There was no blinding light, no burning desire. No hint of lust or sudden flashes of love on first – or second – sight.

There was just a quiet, silent understanding. A small, friendly smile played in the corner of her mouth, slowly spreading to her eyes. It was enough to smile back. Dean slowly shook his head, wearily rubbing his hand over eyes, nose and chin.

"Are you with your own car, or can we drop you off somewhere?" His voice was tired and rough, but he meant what he said. He stored the wallet she had been holding out to him back in his pocket.

"Really, would you? I mean, if it is not too much bother, that would be great. Thank you!"

Sam unfolded himself from his crouch, wincing slightly when his knees hurt again. He looked puzzled at the sudden mood-swing, but smiled and opened the passenger rear door for her.

"I'm Sam Winchester, the grumpy one is my brother Dean."

"Mike."

"Your Name is 'Mike'??!!" Greenish eyes turned dinner-plates in a tired face.

"So?"

"But you are female?" Dean looked her up and down.

"You have such a talent for words, Mister. Did anyone ever tell you?"

Sam's grin was nearly splitting his face. "Come on, don't mind him. He has a bad-hair day."

She climbed in, Gaspode following on the spot. Dean took the passenger-seat, looking over his shoulder, grimacing when he saw the dog on the upholstery

"Sorry" Mike grinned and pulled the terrier on her lap.

***

"So, where do we drop you off?" Sam asked.

They had been driving in silence, Dean just gritting his teeth so as not to swear whenever the Impala hit a pothole. Man, doesn't he notice that my baby doesn't like that? Why is he driving that way? He looked ahead, taking in the road-condition. OK, the tarmac is crap. But still!

A quick glance in the right outside-mirror showed the person on the backseat. Mike was looking out the window, her face relaxed. Still the small smile remained, even though she didn't seem to realize it. Her eyes were watching something far away in the distance.

She wasn't hot. Far from it.

Her shoulders were broader than they should have been and she had too much weight on her. Her tits were – well, not really visible under the jacket, but he suspected them to be small. At least there was no hint of them being bouncy or juicy, the way Dean liked it. Her ass hadn't been visible, the parka nearly reaching down to her knees. It was a useful piece of clothing, keeping the person inside dry and warm. It was not meant to attract men, and it didn't.
Her hair was darkish. Neither blonde nor brown, something uninteresting in between. Maybe grey? They were short – just covering the ears – and scrubby. It didn't look as if she spent much time with a brush. There was no makeup, not even eyeliner, probably not even lip-gloss. What self-respecting woman doesn't wear makeup? The face wasn't bad, but it wouldn't even come close to winning a beauty-contest.

Her eyes were something though. Even in the small mirror he could see them. They were bluish-grey. A broad dark circle encompassed the iris, making good the unimpressive colour. And there was this spark to them. Like he had seen in the dog's eyes, there was unspoiled fun and happiness behind the pupils.

He winced when they hit another pothole.

Damn, how can it hurt so bad? I was tortured by demons and now I'm complaining about a lousy dog-attack? They didn't even bite me that much – suck it up and stop being such a wimp!

"So, what is it you guys are doing around here? I mean, you don't exactly look like tourists."

"Road-trip" Dean answered curtly before Sam could say anything. He was resting his head on the backrest. He looks like he is in pain…

"Oh, ok." She took the hint, didn't say anything again except giving directions for Sam.

***

"So, that's it." They had stopped at a five-story tenement, somewhere nearly downtown. It wasn't exactly shady, but close enough.

"Let me guess? It's better from the inside?"

"Why do you ask, Sam? You want an invitation, I have to disappoint you: not without a propper date!" Might make an exception for his brother, though….Sam turned slightly pink. "No, actually I'm having a theory about this city, just wanted to know if it works with this house too…"

She looked at him quizzically, then shook her head. "No, except for my own apartment, it is pretty grubby inside. Could have been worse, but still – not exactly 'Better Living'-material. Sorry." She grinned, opened the door and let Gaspode jump out first.

Dean had been watching the building from the corner of his eyes, the head still on the seat. There were some not-so-nice-looking guys standing on the other side of the road, watching them.

