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Sam didn't sleep at all, running his tally of sleepless nights up to three in a row, maybe four; he was too tired to recall. Sometime around two Dean ordered him to go lie down, get some rest, as though he actually thought it were possible, actually thought it was some sort of option. But in the dark, in the silence that enveloped him as he crashed out on the too small living room couch, his mind spun even faster and more out of control.
Was it possible he had misheard, misunderstood? Maybe they were just blowing things out of proportion, he had, after all, witnessed a conversation between children. Everything spoken by ten-year-olds under the cloak of night had to be taken with a grain of salt.
And really, what was so awful about what he heard? Kids sometimes had dreams about parents dying, it was sad and unfortunate, but not out of the ordinary. And what of her comment about it already having happened? It was odd, certainly, but was it so strange that it should have sent shivers throughout his entire body like it did? He was probably just paranoid, too much time looking into such mysteries making it easy to misidentify them in the everyday.
But he'd also spent too much of his life following his gut, letting it guide him just as his father and brother had always told him to do. You think too much, Sammy. Quit thinking, just follow your instincts. Only problem was, his instincts told him that if he could see the future, it might not be so strange for him to have a daughter who sees the past. And why the hell would he want to hear that?
Dean had wanted to get to the bottom of things right away, ready to run up the stairs and pull the kids from their slumber the moment Sam finished relaying all he'd heard. Interrogate them both, that was his plan, question mercilessly until John spilled all that he knew and Maya broke down and revealed the rest.
"I'm telling you," he said, punching an open palm repeatedly as he paced the length of the kitchen, "we can break them."
"No," was all Sam said, callused fingertips pressing harshly into his temples. He wanted the truth just as much as Dean, more actually, but they were going to have to be tactful about this. Sam knew his brother, and he knew his daughter, better than anyone. There was no way Dean could ever break her.
He seemed to recognize that fact too, giving up on his idea rather easily after Sam's simple dismissal. Plan number two was better anyway, or so he thought. "I'm calling Bobby."
The low rumble of his brother's voice held both a promise and a threat in those words. Because Bobby was a friend, always would be. And though he hadn't seen Maya since she was two, coming to visit just after Michael's birth, he would, undoubtedly do anything for her, for any of the Winchesters. But involving him meant admitting that this was something that required his special sort of expertise.
"No," Sam said, head shaking back and forth in slow and measured movements. "I don't want people knowing – "
But Dean cut him off with, "Bobby's not people," a sharp and insulted bite flavoring his words.
Sam merely sighs. "I don't want anyone knowing until we know…what's going on."
And then Ava, sensing an argument about to erupt, knowing the telltale signs of Winchester stewing, spoke up for the first time since the conversation began. "He could help though. I mean, he'd know…if the demon was back, or if it even could be back. He might know, right?"
Sam looked coldly at her before saying, "It's not. And it can't."
When Dean spoke next it was with an odd sort of sincerity that his brother, or anyone for that matter, was rarely privy to. "You're only saying that because you want it to be true. Doesn't mean it is."
And though Sam wanted, desperately, to argue, with words or even fists – because how fucking dare he – he couldn't. It was just that terribly true.
So Dean called Bobby, it being barely past midnight, and promptly got bitched out by the old early to bed, early to rise man. Until he finished explaining the reason for his call, a family emergency, an awful possibility. And Bobby gruffly apologized, said he was on it, and slammed down the phone in anxious excitement as he went to begin the age old task of researching.
Little more was discussed that night, not much else to say. And a general plan was hatched involving Dean spiriting the rest of the kids away in the morning, leaving Sam and Ava – because hey, she certainly had experience in the weird ass dreams field – to talk to Maya. And hopefully get her to talk back.
They went to bed finally, all three exhausted and anxious, fatigue and restless energy and worry coursing through them in a stay awake cocktail. Sam rose at least five times throughout the remainder of the night to peek in on the kids, all of them at different times. And he stumbled across Dean once, the two crossing paths in front of Michael's bedroom door, saying nothing to one another, only nodding as each continued on his way.
Dean might have only gotten up twice to check the kids that night, but he listened intently to every one of Sam's heavy footsteps and the light creaking of doors.
