I. Welcome to The Jungle ♱

The first time Max met Dean Winchester, she nearly killed him.

They met by way of Bobby, who all but demanded that Dean and his father, John, sought help in the mould of somebody else; a source of information outside of him and his car-ridden junkyard because, as he reminded them frequently in exasperation, he wouldn't always be around. It wasn't often Bobby consulted someone else — he never really had to, what with the folklore and literature flooding his walls, the ways of the researcher imprinted in his veins — but Max had more experience with these kind of vengeful spirits than anyone else he knew. That is, if the claw marks mauling her flesh, the warped scar tearing open her back, had anything to say about it.

  So, he left John alone in the motel brooding, researching their case the way he insisted only he could (meaning: sat in the dark nursing a cold, black coffee) and dragged Dean by his leather-clad arm to the last location Max had given him. In a bout of nostalgia two months ago, marking her twenty-third birthday, they'd met in a diner, sat in the mobster booth, and celebrated. He gave her a cupcake with a candle, and she gave him her address, written hastily on a napkin before she had chance to regret it.

He had a sliver of doubt she even still lived there.

Her apartment building looked normal enough from the outside. An average home. Six stories high and a monotone, boring grey. She wasn't exactly going to splash out on a place she'd be leaving soon, as was the way of the hunter, or so her father taught her—no attachments, no distractions, no attention. He'd carved it into the walls of her brain with his very own hands.

They had reached the plain, empty hallway with a wooden door at the end, a crooked 33 hanging in the centre, when Bobby put his arm out in warning, like protecting a child from the dash at a sudden stop.

Dean looked at him, confused.

"Look, Dean, this girl is a pistol, alright? I mean it. She's the most cautious person I know," he paused. "Be careful. Tread lightly."

But the Winchester boy just shrugged him off, strutting forwards cockily as he always did, crouching to pick the lock like he'd been doing it for years and swinging open the door, loudly.

Christ.

His enthusiasm to track down this Max that Bobby hadn't even given them the surname of—just... trust me—seemed to be more related to the hunt. Dean felt like he was hunting this Max guy down like a poltergeist or something. Whilst Bobby would've found his adrenaline-chase admirable, if not a little stupid, he knew Dean could do with being knocked down a few pegs. Which is why he let him barge into the apartment, ego suffocating.

Because that was when he tripped forwards over the small, almost imperceptible wire Max had set in the doorway.

Dean stood up, catching himself, waiting for something to happen. It didn't, and he looked to his father's friend with a gentle smirk.

And then he stumbled over it's failsafe, which in turn weighed down the play button of the radio, which began blasting Welcome to The Jungle at full volume, echoing in even the fuller corners of her home. And when he stood straighter, looking around in a panic to make it stop, feeling Bobby's glare on the side of his face, the apartment plunged into complete darkness.

It was only then, in complete darkness and full volume mullet-rock, like some sick sort of sensory deprivation room, that Max's fist met Dean's face for the first time. He felt her knuckles before he saw them; felt his back tooth loosen a little, gums leaking blood.

Bobby reached for the lights with a small panic and a series of woahs, but with less urgency than he probably should have.

And when the lights came back on, Max Molisanti had a .22 in Dean's Winchester's face.

He pulled his own Colt, levelling it at the face looking back at him, leather jacket swaying with the movement. Max's eyebrow quirked, and smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth at the sight of his bloody lip.

Was this what it felt like when someone got the drop on you?

"You wanna put that down, sweetheart?"

His voice was gravelly, deep enough that it would usually be intimidating, but with that sarcastic lilt, it told Max that he wasn't quite as serious as he seemed. He wouldn't shoot her with Bobby right there, anyway. Truthfully, when hunting, despite his father being taller and possessing darker features, despite his little brother towering over him, people and demons alike had always been more scared of Dean. Shrinking at the sound of his voice, or falling over themselves at the sight of his "dreamy" eyes.

But now, stood opposite a girl he'd never even heard of, he wasn't quite sure his effect was the same. It made him shuffle in his spot.

