II. Some Light B&E ♱

John Winchester had been gone for two weeks.

Not that it really mattered to Max, but with Dean crashing on Sam's couch in the meantime, making the most of the college experience he never got to have—too busy having been playing father's little solider, bold-faced and scampering for attention, for approval—and scouring the newspaper obituaries for anything that seemed strange, or resembled a description of his father, Sam was starting to lose his mind a little.

He thought he was out.

He thought he'd never have to set his sights on another crucifix, stake-loaded crossbow or silver knife again.

He was wrong. Laughably so.

Hunting, as enticing as the adrenaline is, the knowing you're doing something good even if it's wrong, dancing above the law under a different identity every day, was a mark. You were branded, burned; stuck in a chasm between evil and purity, between moments captured in stained glass and those elbow-deep in blood and gore.

Sam didn't want that life, not the way others did. Not for him and Jess. Not the way that Max craved it, even when she knew it would gut her. Tear from her the parts that made her human, like a parasite. Or the way that Dean sought after it, a vessel of approval. The only thing in the world that could make his father proud of him the way he was of Sam.

Either way, Dean craved the madness, and he was bringing work home. Home being Sam's place, meaning Jess was at constant risk of being exposed to his other world, so she had been essentially banished to Max's kitchen where her own pre-Law work was concerned.

So, that's where she found herself, pyjama pants hanging loosely from her waist. She'd stayed over the night before, opting to study and gossip over coffee and movies instead of mediating whatever argument Sam and Dean were likely to dive into.

Max handed her a coffee in a red mug, brows furrowed.

"You mean to tell me that he all but kicked you out in the middle of the night?"

"He seemed really worried, M. Like... nervous, about something. I don't know," Jess indulged.

Max scoffed. "What an ass."

Jessica Moore was pure. She was brimming with something golden that Max felt wash over her every time she spoke; a heavenly, daring decadence that drew you in and held you tight. She was too pure for everything the Winchester name could drag her into. The Molisanti name, too. Max would've felt guilty about It if she wasn't so selfishly glad to have someone in the dark. Someone who wasn't in a perpetual state of paranoia, jumping and startling at every creak of the wooden floor.

"He's your friend—"

"You're my friend, Jess." Max moved her hands when she talked, blue nail polish shining under the kitchen light, "Sam is an extension of you. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't exist when you're not around."

She was kidding, of course, but Jess didn't need to know that her ties with Sam went deeper than college. Deeper than blood. They were connected by their nerve endings; pulled toward one another in some sick twisted play of fate.

It was too complicated to explain without coming completely clean.

Max did feel guilty. She was capable of that. But, selfishly, she worried about what Jess would think of her—freak, killer, monster; no better than the things that she hunted. Insane. She dreamt of her reaction if she pulled back the floorboards under her bed and revealed the arsenal she had accumulated with sticky fingers and a penchant for pickpocketing flirtatious hunters that stood to close. Took up too much face. Jess was a saint, yes, but Max wasn't so sure she could see past it. Her best friend whipping out hex bags might throw her over the edge.

"You don't have to say that."

"I'm serious, he doesnt get to just push you aside. I will go full Van Helsing on him, just say the word."

"You have to stop with the supernatural films. They make you paranoid."

You don't even know the half of it.

"Oh, paranoid like Dean?"

They both sat at the kitchen table, Jess' law textbooks and Max's books on Ancient Egyptian mythology spread out before them, neon pink and yellow post-its everywhere.

The Moore girl cracked a smile. "He's worried about his dad, M, cut him some slack. As soon as he comes back, I'll be out of your hair, I promise."

Max stood, trailing towards her bedroom door. "Well, maybe I don't want him to come back."

"Max!"

"What? I like having you around! I couldn't care less about some random guy." She raised her hands in defence.

"This is Sam's dad you're talking about."

"Oh, believe me, I know."

Fucking John Winchester, man. Ruining lives since day one.

Jess just looked at her, fake disappointment painted across her face. It was hard to take her seriously in her fluffy pink pyjama pants.

"Maxine," she implored.

