A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading. All comments are hugely appreciated.


Chapter Three

When Dean called, Sam answered, aware of Emma's weary eyes watching him. She'd moved from the bed to the table, slumped in the chair with the bottle of vodka in front of her. She was still pale, but starting to recover.

"How's Cassandra?"

"She's recovering."

"Well, Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Although for a pissy emo-chick she was sort of hot."

"Helpful, Dean. Thanks. Head back to the motel. I'll meet you there."

He hung up and turned back to the table. "That code?" Emma asked.

"Yeah, it is actually. It's code for 'go back to the motel and I'll meet you later'." He was rewarded by the faintest trace of a smile; her eyes lingered on him then glanced away. At least her colour was starting to come back. "Feeling better?"

She nodded. "Starting to. It doesn't normally get that bad, but it's been getting worse for a while now. The headache'll stick around for a bit. They always do."

"I remember," he said, and she shot him another strange half-suspicious look.

She took a breath. "Why'd you come after me?"

"We're not here because of you, Emma. We're here because of what happened to the guy who was murdered recently."

"Jackson Grey." Her voice was low, numb.

"You did know him."

She nodded, reached for the vodka bottle. But her hand shook so badly, she could barely pour herself a glass. Sam sighed, gestured for the bottle and took over. Hesitated then poured himself a shot. Her eyes softened at that, and then she looked away, curling her fingers around the glass. "He kind of took me in. After my mom died."

"Was Jackson in town looking for you?"

"Yeah. He thought something was coming after him, and he wanted me to see what it was. Like that would make a difference." She sighed. "Just a wild stab in the dark, but I'm guessing he was right."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, he was right. Our friend, Missouri Moseley, put us on to him. She's a psychic too."

"I know the name. Never met her. I keep to myself, more or less." She sipped the vodka, raising an eyebrow. "I think Jackson had a bit of a thing with her, but he had things with pretty much everyone. I mean he could be a dick, but why would anyone want to kill him?"

"He's not the first, Emma. Someone's been killing psychics," he said, and she lifted her head, stared hard at him. He cleared his throat. No easy way to say this. "We think whoever's doing it is harvesting body parts to sell on the black market. Jackson was just the latest victim."

"That's why they took his eyes," she said, and Sam nodded, watched as she ran a hand down over her face. Any trace of colour that might have returned to her skin drained away. "The poor bastard." Then she glanced at him, her eyes sharpening. "You think I'm going to be the next victim, don't you?" She almost sounded amused.

"That doesn't worry you?"

"This guy isn't going to kill me, Sam. I already know how I die."

"Dean kills you," he said quietly. Her gaze lingered on him, wary now. "Emma, we don't kill people. We kill monsters."

"You know, there's some hunters out there who'd call me a monster."

"I'm not one of them. Neither is Dean." But he hesitated for a fraction of a second on that second sentence.

"Yeah, you seem awful sure about that."

"I used to be psychic, remember," he said. Saw her half-smile, lift the vodka to her lips. "What?"

"No one used to be psychic, Sam. You either are or you aren't."

"What did you actually see?"

"Would you believe me if I said I'd forgotten?"

"No. Actually, I wouldn't."

"Yeah. I'm a terrible liar." She sighed, staring down at the vodka in the glass. When she finally spoke again, her voice had flattened into a monotone. "He shoots me. Puts a bullet in my skull."

The sheer certainty in her voice made him hesitate before he spoke again. "We can deal with this. Whatever it is, we can stop it."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't, Sam. This is something I've been living with all my life, okay? I know these visions. I know what's real and what isn't and how they work. You think I haven't tried to change things before? Whenever I do it ends badly. So..."

"So you're going to skip town? Running won't solve anything."

"You're probably right about that. But the only thing I can think of is to put as much space between your brother and me as possible."

"You ever hear of the fable An Appointment in Samarra?"

"Big Agatha Christie fan, so yes." She sighed at his blank expression. "She uses it in one of her books. Appointment with Death. It's the one where... never mind. What else can I do, Sam?"

