Stranger On The Highway

by SignsOfSun

This stand alone fic is based on a dream that Jensen said he had about an ending for Supernatural a few years back - literally the last scene of the series. His description was very brief but I thought the concept was kinda cool. So I felt drawn to expand upon it. I did however make sure to include everything he did say about it. Warning: Mention of past major character death.

Title: Stranger On The Highway

Summary: This is a one shot stand alone fic. Been resisting the urge to write this for a long time and have finally given in. Must have been that season finale. Or it was just finally time. Who knows really.

This fic is based on a dream that Jensen said he had about an ending for Supernatural a few years back - literally the last scene. His description was very brief but I thought the concept was kinda cool. So I felt drawn to expand upon it. I did however make sure to include everything he did say about it.

Warning: Mention of past major character death. And general sadness.

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Stranger On The Highway

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The front tires of the Impala create a gritty crunch sound as they leave the flat surface of the highway blacktop and roll onto the gravel of the tiny dirt lot. Dean steers Baby off to the far end of the rest stop's parking area. Then shifts into park and cuts the engine.

For a moment he simply sits. His hands are rested on the wheel. And his gaze is fixed on the rural landscape which is laid out before him on the other side of the windshield. It is only then, once he is no longer in motion, that he realizes he doesn't even know how long he's been driving out straight. He actually has to sift back through the broken mental pieces of the miles that he does remember to recover any clue.

It had still been night when he had pulled into some twenty four hour truck stop diner and ordered a burger and way too many cups of coffee. He didn't linger for all that long though. Next door to the diner there had been a bar, a rather sketchy one even by his standards, and Dean had begun to feel himself drawn to go hustle pool and then proceed to hook up or booze his way into emotional oblivion. Or possibly both.

Dean doesn't recall how he found himself back in the driver's seat instead of planted on a bar stool. Or how he didn't, quite probably, end up lying on the floor beside said bar stool thoroughly hammered or perhaps coming to in the bed of some chick he doesn't even remember banging.

It's like a lot of things these days. Most everything is dulled to the point of being immaterial. And his life now is like a series of overexposed photographs where the images are hard to identify with any certainty. The best he can do is make an educated guess and move on.

But somehow, apparently, he must have managed to get his feet moving towards the car instead of towards the booze joint. Because he has a flash of memory of peeling out of the diner's parking lot in the Impala and then laying his boot down on the gas pedal until it was nearing the floorboard. And he had been some semblance of sober at the time to the best of his recollection.

He also remembers watching the dawn breaching the horizon as he sped down the highway. Recalls rolling the window down as the early morning chill waned and the sun crept ever higher in the sky.

And now he finds himself nearly suffocating in the sweltering temperatures of a summer afternoon in some rural Midwestern state. The driver's side window is still rolled all the way down to meet the door but the air is stalled and the heat borders on oppressive now that the car is no longer moving.

Pulling the key from the ignition he flings open the door and climbs out. If the kinks in every muscle he's got are any indication he's crossed several state borders since he started out.

Once vertical Dean latches a steadying hand onto the door for a moment while blood begins to circulate in his body again and his muscles are re-awakened with the arrival of a pins and needles sensation that crackles through him.

When things are somewhat back in working order he sheds his top layer, a faded green button down shirt, and uses it to wipe away some of the sweat from his face and neck. When he's done he discards the garment by tossing it into the car through the open window. He tugs at the collar of the gray t-shirt he wears, pulling it away from where it's plastered to the skin of his neck and collarbone. But it does little in the way of relief.

Looking up he takes a second look at the so called rest stop. And decides his initial assessment upon seeing it had been generous. That's saying something since his standards are pretty much bottom of the barrel low at this point. He huffs out an exhale that faintly sounds like the beginning of a chuckle. But it dissolves before taking on its complete form.

The joint's single story structure stands literally in the middle of nowhere and is a certified hole in the wall. Like a single exposed light bulb hanging from the roof of the porch kind of dilapidated. Dean's not even sure he'd call it a building. The words glorified shack seem more fitting.

But the one thing it does have is a soda machine out front. He desperately hopes they actually bother to stock it. He ran out of beer in the cooler many miles ago so a Coke, hopefully with some semblance of iciness to it, will have to do until the next town.