"Okay, okay," she half-smiled, looking at her watch. Max didn't care if John Winchester rotted in hell, Bobby's friend or not. Guy was a dick. "Don't you have a lecture like... now?"

"Shit!"

Max watched as her friend rushed around, pushing past her into the bedroom and back out once more once she'd changed, grabbing her by the arm before she could reach the door.

"Hey, wait."

Jess turned back to her, earnestly. Always listening even when she was busy. But in all honesty, Max had never sounded so sincere. "What's up?"

"I wanna give you something, hang on," the hunter told her, moving to grab something from the kitchen counter, pressing it gently into her friends palm, small red ribbon wrapped around the keychain.

"What's this?"

Max rolled her eyes. "It's a key. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

"I know that," Jess told her, "I mean, why are you giving it to me?"

The Molisanti girl shrugged. She suddenly had a lump in her throat, speaking casually, pretending there was no weight behind her words.

"I just want you to be able to come by. Whenever. Boyfriend's asshat brother around or not."

"Max—"

"You're like a sister to me, Jess. Alright?" Jess' eyes softened. "So just take it, yeah?"

Max was so ready to walk away—why did she have to get so awkward about these things, they were best friends for gods sake—when her friend pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, arms wrapped tightly around her neck, their brunette and blonde hair clashing like silver against gold. A mirage, two waves clashing beneath the sunlight.

"Thank you."

They pulled away, matching ankh necklaces shining. "Any time."

Max began making her way to her room, small smile tugging at her lips, when Jess called out again. "Max?"

The girl turned around with a hum, stacked bracelets moving with her.

"You're my sister too, okay?"

Max swallowed, nodding. "Good, 'cause that would've been awkward if not."

Max was an only child. The product of an ex-cop turned hunter and avid church-goer made accomplice, there was no need for another child. For competition. Max didn't need someone to push her on the swing set, or wait for her at the bottom of the plastic slide. She just needed to be perfect. A marionette for their entertainment. Their legend. Maxine Molisanti would be the most ruthless hunter they had ever seen.

It took years for Bobby to wring the training out of her. To extract the rules they'd instilled in her.

Jess made her forget about all of that. About the shotguns stashed under her floorboards, wrapped in old carpet and sheet. Jess made Max feel like a teenager all over again; like a girl. They had sleepovers and move nights, threw popcorn at the TV when John Tucker breaks those girls hearts. They went shopping, arm in arm, trying on clothes they couldn't afford and sunglasses they would wear to class, hungover. They partied and gossiped and danced in the living room.

They didn't shoot their problems, they talked about them.

Seeing what girlhood was like, what friendships with girls her own age—and no, Jo didn't count, she was younger than Max and a naive, blossoming huntress—it muddled her brain. In a good way. It was a good change, one Max was in desperate need of.

Jessica Moore was Max Molisanti's salvation.

But she would never see Max for what she truly was. Maybe that's what she liked about her. Again, she was selfish.

"I'll see you later for dinner? We'll get take-out. Thai." Her tone made it seem like a suggestion, but Max knew it was a demand.

"You know me so well," she smiled, watching as took a moment to Jess nod to herself and then closed the door behind her quietly.

Waiting to ensure the blonde future-lawyer didn't burst back in, looking for a pen or something like she tended to forget, Max waited a few moments before making a beeline for her room, straight towards the wardrobe at the end of her bed. A wave of urgency seemed to have possessed her. Her room was bare, brimming with her overpriced textbooks, both for class and her nightly activities. It wasn't too tough finding occult and Latin books that she could blame on her Art History course when someone got too curious.

When she reached her clothes, she didn't grab them.

She pushed them out of the way and reached for the back panel, pulling it from its frame with little resistance, revealing a map on the wall, red circles and shorthand codes written all over it. Messy, but decipherable to the trained eye. There were newspaper articles on local hauntings and ghost stories, pinned atop one another, littering the expanse of it, and a small box of rock-salt rounds stashed at the bottom.

Taking some of the newspapers she hadn't yet touched, Max sat on the end of her bed, placing them in a semi-circle around her. She tended to work from one spot, bringing the work to her. She could sit there for hours, skive off lectures, fall down a bewitched rabbit hole.

