Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Requests: I would love to hear what you think.
Summary: Sam's away at college and Dean's trying to make the best of it with his dad, when the hunt bring them to the Indianapolis Indians doorstep. It's not a pro ball career, but this time it may come close. Pre-series.
Author's notes: In the future this may show up as a part of the "Journal" series (if I ever find more time to write). This series will be a grouping of unrelated stories based on hunts Dean went on when Sam was in college. Whether or not they're actually based in the past or mentioned in the current series will vary between stories (if they ever exist )
Please enjoy.
PRO BALL CAREER
It was so damn hot out that the pavement was being obscured by the heat waves shimmering over it, and it wasn't even lunch yet. Sweat had been soaking into his shirt steadily for the last half hour, the leather of the seats that sat in the sun were scorching hot to the touch and he was actually, seriously, contemplating putting on a pair of shorts; which he hadn't worn since he was ten years old. Of which he didn't even own a pair.
Head lolling on the seat he looked over at the thrift shop beside the gas station they were currently parked and wondered, not for the first time in the last ten minutes, what the hell his dad was doing in there. As far as Dean knew they hadn't wrecked any clothing on their last two hunts so what the man was after was beyond him. He sighed, squirmed on the hot seats, and willed his dad to get back to the damn car with their drinks and food from the convenience store so they could get back on the road and get a breeze started. This state was brutal, and it wasn't even the height of the summer yet.
When his dad finally returned he didn't bother opening his eyes, the heat almost lulling him to sleep, but he reached out an arm in silent request for whatever cold beverage his dad had on hand. What he got was something that did not resemble a cold drink tossed onto his lap. He opened his eyes and glared down, then over at his dad in surprise.
"You feeling the need for some father son bonding time? Because last I checked football was more your style."
"Think we spend enough time bonding," John Winchester replied gruffly, the weather not doing anything for his almost permanently bad attitude these days. Dean sighed softly to himself and rubbed at his temple before picking up the well worked brown mitt from his lap. He turned it over once and then glanced at the plastic bag his dad had dumped in the back seat with a quirked eyebrow.
"Not that I don't appreciate the belated birthday gift, but what gives?" he held the mitt up imploringly and then, noticing one of the leather ties was loose, he began fixing it. "I don't think I can even remember the last time I played catch." Which is a lie, because he had played in gym class that one time in grade eight. The season had just started and his teacher had lent him a glove. He remembered getting in two games before they had had to move again. That was the only time he ever remembered playing. He remembered enjoying it, but not much else. He wasn't really one to follow sports.
"Well you better work on it then. Tryouts are tomorrow."
There was a moment where Dean thought his dad had actually spoken in another language.
"Tryouts? For baseball?"
"No, for synchronized swimming, I just thought the glove would be a good prop," he glared at Dean, his eyes ordering him to stop being an idiot because this was serious. Dean sat a little straighter.
"Sorry sir," he responded automatically, and reached for the bottle of ice tea his dad had tossed on the seat between them. "You took me by surprise." His dad snorted and started the engine, the Impala growling to life around them, and then pulled out onto the road.
"We're heading to Compton. Should be there by eight tonight. Tryouts start 9am tomorrow morning. That should give you a few hours to get used to the feel of the mitt and throwing. Can't do much about hitting though," he shrugged apologetically and Dean just snorted. As if it would make a difference.
"Whatever. It's not like I actually have to make it onto the team or whatever," he unwrapped his sandwich and took a big bite.
"You do have to make the team," his dad capped the lid to his own drink and finally settled into his seat while Dean stared at him stupidly. Was he serious? His dad looked at him and grinned. Dean hated that grin. That grin always meant Dean was going to have to work his ass off.
"The Indianapolis Indians have been a minor league team since 1902. In 1942 three team players died in the opening season. In 1962 one player died. In 1982 two more players died."
"And in 2002 more players could die," Dean finished for him and then took another bite of his sandwich.
"The deaths occurred in the pre-game season on their home turf, which means we need to be there. The Major League Scouting Bureau is holding a tryout camp. Scouts from all over are going to be there sizing players up for the minor league. If they see something they like they can all make offers," his dad focused on the road ahead of him, breaking the speed limit by a good fifteen miles per hour.
"So I need to try and get an offer from Indianapolis," Dean snorted. "No offence Dad, but the chances of that happening…" he shrugged. "Let's be serious about it. I don't even know the rules of the game, and the last time I recall a game being on the TV it was changed to infomercials for the rest of the night."
