A/N: This is my very first Supernatural story, so please be kind. I've fallen in love with the show, more specifically, Dean Winchester. So you can understand that anything I write about the show will be focused on him. Anyways, I love feedback, in any form. I haven't seen all the episodes, so if anything is out of character, please let me know.

The night is one of the more beautiful I have seen, a million pin prick stars lighting up the dark sky already brightened by the full moon. In the flat, almost prairie like lands of Montana, the road seems to stretch on forever, continuing towards a horizon that could never be reached. Sam is asleep in the seat next to me, face pressed against the window and snoring softly, fogging up the glass with every exhale. Given the amount of nightmares the kid had been through in the past week, the sound of his undisturbed sleep was a relieving one, even if it took away from my own slumber.

I glance at the clock set into the dash of the Impala, and sigh quietly. I should stop. I know I should stop. But the measly twenty-three dollars that remain in my back pocket isn't nearly enough to rent a motel room, even by the somewhat skuzzy standards of the area. And I just don't feel like sleeping in the drivers seat again. There is a tent, and a couple of sleeping bags tucked away in the truck, but that will mean alerting Sam. He doesn't yet know how bad things are getting, and I'm not really inclined to tell him. He has enough trouble sleeping as is. I don't feel like adding more to his worries.

He shifts in the seat, whines a little in his sleep, but relaxes soon after without another sound. I reach out to pat his shoulder lightly, but my hand floats hesitantly above his back. I tell myself I don't follow through because I don't want to wake him up, but my sub-conscious knows there's more to it than that. My hand takes its place on the steering wheel once more.

I sigh again, and turn back to the road. I need to find a bar, a club, even a motel. Any place there might be some heavy gambling going on, but as flat as the landscape is, I can see that there aren't any buildings for miles. Not even a fucking gas station. I've got about a quarter tank of gas left, but that can only go so far if we have to drive forever to find a refill.

I glance over at Sam again, and worry my lower lip with my teeth. He's been acting a little weird ever since…well, ever since he shot me. The memories come rushing back at the mere mental mention of the Asylum incident. My hand sub-consciously moves to my chest, gently pressing on still fiery sore muscles and skin. I never knew how painful rock salt could be, but it's not a lesson I'm likely to forget.

I know I'll never forget the look on Sam's face when he leveled my own gun at me. I was an idiot for tossing it to him, regardless of the fact that it wasn't loaded. I knew then, and I know now, that Sam wasn't in total control of his actions. But I guess there's a part of me that was…hoping, or maybe trusting would be a better word, that his brotherly feelings would be enough to override Ellicott's control. Huh. A little ironic that when I'm normally allergic to chick-flick moments, here I was praying for one.

But all I managed to do was set my little brother up for another lifetime's worth of guilt-enforced nightmares. I hadn't overlooked the fact that my name had replaced Jessica's, crying out in his sleep thickened voice as he writhes and thrashes about on his bed. I'm sure it's me he's picturing every night, dying a horrible death from his own hand. And it's my fault for putting the imagery there. My hand comes off the steering wheel to scrub at my grainy eyes. I wonder if it's an engrained talent of mine, or just coincidence that I keep setting the stage for people to leave me.

"You want me to drive for a while?"

My hand drops from my face in an instant, and I straighten a little in my seat. Sam is still leaning sleepily against the door, but his gaze is clear, and focused on me. His brief nap seems to have bolstered him, but he still looks like hell. The bags under his eyes have bags under their eyes.

I just shake my head, and try not to imagine how long he's been watching me.

"Dean, we need to pull over. You look like shit." He sits up a little taller in the bucket seat, as if preparing himself for the inevitable argument.

I turn back to the road, and clench my jaw against the sarcastic words that want to come out. Sam has made it clear he doesn't want to have anything to do with my illicit money gathering schemes; I just take that a step further to mean he doesn't want to know when my illegal skills are needed. I don't say anything about how bad we'll look if we starve to death when the Impala runs out of gas.

Sam sighs exasperatedly. "You know you're not the only one here, right? You're older, but that doesn't mean you can't lean on me sometimes."

I roll my eyes at him, always going for the sarcastic response. "I want to drive, Sam. It's my fucking car. You don't have to go all girly on me."

