SUNDAY, 11:32AM - MISSOULA, MONTANA
Freckled eyes squinted from the overcast of sunshine through thin cirrus clouds that splayed across a bright blue sky. Dean's body leaned effortlessly across the side of Baby, leather jacket dispatched in the backseat from the warmth that swelled at his armpits. On any other day he would complain about the heat, but the view of mountains that seemed to blossom just across the street had him in a half-decent mood. No hunt, just the blissful road ahead with little destination in mind.
"Is that so?" He grinned and stuck a laid back hand into his pocket, head tilted to speak into his primary burner. Allie's voice crackled slightly on the other end, a factor of the Walmart devices that so often filled his glove compartment.
"Yeah, says he's damn near ready to rip up the floorboards." Allie spoke into the phone theatrically, mimicking her father's tone with gusto; all over not being able to find his keys. How could one man be both incredibly organized, and inherently hoarding? A pink case sat on her bed, Dean's voice coming through clear as an England clock tower while she painted her nails and laid down, calm, collected, without care.
"Bet you're wishin' you stuck with The Ghostbusters, huh?" Dean's eyes darted down from the sky to take in Sam's hunched over body, picnic table and newspaper below his hands. No clues for their father had been found - which meant it was back to basics. Sam, however, couldn't go two minutes without trying to find their next big epiphany.
"Ooh… No, not really. My Peter Venkman likes to really push my buttons," She chuckled into the phone. "But I do think he's missing me right now."
"You sayin' you're my Dana Barret?" He wasn't opposed to the thought. Fuck, Dana didn't hold a lit candle to Allie. Though, young Sigourney Weaver did seem like a nice shoo-in actress if a movie were to ever be made about their lives.
"Try not to get too many ideas," Allie snorted and rolled off of the bed, picking the phone up carefully to avoid fucking with her nails. "So, what's Sam doing?"
Dean smirked at that. His hands adjusted and he turned himself away from his brother subconsciously. Too many ideas. Fucking Allie, sitting in his ear with that persuasive tinge of flirtation. Her teasing did act as a blessing at times, others a glimpse of cold hell. At the moment Dean didn't quite know which end he fell on. Probably cold, considering she was right (not that he would ever verbalize it). He did miss her. She'd enjoy the mountains and would put Sam at ease, hopefully.
But she wanted to check on her dad. Low and behold - Alice Smith had a heart! She just seemed to consistently choose against letting it show. Maybe if she stuck around for this one, he would have gotten another quiet moment. They were few and far between, but did look to be cropping up more than they had in the past.
"He's reading. You know, being a nerd." He downplayed the seriousness of Sam's… perception, offering instead to keep things light. What was he supposed to say? The truth? "He's stealing wifi whenever we stop to try and browse the internet for clues on our dad, looking through every text, dissecting all of the coordinates in his journal," Fuck that.
Sam's focus clenched at the book in front of him. For all the miles they traveled, not one stop brought them any closer to John. So, their dad didn't want to be found. The Winchester patriarch wanted to parade them around on a family road trip and have them do his bidding. Lately an irritating thought sat between his eyes, right as if he had been shot in the head. What if their dad planned it? What if this whole journey was formed as a way to get him back into hunting? To leave school, rejoin the family business, abort his dream lifestyle?
Of course the caveat of that would be Jess's death. Could that have all been a coincidence? Dad decided that it was time for the Winchesters to ALL focus back on the hunt, and whatever killed Jess just… just happened to know that he…
Sam let out a sigh filled with agitation. His index finger was brought up while he chewed restlessly at the nail. All of the coordinates led to nowhere towns, or hunts previously repaired by dear ol' dad. No leads, no movement.
Sure, they could travel across America for God knows how long. Dean's sanity would rely on them following around at their dad's beck and call like little army men. What did that solve? They were no closer now, and Sam sat day in and day out without closure. Jess deserved better than being the catalyst of a prolonged family vacation.
