Dean, never one to run from a fight, stood his ground. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Max stood with her one hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip. "The owner of this apartment. And I want you to leave!"

"Where do you get off calling me a murderer?" Dean angrily shouted, more because he knew she was right than anything else. But it still didn't give her the right. Who did she think she was?

"It's what you are!" She took a couple steps toward him, totally pissed off that he wouldn't budge and seeing everything she hated about herself in him. Her hands started to ball into fists.

"And how could you possibly know? Stories? Gossip? You've just met me!" Dean was not taking this shit tonight. All he had wanted was to get a bottle of whiskey and go home to drink, alone. But then she trips over him, one thing leads to another, the night turns interesting and then, bam! This! What the hell, Fate? Dean thought.

Her eyes glowing with hatred, she took another step and a swing. Dean was surprised at her speed, but he still caught her fist before it made contact with his face.

Dean felt a jolt of pain and energy as her fist made contact with his hand. He took a step to catch himself, miraculously staying upright. It was a good thing too because Max's eyes rolled in to the back of head and she passed out. Had he not still been standing to catch her, she would have face planted on the coffee table. Dean was at a loss about what to do with the limp Max in his arms. His first instinct was to drop her on the floor and leave, but something inside just wouldn't let him.

Dean easily scooped her up and carried her over to the bed. He laid her down and covered her with a blanket because she was still just in her bra and he didn't need that as a distraction. He thought about trying to restrain her because she was definitely something not human, but, not knowing what she was, he didn't know what would work.

He remembered the necklace she was wearing and wondered if that had something to do with this fiasco. When she wore it she was able to touch him—a lot—and there were sparks alright, but no energy blasts.

Dean scoured the corner where she threw the necklace, finding it after a few minutes of searching. He looked at the pendant, which at first seemed to be just a gold circle. When the light caught it, however, he could see a character inlayed in a white metal. It wasn't the same as the tattoo on her back, but it was similar in style.

Dean opened the jewelry box on her dresser, hoping to find a new chain to put the pendant on. Inside he found several choices and just picked up the one on top. Placing the pendant on the new chain, he left the broken one in the box.

"Why's the clasp got to be so small," he grumbled as he struggled to put the necklace on Max's unconscious body.

As soon as he succeeded, he took a step back and pulled out his gun. He pointed it in her direction not knowing what to expect, not knowing if the bullets would even harm her. But at least they could be a distraction.

Dean stood with his gun pointed for what felt like forever, but she never stirred. He thought about leaving, but really didn't want her to be walking around free if she hated hunters and was an unknown. He thought about taking her back to the bunker and warding the hell out of her, but didn't think it would be good for him to be seen in the middle of the night putting a lifeless woman in the back of his car. And he really didn't want to call Sam or Cass, because he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he did.

Dean decided to search the apartment for anything he could use to set up wards where he was. He knew that everything he needed was in the Impala's trunk, but, with the way his night was going, she would wake up while he was outside, catch him off guard and then—no more Dean. So he decided not to chance it.

He found paint, chalk and salt. They would have to do. He started with a giant devil's trap in the middle of the floor, even though he really doubted she was a demon because he never saw black eyes. He dragged the bed with her on it, into the middle of the devil's trap, then went about drawing every ward and sigil he could remember.

He was sitting down with a couple fingers of whiskey when she started to stir. He grabbed his gun and pointed at her, not knowing what to expect.

Max felt the fog lifting. Her whole body was humming with energy. She tried to remember where she was, what had happened, but everything was just flashes. Her life. His life. All the years. All the pain. Hell. Purgatory. Hiding. Running. Figthing. Dying. The loss. The triumph. The fear. Family. Love. She had a hard time distinguishing hers from his. She sat up, shaking her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

"So what are you?" Dean said calmly and evenly from behind her.

Startled, she jumped out of bed and whirled around to face him. "What…How?" She stammered, her thoughts still not totally coherent.

"What. Are. You." Dean repeated slowly, setting down his whiskey as he stood up.

The sound of his voice, his eyes, and the glass hitting the table made all the pieces fall into place. Her face flushed and her eyes closed, remembering the feel of his lips on her skin. Her head dropped when her next actions came back to her. Her visions proving how wrong she was. The lies she'd been sold. When she lifted her head and opened her eyes, there were tears falling.

"Dean," her voice was shaky. "I am so sorry."

Dean wasn't swayed. "What. Are. You."

She let out a deep sigh. "I am human," she answered him, seeing the steel in his eyes.

"And?"

The easiest explanation, she thought to herself. "A natural witch."

Dean was skeptical. "Just a witch?"

"Just a witch," she repeated his words. "A very sorry, misinformed witch."

Dean's forgiveness was running low. "And the necklace?" He was going to find out everything he could while she seemed compliant.

She instinctively reached up to touch it and was surprised to actually find it there. She remembered tearing it off and throwing it. "A dampening charm."

Dean was a little confused. "Why?"

She gave him a wry smile. There was no easy answer to this question. "Because I'm a little rusty," was all she could think to say. "And I don't want to hurt anyone unintentionally, a la earlier."

This woman had done nothing but confuse Dean from the moment he met her. And her sudden change in attitude wasn't helping. In fact, it made him more suspicious. "What's with the attitude 180?"

The tears started to well up again. "I'll tell you, but you need to stop aiming your gun at me. The bullets won't hurt me anyway."

Dean looked down at the weapon in his hand. It was so instinctual; he had forgotten he was even holding it. Dean lowered it, knowing he didn't have witch-killing bullets in it anyway.

"Thank you," she blew out a breath.

"Attitude 180?" he repeated.

"When…" she paused, trying to figure out how to explain. "When we touched…," she hit her left hand with her right fist and then separated them, wiggling her fingers to symbolize the explosion.

Dean nodded in understanding.

"Somehow, all your memories transferred to me, causing me to have what basically amounts to a brain overload."

Now Dean was really pissed. "You…copied all my memories? How dare you!" He raised his gun again knowing that the bullets might not hurt her, but shooting her would at least be satisfying to him.

She held up her hands. "I had no idea that would happen," she insisted. "It's never happened before."

He didn't believe her nor did he care for her excuses.

"But your memories made me see that the information I had been given, what I had come to believe, was all lies, to manipulate me," she quickly added.

"Yeah, uh-huh," he replied. "A witch, who needs a dampening charm, was fooled by someone else."

"It's a lot more complicated than it sounds," she told him.

"Enlighten me."