"Alright, Hasselhoff, what's your deal?"

Dean winced at the waitress's question, not wanting to explain, but still slightly amused that she called him Hasselhoff. And even if he did want to explain, how would he? Hey, sorry for staring but you look exactly like my dead mother. Or at least how she looked 22 years ago. Oh, how do I know? Well, I just took a peek in my Dad's hunting journal. It has a bunch of stuff in there, like how to kill vampires, werewolves, all kinds of other things that go bump in the night. He had a picture hidden in between the pictures detailing how to draw a pentagram and how to deter the plague from your house. Yeah, normal things. Dean shook his head. Yeah, that would go over well. He had forgotten about the inquisitive waitress, who was currently looking to Sam for an answer. Dean tuned into their conversation.

"...just really stressed. We're just um, having a hard time at work right now and-"

"Oh, and what do you do for a living?" The waitress' tone was bitingly sharp. Dean snorted.

"Why do you wanna know, sweetheart?" The waitress narrowed her eyes at the older Winchester for his comment. She, apparently, didn't like the name 'sweetheart'.

"'Cuz I'm not sure if I can call the cops on cops." Her arms were folded and she again looked to Sam, who kept looking at Dean for confirmation on what they were going to do. Flash some FBI ID's? CDC, maybe? Something else that would get them out of the current jam they're in? Sam, after eventually noticing that Dean wasn't going to offer any solutions to their problem, sighed and looked to the waitress with his infamous hazel puppy dog eyes. She practically melted.

"Yeah, we're here in town for the funeral of Sofia Hardeen. We're family friends and we wanted to pay our respects." Sam's quick thinking probably saved them from a lawsuit and a pair of restraining orders because her gaze softened and her mouth fell open in an O. Her green eyes conveyed her guilt. Dean's mind pulled to a stop as he saw them. Something scratched in his brain, telling him that he should know her. Dean stared, knowing that something was off with this girl.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I-I didn't know..." She trailed off as her cheeks flushed red from embarrassment. She smiled and crossed her arms and covered her face with her hand. "Gods, I feel like an idiot." Her wording caught Dean off guard. He glanced up at her questioningly.

"Gods?" Her expression became guarded but her eyes lit up like a friggin' Christmas tree.

"Yes, gods." She doodled something in her notepad. "You've heard of them?" Sam leaned forward with interest, a weird glint of something in his hazel eyes, something that Dean almost classified as recognition. So maybe this was some sort of pagan god that required sacrifices. It would explain why this random guy seemed to go ballistic on his wife without a second thought. Dean mentally shrugged. Anything was possible. Except for maybe angels. That seemed implausible. Just as Dean was about to open his mouth to ask just which god, or gods, this waitress was worshiping, Sam beat him to the punch.

"Depends on which one." There was an easygoing smile on Sam's face that didn't quite go with what they were dealing with right now. Just as Dean was about to kick him under the table (again) when the waitress answered.

"Well, I would like to think that I'm a child of Zeus but my friends tell me I'm a child of Athena." She smiled brilliantly at Sam, who easily begun a conversation about... whatever they were talking about. All with a smile. It was an easygoing smile that had Dean's eyebrows scrunching in confusion. This wasn't making a lick of sense. As far as he knew, the Greek gods did require sacrifices, but they normally stuck to sheep and rams. They were practically extinct, if they existed at all. Though he did remember Sam mentioning something about a book he bought while on their normal supply runs. He also remembered how excited he was when they went on their next supply run, almost a year later. Dean practically scrambled his brains trying to come up with the name of the book.

Peter Johnson?

No...

Perry Johanssen?

No, dammit, that wasn't it either.

Something with a P...

What the hell was it?

It was on the tip of his tongue...

Finally, the answer smacked him right in the ass and a triumphant smile found its way to his face.