The click of a shitty cellular and Dean was stretching his arms out behind his back, wrapping his spine in a turn of his sides that created popping noises. Who knew pressure and gas could feel so goddamn good?
Sun high in the sky and now persuaded out from behind wisting clouds, Dean took stride to the picnic table. "Hey, Brain - Whaddya say we get some lunch?" He leaned against the table, taking feigned interest into Sam's readings. "Any news?" Not that he actually expected anything of value. They'd mulled over dad's journal a thousand times. Their old man was cryptic as fuck, left no trail. The Winchester way!
Needle in a haystack. The chances of finding a clue would be lower than low. Sam was just obsessing because he needed something to focus on. Neither of them were proficient at sitting idly, and Sam's apprehension of doing just that only grew after his girlfriend's untimely demise.
"Brain?" Sam scoffed. Not so bad, he supposed. Dean had called him worse in the past. A primetime new one was 'Jenny Love Winchester' due to his nightmarish… abilities? 'Brain' definitely surpassed that on the teasing nickname scale. "No news," which meant bad news! Anything that wasn't good information on their father's whereabouts was shit awful news.
"How was Allie?" Despite his best intentions with asking, Sam couldn't fully focus on it. She was fine at Bobby's and they were in the middle of a small town with no hunt, nothing to at least keep his mind semi-occupied.
"Dude, how'd you know I was talking with Allie?" It's not like they scheduled in phone calls. What was he, a callboy?
"You were laughing," Sam spoke matter-of-factly, hands resting on the page in front of him while his focus moved back to the reading. Not one of the half-assed smirking ones Dean did either with girls at the bar. The chuckles had some boisterous levels to them.
"Yeah, well…" Dean's body teetered against the wood and he rubbed at his bottom lip subconsciously. "She made this Ghostbusters joke and…" He turned his face down, only to see Sam back at it. "How Bobby's on another ripping tangent. She sounds good. She…" He perked an eyebrow, only to see no reaction from Sam. "She told me all about the pink panties that she's wearing. Little bows. The nice ones that you see in those special shops."
Not a peep or even a slight indication that he was listening.
Dean's gaze hardened a bit at being ignored.
"Or ignore me, that's cool too."
There was an awkward silence between the two and wet noise came from Dean pulling saliva between his teeth to fill the gap, only to be met with quiet once again.
"Okay, that's it." A large hand pounded down over the journal, pulling it out from under Sam's sasquatch grip. "You can have this back when you learn to be a captive audience member," and that's when a brilliant thought came to him. No hunt. No dad. Sad Sam.
Good day for some brotherly love.
Sam turned sharply. "Hey!" He stood without thought of backing down, towering up from long legs against the Big Montana sky. "Dean - give it back," a tussle would surely ensue if his requests were not met. For some reason, Dean always acted like a hyperactive puppy - ready to play when the moment proved inappropriate.
"This is going in the trunk, and we're doing…" Well, he hadn't quite thought that far ahead. Brother day… what could they do for some cherished family bonding…? "Sports, baseball." Something like that. Toss back and forth? Fuck he didn't know.
"Baseball?" Sam's position instantly changed to that of humor and a bit of sass. " You want to play baseball?" It's not as though either of them were exactly sporty. Hunting didn't count. They watched hockey growing up sometimes, depending on the state, but that was about it. "Dean, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, we aren't exactly an all-American family. When was the last time you even played a sport?" Sam watched as Dean moved to open his mouth, before cutting him off quickly. "Hustling pool doesn't count."
Dean's face twisted at the mockery and he shook his head. "I play sports!" None came to mind, necessarily, but he enjoyed them… right? There had to be a time when… "I tossed a ball with Bobby."
"That was like - 15 years ago." Sam's nose scrunched up at the idea of his older brother clinging to a memory from their long forgotten youth. What was he… 12 at the time? "Not a credible defense."
