Chapter Four

Rafe left. She'd known he would, even when he hesitated before getting on the bus. He'd glanced back at her, chewing on his lower lip. "Is this going to be a terrible fucking idea, Emma?"

Probably, she'd thought, but said nothing. She wished she had the guts to hug him, but her stomach was churning, and she thought if she touched him again it might actually kill her. So instead she wrapped her arms around herself, and watched until the bus drove away.

Once he'd gone, she wandered back into the bus station and sank down, glanced at the number Sam had given her. She wasn't certain why she'd kept it. She'd come so close to throwing it away, but, hunter or not, he had seemed genuinely concerned about her. She'd felt like she could trust him, and it had been a long time since she'd felt she could trust anyone. Certainly not Jackson, and not even Rafe, really.

Look at you, she thought. Crushing on a hunter.

Just a shame he stank of death.

It took her a few tries to stab his number into her phone. "Sam, it's Emma."

"Are you okay? Your voice is..."

"Yeah, I..." Another wave of nausea tore through her. She breathed hard through it, fighting the urge to vomit again. When she recovered, she could hear him saying her name on the other end of the line. "Sorry. I had another vision. So soon after the other one, it's kind of... affected me badly. I'll be okay in a minute." Maybe. Except for her brain threatening to clamber out of her skull.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Is your brother with you?"

"I can come alone if you want."

Can't keep running. "No. Bring him. There's an all-night diner on Farley Street." Somewhere public, she figured, although it would be dead this time in the evening. Poor choice of words. "I'll be there. Just... leave the guns in the car, okay?"


Sam half-expected her to be gone, but she was waiting. Nursing a steaming cup of coffee, sick and slumped and frightened, and he felt a sudden rush of concern for her. She looked so fragile, so in need of help, massaging her forehead with palsied fingers.

"Emma?"

She met his gaze. The faintest trace of a smile crossed her lips, and then she glanced at Dean and she wasn't smiling any more. She shrank back against the ripped banquette seating, eyes widening.

"No gun," Dean said, holding out his hands.

She shot him a look. "I appreciate that. Where'd you leave it?"

"Trunk of the car," he said, and she gave him a strange look, like she couldn't tell whether he was lying or not. And as they sat down she drew in a sharp breath and stared out of the window with a fixed expression.

"You okay?" Sam murmured, aware that they were drawing looks.

Emma nodded. "It's wearing off, thank God. I ran into a friend of mine at the bus station. He's psychic too."

"Let me guess, you had a little skin-to-skin contact," Dean said. Her eyes rested on him, assessing, unreadable. "Where is he now?"

"He ran. Left town."

"That gonna do him any good?"

"Nope." And it was the flat way she said it, just an unemotional statement of fact that made Dean glance sharply at her. Sam could guess what his brother was thinking: how cold she sounded, like the prospect of her friend dying was nothing to her.

"Tell us what you saw, Emma," Sam said, and she drew in a breath, nodding.

They listened as she ran through the vision, breaking off a couple of times as the nosy waitress passed their table, craning out for details. And then when Emma had finished, she glanced at Sam. "Rafe could channel spirits, see beyond the veil."

She's talking about him in the past tense, Sam realised. Like the kid's death was a foregone conclusion. And he felt a flash of helpless fury with her, at how unwilling she was to fight. Because maybe, just maybe, if she turned and faced this thing head on, there might be a chance she could stop it.

And then, from deep inside him, a quiet, treacherous voice spoke. Is it her you're angry at, or is it Dean?

He waited, trying to calm himself, because he knew if he spoke now his voice would be hard and angry, and she'd already been through too much.

He took a breath, met her steady gaze. "Why'd you lie to me, Emma?" He suspected he knew the answer.

A hard flash in her eyes. "Why do you think? As far as I knew there was only one guy in town killing psychics, and he happened to be your brother." And there it was: her brittle veneer had shattered and there was nothing in her eyes but fear and heartache and pain.

Dean scowled. "I'm not killing anyone today." He broke off, gritting his teeth as the waitress wandered innocently past. Again. When she'd gone, he leaned forward. Emma drew back, shrinking into herself. "We're here to stop this guy. That's it."

She picked up her cup of coffee with a trembling hand. When she spoke her voice was tight and controlled. "Well, thank goodness for you meddling kids." She went to finish the coffee, then thought better of it and slammed the cup down. "I have to go or I'll miss my bus. Again."

