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"This is total bull shit," she casually spouts. "You know that, right?"
Dean glares at her over the dagger he's polishing, uselessly chides, "Watch your mouth."
She fires up a vicious glare of her own, all self-assured indignation, and says simply, "She's my sister," as though that should explain it all – why she can't be bothered to focus on cleaning weapons, an important part of training because, if you can't take care of something properly, how do you expect it take care of you? It should explain why she's moody and snippy, anxiously concerned and moping about being left out. It should explain why she has every right to know just what exactly is going on back at home.
Dean chances a quick glance, meets her eyes just long enough to gauge her sincerity. She's right, of course. She should be involved, at the very least informed. Because Maya is her sister, her younger sibling, the number one person on the face of the planet – at least until she has children of her own – who requires her care and protection no matter what.
No one knew that better than Dean.
And let's be honest, Maya's…situation might not be one that just anyone could understand. But Rachel knows. She'd spent the past year and a half pouring over every journal entry – Dean's, Sam's, their father's – and nearly every bit of accumulated research from all the hunts they'd done. She knew about the Winchester past, about the demon, about Mary, about her father and Ava. And she knew about the things they hunted, even researched on her own, curiosity regarding this other world consuming her young mind. She'd even managed to get stuff out of Bobby, a tough old crone on the outside, but an eager teacher once you dig down deep.
Yet, though she knew the old hunter had come back into their lives for more than just a mere visit, had come specifically to see and speak with her little sister, even he, during all their discussions and sessions, would relay nothing to her about Maya.
It wasn't fair. It's not fair. What is all this training for – guns and knives, machetes and krav maga, EMF and ancient rituals – if not to prepare her to guard and protect the kids. Maya, John, Michael, Samantha – they were her responsibilities, whether she liked it or not.
But what is Dean supposed to do, really? It's not his place, any more than it was Bobby's, or Sam's or Sarah's, to say anything to Rachel. Because Maya had decided no one else should know, even after her parents informed her that Rache had stumbled upon their family's mottled past already, would surely not judge her or think she was nuts.
It was her secret to keep.
"You're not paying attention," Dean says, motioning to the blade in her hand. "You're gonna cut yourself."
She throws the knife down, "This is so unfair," booming from her as she rises to pace.
"Rachel," her uncle warns, low and deep.
But she doesn't take heed, instead turns on him and says, sounding every bit the 14-year-old she is instead of the mature near-adult she always seems, "Well it is."
Dean rises and walks over to her, stilling her mid-strut by taking hold of both her shoulders. He looks at her straight on, simple enough since she's nearly his height, and mutters through tight lips, tone definite and final, "Drop it."
Her expression changes, face dropping from arrogant, petulant teenager to a sad and sulky child. She knows just how to manipulate him, mixing sad puppy eyes with cool sincerity. "How can you tell me that?" she asks, calm and beseeching. "How can you say that to me?"
He takes a deep breath, lets out a heavy sigh. How can he tell her that? How can he possibly say to her, leave it alone, it's not your business, when it so obviously is? He can't, not really. But, "You wanna know what's going on with Maya, you're gonna have to ask Maya."
"You think I haven't tried? She won't talk to me," she claims, exasperated.
"She never talks to you," he deadpans. "She never talks to any of us."
"Exactly."
He shrugs, guides her back over to the table and sits her down, places the not so shiny dagger in the palm of her hand, and points at it, gesture alone a command to clean.
"I only want what's best for her," she tries, words dripping with trite sincerity. It's true, of course, she does want that, but this declaration is merely a tactic and he knows it.
He sits down across from her, pulls out a .22 and begins the task of dismantling and cleaning it, eyes trained solely on the gun, avoiding her completely. "Yeah," he utters. "Me too."
"So tell me," she pleads, leaning across the table and taking hold of his wrist.
Her voice melts into him, because it's no longer whining, no longer contrived, just strong and serious and…Rachel. "Look," he bites out, pulling away. "She doesn't want me to tell you. So I'm not going to tell you."
"Even though you think I should know? Even though you agree it'd be in her best interest?"
"I never said that," he snipes, looking up to meet her gaze.
She rolls her eyes – come on, I'm not an idiot – before allowing her face to take on an odd expression, one of near disappointment and utter hope. It seems to say, I have faith in you, I know you'll do the right thing. It reminds him of his mother, of her mother, of any mother, quite frankly.
