A/N: This chapter's dedicated to my best friend, Spike. The best dog in the history of dogs. I'll never forget him, and I'll never stop missing him.

After another hour of driving down the same road, looking at the same damn scenery on either side, Sam offers to part with some of his hard earned scholarship money to put up for a motel room. Naturally, I put in the token protest, but I'm just too fucking tired to really get into it. At this point, I'd pretty much take sleep in any bed in any room bought any way, even if it is my kid brother's school money. I pull into the soonest Motel 6 with a vacancy sign we come across.

"I'll check us in," Sam says, when I stop the car with a lurch and his words are like music to my ears. He's grabbed his wallet out of the glove compartment, and is on his way to the office before I've even shut off the car. I slip the keys into the pocket of my leather jacket, and lean my head back on the headrest.

I don't think I've ever been more tired in my life. I feel boneless; my skeletal structure, tendons and ligaments have turned to jell-o. I know that when Sam comes back with a room key, I'm going to be hard-pressed to get up out of this seat.

There's a shifting noise from the back seat, a sort of squeak on the leather, and I remember suddenly that the dog is still there. I've been driving without a rearview mirror since we picked it up, but not being able to see the dog staring at me has done nothing for my comfort level. I swear I could feel its eyes on me, before it finally curled up against the passenger side door and fell asleep. It all makes me wonder if all these years on the road have finally led me to go bug shagging crazy. I'm pretty sure paranoia is a symptom of insanity.

There's a knock on my window, which makes me jump a little higher than I'd like. I didn't think Sam would be so quick to get us a room, seeing how it's 2:30 in the morning, but there's his face in the window, dangling a single key from one finger.

He moves to the backseat, opens the door and lets the dog jump out onto the pavement. I worry for a couple of heartbeats that he's going to run into traffic, and get himself killed, then I wonder why I care.

I lock the driver's side door, then move back to the trunk to get our stuff. Sam's taking the dog to the last door on the right hand side of the single story motel, apparently trusting that I'll grab his bag as well as my own. I don't disappoint.

The door is left open, and when I step inside of the room that appears to be standard around the country, I realize why I didn't want to see that dog get crushed by a speeding vehicle. Sam is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, the mangy mutt sitting about a foot in front of him. My brother is poring extensively through the dog's hair, inspecting cuts and scrapes and scars with a kind of intensity and concentration that I don't see in him unless there's something to be killed. No matter how much I dislike the idea of having something else to care for, so far it seems as if this animal has done nothing but good for Sam in the small amount of time we've had it.

I toss his duffel onto the bed farthest from the door, and take the nearest one for my own. Maybe it's a little paranoid, but I always prefer to sleep closest to the exit. If Sam notices, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna hurry up and get in the shower?" Sam says. He seems to find something he doesn't like on the dog's body, as his brow furrows and his lips press into a thin line. "I want to get this guy a bath before he gets in bed."

I run that line through my head once or twice before jumping on it. "What the hell do you mean, 'before he gets in bed'? It's a dog, Sam. Not your first born."

Sam rolls his eyes, and when he replies, he doesn't even look at me. "You think he's going to stay on the floor when there are two comfortable beds to sleep on? I sure as hell wouldn't."

"You're a person, Sammy. That's a dog. I don't see you licking your crotch in public either." I slide out of my jacket, and throw it over the back of the room's only armchair. "I don't really care, bro. Whatever you decide to do, do it quietly." I flop down on the comforter, and I'm asleep before I hear his response.

When I wake up sometime later, the room is dark expect for the light from cars driving on the highway filtering in through the closed curtains. I prop myself up on my elbows, frowning a bit, and wondering what woke me. I know I fell asleep with my boots on, but I'm not wearing them now and I can see them lined up just inside the door.

Sam's soft snoring is the only sound in the room. I'm not exactly a deep sleeper, but it generally takes more than his midnight breathing to rouse me. I swing around on my bed, and plant my feet on the floor, grimacing at the dull ache in my chest.

It's been three days since the asylum job, three days since Sam shot me with my own shotgun. Although it's not nearly as painful as it was that first night, the wounds on my chest do seem to be taking their time healing. There's not much that can be done for heavy bruising and what might very well be cracked ribs. My only hope for relief in the next week or two is ibuprofen.

I glance over at Sam's bed again, when it hits me with a start. The reason why I woke up, curled up next to my brother on the bed; that damn dog is staring at me again. It looks comfortable, its back pressed up against Sam's, a slight depression in the pillow next to my brother's head where it must've rested it's own. Although this dog has already done good things for Sam, I nonetheless feel like an idiot for allowing it into his life without knowing everything about it. The idea of it sleeping next to my brother gives me a slight case of willies.