"I'm not 'going all girly!'" He turns in his seat, facing me, and tucks one leg up underneath him. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. "You can't do this yourself. You must at least know that, since you came and got me. Why is it so hard for you to accept my help when there isn't something to kill?"

I shift uncomfortably in the seat, and the movement pulls on still healing chest wounds. I grimace, scrub again at my face with one hand. I don't want to do this again. Sore and painful muscles, combined with no sleep, and very little to eat, shorten my fuse exponentially. To get into it with Sam again is only going to make things worse. But the tension in the car is nearly palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife, and it seems an argument is forthcoming, whether I like or not. So I opt for the pussy way out.

I drop my hand back onto the steering wheel. "Look, Sam, can we not do this now? Driving relaxes me. That's really all there is to it, okay?"

He's still watching me suspiciously; I can see him staring at me out of the corner of his eye. I make a point of relaxing my shoulders, settling the tension in my face. He watches me for a few more minutes, which I pretend not to notice, before shrugging and turning back to the window.

As soon as I can see the back of his head, I glance worriedly at the gas gauge. The indicator is just a sliver below a quarter tank; it's moved since I last looked at it.

Sam has fallen into silence; I can't tell if it's a sulking silence, pissed that for once, I didn't want to pick a fight, or if maybe he's just tired of bothering. I don't really care to find out. But then he sits a little higher in his seat, and reaches out to grab my arm with one hand.

"Dean, do you see that?"

Adrenaline courses through my veins at his words. He's pointing out his window to something on the side of the road, and for a long minute I don't see anything. My eyes have adjusted to the crescent of light the headlights provide, and they don't adjust immediately to the shift to darkness. I let up on the gas pedal, and the speedometer quickly falls below twenty miles an hour.

"Right there, on the shoulder." Sam continues to point, and I continue to see nothing. But then, when I pull over off the two-lane blacktop, I see it. A twin set of white lights, about two feet off the ground, maybe fifteen feet away from the front bumper. As I roll to a stop, the headlights wash over the source of the lights, and illuminate a dog. A mangy, thin looking German Shepard type thing. I realize the spots Sam had seen, and convinced me had something to do with the supernatural, is just the eye shine of a lost dog.

"For fuck's sake, Sam! It's just a dog!" I slam my hands against the steering wheel, irritated that he got me so worked up over a simple canine. But he just looks at me like I'm an idiot, like he knew it was a dog all along. Then before I can come up with some sarcastic response, he's opening the door and levering himself out.

"Sammy, wait!"

Although we've survived more than our fair share of other-worldly events, and we've been damn lucky at it, my mind immediately flashes to something that seems almost worse in comparison; death by rabies.

Sam is already approaching the dog when I finally pull my broken body out of the car. He's walking towards it, one hand outstretched in a placating manner, speaking soft and comforting words that I can't quite make out.

"Sam, are you crazy?" I hiss at him. I want to keep my distance; I don't trust stray dogs anymore than I would a werewolf, but every brotherly instinct I have is screaming at me to get between my brother and this animal.

He doesn't even turn his head to look at me, just flashes me the finger with his spare hand, the one hanging by his side and not offering itself as a hot meal to this obviously starving dog.

I contemplate running to the trunk, grabbing a gun, and shooting this poor animal dead before he has a chance to hurt my brother. Then I take it a step further, and think maybe it would be better to shoot Sam. Better the evil you know, than one you don't, right? Then maybe he wouldn't be so quick to jump into bad situations next time. But then all my thought processes up to this point become moot, because Sam has reached the dog.

He lowers himself into a crouch, probably so he appears less threatening. What he doesn't realize is that even when he's crouched, he still has a good foot, maybe a foot and a half on the animal. He stretches his hand out towards the snout of this thing, all the while keeping up with the litany of softly spoken, useless words that I don't have a shot of hearing.

The dog takes his sweet time checking Sam out, trying to decide whether or not he is a good guy, as Sam undoubtedly claims. After what seems like a lifetime, the dog puts his head down, and licks Sam's hand quickly. The resulting grin that comes across my brother's face threatens to break it in half.

"See, Dean? No problem!"

