Last chapter finally up!
Enjoy.

Dead bird flies forever

Sid stared uncomfortably into the barrel of the gun. It wasn't the first time he had been on the wrong end of one, but this time it was different. He had never seen anyone as calm and relaxed and as comfortable with a weapon in his hand. Most people who carried guns needed them to make and impression. Usually, it was the gun that drew the attention. The gun that inspired fear. Not this time.

"Shut the door," said Dean calmly.

Sid did as he was told. The door clicked shut behind him. It felt like he was locking himself in with his executioner. Not fun.

He took a deep breath and raised his hands slightly, trying to look harmless. That wasn't too hard to be honest.

"Sit," said Dean, pointing to a chair carefully positioned in the middle of the room. Sid slowly shuffled over, careful not make any sudden movements. Though the guy really didn't look al that nervous, you could never be too careful.

Sam dumped his icepack on he bed and stood up, his throat a horrible shade of purple. "You know what," he said hoarsely. "We honestly don't know what to do with you."

"Likewise," muttered Sid. Sam ignored him and carefully walked around his chair. Sid forced himself to look straight ahead. Don't show him you're afraid… Unfortunately, the whiskey betrayed him. He could feel himself shaking. Sam put his hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. "I know you think we are murderers. I also know you saw that ghost in the library."

"The truth is, we didn't do any of that," said Dean, vaguely indicating the extensive research pinned to the walls. "It was all done by things like that ghost. Demons, shape shifters, you name it."

"And the grave digging?" It was out before he could stop himself. Damn alcohol…

Sam chuckled in his ear. "Aren't you the curious one. A little drunk as well I think."

"We don't exactly have time to explain everything," said Dean coolly. "The ghost is history, so we are getting out of here."

"But we still have to make sure you don't run to the police." Sam leaned in a little closer. "And I think there is only one way to make sure you leave us alone."

Sid swallowed, his hands shaking in his lap.

"But first things first," said Dean firmly. "Who are you working for?"

Sid remained silent. Never, ever rat out your employer. It was a lesson he had learned a long time ago.

Sam leaned in even closer, warm breath touching his ear. "Do you want to do this the easy or the hard way? Who sent you?"

Hard way, definitely. There was no way he was going to set two serial killers on the elderly professor.

Sam's hands softly touched his jacket. Sid closed his eyes. Waiting for pain that never came. Instead, long fingers carefully searched his pockets. After a few seconds, Sam straightened up and appeared in his line of sight.

Crap.

Sam was holding his cell phone, his eyes on the screen.

"Last call is from R. Francis." He muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Francis…" His eyes widened almost comically. "Professor R. Francis?" He studied Sid's face for a reaction. Sid really hoped there was nothing to read on his face, but once again the alcohol didn't do him any favors. "It is him, isn't is?" Sam shook his head slightly. "Unbelievable."

"You know him?" said Dean sharply.

Sam didn't answer. He was looking at the phone again. "A dozen calls in the last few days. It has to be our guy."

Dean nodded. "In that case our work here is done."

Sam tossed the cell phone on the bed and turned to Sid again. "There is only one way to convince you that we're telling the truth. We are going to let you go."

Sid inhaled sharply, not even trying to hide his surprise. Sam smiled faintly, the amusement never reaching his eyes. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "We're going to leave town," he said quietly while he walked around the chair again. He pulled Sid's hands back and cuffed him with experienced fingers. "In twelve hours I will call the police and tell them where you are. We will be long gone by then."

"Consider yourself lucky," said Dean. "The last time we did this we left the guy for three days."

"If you come after us, or try to find us in any way, we will have to get a little more… creative."

"So don't. Trust me, you really don't want to do that." Dean casually tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans. "Thanks for shooting the spook by the way. Before taking of like a girl that is."

Sam pulled something from his inside pocket and threw it on the bed beside the phone and the melting icepack. "You ready to go?"

"Yep." Dean threw the PI a wide grin. "Hope to never see you again."

"Likewise," muttered Sid as the door shut quietly behind him.

Professor Francis jerked up from an uneasy sleep. He blinked a few times to get his surroundings into focus. He was on the sofa in the living room, his phone in easy reach. Sid was supposed to call him the second he left the library. It was now two in the morning and he still hadn't called. Something was not right.

It took him a few seconds to realize what had woken him. The room was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see the shadow standing a few feet away, eyes shining faintly. He jerked up, instinctively crawling away against the back of the sofa.

"Calm down," said the shadow. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

That voice… It was deeper, older. More weary somehow. But even after all those years he knew exactly who it belonged to.

"Sam?"

A small lamp flicked on. Professor Francis blinked against the sudden brightness. Sam was standing near the coffee table, the thick file in his hand. He was still in the shadows, the light ghosting over his face. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I really am, but I can't let you keep this."

Professor Francis slowly straightened up and studied the man before him. Sam was even taller than he remembered and definitely a lot more muscular. His hair was longer and quite messy, but the most startling difference was in his eyes. At Stanford, all those years ago, they had been bright and inquisitive. Now, they looked haunted.