"Dean, its baseball. How hard can it be?"
"With a bunch of people who have been playing since they could walk and are trying for the million dollar career? Oh yeah, it'll be a breeze." His dad was serious about this though, and Dean was beginning to get nervous.
"Look Dean, this isn't the last resort for the case, it would just be easier for us to handle if we could get inside this way. If nothing comes of the tryouts then we'll just find another way, no big deal." Well, as long as that was the case Dean supposed he could play along. It could be fun even. His dad looked over at him, assessing. "Besides, you've got excellent reflexes, you're fast on your feet, your hand eye coordination is acceptable and you've been throwing knives and footballs since you were seven. What more do you need?"
"Chewing tobacco and a pair of cleats?"
"It's all in the bag."
Well then, it looks like this was going to happen.
OOooOOOoOO
Eight o'clock Saturday morning found Dean sitting in the Impala in Compton College's parking lot while his dad scouted out the area. In about ten minutes he'd be heading over to register for a spot in the tryouts and he was stuck between wanting to laugh at the entire scenario and wishing Sammy was here for some kind of dorky pep-talk. As it was Sam had been gone for nine months now without a word. That hadn't stopped Dean from checking up on him (the three times he'd been in the area and dad had given him the car for the night) though, and he still found himself twisting in the seat to toss a comment to his little brother in the back only to be met by no one.
Sam had always liked school sports; he probably would have been all over explaining the rules of the game to Dean. As it was Dean was working off the little league game they had stopped to watch last night and some notes from the internet. Tossing the ball with his dad had been easy enough and catching was a piece of cake once he got used to the glove and how it worked. He took a deep breath, finding his zone. He was going to have to be sharp out there to pick up the game as fast as possible. He was a Winchester after all, and if he was going to do this he was going to do it well.
"Areas clear, I doubt there will be anything we need to look out for," his dad declared and leaned in the open window to grab his coffee. "Let's go."
"Do these pants make my ass look big?" Dean grumbled as he rolled up his window and got out of the car. His Dad glared at him. Okay, so the time for joking was over then, whatever you say dad. He shrugged, fixed the worn ball cap on his head (who the hell were the Maple Leafs? Did people actually get paid to come up with names like that?) and tucked his mitt under his arm. It was time for business.
"Didn't think there would be so much coverage," he dad commented as they walked over to the registration area, nodding at the few local news cameras already at work.
"They're just hoping to get a glimpse at America's next Babe Ruth," Dean pulled the hat lower on his forehead. He didn't have to worry about being on TV as he doubted anyone who had met him in the past would make the connection between him and whoever he had been to them, but it wouldn't hurt to try and stay out of the media as much as possible. He wished he didn't feel so ridiculous in this uniform.
"Name and registration number," the woman behind the large foldout table held out her hand expectantly, not looking up. Players were milling about all around them waiting to be signed in.
"We're walk ins" his dad said, smoothly stepping into the role as Dean's 'manager.' She looked up then and glanced at Dean, who instinctively smiled charmingly. She didn't look too impressed but she pushed a piece of paper over to them regardless.
"Fill that out and provide identification please," she ordered, and then her eyes lit up as someone approached from behind. "Well aren't you the brightest ray of sunshine all morning," she declared, suddenly all motherly and flirtatious. Dean felt someone step up beside him and watched as a dark haired guy in a well pressed uniform leaned onto the table and laughed.
"Sweet talking will get you everywhere," he grinned at her. "You ready for the festivities?"
"I sure am. They're just beginning to trickle in now but so far there's nothing for you to worry about," she winked at him.
"Of that I'm sure," he smiled and cut a glance at Dean, sizing him up and then dismissing him in one look. "Do you have my number?"
"I do at that," she flipped open a file box and searched through until pulling out #23 and passing it to him with a couple of pins. "Here you are. Be sure to pin it to your front and back so the scouts can see you clearly."
"Will do, thanks Sonya," he turned and strutted off, Dean watching him a moment before turning back and signing the paper his dad gave him. He didn't know the guy, but he already didn't like him. Asshole.
"Can I see your ID please?" She more demanded then asked, and Dean slid it to her. Five minutes later had 'David Young' pinning his numbers to his uniform and looking around carefully as people milled about the stands. There were a lot of freakin' people here.
"What position did you tell them I played?"
"Everything except pitcher and catcher," his dad responded and Dean looked at him incredulously. "You'll be fine."