But out here that could be a while. There is nothing but farmland, endless rows of crops stretching out to meet the cloudless blue sky. Not that he's truly complaining about the scenery. There's something pure about the flat wide open landscape and the long straight stretch of road that slices through it – a simpleness or an order – something he can't quite identify. But that he finds calming.

He notes the word restrooms written out in faded white paint on the wall. There's also a painted white arrow below it that points towards the shack's front entryway. So he heads inside to the men's room.

Too many miles driving non stop and all those beers he had pulled from the cooler have caught up to him. He wonders why he didn't just pull over to the side of the road miles back and can't seem to even recall the urge to do so. He drives on autopilot most of the time now so he was most likely just too zoned out to register the need for it.

When that high priority task is done he heads back through the cramped dimly lit lobby towards the door which leads outside. Surprisingly, there's actually someone manning the fort, or the shack as the case may be.

Clearly it's not the most invigorating or high pressure job if the snoring is anything to go by. The kid looks to be about twenty and is currently slumped so far down in his chair behind the desk he's in danger of sliding off onto the floor. Despite the temptation to be a real jerk and deliver a rather rude awakening to the kid or to play some prank the boy won't discover until long after the Impala has pulled away Dean leaves him be.

Instead he stops by the display that stands near the desk. It offers up maps, magazines, newspapers and the like which can be purchased. At this point glancing at the local paper's headlines is automatic, almost reflexive, after all those years of hunting. But this time it is not the news worthy events which capture his attention.

For a long moment Dean stares at the upper right hand corner of a paper titled The County Herald. He has to swallow down hard on the bile that threatens to rise up his throat as he reads the information offered there.

He can't believe what he's seeing. It has to be a misprint. So he shifts his gaze to the newspaper laid out adjacent to it. There he finds the same. One by one he scans them all and it sinks in that it's not a typo. Unable to deny the fact any longer as it stares out at him printed in black and white he swiftly turns away and walks outside.

He immediately heads over to the vending machine in hopes of busying himself while the all too harsh reality which the newspaper has delivered settles into his head.

Dean stuffs a hand into the pocket of his jeans and roots around. It takes a moment but way down deep below his pocket knife, his keys and Zippo lighter he finally comes across some coins and dollar bills.

Pulling out what he finds he begins feeding the change into the soda machine. When he's finished he holds his breath and he hits the button for classic Coke, begging for the machine to be in working order and stocked.

The clunk sound of the can being deposited into the opening at the bottom of the machine arrives and Dean lets his breath out.

He's grateful but suddenly in this moment after finding out what he just discovered he wishes for something a hell of a lot stronger than sugar and caffeine.

The heat is physically draining on his body or maybe he was already worn out before it was ninety million degrees out. He doesn't know. Or really care. Either way the picnic table which stands underneath what appears to be the solitary tree for many miles looks like as good of a place as any to be at the moment. So Dean trudges over to it.

It's in pretty rough shape with its seriously aged blue paint and heavily weather beaten wood. But somehow it still seems to have fared better than the shack despite being outside.

With his free hand he tests its sturdiness. Finding it not too wobbly or otherwise in imminent danger of collapse he uses the seat as a step and sits down on the tabletop. And then settles his feet on the bench.

Dean returns his attention to the can of Coke in his hand. He pops it open and raises it to his lips.

"Bottoms up!" he declares to nobody but himself. Then drinks half the can down in a single swallow. The liquid is refreshingly chilled as it travels over his lips, along his tongue and down his throat. The condensation on the aluminum can is cool against the skin of his hand. And the shade from the tree takes the edge off the heat.

He doesn't immediately finish off the remainder of the soda. He's not on any kind of time table. In fact, he doesn't have any destination at all. Hell he doesn't even have a general direction that's calling his name. There's no schedule to keep. No plan to follow. There's no place he needs to be - nowhere he belongs. And there's no one keeping lookout for his arrival – at least not any longer.

His jaw tightens as the last thought passes through his weary mind. It's been some time now but the wound is still open and raw as if it is newly inflicted. He wonders whether or not it will ever truly heal over. But knows with one hundred percent certainty that even if it does it will leave a vicious scar he'll carry for eternity.