"Percy Jackson!" Dean finally yelled, the smile on his face comparable to a five-year-old's who had successfully stolen some cookies out of the jar. The two looked at him with identical looks of bewilderment. Their mouths were open in a kind of 'what are you doing' look. Sam gave him a look that was a little more personable and would probably be censored, had they been on a tv show. Always good to know that both you and your brother inherited your deadbeat father's... ahem, colorful vocabulary. Oh, joy.

Dean cleared his throat.

"You guys are talking about Percy Jackson, right?" His question was hesitant and he was dreading their answer. The two geeks shared identical bemused looks but the waitress seemed to have caught on, to some extent. She jerked her head in Dean's general direction.

"What cabin is he?"

Dean didn't like the sound of that.

He gave Sam a weird look as he scrutinized him, looking at him like he was a piece of meat. A few moments were spent giving each other weird looks and making weird faces. Finally, after Sam's piercing hazel eyes had finished their once-over of Dean, he turned back to the waitress.

"Either five or nine, I think." This time Maya looked at him with a look mixed with confusion, thoughtfulness, and disbelief. She turned to Sam with a questioning eyebrow.

"Nine?" Her eyes reflected her feelings of incredulity as they looked at him again. "Cabin Five I can get, but nine?"

"He fixes his car a lot. Knows the thing better than himself." Sam's innocent comment made Dean glance up sharply.

"Hey," he started, pointing his finger accusingly at his younger brother. "The Impala is not a thing. She is a beautiful piece of amazingness and she doesn't need, or deserve, your sass." The waitress glanced up once more from her notepad, a small smile playing on her face.

"The Impala?" Her voice was filled with awe as she gestured to the ebony black, sleek Impala parked outside that had John Winchester's name on the lease. "The 1967 Chevrolet Impala sitting out there. She's yours?" Her voice was filled with disbelief as she openly stared at the 'beautiful piece of amazingness'.

If he was being perfectly honest, Dean was a little surprised that she knew her stuff. It probably showed on his face because she rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Please. My dad used to work for a bunch of car companies. Rides, Lowrider, Dub, you name it, he probably has worked there before." Oh, that last sentence kind of poked at his interest.

"Lowrider?" Dean's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. She nodded. He gives her a scrutinizing look as if he's making sure that she's worthy or something. She could see that he still doesn't really believe her.

Maya smirked and decided to show her knowledge. "327 engine, 4-barrel carburetor, 275 horses. A little TLC and that car is cherry." She winked at him, referring to the obviously good condition of the car. "But I'm guessing you knew that." Dean and Sam were a little too busy picking their jaws off the floor to respond. The brothers exchanged equally confused, baffled and amazed looks. Finally, Dean seemed to recover.

"Respect." He said as he held out his fist to bump, which she happily responded to, snickering.

"So, what can I get you guys?" She looked back to her notebook, pen poised to write.

Dean took a quick glance at the menu to confirm his order before saying anything. "Yeah, two coffees, please. And some cream and sugar for this pansy." He gestured absentmindedly to Sam as Maya laughed at the offended look on Sam's face. Dean smiled, a real one that had the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'll have the 18 Wheeler."

She nodded, scribbling furiously. "And how would you like your eggs?"

Dean didn't even have to think about it. "Sunnyside, please."

Maya nodded again. "Alrighty then." She turned to Sam, looking at him expectantly. "And for you?"

Sam, apparently, already knew what he was going to order, and didn't need another glance at the menu. "I'll have the Loaded Omelette, please." Dean scoffed. Show off.

"Okay," Maya scribbled on her notebook again before pausing and looking at them again. "Anything e-?"

She was interrupted by the sound of the bell over the door jingling and loud, obnoxious laughter. Her head snapped up, probably to welcome the new customers. Her crystal green eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in anger. She clenched her jaw, turning down to her notepad and she mumbled furiously, just loud enough for both Sam and Dean to hear.

"Son of a bitch." Sam and Dean looked at each other, exchanging surprised looks at the waitress' language. She mumbled some words under her breath, some of which sounded kind of familiar, others that he (somewhat) recognized from spells and exorcisms that both he and Sam had performed over the years. Others he'd had Sam translate for him over the years. They were curses. Like cuss words. Dean nearly laughed. Dean was going to ask where Maya had heard the words but his younger brother beat him to it.

