What to say? What can I possibly say.

We have reached the end! Thank you so much to all the wonderful people who have loved and supported us, from our betas (whereupon, onlythefireborn, sylvia_locust, and firesign10), to the writers who have inspired us, and most of all to you, you brave and incredibly persistent and patient readers. It's been a much longer journey than we ever dreamed back in October 2010, but it has been by turns humbling and challenging and breathtaking throughout.

When we started this Monster almost a decade ago (yes, we're rounding up, but IT'S DAMN CLOSE), we originally planned a Part Three, which would follow Show's S1 and S2 more closely and dive into Sam's identity and origin story. Unfortunately, after eight years and 500,000 words, we aren't in a place where we can commit to writing Part Three as planned. The plot and layout for that one is not in a place were we can put it together with confidence, and we are also drawn toward other projects.

However, there will be more Freak Camp stories, including timestamps and a College AU spin-off, but they will only be posted on Livejournal (freac_campDOTlivejournalDOTcom) and Archive of Our Own (just google the story name and my author name), not here on fanfictionDOTnet. We do hope that one day there will be a sequel to Part Two addressing all the things we'd originally planned, but it's going to be in a very different form than we'd first imagined (for more info on what that means, again, please check out our mailing list (copy/paste this into the address bar: eepurlDOTcomSLASHdjG06b and replace the all-caps with the punctuation described). We promise not to spam you!).

Much love to you all, and thanks for sticking with us.

-Lavinia and Brose

Epilogue

Before the drive to Freak Camp, Sam, Dean and Bobby had discussed the importance of keeping the lowest of profiles afterward. Like, low enough to be subterranean. But of all the going to ground options, they ultimately agreed it was best just to return to Boulder. The delivery guy from the best Chinese place knew them, and it wasn't like their neighbors would be more surprised to see them back from the road at this time than any other.

Bobby had connected them with a doctor whose Idaho clinic was open after-hours for a specific kind of cash-carrying clientele, and he did a brusque but thorough job of fixing up Dean's arm and scalp wound, no questions asked. They paid him in cash and, after a few days recuperating in a cabin for which Bobby had given them a key, they headed back to Colorado.

They stayed holed up in their apartment for about a week, just long enough for Dean's arm to improve from really fucking painful even with the good drugs to really fucking painful, and he was starting to feel twitchy.

"Hey Sam. Want to grab a burger someplace?"

Sam looked at him, his expression inscrutable. He'd been quieter since they'd done it, since they'd fucking blown that hellhole apart, and Dean didn't want to push. He hadn't been able to push, not with sleeping most of the day and trying to breathe through a fuckton of pain during the rest of it. He'd had bullet wounds and broken arms before, but never at the same time, and the head injury hadn't fucking helped. It had been hard to eat, piss, or do anything without wanting to throw up.

But he was feeling a thousand percent better, and it would be awesome to get out of the house. And maybe find a way to ask Sam if that haunted, distant look in his eyes was a good thing (fuck, it would take anyone time to process what they had done, much less someone with Sam's history).

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Sam's tone was even, nonjudgmental, but Dean was reminded of one teacher in middle school who had liked giving oral quizzes where every kid in class had had to answer at least one question. It was a tone that said there was a right answer, but Sam was far from convinced that Dean knew what it was.

Dean bristled, as the cast allowed. "C'mon, Sam. They didn't get a shot of our faces, they didn't get a shot of the Honda, and if anyone had recognized us by now they would've knocked down our door. You know they would have."

The "Bombing of FREACS" had eclipsed all other news for the last week. Overhead helicopter shots of the walls burning, closer looks at the devastation inside. Dean didn't have a single fucking regret about burning that place to the ground, but he had a suspicion that those shots of charred bones and viscera-splattered rubble would join his nightmare fodder anyway.

He understood now why Sam had watched all those news reports when people had first talked about checking the ASC's power. There was something addictive about the coverage, watching for any tell-tale hint of the truth finally coming out. Of course, Dean was watching for their names, faces, any sign that the news and investigators were turning their attention to the Winchesters.

Not a peep so far. Alice had done a fucking brilliant job of spinning the story, he had to admit. The press conference she had given just two days after the attack had been downright cold-blooded. According to Alice Campbell, Acting ASC Director, Jonah Campbell's own unauthorized experiments within Freak Camp had been the fatal error that simultaneously led to his own destruction and obliterated decades of work.

