Disclaimer: As per usual, I own nothing.
Author's Note: This chapter ended up being really long - I say ended though it's not even complete yet - so I figured I'd chop it up a bit to ease your reading burden.
It was supposed to be her day, the bi-monthly switch off, she and Rachel heading over to Dean and Ava's, each going with one or the other, while the boys and Samantha stayed over at Sam and Sarah's. Ava Days typically meant shopping, maybe a little spa treatment, hair or nails usually. She said it was the only real girl time she got, being so caught up in a house full of boys – Samantha being only two didn't really count as a girl yet, no matter how many frilly bows and dresses adorned her. She usually just squirmed in them anyway.
Maya wasn't a girly-girl, never had been. She didn't care for fashion, opting for jeans and a T-shirt over the cute sundresses, dress pants and cashmere sweaters Rachel and her mother often wore. And while she liked the way the paraffin wax settled on her skin, smooth and pliant, during the occasional manicure, she always had more fun getting dirt under her fingernails than paint on top of them. That said, she didn't hate going out with Ava, being a girl for a while. And her aunt had always loved to dress them up, had pretty good taste too considering the occasionally overly feminine quality. She had, after all picked out every dress of Maya's that she was willing to wear.
But though she loved her aunt dearly, and secretly liked many of the seemingly too girly clothes she chose, shopping with Ava was not her idea of a perfect day, typically barely holding a candle to going out with Uncle Dean. Today, however, was proving to be very different.
You see, this was not a typical switch-off day, Sam and Sarah having to leave town unexpectedly to tend to Grandpa Blake, who had a stroke. But Dean and Ava thought it'd be a good idea to go along with their plans regardless, simply bringing their own children along as well. Truthfully, they hoped that it would keep the girls' minds off of everything happening in New York, each inquiring, in their own individual ways, about their grandfather endlessly.
There wasn't a doubt in Maya's mind that Ava and Rachel were suffering right now too, Michael in a mall being akin to a cracked out bull in a china shop. But with how her day had been going so far, she couldn't really muster up a whole lot of sympathy.
Because it was supposed to be her day, and clearly that was not happening.
The plan had been simple, Dean was to bring her to her soccer game this morning and then they'd hang out at the park a while, grab some lunch, maybe a movie. Spend some quality time together, the kind girls usually had with their own mothers and fathers. But lately all her parents did with her was loom and try to talk. And they were usually pretty busy anyway, her dad having such a heavy caseload of late that he'd only been able to make it to one of her games so far this season. So Uncle Dean was the one who picked up the fun-time slack.
But today, already, was proving to be anything but fun-time.
It was cold and wet, thick clouds keeping the sun at bay and random showers muddying the field just enough for kids to be slipping and sliding more than actually playing the game. Which could have been fun, had she wanted to goof off like all the others, stumble and splash and laugh like fools. As it was, she had been looking forward to this game since her parents left town, knowing that the only thing that's ever kept her mind off troubling issues has been losing herself in a competition.
But, apparently, there were simply too many issues to be so simply drown out today. Like, for example, John. Sweet overly enthusiastic John, whom she loved dearly, though rarely admitted to it in public. Because he was shameless and nice, too nice, and just a little bit crazy. And those were perhaps the things that she loved most about him really, his inability to feel embarrassed when his mom kissed him and hugged him in front of other kids, his mere openness to affection of any kind. He was outgoing where she was standoffish, sweet and kind whereas she fought constantly with her moods. He smiled and laughed while she scowled and worried. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, crying when sad, grinning ear-to-ear when happy, and felt them all, the good through the bad, so completely. And she sometimes wondered if she were capable of truly feeling anything at all. And though all of these things made him who he was, her best friend, at least in private, they also made her ashamed of him. Because John was about as far from the norm as you could get in elementary school, and Maya wanted nothing if not to be normal.
Today, he'd spent the first half of her game running up and down the sidelines, cheering her name, even though she did little more than stand out in the middle of the field. During one of the timeouts, she actually told Tina Taylor that, yes, my cousin's retarded, but we call him special. Which she felt sort of bad about, but ultimately figured that it didn't really matter anyway since Tina went to a different school, so there'd be no way of her knowing the truth or embarrassing him with the lie.
The truth is, John's really smart, a lot smarter than her, always bringing home A's and stars and earning smiles and praise from parents and teachers alike. But he was rather socially inept, too nice to have any real friends, since 10-year-olds as a rule don't do nice, have no desire to be around, are simply too cool for nice. And really, his mother, charming in her blasé attitude regarding the thoughts of others, her inability to feel swayed by them or their norms, had perhaps instilled in him a bit too much unabashed fearlessness when it came to peer interaction. Because no one at school liked him, except Maya, and there were times even she outright ignored him for appearance sake.