I just roll my eyes at him. He acts like he's a genius, like it was anything but luck that kept him from getting his hand bitten off. He slides his fingers from underneath the dog's chin to scratch the top of its head.

I take a few steps closer, intending to get Sam to get his ass moving, but the dog suddenly wrenches its head away from my brother, and fixes me with an unrelenting stare. My feet stop moving under the intensity of its gaze, and I wonder if maybe it isn't really a dog, but something more…up our alley. Sam says something to me, but his words are like white noise in my ears. My world has shrunken down, thinning to a strange kind of tunnel vision. The only things I see are the dog's eyes. I feel as if maybe it's looking at more than just my face, that it can see through my eyes and into my soul. But then just as suddenly as it came up, the moment is gone. The world flares up around me again, and the dog lopes over and pushes his nose into my hand.

"Dean? What the hell was that?" Sam is staring at me incredulously, and I get the feeling that he's been calling my name for a while. I look down at the dog that is still staring up at me. This time his attention is more like that of an innocent animal, and as I watch, his tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he starts panting.

"I …don't know." Sammy looks at me like I've sprouted another head. I feel entirely too uncomfortable with the attention of both him, and this dog that still hasn't looked away from me. "Let's…uh…just go, okay?"

I turn away from the Shepard, walk hurriedly to the car, and hope like hell that Sam is going to pick this time to be a loyal, order-heeding little brother. Of course, that's far too much to ask for me.

"Dean, wait a minute!" He returns to his side of the car, and lays his hands on the roof. "Look at this place. He's not going to last long out here. And he already looks in really bad shape."

"We're not a fucking animal shelter, Sam! It's not my responsibility to make sure someone's lost pet gets fed. Get in the damn car!"

I pull open the drivers door, maybe with a little more force than is strictly necessary. But before I can lower myself into the seat, the damn dog slips in behind me, and jumps into the backseat.

"Oh, fuck no!" I move to the back and wrench open that door. The dog has made itself comfortable in the middle of the backseat, making it remarkably hard for me to reach him, what with the chest injuries and all.

"Looks like he's made himself at home," Sam says with a laugh, from the other side of the car.

Without responding, I glare at the smiling face of the Shepard. I really, really, don't want to deal with this right now. I don't want to think about Sam, or this dog, or how much money I have left in my back pocket. I just want to hide under some blankets and sleep for a century. Is that really too much to ask? I stack my arms on the hood of the car, and rest my forehead on them.

"Please, Sam. Just get rid of him. I really don't want to deal with this right now."

I guess maybe he hears something in my voice; something that he knows doesn't belong. I can't hear it myself, but Sam's always been better at reading me than I am at reading myself.

He comes around to my side of the car, rests one elbow on the hood of the car, and one hand on my shoulder. "Dean? Are you all right?"

All I can do is snort. It's just such a loaded question. How do I tell my baby brother that the gunshot wound on my chest, the one he caused, mind you, feels like a real one, instead of being inflicted by some stupid rock salt? How do I tell him that we have nearly no money left, and with no sign of civilization anywhere, very little chance of getting any? How do I tell him that I lie awake for hours after he's fallen asleep, worrying about how I'm going to keep him safe, and in a relatively good frame of mind, while still subjecting him to the lifestyle he hated enough to turn his back on his family?

I'm not very eloquent, though, so all that comes out is, "I'm tired, Sammy. And you are in my personal space like no one but a hot blond should be. Just get the fucking dog out of the car so we can leave."

Sometimes I hate myself for not being able to connect with my brother on a level that he needs. Other times, I hate my brother for making me feel so inadequate. Today, though, I hate the both of us, plus the dog in the back seat, the asshole in the last county who didn't cough up any dough despite the fact that we saved his business from an angry spirit, and my parents for bringing me into the world and then leaving me on my own to take care of Sam.

Sam just shakes his head, as if he actually thought we might have some kind of a moment here, on the side of the road in the dark. He starts to bend over, and reach inside the car, but then it seems as if something occurs to him, because he straightens back up.

"Wait, Dean. It might be a good idea to have a dog around. It's been proven that they can sense spirits, and other forms of the supernatural."

