up.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, catching my wrist to prevent me from walking away.

"To the bathroom," I said scathingly. "If that's all right with you." As I turned away I saw him running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.

I practically ran to the ladies' room, and was relieved to find it empty. I didn't have to go; I had to get myself together. This stupid petty bickering I was doing with Sam, why couldn't I seem to make it stop? It was like I wanted him to explode, to yell at me, to finally admit that he blamed me as much as I did for Jess's death. Instead of that kind of catharsis, though, I was just managing to drive a wedge between us. I couldn't just be happy to have my brother back because he was only back because his girlfriend was dead, because the life he wanted was shattered, and I had wished for it—if not exactly for those circumstances, then I had wished for him without any regard for what that might mean. And he had to know that, had to hate me for it.

So, no, it wasn't about grilled chicken. It wasn't about him jumping back into my life and trying to call the shots after being away for so long. It was about my desperation for him to absolve me of my guilt, and the only way I knew of to make that happen was to make him angry enough to admit that he was angry. "You wanted me back. Are you happy now?"

And the worst part? Is that I was.

I cupped my hands under the tap and splashed water on my face, then dried it with rough, diner-issue paper towels. And then I noticed the window to my left.

Best way I'd ever known to make my brothers mad was to worry them.

A nearby mop bucket, empty, turned upside-down, placed underneath that window was all it took for me to reach the latch. It pushed up easily enough, the frosted glass pane on the bottom sliding up into the frosted glass pane on top, leaving a large square of nighttime, cold air, an alley adjacent to the front of the diner. I placed both hands on the windowsill and boosted myself up and out. And then, hating myself and knowing that this was stupid, but at the same time ready to push Sam to his limit and face the music so that we could clear the air, I began to walk.

Short chapter, but I have the next part sort of mapped out in my head and wanted to get something down tonight. Strike while the iron is hot, right? Thank you to my reviewers! Jenmm31, irisheyesrita, Happygoddess2003, Howling2themoon, sjwmaw, delacre, and the guests who have left kind words on this story, you really inspire me to keep going.

As far as Callie here, and her mind-set, here's the thing. She is twelve. If you remember being that age (and I sure as hell do, even though it was QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO AND I'M NOT TELLING HOW MANY), you'll remember that sometimes our courses of action were completely at odds with the desired outcome. So my line of thinking here, for Callie is this (and I hope I made it clear in the story): She's happy to have Sam back. It's what she's wanted since he left when she was nine. The problem is that he came back at the expense of Jess, and the destruction of Sam's desired life. Callie now feels (irrationally, but again, she's twelve and yet to learn that the world doesn't revolve around her for good or bad) that her desire to have her brother back CAUSED those things to happen. When she is being honest with herself, she knows that's not exactly right, but the fact that she is still happy to have Sam back clashes with the knowledge that he's grief-stricken, so, GUILT. In her mind, the only way to make amends is to push Sam to open up to her, to make him so angry that he confesses that he blames Callie as much as she blames herself (spoiler: he doesn't).

I hope that makes sense, and that our girl's bratty attitude and not-so-bright choices in this chapter didn't make you like her any less. She's doing her thing. I think it'll work out.

Please review!