His antics this morning, while well meaning, were simply humiliating, Maya's cheeks burning in an embarrassed blush on behalf of her cousin. And Dean didn't help any, actually encouraging the behavior, egging him on while he ran and hollered like a lunatic cheerleader. Usually Dean got pretty into her games, screaming at bad calls and yelling about dumb plays, but today his mind was elsewhere, letting his son keep track of the events on the field while he shared a snack with Samantha.
And Maya could tell, glancing up periodically into the bleachers, that he was trying to pay attention to the game, but Sammy was a handful, obviously in a mood. She was probably angry about being woken up so early in the morning only to be toted off to a place that looked like such fun, bleachers to climb and fields to run through and balls to chase, none of which, apparently, she was allowed to do, being forced to sit still in her father's lap instead.
Maya understood. She understood that the toddler was a handful and Uncle Dean could only do so much at once, preventing him from watching her play, from seeing her one and only goal. She understood that Sammy and John had to come along, had to amuse themselves somehow. She understood that she couldn't wear her lucky socks because they hadn't been washed, because Mom had to leave town. And she understood why her game was called early on account of rain, after parents started complaining about the possibility of injuries in the rapidly flooding field.
But she sure as hell didn't like any of it.
The rain died down dramatically just after the game was called, so Uncle Dean said they could stick around for a while, John wanting to practice, being a pretty awful soccer player. The boy was simply no good at sports, unless running counted, because he'd gotten plenty of practice at that over the last few years being the smallest and easiest kid to pick on. But he was a hard worker and a quick learner, and while that didn't exactly make up for his lack of talent, it did give Maya some satisfaction in coaching.
The rain now was starting to pick up again, fine mist giving way to heavy drops. Uncle Dean gave in, "Five more minutes," after falling victim to an all too adept puppy dog stare from his son. Then he retreated to a sopping wet bench, calling Samantha over so he could pull up the gollashes she'd been puddle hopping in.
They don't even make it to their allotted minute two before Maya slips in the mud, light tap on the ball accidentally becoming a power house kick, sending it flying straight into John's befuddled face.
Dean doesn't see a thing, so busy with the two-year-old who won't stay in her stroller, and only turns when he hears that all too familiar John wail. The last couple of months had been blessedly quiet compared to the past when it came to John's tear-filled shrieks, so Dean is genuinely surprised when the sound hits him. Even more surprising, more upsetting, is the sight he's met with when he does turn around, blood flowing freely from in between his son's fingertips as his hands press tightly to his nose.
He quickly buckles the strap around Samantha, trapping her – at least for the few minutes it'll take for her to figure out how to undo it – in the stroller, and leaps up to run to John, who's already, with the help of his cousin's guiding hands, stumbling blindly towards him.
"Let me see," he says, a little too frantic, prying the boy's hands away from his face. "Let me see."
"It was an accident," Maya says over the sobs as she massages the muddy hip that broke her fall.
Dean doesn't seem to hear her, doesn't acknowledge a word she says. Doesn't even seem to notice she's there at all until, "Fuck. What the hell, Maya?" thunders out of him, too quick, too harsh.
And it's in that moment that Maya sees something in her uncle she's never seen before. Which isn't to say that he's never gotten angry with her, or any of the other kids, never lost his temper and yelled, spoke harshly at least. And it's not even the fear in his eyes as he turns on her, because that she's seen before too. But there's something in the combination of it all, the terror in his eyes, the anger in his words, the blood on his hands, that reminds her of an Uncle Dean she never knew, one lost somewhere back in time. One stashed back in the deepest recesses of her unconscious mind.
He looks her right in the eye, a fleeting moment of regret as he notices a shadow pass beneath her irises. And then she takes off, Dean's frazzled, "Maya! Maya!"'s chasing behind her.
The rain's picked up considerably and everyone's either already gone or on their way out, so no one stops her, no good Samaritan stills the girl as she runs blindly out into the parking lot where fogged up cars with wiper blades going treacherously back out of spaces and head for the exit.
The first thing Dean thinks as he watches her run, fingers still pressed to his son's oozing face, as his voice rings out after her, is something along the lines of What the fuck? Because, really, where'd that come from? And why now, when his son's bleeding and his baby's trying to escape into the rain.
The second thing he thinks, a quick and intrinsic reaction, is No. Because the guy in the Cadillac obviously doesn't see her, and she's not paying any attention to him either.
