Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all The WB's Supernatural.

Author's Note: Rather short, but to the point. I'll have more when I have more. Now tell me what you think!

Three siblings sharing one bathroom was the worst. The worst. Sure, occasionally only two of them would have to share, it all depended on the availability of cheap rooms at whatever motel they ended up at. But even that was rough. It didn't help that all three kids, especially once they hit their teenage years, were fairly vain. Dean loved his hair. He'd spend at least twenty minutes a day working to get that carelessly disheveled look. He couldn't help it though, it took time to craft it just right, not so messy that it looks unkempt, no so neat that it seems as though he really cared. And Sam had his grooming issues as well of course. There was a system to everything he did, brushing his teeth, flossing, mouthwash. His skin started to breakout, though barely, when he hit fifteen, so an intricate skin care regimen began as well. And the boy did love his long showers, still does.

But Tessa was the absolute worst. Like her twin, she'd spend extra time luxuriating in the steam of a super hot shower. Like her older brother, she'd obsess over her hair. And once the fiasco of puberty had been overcome, another issue arose, makeup. So it was more than fair to say that she monopolized the majority of bathroom time. Even John knew this, and was irritated by it if for no other reason than the boys were constantly complaining and begging to use his bathroom. And there were the occasional late starts, which to a former Marine were entirely unacceptable. But none of them were ever able to break her of her habit.

Tessa, for her part, became more than annoyed with her family's constant beratment, and took out her anger in a rather quiet and unassuming way. She left nasty little messages on the mirror. Before leaving the bathroom, after having been in there so long that all of the steam from her shower had already dissipated, she would lick her finger and use it to write in large print something such as, DEAN IS A DORK or SAMMY, THE AMAZING BEANPOLE BOY! Occasionally, if they really made her mad, banging away on the door so loudly that she could hear them over the hairdryer even, she would leave more hostile messages, SHITHEAD or GO FUCK YOURSELF were among them. And then there were the long stories and sayings that she put up only so that she would take up more time in the bathroom, thus further enraging them. YOU SNORED IN THE CAR TODAY, ALL DAY. COULDN"T SLEEP AT ALL. HOW CAN YOU EVEN SLEEP THROUGH THAT RACKET? SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU. SHOULD HAVE IT CHECKED OUT. That was one Sam found, was met with when he finally dragged himself out of the shower and into the steam-filled bathroom. And then he too, once the steam had disappeared, wrote an invisible message back to her that she would find, and likely yell at him about, the following morning. That was how it was when they were on the road together, back when they were still a family, dysfunction and all.

It had been years since he had seen anything written to him on a mirror, though there were several times when he was away that he would step out of the shower and expect to see some sort of insult or inane reminder, DON'T FORGET TO FLUSH, for example. And his first thought when he sees MEG plain as day scrawled over the glass is that his mind is playing tricks on him. But it isn't.

MEG. MEG. He reads it over and over again, his mind racing to figure out what this code could possibly mean. Does it stand for something? Is it an anagram? Or the first three letters of something, a book or article sitting in the other room? Or maybe it's just what it looks like, a name. But who? Did they know anyone named Meg? He couldn't remember anybody. In fact the only person named Meg he had ever known was Meg Ryan, not that he actually knew her.

And that girl. That girl he ran into just a week ago, the hitchhiker. Meg.

He dresses quickly, an aching feeling growing in the pit of stomach, one of both excitement and fear, one that leads him to believe that he's on to something. He rushes out of the bathroom, remaining moisture collecting on his shirt from where he neglected to towel off, and begins searching the room, wide-eyed and wild-looking. "Where's her phone?" he asks so quickly that the other men in the room are barely able to understand. They look at him oddly, raise their eyebrows in confusion. "Where is her phone?" he asks slowly, turning to them with feigned patience. Dean points to the table where the little pink flip phone had been placed after being bounced off of his head a couple of hours prior.

"What are you doing?" his father asks. But Sam ignores him.

"Were those calls incoming or outgoing?" he asks Dean as he scrolls through the numbers he had already looked up on the computer. Dean shrugs and Sam moves quickly, phone in hand, to the laptop, pushing his brother out of the way so that he can sit down in front of it. "Incoming," he says to himself.

"What are you doing?" John repeats as he makes his way over to Sam.

"Seeing something," he says absently, already focused on the information brought up on the screen. It's the official page of Greyhound. He scrolls through all the bus schedules and rosters and begins to hack into the site, searching for a passenger manifest. John and Dean both loom over him as he does so.

"What exactly are we looking for here, Sammy?" Dean asks.

"I don't see her name anywhere."

"Whose name?" inquires his father.