Because the wound torn into him is the loss of his brother. Sam is gone and this time he's not coming back.

Dean would know because he tried everything there was to try. Been down every road, checked each and every pathway off the list. He's talked to anyone that was anybody. Hell he even talked to whole lot of nobodies. Talked and discussed and argued and threatened until he was blue in the face.

He's researched and then researched some more to the point of no longer being able to see straight. He's performed every ritual, said every spell, and explored every hokey half baked belief out there.

He's tried to bargain, beg and steal a way to bring his brother back from the dead.

He plowed through one thing right straight into the next then into the one after that and on and on. For what, apparently according to the newspapers he just saw, has now been exactly a year to the date of his brother's death.

He can't believe it. Can't wrap his mind around any part of it. How had it gotten to be that long? Where did all those days – those weeks – those months evaporate to? Especially since, ultimately, he had come up emptied handed – he didn't have his brother and there wasn't a single stone left unturned in the desperate search to find a way to return him.

Seems to Dean like he should have noticed how long it had been especially once he had run out of leads and ideas. But he hadn't realized – or just didn't want to acknowledge it he theorizes – and now it's one hell of a slap in the face to receive.

Dean supposes he had been so submerged in his mission that everything else around him simply melted away into irrelevance.

He doesn't know if he'll ever be reunited with Sam in another place or some other time. The powers that be have assured him that his brother is in a peaceful place and not alone. Normally, his cynicism would cause him to question it. But the one thing he has left in his life which he actually trusts, his gut, had told him that it was the truth. So he had let it stand.

Dean doubts that a peaceful place is anything remotely close to the type of joint he's headed to. It saddens him that they may never be reunited but at the same time he accepts it because it only matters that his brother can finally rest – can finally be whole and healed.

Dean doesn't plan to hunt anymore but should he stumble upon someone in need he will pitch in to help or send someone else their way who can. However, he is done seeking the work out. He doesn't believe for a minute that it won't find him all on its own though. Or doubt for one second that the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun will be what ends him.

It's just that his only intentional plan is to stay in motion – to feel the road go by under the wheels. To hear and feel the rumble of the engine as it barrels down the highway to the next town. To feel like he's moving forward physically even when he's paralyzed emotionally. It's how he reminds himself that he's still existing.

The powers that be also told Dean it's not yet his time to move on. That there was something for him still to do in this world. That part he had questioned up, down, backwards, forwards and sideways because what else did he have left to offer anymore. Sure he could continue to hunt evil but that's not something additional or new. What of any significance had he not already done or at least tried to do. In the end he had received none of the answers he sought – at least not any that were to his satisfaction and not thoroughly cryptic. The gist of it had been that Dean has to come across it on his own. And that the open road would lead him there.

For some reason this train of thought draws a tucked away memory to rise up to the surface of his mind. Of something that occurred before his little conversation with the powers that be. One about the last time he had been at the bunker which was now months gone by.

Dean hadn't known why at the time – what prompted him to do it – but that last time he had been there he had secured the entire place. Put it in complete lockdown. As if without being conscious of it he knew he wasn't coming back – at least not any time in the foreseeable future - if ever.

Without intellectually taking on the task he had cleaned everything up. Put everything in its place and turned everything off. The final room had been his own and it hadn't taken long because all he gathered up were a couple changes of clothes and a few small precious personal items.

Then he had walked out of his bedroom, leaving everything just as he set it up. The weapons displayed on the wall. The bed neatly made. His collection of vinyl in its designated place. The books squared away on the desk.

He'd walked out into the hallway, leaving the door open – almost like a sign of permission to anyone who came along to go ahead and enter. And if they so chose to take ownership of it.

Dean had then moved down along the corridor and stopped in front of his brother's room. The door here was closed. Had been since the day his brother died. He had tested the knob, ensuring it was locked and then moved on. Finally ending up in the garage.

There, for some reason he's not sure he even knew at the time, Dean had proceeded to remove almost everything from the trunk of the Impala. It had been like he had been in some other mode of operation where he didn't question what he was physically doing. His body just moved through each task on its own and on a script he hadn't written.