"You're still leaving?" Dean said.

"Obviously. Now that I know you a little better, you seem nice and all, but still not in the mood to get shot in the head. So..."

Dean's voice hardened. "You're just gonna run from this?"

"Dean," Sam said.

"I'm not a hunter," she said. "How much help do you think I'm going to be?"

"So you're just going to let your friend get killed because you're scared of me?"

She flushed. "I'm not scared..."

"Yeah, you are. You're terrified. And I can say that I have no intention of killing you, but if you run from this, maybe you kind of deserve it."

"Dean, enough."

Emma sank back in her seat, her face blanched white.

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"No, he's right." She closed her eyes, drew in a long shuddering breath. She was silent for a long time. "Look, if I can help, I'll help. Full disclosure, I don't think I'll be much use. But if we can kill this guy, stop him from hurting anyone else, then okay. Fuck it. I'll do what I can."


Emma went quiet in the car, the lights of passing street lamps reflecting in her eyes. Dean watched her in the rear-view mirror, silent and fragile on the back seat. Another damn psychic, he thought, and tightened his hands on the steering wheel, because his palm where he'd touched her in the bar seemed to be itching, like insects were crawling underneath the skin.

He was used to things being afraid of him. Monsters, mostly. And yeah, okay, sometimes people too. But never anything like this: a woman who, as far as he could tell, wasn't a monster, hadn't even done anything wrong other than maybe being too afraid to stand and fight.

She was just a kid. Maybe early twenties, but as pale and skinny as she was she looked even younger. And she was so skinny. Fragile, like she'd break easy. His every instinct screamed at him to protect her, but at the same time he wanted to get as far away from her as possible. Because his skin was burning where he had touched her and although he hadn't seen what she'd seen, he knew she was right.

He was going to kill her. One way or another.

They took her back to the motel, booked her into a room of her own, and then retreated to their own room.

"You think it was a mistake bringing her here?" Sam asked quietly.

"I'm not going to shoot her, Sam."

Yes, you are, you damn liar. And that time his inner voice sounded like his father, and the strange sensation in his hand felt like the kick of a gun.

"I know you don't like psychics, Dean."

Oh, come on.

"I'm going out to get some beer," he said, suddenly furious and desperate to escape. The weather was freezing, but even so the room felt stifling. "You want anything?"

Sam shook his head. Dean shrugged on his jacket, went out into the night. The drive helped a little. And back he came with the beers, but when he slammed the door of the Impala, he saw a small, slight figure sitting on one of the weather-beaten chairs by the empty pool, smoking a cigarette. The flare of the embers. Ashtray on the table overflowing. A notebook resting in her lap, as she sketched.

The burning in his hand intensified. He clenched it into a fist, willing it away, trying not to think about the weight of his gun in its holster. "Emma?"

Slowly he moved past the light spilling out from the motel rooms, past the shadows of people moving inside. Towards her.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said.

"I know, right? Somebody might shoot me."

He laughed, couldn't help it, ran his hand over his hair. "Damn, this is freaking weird."

And for the first time, she grinned at him. "Tell me about it. Want a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke."

"Good for you." She held the cigarette up, watching the smoke wreath up towards the sky. "I've been meaning to give up, but fuck it. Not like they're going to kill me, right?"

"Emma..." And he found he didn't know what to say. He'd wanted to tell her again that it wasn't going to happen, but he didn't feel much like lying. "Want a beer?"

She nodded and he handed her one, hesitated and then sat down. "Can I ask you something? This vision thing, every time you touch someone you see how they die?"

"Pretty much." Her voice was weary. "Ever since I can remember?"

And the next question – did you see how I die? – caught in his throat. He tightened his hand around the beer bottle, clenching his jaw, because he couldn't bring himself to ask it. So instead: "Like every time?"

She stared at him, and he guessed that she knew exactly what he had been about to ask. "Is this a roundabout way of asking me if I get visions when I'm having sex?"

"What? No!" He paused. "Actually, yes. Do you?"

She nodded.

"Well, that must suck," he said.

She sighed, exhaled a long stream of smoke. "It really, really does."

And because she hadn't slapped him yet, and it felt like safer ground than the thought of him putting a bullet in the brain of an innocent frightened woman, he took a swig of beer and focused on this instead. "How do you... you know."