Everyone bought it. Even the fucking President. Her own address to the nation had called for an extensive review of the ASC's internal workings and a freeze on any more spending, let alone rebuilding efforts, until her newly commissioned investigation ran its course. Dean would have worried about that investigation, but Alice had basically been a first-round draft pick for the committee.

Which brought them back to the pros and cons of leaving the apartment for some grub. Sam sighed. "Maybe that pizza place?"

Dean perked up. "Slice of Heaven? That would do wonders for my health, I promise you."

He had to eat his words, as well as a double slice of Everything But the Kitchen Sink, by the time they got to Slice of Heaven. Even the short walk from their car left his arm achy and the rest of him shaky and ill, like he'd had a fucking bullet pass through him or something.

The place was nearly deserted, but they took an out-of-the-way booth. Sam had gotten a salad, but he fiddled with one of the fries they shared while watching one of the TVs showing some European soccer game. The subtitles were in a language that Dean didn't even recognize. After a minute, he realized they were actually gibberish, closed captioning throwing up the occasional dollar sign and ampersand instead of anything intelligible.

He didn't notice the girl until Sam stiffened across from him, his hand dropping the fry and moving unmistakably to his knife.

Dean tried to focus, panic and adrenaline flooding his system. Maybe the ASC had come for them after all. Maybe they had been that good at keeping the Winchesters' faces off the news while they were setting up to take them out. Maybe Alice had betrayed them.

But when he turned to face the threat, it wasn't six suited thugs with guns. It was a short, heavyset girl in mismatched clothes, her lank dark hair a tangled mess down her shoulders and acne streaking her face. She would have been unpleasantly forgettable, if she weren't standing still and staring at Sam with the single-minded focus Dean had seen more often on Discovery Channel specials about sharks.

"Hi, Sam," she said. Her voice was as flat and emotionless as her eyes. "You look good. Do you like my face?"

"Kayla." Sam moved out of the booth. Dean started to struggle up out of his side too, before Sam stepped around and slid onto the bench beside him. Then he gestured to the seat across from them. "How did you find us?"

"I had your address memorized." She squeezed into the booth. "I've been watching with a few different faces, ever since I got into town. That took me a few extra days. Had to make a stop. Victor's dead, by the way."

Sam drew a sharp breath. "Is that gonna be traced back to us?"

"Nah." She shook her head, sharp and awkward. "He was on medical leave 'cause he couldn't keep his pants zipped. No one will even check on him until he starts to stink."

Sam's jaw worked. "Did you leave evidence?"

"Sure did. Crusher killed him. They'll find solid evidence of that." With a curt laugh, her face lit up with unmistakable fierce, savage joy. The expression vanished the next second, leaving her face flat and empty again.

Kayla's every motion, every word was off, and it made Dean's skin crawl. "You're from the camp."

Those dead eyes moved to his face. "Little slow, ain't he?" The words were directed toward Sam, but the shapeshifter, Kayla Sam had called her, didn't look away from Dean's face. "Yeah, Sam and I go way back." Then she turned her head, horror-movie slow, to Sam. "Did you like my present? I put a lot of work into it. Postage wasn't cheap."

As with everything she'd said, the words had zero inflection, no indication of significance, but Sam stiffened. He stared at her in a way Dean had never seen him look at anyone: shock and incredulity, horror mixed with dawning anger, but also a touch of respect. "You sent the tapes." It wasn't a question.

"You took longer than I expected," she said, as though it meant nothing to her. "But you managed to make it out alive. Did you kill the Director?"

After several seconds, Sam said, "Yeah. I did."

"And Crusher. Did you cut off his dick and shove it down his throat?" Her tone never changed, every word sounding like it had only the most perfunctory importance.

Sam pressed his lips in a thin line before he answered. "No, I left that part out." His voice had become as clipped and emotionless as hers.

"Ah well," Kayla said, "we only get some of what we want, right, Sam?"

Sam's eyes flickered to Dean, and he answered, "I have everything I want."

"Good. You did me a big favor back there, but you owed me plenty, and I don't have everything I want yet. Think we're even?"