"Was that Latin?" Sam was trying hard to disguise the surprise in his voice.

Maya barely spared the younger Winchester a glance, using the opportunity to send Sam a weird look, her nose wrinkled. "No, you dork. It was Spanish."

Sam had the decency to look embarrassed.

Dean could see Maya coach her expression into one of stoney indifference. Her eyes were empty as they leveled the brothers with a stare that would make Bobby hesitate before making an argument. The boys' questions died in their throats. Instead, they each craned their necks to see the newcomers that put their waitress so on edge.

Entering the diner was a group of about 5 or 6 men who didn't look older than Sam, maybe 23 at most. They didn't look like threats, but if Maya thought they were bad news, then they were probably bad news. Dean decided against reaching for his waistband and popping a cap in their asses immediately, even though they did give him a bad feeling. He immediately didn't like the one who was apparently leading the group.

The leader was wearing an outfit that he probably thought was fashionable. Not that they know anything about fashion. All Dean and Sam had worn all their lives was denim and flannel, with heavy duty boots. However, whatever in hell this dude was wearing was a straight up catastrophe. Sagging jeans that were probably a few sizes too big, showing black boxers with what looked like bees on them. Not actual bees, mind you. Like printed cartoon bees that had the dotted line trailing after them. Those bees. Dean nearly shuddered. This dude was a walking nightmare.

Then they saw the shirt.

Sam looked vaguely disturbed and disgusted.

Saggy Jeans Dude was wearing a skin-tight black t-shirt that didn't leave much to the imagination. If that wasn't bad enough, in big, bold, white letters:

FBI

And, in smaller print, right below the acronym, a really shitty pickup line that could pass for a bad joke, was printed:

Female Body Inspector

Dean winced. Even he knew where to draw the line in the shitty jokes and pickup lines and that one was way past the line. If he wore a shirt like that or used that crap-ass pickup line, no doubt he would be sleeping in his own bed in the crappy motel room he shared with Sam. In addition, he would probably have a hand-shaped red mark on his face.

Not to mention the bruised ego.

He henceforth banished the pickup line from his memory.

The rest of the Saggy Jeans crew weren't dressed all that better. If their jeans weren't sagging, they sure did when they crouched down to get in the booth they were occupying. There was one, however, that didn't look as bad as the rest. His jeans weren't sagging, he was wearing a fitted t-shirt, but it wasn't too fitted. He had a plain, olive-colored button up that wasn't buttoned, showing off the gray shirt he had underneath. He also wasn't wearing flip-flops, which was a plus. He had kind brown eyes and longish black hair that fell into his eyes. He was one of the last to get in the booth, looking in their direction before doing so. He locked eyes with Maya, who had looked over for a split second.

An emotion that Dean couldn't quite place flashed over Maya's face for a second. Just as he was about to put his finger on it, it disappeared, replaced with a look of stony indifference that made him stop cold. Not a lot of people could pull a face like that. It was a look completely lacking emotion, as though they didn't have a soul. The only ones he knew of that could successfully make that face were his father, his brother and himself.

How strange.

If Sam had a beard, he would have stroked it.

While the large company in the corner booth looked like trouble (normal trouble, not their kind of trouble), he was much more intrigued by the woman in front of him, who seemed oh so familiar.

He didn't know where he recognized her from. Perhaps they'd seen each other? On one of the many cases he had been on with his father and his older brother? She was close with one of the victims perhaps? Or maybe the next intended victim? Sam couldn't put his finger on it.

There was an itching at the back of his mind that he couldn't scratch. He knew this girl. The smile, the laugh, her mannerisms... He felt like he saw them every day. The way her tongue stuck out from her pursed lips when she was concentrating, the way that she tapped her pen aggressively against the notepad in her hands seemed like something he should know.