"You gonna be alright?" he asked now, cocking an eyebrow at the men. Mike followed the hint, smiled and waved at the men.

"You know them?" Sam was watching too.

"Nope. Never seen 'em before. But it always pays to be friendly" she winked. "And of course I have my fearless guardian." She indicated Gaspode with her head.

Sam looked dubiously at the dog. Okay, he could steal their wallets… "At least let me walk you to your door."

"Sweet, but unnecessary. I'll be perfectly safe. And by the way…" they had taken two, three steps away from the car when she lowered her voice "…I think you should better get your brother in a horizontal position. He looks a bit pale around the nose. Bye, Sam."

Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean. She was right; he didn't look too good… When he turned around, Mike was already gone.

"Bye…"

***

"Maybe we should skip the bar tonight." They were back at the motel.

"Dude, I'm fine! And I want to get this gig done as quickly as possible! I'll have a nap, take some nice, friendly sweets" – grinning, he shook the bottle with painkillers –"and I'll be fine for a bar-brawl. Don't worry!"

Don't worry, don't worry...No, I won't worry. Why should I? He was nearly ripped to shreds – again. He didn't have to see himself like that, not yesterday, not then. So why the fuck should I worry about you… Huh, tell me Dean: why should I worry!

Sam kicked the bed – hard – when his brother was heading for the bathroom.


The "Theodore's Bar and Grill" was nothing like the usual places they hung out. There were a lot of red and green leather-seats – real leather! – and it was spotless. The lighting alone would head up an impressive electricity-bill, the bar was long and seemed to be made of mahogany. It was classy: there was no sawdust on the floor.

And it was filled with yuppies.

"Man, I feel so wrong here!" Everyone around them seemed to have come straight from a business-meeting, shirt and tie still in place, the jacked over the seats the only concession to the late hour.

"On the other hand…" Dean had spotted a very pretty blonde, who was talking to a not-too-bad-either redhead. Inevitably, he drifted closer.

"Dude, work!"

"Aw, no fun at all…"

These two would be way out of Dean's league… Sam went to the bar and asked for Jerry. The guy behind the counter pointed him to another guy, a few yuppies further down.

"You Jerry?" The bartender was average in every way. Average weight, average hair, average height – you get the picture. He was concentrating on filling two curiously decorated high-stemmed glasses with something blue.

"Yes, what can I get you?"

"Nothing, thank you. But we were told to ask you about dogs."

Now Jerry looked up and took in the guy in front of him: tall, slender, clean-shaven and mildly underdressed. But not so bad as to draw attention.

"Oh, really? Who told you?" His voice was low and everything bout him screamed 'suspicious!'.

"Enrice." Sam could lie pretty good too.

"Who?" Uncertain.

"You know, Enrice! He said you would remember him, remember him well…" It was all about faith. Believe the lie - everyone else believes it as well.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Ok, wait." Jerry probably didn't know anyone called Enrice, but how could he be certain… He turned away and came back a second later with a small card.

"Here is the address. Time and date are on the back." He gave the card to Sam. Reluctantly, Sam filled his outstretched palm with fifty bucks and drifted away from the bar.

The date on the card was tomorrow's, the address was unknown to him. Time was 11 pm.

Well, if he called it a day he could actually meet with Eleanor. She had her day off tomorrow, and it had been fun yesterday…He turned around to look for his brother.

I'll be damned!

Dean was chatting with the two women. Both didn't look in the least bored or uncomfortable, clearly liking the company of this charming scruff muffin who was telling them lie after lie.

Hell, they probably earn more in a week than he ever possessed – I can't believe this! Some days he was jealous of his brother's ease to sweet-talk any woman in the vicinity. But not now, right now the thought of his nurse was making him mellow. He drifted over to the three.

"Excuse me, ladies, I have to borrow you're friend for a second!"

"Hey, I was just getting started!" Dean was reluctant to move away from his conquest. "The blonde is Samantha, she just escaped a boring marriage and needs some consolation. You could…"

"Sorry, but I wanna leave. And no, I don't want to spend the night with my laptop. So, how about we meet in the motel?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam. Well-well-well, Sammy. Getting laid doesn't seem to be such a bore to you anymore… I'm just not sure if I should be happy or worried... He decided to stick with 'happy', at least for tonight.

