Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except my car...crap, I gotta go make a car payment.

He'd known her all his life, known her, he was certain, better than anyone else ever could have. He could sense both the subtle and dramatic shifts in her moods, feel it in his bones like an arthritic telling the weather. He could piece together all the hidden meanings in the words she spoke, fill in the blanks among the things gone unsaid, determine all that belied her bitter moods and fed her insecurities.

He knew she hated to read, words and letters too jumbled, too awkward, but loved to escape into a fictional world, spending hours daydreaming through classes and homework and serious discussions she'd no desire to have. He knew she pretended not to care about her grades because it made it that much easier to accept the inadequate marks she was sure would come anyway, no matter how hard she tried. And he knew, despite what it seemed, despite what so many saw, she always tried her damndest.

He knew she liked to dress up, without realizing or caring why, him having no real concept of how it can feel to be a girl longing to look like a girl, though she'd constantly complain when being asked to, always muttering about being a T-shirt and sweats girl, a Hoodie Hottie, as Rachel dubbed her.

He knew her most favorite food ever was gingerbread cookies, but she never allowed herself to have them except at Christmas, saving and savoring their seasonal flavor.

He knew she felt most alive, not when running and blocking and kicking on the soccer field, but when engaged in fiery debate with either of their fathers.

He knew, though she'd never admit it, never in a million years, that she loved her sister best, looked up to her in ways that even she didn't understand, longed to be near her even when the distance between them made it so difficult to do so.

He knew she wanted to be something, though always undecided in terms of what or who. She was made for more, felt it in her bones. She was built for greatness, and held onto that inherent knowledge even as bouts of low self-esteem, dwindling confidence, shook her faith.

He knew that the dreams she had scared the hell out of her, that even after having years to get used to them, even after learning to better control them, they always rattled her to the core.

He knew she had a gift, though the details she never shared. And he knew, despite no one in the family ever discussing it with him, or even around him, that everyone around her thought it a curse.

And he knew, no matter what anyone said, no matter if the police determined it to be a suicide because of her speed, the fact that she failed to break despite being stone-cold sober, or if Uncle Sam burned her journal because of some sort of incriminating, too much to bear goodbye, as he imagined it must have been, he knew that she did not want to die.

And all of this he knew without her ever telling him so, ever offering up any words or clues or helpful hints. He simply knew.

So imagine his shock and dismay at not being able to tell, not easily, inherently knowing what she was trying to tell him now.

"I don't want to go," she whines, tears glistening in her tired eyes.

John's tried, he really has, over the past several weeks he's done everything in his power to remain calm, sturdy, for his siblings. When the proverbial shit first hit the fan, Aunt Sarah coming over to speak with Dean through long held sobs, working to keep him calm while the world around them both came clattering down. When the expected shouts and cries, threats and apologies between his parents failed to surface, an eerily horrifying discussion taking its place. When his father said, simply and plainly, "Get out," one shaking finger pointed towards the door, red eyes skimming their way over everything but her face, stabilized only by his stony countenance. And when she turned, without arguing, without so much as casting a fleeting glance around the house where she raised her children, and left.

Through it all, John did not cry, or curse, or scream. He only stood, strong and tall, as he'd never been, a rock for Michael and Samantha.

Even now, when all he wants to do is agree with her, say, "I don't want to go either. I don't want to see her either," he holds back. "Sammy," he says instead, kneeling down to her level, tilting her chin up to his, "It's mom," as though that should be enough to get her to give in.

They're all stubborn, according to his father, every Winchester ever born has been, to the outside world, the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch you'd ever meet. But the minute Dean walks into the room, slumped shoulders and a lying smile on his face, the lot of them buck up and grab their stuff to go. Because even little Sammy can see that arguing with her father now would just be cruel.

Ava takes them to breakfast, orders everyone pancakes just the way she knows they like them, apologizes over and over again for not being able to make them herself, they're always so much better homemade.

Michael doesn't eat, pushing food around his plate listlessly, remaining oddly cold and distant. Samantha doesn't speak, not until the end anyway, when Ava drops her at school and she bursts into tears for the umpteenth time, clinging and begging her to come home.

And John doesn't eat either, doesn't so much as utter a word himself aside from the well-taught, please and thank you and goodbye. But for him it's a different sort of silence, because as angry 

as he is with his mother, he can't help but be more concerned with other things. Like the bristling at his side in the booth at breakfast, or the foggy form taking shape in his periphery at every turn.