Max smiled, sardonically as she often did. "Why don't you put yours down, honey? You're in my house."

Dean had to see the reason in that.

"Alright," came the older man's voice. "We get it, you both have guns. Now put 'em away."

The Winchester paused momentarily, watching as Bobby carefully stood between them, raising a palm and preparing to diffuse. It was almost like routine. He didn't have to think about it, like it wasn't the first time he was stood between someone and her gun. He put the Colt away and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching as Max's sarcastic smile faded and a genuine one took over, eyes softening, and she moved to turn off the stereo.

Bobby Singer. Voice of reason.

"Bobby," she greeted happily, embracing him briefly, wrapping her arms around his neck. Pulling away, she kept her hands on his arms and nodded in the Winchester's direction. "Who's your friend? Little young for you, isn't he?"

Bobby scoffed a laugh.

"This is John's boy, Dean."

The girl gave him a once over, not even trying to hide her gaze, eyes trailing his brown leather jacket and the biceps tensing underneath. The symbolic necklace, a black cord winding around his neck, falling upon the expanse of his broad chest. All the way down to his loose-fitting jeans and worn-in boots, and back up again. The Colt left a bump in his jacket, not at all as inconspicuous as he thought it was.

Dean raised his eyebrows, smirk on his face, waiting for her to praise him like so many often did.

She hummed in contemplation. "'Kay," she replied, shrugging as though unimpressed, making her way to the fridge as the boys trailed further into the apartment after her.

Dean huffed, looking at Bobby briefly and touching his bleeding lip.

"You could've told me she was a chick."

"A chick that beat your ass, just now," came his rebuttal.

The apartment was reminiscent of Bobby's, leather-bound books lying all over the place, stacked randomly in no particular order. Finding something was like a challenge. Small excitements, Max supposed. The walls were mostly bare, few posters hanging from the walls. The ones that were up, unframed, seemed more as though they'd been thrown there than carefully taped up.

There were no pictures, bar one. It was — assumedly — Max, younger, no scars littering her face and arms, no weary frown. She had her little arms wrapped around Bobby's neck, perched on his back, wearing his hat, as they both stuck their tongue out. An abandoned rope swing swayed in the background, and Bobby wore a pink, beaded bracelet she had made on his left arm, which gripped her arm gently. They were close, clearly. Older and closer friends than he'd insinuated back in the motel. Dean got the sense she moved around a lot; this was temporary, but more permanent than anywhere else had ever been.

Taking a seat in a thrifted armchair to the left whilst Bobby took up residence in the brown couch, both accepted the cold beers handed to them. Dean waited to be passed his, waited to have her lean closer, red shirt shifting as she extended her arm to him.

"Is that a Zeppelin poster?"

Max turned to see what he was looking at, rolling her eyes slightly and turning back to him. "You mean the one that says Led Zeppelin in bright orange? Take a guess."

Dean just pursed his lips, nodding awkwardly and looking over at Bobby who had a gentle smile on his face.

The issue she seemed to have wasn't with Dean, himself. Max was cautious, she always had been -- you had to be. It was a skill, one she had taken years to cultivate. To hone. To perfect in order to survive. The Winchester trying to get into her good graces (or her pants, like most of these hunters tried do) wouldn't ease her mind any more than it would piss her off, for the time being. Considering they had just broken into her house, and all.

Besides, Max had dated guys like Dean before; charming at first glance, womanisers, heavy-rock listeners, obsessive and self-centred. She wasn't really looking for a rerun just because he recognised the band on her living room/kitchen wall.

"Don't be insulted, Dean," Bobby told him. "She has a heart of gold, secretly."

Dean smiled, puffing out his cheeks in a laugh. "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Want me to crack a rib and prove it? I'm golden everywhere, sweetheart." Max poked fun.

They all sipped at their beers, the condensation dripping down their hands, paper labels peeling off.

"So," sitting on the other end of the couch near Bobby, she turned to them, eyes glistening at the prospect of another hunt. "What do you need?"

