Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Just a bit of plot development. Next up, though, some more humor with a Winchester Halloween!
She could sleep. That had been her one consolation for the past year and a half. She was finally able to sleep.
It was a man named Soren who'd been the key, the one to show her how to rest her eyes and mind once more. He was Swedish, and looked the part, pale and willowy, too tall with eerie blue eyes and white hair. And he was versed in the old ways, ancient magics and crafts, the type she'd never known existed before, real and natural and well hidden for centuries.
"It is not your television witchcraft," he'd told her, thick accent curling around each word. "No wiggling nose, no riding brooms. It is science," he'd said, wide, fond smile taking over his worn face. "It is life."
Soren only came to meet with her once, at Bobby's request. And really, how could he not hop the Atlantic since, "Bobby is good friend. Helpful." So much more underlying those words.
It was that meeting, their first and technically only meeting, that was the most difficult. Admittedly, she understood little of what he said, the man going on in rigid and garbled English about nature and herbs and connections and something he called mind-body togetherness. But it was also the most empowering, wiry old man standing staunchly in front of her father, refusing to let him or anyone participate in their private gathering. "I'm here for Maya," he'd said plainly, crystalline eyes unmoving. "You are not Maya."
Anyone else, she had a feeling, her father would have hit, he just had that distressed look about him. But this time he merely mumbled under his breath, something akin to stupidfuckingwhitewitchass, and told her in no uncertain terms that, "I'll be right in the next room. If you need me, I'll be right outside."
She'd nodded solemnly, demeanor matching what she was certain her dad expected – anxious terror – but on the inside she tingled with excitement. He'd wanted to meet with her. This was all about her. For once, the only one being consulted about the dreams her mind was spinning, was her.
He taught her to make tea – though she'd never boiled water before, unless you counted helping Aunt Ava with pasta – talking her through the entire process, every motion, every herb. He used chamomile – to calm, no fear, keeps away the evil spirits – and mugwort – so you know what you dream! He gave her a wreath stuffed full of gray and black feathers, remnants of some native Swedish bird, told her it would help guide the dreams. And he told her all about the mysterious dreamworld, a vast amalgam of places shared by all who sleep. "We dream together," he'd said. "We just don't know."
There was something about Soren from Sweden that she found simply beguiling. She trusted the sincere quality to his deep blue eyes, pale thin face. There was an odd familiarity with the way he said her name – My-YA – always drawing it out, emphasizing the last syllable, holding it longer on his tongue, savoring.
And there was, perhaps most importantly, an apparent respect, almost reverence, directed towards her. "You have a gift. You see," he'd said to her, gaze imploring.
And when she shook her head no, told him adamantly, "I don't want it," he frowned deeply, the first and only time she'd seen his face fold in on itself in despair.
"It is not good for you," he said slowly. "It is not bad." He reached down and took her hand in his, leveled his icy eyes on her disbelieving face. "It is what it is. You make it more."
Soren had a computer solely for the purpose of communicating – and, he'd admitted, downloading old Canadian TV shows – because writing in different languages was easier for him than hearing and speaking them aloud. So they talked mostly via email, a welcome arrangement for Sam and Sarah who had no desire to pay an arm and a leg for international long distance.
She'd tell him about her dreams, no longer quite as frightening, images calmer and clearer. Most often she simply reiterated what was written in her journal, the one Bobby had gotten for her – leather bound with her initials embossed on the cover – just for that purpose. But occasionally she would throw in an aside, mention some element of confusion or concern, always casually, never wanting to alarm anyone.
The nice thing about Soren was that he never did get alarmed, never turned anything into something it wasn't, blowing things out of proportion. She didn't like it when everyone made a big deal out of nothing, especially if was nothing that had happened to her, and Soren never did.
He emailed her recipes to help with whatever ailed her at the time, even sent some along to aide her sister's broken arm – good for bones – and her mother's sudden ailment – makes the sun shine, so she can see all there is to see. They were never called spells, never known in their house as anything other that Soren's Recipes, except by Uncle Dean who'd made a face and dubbed them witches brews. They were simply holistic teas and potpourris, flowers and salts and oils meant for bathing or merely breathing. They soothed a too quick mind, helped in concentrating and processing, aided in meditation and focus. And sleep.
And so she slept, sometimes dreaming of awful things past, sometimes manipulating her gift enough to catch glimpses of the good – her mother's sweet 16, a prank war from so many years ago that she barely even recognized her father and uncle. Occasionally she could make out the features of her grandfather, so foreign to her yet also so familiar. She'd heard the soft rumble of his voice, felt the joy of his laughter, sensed the power in his stare. Bobby had smiled when she told him this, said, in a raspy dreamy voice, "I wish you could have known him."
She'd responded with, "I do know him."
And so she'd finally accepted the fact that maybe Soren was right, maybe this curse of sight wasn't really a curse after all. Maybe it really was simply what she made of it.