"Look, I get it. You're frightened–"

"Oh, you have no idea."

"—But we can fix this. We can figure this out. And maybe you can help us track this guy down and stop him."

She didn't answer, only stared at her hands resting on her lap, her face strained and pale and unhappy.

"We can help you, Emma. When I had my visions, I was able to help people. I managed to stop people dying. We can do the same for you."

"I told you," she said. "I've tried to stop things in the past. It didn't work out. In the long run, it only makes things worse."

"Okay, well, do you know any other psychics in town? Anyone else who might be a target? If you can help–"

"I can't. What this is, what I can do, it's useless. All it does is cause pain. And when I try to interfere, things get worse, Sam. I can't help you. I'm sorry."

He slid his number across the table to her. "Would you at least think about it? Please?"

She picked up the card and stared at it. He said her name, and she glanced up at him, the corners of her mouth turned down in unhappiness. "I'll think about it," she said, and he knew she'd already made up her mind to run.

On the way back to the motel, he called Dean, told him what Emma had told him. On the other end of the phone there was a long silence, as if Dean was trying to process what he'd just heard.

Then: "She said what?"

"That you're going to kill her," Sam said. "She seemed pretty convinced."

Another few moments of silence from Dean. "Well, there's gotta be a reason. Is she a monster?"

"As far as I can tell she's human."

"She gonna help us?"

Sam sighed. "Actually, I'm pretty sure she's going to skip town. She's probably on her way to the bus station right now."

"Well, that's just... Very noble of her. What a fine upstanding citizen she is. She's running, Sam. Couldn't have something to do with there being hunters in town, huh?"

"You didn't see her, Dean. She's terrified. She's convinced you're going to kill her."

"If I do kill her, it'll be for a reason, I promise you that."

"Yeah, I know that. But I'm not sure she does."

Dean grunted. "Well, while we're on the subject of women we can't trust for a second, I spoke to Bela. Dead end. She hasn't heard of anything new on the market, so whoever's doing this is either doing it on spec for a private seller or for his own personal amusement. Either way, a sick puppy."

And another dead lead.


Emma swung her pack over her shoulder, picking up speed as she drew closer to the bus station. Twenty more minutes and she'd be on her way out of this godforsaken town. As far away as she could get.

What Sam had said to her the night before played in her mind. Particularly what he'd said about the fable, which she knew well, although she disagreed with his assessment of it.

Because they were hunters, weren't they? When they were done here, they'd move on to the next town, and then the next, and eventually she'd meet up with Dean again. He was going to kill her; there could be no running from that.

And still she had to try.

Her apartment no longer felt safe. Much as she liked Sam Winchester – and she did like him, killer or not – his smell lingered on long after he'd left, and showed no sign of fading. If anything, it seemed to intensify, until she could no longer stand it. Until she knew she was going to be sick again if she stayed any longer. So she'd packed as quickly as she could, stuffing her belongings into her backpack at random. A handful of yellowing paperbacks, some spare clothes, the gun, her vodka. And all the time she was thinking of Jackson. How he'd looked when he'd come into the bar, the calm veneer barely disguising the terror he must have felt.

If only she'd helped him there and then. If only...

The fluorescent lights in the bus station weren't helping her headache. She leaned forward in the uncomfortable metal seating, massaged her forehead with trembling fingers. Muted footsteps echoed on the grimy tiles. Across the room the low murmur of voices.

If only, she thought. If only what?

Nothing would have made a difference. No matter what she'd done, Jackson would still be dead.

She pushed herself up, made her way on shaky legs to the door. Stepped out into the cold air, which tasted crisp, threatening more snow. She shivered, lit a cigarette, took a long steadying drag.

And up the street a figure was approaching, head down, face concealed under a hood. He faltered when he saw her, and she saw the moment he forced himself on. As he passed beneath a lamppost, the light reflected on his pale face. He buried his hands deep in his pockets. For a moment, she thought he was going to avoid her completely, and just walk straight past into the bus station, but instead he stopped a yard or so away. He was avoiding her gaze.