But he had not hesitated for even a second in only packing a small duffle bag and a mere handful of weapons, just a few of the smaller guns and a few of his favorite blades. Otherwise, the trunk of the Impala was emptied of its impressive collection.

Only moments after completing the task he had found himself behind the wheel of the car driving away. And had not been back once since.

The sound of another vehicle approaching out on the roadway causes Dean to be torn from his thoughts and raise his gaze from the Coke can in his hand. Until now it's felt like he and the sleeping twenty year old inside the shack were the only souls for an eternity of miles.

He draws another swallow of the soda as the noise of the vehicle's engine grows ever closer. Not particularly inclined to interact with other people right at the moment he figures he'll head out if the person turns in.

A moment later they are doing that just. He works on the remainder of the Coke as the person parks. Dean throws him a few glances of scrutiny.

There's only the driver, a man younger than himself by a solid decade. It's instantly clear he has money if the clothes and watch and other items are anything to go by. It's not that the attire is seriously high end expensive it's more that everything is new and well put together. There's not even a single scuff on his shoes. Everything matches and was clearly purchased all at once. The road had not yet worn this man down into submission to the point where if a garment is still in one piece and halfway clean it'll do. The man was obviously fairly new to life on the road.

But there is one thing about him that makes Dean know for certain he's seen at least a few miles go by.

He looks utterly lost and not in a in need of directions kind of way. Dean's all too familiar with the expression. He's seen it too many times etched into the faces of innocent people he had encountered while hunting. It's that look that settles in when something beyond belief and devastating happens. And the person has no clue what the next step should be.

Before Dean can finish off the last of the soda the kid begins heading his way. Dean curses himself for not getting up sooner. So he remains seated and figures he'll just take the first opening which comes to cut out.

"Hey man," the younger man offers casually as he nears the picnic table.

"Hey," Dean tosses back.

"You wouldn't happen to have light, would you?"

Dean doesn't respond verbally. Seeing no point in engaging if it's not necessary he simply stuffs a hand into the pocket of his jeans and retrieves the Zippo there. As soon as the other man sees that he does have a lighter he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slips one free. The stranger is close enough now that Dean simply flips open the lighter and flicks it on. Then holds it out so the man can light his cigarette off it.

There is a handful of beats of silence while the man moves over to the tree which shades the picnic table. Once there he leans against it and takes a few draws. A new expression becomes layered on top of the first one and Dean recognizes this one as well. It's been some time since the guy's last fix. The cigarette is nothing short of bliss to him.

Dean is about to make a break for his car when the younger man speaks up again.

"Ya know I quit these things. Had 'em beat," he says.

"Yeah I can see that," Dean comments flatly. He hopes that this is the end of their conversation. Otherwise he might just have to bail anyway. But for some inexplicable reason when the stranger pulls the cigarette away from his lips and opens his mouth to speak up again Dean remains seated. And by doing so he's pretty sure he's glutton for punishment.

"No really. I only started smoking them – well I don't know exactly – but it calmed me down just barely enough to make it through another day at my boring job and my incredibly boring life," the young man explains. Then takes another drag off the cigarette. But it's clear he's not done talking.

Dean thinks he should bolt while the silence and the opening is still there. However he finds there's a force of some kind keeping him rooted to his seat on the table. And, surprisingly, only a small piece of his mind is truly begging to escape the mostly one sided conversation. The remainder is tugged to offer the man the only thing he can – someone to listen.

As if on cue the stranger's voice pipes up once again.

"It didn't even really feel like it was my life. It felt like it belonged to somebody else. Like I got the wrong one somehow. Some kind of mix up. Since I was a kid I've always wanted to make a difference – do something epic – have my life be more of a journey than a dead end. But somehow I was always steered away from that and into things like getting my MBA and then spending ten hours a day pushing paper around a four by four cubicle in an ocean of other four by four cubicles. I mean I made money, certainly enough to live on and headed towards being wealthy, but I still felt poor - like I had nothing of actual value. It wasn't the kind of rich I wanted to be. So I just lost it one day while on a smoke break. Crushed out my last butt, walked back into the office and quit. Sold the condo I never really wanted in the first place. Threw out all that business attire. Traded in the vehicle I had only purchased because it was in line with the professional image. Then got new clothes and a new ride I thought was more in line with who I imagined myself to be."

