SPN FIC - Blackbird
There is peace and quiet (albeit sporadic) today -- so there is fic. Here's the first one: Halloween. A small boy in a bird suit. And the question of perspective.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1151 words
BLACKBIRD
By Carol Davis
"What's he supposed to be, anyway?"
Sam turned to look, following Dean's line of sight to the concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk from the overgrown yard of the house next door to the Buckleys'. The kid had been sitting there for a good five minutes, gazing off into the distance, his small hands tightly wrapped around the handles of his trick-or-treat bag.
"Don't know," Sam said.
The kid was dressed in black, except for what looked like bright yellow socks worn over his shoes. The bill of his black cap was also bright yellow.
"Whatever happened to the basics?" Dean asked, fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. "Superman. Batman. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."
"Hmm," Sam murmured, returning his attention to the laptop.
"I'm just sayin'."
"Mm-hmm."
"I think it's a bird. Right? It look like a bird to you?"
Only because Dean would continue to pester him if he didn't look, Sam again turned his head and gave the kid a few seconds' worth of study. The boy's cap did sport what looked like an eye - presumably two of them, although Sam could only see one side of the boy's head - and the yellow bill did look somewhat like the beak of a bird.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess."
That placated Dean for a minute or two.
Then Dean started to hum.
"I swear, man," Sam groaned, "I've never met anybody as completely unable to chill out as you are."
"I'm chilled," Dean said. "I am downright frosty."
"The hell you are."
"I can't ask a question?"
"He's a bird. Fine. Okay? He's a bird. Could you let me focus?"
"You can't multi-task?"
"Dean."
"All right, all right. Jeez."
And Dean fell silent. Which was in its own way worse than the chatter, because there was a definite waiting for the other shoe to drop feel to it: waiting for Dean's mind to overflow again, for that wild churn of completely random crap in Dean's head to again hit Max Gross Load.
Dean's head was like a popcorn popper, Sam figured. Hit the right temperature and the kernels started exploding.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve…
Dean began to whisper-sing.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night…"
Gentle drum of fingers on steering wheel. Roll of first one shoulder, then the other. Dean's eyes dropped to half-mast.
"Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your liiiiiife
You were only waiting for this moment to arise…"
Sam turned to stare at his brother, one eyebrow raised.
"What?" Dean said.
"The Beatles, now? You're gonna work your way through the Lennon-McCartney catalogue? Dude."
"Fine."
Before Sam could protest - or offer any further input at all - Dean had pushed open the driver's door and scrambled out of the car. He made a show of closing the door almost soundlessly, grinning at Sam through the window as he did so, then he walked around to the nose of the car and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest.
"Black…biiiiiird…"
"I can still hear you," Sam said.
He lowered his head. Looked at the laptop screen.
He could see Dean lift himself away from the car, step up onto the sidewalk, and begin to stroll toward the kid in the bird outfit. The concrete steps were far enough away that Sam couldn't hear Dean begin talking to the kid, though he could tell by the movement of the kid's head that he was at first leery of this strange guy in the dark suit, then placated by something Dean had told him.
"I'm a cop," more than likely.
The boy pointed to something down the street, a something that prompted Dean to nod, then to sit down alongside the kid on the top step.
He sat there in the sun, the unbuttoned jacket of his suit hanging open, feet propped on the lower step, arms braced against his knees.
Talking.
Sam watched his brother for a minute, half-smiling when the boy reached into his voluminous trick-or-treat bag and produced a candy bar that he handed over to Dean. The two of them, Dean and the bird-boy, sat in the sun eating candy and talking, and the sight of it was so unalarming that Sam's focus gradually slid back to the laptop and to the research he'd been trying to do for the best part of an hour. Bit by bit, it drew him in so completely that he barely noticed the soft creak of the driver's door opening. It surprised him to realize that the sun had dipped down behind the trees and that the boy was no longer sitting on the concrete steps.
"You good?" Dean asked. "Starting to get kind of cold out there."