"Hi, Emma," Rafe said. And as he took another step towards her, Emma felt her last trace of hope drain away. Although the smell of death always clung to him, now it was stronger than ever. So intense there could be no mistake: he was another dead man walking.

Not Rafe, she thought, tears prickling at her eyes. Please not Rafe. As if there was anyone who might be listening, anyone who might actually give a damn. He hesitated, then nodded to the cigarette. "You think I could..."

"Sure." She delved in her pack for the cigarettes, her fingers brushing against the reassuring weight of her gun. She drew out the pack, offered him one along with her lighter. He lit it, coughed on the smoke. "Have a vision?"

"More like my spirit guide going apescat. Something's coming for me. And after what happened to that guy the other night..." He tailed off. "You skipping town too?"

She nodded. "There's hunters in town."

"Let me guess. Those two guys in the bar?"

"Those are the ones."

"Yeah, I shoulda known they were full of shit. But they made me think..." He sighed, shook his head. "They the ones who killed that guy?"

"I don't know. Maybe. They say they're looking for the guy who did it, but who knows with hunters, right? The big one – Sam – he used to be psychic apparently."

Rafe snorted. "No one 'used' to be psychic."

"See, that's what I said."

Rafe stared at her for a few moments, like he wasn't sure whether she was lying. Then he shrugged, drew in a shuddering breath and pushed his hand through his hair. "Shit." They stood in silence, watching the first snowflakes spiral down from the ink-black sky. "There any point in me running, Em?" he asked, his voice low.

"Rafe–"

"The truth," he said. "Please. I want to know."

I doubt that, she thought. But she was tired and drained and her head was pounding. "Honestly? No."

Another silence. Another drag of his cigarette. "But you don't know that for certain, right?" he said. He sounded much younger, like a child begging her to lie to him.

"What does your spirit guide say?" she asked, and Rafe glanced to his left for a moment, tilting his head as he listened to something Emma couldn't hear.

"Mack says you're a lying bitch," he told her with an apologetic grimace.

"Your spirit guide's a dick."

"Tell me something I don't know." He paused. "And he's telling me to get the hell out of Dodge, but if you're saying I'm dead anyway..."

Emma dropped her cigarette, crushed it beneath the toe of her boot. "Give me your hand, Rafe."

He shot her a startled look, showing the whites of his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I don't know until I know. Hold out your hand."

Rafe curled his hands into fists, and started to extend his hand. Hesitated again. "What you see... is there any way we can stop it?" There was no hope in his eyes; he already knew the answer.

"No. I'm sorry. At least... I've never been able to before."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. I'm screwed, aren't I?"

She shrugged. "Sooner or later we all are."

He sighed. "I'm twenty-one, Em. Barely even old enough to drink. This isn't fair." Anger now, rising, a tremble in his voice, and he drew a breath and thrust out his hand out, still clenched in a fist. Her headache intensified at just the sight of it. At the thought of putting her skin against his. Her heart began to speed up, with a curious skipping pace, like it couldn't quite keep up the rhythm. One of these days, she thought, it's going to stop completely. Probably soon.

She held her hand over his, every cell in her body screaming against it because she knew this was going to hurt. Taking shallow breaths, thinking, Do it, do, it, do it. Shemet his eyes, saw her own fear and reluctance echoed there, willed him to chicken out. She guessed he was having to fight the urge to throw himself away from her.

And then, because if she didn't do it now she was never going to do it, she forced herself to grip his wrist–

And is slammed into the vision, wrenched from her own body into Rafe's. Into a dark place lit by a naked bulb, a rag stuffed in her mouth, choking her as she fights to scream, bands tight around her chest. And a face: gaunt features, dirty red hair. A pale skin freckled with blood, and round his neck an amulet, what looks like human hair arranged in Celtic knotwork. As he leans over her, she fixes her gaze on it, forcing herself to remember it, to focus on anything other than the knife in his hand, the screaming agony in her chest

She wrenched out of the vision, twisted away from Rafe's horrified face, and splattered her guts all over the sidewalk. Passers-by shot her a disgusted look and Rafe spun around after them, snarling, "Keep walking, assholes." His voice twisted with misery and fury and terror. Emma leaned against the wall, retched again.

