After the storm ended, Sammy crept warily from the hiding place he'd found. Nose to ground, he sniffed, hoping to catch a familiar scent. Hoping for a clue as to the whereabouts of his human. But while the smells pulled in were a smorgasbord of delight to his canine nose, the one scent he was looking for had been cleansed away by the copious amount of rain.

Forever curious, Sammy dog was intrigued by those other scents and he decided to follow his nose across the terrain and explore—his foray leading him deeper into the trees. A few times he startled some small woodland creatures—a couple of rabbits, a chipmunk, and two moles—from their various hiding places and took great delight when they each engaged him in an exuberant game of catch-me-if-you-can before darting into holes or creases too small for him to follow. A squirrel too crossed Sammy's path and led him on a merry chase, finally racing a few feet up a tree before turning around and chittering a good scold at his big, behemoth pursuer. Sammy sat at the base of the tree and grinned up at his talkative new friend. Once the squirrel climbed further up and disappeared, Sammy, outrageously disappointed, trained his nose back to the ground.

sniff

sniff

sniff

Heeey, what's this?

The dog pawed at the small pile of unidentifiable goo he'd just discovered. It's noxious odor a tantalizing lure. Sammy gave in to an instinctual urge and flopped down, belly up, on top of the gooey pile and began to roll back and forth. He grunted and groaned ecstatically, four paws flailing in the air. When he was done, Sammy stood and gave himself a good shake.

Tired from his adventures, the dog scratched and clawed at some leaves on the ground. After several minutes, he had a nice pile gathered. With a sniff and sneeze, Sammy plopped down in the center and lowered his head onto his front paws, his eyes drifting shut as the sun dipped below the horizon.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean pulled the Impala into the nearly empty parking lot of Billy's Homestead Restaurant a few minutes later. His one and only thought at this point was to get some coffee in him, throw back a couple of painkillers he'd retrieved from the first aid kit in the trunk, and get back to Webster Creek Park despite what the cop had said. He inched from the driver's seat of the car and stood, cursing when his injured ankle almost refused to bear any weight at all. Not wanting to appear any more foolish by dragging the tree branch into the restaurant, Dean gritted his teeth hard, a white line of pain forming around his mouth, and limped his way slowly into the diner.

Since there were so few patrons, the sign by the door read "Please Seat Yourself". Dean made a beeline for the booth nearest the door and sank onto the blue vinyl bench seat. Air hissed out of the various cracks in the vinyl; ones not yet repaired with strips of silvery duct tape. He propped his foot up on the opposite seat with a hiss that rivaled the noises made by the worn seat when he sat down. The waitress, Marilee by her name tag, was at the table in a matter of seconds and placed a small glass of ice water and napkin-rolled silverware down in front of him.

"What can I get for ya?"

Dean canted an arm on the table and rested his forehead in his hand. "Coffee. Please." His voice was rough and hoarse.

"Coffee? That's all?"

"Just coffee."

"Regular or decaf?"

When her customer snorted at the mention of decaf, Marilee smiled and said, "Right. Regular it is."

Once the waitress disappeared, Dean tapped three ibuprofen tablets from the small white bottle, tossed them in his mouth, and chased them down with a swig of water, grimacing at both the metallic tang of the cold liquid and the lingering bitterness the little brown pills left on his tongue. He barely acknowledged when the waitress returned and placed a stoneware mug of hot coffee on the table but picked up the mug immediately and took a swig of the dark brew, not caring that it was hot and burned his mouth. After a couple of more gulps, he looked around for the waitress to signal for a refill.

When she returned to his table a few minutes later, the blonde placed a heaping plate of food—a huge, thick turkey club sandwich with extra bacon and crispy steak fries—in front of him.

"What's this? All I ordered was coffee."

"Compliments of Sergeant Brody Ellison, Webster Creek PD."

"Nah, that's o—" He made a move to hand her back the plate.