Fight or flight. He doesn't even think beyond the No. Doesn't worry about Samantha, who's gotten her leg tangled in the safety belt, or John, who, mysteriously, stopped crying the moment his cousin ran off, enraptured and staring through puffy swollen eyes at her retreating form. He just reacts, jumping up and running, like he hasn't done in years, in a panicked, adrenaline-fueled, please God, no, sort of way.
It isn't clear who hits who, whether the little girl actually runs into the side of the car, or the car slams into her. But she's knocked back regardless, would be down if not for Dean reaching her just in time to break her fall. But not soon enough, he thinks, sounds of car breaks and cries drowning out the pounding rain.
He holds her tight, fingers like vise grips on her jacket, arms locked in place, muscles aching with the effort. And he knows he shouldn't hug her so tight, basic first aid. He knows he shouldn't move her at all, not if she's been hit by a car – How the hell am I supposed to explain this one to Sam?! But she's crying and moving all on her own, so she must be okay, or at least conscious and alive, which right now is enough of a relief to justify his holding on so tight.
"Is she okay? Is she all right?" the man from the Cadillac asks in panicked clips. "I didn't see her," he goes on, mumbling mostly to himself. "I didn't see."
And Dean wants to ask her she's okay, wants to inspect her for wounds and breaks, but his voice won't work and his arms aren't letting go, and it's just that simple.
It isn't until he hears, "Calm down, honey," from Caddy Man, that he even realizes her cries have turned into shrieks and her subtle moving has become full on thrashing as she desperately tries to get out of his grip. He lets go immediately, thinking maybe he's hurting her, and she twists violently away from him, slipping and tripping and falling into a heap on the asphalt.
Her eyes don't show pain, they show fear, a thing that simultaneously sends him into relief and panic. "What?" he asks, cautiously reaching down to her. "Maya," he almost pleads, kneeling onto the muddy blacktop.
She won't look at him, won't speak to him, but, though she stiffens at his touch, she does let his hands traverse her body in a search for injuries. He finds nothing, save some scuffs and scrapes, though she does visibly flinch when he makes it to her knee. But even the absence of obvious wounds doesn't keep the paramedics – whom Caddy Man called when he wasn't looking – from trying to scare the crap out of him, talking about the possibilities of internal hemorrhaging and serious concussions.
Part of him knows she's fine, having dealt with much worse than this on an almost daily basis years ago. But another part of him is looking at her, thinking this isn't the little girl I know. She simply isn't acting right. And of course, he couldn't bring himself to argue in front of the police, experience having taught him that playing it cool with the cops is an absolute necessity when dealing with a rather frail false identity. The last thing he needs is someone questioning who he is, possibly identifying him as who he used to be.
So he lets the paramedics take her away, heartbroken at having to leave her alone, but realizing he has no other choice, John and Samantha being with him. And he drives to the hospital at a pained pace, because it's raining, making traffic, even on a Saturday, impossible. And his kids are with him, sullen and bewildered, and, in the case of John, bleeding, and he doesn't want to worry or frighten them any more than they already are.
He waits to call Ava until they've pulled into the parking lot, too busy cursing at other cars and then apologizing to and trying to placate his kids. And, of course, she doesn't answer – why the woman even has a cell phone is a mystery to him. "I'm at Mercy General," he says tersely, knowing full well that hearing such a message will send her for a loop. "Call me," he finishes before slamming the phone shut and shoving back into his pocket.
One of the nurses gives John an ice pack, the boy surprising even himself by refusing other treatment. "It's fine," he says with a too raw voice, deep and nasally. "Doesn't even hurt anymore," he lies through teary eyes.
But his stoicism makes his father proud, Dean saying so as he guides him to the men's room to clean him up, an awkward feat while balancing the bouncy toddler on one hip. John, meek and shy, as is always the case when attention becomes focused on him, only shrugs and blushes a bit, not that you could tell from his stained red face.
It's a good twenty minutes before anyone tells him anything, and Ava still hasn't called back. Dean's just finishing with his statement for the police, vacillating between embarrassed and too defensive while responding to their questions.
The doctor says she's fine, just like he thought, but he breathes a sigh of relief just the same. He says they're getting an X-ray of her leg, her knee, just to be sure, but other than that, fit as a fiddle.
He leaves Sammy with John, and John with a nurse, while he ducks in to see her. And he's not sure what he expects, and he has no idea what he's gonna say, but when he pulls back the curtain to her little cubicle, sees her safe and sound and in one piece, the rest really doesn't matter.
"Sorry," she says with barely a trace of insolence as he moves toward the bed. She doesn't look up and he knows why; she's trying not to cry. Normally he'd find that admirable, always had with her in the past, but this is different. He cups her chin with his hand and tilts her face up, locking puffy red-rimmed eyes.
