Disclaimer: Winchesters are not my characters.

A/N: Woah. Long time, no story. So sorry. Anyways, classes are done. Summer has started. Writing has commenced. :) Reviews are, as always, very welcome. Special thanks to Mhank and Writersblock2014 for getting me going. :)


Sleep is a fickle mistress.

When I want to sleep, I can't shut my brain off.

When I don't want to sleep, my eyes are too heavy to keep open.

Deep sleep is supposed to allow the brain to unwind and decompress. It's supposed to bridge the gap between the conscious and the subconscious. Or so psychologists theorize.

In my case, that's a load of Bullpoop. Capital B.

When I sleep—truly sleep, not just nap—I dream. When I dream, I either relive the hell I went through with the vampires or I watch the future unfold.

Both options suck. One of them more literally than the other.

As much fun as knowing the future might be, it's also horrible.

Try watching a vampire garot himself on razor wire ten different times and then have to turn around and string the wire up at the correct height, just so you can watch it again in real life. It sucks.

Plus, the future isn't cut in stone. At least not the way I see it. I see snippets—flashes of what could be.

Sometimes I can change it. Sometimes not. Sometimes I see four different endings to the same story. Sometimes I see four different stories with the same ending.

It's enough to drive a girl mad.

That's where Missouri had helped. She'd taught me control. It wasn't how to pull visions from thin air. I did that enough on my own. No, Missouri had taught me how not to have visions. She'd taught me how to hold off the 3D, Surround Sound mental takeovers and how to pare them down to more finely-tuned feelings. It was supposed to keep me from going insane. Like, really for real insane.

The feelings, the urges, the small tugs of instinctual guidance—they didn't bring madness with them. Or if they did, it was at a slower rate. Watching the future from a front-row seat...well, let's just say she had warned me that it was too good to be true. She'd said that if God had wanted us to have that kind of knowledge, he'd have built the human mind with an ability to withstand the side effects.

But he hadn't. So I was stuck trying to find a way to stop the visions and keep myself sane. I was getting pretty good at it, too, barring the necessity of visions to keep Riley and her family alive. Most of the time, if I didn't want to see the future, then I just didn't.

Which is why sleep is such a fickle mistress. Missouri had taught me how to take control of my mind. But with sleep…with sleep, all that control goes right out the window.

Missouri had said I'm young, just coming into my power. She'd said I'd have to build my mind into a rock-solid fortress, but that it would take years to be in control of my mind when I'm both asleep and awake.

So, for now, the dreams and visions reign terror when I sleep.

But, like always, my eyes still got heavy even as my mind screamed against the dark descent.

I shifted in the chair, still trying to fight the inevitable. Not for long, though. Sleep came, just like it always does.

With it came dreams of Riley. Usually those were the good ones. This time...not so much. I saw Riley, and I saw death.

Lots and lots of death. Mostly hers. Sometimes mine.

There was something else in my dream, though. A flash, barely a glimpse. I was standing in a room, and it was dark and damp. Somewhere around me, water dripped against the concrete floor in a slow pattern. The sound echoed loudly, adding another ominous layer to the cold, dank feeling that blanketed the room.

Drip...drip...drip.

I was shaking, but I didn't know why. Looking down, I saw my cowboy boots, smeared with blood. But that wasn't just it. My hand was clenched around a knife. The blade had a strange shape. A wicked-looking long, narrow tip gave way to a wavy, serrated portion, and the handle looked like it was made of some kind brownish bone or wood. There was blood coating the blade; blood coating my hand.

Drip...drip...drip, went the blood as thick droplets slowly formed on the tip of the knife and then plummeted down to loudly strike the damp, dark concrete floor.

I yanked my hand back as if shocked with electricity, and the knife dropped to the floor in slow motion. It clanked loudly as it hit, vibrating and rocking side to side from the impact until it finally fell still.

I tore my eyes off the bloody blade and looked up, catching sight of myself in a half-shattered pane of glass. Blood. I was covered in blood. It was splattered over my face and my clothes. I reached out towards my bloody reflection with a shaking finger, but the moment fingertip touched the glass, I woke up.

My eyes snapped open, and I let out a shuddered breath. Fear flooded through me, one last parting shot from the grisly scenes my mind had conjured.

Climbing out of the chair with stiff legs, I hobbled to the bathroom. Planting my hands on the edges of the sink, I leaned forward and tried to force the panic down.