Morning came and somehow managed to surprise them all, despite having seen the sun rise from off in the periphery. Dean roused the kids, told them they were headed to the park – not the same one as yesterday, mind you. Dean may never return there again. "Maya doesn't feel up to coming," he told them as he quickly put together a picnic breakfast. "But she said we should have fun without her." It was a clear lie, Maya never having encouraged anyone to have fun without her in the past, and all the kids knew it, with the possible exception of Samantha who was still working on grasping even the meaning of lie. But no one said a word, figuring if Dean would lie to them, he must have a good reason.
And so here they are, Sam and Ava, all alone, sitting in awkward silence as they sip quietly on too strong coffee – just how Dean always makes it – with a cold, untouched breakfast leadening the plates before them. When Maya finally comes downstairs, a steady and odd thumping as she hops and hobbles her way, they're both pretty buzzed.
"Hey, kiddo," Sam says, trying to still his shaking hands as he holds them out to her for a hug. "How's the leg?"
She shrugs, approaching him slowly as she asks, rather accusingly, "Where is everybody?"
He pulls her into his lap, never mind her being too old or too big or too not in the mood to be cuddled by Dad. "They took off for a little while," he says steadily.
She perches herself on his knee, both of her feet holding firmly to the kitchen's tile as though this spot afforded more independence, made her less of a child. "Mom didn't come with you?" she asks, turning to look him in the eye, a challenge of some sort threading her words.
"Nope," he responds, unable to be intimidated by a look he created, especially when offered up by a person he created. "She stayed back in New York with Grandpa."
Maya nods slowly, narrows her eyes, and asks pointedly, "Is he gonna die?"
A tiny sort of squeal emerges from Ava, a surprised almost hiccup that she attempt to cover with an all too forced and fake cough.
But Sam's not taken aback at all by her inquiry, he knows exactly what she's trying to do. Because no matter what her grades might reflect, Maya's a bright girl, smart and intuitive, and she knows exactly what all this is about. And this, asking about her grandfather instead of inquiring as to why the three of them were oddly gathered together today, is nothing but an evasive action.
"He's pretty sick, My." He eyes her for a minute, eager to see if she'd really rather talk about this than that other thing. When she nods her head and looks him sincerely in the face, a plea for truth, he says to her, "Yeah, baby, he probably will."
She nods solemnly, saying nothing, and they all sit together in silence. She's no longer changing the subject, now wholeheartedly avoiding. So Sam tries for the direct route, figuring, no time like the present. "Maya," he begins, deep and serious tone that says simply, we need to talk. But he doesn't go on, can't quite bring himself to say what needs to be said.
"What?" she asks impatiently, stiffening even further as though preparing to bolt.
But before Sam can respond, utter something that would almost certainly elicit a dramatic roll of the eyes from his daughter, possibly a hobbled stomp out of the room – which would only further devolve into a shout-filled power struggle between the two – Ava jumps in with, "You know how your dad and I met?"
Both Maya and Sam turn to look at her, pure confusion on one face, a mixture of where is this going? and relief on the other. "No," Maya responds cautiously. No, she had no idea how they met, never thought about it before, never really cared.
"We knew each other before I met your Uncle Dean. That's how I met him actually, Dean that is. Well, it was more complicated than that. But still…through Sam." She takes a breath, has that obvious uncomfortable look about her, jittery hands and ping-pong eyes flashing about the room. She doesn't look at either of them when she says, fast and high pitched, "I had a dream that he got blown up, but I didn't know who he was. I mean, it was Sam, but I didn't know Sam. But I saw a hotel name on the piece of paper he had in my dream, so I went there and found him and told him and…he didn't blow up." She finishes with a long held breath and a half hearted, "Yay."
There's a moment where all three sit in silence, both girls averting their eyes from everything with a pulse, Sam silently watching them, gaze bouncing back and forth, hoping one might speak. The closest they get is a firm headshake from Maya as all the just released information seems to rattle in her skull.
"She thought I'd think she was nuts," he starts slowly, hesitantly. "But I didn't. I couldn't think she was crazy anymore than I was."
Maya's mouth all but drops open, no sound coming forth, no questions or comments or even you're kidding me laughter.
"We never wanted you to know," Ava says softly, her calm mother tone dripping with soothing notes. "We never thought you'd need to know."
