A/N: I have actually finished this piece, and I promise its entirety will eventually be posted on this site. I'm just choosing to post it in weekly installments, give the whole Charles Dickens thing a try. No sorry, I hate Dickens' work, too drawn out. I'm not that cruel. And I can probably be persuaded by loving reviews to post more than one installment at a time.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its cast, as lovely as they are belong not to me and I make no profit from the publication of this work.

Claimer: Sparrow, Haaron, Parakeet, Rat, Randy, Judy, Daniel, and Patrick and all associated back stories are deeply beloved and mine.

Credit where credit is due: www(dot)native-languages(dot)org(slash)languages(dot)htm and Wikipedia. Because I do in fact believe in researching before I write.

Warnings: violence, language, mild innuendo

and I promise not to talk this much at the beginning of any other chapters.

The Birds
installment 1

She was Dean's "type" to a T. That is, on the shorter side of average, with breasts that threatened to spill out of her red tank top, large dark eyes rimmed by thick lashes, pouty lips with just a glimmer of gloss, and hair that tumbled in chocolate waves to the shoulders of her cropped leather jacket. Her jeans didn't fit too snug, but had rips so far up her sun kissed legs that they were barely decent. Not to mention, leaning against the wall as she was, hands in her pockets, watching a game of pool, she had that look about her that said she was just as likely to break Dean's nose as sleep with him.

It wasn't that Sam didn't understand she was more interesting than the fluffy speckled feather that they'd bagged at the late hunter Gregory Landrick's hotel room, he just wished he'd made his brother sit on the other side of the table.

"Oh my God, Sam, do you see her?" Dean punctuated each word.

The desperate whine was funny the first time… Sam rolled his eyes. "The last," he had to pause to count on his fingers, "eight times, yes, now, please, can we focus here?"

Dean made a dismissive gesture and continued to stare over Sam's shoulder. "It's a feather, a very little fuzzy feather. It's uhm," he glanced at the miniature Ziploc bag, "brown and white." He reached for his beer without looking and missed, hand fisting on air. On his second try, he got the neck of the bottle.

"I know it's a brown and white feather, jackass, why was a dead man holding it?" Sam flipped through paperwork. "He had nail marks on his palm. He clutched that thing so tight he bled – "

"You don't think she came here with that guy, do you? I mean, really, a girl like that, there's just no way…"

"Dude!" Dean had already asked that once. Sam threw his hands up in exasperation, "Just like two seconds of your attention would be great."

"Alright, fine." Dean waved to get a waiter's attention before leaning his arms on the table and locking his eyes with Sam's. "Two seconds, go." He picked up a french fry, tossed it in his mouth, and grimaced because it was no longer hot.

Sam sighed and pushed a picture of Greg Landrick's hand, even in rigor, holding the feather in question. "What was so important about this feather?" Sam asked.

Dean ate another french fry, and his face scrunched up as he studied the picture. "'S'it a special feather? Rare bird? Something with powers?"

"There's some lore about magic feathers that let people fly..." Sam dropped his arms on either side of the baggy. "But they definitely don't look like this." He looked up at Dean, whose gaze was trying to work its way back to the girl at the pool tables. "We have to be missing something…"

"Not all together unlikely, Sammy, considering the dozen other hunters just in this bar on the same job we are." His eye candy must have taken a few steps out of prime ogling space, because Dean was craning his head to watch her. Sam was surprised his brother had noticed something besides the brunette when they'd come in. He opened his mouth to argue Dean's point, but the bartender ambled up to their table, pulling a note pad and pen out of his pocket.

"Sorry that took so long, gentlemen, we're a little understaffed tonight. What can I get you?"

"Another beer for me," Dean poked a finger at his two thirds empty bottle, "And Sam here needs a shot of something strong."

Sam held up a hand and shook his head. "No thanks."

The bar tender smiled. "Just the beer then." And walked away.

"We were first on the scene, remember? Bobby called us."

"Then doesn't that make this Bobby's case?"

Sam wanted to bang his head on the table. What little blood was usually dedicated to Dean's brain function must have decided to take a vacation south. Sam didn't remember the last time he had to repeat this much information about a job.

"Here's you beer." The bartender returned with the bottle and square paper napkin to put it on. "You sure there's nothing I can get you?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Sam forced a tight smile.

Dean barely let his brother get all the syllables out. "Hey, barkeep?"

"Yessir?"

