Sam's been working in this bar for about a month now. It's an easy gig. Kills the time. He spends hours every night making drinks for people, listening in on their conversations, always on the look-out for anything that might seem like a possible case. He follows up on leads during the day, sometimes hunting down Dean to share though, most of the time Dean hardly cares.

But, honestly, it's the closest thing to normal Sam has ever felt. And, in this place, after everything else, Sam figures that has to count for something.

He's in the middle of filling up Mr. Mohan's third drink of the night when he hears someone calling his name and glances up to see a strikingly beautiful woman staring right at him. (One of these days, Sam thinks he might get used to this feeling, like he's missing a huge section of his life that he can't remember. It's a little like being a celebrity, but still wholly unnerving.)

Sliding the glass to his regular customer, Sam wipes his hand clean on the rag tucked into his pocket. "Do I know you?" he asks, his tone just barely polite if only because Sam's experiences with beautiful women have been, well... sordid at best.