"Brody called to say you'd probably be stopping in and to keep an eye out for you. And if you don't mind my saying so, hun," Marilee eyed the man in front of her, taking in his damp, disheveled, and overall weary appearance, "he was right—you do look about done in."

"But . . ."

"It's bought and paid for. Might as well eat it," Marilee topped off his coffee with a wink and spun away before he could protest further.

Dean managed to down half the food on his plate before he pushed it away. He had to admit that having some food in his stomach, as well as some much-needed caffeine in his system, made him feel considerably better than when he'd walked . . . well, hobbled . . . in the front door. Now it was time to get moving again. To get back out to that park. He was just extracting some money from his wallet to toss out on the table when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, hun. Meal's paid for. And so is my tip. Brody's a good guy. He also happens to be my fiancé. Listen, he told me about your dog."

Though he knew they were likely just being friendly, Dean was uncomfortable with the idea of being a topic of conversation between them. In truth, he found it troublesome when any random strangers were so kind to him. It was a learned response from the kind of life he led, and he squirmed a little.

Seeing his uneasiness, Marilee smiled. "Listen, when—not IF—when you find him, swing by and we'll fix you both up with something good to eat. I'm sure your dog would love a big, ol' juicy hamburger or two."

Dean nodded his agreement and mumbled a 'thank you' before standing and lurching his way out of the restaurant. The three painkillers he'd taken had done nothing to ease the hot pain lancing up his leg and his limp was more pronounced than ever.

Throwing himself into the driver's seat of the Impala, Dean rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

Ahh, Sammy where the hell'd you run off to?

The young hunter twisted the key in the ignition, setting the Impala to rumbling. He sat quietly for a minute contemplating his next move before putting the car in gear and heading out of the parking lot, turning at the last second in the opposite direction of the park and toward the Camelot Motel.

He lucked out, finding an empty space right outside the room. Dean made slow but steady—if lurching—progress to the door and with some difficulty fished the key from the depths of his still-damp denim pocket. When he finally got the door open, he wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Dean felt his jaw drop. The room was a mess. Not just your average two-single-men-sharing-tight-quarters kind of mess either. Every piece of clothing that he and Sam owned—from the smallest item to the largest—everything was strewn hither and yon throughout the room. From one corner to another. Short-sleeved t-shirts, long-sleeved button down shirts, and jeans were haphazardly plastered flat out against the walls. For all the world looking like they'd come alive and tried to make a break for it. Socks and individual shoes and boots dangled and twirled in every corner. Worse yet, their underwear—their underwear hung suspended—right side up and upside down—in mid-air. As Dean crept into the room, he decided it was like standing in the middle of a giant dryer when time suddenly stood still in the middle of the tumble cycle. He stood for a moment, blinking, doing his best to absorb what his eyes were telling him. It was then he noticed the sparkling, iridescent dust—pixie dust—that glittered on each piece of clothing.

He limped to his bed and plunked down with a half laugh, half groan.

Freakin' pixies! Couldn't just be happy with turning Sammy into a dog could you?

With a concerted effort, Dean avoided cursing the fanciful creature out loud lest the pixie decide to exact some sort of further revenge in the name of "fun". Instead he stood and reached for a pair—God, he hoped they were his—underwear and attempted to pull them down. They didn't budge. After a few more vigorous but ineffectual tugs, the hunter gave up. In fact, he abandoned the idea of showering and changing into dry clothes altogether. The bed looked inviting and the idea of taking a quick nap was tempting, but in all honesty Dean was too creeped out—with an iota or two of paranoia thrown in—to consider staying in the motel room alone. It just seemed like that would be inviting further mischief. The kind of mischief he didn't have the time or energy to deal with right now. Not to mention he had no desire to end up being turned into a dog. Or a cat. Or a freakin' gerbil. He shuddered at that last thought—gerbils were too close to rats for his liking.

Mumbling under his breath about irksome pixies and wayward pet brothers, Dean left the freaky enchanted motel room and retreated to his safe zone—the Impala. It was time to head back to the park anyway.