He pauses for a moment, drops his gaze, and scuffs the toe of his shoe back and forth over the ground lazily. But Dean can tell he's not finished so he remains silent. It is not long before the man lifts his gaze back up and stares off out across the fields that stretch for what seems forever behind the rest area and its tiny shack. His focus stays there as he speaks back up.

"For the first time in a long time I did what I wanted to do not what I was supposed to do. And at first it went pretty well. I knew I needed to be somewhere different in order to become someone different. And I realized there was only one place I wanted to really start. My best friend. Well he was my best friend the whole time growing up. More like a brother to me really. But we had a falling out – like supernova level kind of falling out. I realized that it was after that when everything had gone to crap. So I worked up the nerve to call him after all this time. We came to a kind of truce. Even actually decided a road trip was in order - like the good old days. So we decided to meet halfway along the road. He never showed though. Called him. Left messages. Waited two whole days. And nothing. I figured he'd had just been talking – didn't really mean what he said. It was after that it hit me that it wasn't going to be like I thought it would be. So I just drove and drove and thought about everything. Turns out I don't want to go back to my old life – I don't belong there anymore. I had already let it go. If I ever really had it to begin with. But I can't seem to figure out where to even start to find a new one. Then this morning I got a call on my cell from my friend's roommate. Nobody's seen him in days. It's like he just disappeared into thin air. She said he mentioned he'd told her about our plans and said something about clearing his head first before he drove out to meet me. I have a real good idea where he'd go. I just don't know if I should go find him or not."

Dean has heard this story before from others over the years – how they wished their lives held excitement and perhaps something more meaningful. In most of those cases it had been nothing more than words or some far off daydream. And Dean had known from experience that they would return to their routine lives and that was truly where they belonged.

But there is something about this young man, something in his body language or his voice or his gaze which makes Dean sense that in his case it could be something more. For a moment he ponders asking a few carefully crafted questions to see if his gut is on target. But the stranger starts up talking again, or rambling as the case may be, before Dean decides his course of action.

"It's not like I thought it would be," the younger man comments almost more to himself than anything.

"How's that?" Dean inquires.

"I mean, I guess, I imagined it would be like it is the movies. One day you reach your limit, quit your stuffy mind numbing office job and go out and find this great adventure. Become something cool and unique. Become what you thought you were always meant to be. Not just another carbon copy with no stories to tell and not making one damn ounce of difference in the world."

"Nothing in this life comes easy, kid. Did you even have a plan?" Dean responds.

"I had it all worked up in my head I guess as - I don't know really - maybe that ditching the old me would pave the way for the person I thought I could be. That it would make me this different kind of guy. That I could re-invent myself. Go from Mr. MBA to Mr. Badass. I realize I was kidding myself now. Putting on different clothes and buying a new vehicle doesn't make me something I'm not."

"Well you sure as hell got that part right, man," Dean informs him.

"This is all such an effing mess. The new clothes aren't me. The new vehicle is definitely not me. I'm done with both already. Going out and doing this on my own – alone - isn't me either. I realized that's why I suggested the road trip to my friend. Growing up I always felt that with him around I could do anything I set out to do. I guess that's sort of what made him more than just a friend and more like my brother."

"Sounds about right," Dean offers in the reply. His voice solid and filled with knowing.

"I wish I knew what to do. Where to start," the stranger replies. Frustration and the beginnings of giving up are prominent in his voice. But somewhere underneath in his tone there is still the smallest embers of hope and fight left in him. And it pushes Dean to tell him what's what – to deliver a hefty dose of reality and challenge.

"Seriously? Give me a fucking break! Start where you are, man. That's all anyone can do. Don't complicate it with a lot of whys and what ifs and bitching. Just take action. Do something – do effing anything - because that's a hell of a lot better than doing what you're doing now which is a shitload of nothing!"

