Elizabeth honestly wishes she could say that climbing a fire escape in the middle of the night is for romantic reasons—rescuing Julia Roberts has been her dream since she was eight. Unfortunately she's doing it because Roger Miller is a dick and it's their job to save him. No roses or limos or tonsil hockey involved. It's total bullshit.

They're almost to Roger's kitchen window when they hear the crack-snap of wood colliding with something and a choked noise of surprise. Dean shoves Sam behind him against the railing, making sure he's the first one to the right apartment. There's nothing good waiting for them in apartment 1120, a spray of blood against the glass and a decapitated head laying in the window box.

Elizabeth seriously hates her life right now.

"Sam, start wiping the railings," Dean orders, tossing a bandana to his brother. "Make sure you get everything we touched so the cops don't know we were here."

"What about you two," Sam asks. Even with his sad puppy face going on, he's still following orders.

"We're going to check out this apartment." The window closest to the fire escape is in a hallway, Dean heading towards the kitchen and living room while Elizabeth takes the bedroom and bathroom. She's careful to use a scarf to move things around, looking for anything bizarre or supernatural. Instead she finds a vanilla selection of porn under Roger's bed, a toupee in his closet, and moldy toilet paper under the bathroom sink.

"Does snooping around and not finding anything make you feel like you're in an episode of House," she asks, coming into the kitchen. Roger's body is in the floor, a slow trickle of blood still pulsing from the stump of his neck. She should probably feel something other than disgust, but she can't manage it after sprinting up nine flights of fucking stairs.

"Sometimes, yeah. I take it the back half of the apartment is clean."

"Just boring stuff. No ectoplasm or cold spots, not even any scurrying in the walls. I thought all apartments had rat infestations."

"That's just yours."

"Yeah, I seriously need a new place." She opens the fridge, finding nothing interesting. The guy doesn't even buy good beer. Not, she admits silently, that there is such a thing as good beer. If she wants alcohol, then she'll get something fruity that's bound to get her drunk and taste good at the same time. "Have you found anything?"

"Seventy-five cents in the couch cushions, but nothing other than that. This place is clean."

"Something's obviously up, though. Sam dreamed about Jim Miller's death and he had a vision about Roger's death. What's next? I mean, I'm kind of freaking out here."

"I know. I'll look over the property's history again, but I don't think it has anything to do with the house." Elizabeth shakes her head, turning back towards the living room. "I swiped this for you, though. Don't tell Sam." She faces him again, taking the DVD he's holding out.

"Mean Girls?"

"I know your copy is getting worn down and I figured you'd like it." There's a faint blush on his cheeks that only deepens when she presses a kiss to his lips. "Does that mean you're happy about it?"

"Ecstatic." She kisses him again until she remembers there's a dead guy not two feet away and the moment kind of dies. "Alright, I'm gonna go find the seediest bar in town and see if I can't get any dirt on the Millers."

"Why the seediest?"

"Because no one that attends church regularly is going to bar where everyone they know can see them make an ass of themselves. They go to a shitty bar where no one gives a crap and blow jobs are five bucks in the alley outside." Dean raises his brows, the expression practically screaming judging you. "Don't give me that look, you know it's true."

"Yeah, fair. I'll see you back at the motel."

"You got it." They head back out the hallway window and down the fire escape, meeting Sam out by the car. "Don't wait up, boys."

The seediest bar in town turns out to be pretty clean, the bar isn't sticky and the bartender doesn't judge when she orders a tequila sunrise. He slides it over to her with extra cherries and she'd kiss him if he didn't look so angry. "Thanks," she mumbles, pulling out the toothpick and munching on the cherries.

"You're the only person in here that didn't start with a beer," a man says, ambling over to her. He's fairly tall with a strong jaw and boy-band hair that's jaw-length and dark.

"Go big or go home, buddy. Also, beer is basically wheat juice and hasn't done much in the way of getting me drunk since I was nineteen." She shrugs one shoulder, taking a slow drink from her glass.

"Admit it, you just like the cherries."

"Oh, they're definitely a bonus." He grins, showing off teeth that gleam like pearls even under the crappy lights. He sets his glass on the bar, trailing a long finger around the rim. "What about you? What's your preferred poison?"

"Johnnie Walker is the one I'm partial to." Elizabeth makes a face, remembering mornings of killer headaches and dry mouth after nights of drinking Johnnie Walker. At least with tequila she doesn't tend to wake up naked. "No fond memories with it I'd guess."

"No real memories period, dude. I drink enough of that shit and I wake up in a jail cell with a tat on my ass." He raises his brows and she laughs. "Totally hypothetical. No tats as of yet."