It wasn't real. It hadn't happened yet. I wasn't covered in blood and Riley was still okay. For now, anyways.

I flipped the water on as cold as I could get it and splashed my face. Icy rivulets ran down my cheeks and off my chin, drowning my fear with sheer glacial sensation.

Riley. I had to warn Riley.

I fumbled at the door knob with shaking hands. Then I went still. Okay. I could do this. Whenever Riley was in trouble or scared, she made plans and took things one step at a time. I could do that.

Step one, find a phone. Step two, call Riley and tell her not to come. Step three...well, I wasn't sure what was going to happen after that. But I had two steps, and I could do them.

Opening the bathroom door, I looked out over the sleeping Winchester brothers. There was an old fashioned clock, the kind that had the little numbers on slats that flipped down when they changed. It was sitting on the nightstand between the beds. I could still make out the numbers, though. Right now it was three in the morning.

Not that it mattered. If someone was calling Riley in the middle of the night, she would answer on sheer principle. She was just like that.

I snuck between the beds, having spotted a cellphone sitting not two inches from the clock. I didn't know who it belonged to, and I didn't care.

Swiping it off the table, I found Riley in the contacts. As I dialed, Dean spoke, scaring the crap out of me. "Mika." It was a semi-sleepy, curious growl. He didn't open his eyes or say anything else, and his arms remained crossed on top of his chest.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart thumping wildly. "I'm calling Riley," I whispered, thinking he probably just wanted to know what I was doing. I moved back to the chair I'd slept in and sank down in it again.

The line clicked. "Dean?" Riley murmured sleepily.

"Riley," I choked out, suddenly having to tamp the panic down in my chest again.

"Mika? What's wrong?" she asked urgently, sleep gone from her voice. I could hear the kind of static-y rumble that came with talking on the phone inside of a moving car. She was already on her way.

"You can't come here." Silence followed. I chewed on my lip.

"Why not?" Riley demanded, sounding offended.

"Because if you come here, you're going to die." More silence. Then a soft murmur as she relayed the information to someone else, probably Finn.

"You saw this? Really saw it this time?" She sounded so calm. Almost as if I hadn't just told her about possibly dying. I didn't know how she did it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying very hard not to think of what I'd seen. Trying not to think of the various times I'd seen Riley's broken, bloody body. "Yes," I whispered. "Repeatedly."

There was a long pause. I knew Riley was thinking. She was trying to tackle the problem from all angles. But there was no outwitting what I'd seen. There was no scheming or luck that could stop that specific future, that much I knew.

"Are you safe?" she finally ground out, frustration making her words sharp.

I peeked up at the Winchesters. Dean was sitting up, watching me now. He'd heard what I'd said to Riley, then. I looked down at my lap. "Yes. I'll be okay. I'm with the Winchesters. Don't worry about me. Just...don't come. Please."

"Okay," she said quietly, earning a breath of relief from me. "I trust Sam and Dean. They'll help you."

"I know," I said, my voice tiny. She would have never let me near them had she not trusted them to do what she couldn't. My throat hurt and my eyes stung. "I miss you."

She sighed, managing to fill the sound with regret. "Miss you, too, Mika."

I hung up.

"You saw Riley die." It was Dean, and he wasn't asking a question.

I nodded, pressing my lips into a thin line.

"If she comes here, she'll die, and there's nothing anyone can do about it? Nothing we can do about it?" His words were clipped and short. I didn't want to look up at him.

Closing my eyes, I relaxed and quieted my mind before bringing Riley to the forefront. The same feeling of dread I'd had watching Riley die swamped back, confirming his words. "Yes," I told him, slowly opening my eyes. "We can't stop it." I peeked up, glancing at him from behind my bangs. He looked deep in thought, not skeptical.

"You don't seem very surprised," I noted, wondering why. Missouri was the only other person I knew that treated my visions like they were perfectly normal. Riley tried, but I could tell they kind of worried her even as useful as they were.

His eyes coasted over to Sam, who was just starting to stir. "We've dealt with something like this before."

"Another psychic?" As far as I knew, Missouri didn't really divine the future very much. She mostly dealt with essences and spirits. Also, I was pretty sure she could at least partially read people's minds or maybe feelings.

Dean shrugged. "Something like that." He stood up and went to the bathroom, effectively ending the conversation.