They both smiled right back.

The hunt had ended up being very eventful — a haunted gold vase decorated in cherubs and false religion, tying the ghostly soul of an art director, overzealous and greedy, buries with tonnes of gold-encrusted rubies and dozens of small, famous manuscripts, to the mortal world. He'd been chasing his co-workers in a fit of rage, having been murdered by his co-conspirator, a thief, with whom he'd planned to rob a museum.

And the best part was that Max got to save Dean's ass whilst he screamed like a little girl in the face of a hollowed out, bullet-ridden spirit. She swore up and down that she was gonna hold that over his head for the rest of their lives.

If she ever saw him again.

That was months ago. Things were different, now.

♱

"Jessica Moore, you are an angel."

Cramming for her Art History exam, racing across campus to meet her friend, and finishing off a spirit in the diner a few blocks away had Maxine all but falling into Jess' arms, almost suffocated by her unruly blonde curls, at the mere sight of a to-go coffee cup. Caffeine was a lifeline for any student, but Max's late-night rendezvous with the spirit haunting Benny's had turned her into a borderline addict, itching for her next fix.

Jess just laughed at her friend's exhaustion, blaming an all-nighter. Max was prone to anticipation-induced insomnia, and with mock exams approaching they were even more likely.

"Do they have AA for caffeine addicts? 'Cause, if so, I think you should look into it."

Taking the cup from her hand and linking their arms together, the leather of her jacket squeaking at the movement, Max's lips turned up at the corner. The park-like area of campus was buzzing with life, and the girls made their way down the cobblestone path, looking for Sam, Jess' boyfriend.

"Ass," she laughed, basically hanging off of her friend's arm as they moved. "So, tell me again what happened?"

Jess had known Max since their first day at Stanford, despite them majoring in two completely different subjects. They'd come together in the library, the towering cathedral of education brimming with knowledge, both jittery, although Max couldn't say she was nervous, exactly. She wasn't sure she'd been nervous about anything. Not since she started toeing the line between black and white morality.

It was Jess who introduced her to Sam. The infamous Winchester; the hunter that hadn't quite dug his heels in yet. The one boy in the Business that didn't know that his every move, his every step, exuded prowess. That his placing his arm around Jess indicated his protectiveness, ingrained into him from the moment his father handed him his first shotgun.

He was his father's son, whether he liked to admit it or not. 

"...So, I walk out, in my Smurfs pyjamas, mind you. And they're fighting in the middle of our living room."

"That's always the way, isn't it?"

Max had never had a sister—Jess was probably the closest she'd get—but she thought that fighting was a given.

Jess turned to her, noticing her boyfriend walking towards them, dodging other students left and right with his heavy Pre-Law books weighing down his stature.

"No, I mean really fighting. It was insane. You should stop by and meet him, though—" she rushed out, changing her tone as Sam approached. "Hey, how are you?"

Sam kissed her on the cheek, exchanging greetings. Max faked a gag.

Gross.

They continued on their walk back towards the dorms, Sam taking up residence on Jess' other side. They hardly strayed far from each other. It was sickeningly adorable, with Sam's puppy eyes and shaggy hair and Jess' curls and bite.

It's not like Max intended to find herself in the same school as Sam, even if she was a year ahead. She didn't know he had chosen Stanford, of all places, or that he was in love with her best friend. None of that was intentional. Bobby had pushed her into a school so far removed from her previous life that she couldn't crawl her way back from California even if she wanted to.

It was a wicked coincidence.

What she did know, however, was that Sam wasn't in the "family business" anymore. He never really had been, just one foot in the door. Which is why she kept her hunting business to herself. She didn't tell him she knew Dean, his father. His roots. She didn't tell him about the poltergeist haunting the Diner down the road, or the spirits in the drive-in movies. She very well couldn't sit him down and say, I know what you are.

She made a promise she wouldn't.

"So, Samuel, tell me about this sexy brother of yours. What's his damage?" Max asked.