Sam let out a choked, incredulous laugh. "You lured us into an insane firefight that should've killed us. I don't call that even."

"Call it lucky." She cocked her head, and glanced over the table, including Dean's second slice of pizza, Sam's handful of leftover fries, and both their Cokes. Kayla looked like she was trying to see their weapon hands through the table. Then she looked up again. "You remember Lucky?"

Sam looked wary. "No."

Her intent eyes never left Sam's face. "Crusher was always trying to bribe us shifters to turn into you. He never got over you. You were his favorite."

Sam's expression had not changed, though his face had drained of color. He stared at her, with pinched lips, and did not ask.

"I'm not that stupid," Kayla said. "Lucky was the only one dumb enough to take him up on it."

Dean couldn't breathe. Sam's throat worked like he needed to swallow to get enough saliva to talk, then he asked, tone as remote as hers, "Did he survive?"

Kayla shrugged, a slight movement of her shoulders. "Not long."

In the utter stillness that followed, she glanced over at Dean's plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Dean pushed it across to her, and she fell on the half-eaten pizza, shoveling it into her mouth with unabashed efficiency. Dean took the time to regroup, moving his hand slowly under the table to find and squeeze Sam's knee. Sam flinched and did not look at him, and Dean pulled his hand back.

When she had finished the last bite of crust, Dean asked, "What are you going to do now?"

Her mouth moving into a smile, she met his gaze. "I'm going to kill some hunters."

Sam's breath caught, and he leaned forward. "Kayla… you can't… You can't kill humans." He left unsaid or we're going to have to put you down, because that's what we do.

Her smile widened, no fear in her face. "Don't be stupid, Sam. They're not humans, they're hunters." She glanced at Dean. "I have a list of capture teams and fucks who used to love working at the camp. Addresses, too. They'll keep me busy for a long time, especially if I take my time." She looked almost happy.

"Are Bobby Singer or Jim Murphy on your list?" Dean clenched his bad hand into as much of a fist as he could manage with the cast. His gun wasn't loaded with silver, but there was in the knife in his boot. He didn't know if he could get to it in time, didn't know if he could kill someone who was clearly Sam's friend in front of him.

Her eyes followed his hand, narrowing. She lifted the fork Sam had left on her side of the booth. "Reach for me, and I'll bury this in your gut." It sounded less like a threat and more a bald statement of fact.

"The fuck you will," Sam snapped, shifting into Dean's space and pulling her attention away. Kayla gave him a coolly appraising look, then turned back to Dean.

"They're not on my list. Independents. On the Director's shit-list. I don't give a fuck about them."

"Don't do this, Kayla," Sam said, quiet but intent. "You're not that kind of monster."

She huffed out something like a laugh. "Hell yeah, I am. But it's okay. So are they." She pushed herself out of the booth. "Don't take this the wrong way, Sam, but I hope I don't see you again. I'm going to try to stay out of your way. I've called in my favors." She glanced once more at Dean, then back to Sam. "He doesn't hit you much, does he?"

Expressions flickered over Sam's face, too quick for Dean to pin down amid the lurch and nausea in his own stomach. Whether it was the overall tension and the leftover queasiness from his damned concussion, or just that question alone, his pizza was about to make a reappearance. It wasn't just that she asked if he hit Sam—she clearly expected Dean to hit him sometimes, like that was only normal. She was just asking about frequency.

"No," Sam said. "No, he doesn't."

She looked satisfied. "Keep watching out for him, Winchester. Out of all us monsters, he's the one who most deserved to get out." Then she turned her back and thumped away with heavy steps.

Dean waited a full minute after Kayla left the restaurant before he let out his breath. "No offense to your friend, but I am really fucking proud you turned out the way you did."

"She's not my friend," Sam said automatically. His brow remained knit, attention fixed on the fork and empty plate across from them. "She didn't have anyone to get her out," he said quietly. "If you hadn't… I could have been the same way."

Dean snorted. "No fucking way."

"You put a lot of work into me." Six years, to be precise. Sam glanced out the window, remembering how that street had first looked to him when he had been terrified every moment of the day, certain there would be no happy endings.

"You put a lot of work into me," Dean retorted, and it sounded both automatic and like he meant it.

Sam took Dean's good hand, and they clasped their palms together. "Worth every second."