"That pretty gal over there," he pointed past Sam, "She a regular?"

The bar tender quirked up an eyebrow. "You could say that, yeah."

"She with that guy?"

The question inspired a small grin. "A word of advice: I wouldn't bother."

Dean practically squawked. His mouth gaped a few times, and the bartender had returned to the bar by the time he managed to splutter, "The hell does that mean?"

"Get your ass back to work on this job."

Dean stood, beer in hand. "We can work when Bobby gets here. Sammy, you have got to relax."

Now he remembered Bobby would be joining them tomorrow. Sam heaved a sigh, dragged himself to his feet, and resigned himself to babysitting his brother.

Dean put a hand on the table just as the eight ball rattled into a corner pocket. The cue bounced off the rail, narrowly missing the pocket and almost pinching the tips of Dean's fingers. "Nice shot."

"That you almost effed up, thanks." The shooter, the man whose relation with Dean's eye candy Dean had been mulling over all evening, stood up, and replaced his stick on the wall. He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, "I believe that's fifty even, Randy."

Randy pulled out a wad of bills and counted three. "I can't believe I let you con me out of another fifty bucks, Rat."

Rat shrugged and took the offered money. "Dunno what to tell you, man. Grand delusions that one day you'll be beat me maybe?" He grinned.

Randy shook his head. "May-be. I'ma turn in for th'evenin'. Wife's already gonna kill me for losin' more cash to you, better not be home late, too."

Rat laughed. "Take care, Randy. Tell Judy I say hi, and if she ever wants to trade cheesecakes for the money you've been losin', I'm all for it."

Dean had both hands on the table now; his eyebrows were knotted up, and he chewed the inside of his cheek, sizing up his competition. Randy was a middle aged man whose hair was just beginning to gray and had a bit of a beer gut. Schmuk: no skills required to cream at pool. Rat, though, he rested one hip on the table like he owned the thing. He was Dean's age, maybe a year younger, scrawny, and wearing a size too big t-shirt. Maybe not so scrawny. Closer inspection of his arms revealed lines of wiry muscle. Not a schmuk, but Dean could take him.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Rat asked, noticing Dean, still staring.

"Yeah," Dean took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and placed it on the felt. "Let's play for the cash you just ripped off the geezer, plus a little." Sam winced. He wanted to cover his eyes and shake his head.

Rat pushed his bangs out of his face, the gesture revealing a patch over his right eye, the ends of a jagged scar poking past its top and bottom, and studied the bill on the table. He whistled. "That's not chunk change, boys, hold on." On his way to fetch his cue stick again, he asked, "Hey, Sparrow, think I could borrow – "

"Aw, come on, man, you're not really gonna bum money off the lady, are you?"

It was the first time she'd actually looked at Dean, and it made him swallow hard and want to take a step back. She reached inside her coat and removed two neatly folded bills, but instead of handing them to Rat, she slid up to the table, unfolded them slowly, and placed them beside Dean's. "Why don't we play doubles all the way around?" she purred, shaking a lock of hair from her face, and meeting Dean's wide eyed gaze from under those too-thick lashes. "Me and Rat against you and your boy toy," she nodded toward Sam, who was very intently studying the collection of old school dream catchers on the opposite wall. He inwardly groaned.

"Now, that seems hardly fair…"

"You saying I can't play pool cuz I'm a girl? Or Rat can't cuz he's only got one eye?"

Dean's mouth audibly clicked shut.

"Double or nothing, sir," she repeated.

Dean's second hundred came in a crumpled stack of twenties and fives. "Sure, let's go. Sammy, grab me a stick will ya?"

"If you really still think she's gonna sleep with you," Sam mumbled in Dean's ear as he handed him a cue stick, "You should probably tell her I'm not your 'boy toy'."

"Just relax, Sam, some girls are into that."

Sam blanched. "That's gross."

Across the table, Sparrow cleared her throat. Rat lifted the triangle with the pads of his fingers, nimbly shifted it into just one hand, and slid it into its slot in the table. Dean glanced at the perfectly aligned rows of stripes and solids, eight ball in the center. He made a sweeping gesture over the pyramid, "Ladies first."

Sparrow smirked. "No, that's okay. I've gotta fetch my stick, anyway. You boys can break. Rat, you've got the first shot when they mess up." She flashed one more taunting look at Dean before walking, all curves and swaying hips, through a swinging door with "EMPLOYEES ONLY" printed on it in purple.