"You're not gonna guilt me into betraying her confidence," he responds, voice strong despite a wavering will.
She smiles coyly. "Betrayal is such an ugly word."
"Then don't make me personify it," he shoots back with a rather snotty and accomplished smirk of his own.
"Ooo, personify," she taunts, bottom lip jutting out in mock amazement. "Been helping John with his vocab words?"
"So what if I have," he says with a grin.
She smiles briefly, looks to the blade in front of her, contemplates finishing her assigned task. But it's just not in her right now, and even though it may just seem like she's avoiding doing the dirty work, or being plain petty in refusing to do work at all, the truth is she knows better than to do this when distracted – five stitches and a shouting match between her father and uncle being all the lesson she needed to figure that one out.
"Seriously," she says simply after a long moment of silence.
And now it's Dean's turn to whine. Because he actually needs to get this done, preparing, unbeknownst to Rachel, to head out on a quick hunt this weekend – probably just a simple salt and burn, but you gotta be prepared. And because, "I already told you. No."
"Uncle Dean, if you don't tell me, who will?"
"Not my problem," he responds, eyeing the cold dark barrel of the gun.
"Seriously," she retorts.
"Stop saying that."
"But…seriously."
He looks up at her, slamming down the weapon with a heavy thunk. "Rachel, damn it. What do you want me to do?" he asks, voice desperate. "She doesn't want me to tell you."
"But," she starts, only to be quickly cut off.
"You're not my only niece, you know," he says sharply.
"No," she begins, transforming her expression into a manipulative grin. "But I am your favorite."
He glares at her, a mixture of contempt and sadness in his eyes. "We're not playing that game."
She turns away, angry and defeated, deep red blush burning at her cheeks and ears. "Fine," she nearly screams, rising in a huff and walking out the door.
There's no one else at home, Ava having taken the kids shopping or picnicking or something, to get them out of the house for Dean and Rachel's lesson, so she can't exactly catch a ride. And she's a good ten miles from her own house, would have to cross the highway to get there too. But that doesn't stop her from trying, walking quickly down the street with Dean's shouts trailing behind her.
After a minute, his voice disappears and her stride shortens. She's a good block and a half away when he pulls up in the Impala and tells her to get in now.
She opens the creaky door, slides over the smooth leather, and tries to remember the last time she was in this car. Because everyone knows the Impala is Uncle Dean's prized possession, his pride and joy, and the kids are rarely allowed near its interior – something about sticky hands and baby vomit.
He doesn't say a word as he drives her home, low rumble of the engine being the only sound set to echo in her ears.
She was ten, she finally remembers. She was ten-years-old, and Dean had taken her and Maya to the circus. They made a whole day of it, and, if she recalls correctly, the main reason for turning it into such a big deal – taking the Impala, getting front row seats, eating nothing but popcorn and cotton candy all day long – was so that he could annoy her father with the fact that he was being allowed to take them at all. Because she remembers her mother rolling her eyes at Sam's protests, muttering something about a stupid clown phobia, and telling Dean, they're all yours, much to her father's chagrin.
Maya screamed and cried when a clown tried to give her a balloon, and Rachel puked in the front seat on the way home. It's a wonder that they weren't allowed in the Chevy more often.
Her father's car is in the driveway when then pull up, mother's absent, her being at the gallery all day setting up for a show. And when they walk in the house, Dean still silent and stiff, they're met with the lovely smell of burnt cheddar, signaling Sam's famous grilled cheese sandwiches.
"Hey," he says, turning from the stove, spatula in hand, "What are you doing back so soon?" The question's directed at Rachel, but his confused eyes bounce up to Dean.
He points at Maya, sitting quietly at the table, waiting patiently for her lunch. "We need to talk," he says, eyebrows raised.
"Dean," Sam hisses, a question and a threat all in one.
But he ignores him completely, ignores Rachel's awkward gaze as it bounces around the room, ignores Maya's confused and contemptuous glare as he takes a seat across from her. "You got a lot of people who love you," he says to her, voice low and soft and just for her. "And that's damn lucky. And I understand, because of that, maybe you don't see how important just one of them is."
He pauses briefly, turns around to see Sam flip off the stove, look down at him with a crinkled brow.