Sam pushed himself up slightly, shoving the hair out of his face with a hand as he peered blearily at the clock. Then he let out a groan and flopped back down, burying his head in the pillow.

I felt the same way, only I knew what waited for me if I fell back asleep. I would have thought that after a month of watching death and carnage in my dreams, I would have been desensitized. But I wasn't. Like I said, it sucks.

Dean came back out of the bathroom a minute later. He pulled on his jacket then turned to me and then nodded, as if deciding something. "Grab your sweatshirt, we're going for a ride." I did as he said, pulling the stolen black sweatshirt on. Dean held out his hand, and I tossed him his cell phone. Glancing at Sam one last time, he unlocked the door, and we headed out.

I climbed into the Impala, feeling a trill of excitement. It was a cool car, and I was going to ride in it. I buckled up automatically, though Dean pulled a box of cassette tapes out from under the back seat and rummaged around a little. He finally selected one, tucking it in his pocket before starting the car. I watched curiously, not knowing what he'd chosen or why. Then I settled back into my seat and looked out the window as we pulled out of the parking lot. It was still dark, so the entire area was bathed in the cold tones of fluorescent lighting.

"Where are we going?" I asked after a minute.

Dean shrugged. "Out," was all he said.

I tucked my chin into my hand, watching the night lights stream past us as Dean accelerated. Finally the silence got to me, and I came up with a question just to break it. "You and Sam weren't that far away when I called. What were you doing?"

Dean glanced over. "Hunting a nest of vampires."

I flinched. I couldn't help it. Of course, it had to be vampires. The one type of monster that had so completely devastated me physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Dean's sharp eyes didn't miss my flinch, even though I tried to cover it up by looking down. Hooded green orbs stared my way, and I gazed studiously down at my lap. "The monsters up here—" he said, tapping the side of my head with finger, "—are only monsters if you let them stick around. You gotta get that shit out of your brain, because the more you let it stick around, the more it's going to screw with your head and drag you down."

I chewed on my thumbnail, nervously. He made it sound so easy, like I could just let go of the memories of what I went through.

"Pick something," he said, after a long minute of silence. "Anything. A person. A thing. A memory. Pick something and focus on that. Think about it so much that there isn't room for anything else. Eat it, breathe it, live it. Just think of it...until you don't need it anymore."

I shrugged and looked out the window, not meeting his eyes. I didn't know if I could think of something like that.

In a minute, it didn't even matter, because the heavy purr of the engine was soothing, in a thunderous kind of way. It was an easy sound to zone out to. Mostly I just stared out the window, wondering how the demon had found me or why he wanted me. The answer to the second one, though, was probably because I was psychic. How the demon had potentially known that was beyond me. Beyond that revelation, my mind just spun in blank little circles, providing no real answers.

A nudge from Dean startled me back into the present, and I looked over at him. He was holding out the cassette tape from earlier. I took it and after a quick glance pushed it into the old radio. Sammy's Mix, the messy slanted scrawl proclaimed as it slid into place. The tape player whirred slightly, giving several old clicks and hisses before a slow beat thrummed to the speakers.

A drum of some kind. And some kind of horn or electronic piano. I waited, liking the beat and nodding a long.

"Don't worry...about a thing. 'Cause every little thing is going to be alright. Singing don't worry...about a thing. 'Cause every little thing is going to be alright," the singer crooned.

I looked over at Dean. He was smirking. "Bob Marley, 1977. Sam could listen to this for hours."

I smiled, feeling a little bit better in spite of myself and the situation.

I nestled my cheek in my arms, resting against the door. Dean cranked up the volume, and I let it drown out the latent anxiety that had plagued me since I'd woken up. "Don't worry...about a thing. 'Cause every little thing is going to be alright," Bob sang. I watched the lights stream by, mesmerized. "Don't worry...about a thing." The lights grew longer and fuzzier in my vision, and I watched, unable to tear my eyes away. The swarthy rumble of the engine droned on, working with the music to soothe my mind. Eventually my eyes slipped closed, and I fell asleep.

This time, I didn't dream.

The motel door opened, letting light stream into the room. I threw a hand over my eyes with a groan. Then I realized that I was not where I'd originally fallen asleep, and somehow, I was now back in the motel room on the bed.