This time, Sam groaned aloud. Feathers long past ruffled, Dean didn't catch any of the last three minutes' implications. He gritted his teeth, hunkered over the table, and shot the most god awful break of his entire life.

Sparrow's pool cue was custom made, had to be, with a totem pole of animals climbing its just shorter than standard length and engraved silver washers between the top and bottom joints. But even if she hadn't been so obviously a pool shark and Rat less obviously one as well, he and Dean still would have been doomed. Dean was too flustered to make bank shots, and Sam was so rusty he missed a straight shot.

"Eight ball, side pocket." It was the harder of two potential shots. Sparrow tapped the tip of her cue next to the intended pocket.

Dean's ego was so wounded the damage carried through to his libido. He couldn't decide if he wanted to bend the girl over the table or throttle her.

She sunk it, easy, the cue ball smacking into the back rail before rolling to a stop. Sparrow smiled, all teeth at Dean, who grudgingly handed over the money. "I'd say good game, boys, but," she sort of glanced at the three remaining solids on the table as she stuffed half the bills in her coat pocket and handed the other half to Rat, "uhm… not so much."

Dean forced a tight lipped smile in return. "No, not so much."

Long certain of the game's result, the loss no longer bothered Sam. "Hey," he leaned on his cue stick and studied a photo of two girls holding pool cues with their arms around each other on the wall. "Is this you?" He looked over his shoulder at Sparrow.

She finished unscrewing the joints of her cue stick and returning them to their box before answering. "Yeah."

"Who's the other girl? Clearly not your current partner."

"My sister. We owned these tables."

"Where's she now?"

When Sparrow didn't immediately answer, Sam turned around. He opened his mouth to repeat the question.

"She died," Sparrow finally bit out. "Hey, Haaron," she shouted to the bar tender, "Get these poor losers a couple'a beers, on the house." She disappeared through that "EMPLOYEES ONLY" door again.

"Told you not to bother," Haaron chuckled, handing Dean his beer. "How much she get off you?"

Dean mumbled, "Two hundred," face a little red, and glared at his toes.

"Hey, don't take this the wrong way," Sam took his beer with more grace than Dean, "but what's with your names? Heron? Sparrow? Rat?"

Haaron was neither startled nor seemed to mind the question. "'S what you get when your dad's three quarters Lakota Sioux, I guess." His golden eyes twinkled and his tone was full of mirth, the answer one he'd rattled off a hundred times and knew most certainly wasn't true.

"So you're all siblings?" Dean asked hopefully.

Haaron laughed. "'Cept Rat here. And his name's not even Rat, it's Foster, right?"

Rat hung his head and nodded.

"Rat just… suits him better."

Dean went back to glowering.

"Huhmm." Sam nodded and took a drink. "This is a pretty neat place you got. All this stuff authentic?"

"You bet. Passed down half a dozen generations 'till it got to Dad, then to Sparrow. And Sparrow being Sparrow wouldn't give it up to a museum, so she and Keet – "

"Keet?" Sam interrupted. "Lemme guess, as in Parakeet?"

Haaron shrugged and smiled. "So maybe Mom had a funny sense of humor, too. Anyway, Sparrow and Keet bought this place. Dunno if it's what Mom and Dad hoped for the family heirlooms, but it works."

"Your parents ever seen it?"

"I'm afraid they passed on before they could."

"Oh… I'm sorry." Sam dropped into a booth. "If you don't mind me asking, how long ago did Parakeet die?"

"Do you always interrogate bar tenders when they give you free drinks?" Rat sat across from him.

"Uhm, no… I guess not," Sam stammered, "Sor – "

"Haaron, there's a girl at the bar trying to get your attention." He waved the other man away before explaining to Sam in no uncertain terms, "Look, leave Sparrow and her brother the hell alone. Keet died a week ago. Car accident. Not that it's any of your business, so drop it, asshole."

Dean smacked a hand on the table. "I don't think anybody here but me gets to call Sammy names." He stared down at Rat with lazy menace.

"Then tell Sammy to keep his nose out of mourning girls' problems." Rat hauled himself to his feet, intentionally invading Dean's personal space as he did so. Dean drew back an arm, intent on hitting him, but Sam caught his elbow.

"Come on, let's go back to the hotel. I need to talk to you."

Dean continued to glare after Rat, who watched him with equal distaste from the bar.

"Dean, come on. We're leaving."