Maya. He's felt her for months, a looming presence like a phantom limb, coming and going ever since the day they burned her bones, as though ashes to ashes, dust to dust, weren't nearly as true as one might think. As though, if her death had freed her from this world, her cremation had somehow brought her back into it.

"What?" he snaps, eyes never leaving the computer screen in front of him.

Michael continues to lean in his brother's doorway, taught arms folded protectively across his chest, gaze boring into the side of his brother's head.

"What?" he says again, harsher than before, as he turns to face him.

Michael merely shrugs as he clomps into the room, taking the eye contact as some sort of invitation, and flops onto John's bed. Collapsed on his back, he lets out one long and labored sigh, nothing but melancholy silence to follow.

"Michael, I swear to God…"

"Do you think they'll ever talk to us about it?" he rushes out in one long breath, popping up into a sit.

John thinks for a moment, thinks about whether or not he even wants them to discuss this whole…mess with them. It's obvious they know, about the affair, about their father being heartbroken, their mother being listless, seemingly remorseful, and utterly absent. They know that Sam's still living at home, with Sarah, that she's existing in some sort of strange limbo of denial. They know – whether any of them want to believe it or not – they know that their family is broken. But the only response he can think to give, ironically enough, is, "I don't know."

"You think Aunt Sarah'll forgive him?" he asks, the simple fact that he can't say Uncle Sam not being lost on John.

"I don't know."

"You think Dad will?"

He locks eyes with his brother briefly before shying away, gauging what exactly his question means. Would he forgive Uncle Sam? Or, would he forgive Mom? "I don't know," he replies, realizing that the answer's the same no matter the question.

"Okay," Michael says with a sigh as he rises from the bed and heads for the door. "You've been a big help. Thanks," dripping sarcasm as he disappears into the hall.

"You're welcome," John mumbles under his breath, a sardonic whisper directed more, seemingly, at his homework than anything.

Some big brother you are.

"Yeah, well…" he says aloud before even realizing who, or what he may be responding to. His eyes grow suddenly wide as he spins in his seat, taking in the entire room in a futile attempt to see something, someone, he knows isn't really there. "Maya," falls from his lips in barely a whisper.

And, Maya, is echoed back to him, an odd sort of voice inside his head that isn't his own.

It's nearly a week before he encounters her again, a blurry sheen in the corner of his eye. It's a week more before she talks to him, buzzes through his brain like a fleeting thought. See me.

"I'm trying," he says, eyes bouncing around the empty kitchen. He's surpassed feeling crazy, long ago stopped caring about how ludicrous this all seems. He'll talk to himself and no one else for the rest of forever if there's even a chance that she'll answer him.

Look, John. See me.

"I can't," he ekes out. "Where?" in a near sob.

He used to be a crybaby, anyone would have said so. Maya made fun of him for it all the time. But standing slumped over the kitchen sink, tears clouding his vision, he can barely even remember the last time he cried, the whole act feeling foreign and wrong. The whole act sparking in him a memory of many months ago, standing slumped over a gravesite that contained nothing but ashes.

See me.

He tries heading to the cemetery, wandering for close to an hour before finding her headstone, so new and shiny smooth. He whispers her name into the air, but gets no response. He calls out for her, a shrieking sort of sob that sounds nothing like him being howled into the night. But still, no answer.

Maya, on the wind as he drives home, windows down. Maya, on the tip of his tongue, two eagerly repeated syllables he doesn't even realize he's saying.

"Where were you?" Samantha asks as he trudges through the door. He doesn't answer, only makes his way upstairs, odd echoes of see me, see me, seemeseemeseeme, reverberating through his mind. "John," she yells, little feet beating a harsh rhythm on the stairs as she follows. "John!" again, loud enough for Dean to take notice of.

He makes it to his room just in time to see his father's door fly open, frantic eyes and demanding, "What?" drowning out the echo in his head.

Samantha's eyes are filled with tears, so delicately balanced, poised and ready to fall at any moment, when she says again, "Where were you?" And it's all he can do not to reach out and cradle her in his arms and cry right along with her.

"John," Dean repeats harshly, prodding for an answer. "You missed dinner," he continues when his son does nothing but stare at him, dumbfounded.

"Sorry," he mutters finally, turning quickly to duck into his room.

But Sammy darts underneath his arm, entering ahead of him and cementing herself in his way. She's barely anything at all, not even four feet of tiny pixie-like perfection. But there's something about the way she plants herself before him, strong and steady with a hand on one hip, face stern and unyielding despite the trembling lower lip and glistening green eyes. "Where were you?" she squeaks out, each word punctuated.