I put the dog out of my mind and grab the first-aid kit on my way to the bathroom. I wait until the door's shut and locked behind me before I turn on the light.

I've been wearing the same shirt since I changed three nights ago; it's getting a little ripe but it's the only button-up I have, and I don't really feel like struggling with a t-shirt every time I have to change the bandages. I shrug out of the shirt, and hang it up on the doorknob.

Looking into the mirror, I have to bite back a string of courses that would definitely wake my brother. It might be feeling better, but it definitely looks worse. The bruising has darkened, the worst of it in a mottled area covering my sternum where I took the brunt of the shotgun blast. The rest of my body is a roadmap of scrapes, bruises and cuts.

My chest is relatively easy to look after, apply ointments, change bandages, and check the bruising. But I haven't even looked at my back yet, and if the intense discomfort I've been feeling is anything to go by, I probably should. Unfortunately, I don't yet have eyes in the back of my head, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Sam to do it. I can already taste his guilt as is.

I apply some antibacterial ointment to some of the deeper cuts, then shrug back into my shirt. There's not much that can be done for the bruising, so I shake a couple of ibuprofen into my palm and dry swallow them. I pack up the first aid kit, but leave it out on the counter. I'm probably going to need it again in the morning.

When I turn out the light, and slip out of the bathroom, Sam's awake, sitting up in bed and staring at me.

"You okay?"

"Fine, man. Can't a guy take a piss without getting the third degree?"

Sam rolls his eyes so dramatically I can almost hear it. "And you call me a bitch. Touchy much?"

I somehow manage to keep from telling him that the reason I was up at all was because he shot me. Naturally, the dog's staring at me again, but at this point I've had enough practice ignoring it that I don't even bat an eye.

I lower myself carefully into bed, turn away from Sam towards the window. Although I would never admit it under penalty of death, it worries me to think that things between Sam and I might never go back to normal. Of course, in our family, normal is a relative term. But since the asylum, hell, before that, if I'm honest with myself, there's been a tension between us that never before existed.

"Dean?"

If the uncharacteristically timid tone he's using is anything to go by, Sam senses it as well. I feel like we're on the verge of a discussion of feelings, and emotions, and deeply hidden fears, and it's all a little Dr. Phil for me. I slide one hand underneath my pillow, and tuck my knees a little closer to my chest.

"Good night, Sam," I say, hoping he'll get the hint and not push the subject any further. There's a moment of silence, then I hear him sigh.

"Good night, Dean."

I wake up in the morning to the smell of pancakes.

My stomach lets out a growl worthy of a werewolf before I've even sat up. The room is dark, but I can see sunlight from in between the cracks in the curtains. Sam is standing at the room's only table, rifling through two open paper bags. The dog is sitting at his feet, staring up with great interest at the rustling sound.

"I picked up breakfast. You hungry?"

"Hell yeah." I kick the rest of the covers off, and stand slowly, wincing as sore muscles pull and pop. The ibuprofen seems to have done the trick. I slept without interruption for the remainder of the night and from the looks of the daylight outside, most of the morning. I notice Sam watching me out of the corner of his eye, and make a point to look as painless as if I was hopped up on morphine.

"What have you got?"

He reaches into one bag and pulls out a plastic bottle of orange juice. He hands it over wordlessly, while simultaneously lifting a white Styrofoam carton from the other. There's a plastic knife and fork attached to the lid. I carefully pry it open, and as soon as the concentrated smell reaches my nose, I start drooling. Chocolate chip pancakes, cooked just the way I like them, with a little black around the edges.

"Did you get-"

He holds up a hand to silence me, as though I'm a moron for questioning him. From the first bag, he pulls out two plastic containers filled syrup, and a third with peanut butter.

"Ahhhh…" I collect the many facets of this morning peace offering, and carry them over to the bed. Contrary to what many think, I'm not an emotionally crippled human being. While expressing feelings out loud is near to impossible for me, I really have no problem recognizing them in others. Especially my little brother. I noticed the look of worried anticipation on his face when I first opened the carton. As if he thought I would actually turn down food I didn't have to go get and pay for. He's trying to make up for something he probably imagined he did, if prior experiences are anything to go by. Of course, he didn't imagine shooting me point blank in the chest with rock salt, but I think he's putting way too much emphasis on it.