"When I was your age I only had two people who loved me, and one of them was always gone. The other," he says, flicking his thumb back to indicate her father, "was a pain in the ass. But he was my pain in the ass."
Maya continues to stare at him, expression rather blank, as Rachel drops her head and slinks back to the wall.
"You," he declares, pointing at his young niece, "are her," tossing his other thumb back at Rache, "biggest pain in the ass." He pauses just long enough for Maya's face to contort into an offended sort of grimace. "We're all here to take care of you," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "All of us."
"What are you doing?" she squeaks out, a low and panicked whisper. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because she deserves to know," he says decisively.
Sam moves over to the table, sets down a sandwich in front of Maya, one hand on the plate, the other falling to his daughter's shoulder, fiercely protective. "We've been through this, Dean," he hums through a clenched jaw.
But it's Rachel who responds, before her uncle even gets the chance to voice his defense. "I just want to help," she says quickly, stepping up, standing at Dean's side. Then, looking right into her little sister's eyes, "I can help."
She shakes her head, drops her glassy gaze. "No you can't."
"My," she sighs out, taking a seat next to her, "how do you know if you won't even let me try?"
"You can't," she repeats simple and soft.
"Rachel," Sam states, capturing her attention from above, "it's really nice that you want to help. Really. But – "
She cuts him off with, "You don't get it, Dad. You don't understand. You never have."
Sam's face falls, flashing hurt as he voices a mere, "Rache."
She shakes her head solemnly. "It's not your fault. You just…don't get it." Her gaze returns to Maya who's staring pitifully down at her grilled cheese – the one she'd been so craving, so excited about just minutes before. "You're my little sister. It doesn't matter how many other people are around to take care of you, in the end, it's still my job."
Maya scoffs, but doesn't look up.
"Hey," she tries, voice lightening, "who let you sleep with her when you were convinced there was a monster under your bed?"
Sam and Dean share a quick, questioning glance, neither having heard anything about any monster before. And Maya rolls her eyes, flat out lies, "I don't remember that."
"Right," Rachel concedes with an eye roll all her own. "Well, it was me." She nudges her sister's elbow before going on with, "Who never told a soul about what happened with Billy Campbell last year?"
"Rachel," she seethes, directing a wide-eyed glare in her direction.
Again, Sam and Dean's eyes meet, the younger brother voicing the question on both of their faces, "What happened with Billy Campbell?"
"Nothing," Maya nearly shouts, follows it up with an exasperated, "God."
Unfazed, Rachel continues. "Who told you not to climb that tree when you were five? And then ran and got Mom and Dad after you fell?"
"I jumped," she snipes, as though that declaration makes it any better.
"And who sat with you the entire time in the ER waiting room, and let you sleep in her room that night while you were hopped up on pain killers?" The girls' eyes meet, a knowing glance between them. Rachel smiles, crooked and conniving. "And who – "
"Okay, I get it!" Maya leans back in her chair, fold her arms protectively across her chest. "This is different," she mutters.
"Why? Because it's crazy and…unreal?" Maya looks back up at her, connecting with her questioning eyes for no more than a fleeting moment. "I know about all that. And I know its crazy and weird and totally fucked up."
"Hey," Sam blasts. "Watch your mouth."
She gives him a barely apologetic glance, more an annoyed scowl really. "The point," she continues, "is that I'm not gonna think that you're crazy, or weird, or totally…F-ed up." Maya says nothing, only nervously gnaws at her lip, a sign that she's this close to giving in. "You can tell me," she whispers, leaning in close.
Maya looks up at her father hesitantly, then at her uncle. And they get what she's asking, what she wants them to do. "Come on, Sammy," Dean says, slight smile breaking onto his face as he slaps playfully at his brother's arm. "I'll take you back to my place so you finish your daughter's cleaning."
They leave the room, head out the front door, all the while bits of brotherly banter flying between them. Sam turns only once, looking back at his girls and locking eyes with them both, asking Maya if she's sure. Telling Rachel to be careful.
And then they're alone.
Maya licks her lips, prepares to tell her sister some of the anything she'd requested. But before she can, before anything comes out, Rachel reaches down and snatches half the grilled cheese, nonchalantly leaning back in her seat to munch on her sister's lunch.
"Gee," Maya quips with a roll of the eyes, "help yourself."