To this the young man finally shifts his gaze over towards the picnic table. Dean can instantly see in his eyes and expression that the idea never even occurred the other man. Something has clicked into place in the gears inside his head. He was so wrapped up in planning it all out in excruciatingly intricate detail and setting the standard to perfection that he sabotaged himself – let the map he was creating in his head lead him inevitably to a dead end.

After a handful of beats he looks away again and back out at the miles of fields and seemingly endless blue sky. He lets out a noise as if he chiding himself and shakes him head faintly. Dean can almost see the pieces of his puzzle falling into their respective places for him.

And suddenly Dean's own words crash over him like a flash flood. Some kind of wall which has held him back - entrapped him for the longest time - has abruptly given way. It releases a pressure within him and brings a wave of clarity. And he knows what he needs to do next.

The young man is still staring out over the landscape. His expression is different now. One of decisiveness and determination.

"Hey, man?" Dean pipes up to gain his attention. There's a long beat of silence before it registers in the other man's head that he's being spoken to.

"Yeah," he eventually replies and turns his gaze towards the picnic table.

"You really done with it? I mean really truly done for good," Dean questions looking across the lot at the younger man's vehicle.

"Oh heck yeah. Gonna find the nearest used auto place and sell it. Whatever they'll give me. Money's not really an issue. I just want to be done with it. Can't even look at the damn thing anymore. Should have gotten something more like your ride to begin with."

There is a long pause before Dean offers any kind of response. In the silence he reaches into his jeans pocket and runs his fingertips over the metal of the keys which reside there. When he finally does speak the words are ones that he never in a million years would have ever wagered would exit out of his own mouth.

"Tell you what. I'll trade ya," he says.

"You're kidding, right? You'd just hand that over!" he replies in disbelief, gesturing to the Impala.

"Like you I've done what I set out to do with her. I do have a one condition though."

"Should have know there'd be a hitch," the young man grumbles.

"It's simple. You leave the toy army man that's jammed into the ashtray right where it is. And don't question me about why – just swear you'll do it."

"That's it?" he questions, disbelief very clear in his voice.

"Yep," Dean simply replies.

"Then it's a deal."

"You said you wanted to go find adventure, right?" Dean inquires of him.

"Like you'll never know."

"Then she'll lead you there. Never failed me once," Dean informs him with a nod of the head toward the Chevy.

"You sure about this? Like really sure," the younger man questions almost as if he fears he hasn't heard correctly. Like it's a daydream and not reality.

Dean's reply is to pull his keychain from the pocket of his jeans. He slips the square silver key from the ring and holds it out towards the other man without hesitation.

"What'd you say your name was?" the man asks as he straightens up from the tree and moves to the table.

"Doesn't matter. But her name is Baby. You take good care of her and she'll do the same for you."

"I don't even know what to say," the young man offers as he takes the key from Dean's outstretched hand.

"Don't need to say nothin'. You go out and find what you're looking for. Go find your best friend – your brother - and raise a little hell together. Okay a lot of hell! In fact kick hell in the balls, would ya. Just keep going. And don't stop until you do something epic."

To this the stranger chuckles and bobs his head in agreement.

"I might just do that!" he says sounding freshly inspired. A grateful smile washes over his face. After a moment it fades slightly but doesn't completely vanish. He reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out his own key. And then holds it out to Dean who gratefully accepts it.

"I just need a minute to gather my stuff," Dean tells him. His voice is surprisingly solid. And what little emotion does slip out inside his tone is more resolve than sadness.

"Yeah me too. I'm also gotta pop inside for a minute."

Dean nods and the young man heads off. Suddenly finding he's no longer bound to the spot he gets up off the picnic table. Then makes his way across the dirt lot towards the car.

The parking area is small and he is quickly at his destination. He slowly walks up along the side of the Impala. His gaze taking in each and every detail for the last time.

When he arrives at the back end he pauses and gently lays a hand down on the sun warmed metal. Then after a long beat he's moving again, making his way around towards the other side. His hand stays connected with the car as he travels along. His fingertips trail over the top of the trunk, upwards over the back window, all along the roof and down the windshield to finally settle on the hood.

And somehow he knows this is the right thing to do. He knows this is truly the end. He and Baby are parting ways. Somebody else needs her more now. And that somehow helps make him able to say goodbye.