Sam got mildly frustrated. He could see other people with his psychic ability! Hell, he sees them die! And he couldn't figure out where he'd seen this girl before. Frustration built up inside him, some leaking into his hazel orbs. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't get a handle on his powers, huh?

As his anger clouded over everything else, Sam thought about how he wasn't able to save many of the people in his visions. Max Miller and his entire blood family, hell, he even had telekinesis! He couldn't save Max, Jim, Roger or Jess... especially Jess.

Sam clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white and his hands shook. He had been having visions of Jess' death for months before it actually happened. He'd dismissed them as mere dreams. Nightmares, he'd called them. Next thing he knew, his beloved girlfriend (soon to be fiancee, if you looked through the search history on his laptop) was pinned to the ceiling, stomach slashed, being burned alive.

'No!'

Sam brought his hands in front of his face, the heat making his eyes water and his skin feel tight. He heard Dean kick in the door.

'Sam?!'

Sam didn't answer. How could he? The love of his life was pinned to the ceiling, mouth open, face twisted with pain, and he had done nothing to stop it. He had known and yet he had done nothing. Nothing.

'Jess!'

Dean rushed in the room to see Sam cowering on the bed that he and Jess had shared, unable to look away from the burning body on the ceiling. The Palo Alto apartment was quickly being devoured by flames.

'Sam,' Dean had stated, more out of relief at seeing his brother physically unhurt than anything. 'Sam!' Trying to get the younger Winchester's attention was practically impossible. Dean then made the mistake of looking up to the ceiling, the origin of the ravenous flames. There he saw a blond female pinned to the ceiling, stomach slashed, blood dripping from the wound, face contorted in pain, mouth open in a silent scream, out of pain or urging, Dean didn't know.

He'd heard the narratives, demanded them from John years after the actual incident. His father hadn't wanted to tell him what had really transpired in baby Sammy's nursery. Yet he had still reluctantly told him what he knew, sparing no details.

The stories really didn't do it justice.

As Dean pulled him off the bed and out of the room, Sam struggled. He struggled with all his might, hoping beyond reason that he could somehow save his beloved. Somehow, that he could swoop in and be the hero that he was raised to be, that he wanted to be.

Saving people.

Hunting things.

The family business.

'No! No! Jess, no!'

Tears forced themselves from Sam's eyes, whether from the smoke or pain or the loss or the burning white-hot anger that he felt flowing through his body, through his very being, Sam didn't know. But all the emotions pulled itself from him in one word. One word filled with the loss that he had endured, all the pain that he had gone through, everything he had been put through as a child, as a teenager, and now as an adult, pulled it from his body in one word. It erupted from him in a wave of energy that he was sure picked up dust.

Lights flickered and shattered in the hallway.

Dean's breath, not that he noticed, came out white, despite the raging heat.

Unknown to both brothers, lightning struck multiple times near a river only 15 minutes away, killing everything inside the river and setting fire to several trees. Sam would hear about the fires later and reminisce about the many afternoons he and Jess had spent there. Ironically, the lightning had struck the tree where they had carved their initials into.

As he yelled that word, screamed it to the heavens, cursing himself and his weakness, Sam felt something in him break.

'NO!'

Crash

Sam jumped slightly as the salt and pepper shakers exploded, the eruption causing glass shards to fly everywhere. Dean brought up his arm to shield himself in time, the thick leather of his jacket providing sufficient cover from the sharp projectiles. Sam and the waitress weren't so lucky. He had closed his eyes in time but he felt several sharp stings on the right side of his body.

When they opened their eyes, both of them were peppered with cuts on their faces, arms, and necks, some of them still bearing the glass. The waitress didn't seem to be too hurt, though. She had succeeded in bringing her notepad up in time to protect her face and only bore one thin cut above her left eyebrow and several small cuts on her forearms. Mouth hanging open, she absentmindedly picked at one of the cuts and removed a piece of glass that had embedded itself in her skin. Maya brought her hand up to her face, staring in disbelief at the piece of glass that was pinched lightly between her forefinger and thumb.