"Whatever, get in the car." May have been fifteen years ago but they were damn well gonna throw that son of a bitch clear across the field. "Lunch - then we're buying the ball." A pit stop at the local goods store would have to be made, but after that? They were in the clear.
"Okay, step right there!" Dean's voice boomed across the diamond. The glove that fit over his hand flexed around his palm. Brand new didn't feel quite as good as he remembered. Bobby's glove was warm and well used. The brown leather was treated as an old friend. Familiar. This new one felt more like a stranger in their shelterless home.
"Dean, I can see the plate! I know where to stand!" Sam barked back with a roll of his eyes and glanced around the pit. His sleeves were rolled up, sweat drenching his sides from the midday heat. He had eyes for Christ's Sake. But alas, Sam shook his head to get out of his own foul mood. Seemed as though there was no way out of the scenario, best to just let the whole thing play out for Dean - then they could move on to the next down and get a move on things.
"Are you gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna throw it?" He called out once again, grinning lightly while his body formed into a swinging stance. The beat up bat that hit sunlight looked like a long forgotten artifact of human history. Blood, dirt, and scratches lined the porous wood. It had been used for a hunt or two. Not as of late, but the stains told a story that didn't exactly coincide with being a Yankees fan.
"The master's getting in the zone, Sammy!" Dean cracked his neck and performed a few windups of his arm. They'd do this all day long if it meant his younger brother would ease up on the brooding. All that pensive tension couldn't be good for anyone, let alone a kid on the edge of a damn mental breakdown. Yeah, he clocked all of the nightmares, the visions, the researching at 2:00am. Sam barely slept and the two of them practically lived off of coffee and five-hour energy bottles from rundown gas stations off of long winded highways. Suffice to say, a moment of relaxation was needed - for both of them.
" 'The masters' about to lose his batter." Sam dropped the bat and smacked it a few times against the sand, amping up for the game with some light mockery. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to make me fall asleep."
"Probably a good thing…" Dean mumbled under his breath. "Alright, batter up!" He had no idea what the term really meant, considering their limited interactions with professional sports, just felt like the right thing to say. He saw some movies. Thinking back though… Most of them were comedies.
"Wait— what? I'm already—?" Sam began, before shutting up letting his brother enjoy the moment. Not the correct use of the call, but if Dean wanted to have a bit of pretend, why not give him it?
The gored bat lifted over wide shoulders, held in the air as Sam's eyes focused on Dean's swinging arm. Dean's joint moved to that of an underhand toss.
Not too light, not too hard. The ball weighed in Dean's hand, thin strips of red thread poked out and rubbed carelessly against his fingers. Yeah, the memories came back to him. Back in the day he and Bobby didn't get around to using a bat much. They just tossed it back and forth. Dean commonly used the excuse of wanting to be a better catch. It wasn't that, not really. Felt good for them to stand a few feet apart and throw it around, without him needing to become further skilled at something. Swinging a bat was too much like firing a gun, or heaving a machete around. Catcher's only had to catch. That was it.
The baseball entered the air with gusto, hazel eyes focused intently and as it barreled closer — the bat swung.
Nothing. No sound crackled and the ball hit the cage behind him, rolling nearby before arriving at a standstill.
Sam's chest heaved a bit in reluctance. Losing didn't exactly relieve his stress, wasn't that the point? Dean came up with the whole sports scenario for a reason.
"All that theater in High School!" Dean called out. So what? They were experts at ganking monsters, that didn't make them fucking Wade Boggs or Babe Ruth! They'd try again, just like they did with anything else. "Pickup the ball, Sam," He instructed with a nod. "First time was a test run."
Brand new white between his fingers, Sam nodded and thrusted the ball back — watching as Dean caught it with ease in his glove. Okay. Maybe the afternoon pitches with Bobby had done a bit of long-term magic. "Dude, don't show off!" He barked with the smallest of grins, nearly unnoticeable if a stranger were to pass by.