The sensation which sinks through him is at first disconcerting in its unfamiliarity. But once it has thoroughly saturated his every fiber he finally understands what it is. After holding on so tightly to some many things and for so long he's finally beginning to let a trace of it go.

Not only that but he now knows with certainty why he found himself able to offer up the Impala.

It's because he doesn't need her anymore.

As if to visualize this realization his gaze shifts inside the car. And looks at the empty space to the right of the driver's side.

Then allows his eyes to wander over the entirety of interior of the car taking in even the smallest of details and remembering the tales each one has to tell. The memories bring a lump to form in his throat but there's something else brewing inside him that keeps any moisture from arriving in his eyes. He can't quite pin it down but it somehow makes the burden he carries just a ounce lighter.

Hearing the crunch of footfalls in the gravel of the parking lot behind him Dean forces himself to regain his composure. Then quickly goes about gathering up the sparse few belongings he has from inside the car.

"Hey, no need to rush," the young man's voice pipes up as he arrives near the hood of the Impala. He must have noticed Dean's rushed pace. The other man places a backpack and small duffle on the ground beside the front wheel of the car. Like Dean he has little in the way of belongings to collect.

"No, man, I'm good," Dean replies. He stuffs the faded green button down shirt he shed earlier into the duffle which sits on the roof of the car.

After a brief glance through the window into the backseat to confirm he hasn't missed anything he zips the bag up. Then takes it down from atop the car.

"Thanks again! You have no idea how grateful I am," the young man says and offers his hand. Dean simply accepts the handshake and gives the man a nod of the head. He fears if he speaks in this moment his voice will betray him. Only a breath later he has turned his back and is heading to where the stranger's vehicle is parked.

Walking away is both torturous and freeing all intertwined together.

Baby has been so much more than a car his entire life. It was a tangible link to his father. Became a home when his first was lost. Was a steady companion when his brother went away to school and he began hunting on his own. When his father disappeared it carried him to Palo Alto and to a reunion with his brother. And then became their safe haven as they fought the good fight together.

But there is also something in the letting go which releases him from some powerful internal binding that has held him captive for so very long. And frees him to stand on his own without her.

He's nearly all the way across the lot when he's torn from his thoughts.

"Hey, don't forget these! Might need them on a day like today!" the stranger calls out. Dean pivots around to see that the young man is holding up the pair of aviator style sunglasses Dean had discarded on the dashboard earlier in the day. He briskly makes his way back over to the Impala and retrieves them from the man's outstretched hand.

"Thanks man!" he says in reply. But finds it too difficult to remain at the Impala for more than a heartbeat. So he turns away and makes quick work of crossing the distance between the two vehicles once again.

He is still turned away when he hears the young man start the Impala up. His grip on the duffle in his hand tightens to the point of being painful. And for a breath he silently screams at himself demanding to know what the hell he's doing giving her away. Then hears himself question if he's finally gone completely bat shit crazy in the head. There's a powerful urge to about face and go kick the stranger's ass out of the Impala.

But just as he's about to turn on his heel back towards Baby something different cries out inside him. It tells him flat out not to do it. Encourages him to let go. Pleads with him to allow himself to move on – to not torture himself by clinging to the past – to look ahead with a little less burden.

And he truly listens. Actually stops moving and roots himself to the spot to forcefully keep himself from turning back around and undoing what he's done. Because it's his brother's voice he hears in his head and which resonates down through to his very core. It is the only tether that keeps him still as he hears the rumble of the Chevy behind him and the sound of the tires rolling over the gravel of the dirt lot as it moves towards the roadway.

But Dean can't resist one last glance so he swallows down hard, bracing himself for the image, and turns his head. He is just in time to see her as she exits the parking area and turns right onto the road. He tries to breath but no air comes so he grips the duffle bag in his hand all that much more tightly and simply watches.

It is not long before he can only just barely make out the all too familiar bumper, trunk and taillights of the black '67 Chevy Impala that was his home for so long as it speeds away down the long stretch of open highway. The odds of ever seeing her again are all but non existent. He silently wishes her one final appreciative goodbye.