"Nowhere," he replies slowly, unsteadily. Because he can feel his father's eyes hot on his back. And his baby sister is, quite effectively, quite uncharacteristically, reading him the riot act. And his dead cousin's voice is sputtering in his ears.

See me. Her. You. See. Maya. John. See!

Samantha lets her hand fall, her head too, as she sobs out, "Don't lie! You could have been dead! You left and you weren't here and you might not have come back, and…where were you?!"

Look, John. See. See me. Look. She…me…I need you.

It's all he can do to keep from screaming, 'Shut up!' poised on his tongue, directed who knows where.

"C'mere, baby," Dean mutters, already with Sammy in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, even though John can't recall him shoving past. He picks her up, seemingly still so easy, as though little girls might fit in their daddies' arms no matter how old or heavy they become. "Come on," he whispers softly into her hair as he breezes past, turning to John only briefly to say, voice deep and firm, "I want to talk to you."

He knows he doesn't mean right this minute, knows he'll have at least a fifteen minute session with Sammy before her tears are dry and breath unhitched – knows that from experience. So he closes the door behind them and simply bides his time.

Think about it, John, sneaks up on his consciousness the minute he closes his eyes after falling to the bed. He remains absolutely, utterly still, halting even his breath, in the hopes of hearing better. Think. Think. Think.

"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" he nearly screams, sitting bolt upright. And for a moment, he thinks he can hear her laugh. "Fuck you," he mumbles under his breath, leaning back into the pile of not-so-neatly folded clothes on his bed.

John, see me.

"No," he breathes out, nothing but exhaustion in his voice. "No."

See me.

He opens his eyes, focuses on the pure white ceiling. "I don't know what that means." And is met with silence, empty, painful silence. "Maya?" he whispers urgently. "Maya?"

"John?"

He flies up into a sit, nearly tumbling off his bed, barely catching himself, as his father stands at the door. "You could knock," he spits out, righting himself on the edge.

Dean cautiously enters the room, eyes flitting back and forth in search of…something. "I did," he says before sitting down next to his son. The two remain still and silent for one long moment, John stunned, almost embarrassed, Dean curious if not downright freaked out. He finally turns to him, narrowing his eyes, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He shakes his head, a childlike, "No," rolling over his lips.

"Who were you talking to before?"

"No one," he rushes out, same voice he had as a little boy with something to hide.

Dean almost points that out, almost says something to the effect of, You're a terrible liar, but he knows that John's already more than aware of that. "Are you," he says instead, suddenly struggling with the words. "Are you…okay?"

"Are you asking if I'm going crazy?" he says, mostly sincere.

Dean lets loose an uncomfortable chuckle, shakes his head awkwardly. "No. Maybe." He takes in a deep breath, rises from the bed and glares assessingly down at his son. "Are you?"

John merely shrugs, looks away before saying, "I didn't mean to make Sammy cry."

"Yeah," Dean acknowledges. "Well, she's…upset."

"I know. She's been through a lot."

"So have you."

John glances up at his father, takes in his solemn and worried expression. Part of him wants to tell him all about Maya's presence, her voice in his head, her scent in the air, her misunderstood, 

unanswered appeals. Maybe he could help, maybe he'll know what she means. Or maybe his face would just further twist in that painful way, his soul filling to the brim with unsolvable problems that are not his own, yet somehow become his responsibility. "It's," he starts, deciding at the last to minute to deflect instead of give in, "it's just been hard for her. She doesn't sleep much now, with Mom gone."

Dean nods, a smarting stab of guilt clearly evident in his face, his posture. "Yeah, well," he mutters.

And John takes this opportunity to say something he's been itching to say for some time now. "You did the right thing, Dad." Then, as Dean turns sad eyes toward his son, "We don't blame you for it, any of it…Mom not being here…that's on her. Even Sammy knows that."

He nods again, solemn as before, but also a bit lighter, as though his son's words helped to lift some sort of cloud that had been following him for weeks, maybe months. He doesn't say thank you or anything of the like. He doesn't say anything at all, just turns to leave, seemingly satisfied, possibly overwhelmed, certainly no longer thinking about his son talking to his dead cousin alone in his room. Which was exactly what John had intended.

