Snapshots

Two-headed-Elvis-Kid

by Livengoo

Dean and Sam belong to McG. The three breasted chick belongs to a movie I admit to having missed. And the kid? Who knows. I'm just glad it's not MINE!

No spoilers whatsoever. No smut. No violence except possibly to the English language.

Dean Winchester shoved his coffee aside and thumped a knuckle down on a picture in a supermarket check-out newspaper. "Look at this Sammy! I swear to god that baby's got make up on. And is that a third nipple?"

Sam sipped at his coffee and turned a page in his magazine. "That's strawberry jam."

Dean leaned forward and planted a spread-fingered hand on Sam's page. "You aren't even LOOKING!"

Sam raised his head from the latest copy of the Bar Review that he'd ripped off from some godforsaken little place they'd burgled for information. The expression on his face was one of long-suffering patience. Dean sneered. "Have you been practicing with that picture of Gandhi again? Man, you know you gotta shave your head to get it right."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It was just that one time, Dean. And I was fifteen. Can't you drop it already?"

Dean snickered. "You need to be able to wrinkle your scalp up to get the look right, dude. And yeah, so you got it perfect that one time -"

Sam made a face. "When you put the Nair in the shampoo?"

"You'd never have gotten it right if I hadn't. I think you owe me a thank you there, man."

Sam's eyes narrowed. His lips tightened. Then his face relaxed into a big, open, innocent smile. "Maybe you're right."

Dean narrowed HIS eyes and shook his head. "Whatever you're thinking, little brother, rethink it. You do NOT want to get into a shooting war like that with ME. Besides, look at this picture. I tell ya, that kid looks like Elvis. I'm thinking Mulder might have been right about the King and where he went."

"Deeean," whined Sam. "Mulder's a TV CHARACTER!"

"And you know, so is Kolchak. That doesn't mean he's not based on someone real. Hell, they'll probably base a TV show on us someday. I mean, if they're desperate enough to have 'Dancing with the Stars' and 'Lost' out there, they could only go up by featuring us."

Sam blinked. His lips twitched. "I'll have you know I LIKE 'Dancing with the Stars'."

Dean lost it. Snorted coffee out his nose and had to turn away to choke and cough and generally sound like he needed the Heimlich maneuver. Sam took the opportunity to yank the National Inquirer away without obviously being seen to read the thing. He flipped to the back. "So. Where's the comics."

Dean's choking increased. Sam grinned and went back to scanning the articles, evaluating the quality of the writing and plotting like he had in Freshman English. Sometimes these even had one or two lines that weren't completely made up. Huh. The baby DID look kind of like it had a third nipple now that he really looked at the picture. And that gleam in its eye and the way its fine, dark hair made a duck tail in the back . . .

Sam shook his head and shoved the tabloid back over to Dean's side of the formica diner table, shuddering at having even for a moment entertained the thought of hunting down an alien Elvis baby

Dean had pretty much stopped his coughing fit, though he did still sound a little husky. "So. I was right, wasn't I?"

Sam sniffed. Raised a brow. "And if, for the sake of argument, I were to hypothetically agree that that infant looks like it might, hypothetically, resemble Elvis or have a third nipple . . '

"Third nipple. Like the hypothetical three-breasted alien babe?"

"Fiction, Dean! What part of fiction eludes you?"

"The part where fiction means make-believe instead of like, oh, you know, government cover up and public ignorance about stuff like werewolves and fuckin' sprites and that?"

"Sprites are ungendered and you know it."

"Alien. Three. Breasted. Love. Chick."

Sam got that constipated look on his face, the one that meant he was having deep thoughts. Or maybe gas pains.

"So SOMEtimes fiction isn't really make-believe."

"And memories of alien abduction are just a cover for abuse?" Dean sing-songed the sentence as obnoxiously as he knew how, and that was VERY obnoxiously since it was a skill he'd perfected at just about the age of seven when he'd figured out the tone of voice drove his brother nuts.

"Well. Of course."

"So what about abductees who form those memories as adults when they're too mature for that DID-multiple-sybil crap?"

"Well . . .there's always fraud."

"Spoken like a fucking lawyer."

"Thank you." Sam smirked widely.

"Jerk."

"Ignoramus."

"Fuckhead."

"Syphilitic moron."

Dean grinned and delivered the proper finale. "Bitch."

Sam snorted. "Sometimes third nipples just happen on their own."

"And the ducktails?"

"Hair gel."

Dean drummed out something that was either Metallica or maybe the Rev. Horton Heat. Sam had always preferred bass lines himself. "That baby doesn't look RIGHT and you know it."

Sam sighed and slumped. Shook his head. "Yeah. You're right. It does look . . . . " He craned and studied the picture again, mentally correcting for the Photoshopping that had glued Elvis's head and jump suit on the little tyke as a second head and costume. He sighed again. "leaving aside the weirdness of any normal parents letting their kid be pictured that way -"

Dean waved an impatient hand. "Baby beauty pageants."

Sam shuddered. "True. But look, Dean, even if that IS an alien Elvis baby, I think maybe that's a good thing."

Dean stared at him in a sort of appalled fascination. "Uhh, how do you get that?"

Sam grinned. "You've listened to top forty. You need to ask?"

Dean stared at him, horror writ large on his face. Then nodded in solemn agreement. "I see your point, Sam, I see your point."