"What— Dean? He's not... damaged," the boy scoffed a laugh, but the subtle pause and raise of his brows said otherwise.

Jess was sandwiched between them, smiling. It was rare she found a boyfriend that her friends liked, but Sam and Max got along like a house on fire.

"Then why are you hiding him?" Max asked. "Come on, what? He have a hook for a hand? No, I know... he eats with his mouth open, doesn't he?"

Wasn't far off for Dean.

"I'm not hiding him, he's... a nomad. Hates people. And he's only staying with us for a few days until my dad shows up."

Hm.

"And will he? Show up?" Jess chirped in, placing her free hand—without coffee—on his arm comfortingly.

Sam swallowed, nodding.

"Yeah, he'll be back from the Miller Time shift any day now."

But Sam didn't seem all that convinced. Dean had stopped by the night before, after the Halloween party Max was going to crap out on—before Jess showed her the low-cut, short Buffy The Vampire Slayer costume—to talk to Sam. And by talk, he meant tackle him, steal his beer, and remind him how they grew up. John was missing on a hunting trip, searching for the thing that killed his wife and the boys' mother, Mary, which typically wouldn't be too unusual. John had a bad habit of brooding in bars and hiding in the dark corners, borderline depressed and manic at the same time.

So, Dean elected to stay with Sam and crash on his couch for a few days to see if their dad resurfaced.

Sam's faith was running out.

"Anyway," Jess changed the subject, "are we going to the library or the bar?"

"The bar," Max answered almost immediately, around the same time Sam suggested "library."

Max shot him a look, rolling her eyes. "The bar," she insisted.

For a six-foot-four giant, Sam really had no backbone. He conceded, huffing a smile. "Okay, bar."

And so to the bar, they walked—Rifler's—where their usual table was completely free. Max had claimed it because it was closest to the dartboard and was a fair distance away from the other tables. The lights were orange as they usually were, casting a warm glow across the moderately busy room, and their tall, wooden table stood proudly as if calling their names.

The bartender greeted them as they walked in. Max spent most nights there.

Sam could never understand how she could study there, surrounded by drunkards and rowdy students looking for a break, but she managed. She honed in on her work despite the obnoxiously loud music they amped up after nine o'clock, used to Bobby repairing wrecked cars outside when she was practicing her aim.

It was the one thing at college hunting prepared her for; focus. When Max looked down the barrel of a shotgun, held the optic of a sniper to her eye from the rooftop opposite a vamp nest, everything else blurred. It felt like there was a damper on her senses, and she was more attuned to what she could see. The wind in the leaves, the small pebbles on the ground swept up with them.

Besides, the bar reminded her of the Roadhouse. Sometimes it felt like, when she got so lost in her own world and the patrons of the bar transformed into blurry, faceless figures, the art books in front of her turned into journals and encyclopaedias, she was back there, surrounded by people that actually knew her. That understood her. That wouldn't made snide comments about the butterfly knife in her pocket, or the rosary beads around her wrist. The ones that didn't laugh when she startled and instead cocked their guns and took a fighters stance.

Maybe that's why she latched onto Sam. She knew what he could be, one day.

The trio sat, laughed, and drank for a while, playing their games—cards, darts and the like—forgetting all about John Winchester's disappearance, and Dean's looming presence burning a hole into their couch.

This was exactly what Sam wanted for himself. A life away from home, a beautiful girlfriend he intended to marry, the start of a relationship with his brother, and a friend that knew how to have a good time and work hard. No rock salt or shotgun in sight.

No soldiers and "sir." Just students looking for respite and older men looking for a beer, untroubled and free.

Free like Max, half-distracted and trying not to be a third wheel, who threw three darts in quick succession, smirking to herself as they all landed in the centre of the board.

Strolling forwards to add another mark to her tally, she turned back to her friends coyly.

"I think that's a Bullseye, right?"

♱ Author's Note: First chapter is hereeeeeeee. changed the story line a little bit so there's gonna be a bit of a gap between the beginning and end of the Pilot