He'd been sneaking in her room late at night for years, the practice starting way back when she was tiny and new, just old enough to make it through the night on her own so that the odds of running into his parents were slim. The reason was simple really, he wanted just one more goodnight, just one more kiss on the little fingers he could grab through the crib bars. He never thought one I love you was enough, so he'd go in and tell her again, while she slept, so that it might seep more effectively into her subconscious.

Over the years, those visits dwindled. But then Maya died, and Samantha was scared – he knew even without her ever admitting it – and sad, and confused. So he stayed with her some nights, lulled her to sleep with his mere presence. And once she was able to go to bed alone, no longer requesting, requiring, him to be there, he started entering her room for a wholly different reason. He had to know she was still there, had to see, for himself, that she wasn't going to disappear like Maya had. Like his mother had. He had to see.

See me.

She's awake when he enters, laying with her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, puffy worn eyes directed at the door as though she'd been waiting. "I'm sorry," he says softly, as he takes a seat on the edge of her bed.

She looks at him sternly. "Just don't do it again."

"Okay," he replies with a smile.



Then, after a quick kiss on the forehead, as he rises to leave, assuming all is well and fine, she calls out to him, "Where did you go?"

He looks at her, hard and assessing. "I went to find Maya," he says, surprised at how easily the truth slips out.

She seems to consider his confession carefully, mulling it over before asking simply, "Did you? Did you find her?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I didn't."

Sammy sits up, propping herself against the mound of pillows. "Well, no offense Johnny, but what did you expect?"

He almost laughs, certainly smiles, even though what he really feels like doing is vomiting. Because she's a child, and even she knows. "I don't really know what I expected," he mutters in the dark, face bent towards the floor. "I just…wanted to see her."

Samantha sighs and throws back the covers, goes to one of the white pine bookshelves that holds all her favorite stories, best stuffed friends, and most treasured photos. It was a predilection borne from her mother, the desire to capture memories and fasten them inside silver frames for safe keeping. Little Sammy had more pictures of family and friends lining these shelves than the rest of the Winchesters had throughout their entire homes, combined.

She carefully picks up a frame that's hidden behind several others, fondly gazes at the photo inside for a moment before turning and handing it to her brother. He hesitates in accepting it and she almost shoves it into his hand. "It's not the same," she says, leaning into him, wrapping her arms around his middle, "but at least you can see her."

He returns the hug, all the while focused on the picture in his hand. It's from a few years back, a Fourth of July maybe, and it's just the two of them, just him and Maya, sitting at the picnic table in her backyard. He's smiling shyly. And she's looking right at him, crooked smile of her own, like she's about to burst into laughter. But she's looking right at him in a way he never remembers her looking at anyone else.

"Where'd you find this?" he asks as she pulls away and crawls back into bed.

"Maya gave it to me, said she found it somewhere and thought I'd like it," she admits with an eerie heaviness to her voice. "But really, I mean it's you…you and her…so really you should have it anyway."

He smiles a thank you, more genuine than any words could be, and tells her to, "get some sleep, please," before heading out to the hall, being sure to leave his sister's door open just a crack. He almost makes it back to his room when his body pulls in on itself in a cold shudder and he drops the picture, hears the glass in the frame crack, and resists the urge to cry.



See me, he hears again as he bends down to collect the broken frame. Look, John. See me.

He flips it over in his hands, still knelt down in the hall, runs his fingers over the webbed shatter of the glass, over his face, Maya's face. "I see you," he murmurs absently. "I see you," as the back of the busted frame slips off, falling to the ground.

Look. Look, John.

He stifles a sob, ignores her pleas as he gathers everything up and continues to his room.

Look.

The pieces of the frame are tossed onto the bed as he leans heavily against the door, shuts his eyes against the voice.

Look.

"Stop it!" he shouts, not caring, not even thinking, about whether or not his father will hear in the next room, or his brother or sister just down the hall. "Leave me alone," he pleads, so near tears he's almost choking on them.

And she does. The voice stops, the steady repetition that had been like a cool breeze blowing through his mind disappears.

He collects himself as best he can, fully aware that the silence won't last forever. If it really is Maya, he knows she's too damn stubborn to give up. But even a moment of freedom is enough right now. He moves over to the bed stiffly and starts removing all the accumulated crap, clothes and books and such, tossing it on the floor so he can climb in under the covers and will the day away. And that's when he sees it, in her careful, controlled scrawl, a single word scribbled on the back of the picture of the two of them. He reads it aloud, but his own voice is drowned out by hers.

Aamon.

You see, John? His name is Aamon.