"About a lot of things," Sam interjects, sharing a sad and knowing gaze with Ava. "There's so much in this world, baby," he mutters, returning his attention to Maya, pulling her closer in his lap and almost whispering into her hair. "So much…bad stuff. All we ever want is to keep you safe and away from all that."
He pulls back suddenly and twists the girl around so that they're face to face. And he takes a moment to look at her, really look at her, to see the baby fat cheeks that he always thinks of when he pictures her, the same ones that have all but disappeared over the last couple of years. And he notices the slight scar at her hairline that she got when a food fight went bad at age four, Rachel losing control of her fork and sending it hurtling towards her sister's head.
Sam has a scar nearly identical to his daughter's. It's from a pissed off spirit outside of Albuquerque when he was ten. Her age now.
He looks at her and for the first time he sees himself. Because, to him, the girls were always so like Sarah, with long dark waves and big round eyes, and smiles, especially in Rachel's case, that light up everything, everyone, within a ten mile radius. But they're also both so tall and gangly, a Sam trait as Dean's always pointed out. And while their large light eyes always reminded him most of his wife, their coloring, that often-changing hazel, nature's own mood ring, is pure Winchester, no doubt.
But it's something more that he sees right now, something deep and bold and painfully true. He's managed to pass something down to her that he's never even fully acknowledged within himself. And already he can see what a burden it has become. Already he can make out the subtle changes in her face, the aging of her eyes, hardening of her pink bowed lips, a never smiling line.
He looks her straight on and in a voice so sad and scared even he finds it unrecognizable, he says, "But I can't."
They do their best to explain their dreams, when they began, what happened, how they dealt with them. And they leave out all they parts they think she doesn't need to hear, being too young to know, or simply too naïve of their world to understand. Because to explain in depth the part a demon played in their nightmares, his plans for pitting them against the world, may be a bit much for a child who has only now learned that certain psychic phenomena may be real.
But they relay the important parts, the fact that it doesn't make you a freak to have weird dreams, and you're not alone in being scared or just plain weirded out by them. The fact that it helps to talk, sometimes it's absolutely necessary to talk about them.
She listens closely, carefully, to every word they say, speaking not once herself. And she tries to stay strong, take in all their words and interpret them analytically. Not emotionally. Not…personally. But she's still sitting on her daddy's lap, though surely his legs have gone numb by now, and he's got a huge strong hand on her back, working to rub away all her troubles. And his voice is low and rumbling and comforting, so close to her ear. And her aunt's kitchen smells of french toast and fresh flowers and a hint of motor oil wafting in from beneath the door to the garage.
And she loves it all, should be soothed and placated by it all, just like she's always been before. But it's not the same now, and she fears, she knows, that it never will be again.
It doesn't really occur to her that the conversation has ended, or that, maybe, she hadn't been paying as close attention as she thought, until a foreign silence is broken with her father's voice, "Maya," an unrealized stillness shattered by his thumb pulling a hot salty tear from her cheek. She looks up and sniffles, automatically scrubbing away all evidence of her weakness with tightly clenched fists. "Maya," he says again, a bit of a command to his voice. "We need to know what your dreams are about."
She says nothing, too busy thinking up ways to be convincing in her denial. Because, maybe she wasn't alone in this, maybe her father and aunt, and hell, millions of other people, all had weird dreams too. But she didn't buy the part about them not being freaks. It that were true, then how come they'd never shared their little secret before? It was something to be ashamed of, that much was obvious.
"If you don't want to tell us everything right now, or ever even," Ava says lightly, "that's fine. You don't have to."
Her father nods, hand still tracing circles on her back. "That's right. But," he says, drawing in a deep breath and leveling his voice, "there are certain things we need to know." She looks up at him and prepares to say the only thing that's really come to mind thus far, I'm not like you, when he asks, slow and deep, "Have you ever seen a man with yellow eyes?"
And she can't help it, so taken aback by his inquiry. How does he know? How could he possibly know? She gasps audibly.
Ava rises from her seat, a series of, "Oh, God"'s trailing after and all around her as she paces in circles.
