Birdsong, a Supernatural fanfic

A/N Thank you all for the reviews! I really appreciate it. This is the first chaptered story I've ever completed, and I don't think I could have made it if it weren't for your encouragement. If someone doesn't mind, I would really like a good, critical review of this story, especially this chapter. Now then, the conclusion!A/N

It had been a week, and no sign of the Angel. Gin was beginning to lose hope again. He walked down the streets, going through the gray afternoon. The skyscrapers looked down on him like the bars of a giant cage. The noisy crowd choked the air with their smoke and cell phones, cars and buses added to the rabble, making the cramped corridors even more suffocating. It was a Monday afternoon, and the streets were it's usual sandwich of flesh, metal and noise, squished between two giant slabs of concrete.

Gin hated walking.

The busy streets in the city had nothing on the endless sky overhead. His wings ached, half longing for the open air, half recuperating from the high altitude chase of last week. Dammit, Gin thought to himself, if his wings weren't so broken, he'd be up there right now, searching for her. He'd be up there for so long, his feet wouldn't touch solid ground until nightfall. But no, he would have to content himself to looking up and hoping. He plopped himself on a billboard bench, sat his guitar case and amp next to him, and looked up expectantly. Shot down again by the empty clouds, Gin sighed. He looked down the block. The Golden Phoenix was up ahead, it's huge sign stuck out of the old brick walls with crimson, gold and neon, beckoning customers into the small restaurant. Neon letters advertised "Authentic Chinese Cuisine" and "Live music" boldly glowing among similar signs.

It's interior matched the extravagance of it's sign, with it's huge round tables and pure white tablecloths. The tables were decorated with simple white china and glasses stuffed with cloth. The walls were decorated with framed silk canvases, with scenes of women and cranes stitched along the cloth. To the unknowing eye, it was a palace. Half the stuff in that place you could buy in bulk in Chinatown. It was an emperor's pagoda for fifty bucks. Gin took a seat at an empty table.

Mr. Ching, the small, balding manager walked up to him, "Usual, Mister Whiskey?" His Chinese accent chopped up the syllables like a knife to an onion.

Gin flinched at the name, "It's Gin."

"Okay, usual pay, play tonight?" Mr Ching asked.

"Yeah."

Mr Ching made a small bow, and walked off into the kitchens, yelling out orders in his native tongue.

A lunch sized sweet and sour chicken, rice, and a Ginger ale. That's all his playing was worth. Gin sadly pecked at his rice. He wasn't hungry, but he forced it all down. It was going to take all the energy he had for his wings to heal up, to start searching again. With no one to talk to, he thought about the Angel again. Who was she? What was she like? All questions and possibilities stirred in his mind. Images of her occupied his thoughts, his dreams. There were times that even memories of Whiskey started slipping away to the girl.

It was nearing seven when Gin finally finished his meal. Mr. Ching approached him again.

"Almost time, want cookie?" The manager held out a plastic wrapped fortune cookie to Gin.

"Alright."

He took the cookie and crushed it inside the wrapper with a pop. Gin poured the contents out, and extracted the paper fortune from the remains.

Call that special someone tomorrow.

Gin frowned, yeah, that would work, if the only person he ever considered special wasn't dead. He bit into the pieces of cookie, and for the hundredth time today, he thought to himself, God, I'm lonely.

I should just give up now. Gin thought, walking out of the music store with a new guitar string. One broken string, and the whole thing was over before it started. It was a good thing Mr. Ching gave him an advance to pay for a new one... At the cost of the only food he had for a week. This is probably what Whiskey meant when he called himself a "Starving artist". He thought bitterly, Damn. I'm going to die of starvation before my wings heal, aren't I?

After finding an empty alleyway, he got to work on Whiskey's Flying V. His fingers meticulously installing the new string on the frets. A few twists and tests later, he put it back in the case. Gin stared at it. It laid there, like a body nestled in a coffin during a wake. Gin slid his fingers across the black, triangular body reverently. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he shut the lid. No, he wasn't going to end up like Whiskey, not before he met his angel.

He looked up in the sky, and this time, she was there.

Gin unsheathed his wings, but he immediately regretted it. The unfolding of healing wings felt like two hard punches to the back. He doubled over with pain, his breath heaving heavily. Dammit! He needed to get to the air! But how? Gin looked around. His eyes caught a high rise apartment building just a block away.

Call that special someone tomorrow...

All of a sudden, Gin knew exactly what to do. He sped down the streets, guitar and amp in hands. His unsheathed wings dragged behind him, catching the attention of the crowd. But he kept running, he needed to get to the skies, wings or not.

The door to the rooftop level of the apartment building burst open, Gin stumbled onto the ground, and looked out to the sunset.

She was still around.

Gin thanked whatever force was out there for leading him to her, and gave them as much thanks that there was a power outlet nearby to plug in the amp. He took out the Flying V out of it's case and plugged it into the amp. Gin strapped the guitar around his wings and his shoulders, and stood there, staring out into the horizon. The wind whipped into his face and through his feathers.

"Birds can't live without a song."

Gin began to play. It had started out as a few simple chords, experimental, nervous. Soon, his fingers jumped from fret to fret, forming chords and riffs he had never played before. The melody bounced off of itself, forming an echo through the skies. Suddenly, Gin found his voice, and began to sing.

It was in a voice he never thought he had. He sang of the only friend he had lost, he sang of the loneliness that was inside of him right now. He sang about his broken wings, and how prayed to whatever god gave him these wings for her to come to him. He told her about how much he loved her, how every thought in his head was about the angel who would come and save him from this doom of walking the frozen streets alone. He told her of the adventures they can have together, of the places they could go, of a sweet embrace that only they would share. His heart flooded out of the music and into the air. Every molecule was a prayer that she would listen to his song, that he would never have to be lonely ever again.

And then, Gin stopped.

She was standing right in front of him, her wings outstretched, a smile on her face.

Gin smiled back.

"Hi."