Prompted by a tumblr user. They asked for season 2 and a day in the life of Sam and his psychic abilities.

He wakes up with a headache and dark dreams still playing through his mind. He wakes up with the knowledge that someone will die soon.

A little girl, a raging father, black eyes, blood. Sam's skin is prickled up into goose-flesh, his hands are shaking. In his mind, he still hears the screams.

They eat breakfast at some diner around the corner from the motel. It's mostly empty, the paint is peeling off the walls, the linoleum floors are sticky under their boots. Dean orders a champion's breakfast, a mountain off eggs, too many rashers of bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and enough grease to fuel the Impala for a month.

Sam only orders a coffee and he sips at it, his legs bouncing under the table.

"Sammy, you look like shit," Dean says, shovelling some bacon strips into his mouth. He chews with his mouth open and Sam can see the meat being demolished between his teeth. "You need to eat something before we try to figure this vision out, okay?"

Sam gulps down the last of his coffee. "Will you just finish already?" he demands.

And Dean does.

There's still half a plate full but Dean puts his fork down and drops a few bills on the table. He swallows what's in his mouth and heads out the door without another word.

When they're on the road, Sam is desperately praying that Dean just wasn't hungry anymore.

They don't know exactly where they're going. From the dream, Sam vaguely remembers a letter on the coffee table with a post code for two states over. Halfway out of state, Sam's head sears like someone is stabbing it with a hot poker, twisting and pulling at his brain. He sees the same thing again, a few more details, just enough to help them figure out where exactly they need to be.

He opens his eyes and Dean is there, shaking him, tapping his cheek.

"Stop it," Sam grumbles, but he lets Dean help him to sit upright because he's been lying slumped across the car's front bench. His limbs feel detached from the rest of his body, his head feels like it's been filled with cement.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean probes, his voice is level but his eyes are frantic. He taps Sam's cheek again. "You with me?"

"I'm fine," Sam insists, wincing when his head aches sharply. He pulls himself away from Dean's prying hands. "We need to go."

"Any more clues?"

Dean inserts the key into the ignition.

Sam closes his eyes tight, trying to remember. The light in the car is piercing his eyes, the rumble of the engine jostles his uneasy stomach. "Um… little girl is gonna die tonight, I think. Around 9pm. There's a dog leashed out in the from yard, barking like crazy. The house has one floor and… they have a blue car."

"Okay…" Dean ponders, steering back onto the road. "We have the post code, I think we should find it easy enough."

"How fast can we get there, though?" Sam asks. Dean doesn't answer.

They get pulled over two hours later for driving too fast, one look at Dean and the cop is moving for her gun. St Louis always comes back to kick their asses.

She's got one hand on her weapon, the other is on her radio.

Panic rises in his chest and Sam yells, "Stop!"

She stops. Sam takes a deep breath. His next words are spoken crystal clear.

"Go back to your car, drive away and forget you ever saw us," Sam tells her.

Half of him hopes it works, another part of him prays it doesn't. It does. Dean stares, watching the officer return her gun to her belt and walk back to her vehicle. The cop car vanishes down the highway.

When Dean looks at Sam, he looks afraid. Neither of them say anything.

They find the house at five minutes to nine. They see a dog going rabid in the front yard, trying to tug away from its leash, towards the house. It whimpers and whines, then shies away as they run up the path. Sam can feel the animal's wary eyes on his back.

They hear shrieking first, then crying, then laughing. They burst inside. There's a little girl cowering in the corner, a kitchen knife in her hands and blood all over her nightdress. A man, a demon, turns towards them, black eyes shining. His chest is covered in wounds.

"I've made a little monster," it says. Sam can feel those black eyes on him, digging right into the core of him. "Maybe she can join your clubhouse."

Sam freezes all over, there's a rushing noise in his ears, his gun is forgotten in his hand. The demon is still staring at him, a grin stretched across its face like they share a secret. Sound comes back and the girl is still crying. "Papa!" she screams.

The demon takes a step forward and Dean's gun is fired. The thing is gone in a storm of blackness, and the girl's father is on the ground. Nothing but a used up meat-suit. Dead. Dean is prying the knife out of the girl's fingers, gathering her up into his arms.

He's whispering to her, rocking her on his knee, turning her head away from the sight of her dad's corpse.

Sam can't move, he feels the centre of his body hollow out and plummet to his feet.

It was all his fault.

When will people stop dying because of him?

For dinner, they order pizza. They eat it on their beds in the next motel room they check into. It looks just about the same as every other motel they've been to. They watch Carrie on a black and white TV. Dean talks about the next case. They brush their teeth, they go to bed.

Sam doesn't sleep.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are hugs :)