Dean honed in on the glimmer of hope instantly. His focus left the sky, the outside, their dad. All that spoke to him was Sam's happiness and their little reprieve from their… alternative lives. It was working. Playing fucking baseball in the middle of a dead-end town in Montana was working!
"Hey man, who would I be if I wasn't an arrogant bastard?" He got back into position, now wearing a shit-eating smirk and about as confident as King Kong with a blonde. "Boring, you'd miss me."
And he swung back his arm, keen on putting a little more power into the throw then last time. No more tests. This was the real deal! Fuck it felt good too, pushing that little thing through the open air.
Sam's hands tightened. Sports. He was never good at them. Although Dean teased about it, he was right. Theater, the arts, creatives, literature, all of that took his interests far more in their youth. A portion of that thought process could have been related to moving all the time. It's not as though they were able to join little leagues or school teams. By the time they moved onto the next district, they barely remembered the chosen mascot or colors of the old one. Never enough time to settle in.
"Probably more tolerable in large capacities," Sam's grin widened at that.
Then the ball came — it shot out from Dean with added emphasis and this time? Sam subconsciously crouched a bit more to confirm the eyeline, a long breath coming from him to steady his center and keep his heels forced into the sand below.
The bat swung.
Everything turned over. Birds that sang in the trees only seconds before flew. The wind appeared to carry the noise across the distant field and into its adjacent mountains. Maybe the area would hold the cracking like a memory and they could come back to Montana in two years, only to hear it still roaming down the gravel roads and amongst the rolling hills.
The ball flew so fucking far that Dean's eyes splayed open, wide across his face while it trailed along with the baseball across the afternoon sky. Holy shit. Sam did it. He fucking did it. A prouder moment could never be had. Only two swings! TWO BABY! TWO SWINGS! THEY WERE WADE BOGGS AND BABE RUTH!
It cleared the field and landed somewhere near the border of the outside fencing. Good arm on the kid, must have been all that pent up anger.
Dean turned back slowly, a huge grin plastered on his cheeks, only to see Sam standing there.
"Sam, what are you doing?! Run around the diamond! I gotta get the ball!" They succeeded at the first half, now it was time to see the second part in action.
Sam stood briefly, shocked by his own power as their eyes went to the large fence that lined the back of the diamond. Dean's words came in. Run around the diamond . Oh shit! Yeah, he had to get a home run! Their limited understanding of the sport probably proved comical to anyone walking by, not that he'd seen a person since they arrived.
His legs moved quickly before transitioning into an all-out sprint while Dean foraged to find their newly acquired baseball. One base, two bases, three bases…
He could see it approaching. Sure, it was just drawn into the sand and acted as a DIY, but the square gleamed in the sunlight. Home. Home base.
His head turned back to see Dean running forward, ball in hand and ready to throw — as if anything could take the win out of Sam's tired, coffee shaking hands. Not for one second. The first normal moment, and he was going to bring it to a full tower.
His body snapped down to the ground, hitting the sand with a thud and momentum to keep him sliding against the gristle of the sand beneath his jeans. The hems tore at his Pumas, leaving gaping holes in the old blue denim. To hell with it. He'd cut off the rip and wear them anyway.
His foot, then his calves, finally his waist. Half of him swooped over the home base in fashion.
He got a home run.
Sam rolled to face Dean, dust covering his entire body nearly from head to toe. "Who's The Master now?" and a large, bright smile came to him before he barked out a massive laugh and tossed his head back, sunlight splaying across his face, the first time he felt warm in months.
Give him this one. The statement steamrolled into his mind and as Sam crouched down into a slide, Dean ceased his running - he stopped at the pitchers station to watch. The ball sat idly in his hand at his side and all time came to a halt.
Suddenly they were kids again. Just two brothers making chaos and taking care of each other the best way that they knew how. Love existed in many things. Their newest? Baseball under Big Sky. They would find dad.
"The greatest," Dean replied with a large smile and moved to congratulate his baby brother.