I want to thank him for picking this up, but the words don't come. I could blame it on the amount of peanut butter I'd smeared on my last forkful, but that's weak, and even I know it. So instead of thinking any further on the subject, I toss the now empty carton in the garbage, and head into the bathroom after grabbing my duffel.

Ten minutes later, I'm dressed in clean clothes, I'm shaven, and my breath is minty fresh. I'm in an exponentially better mood than when I collapsed in bed the night before. Sam's sitting on his bed, channel surfing on the tiny colour TV bolted to the cabinet. The dog's got its front feet up on the windowsill, clearly enthralled with something out in the parking lot. At the sound of my feet on the floor, it turns, regards me carefully, and then just as obviously dismisses me. A chill runs down my back.

Sam shuts off the T.V., and tosses the remote down on the bed. "We hitting the road?"

I dump my duffel by the door, and glance at my watch. "Probably a good idea. Checkout's in twenty."

Sam rises from the bed, walks over to the window and glances out, interested in whatever it is that's captured the dog's attention. "I want to stop somewhere, pick up a couple of things for Spike."

I can feel my mouth opening, but manage to clamp it shut before the protest comes out. The thought of spending money on a stray dog when we don't have that much to share sounds ludicrous to me, but it is Sam's money. And my brother's like me in more ways than he cares to admit; if I make a big deal about this he's likely to dig in deeper. Instead, I focus on something that won't trigger his stubborn response.

"Spike? It has a name now?"

Sam's grin threatens to split his face in half. "Yeah. I thought of it last night. You know, like Snoopy's cousin? The one from the desert."

And yeah, like some kind of moron, I can't help but smile like that. When we were younger, Sam was maybe six when he realized that most kids didn't get their back to school clothes from the Salvation Army. Lucky for us, dad managed to find a shirt with the cousin of the much loved cartoon character on it, quieting Sam's tantrum and allaying his fears that the kids at school wouldn't like him. Surely, nobody else would have such a cool shirt. He wore that thing so many times it was unwearable after only six months of use. I still remember how shrill his cries were when dad told him we had to throw it out. I guess that shirt meant quite a bit to him if he's held onto the memory for this long.

"I like it." I turn to look at the dog, whose still at the window watching the trucks pass by on the highway. "What do you think, Spike?"

Remarkably, the dog jumps down from the windowsill and trots over to where I stand. He sits down in front of me, cocks his head to one side and chuffs gently. I feel my eyebrows rise of their own accord.

"I've never seen any thing like that before," Sam says, a hint of awe in his voice. "I guess dogs' sense of people's character isn't that good after all."

I grab a pillow off the bed to whip at him, but he's grabbed his duffel and is out the door on those freakishly long gazelle legs before I've even followed through. I can hear him laughing all the way out to the Impala.

"It's all right," I say to the dog, which remains at my feet, though it had twisted around briefly to watch Sam's harried exit. "I'll get him back when he least suspects it."

The dog continues to stare at me, cocks its head to the other side, and its tongue lolls out until it hangs from its mouth. But it doesn't pant. For all intents and purposes, it looks like it's smiling at me. It's very unsettling.

I glance out the door, making sure Sam isn't likely to come bursting back in, then crouch down in front of the dog, so we're eye to eye.

"I'm pretty sure there are doctors in this country who would have no problem committing me for doing this, hell I'm the one thinking it, and I'm doubting my own sanity." The dog continues to stare, its dark eyes intent and unmoving on my face. "But something tells me you're not just an ordinary dog. I don't know, maybe I'm just, what's the word, personifying. Maybe I want to see something more in you to make me feel better about letting you get close to Sam. Maybe all these years on the road have finally done me in, and you're just an ordinary dog having a bad day. But regardless of the implications on my mental health, I still feel it. Like you're something more, and you understand every single thing coming out of my mouth. So working on that assumption, let me tell you this. Nobody hurts my brother. And being a dog doesn't save you from that. If you do anything to hurt him, bite him, or run away, or get yourself hit by a car, I will end you. You got that?"

It sits back on its haunches, watching me that inscrutable gaze, then raises a front paw in the air. Even as I'm wondering if this is happening, if maybe I'm still fast asleep and Sam never woke me up with pancakes, I hold my own hand out. It reaches forward, slips its paw into my fingers and keeps it there for a second or two before taking it back and bounding out of the room after Sam. I'm left crouching on that filthy floor, puzzling over what the hell just happened. Sam shouts after me from outside, and it's a long minute before I get to my feet and walk out to meet him.