A throbbing pressure in her skull, pulsing with every beat of her heart. Her vision blurring. The taste of vomit in her mouth.

Rafe's hand on her back.

She flinched, but there were a couple of layers of fabric between his skin and hers. He'd always been careful never to touch her, and she wept, hot tears burning down her cheeks.

"Emma?" His voice was distorted, like the buzzing of wasps.

"I'm..." She exhaled. Not okay. Not okay. Both hands now against the wall. The texture rough. Cold. Fingers numb. The cold kiss of snow on her cheeks, but she welcomed it. The smell of her vomit mingled with the stench of death on Rafe. Reapers gathering. Watching. She could hear their whispering, like an itch in the middle of her skull. If she could, she'd reach inside her head, claw at it with her fingernails to relieve the itch. Her legs crumpled. Rafe caught her.

"Shit," he muttered as he eased her to the ground, away from the puddle of vomit. "You could've warned me."

She tried to speak, but nothing emerged. Her tongue, fat and useless in her mouth. Rafe knelt beside her, his hands resting on her knees. He looked terrified, and she didn't think it was the prospect of his dying that had scared him. Her mother was talking somewhere, garbled nonsense, just like the day they'd taken her to the hospital and she'd never come out again. Too many people, too much skin-to-skin contact. Every vision nudging her closer to death. But Emma wasn't thinking straight, couldn't get her thoughts to make sense. Because that wasn't her mother's voice. Her mother was dead. Had been dead for years.

It's me, Emma thought. I'm the one who's trying to talk.

Rafe had his phone in his hand. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said, and panic spiked through her.

"No." She tried to shake her head, and the world dipped and whirled around her like a fairground ride. I'll be all right in a minute, she thought, although she wasn't sure that was true. It felt like her brain was leaking out her ears. Right now, if Dean Winchester showed up with a gun, she'd welcome him. Hell, she'd hand him hers with her blessings and place her forehead against the barrel.

"I think you're having a stroke, Em. I have to..."

"No. Am'lance." She took a breath, forced out the words. "Vodka in my bag."

"You know you're going to die of alcohol poisoning, right?" Rafe reached into her bag, then drew his hand back. "Holy shit. Is that a gun?"

"Vodka."

"Right." He swallowed, pulled the bottle out cautiously, like the gun was a snake that might bite him at any moment. He passed the vodka to her, then opened it for her when she couldn't manage much more than a fumble at the bottle cap. She took a swig, and waited while her world pieced itself back together.

When she felt strong enough, he helped her up, slipped her arm over his shoulder. They retreated inside. Found seats tucked away at the back.

They were silent for a long few moments, Rafe's jittering leg the only outward sign of his impatience. "I don't want to know what you saw, do I?"

"No."

"Was it them? The hunters?"

She glanced up at him sharply.

"No," she said. "Not them. It was some skinny red haired guy." Her thoughts were gradually starting to come back into focus. So not Dean Winchester, she thought. Unless they were working together. Rafe was watching her.

"There's something you're not telling me, Emma."

"Mack tell you that?"

"No. I can see it in your face. You're running from them, aren't you?"

She sighed, wishing she could light up another cigarette. If Dean Winchester and alcohol poisoning didn't get her, lung cancer almost certainly would. Assuming she wasn't killed by a massive stroke, same as her mother.

When she didn't answer, Rafe leaned against her. She shuddered at the press of his arm against hers through the fabric of her sleeve. Hurt flickered across Rafe's face, but he suppressed it."Emma, whatever it is you're thinking, don't do it. My bus leaves in twenty minutes. Come with me." Then his eyes widened in alarm. "Unless I shouldn't get on the bus."

"You know I can't answer that. Whatever I tell you, it's going to be wrong. So don't even ask."

He stared at her, his eyes dark. "I'd stay, Emma," he told her, his voice low. "If you asked me to."

"I know you would," she said, looking away. She felt dizzy with his eyes on her. "But I'm not going to ask you to."