Sam takes a hold of Maya's shoulders, rougher than he probably means to, and twists her towards him, looks her in they eye while saying, "Listen to me, Maya. You have to tell me everything that happened with him. You understand?" Her father's eyes are so wide, voice so serious, that she doesn't know what to do. Her mind goes blank with fear and panic. "Maya," Sam says, unspoken order to respond. When she doesn't he shoves her from his lap, stands her up before him, hands still gripping her shoulders as he gives a firm shake. "Maya!"
"Sam, stop it," Ava shouts from behind. "You're scaring her."
And hee wants to say she's scaring me. He wants to break her down like an unruly witness, no judge around to hold him in contempt. But she's a little girl. She's his little girl. And as quickly as the unruly lawyer, or the panicked hunter, first appeared, he retreats, leaving only the father in his wake.
Sam pulls his daughter close, hugs her fiercely to his chest as though he's so sorry, so scared, and never letting go. Don't worry, I'll never let you go. And he whispers in her ear, voice hitching even in the hushed tone, "What did he say to you, baby?"
He doesn't release her, doesn't so much as loosen his hold, which actually makes it easier for her to speak, muffled words tumbling with ease into the closed off space between her and her father, only for him. He'll keep her secrets safe, his embrace promises that much. "He said I belong to him," she murmurs softly, repeating the words from her first meeting with the mysterious glowing eyed man. "And he said you were bad, and a traitor. And he showed me things…lots of things."
"What kinds of things?" he breathes unsteadily into her hair.
She hesitates, closes her eyes so tight that no more tears can leak through. "You hurt people. You and Uncle Dean and Aunt Ava. And you hurt…things. And you died."
He doesn't respond, only holds her tighter, a physical confirmation that, no, I'm dead, I'm right here. But he has to know, if what she saw was real or just a demonic trick. So he asks hesitantly, "How did I die?" hoping for anything other than the truth.
Her voice breaks when she says, "A man stabbed you."
"Where?" he asks urgently.
"In the back," she sobs against him.
He shakes his head slightly, disturbed by the detail. "No, I mean, where was I?"
She snuffles before straightening up a bit, pulling away, if only a little. "I don't know. It was dark." She gazes up at him and says simply, as though it might explain it all, as though places in her world were defined by the people in them more than the location itself, "Uncle Dean was there. And another guy, old guy."
"Bobby?" Sam asks, not realizing that there'd be no way of her knowing, not having seen Bobby since she was a toddler. She shrugs in response and he asks, "Who stabbed me? What did he look like?"
From behind his shoulder Ava issues a nervous, "Sam." Because, while she might not recall this particular event, that day as a whole is truly the last one she wants to relive, especially through the eyes of a little girl she loves so dearly.
Maya shrugs again, a nonverbal repeat of, I don't know. It was dark. But she does follow it up with a meek, "He was black," which is all the unfortunate confirmation Sam needs.
"Okay," he says absently, reaching out and brushing back her hair with his fingertips, tucking the strands behind her ear. It's a gesture usually only her mother makes, and all at once she's hit with a strong and violent yearning for her, like that she hasn't felt in years.
Tears begin to run down her cheeks again, filling in the dried lines left by the previous onslaught, and she asks, choking on the words, "When's Mommy coming home?"
She hasn't called Sarah mommy in so long, being too old for such a thing, and Sam can't help but think about how horrified and overjoyed his wife would be to hear that from her daughter's mouth. Because so often she feels superfluous when it comes to Maya, like the girl neither wants nor needs her at all. And while they both know that isn't the case, it hurts. But her asking for Mommy now, while being proof that she's loved and needed no matter what, is also a clear indication of just how fragile she really is. Fragile, if not already broken.
"Soon," he says simply, wiping away the tears. Then, taking hold of her chin and turning it towards him, he asks what he hopes will be the final question for a while, wanting nothing more than to stop this awful inquisition and hold his little girl until she stops crying, feed her cookies and spout lame jokes until she's finally able to smile. "What else did he say? The man with the yellow eyes, did he do or say anything else?"
She nods and sniffles, reaches up to rub her red and weary eyes.
"What?"
"He said he'd make them stop, if I helped him. He'd make the dreams stop."
"Help him with what?" he asks quickly, brows knitting nervously together.
She shakes her head, "I don't know. He didn't say," and falls into her father's arms once more.
There, now they know.