When she is out of sight once and for all Dean finds he is able to move again. The remainder of the parking lot left to cross is small. And he is shortly standing beside the young man's vehicle that is now his own. It doesn't take long to secure his belongings and when he's done he gives his new ride a once over. Finding everything to his satisfaction he finally raises his gaze.

The hot summer afternoon has begun to edge over into a tepid evening. There's a definite shift in the air.

Dean looks out over the fields surrounding the rest stop and off towards the horizon. The sun has shifted slightly lower in the sky and the lighting is at a less harsh angle now. Its brightness is no longer straight overhead. Instead it's further off to the west and bordering on being obstructive to his line of sight. Dean's headed in that direction. Not for any other reason than it's the only other option besides the direction the Impala turned in. And he just can't bring himself to go that way.

Remembering the Aviators which are still grasped in his hand Dean slips the shades on over his eyes. Then looks down at the key that's gripped in his other hand. He smiles faintly. Somehow it's molded out of a strange combination of sadness and contentment that washes through him.

Taking the last remaining step forward he grasps hold of the handlebars and swings his leg over the body of the motorcycle. In the next breath he is settled down into its saddle. His boots planted in the dirt on either side of the bike.

Gently laying a hand down on the beautiful machine underneath him he lets his palm and fingertips trail along its curves which are laid out before him. There's a beauty to it he finds intoxicating. But Dean only allows himself a fleeting moment of appreciation before he slips the key in and unlocks the ignition. He takes in a breath and slowly exhales. Then goes through starting her up.

The Harley Davidson rumbles awake. The Road King's engine is powerful and almost eager beneath him. Its growl is gritty and a bit wild as it thunders through the air. And Dean soaks all of it in as it rises up and radiates through every fiber of his body. A contented smile blooms fully on his lips now.

For a long moment he simply stays still and absorbs every ounce of the energy it creates. Let's himself float in the kind of blissful haze it blankets him in.

But he doesn't allow himself to linger too long for worry of losing the clarity he's only so recently gained. So he squares away all that is necessary, releases the kickstand, shifts into gear and gives it a bit of fuel.

The feel of it sends his mind tumbling back to a summer spent at Bobby's so many years now gone by. He doesn't recall the full details only that Singer had acquired a bike through some kind of trade for parts or repair work or towing or some combination of all three. As soon as it had arrived at the salvage yard Dean had made a deal with Bobby that if he got the thing running in safe order then the older man would teach him how to ride it. Suffice it to say Bobby had been on the losing end of that challenge and by the time fall rolled around Dean was a skilled rider.

Since then over the years he has had a few opportunities to borrow someone's ride and keep his skills sharp. And now he's more than grateful for that.

A few minor adjustments and he's underway steering the Harley towards the other side of the parking lot. He stops for a moment when he reaches the threshold of the roadway. His gaze is drawn eastward down the long straight stretch of highway. Not a single trace of the Impala is still in view there. She is really truly vanished now.

It's more a feeling of nostalgia that washes over him than true sadness as he looks down the empty span of roadway.

It is then that his heart reminds him of why he let her go. And it's surprisingly simple.

It's because he no longer needs a passenger seat. Sam is gone. And his brother is the only one he would want riding shotgun. So there is no point to having a second seat anymore. The single seat Harley will do. He's riding solo now.

He forces his gaze to shift in the opposite direction and in a few heartbeats he is underway again and rolling onto the blacktop headed west.

Dean soon finds himself accelerating more and more, opening her up and just letting her go like it seems she wants to do.

He feels the wind as it impacts the skin of his face and rakes harshly through his short hair. His body absorbs the vibrations of the engine as they resonate through the machine underneath him. And he feels oddly like he is one with the Road King. There is a rawness to riding like this. And for the first time in forever he feels like he's part of the world around him.

The motorcycle fits him like a glove. So much so it feels as if it was made for him. Like he was always meant to own it. For a flickering moment he wonders if meeting the stranger who no longer wanted it along the side of the road in the middle of nowhere had not been by chance. But he quickly dismisses the thought. If it's a choice between grand design and chaos he'd put his money on chaos every time.

He doesn't know where he's going to end up.

But it doesn't matter.

Because there is no course worth setting without Sam at his side.

So he'll just ride.

The End