"You okay?" he asks simply, staring her down so as to determine if she's lying.
She nods solemnly and asks, "Is John?"
"Yeah, he's fine." He leans back and smiles, because his son is fine, and so is his niece, and that's one hell of a bullet to dodge. "What's a busted nose between family, right?"
She flinches at his words, images long since seen though never forgotten flowing to the surface. Uncle Dean punching her dad in the nose, with so much anger, so much grief. But, so it would seem, her father forgave him for it, so maybe she'd get lucky and be in the clear with John. After all, it really was an accident.
"Sorry," she says again, as close to sincere as her childish pride has perhaps ever permitted her to be.
"Maya," he says softly, voice deep and real and true. She looks up at him from beneath heavy lids, too heavy and purple, sad and fatigued, for someone her age to possess. "Why'd you run?" he asks, further prodding as she turns away, "Why did you run away from me?"
She doesn't respond, only shrugs minimally, eyes still averted.
He doesn't force her to look at him, doesn't raise her face to his once more. Instead he lets his callused hand fall onto her much smaller, softer one, squeezes gently as he says, "You know I'd never hurt you." Because it's the only thing he can think that she might have thought, the only thing that would have forced her to run like she did. "I wasn't angry at you," he goes on in a pained tone. "I could never be so mad that I'd…"
"I know," she says, barely a whisper, as her uncle's voice trails off.
"Then why?" he asks again, brow furrowed in both confusion and pain.
But she can't tell him the truth, that seeing him like that was too similar to the Dean she'd seen in her dreams, the one she prayed had never really existed. Because if that Dean was real, had been real, then it meant that everything else she's seen could be real as well. She can't tell him that she wasn't running away from him, not really. She was running from the awful truth.
He looks at her for a moment, waiting for her to respond, before realizing that it's simply not going to happen. He could push and prod all he wants, but he knows that she inherited her father's dangerously stubborn streak, the same one that always reminded him of his own father. And he knows that there's no way to break through that.
So he stands, and paces, and tries to think of something to say, something that could fix all this. Something like an explanation, or an apology. Something like a set of all too likely false assurances. Just something.
But then his phone rings and it's Ava, so he flips it open and takes a breath to speak. Not that she lets him, frantic question after frantic question pouring out from the other end of the line. He only stands, ear to phone, hand to face, and waits for her to stop, not speaking until, "Dean? Dean, are you there?" travels through the cell, followed by a long enough silence for him to respond.
"She's okay," he says simply, sparking a whole new set of inquiries – She who? Samantha? My baby? Maya? Who? – and some repeats of the old – What happened? What are you doing at the hospital? Dean, talk to me!
"Maya," he near whispers, for some reason not wanting the girl behind him to hear too much, despite her actually having gone through it all. "She was…there was a car…and it was raining…"
He struggles with his words a bit more before she shrieks out something to the effect of, "Maya was hit by a car?!" causing her high and tenuous voice to quickly be replaced by Rachel's on the other end.
Clear, calm, concise Rachel. "Uncle Dean," she starts, "What happened?"
And he tells her, about the park and the rain and John's nose, and his yelling, her running, not being sure who hit whom, but her falling and crying none the less. The whole time, though he works to keep his voice low and steady, he can feel those tiny tired eyes boring into his turned back.
All his life Dean Winchester has had feelings, gut reactions and hair raising sensations that warned him something was wrong, off. Flipping the phone shut, turning back to Maya and seeing her there, the tall and lanky 10-year-old looking tiny and scared, broken, in that big hospital bed, he feels that eerie sensation rise within him again. Something is wrong.
Ava arrives twenty minutes later, teary-eyed and frantic, Rachel guiding an eerily silent Michael along while joking about almost having to drive, her aunt being such a menace on the road. Ava holds John so close, fingers tightly clinging to his bloodied shirt, that he actually has to gasp for air in order to get her to let go.
"He's fine," Dean says, tiredly scrubbing at his face with his palms. "Just take them home."
She looks up at him for a moment, preparing to argue, "Are you crazy?" ready to fall from her lips. But the stern, brooding set to his features, the dark on edge glint in his eyes, keeps her quiet. The only words she offers are silently conspiratorial, "What is it?" as she gathers Samantha in her arms.
Dean takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Nothing," he says too fast to be true. "We'll talk at home."
She leans into him, a stabilizing, grounding sort of embrace, even with the toddler wedged in between. And then she leaves, taking her children with her, only Rachel staying behind, refusing to go so long as her sister remains.