Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

A/N: Thanks go to Zoey Skywalker 11 who read the story over and did a general grammar and spell check.

A/N: I've read a lot of fanfiction over the years, any similarities this story has to another is completely unintentional.

Remington

They found the dog on the side of the road. Actually, the dog was in the middle of the road and they didn't find him, so much as run him over. Their last case had been a tough one, requiring them to dig up three graves before finding the correct corpse. While Dean had been digging, Sam had been giving the cops the run around, trying to lead them away from the cemetery where they were convinced that a couple of nut cases were getting their kicks from excavating a bunch of rotten bodies. So, while Dean had been getting a workout, Sam had the relatively relaxing job of leading the cops on a wild goose chase. Exhausted, Dean had thrown the keys over to his brother and passed out in the passenger seat as soon as the job was finished.

He was awoken three hours later by the squealing of brakes and finally a thump. Thrown headfirst into the windshield, he peeled himself off the glass to turn a glare on Sam.

"Did I hit it?" asked Sam.

"Hit what? If you were aiming for my face, then yes."

"The dog."

"What dog? You screwed up my car because you thought you saw a dog?"

Dean contemplated murder.

"There was a dog! It was just standing there in the middle of the road," Sam whined. Okay it wasn't actually a whine, but whenever he got that tone in his voice, Dean felt like he was dealing with a five year old Sammy again.

"If you saw it, why didn't you stop?"

"I did."

"Get out."

"What? Dean…"

"It sounded like you hit something. Get out and check it. You better not have screwed up my car."

Grumbling, Sam opened the door. He slammed the door then walked around to the front of the car. Dean slid over to the driver's side. No way was he letting Sam drive again. Next time he woke up, he'd be staring out at a tree through the windshield. Looking out the window, he could see Sam crouched down by the front left tire. Dean thought about honking the horn to see if he'd fall over, but just like the thought of murder, it only lasted a second.

He was fiddling around with something down there. Great, having left the latest disaster called a town early; they were a little strapped for cash. Credit cards were risky, if they had to make repairs, they'd be in town long enough for the mechanic to realize they were no good. Death was too good for Sam; he was going to hang him up by his intestines.

Slipping a tape into the tape deck, he watched as Sam took off his coat. What the hell was Sam thinking; it had to be in the low 20's out there. When he finally stood up, he was clutching his coat to his chest. What the hell was he doing out there? The car creaked as Sam finally opened the door and scooted into the passenger's seat.

"What took you so …NO!"

"Dean…"

"No, Sam. We are not keeping it."

"We ran HIM over with the car the least we could do is…"

"You."

"What?"

"You ran HIM over with the car and we are not keeping him."

"Dean…"

There was the whine again. Why him, why couldn't Sam hit a deer? He'd like to see him try to pick that up and sneak that into the car. Not that Sam had succeeded with sneaking the dog in.

God, it didn't even deserve the title of dog. It was more a cross between a rabbit and Bigfoot. Its feet were the size of donuts, caked with mud and who knew what else. Its ears flopped down around its pitiful face. The mutant dog was skinny if you wanted to be generous, but in reality was just a pile of skin and bones.

"It's filthy Sam."

"After a bath you won't even be able to smell him."

"That's just sad."

"A few good meals and he'll be fine," insisted Sam.

"No, not him, you. You wanted to be a lawyer and that's the only argument you could come up with to keep him."

A blast of cold air blew in through the still open door.

"Close the door, it's freezing."

"Thanks Dean."

"Don't know why you're thanking me, it's just going to die," he grumbled.

Sam glared at him and then smiled at the quivering ball of pathetic mutant flesh sitting in his lap. The thing, Dean refused to call it a dog, was dropping mud onto Sam's jacket and the floor of the Impala.

"Hey watch it."

"Don't worry Snowball, we'll take care of you."

"Snowball? You are not naming him Snowball."

The minute the words left his mouth he knew he was being messed with. The smirk on Sam's face was enough to convince him of that.

"Just watch the mud," he growled as he pulled the car back onto the road.

Next to him Sam twisted around in his seat and practically threw himself across the back of the seat. He was searching for something amongst the junk piled in the back; he really needed to clean out the car. When he finally turned back around, he had a towel gripped in his hand.

"I was just joking, we're naming him Remington," said Sam.

Judging by the tone of his voice, there was going to be no changing his mind. It could be worse, though, he could have named him Simba or Spike.

"Fine, just stop whining and keep that thing in your jacket, I don't want him to get mud on the seats."

"I wasn't whining," replied Sam.

They drove on in silence for another hour before Dean got too tired to continue on and he pulled into the nearest motel.

"We're stopping?" asked Sam.