"I've never been a big fan of tattoos."

"Scared of a little blood?"

"Not at all, it's the damn needles that get me. The thought of willingly letting someone stab me multiple times isn't appealing." She nods her agreement, taking another drink. It's a little heavy on the syrup, but not bad overall. "So, what brings you to a shitty bar in Michigan?"

"Curiosity." She turns to look at him fully now, taking in the worn tee and leather jacket he's wearing. He's going for the bad boy angle, but it's not doing anything for her. He's just not her type. "I've been doing some research on a local family, one of them committed suicide recently but I'm not sure why."

"Is there ever a reason?"

"Usually, yeah." He hums, leaning his elbow against the bar as he studies her. "Maybe you can help me out. His name was Jim Miller."

"Sorry, I'm just passing through. I'm heading for Colorado. Are you a reporter or something?"

"Or something's right." He nods, dark eyes narrowing as he studies her again. His gaze is almost a physical sensation as it sweeps over her, taking in the stained Converse and the sweater with specks of old blood near the collar. She's got her pistol holstered at her hip and half hidden by the jacket she'd stolen from Sam, but still in view in case any guys tried to get handsy.

"You a hunter?"

"Of a sort, I guess. You?"

"Same as you, girlie." She grimaces at the pet name, shaking her head quickly. "Well, you could always give me your name if you don't like the one I gave you." Giving your name out is a dangerous thing and this guy might be a predator, but she's pretty sure he isn't a hunter. His hand is smooth and soft when she shakes it, nothing to suggest hard work.

"Eliza," she lies. "I'm Eliza Singer."

"Luther."

"It's nice to meet you, Luther."

"You know, I don't run into a lot of hunters anymore. They're a dying breed." She can read the warning there, a silent threat that she pretends to shrug off. Her glass is nearly empty, but he hasn't touched his. He sniffs it every now and then, but he doesn't drink. "How'd you get started?"

"It's a family gig. How about you?"

"I picked it up when I was about your age. Something about the supernatural interests me. I like figuring out which myths are real and which ones aren't. What's your opinions on vampires and werewolves?"

"Werewolves are easy to put down and vampires don't exist." He makes a sound, expression rippling so that his offense and anger are quickly replaced by something more neutral. "The more interesting things I've run into are demons."

"I've run into a couple of those in my time."

"Can't be too many since you're, like, thirty." He snorts, bringing the glass back up for another smell. He tilts the glass so that it looks like he's drinking, but his lips are dry when he sets it back down.

"That's kind of you to say. I got some killer genes."

"Mm, must make buying liquor complicated."

"You have no idea." Elizabeth's phone makes a noise and Luther looks a little miffed when she takes it out. The message is from Dean, asking if she's found anything. Just a dude that says he's a hunter, but I don't buy it, she sends back, pocketing her phone. "Boyfriend?"

"Yep, he gets worried when I don't check in." She finishes her drink, the tequila giving her a nice buzz. "I gotta get going, but maybe I'll see you again."

"Here's hoping." He raises his own glass in a toast, then slaps a fifty down onto the bar. "Your drink's on me."

"You don't even know me."

"You remind me of a woman I used to know. She was headstrong and funny just like you."

"What happened to her?"

"She died."

Elizabeth wakes up the next morning to Dean blaring Metallica and singing along in the shower. She could probably kill him, but her hangover is just bad enough that she'd rather curl up and die. "Why," she groans, covering her head with a pillow.

"Because we need to get back in the Miller house," Sam says, plopping down beside her. His hand is warm as it wraps around her ankle, drawing her foot onto his lap. He doesn't tickle her, just rubs his thumb over the joint where her ankle connects with her foot. "How are you feeling?"

"Like tequila and I should take a break."

"Did you get anything useful?"

"Townies didn't come near me, so I just talked to some dude traveling through Michigan. He seemed cool, said he was a hunter."

"But you don't believe him?"

"Hands were too soft." Even Elizabeth's hands have callouses despite all the lotion she uses. It's an inevitable part of the job. She rolls onto her back and moves the pillow so she can see her friend. He's already dressed for the morning, back in the stuffy priest outfit that's a little too tight through the shoulders. "What am I supposed to be doing while you two are playing priests?"

"Sitting in the car as backup."

"That's boring."

"Better than being stuck here."

"Is it, though? Is it really? Why can't I just dress up as a nun."