"Sam, I'm really not in the mood for this. We have equipment. We don't need a dog."

"But what if the equipment fails? He'll be like a safety net."

I try to tell myself that he's not trying to be irritating. He just doesn't know everything about the situation. A dog is another mouth to feed, and in a time when I'm having enough trouble getting our own meals, dog food is going to be tricky to come by.

"Come on. Don't tell me a part of you doesn't want this. We've wanted a dog since we were kids."

I lift my head up from my arms to glare at him. "No, Sammy. You've wanted a dog since we were kids. I just wanted you to stop complaining." My words are supposed to make him angry, but instead he just half-smiles. I think he's starting to remember how to translate 'Dean-speak.' He's always been pretty good at looking behind what I am saying to what I truly mean, but can't voice. "Who is going to feed him? And walk him? And what if he gets hurt? I know enough first-aid for the two of us, but I know shit all about dogs."

"I'll take care of it. You won't have to worry about a thing."

I really, really don't want to say yes. But there's something in Sam's face, an expression of excitement I haven't seen in a long time, at least since Jessica died. I can't believe I'm thinking this, actually considering it, but if keeping that dog picks him up out of the funk he's been in the past few weeks, it might just be a good idea. And if I'm going to agree with this, Sam has to know how hard it's going to be. I take a breath, and try to channel some normal sibling sentimentality to make this a little easier.

"We don't have a lot of money, Sammy. The guy from the last job didn't pay anything, we've got a quarter of a tank left of gas, and I only have twenty-three dollars to my name. Okay? If the situation were different, I'd say fuck yeah, keep the dog. But I don't really feel like sacrificing your meals to give them to a stray animal."

Sam doesn't say anything right away. He's looking at me a little strangely, with his eyebrows raised in surprise and his mouth sort of hanging open. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I'm sprouting another head when he smiles a little.

"What? What are you smiling at?"

His expression only grows brighter. "You were honest with me. Outside of hunting, when your life depended on it, I don't think that's ever happened."

I roll my eyes at him, and give him a shove. "Shut the hell up. I'm always honest with you."

He snorts sarcastic laughter, but thankfully doesn't begin to list his evidence to the contrary. "Dean, stop thinking you have to support me through all this. I'm not seven anymore."

"Coulda fooled me," I mumble under my breath, as he sits down in the back seat next to this dog, which throughout this whole time has still been sitting like it belongs there.

"I heard that!" Sam calls out, but there's no real vehemence in his tone. "Don't worry about the money. I do have some of my own you know."

He thrusts his hand out of the open door, in which he is holding his wallet. I take it from him, shooting a look into the darkened back seat, which he of course ignores. I flip open his wallet.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

In the side compartment of the black leather wallet, Sam has a number of bills stuffed into a neat pile. I pull out one at random, squinting in the darkness to make out the $100 symbol in the top right corner. "You're kidding me, right? Here I am losing sleep, worrying about how I'm going to feed your scrawny ass, and you've been holding out on me?"

This time, his head appears in the doorway. "You're doing it again, Dean. All this honesty has to be doing something to your aversion chick flick moments."

He slides back out of the backseat, and straightens up before me.

"Where did you get this money?"

He shrugs a little bit, shoves his hands into his pockets, and manages to look fairly uncomfortable. "It's left over from school."

And then I realize rather quickly why he wouldn't want to tell me. To my brother, who tries to see and make connections in every avenue of his existence, this money would be his last, desperate link to the normal life he craves. Maybe by giving it to me, or spending it on weapons, or ammunition or something relating to the supernatural, he would be giving the remainder of himself over to the world he hates so much.

I close his wallet with a snap, and hand it back over to him. He's looking at me like he expects me to say something, but I have no idea what that might be. I'm frustratingly clueless when it comes to this emotional crap.

I settle with a simple shrug, and toss over my shoulder, "It's your money, dude. If you want to spend it on a dog, that's your choice."

I start up the Impala, and only have to a wait a few seconds before Sam closes the back door, and runs around to the passenger side. He doesn't say anything when he sits down, but the air in the car feels lighter, a lot less tense than before we stopped. The dog is staring at me through the rear view mirror. I reach up and adjust the mirror until I can't see it anymore.