Authors Note:

1)I've changed the rating to T. I've worked around the content so it's not graphic enough for an M rating.

2)I will be changing the name of this fic at the next upload, to "Freebird". After this chapter it just seemed like a better title. So if you're watching for it, that's it.

3)No Beta, all mistakes are mine. :-)

Sam is working in the archives. He's reading everything the Men of Letters have and adding anything new they didn't have before. He's learning more than he's adding. Its times like this he wishes they still had Bobby's library. As much information is at his fingertips in the bunker, there was so much lost when Bobby's place was torched.

Sam lets out a breath and begins scrubbing his face with his hands, trying to work some feeling back into his cheeks. His eyes aren't focusing, and that's when he realizes he's been sitting, staring at books for a good four hours without a break. He glances around, and takes in the bunker. He's a little dazed from being lost in books so long he wonders what he may have missed and where Deans wondered off to. It's eerily quiet, and he strains to hear anything that might indicate he's not alone. Not that he has a problem with being a lone, it's just a little odd stuffing your head in a book, then looking up and realizing Dean's been abducted by fairies again. Sam groans and rubs his eyes again. Fairies! The Men of Letters have so much crap on fairies it's a little creepy, so much so that he's pretty sure he's going to be dreaming about a homicidal Tinker Bell tonight.

While his thumbs are still pressed into his sockets, Sam hears Dean singing in his bedroom. "Freebird" drifts through the halls. He listens to Dean sing about the high cost of freedom, at least this is what Sam's getting from the song that he'd never actually stopped to listen to before. The parallel to their own lives is haunting. The ability to go where you want, do what you want, never being chained down and the inability to hold onto the ones you love because of it. Things can never be how they should be, and nothing can ever change, so you don't have a choice. You love them too much to make them watch you leave over and over and over, so you leave for good. The words aren't "I'm free as a bird" because he's declaring it as an affirmation, but because he's trying to convince himself and justify his abandonment. A final good-bye, because he's as captive in his freedom as he would be in a cage. Sam swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

Dean's singing is just a little more depressing than Sam wants to deal with right now, and would probably lead somewhere he really doesn't want to go, or rather where he doesn't want to go. He's not stupid; he knows something's off – very off. But his head is fighting with his heart. It's been a week and Dean hasn't had a rage since that day in the kitchen. He isn't top notch yet, but he's better. He still sleeps a lot, but not nearly as much as before, and he showers every day, so that's something. Every now and then Sam thinks he sees something cross over Dean's eyes, like he's about to rage out, but then it vanishes, Dean takes a deep breath, or just huffs and walks away.

Dean's been researching hunts. As much as Sam wants Dean to get back in the saddle, he's concerned. A week ago Dean was allowing monsters to beat on him, and regardless of Dean's new found calm, Sam is not convinced it will maintain through a hunt. He can't help but feel that this is some kind of elaborate ruse, that Dean has found a way to fake this new Zen attitude. Dean is not Zen. Never has been. So when Sam does something stupid, like spill coffee on the seat of the Impala, and Dean just heaves a frustrated sigh, pinches the bridge of his nose, before saying "No worries, Sam. It can be cleaned up." Sam thinks something's up. That is just too damn composed for Dean. Even on his best day, a coffee spill on the Impala would at least warrant a "What the Hell!" It's not normal. It feels a bit too much like the calm before the storm, and Sam doesn't want lightening to strike while they're knee deep in a vampire's nest.

Sam swallows all these concerns down and chooses, quite willfully, to be optimistic. Yes, it's a tenuous peace, but one that Sam chooses to believe will continue and grow stronger.

When his phone rings, Sam is grateful for the distraction. He chuckles as he answers it. Of all the hunters they had met over the years, Byron was probably the most unique, well at least in the top two, Garth still had Byron beat, but it was a close second. They had met him a little over a year ago while on a simple salt and burn of all things. To look at him you never would have guessed the guy was a hunter. He had strode right up to Sam and Dean, shook their hands, and introduced himself, saying, "So…wanna team up, this bitch is a real pain the ass." Dean had looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow, because if the Gargamel t-shirt and cargo pants weren't weird enough, the labret piercing and Birkenstocks were downright frightening. (Thank God, he did actually have a decent pair of hunting boots in his car.) Byron raised his eyebrow right back, and said, "Sam and Dean Winchester, correct?" Both Sam and Dean had answered with shifty looks and a few "ummm . . . yeahs." (Because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, about this guy that said "hunter". He was too … clean and … feminine.) Byron replied to all this without missing a beat, "Wow. Dumber than a box of hair . . . so ghost? Gank? Yes?" Surprisingly, he turned out to be one hell of a hunter. Even more surprising is how much Sam and Dean actually like Byron. He is one of their favorite hunters to team up with.

"What's up Byron?"

"Saaaaam. Just the hunter I was looking for. Do you think you and Dean are up to a good old fashioned Werewolf hunt?"

"Afraid of dogs, now?"

"Ha. Not exactly. I'm stuck in Cali. I thought I would be done by now, but it looks like I might be another day or two. There's a werewolf roaming the Nebraska National Forest. I almost had 'em last month, but he got away. Full moon's in two days and you're my favorite dog catcher."

"You mean we're the closest."

"Splitting hairs. Hey, listen…if Dean's not up to it, I can call someone else. I know he's been…well, you know."

"No. He's doing better. I actually think he's coming out of it. We haven't had a problem in while." Sam knows it's a lie, but he continues anyway. It's all part of his optimistic outlook. "He's been looking for a hunt, so this is perfect. Nothing too challenging, you know. It'll be a good gage of where he's at. "

"Yeah. Good. I'll e-mail you the details then."