It hadn't been easy, of course, the whole process was long and involved and at times nearly too much to bear. Stinky teas that made her nose wrinkle in disgust, her stomach roil once filled. Explicit directives involving journal keeping – no more lazily falling out of slumber or resting open-eyed and clear-headed in bed. Now she had to put pen to paper immediately upon waking, whether it was the middle of the night, or so late in the morning that she'd be late for school. There were lessons with Uncle Dean, and, worst of all, with Rachel. Because apparently she knew a lot and actually wanted to teach Maya – and no matter how much restful sleep and certain herbs might have aided her concentration, teaching Maya still always resulted in pain and frustration for all parties involved.
And what of the pain and frustration, the fear and helplessness, that they all felt, all had to contend with on a daily basis? That was perhaps the most difficult task, setting it aside, working through and beyond all the what if's and oh no's. Trying to focus on helping herself, even as all those around her lost themselves in the sorrows that their inability to help had brought.
Like her parents, whom had begun checking on her in the middle of the night again. They would sneak in two, maybe three times a night, just to check, just to see if she was sleeping peacefully. Sometimes Maya wondered if they were checking to see if she was even still there at all.
When she was little her mother would kiss her goodnight, lips pressing softly to her brow, a quick and fleeting, yet wholly tender I love you. Now it was lingering and urgent, as though she were measuring her temperature, waiting to feel her pulse, making sure her daughter was still alive. As though there were no other way to tell, no other way to know for sure.
It used to be that when her father sat heavily on the side of her bed, her small body feigning sleep amid the twisted sheets beside him, a giddy feeling rose inside her, eager to trick him into believing she was asleep, yet also secretly hoping to be found out. Now she hoped he never knew.
It used to be that when he traced soft lines down her cheek with his thumb she felt safe and loved and soothed. Now she was scared, alone and desperate.
There are still nights now, despite her being twelve and therefore too old for such attentions, that her parents happen in on her in the middle of the night. Still times when she lays utterly still, feigning sleep, trying to play out a nightly ritual that made her feel so connected to them all those years ago.
But in the end, the constant state of worry and fear that everyone seemed to be in, even John and Michael to a certain extent, because they knew something was up, began to wane. After a year, she was being punished for her moody insolence yet again. She could be tired, even sick, or just plain have an off day, without anyone slipping into panic mode.
And as is typical when nothing awful happens for a period of time, the Winchesters grew rather complacent, Maya's psychic troubles and strange dreams becoming merely a nuisance rather than a focus, a part of their lives but not a true and immediate concern. So in a way it was no real surprise when things shifted and changed. Because complacency simply breeds tragedy.
Soren died alone. Two days after Maya saw him, in her mind's eye, sleeping peacefully in bed, heard his breathing go from steady and relaxed to suddenly sharp and intermittent. To gone completely.
She wrote about the dream in her journal, detailed the calm, cloaking quality of the dark, the utter stillness of the room. But she didn't tell Soren, or Bobby, or her mother or father. Not for two days, not until she was sure. Not until she hadn't heard from him for at least 24 hours, because he always responded to her emails within that frame of time, and the fact that he had not, confirmed her suspicions.
She showed the journal entry to her father that night, the night she knew that he was gone, let him read in it's entirety before saying simply, "It happened fast. He didn't feel any pain," as though that explained it all. As though inside those few words she could convey how important it was to let him die like that, knowing all too well what other sort of awful destinies might await.
The terrible, frightful, please don't notice how scared shitless I am right now look took over Sam's face, stayed there for the next few days. As Bobby made some calls about Soren, discovered he'd died just as Maya dreamt. As the whole family discussed, in private amongst themselves – Sam and Sarah lying awake in bed, Dean and his brother, hunched quietly in Sam's office – and as a group in yet another What the Hell is Going On Meeting.
Sarah suggested it was some sort of fluke, Maya's obvious receptivity alerting her to an inevitable occurrence for a man she'd grown so close to.
The men all questioned demonic involvement – perhaps the demon was growing stronger and supplying her with additional power. Or maybe the plans he had in store for her were set to come to fruition soon, and so the gifts that once lay dormant were being called upon now.
It was Rachel – Rachel who wasn't technically either invited or permitted to be there in the first place – who said quite simply, "It's probably just that she's going through puberty." A thing which earned her several odd glares and a number oh, yeah nods. Because psychic gifts often manifest themselves at these times, when the chemical and structural changes of adolescence permit them to do so.
Didn't matter really. There was no way of knowing for sure, still having little to no information on who or what this new yellow-eyed demon was nor what his plans might be. All they did know, all Maya knew, was that this changed everything. Because seeing the past was one thing, an odd trip through her history as she never knew it existed. But seeing the future, seeing her future, as she often did not want it to be, was a different thing all together.