"Don't you have to specify a position?" His dad glared at him and Dean figured it was the same look he'd given the women at the desk when she had no doubt asked the same thing after Dean had wondered off. Well, any position it is then. "Right, whatever. I'm going to go see if I can find someone to warm up with."
"I'll be in the stands." Dean nodded. His dad was going to go watch him play baseball from the stands, with all the other parents and friends. Was it sad to say this was probably one of the most normal things they had ever done as a family? He swallowed thickly, wishing Sam was here to be a part of it. This was probably exactly like the normal he'd been craving his whole life.
There were players here that ranged from sixteen years old to thirty, some bouncing around with nervous energy and others finding their zone. He watched a group of guys, probably from the college even, as they split to go warm up their arms. Dean nodded to the odd guy out, catching his eye. Wanna throw?
A shrug. Sure.
It was hypnotic, just tossing the ball back and forth and Dean found it ridiculously easy to focus on the task. This wouldn't be so bad. A horn went off and they stopped their game of catch to listen.
"All players report to the Field. Try outs will begin in five minutes. All players report to the field."
Dean walked over to his throwing partner and handed him the ball.
"It's time then," he grinned. "David Young," he introduced himself and held out his hand. The red head (what a shock of hair) took it readily and grinned widely, showing off perfect teeth.
"Will McRae. This your first tryout?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Nah, that's just a standard question," he grinned and began leading the way to the field. "What team are you from?" Dean balked.
"Uhh, I'm between teams now. I've been moving around a bit."
"I hear that. I just switched colleges and am still waiting to see where they'll sit me on the new team. If this doesn't work I'll head over to the Washington tries on the 26th." Dean raised an eyebrow at this and the guy shrugged good naturedly. "I'm good, but I'm also realistic. I might need as many opportunities as I can get."
"You been playing a long time?"
"Been throwing it around since I could walk. It's a family passion, but I was the only one with a real arm for it. I see you've got a good arm for it too." Dean shrugged at that and Will looked at him and snorted. "I see you're one of those guys that play down their skills eh? This isn't the place for that, so when you're tossing on the field make sure you get the full snap out of your wrist and you'll get their attention," he slapped Dean's shoulder and jogged off to the pitchers area while Dean just stared after him. Huh, nice guy. He headed over to the largest group of people, assuming they were the fielders.
"All right, we're going to do a roll call before splitting you up and getting into some basic drills. There's a lot to get through today so I don't want you taking your sweet time between drills. You finish and you set up again immediately. Understood?"
"Yes sir," he barked out automatically, and several heads turned his way. He looked at them. What? The man had asked a question and he sure as hell wasn't going to screw this up by not answering. Roll call started and people were being divided up efficiently when they finally came to Dean.
"David Young?"
"Sir?"
"Says here you play infield and outfield."
"Yes sir," he agreed and the man looked at him with a frown, and there were a few snickers from other players, though they were subtle. Dean wasn't impressed.
"You need to pick a position son."
"Well if I'm good at all of them shouldn't I get a chance everywhere?" They made less effort to hide the snickers this time, but the man in charge glared at the group and they shut up quickly.
"That's not how it works. I don't know why they let you sign up this way, but you're going to have to pick a field, right now." Shit, what to pick? Like he knew what he was doing. Out field would be the easiest as far as the rules went, but he was pretty sure his short arm would be in better shape then his long arm. Ah well, he was making it all up as he went anyway.
"Infield."
"Position?" He bit his cheek hard to stop the reflexive dirty joke.
"What are you guys most in need of?" Oh, he'd bite it harder next time. That earned him a chuckle from several of the scouts standing nearby and they shook their heads at him. He couldn't tell if that was good or bad but decided he should just make a choice and quick. "Shortstop will be fine I guess," he shrugged and hoped that smiling with confidence would convince them that he knew what he was doing.
"Get in the B line." Dean moved, and noted that the other players were beginning to size him up for real this time. That guy from the line earlier was there too and giving Dean the Harry eyeball. Dickhead.
Things progressed quickly from there and Dean relaxed into it, sharpened to the plays quickly. He watched the other players as much as he could, seeing how they moved, where they made their plays. It wasn't that difficult to pick up on at all. Catch the ball, throw it to the necessary base. Tag the runner low in case they slid yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. He became more comfortable with the throws after a few practices. He could snap it to first with ease and he was dead on every time. He could place to second and third just as easily.