"Yes. We'll get a few hours of sleep and move on tomorrow," replied Dean.

"But what about Remington?"

"Look, I already agreed you could keep him, what more do you want?"

"We need supplies," stated Sam.

"Supplies? We have supplies, Sam."

"Not for us, for Remington."

"What could he possibly need?"

"Oh, I don't know, how about food?"

Looking down at Remington, he couldn't really disagree.

"So we'll order a pizza."

"Dean, you can't feed a dog pizza."

"Look Sam, it's 2 O' clock in the morning, nothing is open. We'll stop by a pet store tomorrow, but for now a little grease won't kill him."

He took Sam's grumble as agreement.

"Now wait here and hide that thing," he said pointing to the 'No pets allowed' sign.

"His name's Remington."

Stepping out of the office two minutes later, he was met by Remington running up to him.

"What are you deaf?" he snapped at Sam.

"No, he had to pee."

"Whatever, we're in room 218."

Unlocking the trunk, Dean pulled up the false bottom, removing some of the guns and the salt; he stuffed them into a duffle bag. Closing the trunk, he grabbed the bags out of Sam's hand.

He responded to Sam's questioning look with, "You can't carry all of these bags and the dog at the same time."

Room 218 was just like every other room they had stayed in, which meant it was uninhabitable by anything but roaches and rats. The carpet was grey, but had probably started out white. It was threadbare in places and the whole room smelled like an ashtray. Sam brushed past him, grabbing his bag at the same time and headed toward the bathroom.

"Don't use up all the hot water."

"Are you kidding?" asked Sam, "This place probably doesn't even have hot water."

Once again Dean was forced to agree with Sam. By the look of this place, they'd be lucky if the plumbing even worked. Dropping his own bag on the bed closest to the door, he spotted a phone book on the nightstand. He picked it up and flipped through it trying to find a pizza place that would be open at this hour. Finally finding one, he placed an order then dropped onto his bed. God, these mattresses were horrible. It might actually be more comfortable to sleep on the floor. Probably wasn't a good idea though, the carpet looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the motel had been built. Flipping on the TV, he settled on the Food Channel.

Taking the pizza from the delivery guy, he closed the door in his face and set the boxes, which were dripping grease, on Sam's bed.

"Are you done yet?" he yelled through the bathroom door, "I know there's a lot more of you to wash, but you've been in there for 45 minutes."

The door finally opened and Sam stepped out, soaking wet and in the same clothes he had been wearing before.

"Dude what were you doing in there? You do know you're supposed to take your clothes off to shower."

"I was giving Remington a bath."

"Were you giving him a bath or was he giving you a bath."

"Shut up Dean. The pizzas here?"

" Yeah, got two large pies."

Sam finally set Remington on the floor and Dean had to admit, he looked a lot better not covered in mud. He immediately set off across the room, sniffing the salt that Dean had laid down earlier.

"Hey, don't break that line. You see Sam; this is why we should not have a dog!"

Great he could see it now, he was going to be killed or get possessed by a demon all because of the stupid dog.

"Relax Dean. Come here Remington."

Amazingly enough Remington turned away from the salt line and started to run to Sam. At the last minute, he made a detour to Sam's bed and tried to jump up. Proving that his feet were too big, he somehow managed to trip on them and did a face plant into the carpet. Trying not to laugh, because he knew Sam would kill him, he restored the salt line around the door and rechecked the ones on the windowsill. Behind him he could hear Sam talking Remington.

Turning around, he saw Remington once again perched in Sam's lap being held fed.

"He likes it," said Sam, sounding surprised.

"Of course he does. He probably hasn't eaten in weeks."

Remington managed to finish off three slices of pizza before he passed out in Sam's lap and started snoring like a chainsaw.

Epilogue

It was sunny the day they buried him. They dropped his favorite ball into the grave along with his blanket and Sam carved his name into a branch that had fallen from a nearby tree. The collar they placed in the trunk of the Impala, not willing to part with it. They buried him two miles from the spot where Sam had run him over 12 years ago. They had been passing through on their way to another job when he had suddenly become seriously ill. They had rushed him to the nearest animal hospital 45 miles away, but it had been too late.

Getting back into the car, leaving Sam some time to himself in front of Remington's grave, it felt weird. For the past twelve years Dean had always stopped to open the back door and adjust the blanket on the seat, before getting into the drivers seat. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of the empty back seat. That seat had never been empty. Before Remington they had used it to store everything that didn't fit in the trunk and while Remington had been alive he had the whole backseat to himself.

Seeing Sam walking back toward the car Dean adjusted the mirror again. The car creaked as Sam opened the door and slid in. Looking toward the backseat he seemed startled.

"You okay Sam?"

"…"

"No, not really."

THE END