Sam immediately knew what happened. His anger had gotten away from him faster than he could pull it back and his powers had reacted to it. Like when he had pushed the cabinet away so that his vision of Max killing Dean wouldn't come to pass. His emotions had spurred the use of his powers.

Again, Sam had the urge to stroke his nonexistent beard. He almost laughed at how funny that would've looked. Then he realized that all the eyes in the diner were focused on him. Or at least in his general direction. Dean was looking at him as though he'd grown a second head, the elder Winchester's mouth parted slightly in shock, breaths coming in short and uneven bursts. He could clearly feel Dean's shock. It was radiating from him in waves and what shocked Sam down to the bone was the fact that he could feel it. He couldn't see it, per se, but he could definitely feel the shock that Dean was emitting, each new wave hitting him as though it were his own.

Huh, empathy.

That was new.

Sam wasn't pulled from his shocked trance, his mouth slightly parted, when Maya's slightly bloody arm passed in front of his face, reaching for the silver napkin holder at the back of the booth, at the part of the table closest to the window. He barely glanced her way, in fact. He only stirred from his shock when he felt a gentle hand on the left side of his face and a sting on the right. He instinctively jerked away from the pain, his hazel eyes clearing of the glazed look they'd previously been holding. His gaze sharpened and focused, coming to rest on the woman picking at his wounds.

Maya had her hands up in a placating manner, a napkin in one hand and her other hand holding a small sliver of glass. "Easy there, tiger," Her voice was gentle but firm. "I'm just cleaning your face." After the slightly wild look in Sam's eyes died a bit, she carefully moved forward again and reached for his face, carefully removing the glass shards and wiping away the blood that fell through the open wounds.

As she continued tending to him, Sam looked at her with awe. He could sense her shock clearly but the thing that threw him for a loop was the fact that she also felt understanding, which was something he sometimes had trouble getting from Dean, who was against him using his powers in any way. It was... refreshing, to say the least. He opened his mouth, probably to apologize, but the other waitress on duty, Sharon, walked over, her dark brow furrowed in concern.

"What happened?" She asked. The other patrons in the diner had looked away by now, more focused on their food than the exploding condiments. Sam gulped. How were they going to explain this? Maya locked eyes with him, pausing slightly before nodding imperceptibly, as though promising him something. Sam closed his mouth and furrowed his brow, narrowing his hazel green eyes at the girl. What was she going to say?

Maya turned to the other waitress, forcing herself to wear a lopsided smile.

"Sorry, Sharon. Like an idiot, I dropped the salt and pepper containers." She said simply. Sharon's expression was unreadable.

"You dropped... the salt and pepper?" The older woman's voice was riddled with disbelief as she stared at the blonde. Maya could feel her resolve slipping as her facade flickered for a second. She forced her face into a mask of indifference as she locked eyes with the waitress before her. She put a little more force into her words as she repeated her earlier sentence, tapping into the power she thought she would never have to use again.

"I dropped the salt and pepper. They fell and broke. I'll clean it up." Maya felt a pang of guilt as she saw Sharon's eyes glaze over.

"You dropped the salt and pepper. They fell and broke. You'll clean it up." Sharon's voice was empty and devoid of all emotion as she turned around and walked away as though in a trance. Fighting the sudden lightheadedness that overtook her, Maya rested her hand on the side of the booth that the shaggy-haired man was sitting at. He quickly moved over and made room for her to sit, carefully swiping his hand over the vinyl seat to wipe the glass from it.

"'m fine. 'm fine." As she tried to wave him off, her body betrayed her as her knees buckled and she slowly lowered herself into the booth. Unfortunately, a ray of light decided to assault her eyes and she winced as a sharp pain tore itself through her mind, resting her forehead on the back of her hand. As the sharp pain faded to a dull throb she thought about how using her normally dormant powers had drained her.

'Well, it has been a while.'

She could feel the men's eyes on her. Inquisitive. Wondering. Thinking.