"She would have to use an ID just to buy a ticket, but…I don't see anything. Maybe she didn't get on."

"Who? Tessa?" Dean scoffs at the thought. "She wouldn't be caught dead on a bus."

"No," he says turning to his brother and shooting him an are you stupid glare. "Not Tessa. Meg."

"Meg? Who the hell is Meg?"

"Look in the bathroom."

Dean scrunches his face in confusion and slowly moves toward the bathroom. He leans in the door, his feet remaining firmly planted just outside as though he's too nervous to go all the way in, worried there may be some sort of freakish surprise left behind by his brother. "Meg," he reads off the mirror, straightening up after realizing that Sam's odd request to duck into the bathroom was in fact not part of some bizarre joke. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Sam, saying once again, "Who is Meg?"

"I don't know, not really. But I think…I think maybe I know her."

John places his hand on his son's shoulder, turning him towards him. "You don't know her, but you know her?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice heavy with frustration. "I met a girl named Meg. She's the only person I know with that name. But I don't know how Tess would…" He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. "It's just a feeling. I have them sometimes."

"Oh great," Dean sighs from the corner.

"Feeling?" John asks, ignoring his other son.

"Kind of like…I sort of…"

"He's gone psychic." If ever a look could kill, the one Sam shoots at his brother would be it. "What?" Dean says incredulously. "It's true."

"No, it's not." He looks at John briefly before turning away in…embarrassment? "I just sometimes…sense…things…sort of."

"Oh and dreams, don't forget about the dreams."

Sam glares at Dean. "And sometimes I have dreams too," he says slowly between clenched teeth. He turns away, back to his father who stands above him, looking less than surprised.

"So what's this feeling then, Sammy?" he asks soberly, locking eyes with his son.

"I saw the name on the mirror, and it took me a minute, but then I thought of her, this girl, and it was like…I know that's her."

"So who is she?" Dean says for the third time.

"I met her when I was on my way to California. She was hitchhiking and – "

"You hitchhiked to California!" John explodes.

"No! No. I just…I wanted to get there because I traced your call and it came from there so…but I turned around when I knew Dean needed my help."

"I didn't need your help. I had everything completely under control."

"Oh yeah, right, and getting filleted by a scarecrow god was all just part of your grand plan."

"I had a plan."

"Yeah, I just told you what it was."

"That was not the plan. I had a plan. It was a good plan too. Didn't need you."

"Sure."

"Boys!" John exclaims, slicing his hand through the air as though by doing so he can cut off their arguing. They look away from one another and at their father, see his stern face, and stop talking, but not before shooting petulant smirks in each other's direction. "Meg," he says calmly, reminding Sam of the task at hand.

"She said she was going to California too. I met up with her again at the bus station, which was kind of weird, but…we talked for awhile. Anyway, I left for Indiana and she, I thought caught a bus, but now I don't know."

"And you think she knew Tessa?"

"There's a call that came to her cell from a Sacramento area code. I thought it was you because it came just a day after you called us and I know you were there then. But you said you haven't talked to her."

"I haven't."

"Right. But somebody called her. And it was just before she came here."

"But you just said," Dean offers, "that you don't think that chick even got on the bus. So you don't know if she got to California or not, let alone where in California. It's kind of a stretch."

"I told you, I had a feeling…have a feeling."

"Okay," John says. "What exactly is that feeling telling you? Do you know how she's involved?"

Sam thinks for a moment. "No. I just know it's her. And Tess must have known that I would know. She must have known that I would somehow know who Meg was."

"Maybe Meg called her and told her she met you." Dean shakes his head back and forth. "But then she would have known who you really were, both of you."

"Did anything about this girl seem strange, Sam?" John asks.

"Like what?"

"Anything. Did she seem…"

"Like she knew who I was, or my family? No. She just seemed like a normal girl, I guess."

"You still think that? That she's just a normal girl?"

Before Sam can answer and give the obvious 'no', Dean reaches around him and grabs the pink cell phone off the table. He scrolls down to the last number in it and hits send. "It's ringing," he says simply, and they all wait in silence. Waiting, waiting, waiting. "Nothing," he says, flipping the phone shut finally. "Not even a voicemail or machine."

"I couldn't trace it either," Sam says. "We tried earlier."

John sits on the corner of the bed and rubs his hands along the top of his thighs, over and over again, until they finally come to rest on his knees. His knuckles turn white from the tight grip they've managed and he begins to gnaw at his lip. His sons watch and wait, knowing that he is entirely lost in thought. Knowing that when he gets this way, inevitably he always comes up with something, a plan, an idea. In the end, he always comes through.

But this time he doesn't get a chance to work out a plan. His concentration is broken when the little pink phone begins to ring.