"Because you'd burst into flames and I don't feel like putting you out." She snorts, smacking him lightly with her pillow. It's smudged with mascara, meaning she'd passed right out last night and she'll probably break out later. She really needs to stop getting drunk while wearing makeup. "Come on, get dressed."

"I gotta wash my face."

"Dean and I did that last night."

"It took two of you?"

"You get handsy when you're drunk. I let you fondle Dean while I cleaned your face. Now go get dressed while I get coffee." She hums as she sits up, not getting out of bed until Sam left and the Impala starts. She pulls on jeans and a peach tank top, not bothering with her hair as she stumbles over to the sink to brush her teeth.

"And the hate still shapes me," Dean sings as he comes out of the bathroom," so hold onto me until it sleeps!"

"You ever been stabbed with a toothbrush," Elizabeth asks around a mouthful of toothpaste. He gives her a toothy grin, bumping her with his shoulder. "How much did I drink after I got back here?"

"A lot. Sam and I decided not to keep count after your sixth shot of tequila." And yeah, that sounds about right. She finishes brushing her teeth and rinses, smacking her lips a few times. "Did Sam tell you the plan?"

"I'm backup while you two go pretend to be Richelieu." He laughs softly, stepping closer to her. He smells like Irish Springs soap and she presses her face against his neck to breathe him in. "I hate being backup."

"I know, Liza. Something's up with that family and I'd feel more comfortable knowing you're close by when we go back in there. You're the best kind of backup. You know why?"

"Mm-mm."

"Because I know you'll say fuck calling the cops and come bursting in yourself. You'll shoot anyone that tries to stop you until you know your boys are safe." She hums, wrapping her arms around his waist and melting against him. He's so warm and she feels so safe in his arms. Why did it take her so long to tell him that she loves him?

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"Love you most." He laughs again, tightening his hold on her. There's a honk outside the door and Elizabeth steps back with a smile. "Come on, handsome. Let's go find out what's wrong with the Miller family." Sam hands them their coffee when they get in the car, rolling his eyes when Elizabeth dabs some of her whipped cream on his nose.

"Why," he asks, using a napkin to wipe it off.

"Because you looked like you needed it, Sammy."

"You're such a dork."

"Guess it's a good thing that you love me, huh?" He cracks a smile at that, rolling his eyes again. Elizabeth's pretty sure they'll pop out one day if he keeps rolling them like that. The drive to the Miller house is passed with lighthearted conversation that dies away when they pull up to the curb, Sam putting the car in park. "Well, have fun. I'll be out here with nothing to do except daydream."

"You can't pretend to be a priest, Liza. They don't tend to have boobs."

"Shut up." Sam sends Dean a look and then gets out, sitting on the hood. "What's that about?"

"We know you hate being left behind, is all," Dean says, shrugging. He turns in his seat to look at her, expression filled with sympathy. "I know you feel like crawling out of your skin with boredom, but it's better that you're out here in case something happens."

"That makes zero sense, dude."

"I know it does, but it's last minute and I'm pulling this excuse outta my ass. Work with me here."

"Fine, I'll stay in the car if you promise to take me out after this is over. I happen to know a bar that's fairly cheap without being awful."

"Sounds good. I'll see you in a bit." Dean gets out with one last smile her way, he and Sam wandering up to the front door. It takes a moment, but then it's opening to reveal Max. She can see him better now, he's too pale and sweat shines on his forehead, hands shaking where they grip the doorframe.

"Let them in, kid." As if he can hear her, Max opens the door wider and steps inside to let the boys inside. He casts a glance over at the car, but then he's retreating and the door is shut. Elizabeth reclines along the seat, her back against the door and her eyes on the house.

They're not in the house ten minutes before Elizabeth's phone beeps with a text from Sam. Pretty sure Max was abused, go check it out for us? Send u address.

You got it, Sammy. She climbs over the front seat and scoots so she's behind the wheel, the car starting up with a rumbling purr. Another text lets her know the address, a house across town in a worse neighborhood. The houses here are practically cookie-cutter, but the one she parks across the street from is all cracked siding and overgrown weeds.

"Excuse me," she says as she gets out of the car. An old man glances up from his raking, giving her his full attention. "I'm Eliza Singer with social services and I was wondering what you could tell me about the folks that used to live across the street from you." The old man's lips press together and he shakes his head.

"Did something happen to Max?"

"He's not dead if that's what you mean. He's technically too old now, but I'd like to help him as much as I can. I'm sure you understand that."

"Yeah, I do. What do you need to know?"

"Everything." The old man heaves out a sigh and rests his hands on the rake's handle, fingers drumming against one hand. "If I can get a shred of proof, then I can make sure the bastards never touch that boy again."

