Dean stared down the barrel of a gun—a bigger-than-life gun, shiny with iridescent gun oil and aimed directly at his heart—a deadly weapon that was firmly held in his younger brother's hand. He knew there was no turning back as those infinite ink black, soulless eyes stared malevolently back at him. Time seemed to stand still as he heard the grim snick of the trigger being pulled. In that time warp instant, he could even see the bullet leave the barrel and speed in his direction. The projectile impacted with a tremendous thud, painfully tearing into his shoulder with ruthless abandon, destroying flesh and muscle in its path. Nearly destroying all faith and hope lingering within the man's soul as well.

And then he was falling. Falling forever until cold, dank water roughly greeted his back and then mercilessly closed over his head. The pain in his shoulder exploded, expanded until it clung to every part of his body. He gasped, immediately choking on the sinuous, slimy water that poured down his throat.

The elder Winchester moaned lightly in his sleep as the nightmare held him firmly in its agonizing, unrelenting grip. He tossed and turned, thrashing at the blankets that suddenly became the water from his dream.

Even caught in the throes of the nightmare, Dean soon felt a warm presence stretch out by his side. His subconscious and hunter's finely tuned instinct told him it was a comfortable and safe presence, and the nightmare eased its talon-sharp hold and receded, fading away to nothing faster than it had descended to torment him. His breathing regulated, and he slid back into restful slumber.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Dean awoke some time later to incessant barking.

Hey, can somebody shut that dog up?

It took a few seconds for him to process that it was HIS dog . . . well, brother . . . making all the noise.

Lifting his head from the pillow, Dean cleared his throat and croaked, "Sam, shut up!"

The enthusiastically floppy dog paused for a moment and then resumed the racket, jumping up on Dean's bed as he did so.

"Seriously, Sammy, be quiet! People are gonna hear you, and I doubt the manager's gonna like the idea of a dog in here."

As if on cue, a loud banging sounded on the door.

Dean let out a loud sigh and ran a palm over his face. "And there he is. Stay right there—don't move!" ordered Dean, as he slid out of bed.

The older Winchester opened the door to find the short, scrawny manager on the other side. The man's wispy gray hair fluttered in every direction and beady washed out eyes blinked rapidly behind thick-framed glasses. For all the world, the man looked like some kind of weird bird.

"MR. Wayne, I've had reports that you have . . . a . . . a dog . . . in here. THAT is strictly against our policy here at the motel. After all, we have standards to maintain." The pomposity in the man's voice rivaled that of long ago aristocracy.

Dean's gaze flickered around the creepy room. Standards? Yeah, right.

"Yeah, listen, Mr.—" he let his voice trail off in question.

"Dingle. Barry Dingle."

The joke was way too easy, and Dean felt it bubbling up in the back of his throat. Determined to remain pleasant, however, he ruthlessly bit it back, nearly swallowing his tongue at the unexpected sensation of stifling his trademark snark.

Adopting his sweetest, most innocent be-just-like-my-brother-Sam expression, Dean said, "Right. Mr. Dingle. Barry. You see, my brother and I—we kinda—well, we found this poor puppy abandoned by the side of the road, right? And my brother, you see, he's SUCH an animal . . . animal lover, I mean. So we couldn't leave that poor little guy behind. Don't worry; we'll be taking him with us—just as soon as we finish up our business here."

From behind him there came a soft, piteous whine and yip—a forlorn, abandoned, purely-puppy dog sound.

That's right, Sammy, lay it on thick. Dean barely kept his grin in check.

Barry Dingle sniffed down his long, prominent nose. "I'm sorry, MR. Wayne. We simply cannot allow a dog to stay in the room. There might be . . . damages."

Feeling his blood pressure climb a notch, Dean cajoled, "Look, how about . . . how about I pay a little . . . extra?" He reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty dollar bill, and waved it under the manager's nose.

Dingle huffed at the man in front of him and wiped at nonexistent specks of lint from the front of his shirt. "Are you trying to bribe me, MR. Wayne?"

"That's the general idea, MR. Dingle." Dean growled—his blood pressure kicking up another two notches.

Barry looked slyly at him and then at the money in his hand. "I think perhaps I could be . . . persuaded . . . with a little more incentive."

Dean pulled another $20 from his wallet and added it to the bill already in his hand. When Dingle merely raised a supercilious eyebrow, he added yet another $20, which was accompanied this time by a deeply annoyed human growl and an increasingly red face as his blood pressure reached a new high. He shoved the money into the manager's hand.

Realizing he'd pushed his luck as far as it was going to go, Barry Dingle tucked the money away in his pocket. Clearing his throat, he said in a prissy voice, "Fine. I suppose the dog can stay. You'd better keep him quiet though." With that, Dingle spun on his haughty heel and practically skipped away.

What an ass.

The young hunter stopped just short of slamming the motel room door. Returning to the bed, he shot a grouchy look at the dog. "See! I told you to be quiet. You so owe me ninety bucks when you're Sammy again. Don't think I won't collect either!"

WOOF

Dean looked inside his nearly empty wallet. "Geez, I see a few games of pool in my future tonight."

When Sammy-dog whined and pawed at Dean's leg, he muttered, "Don't have much of choice here, Sammy. Not if you want to eat for the next few days."

The dog stood and stretched before hopping off the bed. He padded over to the door and sat.

Glancing at his watch, Dean saw that it was around 2:30 in the afternoon. Boredom was rapidly setting in now that he was awake and human Sam wasn't around to torment, or at least have a conversation with. He looked over at Sammy. "So what should we do now, oh furry one?" He nervously jogged his leg up and down while biting at his fingernail. "What exactly do people do with dogs?"

After giving it a little thought, he snapped his fingers. "Got it! I see people at parks all the time with their dogs, right?" He frowned slightly. "Not sure what the hell they do there, but . . . let's go to the park."

His suggestion was met with great exuberance. Well, great exuberance by one of them at least.