These moments were her favourite; the calm before the storm. The surge of excitement at a new lead like lightning charging up before it strikes.

It made her feel like her father, in a twisted sort of way. Her maker. The one whose mistakes she atoned for. The one who scared off her first boyfriend with a machete instead of a firm talk.

The sins of the father are the sins of the son, and all.

He did teach her everything she knew, before he disappeared, lonely and miserable, missing an eye. She remembered him sitting the same way, scarred and burned to hell but hell-bent on fulfilling the hunter's purpose. Cross-legged on the kitchen tiles, surrounded by illegally seized files and laptops searching so many pages so fast it burned a hole in their algorithms.

But Max was better than her father. That, she knew for sure.

She was flawed, yes—inconceivably reckless. Impulsive. Eager to prove herself worthy of what she was predestined to be. Worthy of the title she was raised to bear. More than an adrenaline junkie on speed.

But she also had heart.

Whatever was left of it, she had one. And that was more than she could say for the man mauled.

What's more, is that she had bite.

♱

Max let herself into Sam's apartment.

The building was borderline empty, save for a few straggling students avoiding their lectures and homework. Nobody payed her any mind when she crouched down in front of the lock, sliding her lock picking tools out from under her sleeve, except Sam's neighbour two doors down that stared at her weirdly.

I lost my keys, she had smiled.

He nodded at her nervously and slammed his door behind him.

Sam's place was nothing special; same as the other buildings across campus, empty and boring, a temporary home that only existed to prevent students excuses that their bus was late or their car broke down.

The one thing Sam's place did have, though, was the two guns aimed at her when she walked in.

Almost inappropriately calm, Max smiled, hands raised. "Woah. Easy."

It wasn't scary, per se. Max had been on the receiving ends of guns, knives, and claws before. It was just a shock, more than anything else. She knew Sam had hunted before, but she could never quite imagine him holding his own. Out in the field rather than hiding away behind his computer riddled with stickers.

The faces looking back at her were starkly different, despite their shared features. Sam all but dropped his gun, relief and a hint of guilt overtaking his face, probably grasping for the most plausible excuses for him holding his friend at gunpoint on a Thursday afternoon.

Dean, however, looked lethal.

It was kinda hot.

"Down, boy." Max looked at him, lips pulling into a mischievous smile as she stalked forwards. "You're not gonna shoot me in front of your brother, are you? 'Cause I'm not so sure his heart could take it."

"Dean—" Sam interjected, looking at his brother still pointing his gun at his friend, moving to take a step forward.

"Deja vu, huh?" The older Winchester quipped.

Max just raised her chin in a small nod. "Somethin' like that."

Sam was confused. Very confused. Looking between them, he pointed at them both. "You two... know each other?"

"Little Miss Sunshine here tried to shoot me," he told his brother, putting his gun back down on the coffee table with force and moving to sit on the couch.

Max moved further into the apartment, perching herself on the edge of the kitchen table. The best part about college dorms was that everything was so open, so connected. All rooms were in one. Max could see the small frown tugging at Dean's eyebrows as he unloaded and loaded his gun again, silently timing himself, from where she sat.

"You did break into my apartment."

"Oh, like you just did?"

Sam stood still, gaping, confused.

"And then I saved your ass, remember? So, are we square or what?"

Dean paused, eyebrows pinched.

But it wasn't him that replied, it was Sam. "I'm sorry—you two... what? You... Care to explain?"

The seasoned hunters looked at one another, sharing a look, if you could do that with someone you barely know. Hunter's intuition, or something. Max nodded at Dean, letting him take the reins. It was his brother, after all.

"Maxine here helped me and dad out on a hunt, a while back. A vengeful spirit in Colorado. Took it out when it tried to kill me."

When he screamed like a little girl, he meant.

The girl turned to the younger brother, smiling sardonically. "And your brother thanked me by staring at my cleavage all night." Facing Dean, she commented, "real classy, by the way."

Dean leaned forwards in his seat, elbows on his knees. "Oh, last I remember I thanked you for four nights straight, sweetheart."

