One More Time

2.

As I'm packing up a bag, I hear a knock at my bedroom door. I look up to see Sam looking at me. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," he greets, walking in. "You know, I'm surprised you agreed," he admits.

"Why?"

"Well... we didn't end things on good terms," he points out.

"Yeah, well, I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for your dad. He took care of me after my parents died. It's the least I can do," I shrug.

"Look, Callie--"

"Don't," I cut him off. "You said what you needed to say three years ago."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, it's too late now. You ended things. You made that choice. There's no going back now," I sigh.

He sighs, nodding. "Hey." I look toward the door to see Dean. "You almost ready?"

"I am. Let's go," I nod.

We make our way outside and over to his car. "So, what was he hunting," I question Dean.

Dean walks around to his trunk and pops it open. He pulls the board on top up and props it open. "All right. Let's see," Dean mutters, grabbing a paper. "So, Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy--," he starts, handing the paper to me. "They found his car, but he'd vanished. Completely M.I.A."

"So maybe he was kidnapped," I suggest.

"Yeah, well, here's another one in April, another one in December, '04, '03, '98, '92-- 10 of them over the past 20 years-- All men, all same 5-mile stretch of road. Started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough, and then I get this voicemail yesterday," he continues, playing it.

Dean, something is starting to happen. I think it's serious. I need to try and figure out what's going on. Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.

The voice sounds like his Dad's, but it's so distorted and cuts out a lot.

"You know there's EVP on that," I say.

"Not bad, Cal," Dean nods. "All right. I slowed the message down and ran it through a GoldWave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got."

I can never go home.

The second voicemail is a female's voice, and she's whispering.

"Never go home," I mutter, before Dean closes his trunk. "So, let me guess... we're going to Jericho?"

"You got it," Dean nods, before hopping in his car.

"Well, I call shot-gun," I say.

Sam groans, before we hop in his car.

*the next morning*

As Sam and I are sitting in Dean's car, he speaks from outside. "Hey. You guys want breakfast," he asks, waving the junk food around.

"No thanks," Sam says.

"Sure," I nod.

"So, how'd you pay for that stuff? You and Dad still running credit-card scams?"

"Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro-ball career," he points out, as he pulls the gas nozzle out of the pump. "Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards."

"Yeah, and what names did you write on the application this time," I chuckle, as he hops in the driver's seat.

"Uh... Bert Aframain and his son, Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal," he answers, handing me a bag of chips. I lean over and kiss his cheek, before glancing back at Sam. He doesn't look at me.

"Sounds about right," I say, settling into my seat. "Dean, you really have to update your cassette-tape collection," I say.

"Why?"

"Well, for one-- they're cassette tapes, and two-- Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica? It's the greatest hits of Mullet Rock," I point out, as I eat a chip.

"I'm with her there," Sam chimes in.

"House rules, ladies-- Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cake holes," Dean reminds me.

"I hate you sometimes."