"Alcohol helps. If I'm drunk enough, it numbs the visions, gives them less power, so I only get flashes. It also helps if the guy's kind of a dick." She flashed him a tight unhappy smile. "I try not to screw men I actually like."

He found himself thinking of the way she'd been around Sam, the way the two of them watched each other. And how she drew back into herself when Sam got too close, her constant defensive posture, the borderline exhaustion in her eyes. Dean recognised loneliness when he saw it.

What would it be like? he wondered. To never be able to have sex with someone without seeing how they die?

To be stuck sleeping with assholes because sleeping with someone you actually liked was too fucking painful?

He felt soreness in his throat and he took a swig of beer to swallow it down, stared up at the flat, starless sky.

"Hey, Dean, can I ask you something?" she asked. "Your brother. Did he really used to be psychic?"

Dean hesitated. There was something in her gaze, a faint light of desperation. The faintest flicker of hope. "Yeah."

She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "And it just went away?"

"You should speak to Sam about this."

"I'm asking you. I think Sam would probably tell me what I want to hear."

Yeah, Dean thought grimly. You and me both.

"And you don't think I will?" he said. Her only response was a one-shouldered shrug. A sip of her beer. The brief flicker of hope he'd seen in her eyes was already dying. "You know you're right, I won't. This psychic crap, I'm not its biggest fan. The truth is, I'm not sure it has gone away. I think it's still there, buried inside him some place. Lying dormant. Just waiting."

"And that worries you?"

"Whatever this thing is, it's not good, I know that. It's dangerous. And I think if he starts down that road... If I'm not around to stop it..." He trailed off, took another swig of beer. Changed the subject. "You've never tried to change what you saw in a vision?"

She gave him a hard look. "Seriously? Of course I have." She took a deep breath and composed herself, but he could see the tension in the line of her shoulders. "It's not that I can't change things, because I can. The unimportant shit changes, but the basics always – always – stay the same. Usually they get worse. You think I can't hate myself more than I already do?"

Dean was silent for a few moments. "I'm sorry about what I said in the diner."

"Don't be. You were right." She sighed, took another swig of beer. "I'm sick of running. I'm sick of being scared. It's not like it'll make any difference in the long run. So..." A shrug, a tired half-smile. "I can't change what's going to happen. You're going to kill me, Dean. There's no changing that. But screw it, it's okay. I'm tired of running. And if nothing else, I can help catch this fucker who killed my friends. So." She set the notebook on the table and slid it across to him. He glanced down, a talisman that looked like Celtic knot work, drawn in scrappy lines. "I'm not much of an artist but that's as close to what I saw as I think I'm going to get. That in the middle, it was like a bunched up piece of fabric with something inside."

"Like a hex bag?"

She shrugged. "I haven't got a freaking clue what one of those looks like, but I guess so."

"Okay then." He stood up. "I'll get a shot of this across to Bobby, see if we can't track this bastard down." And then he paused, glancing back at her. "Aren't you gonna tell me not to worry about Sam?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I think you're probably right to worry about him," she said, and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, pushed herself up, shaky on her legs like a new born foal


Emma woke from restless dreams, the covers tangled around her legs. The wind howled outside, and she lay back down, thinking about how close her room was to the Winchesters, wondered if they were awake or sleeping. Whether either of them were thinking about her. And then, as she started to slip back into the grip of sleep, she saw a figure at the edge of her room. She scrambled up in bed, opening her mouth to scream, certain it was Dean Winchester come to kill her.

The shape was gone. Nothing but a shadow cast on the wall.

"Shit." She hunched over, buried her fingers in her hair. Lying to herself again, because she knew it hadn't been a shadow.

But it hadn't been Dean Winchester either.

She slipped out of bed, padded to where she'd left her phone charging at the wall socket. Glanced at her screen, hoping for a text message from Rafe, but knowing there'd be nothing there. No messages.

She swore again. Then she dialled his number, her vision blurring with tears as she reached his voice mail. She'd already left him several messages, so she hung up. Stood for a moment, indecisive, clicking her fingernail against the screen of the phone. And finally dialled again, even though she knew it was hopeless. A waste of time.

This time someone answered.

As her call connected, she felt the urge to laugh in relief, but there was nothing on the other end but silence and the sound of someone breathing. Cold dread flooded through her. She hung up again, her heart skittering in her chest.

I'd stay, Emma. If you asked me to.

She should have asked him to stay.