A figure stood in the doorway, blocking some of the light. I squinted, bringing Dean into focus. He stepped into the room, two paper cups in his hand. I sat up, surveying my options. There were none. Dean had gotten coffee for Sam and hot chocolate for me. Apparently I wasn't deemed adult enough for a morning jumpstart. I didn't complain, though. I was broke, so a free drink was a free drink.

Sam got up and showered. I didn't feel the need to shower, so I made the bed in slow, precise movements. Dean offered me a knowing grin, and I scowled at him, more than slightly embarrassed that he'd tricked me into falling asleep and that I'd obviously had to be carried in from the car.

I took my hot chocolate off the nightstand and went to my backpack. Pulling out my notebook and sitting on the edge of the bed, I tried to sketch out some semblance of a plan. But I didn't even know where to start. Riley made this crap look easy. During the week on the run from the vampires, Riley had come up with some insane plans just by sitting at a table and munching on bacon. She'd sat down with no plan and stood up ready to kick vampire butt. But alas, I was not Riley and my pen hovered uselessly over the paper.

Sam came out of the bathroom as I was shoving my notebook back into my backpack. Brainstorming was a futile activity. I was way out of my depth here, and I knew it. I was like a sheep. Someone else would lead and I'd follow. Just like always.

"So what's the plan?" I asked hesitantly, loathingly cementing my sheep status.

Dean barely glanced at me. Instead, he and Sam locked eyes, communicating wordlessly. After what seemed like an entire conversation, Sam turned to me. He motioned to the pendant I wore. "As long as you keep that on, demons can't possess you. But that doesn't mean they'll stop looking for you. Any idea how the demon found you or even knew that you're psychic?"

No and no. Those were the same questions I'd been continually asking myself before I'd fallen asleep.

Irritatingly enough, when Sam asked it, something finally sparked in my brain.

I stared at him blankly, mentally backtracking. How did that demon know who I was? Better yet, what I was? Because, if I was being honest, that was probably the only reason he was after me. That narrowed things down, though, because there was a very short list of people who knew I was psychic. Riley. Finn. Sam. Dean. Missouri. Arthur. Jemma.

Of that list of people, Riley and Finn would never tell anyone what I was. Sam and Dean were here with me, and Riley trusted them to keep it a secret. If Riley trusted them, then I trusted them. Missouri wasn't the type for betrayal, not when she'd worked so tirelessly to teach me control and keep me from Jemma. That left Arthur and Jemma.

Arthur, my father, I knew very little about. Riley had met him. She'd told him I existed. He'd told Finn that he was willing to meet me. But after that, nothing. He hadn't called yet, if he was ever going to. I knew he didn't have my number, especially since I'd just ditched my latest phone. But he was like me. If he wanted to contact me, he would make it happen. More importantly, though, I didn't think he would go about advertising that he had a psychic daughter. Not when that would draw too much attention to himself.

Which left Jemma. Or maybe Bernie.

Back when I'd been looking for Arthur, I'd stayed with Bernie for a few nights. He'd known Jemma for a long time. I guess that's why he was able to answer my questions and tell me where to find Arthur. He'd also somehow guessed that I was psychic, because he flat-out asked me about it. That was right before the vampires took me. They'd killed Bernie on the way out. I'm not sure if he told them I was psychic, but they'd laughed when he asked for payment and then drained him of blood.

Either way, he'd probably told them, and they might have told someone else. Though, considering how hard they'd tried to keep me and then get me back, I'd be willing to go out on a limb and say I was a jealously guarded secret. Still...

"Do vampires and demons get along?" I asked, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Because the vampires knew I was psychic. They wanted me to find...something for them. Could they have told that demon?"

Dean shook his head. "Not likely," he said gruffly, shutting down that train of thought. On the bright side, the vampires were all dead now, which lowered the number of people who knew my secret by a considerable amount.

I looked down at my socks, frowning. "Riley and Finn haven't told anyone. You and Sam haven't, right?" They confirmed it with raised eyebrows, probably offended that I'd even asked. "Missouri worked hard to keep me hidden, and I don't think my father would tell anyone either. That just leaves…"

Sam ran a hand across his jaw. "Jemma. That leaves Jemma."

I flinched, even though I'd already come to the same conclusion. Could it really be her? She didn't even know where I was. Plus, she was in prison. Ultimately, I wanted to say that Jemma would never work with a demon, but I couldn't.