"It started after his mom was killed in the kid's nursery, a wiring issue that caused a fire. The dad and the uncle used to smack Max around like he was a red-headed step-kid, broke his arm a couple of times. I called the police I don't know how many times, so why's it matter now?"

"I wasn't around back then, sir. I'm a whole lot more stubborn than some others."

"The beatings got worse when Jim had been drinking. I could hear that bastard yellin' clear across the street and inside my own house. The things he said to the boy weren't right, Miss Singer. The worst thing was the step-mother, Alice. Max would be getting the snot beat out of him and she'd just stand aside and let it happen. I wanted to shake her, make her see what's going on, but I called the cops instead. What made you guys interested now?"

"His father and uncle have died, both suspicious. I figured I could at least keep Max out of jail if I knew what was going on. There's no evidence that he killed them, but I wouldn't blame him if he did."

"I'd give the kid a clap on the back if he did."

"Thank you for your help. If I need anything else, I'll come find you."

"You tell Max that he can stay with me if things get bad for him. He's welcome here." She nods with a tight smile, heading for the car. Her text alert goes off when she's halfway down the street, another text from Sam. SOS.

"Goddammit," she growls, stepping on the gas and blowing past a stop sign.

She should have just stayed there with them, she should have insisted on going in! If something happens because they wanted her outside, then she'll bring their bitch asses back to life to kill them herself. The car screeches to a halt outside the Miller house, all the shutters closed on both floors. She grabs her pistol out of her purse before she storms up to the front door, the knob refusing to turn.

"Sam! Sam, let me in!"

"He's telekinetic!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" With a scowl, she picks up a chair from the porch and throws it as hard as she can, wood and glass splintering under the metal. She climbs in through the busted window, going straight for the closet that Sam's yelling in.

"Liza! Liza go get Max! He's upstairs!"

"What about you?"

"Just go! He has Dean's gun!" With another curse, she takes off upstairs, following the sound of yelling. "No!" She bursts into the bedroom at the end of the hall, using the momentum to slam into Max and pin him to the floor. She tries not to think about the pistol floating in the air, the barrel pointed at Dean's head.

"Max, stop this!"

"No, I have to!"

"You don't! There's a man that lived across form you, do you remember him? Old fella? Concerned?" Max is still struggling to get away, but he nods. "He remembers you too, Max. He says you're welcome to move in with him. You can't get away if you kill Alice. It's just gonna haunt you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I couldn't save my sister and that still fucks me up four years later." Her vision blurs with tears and she doesn't bother trying to blink them away. "She was depressed and I didn't see it and I couldn't help her. But you know what? That's not my fault, Max. And your family being a bunch of deadbeat losers isn't your fault either."

"I have to kill her! I have to!"

"You don't, honey. Please, just put the gun down and I'll take you to that old dude myself."

"We can help you, Max," Sam says, coming into the room. There's panic in his eyes, but he's doing his best to seem clam. "We can work through this together. Just let Dean and Alice go." Max goes still beneath Elizabeth, nails scratching against the floor as he shakes his head.

"It's gong to be okay. Sam and I will be there for you. Just a phone call away."

"You have to let this go, Max. You have to stop this." Max heaves out a shuddering breath and then the pistol is dropping onto the bed, the kid going limp. "Come on, let's go pack you some clothes." Elizabeth rolls off him, letting Sam help him up and down the hallway.

"Regretting not letting me come in now?"

"Don't get cocky," Dean grumbles, stuffing his gun in his waistband. He helps her up with a grunt, brushing some of her hair off her face. "The fact that you just saved my life is super hot, though. I say we head back to the motel and let Sam drop off Max."

"Not a chance. You owe me a drink and I need to make sure Max gets delivered safely." Her smile fades when she turns to look at Alice, the older woman pressed against the wall. She's got her arms wrapped around her and tears glistening on her cheeks, looking all-around traumatized. "Alice, I need you to know something."

"What," she asks, a hoarse whisper. Elizabeth gets as close as possible, making sure Alice is looking her dead in the eyes. "What is it?"

"You ever go anywhere near that kid again and I'll kill you myself. I won't use a gun, though, that's too fast. You're gonna know what it feels like to be afraid everyday just like the little boy you were supposed to protect. The only reason I didn't let him shoot you in the head was because he didn't need another death on his conscience. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can stay in here until we leave."

They're creepy and they're kooky/mysterious and spooky/they're altogether ooky/the Addams Family/their house is a museum/when people come to see them/they really are a scream/the Addams Family