Sam hangs up, and hopes this isn't a mistake. That voice in his head nags at him again, but he buries it down. It's just a werewolf. Even Dean's not stupid enough to get up close and personal on purpose. He just hopes he's right.

Dean's sitting in his room going through is belongings. Everything needs a home. There's very little he has that doesn't mean something to him, so it's important that everything go somewhere. He knows the pictures go to Sam, that's obvious. Right now he's looking through his records. He cards his fingers over the edge of the cardboard cases, while thinking how much he would love to leave these to Ben. He wanted to leave him the Impala as well, but none of it would matter to Ben anymore.

Dean rubs a hand over his chest, trying to push down the emotion welling up. He takes a ragged breath and reminds himself that it will be over soon. He's been looking for hunts, trying to find the right one. He doesn't want Sam walking in on him with slit wrists, or blown out brains, and Dean isn't sure he would be able to do it that way, anyway. He's too much of a coward for that. It's better to go out like a hunter. If he goes out like a hunter, he can still have a Hunter's Funeral, and still retain a little self respect. It's hard to hide a self inflicted gunshot wound, but hunters die all the time from monster attacks. The challenge he's facing is finding a hunt that will allow him to be inconspicuous in his intentions and still keep Sam safe. Vampires are likely to change you, salt and burns are just sketchy, a windego will store him up, and probably eat Sam, too. There is what looks like a demon issue over in Missouri, but those bastards are even sketchier than ghosts. The perfect solution will present itself, Dean is certain, but until it does, Dean still has some work to finish.

He's going to leave his music to Byron, he's thinks. Even though he's more the Nirvana, Phish, Grateful Dead sort, (he has those stupid bears stenciled on his car window, for crying out loud) Dean is pretty sure he will appreciate the records, if for no other reason than they are coming from Dean and have historical significance.

He racks his brain thinking about what to do with the Impala. Sam doesn't want her, that much he knows. Even if Sam did want her, he would douche her up, and he wouldn't take proper care of her. He proved that much in how careless he was with her. She still has a lingering coffee smell from where it's soaked down through the stitching. He was and still is, seriously pissed off about that, but grateful as well. It has convinced Dean once and for all that Sam is not the right person to care for Baby after he's gone. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves.

Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. It's his new mantra. A repetitious reminder that soon all the pain and heaviness and anger will be gone. He repeats it in his mind again, and focuses on his task at hand. He starts humming, and then singing. The song has new meaning to him now. He thinks of Lisa and Ben and how he walked away from them. Ben's words are still ringing in his ears. "You're walking out on your family." He thinks of Sam, and how he's doing the same thing to him now. But it still stands, what he said to Ben, and it means more now than ever. "Just because you love someone, doesn't mean you should stick around and screw up their life." He's stopped singing now, and that familiar weight has begun to take root in Dean's stomach again. Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over.

Dean purposely moves his mind off of his loved ones, and focuses on the Impala. He has to find a home for her soon, he can't wait much longer. It's all ready been a week, and his resolve is starting to waiver. He has to find a hunt and end it soon, because holding on to this calm is getting harder and harder. The longer he waits the more distant the solution seems. Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over.

Dean's attention is drawn to the door when Sam raps his knuckles on the open frame. "What's up Sammy?" Dean asks, trying to sound a little more upbeat than he feels.

"Byron called. He says there's a werewolf about 5 hours from here, if you're up for it?"

Dean smiles, and this time he doesn't need to add any artificial enthusiasm. Finally! It's perfect. "Sounds awesome, Sammy. When are we leavin'?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Dean can feel his face fall. Shit! Shit! Shit! He still has so much to finish up before they leave. He plasters his smile back on. "Sounds good. Nothing like a good old fashioned werewolf hunt." Dean winks at Sam, who chuckles at his brother and turns and walks away.

Dean stands up and begins pacing, running his fingers through his hair. Stupid! Stupid! No. No. Calm down. It doesn't really matter, Dean decides. There's no one left that cares. Everyone that Dean has ever cared about or loved or who has ever cared about or loved him is dead, except for Sam. There's no one to pass a legacy onto. None of it will ever have meaning to anyone but him. None of it really matters to Dean all of a sudden. Sam will want the pictures, sure, but after that? Who's going to care after Sam? No one. So what's the point?

Dean rubs his hand over his mouth and chin. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself again, Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. He refocuses his thoughts. Baby still matters. He can't stomach the idea of her ending up in a junk yard somewhere, rusting away. Or worse than that, Sam hunting with her. Eventually, she'll get wrecked again, and then who's going to fix her up. Not Sam, that's for damn sure. She'll end up in a junk yard rusting away, or torn apart for pieces. If she's lucky she'll end up in a show room, being kept off the road. Dean shudders. He CAN NOT let that happen.

Dean paces and paces and thinks and paces some more. Sam may not care about the Impala, but he cares about Dean. He's putting something together in head; it's taking a bit longer than it should, but its coming. Dean keeps pacing. Sam'll make sure his final requests are honored no matter what. It's not like Dean's going to make any outrageous requests. And that's when he gets it. It's not the perfect solution. Dean would much rather vet everyone himself, but he can leave Sam a list of requirements. No, it's not perfect, but given the time limit, it'll work.

Dean sucks in a breath and lets it out again. Crisis averted. Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. Dean rubs his hands together and mentally puts together a short list of things he needs to get done before the day after tomorrow.

As always, comments are welcome.