I used to think that Jemma wanted what was best for me, that she was just a really strict, really protective mother. But after what I'd seen her do to Riley's family in my vision, I was starting to realize that maybe I didn't really know Jemma all that well. The way she'd raised Finn and then let him go versus the way she'd raised me and tried to get me back, it all seemed to point to one conclusion.

I'd never had to fight. Originally, I'd thought Jemma was just protecting me. And in a way, maybe she was. But that didn't change the fact that she had raised me to be next to useless.

She'd taught Finn everything, had crafted him into a kick-ass Hunter. And in the end, he'd left her at the first chance possible. So she'd learned, and the second time around, she'd made a different decision. I'd done research and nothing else. My lack of Hunting experience was probably her way of keeping me dependent on her. She'd shown me what was out there and had made sure I knew how dangerous life could be. She'd let me grow up not knowing if I could actually hold my own against the very monsters that I knew inside and out.

She'd also let me think that I was a freak for having visions. She'd made me think that if anyone found out, they'd try to use me or kill me. Which wasn't all wrong. Bernie had most likely sold me to vampires who had then tried to use me. But it wasn't one hundred percent right, either. Riley and Sam and Dean...they hadn't done that. They'd put their lives on the line for me before and after they'd realized I was psychic. Not only that, but they'd tried to teach me how to protect myself and sent me to someone who could help me.

Jemma had only ever tried to keep me with her. The more I thought about it, the more I realized she wanted my visions. And, from her interactions with Riley, I knew there wasn't a lot she wouldn't do to get me back. Including trying to torture Riley with a hex bag. On that note, hex bags could only be used by witches, which meant Jemma wasn't above consorting with monsters to get me back.

I stared at the Winchesters, feeling small. "Do you think Jemma would work with a demon? Do demons even work with people?"

Sam and Dean stared down at me, faces not betraying anything. Sam's forehead wrinkled. "They don't," he said haltingly. "Unless…" He pulled out his phone, typing something in. "Riley framed Jemma on a military base, which means Jemma would have been sent somewhere with high security. Virginia's only maximum security prison is Red Onion State Prison, which, get this...was built starting in 1995. The land was donated by a coal company, because it was in the middle of nowhere, and...damn it."

He looked up at Dean, face tight. "The southeast courtyard sits squarely on a crossroad."

I didn't know what that meant, but apparently Dean did. He spun, slamming his hand down on the table. "Son of a bitch," he snapped angrily. "First, she hooks up with a witch, and now a crossroads demon. How the hell does someone in maximum security get access to a black cat's bone and yarrow? Or even have the time to set up the freaking deal?"

Dean paced away, then back. "Selling her fucking soul to what, to—"

"Dude," Sam hissed in a tight voice, tipping his head towards me meaningfully, "take it down a notch."

Dean came to an abrupt standstill. "Sam, why would she send a demon after Mika if she didn't have a plan in place for after it brings Mika back?"

Sam froze, too. They traded guarded looks. "Unless…"

"Unless part of the deal was to get her out," Dean finished.

They looked at me simultaneously. I stared back, eyes wide.

I felt kind of empty inside. Sold her soul? Out of prison? The possibility of Jemma working with a demon, trying to get out of prison and get me back—it should have made me mad or scared or something. But I didn't feel anything, just numb.

I'd thought putting Jemma in prison would end things. Riley's family would be safe; I'd be free to choose the kind of life I wanted. But now a demon had come after me, and Jemma might not even be in prison anymore. I looked down at my feet, staring at a scuff mark on the toe of my left boot. "She's never going to stop, no matter what it costs or who gets hurt," I said dully, knowing it was true.

Sam and Dean didn't look surprised at my statement. They probably saw my mother in the same way that Riley did.

A feeling started percolating in my brain, cold and cancerous and premonitory. One demon wasn't the end. More were coming. Whatever deal my mother had made, it was still happening.

I sucked in a deep breath, feeling like Jemma was backing us all into a corner. My mouth was suddenly dry, and my stomach lurched with a sick feeling as I settled on the only remaining option I could think of. Jemma was willing to sell her soul to get me back. How do you stop someone who will do anything to get her way?

I licked my lips, trying to work up the courage to say the words. They came out in a whisper, sounding dark and husky. "Does this...does this mean we have to kill her?"

Two sets of remarkably different hazel eyes settled on me, crushing me under their thoughtful weight. But the brothers were saved from answering when a knock sounded at the door.