But Max just shrugged, unaffected by him. "If that's what you wanna call it."

Gross. Sam shivered, stirring silently in his own mind. Retreating back up there, trying to break down what he was hearing.

And suddenly, he was furious.

He raised to his full height, towering over his friend. "You're a hunter? And you didn't think to tell me?"

"And what exactly would you have said, Sam? Great, welcome to the family business?"

"I would've told you to get out while you still can!"

Max laughed, "yeah. As if."

"Does... does Jess know?"

The girl looked at him like he'd grown three heads, standing from her position slowly, like predator analysing prey. "Does Jess—no, she doesn't know. Anything. And she's not going to."

"Why not? " he said, turning back to his brother briefly, like it was something they'd already talked about. "Maybe this is my chance to tell her. To finally come clean."

"And what do you think she would do, Sammy?" asked Dean. "Stand by and let you go out, hunting every night? And I thought you were out anyway, so what does it matter?"

The boy paused to think.

That was the thing about Sam. He was honest. He was a kid. Not much younger in age than Max, but his soul was new. Barely a scratch on it.

Sam sat down, next to his brother, fighting an inner battle. "So, if you're a hunter... does that mean you're here at Stanford 'cause of me?"

Max laughed. She actually laughed.

"Wow. Guess it is true what they say about Winchesters and egos."

"And what's that?" asked the eldest.

"They're suffocating," she said, rolling her shoulders back. "No, I'm not here because of you, you ass. I'm here because I actually want a degree to fall back on if I ever get out of this thing."

Because Bobby wants her to have a degree to fall back on. The autonomy Max thought she had over her own life was laughable, at times.

"—And because something strange is going on here, don't you think?"

Sam perked up at that. "What do you mean?"

"You don't think that your dad disappearing for so long is weird?"

Something about Maxine irked Dean. It had since the day they met, and the times few and far between that they'd crossed paths. He couldn't quite articulate why (which wasn't saying much, considering his vocab was limited to titles of shitty rental films he'd found in a string of cheap and shitty motels over the years, phrases he'd picked up from his dad, and very colourful expletives), but it did. She was dark and sadistic—he'd seen her fight before, and she liked it. Relished in it. She had an unnerving type of beauty that was tempting and challenging all at the same time, polished off with a pretty little hunting bow.

But now? Now he was grateful. Cause if he couldn't get through to Sam about their dad, maybe she could.

Sam? He was bothered by that.

"You mean to tell me you're here about my dad?"

She rolled her eyes. She found herself doing that a lot, lately. "Look, I couldn't care less if your dad lived or died—"

Oh.

"—but, Bobby does. And I guess that means I owe him something, or whatever."

Dean nodded. Duty was enough for him. Not for Sam, though.

The difference in them was clear; where Dean was all macho-hyper-masculine, daddy's little soldier, quiet and smouldering, Sam was hopeful. He had a clear grasp on morality, ever the Law student, and human. So human that it outweighed the parts of Dean he should've shared. The cynicism and the roughness. The inclination to shoot first, ask later.

"So, you wanna help us find my dad?"

"No," she laughed. "But I will. If you guys help me out with something first."

Now it was Dean's turn to scoff. "Oh, how gracious of you."

"You got something you wanna say, Winchester?"

"Little convenient, isnt it, Molisanti?"

But Max just shrugged, Dean's frustration rolling off her in waves. "You should know better than anyone that you don't do something for nothing in this business, Dean."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you owe me," she rose once more. "And if you wanna chase down your Dad, you're gonna help me get rid of whatever is here first."

Sam raised. "There's a spirit here?"

"A nasty one, whatever it is."

"Where?"

Max paused, running her fingers over the corner of the table.

Puffing out her cheeks, she moved towards the door, speaking over her shoulder. "I'll show you."

Dean looked at his younger brother, but the boy just shrugged, and they trailed after her like lost dogs. Dean whistled lowly, checking out the tattoo crawling its way past the waistbands of her jeans.

Max might've been a bit of a bitch, but Dean was just a man.

Sam punched him in the arm.

Sleazebag.