Forcing herself to lift her head, Maya met the other man's gaze, the one with the green eyes. There was an unreadable expression in them, something that threw Maya for a loop. She'd always been good at reading people, her strange "powers" that showed themselves a little over seven months ago helping her on that front. It started with simple things. Asking for seemingly impossible things, then receiving them. She had jokingly asked for her friend's car once, a beautiful '65 Pontiac that she had fallen in love with, and he had handed over the keys without hesitation. She had taken it for a joyride, had a few hours of fun. She had given it back eventually. But then things got weird. Every time she would ask for something or make a demand, people would trip over themselves to make it happen. Maya didn't know how to control it. That was a scary couple of months when she had hardly talked for fear of making someone do something that they both would later regret. The car thing hadn't come back to bite her in the ass, yet, so that was a plus. Then came the nightmares.

She would see people dying.

Yeah, real shocker.

It had started in the house where the Winchesters had lived, though those dreams had come after the brunt of her nightmares. She saw a family in danger. A woman screaming for help from one of the windows facing the street, banging her open hands against the window. Those had soon disappeared. Then came the Miller family.

She had done her homework on the Millers. A seemingly happy family. A father named Jim, a son named Max, a step-mother named Alice, an uncle named Roger. Everything seemed normal. In fact, it screamed the normal, apple pie life. The son's mother, however, had died in a fire when the Max was merely 6 months old. Jim had remarried, giving Max a constant motherly figure in his life. Yet, police kept being called to their home, presumably by concerned neighbors. Some called it domestic disturbances. Others child abuse. But Max never said anything. Neither did Alice. And it wasn't like Jim was going to reveal all the skeletons in his closet. So the police went away, eventually ignoring the calls altogether.

So why was she getting her visions?

In them, Jim was locked in his car by some unseen force, the garage door closed firmly shut being him and was suffocated by the exhaust of his car. Most likely carbon monoxide poisoning.

His death was ruled a suicide.

Next was Roger Miller's death. It was weirder than Jim's. While at work, Maya had sensed the beginnings of yet another excruciating headache and she barely had time to rush into the bathroom before she blacked out. Roger Miller, bringing home what looked to be groceries. As he twists open a beer, a shadow passes behind him. While putting it down, the window opens without any assistance. Roger slides the window down and shuts the latch, a confused look on his face, but it reopens again, the sheer green curtains fluttering in the night breeze. At this point in her dream, Maya was furiously whispering in her sleep, praying to any deity that was listening to make Roger not stick his head out the freaking window. Obviously, she was just asking for trouble. As Roger stuck his head out the window, it came down, decapitating him instantly.

As Maya jerked awake on the bathroom floor (hitting her head on the bottom of the sink in the process), cringing at the fact that she was sitting on the floor of a public restroom, she barely had time to reflect on her dream before Sharon was knocking on the door, asking if she was okay. She'd been distracted the rest of the day, spilling coffee and dropping pens. Sharon had eventually told her to go home early. She had sat in her car for the greater end of her shift, trying to sift through the garbled bits of her dream that kept flashing through her brain.

Later that day, she'd had another two visions. One of Mrs. Miller's death, Max's stepmom, and another of...

A sudden thought pulled Maya from her reminiscing and she could feel her eyes blow wide as she stared at the green-eyed man in front of her, thoughts finally clicking together. She'd been wary of the taller one because she's seen how dangerous he is, pushing away a cupboard with his mind without a second thought. She'd seen the shorter one's eyes before because he was one of the victims in her visions.

Holy fucking shit.

Maya hurriedly stood up from the booth, ignoring the throbbing behind her eyes and the sudden lightheadedness. She stared into Dean's eyes, remembering how she saw the light leave the startling candy apple green in them as the bullet pierced his head, painting the wall behind him red with blood. Remembering the dull thud as his body hit the floor, eyes open and glassy. Mrs. Miller's screams still haunt her.

Things just got a whole lot more complicated.