"I'm not a killer," he said softly. He raised the file a little. "I know how all this looks, but I'm not. And neither is my brother."

"What happened to Sid?" asked Professor Francis softly.

Sam smiled faintly. "He's in his hotel room. We didn't hurt him."

"What about those people in the library?" Professor Francis forced himself to speak quietly, but his voice trembled a little. Sam's smile vanished.

"We didn't touch them. You have to believe me." His eyes were pleading now and somehow, despite all the hard evidence Sid had given him, it was hard to believe that the man standing in front of him could ever hurt anyone. But still… There were so many facts counting against him. He still hadn't forgotten the state Sid was in when he had turned up on his doorstep last night. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his hand sliding over to his phone.

"No. Professor, I…" Sam's voice croaked hoarsely and gave out. He stepped forward, the light touching his face. The professor couldn't help himself. He stared at his former student with his mouth wide open. Sam was ghostly pale, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. There were deep, purple bruises around his neck, already turning black. The skin was broken in several places and it looked painfully swollen.

Professor Francis closed his mouth abruptly. He had seen bruises like these before, though not nearly as bad. On Sid Fielding's neck.

"Your neck," he muttered. "Sid had bruises just like them. You…"

"We were attacked by the same…" Sam hesitated and tried to hide it with a muffled cough.

"He tried to kill you," muttered the professor. "The person responsible for those murders."

Sam nodded, his face once again hidden in the shadow.

"Then it wasn't you." Professor Francis sat up a little. "You weren't here to kill anyone, were you Sam? You were here to stop it."

"Yes," said Sam softly, his voice barely a whisper.

The professor stood up. "Look Sam, I don't know how you got yourself into this mess, but I can help. Sid too. We can clear your name. If we dig long enough we can find…"

"Thank you," said Sam hoarsely. "But you can't help me. Nobody can. The only thing you can do is keep quiet. Don't call the police. Don't tell anyone I was here. Forget I ever existed."

The professor stepped forward and put an hand on Sam's shoulder. "I don't think I can do that," he said. "I won't call the police, I promise. But I can't forget about you."

Sam closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. "Thank you. For everything." he muttered. "I have to go. My brother is waiting for me."

"Good luck," said Professor Francis. "With… whatever you are doing."

Sam smiled ruefully. "It's a little late for that."

He turned away and walked out of the living room, closing the door with a quiet click. Professor Francis sat back down on the sofa and stared at the door. Outside, he could faintly hear the growl of a heavy engine disappearing into the night.

The drive was quiet. Dean kept his eyes on the road. Sam was staring ahead without seeing anything. He was fumbling with something, turning it over and over in his hands. Dean was surprised when he spoke.

"Hey Dean? What was on those papers you found in the desk?"

Dean threw him a quick look. "I didn't exactly have time to sit down and read it, Sam."

"But why did the ghost vanish when you burned them?"

Dean sighed. Sam was nothing if not persistent. "I don't really know for sure. But the ghost said it was his 'work'. I think it was some of his research. I doesn't explain why he was attached to it though. It doesn't exactly count as remains."

"Maybe it does," muttered Sam. "Maybe a part of his mind was in there. A part of himself, if you get my meaning."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "A part of himself? I think he took his work way too seriously."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, he probably did."

A silence fell. Rain tapped on the windows of the car. Dean watched the last buildings of Palo Alto fade in his rearview mirror. "So… the professor isn't going to rat us out?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Good." Dean stepped on the accelerator, the steering wheel vibrating under his hands. Between the town, the ghost, the PI and the snooping Professor, this had definitely been one of the most annoying hunts ever. He was eager to put as many miles between them and Palo Alto as he possibly could.

Sam fumbled with the engagement ring in his hands. There was a grave for Jessica somewhere, but there was nothing in it. There hadn't been much left to bury after the fire. There was no place he could really say goodbye to her.

There was so much he had to tell her. So many things he kept repeating to her in his dreams. But she would never hear how sorry he was. She would never see the engagement ring. And she would never know how much he had lover her. He closed his eyes, trying to remember her as he had before Lucifer had defiled his image of her. She smiled at him, her eyes warm. And somehow, he knew he didn't have to tell her anything.

She already knew.

Sid rubbed his sore wrists and stood up from the hard chair. It had taken him a good two hours to free himself from the handcuffs. Definitely not one of his better days. In those two hours, he had been trying to make sense of what had happened.

They had let him go. Just like that.

It was unbelievable.

There were so many things about the whole thing that he just couldn't get his head around. Two dead murderers who definitely weren't dead and quite possibly weren't murderers either. It just didn't make sense.

And then there was the ghost. And that made even less sense. He flopped down on the bed, his hand colliding with an unfamiliar object.

He quickly snatched it up.

It was a book. Supernatural, by Carver Edlund. He raised his eyebrows. What was he supposed to do with that?

I got a little carried away with this chapter… I guess the muse wanted to end it with a bang. It is 1.30 in the morning as I am typing this and I am absolutely exhausted. But it just wouldn't leave me alone.

I've had a wonderful time with this story and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Please let me know what you think!

Take care and until next time.