Ever the hunter, Dean jogged from the room, returning a minute later with the EMF meter. A quick but thorough scan of the room disappointingly revealed absolutely nothing. Dean tossed it down on his bed.

With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a muttered curse, Dean eased himself back down on the edge of the mattress and stared at the intimidating creature reclining on the opposite bed. To most people, the big floppy dog would be far from intimidating. But Dean Winchester wasn't most people. Rubbing his palm over his short, spiky hair, Dean mentally compiled a list of what he knew about dogs—which wasn't much unless they happened to be hellhounds or legendary black dogs. Hell, he knew more about the cartoon Scooby-Doo than he did real live honest-to-goodness dogs.

As he was mentally counting down the short and uninformative list, his gaze suddenly zeroed in on the dog, a V of a frown marring his brow. "You just better not try to hump my leg. Got that, Sammy?"

Not expecting any sort of reaction, the young hunter was shocked when the dog suddenly sat up, stared at him intently, and emitted a soft growl. Then to Dean's amazement, the animal shot him a very human Sam-like look of disdain before hopping off the far side of the bed and disappearing from sight.

"Man, how can a dog make me feel like such a jerk? 'Cause he's not just any dog, stupid! And now I'm talking to myself."

Dean slid on his stomach across the bed Sammy had just vacated and peeked over the edge.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry. C'mon, man, I was just thinking of Bobby's old dog, Shotgun, remember him? That dog was pure evil—at least to me whenever I got too close. Maybe you don't remember since you were only six. Besides he liked you."

The dog turned his body so only his back faced Dean.

Geez, dog-Sam can be just as pouty as human-Sam when he wants to be.

Seeking to make amends, Dean said, "Hey, c'mon, don't be like this. I said I was sorry, didn't I?" When the dog finally deigned to look at him, he snapped his fingers and continued, "Why don't we . . . uh . . . why don't we go get some breakfast or something?"

He paused as if expecting an answer and then shook his head at the absurdity.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's go get some food."

The word "food" seemed to erase any hard feelings, and Sammy bounded to the door, an eager expression on his face.

WOOF

Figuring a shower could wait, Dean pulled on his clothes from the day before. As he bent over to don his socks and boots, Sammy started to whine and scratch at the door.

"All right, all right—I'm coming. Cool your jets, Lassie."

Dean hurriedly tied his boots, made sure his wallet was in his back pocket, and snatched the car and room keys off the small rickety table by the window. When he opened the motel room door, Sammy raced outside and made a beeline for a row of bushes to the side of the parking lot. Once there, he lifted his back leg and relieved himself. When he finished, he trotted back over to Dean, who stood by the Impala looking a little dumbfounded.

"Oh, hey, sorry—shoulda thought of that."

I am so gonna have a year's worth of teasing material after this.

Dean opened the passenger door of the car and was just about to tell Sammy to jump inside when he hesitated.

"Wait a minute, stay here and I'll be right back." He shut the car door and rushed back to the motel room returning a couple of minutes later carrying two used towels from the bathroom. Dean opened the car door and spread the towels over the seat.

Satisfied, he smiled and said, "Gotta protect my baby. Okay, now you can get in."

Once Sammy was settled, Dean slid into the driver's seat, set the engine to rumbling, and pulled out of the parking lot. Turning left, he headed up the road toward the small town they'd passed through last night. Hearing a noise from the seat next to him, Dean turned his head to see Sammy rubbing his nose up against the side window.

"Oh, gross. Dude, you're getting dog snot all over the windows."

Sammy looked at him wistfully and went right back to doing it. In addition, he scratched lightly at the window handle and added a little whine.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean leaned to the right and rolled the window halfway down. "There—ya happy now?" he grumbled as he watched Sammy stick his head out the window and sniff eagerly at the air rushing past the vehicle. The dog's ears flapped wildly in the wind.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulled into Billy's Homestead Family Restaurant which, even at this early hour, was doing a whopping business. Apparently, the good citizens of Webster Creek, Ohio, loved their breakfast.

"All right. I'll be back," he gently elbowed the dog in the shoulder, "You even think of peeing in the Impala I'm taking you to the pound."

Dean's snarky comment earned him another disdainful look and growl and he found himself chuckling as he headed for the restaurant. A small bell tinkled when he opened the door, and Dean felt the weight of a hundred eyes all settle on him. He resisted the urge to fidget uncomfortably. A harried-looking hostess approached him moments later.

"Just one, dear?"

"Huh?"

"Is it just you this morning?"

"Uh, no—I mean, yeah, it's just me, but I need an order to go."

"Oh, okay then. Here's a menu. Why don't you have a seat at the counter and Martha will take your order once you know what you want." She handed him a sticky menu and turned her attention to a family of six who'd entered behind him.

Spying an empty seat at the far end of the counter, Dean sauntered over and sat down. Before he even had a chance to open the menu or say anything, the waitress, presumably Martha, turned over the brown stoneware mug over and filled it to the brim with hot coffee.

"I'll be back for your order," she tossed off before dashing away.

He found the smell of the fragrant coffee too much to resist so Dean picked up the mug and drank, relishing both the taste and the jolt of caffeine. No wonder the place was so busy; they had the best coffee he'd tasted in a long while. Judging from the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen, the food must be pretty good too. With a sigh, Dean opened the menu.

Now—just what do you order off the menu for a dog—a giant dog who just happens to be your geeky, somewhat health-conscious younger brother?