"Great, cool. See you tomorrow. Oh, what about this Jerry-guy?" Sam showed him the card with date and time. Even better, a whole evening and a whole day for leisure! Maybe this gig isn't so bad after all…

Sam left, on his way out already searching his phone for Eleanor's number.

SNSNSN

It had promised to be a successful night; the ladies had been more than interested. Both. But somehow at around eight, they had wanted to leave for another bar and Dean had gotten the impression that he wouldn't be able to afford the drinks there. Not that the women – they were far too high in social status to be called 'girls' – had hinted anything. But the way they had drunken one expensive cocktail after another without ever checking the price was a sure give-away. Anyway, how much fun can you have, sleeping with a drunken corporate lawyer? So Dean had bullshitted about some important business and bunked.

Sam had taken the Impala, he couldn't believe he had actually given him the keys!

Great, walking is just what I want right now… Checking his wallet for cap-money, he bumped into someone.

"Sorry... Hey, is that you?" He was surprised when he recognized Mike.

"Same to you – what are you doing here? Don't take this wrong, but somehow this establishment doesn't exactly match your profile…"

"Look who's talkin'." A grin threatened to break his comfortable grumpiness.

"Hah, I have the advantage of not coming out of there." Mike indicated the bar with her thump. "The only 24-hour-store anywhere near my place is just around the corner." She held up a shopping bag.

"Your place is somewhere close? I thought this was the high-society-quarter."

"Well, thank you!" She was grinning to take off any edge that could have slipped into her words. Where it would have had every right to be…"It is. But as with all quarters anywhere – there is always an end to them somewhere. My building is about 45 minutes walk away."

"You walk for nearly an hour to go shopping??" Dean was shocked.

"No, you jerk! I usually shop somewhere close by. But I ran out of tomatoes and I don't mind using my legs." It went on like this. Easy banter, nothing serious, verbal punches thrown and received – yet none of them took anything to heart and nothing was meant to hurt. She was easy to talk to. Funny and witty, as smart-mouthed as himself, never shy saying what went through her head. Dean never noticed how far they had walked together already.

"What is it you do? I mean, when you are not road-tripping?" Inevitably, this question would come. It usually did.

"My whole life is a road-trip." Hold it: where did that come from? Somehow, his protective wall must have been breached – and he didn't even notice?

"How come?"

"That…That did come out wrong. I'm actually..." Quick thinking. He was good at that. He could lie to a cabbage, make it believe it was a rose.

"Stop!" She held up her hand. "If you don't wanna tell, don't tell. But don't try to sell me a stupid lie – I wouldn't believe it anyway." Well, so much for cabbage… Dean smiled to himself and changed the subject.

"Where is Gasprom?"

"Gaspode! He is at home, probably on the couch, which is strictly off-limits to him. At least when I'm looking" Mike winked and smiled – again.

How can anyone be so happy?

"How come you are so happy?" Again: not what he intendet to say. Or did he?

"Don't know, I just am. Most of the time… Why?" Her grey eyes fixed on his profile.

"Just curious…I don't meet too many happy people. So nothing … bad ever happened to you?" Dean, what's wrong? You sound like Dr Freud or something…

"What is this, a therapy-session?" Apparently, she had noticed too. "Lots of not so nice things happened. Probably nothing really bad: my parents were friendly enough, my boyfriends were boring but easy to shed" she grinned wickedly "and I liked my job. So, depending on your definition of 'bad', I was probably quiet lucky."

"Hmm…"

"Are you going to explain this strange question, or is it just another part of the big 'Dean-mystery'?"

He looked down in her dark-rimmed eyes and wished … he didn't know what he wished for. Just – something. Maybe that she could understand without him explaining, maybe…Just maybe.

And she did. Not to full extend. No one could and should understand everything about him. But something seemed to have passed from his eyes to her. She cocked her head again, like she had done at the diner's parking lot. And she smiled that small smile. Again he wasn't able to resist a small smile himself.