The first time he took the position, standing where he thought he should and using the scuff marks in the dirt as indication, the ball flew right by him on the ground. He blinked after it. Shit, that was fast. He looked at the batter who was now at first to find him grinning maliciously at him. It was the guy from the line that morning and Dean glared at him, before grinning in what he hoped was a challenge.
It was on.
He threw himself at the ball every damn time because there was no way he was letting anymore by him. Not a chance, unless it was virtually impossible to get it. He thought he did okay.
They took a break for lunch and he found himself hanging around the batting area, watching that group beating away at the pitches the machine spat out. He stood there watching their stances, the way they gripped their bat, door knocking knuckles lined up, flexing the fingers just before the swing so the grip is loose and then step into it, watching the ball all the way. He could do that. A hand clamped on his shoulder, squeezing tightly a moment before releasing.
"Having fun?"
"Time of my life," he said, dryly, knowing his dad would probably see through it. This was a blast.
"You're looking good out there. Damn sight better then some of them. Keep it up and we might actually have a shot at this." Dean looked at him incredulously. Huh.
Later that night, after a long shower to wash away the grime of the day, he stepped out to find his dad cleaning their weapons on the bed, dinner sitting on the small hotel table. Beside it was a stack of papers.
"What's this?"
"Probationary starting contract for the Indians," his dad didn't look up from his task.
"Yeah? Sweet." He sat down to his meal, pulling the contract over. A thousand bucks a month and 20 bucks a day for food? Cheap, but more honest money then he or his dad made so he supposed he shouldn't complain.
"There's a couple other business cards and contracts there too. I turned them away but they were pretty pushy about taking their info. You made a bit of an impression." John looked up then, smiling at Dean with pride and something else Dean couldn't quite pin. Sadness? It wasn't important. He grinned smugly back at his dad.
"A bidding war eh? These people must be desperate for players." He flipped through the small pile: Charlotte Knights, Norfolk Tides, and the Richmond Braves. He pushed them aside and finished his meal.
"Says I need to be there for Thursday."
"We leave in the morning. If we share driving we can be there Monday night." Dean nodded. That would give them a few days to research the area and the situation, get their game plan in place.
He understood it was all just a job, and once they stopped whatever was killing people he would be back on the road with his dad. But when Dean finished his meal he was wound up tight and having trouble sitting still. The third time his dad glared at him he grabbed his phone and went outside, across the parking lot and parked it at a picnic table. Shit. He was signed up for the minor leagues! On one day of playing baseball. Yeah it was still on a tryout basis, but wasn't that like…some kind of record? Him playing baseball as a professional. It was like the twilight zone or something and he didn't remember the last time he'd been this excited about anything. Especially not since Sam had run off to become a khaki wearing pencil pusher.
He stared at his phone. Fuck he wanted to call Sam. He'd stared at the damn thing every night the first six months after his brother had left, and every time he'd forced himself to put it away. Sam would call when he was ready. But now he was itching to tell someone, someone that mattered to him, about his accomplishment. Because let's face it, he didn't get many of these opportunities. This was huge bragging right material. If he ever needed an excuse to call his brother, something he could talk to him about that wasn't strictly hunting related (because Sammy wouldn't want to hear about that and it was all Dean really had to talk about) then this was it.
He flipped the phone open and dialled the new number to the house Sam was staying at. He'd only been there a month and Dean hadn't had the chance to take a look at it yet.
"Hello?" an enthusiastic guy answered, music blaring in the back ground. What the hell was that shit? He couldn't really hear the voice enough to recognize it through the god awful hip hop that was trying to make his ears bleed.
"Sam?"
"What? No, he's not here man, he went out with that Jess chick. You need him for something?" No, he was calling because didn't want to speak to his brother.
"Nah, its good. I'll try later."
"Hey, you want me to leave a message?" A bunch of laughing erupted in the back ground. Sounded like a big party. Did he want to leave a message? He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple, the excitement he had been feeling draining out of him.
"No that's all right. I'll try again some other time."
"That's cool. Later," and the line disconnected. Dean stared at his phone a moment. Sam was out with a girl, probably to escape the party his housemates were throwing. He was busy, living his normal life. Dean wondered if Sam would consider having a professional ball player for a brother as normal. Probably not.
The next morning they departed early, his dad happily flipping through his journal and Dean trying to hide his moodiness as he sped down the highway. Indiana had better be ready for him, because he was going to hit them hard.