"I - what. Yeah. I guess."
Satisfied, Dean settled into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut. "Got some intel on dinner. Diner out on the main road, a little ways past the K-Mart. Excellent burgers and fries."
"And you got this from -?"
"Charlie."
"Charlie," Sam echoed.
Dean snorted softly. "What, did you think his name was - crap."
"Did I think his name was Crap?"
"No. Those birds. In the cartoon. What was their names? There was two of 'em."
"Tweety Bird?"
"Jesus," Dean said. "How am I related to you? Two birds, asshat. Black ones."
"Heckle and Jeckle."
"That's the ones."
"You're asking me if I thought that kid's name was Heckle. Or Jeckle."
"Charlie," Dean announced. "Thought he was gonna do some big time trick-or-treating. You saw the size of that sack, right? Figured he was gonna corner the market on Three Musketeers. Some Reese's Pieces, a few peanut butter cups, maybe some Snickers. But he got three houses under his belt, and his brother decided to bail on him." He nodded down the street, in the direction Charlie had been so mournfully staring. "Told him I could sympathize."
"Maybe Charlie was driving his brother freaking insane."
Dean shrugged and toyed with his keys for a moment before sliding the ignition key into place. "I figure it's all a matter of perspective."
"Sure you do."
"Three houses, Sam. That's pathetic."
"You do know that song's about black people, right?"
"I - what?"
"'Blackbird.' It's about the civil rights movement."
Dean was silent for a long while, staring determinedly at the dashboard. Finally, he turned the ignition key, and as the engine chugged into life, he said, "Perspective. Like I said. I figure you can interpret things the way you see 'em. I figure that song's about a kid in a bird suit, waiting for the right moment to kick his dumbass brother's butt. And don't start talking to me about frigging Wikipedia. It's all in the way you look at things."
They were a couple of blocks from the Buckleys' house when Sam said quietly, "I guess it is."
"Damn straight," Dean said, then asked, "You find what we need?"
"I did," Sam told him.
* * * * *
With thanks for the inspiration:
Paul McCartney's "Blackbird" and to Steve Hanks for this...
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1151 words
BLACKBIRD
By Carol Davis
"What's he supposed to be, anyway?"
Sam turned to look, following Dean's line of sight to the concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk from the overgrown yard of the house next door to the Buckleys'. The kid had been sitting there for a good five minutes, gazing off into the distance, his small hands tightly wrapped around the handles of his trick-or-treat bag.
"Don't know," Sam said.
The kid was dressed in black, except for what looked like bright yellow socks worn over his shoes. The bill of his black cap was also bright yellow.
"Whatever happened to the basics?" Dean asked, fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. "Superman. Batman. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."
"Hmm," Sam murmured, returning his attention to the laptop.
"I'm just sayin'."
"Mm-hmm."
"I think it's a bird. Right? It look like a bird to you?"
Only because Dean would continue to pester him if he didn't look, Sam again turned his head and gave the kid a few seconds' worth of study. The boy's cap did sport what looked like an eye - presumably two of them, although Sam could only see one side of the boy's head - and the yellow bill did look somewhat like the beak of a bird.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess."
That placated Dean for a minute or two.
Then Dean started to hum.
"I swear, man," Sam groaned, "I've never met anybody as completely unable to chill out as you are."
"I'm chilled," Dean said. "I am downright frosty."
"The hell you are."
"I can't ask a question?"
"He's a bird. Fine. Okay? He's a bird. Could you let me focus?"
"You can't multi-task?"
"Dean."
"All right, all right. Jeez."
And Dean fell silent. Which was in its own way worse than the chatter, because there was a definite waiting for the other shoe to drop feel to it: waiting for Dean's mind to overflow again, for that wild churn of completely random crap in Dean's head to again hit Max Gross Load.
Dean's head was like a popcorn popper, Sam figured. Hit the right temperature and the kernels started exploding.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve…
Dean began to whisper-sing.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night…"
Gentle drum of fingers on steering wheel. Roll of first one shoulder, then the other. Dean's eyes dropped to half-mast.
"Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your liiiiiife
You were only waiting for this moment to arise…"
Sam turned to stare at his brother, one eyebrow raised.
"What?" Dean said.
"The Beatles, now? You're gonna work your way through the Lennon-McCartney catalogue? Dude."
"Fine."
Before Sam could protest - or offer any further input at all - Dean had pushed open the driver's door and scrambled out of the car. He made a show of closing the door almost soundlessly, grinning at Sam through the window as he did so, then he walked around to the nose of the car and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest.
"Black…biiiiiird…"
"I can still hear you," Sam said.
He lowered his head. Looked at the laptop screen.
He could see Dean lift himself away from the car, step up onto the sidewalk, and begin to stroll toward the kid in the bird outfit. The concrete steps were far enough away that Sam couldn't hear Dean begin talking to the kid, though he could tell by the movement of the kid's head that he was at first leery of this strange guy in the dark suit, then placated by something Dean had told him.
"I'm a cop," more than likely.
The boy pointed to something down the street, a something that prompted Dean to nod, then to sit down alongside the kid on the top step.
He sat there in the sun, the unbuttoned jacket of his suit hanging open, feet propped on the lower step, arms braced against his knees.
Talking.
Sam watched his brother for a minute, half-smiling when the boy reached into his voluminous trick-or-treat bag and produced a candy bar that he handed over to Dean. The two of them, Dean and the bird-boy, sat in the sun eating candy and talking, and the sight of it was so unalarming that Sam's focus gradually slid back to the laptop and to the research he'd been trying to do for the best part of an hour. Bit by bit, it drew him in so completely that he barely noticed the soft creak of the driver's door opening. It surprised him to realize that the sun had dipped down behind the trees and that the boy was no longer sitting on the concrete steps.
"You good?" Dean asked. "Starting to get kind of cold out there."
"I - what. Yeah. I guess."
Satisfied, Dean settled into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut. "Got some intel on dinner. Diner out on the main road, a little ways past the K-Mart. Excellent burgers and fries."
"And you got this from -?"
"Charlie."
"Charlie," Sam echoed.
Dean snorted softly. "What, did you think his name was - crap."
"Did I think his name was Crap?"
"No. Those birds. In the cartoon. What was their names? There was two of 'em."
"Tweety Bird?"
"Jesus," Dean said. "How am I related to you? Two birds, asshat. Black ones."
"Heckle and Jeckle."
"That's the ones."
"You're asking me if I thought that kid's name was Heckle. Or Jeckle."
"Charlie," Dean announced. "Thought he was gonna do some big time trick-or-treating. You saw the size of that sack, right? Figured he was gonna corner the market on Three Musketeers. Some Reese's Pieces, a few peanut butter cups, maybe some Snickers. But he got three houses under his belt, and his brother decided to bail on him." He nodded down the street, in the direction Charlie had been so mournfully staring. "Told him I could sympathize."
"Maybe Charlie was driving his brother freaking insane."
Dean shrugged and toyed with his keys for a moment before sliding the ignition key into place. "I figure it's all a matter of perspective."
"Sure you do."
"Three houses, Sam. That's pathetic."
"You do know that song's about black people, right?"
"I - what?"
"'Blackbird.' It's about the civil rights movement."
Dean was silent for a long while, staring determinedly at the dashboard. Finally, he turned the ignition key, and as the engine chugged into life, he said, "Perspective. Like I said. I figure you can interpret things the way you see 'em. I figure that song's about a kid in a bird suit, waiting for the right moment to kick his dumbass brother's butt. And don't start talking to me about frigging Wikipedia. It's all in the way you look at things."
They were a couple of blocks from the Buckleys' house when Sam said quietly, "I guess it is."
"Damn straight," Dean said, then asked, "You find what we need?"
"I did," Sam told him.
* * * * *
With thanks for the inspiration:
Paul McCartney's "Blackbird" and to Steve Hanks for this...