"All right. I won't ask again."

That was that, and she never did.

They had been walking for a while, not saying much. Somehow, the usual awkwardness when nobody said anything didn't come up – they just walked without talking.

They passed few people. Block by block, the walkers changed. Had it first been late-night-strollers and couples holding hands, there were now mostly men, walking alone or in groups. The only females out were hookers, looking for prey.

"Well, this is one thing that gets me pissed!"

Dean turned around, he had been multitasking again: at once checking out what the street-girls had to offer and scanning the road and the alleyways for possible threats. Now he followed her nod to a man who was walking a dog. Another dog…

"What do you mean?" He couldn't see a problem with this guy, and the dog seemed to be harmless. It was something big and dark – maybe a Doberman, but Dean didn't know enough about breeds to be sure. Not that he wanted to. He knew Rottweilers. Bobby liked them. That was about all he knew.

"I've seen him walking with his animal a few times now. He only takes him to the nearest place where the dog can relief itself and than he goes straight back home. Look how the poor thing is walking? He kicks him, I've seen it. And I'm not talking about a friendly nudge here. The way he treats his animal – he should be in jail! I've seen the dog limp so badly, it could hardly stand – not to mention pee. You wanted to know what makes my smile disappear? Guys like this do!"

Her voice had gotten cold and harsh; she didn't bother to speak quietly. If the guy heard didn't matter in her world. There was such venom behind her words, it made Dean shiver slightly. Her eyes had turned to ice, freezing and angry. He could hardly believe that this was the funny companion he had been goofing around with a few minutes ago. She started to cross the street, ready to punch the man, when Dean grabbed her arm.

"What!" She hissed at him and he let go, raising his palms outstretched to alley her anger.

"Sorry, but I don't think it would be a good idea to confront him right now. You know, I'm not in the condition to help you if he starts swinging. Not to mention the dog…"

Slowly the fury left her face, her eyes turning to a warmer shade of grey. "Sorry, you're right. I wasn't thinking." Her voice was still chilly, though. She turned around and walked on, Dean trailing a half-step behind.

After a few steps, she turned and smiled apologetically.

"You know what guts me? This dog of his – don't matter how bad he treats it, don't matter how much he kicks it – it will fight to its death to defend him. Because it is its nature, that's what it was bred for: defend your master – no matter what. It makes me wanna scream."

Where there had been anger before, there was now only a deep sadness in her eyes.

"You really care a lot about dogs, don't you?" Dean was a bit surprised, he'd never typed her as a radical animal-saviour. Hadn't typed her as anything, really…

"I like them. I like the way they never ever try to cheat you. You see a friendly dog, you can be certain that it is friendly, not just pretending to be. Mind you, you have to know their language to really tell if they are friendly, but they never bullshit you like a human could. They don't lie, they just are."

They continued the walk in silence for a while.

"What about you? You don't like them, right?" Mike was studying his profile.

"I wouldn't say I don't like them. I just had some very unpleasant encounters with them – and not so many friendly ones." He turned and stunned her with a sudden grin. "Must be a special skill I have."

"Really, did a dog bite you??" Dean actually laughed out loud. That is the understatement of the year! "Yeah, you could call it that."

"Recently?" She studied him closely, remembering the grumpiness and pain that had played on his face earlier that day, taking in the slight limp.

"Yepp. Yesterday."

"Oh……What…"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything to them. They just attacked." He had guessed her unfinished question correctly. She might have looked a little sorry for thinking it, but it could have been just the street-light.

"Sorry to hear that." Mikes voice was low, nearly a whisper. He waved her concern aside, Wnchester-mask in place and 'I'm-fine'-voice already at work. "Don't worry, I'm sure I will survive. It's just not a very nice experience. Did you ever get bitten?"

"Hell, yes! A lot, actually. I used to work with – well let's call them "problematic dogs". They are angry and scared, and they only know how to bite. So yeah, I know how it feels, basically. But I guess we are not talking about the simple "oops, my hand"-kind of bite, right?"

"No." He didn't say more, but the way he shifted his shoulders and absentmindedly rubbed his chest made it unnecessary.