Bottom of the Ninth, for meredevachon (gen, PG)
Title: Bottom of the Ninth
Author: lisabird / Fats Domino
Recipient: meredevachon
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: 1,014 words. Based vaguely on the prompt, “Wee!chesters with the boys being boys.” I’m not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it!
Summary: It’s the last of the ninth inning. Two outs. Down by a run. And an eleven-year-old Dean Winchester comes to the plate.
Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Tying runner at first base.
“Winchester. You’re up.”
Dean, who was already wearing his helmet and clutching his bat in anticipation, got up from the bench and walked toward the plate with what he thought must be a swagger. He knocked the non-existent dirt from his cleats and tried to look determined. He glanced over at the bleachers, hoping to see that Dad had showed up. But there was just Sammy, surrounded by the regular group of other kids’ mothers who always took it upon themselves to watch over the wayward babe. Somebody must have bought him a snow cone because his mouth was all blue. He caught Dean’s eye and waved enthusiastically. Dean gave a nod in response.
Stepping into the batter’s box, Dean surveyed the field. The outfielders were shading him to pull and, quite frankly, playing far too shallow. He felt almost insulted that they were underestimating his power so badly. I mean, come on. He was practically Ryne Sandberg here. He had the most homeruns on his team so far. Granted, it was only the third week of the season, but still. You’d think these jerks would show him some respect.
The first pitch was up and in and hard, which Dean took for a ball. This belly-itcher was obviously trying to intimidate him. After all the things he had seen over the last seven years, Dean thought it was highly unlikely he could be intimidated by some twelve-year-old punk with a mediocre fastball. Bring it on, he thought.
The second pitch was again up and in and hard, but this time Dean was hacking. He pulled the ball way foul, almost taking out the concession stand guy.
The third pitch was low and away, something a little off-speed. Dean swung and missed and cursed out loud, mad at himself for not seeing that one coming. This earned him a few sharp words from the homeplate umpire. You weren’t allowed to swear in little league.
The fourth pitch was supposed to be up and in and hard, but the pitcher left it out over the plate. Dean took advantage of this and sent the ball soaring toward the outfield. Resisting the temptation to stand and admire his work, he flung his bat to the side and sprinted out of the box. He saw the right fielder scrambling backward towards the fence and thought, I told you so.
Dean rounded first hard and was almost to second base when he heard the unmistakable smack of a baseball hitting leather. He whipped his head around to see the right fielder jogging in from the fence with a big smile on his face. He was cradling the baseball in his glove.
Dean stopped short, disappointment flooding over him. He knew it was only a game and there were far more important things in life (like saving people and hunting things) but somehow that really didn’t make him feel any better. He took off his batting gloves and tucked his helmet under his arm and made his way back to the dugout. At least Dad wasn’t here to see him fail. Again.
“Good game, Winchester. We’ll get ‘em next time.”
The coach was talking to him. Dean felt himself nod and forced a smile on his face. Next time. Right.
Sam was waiting for him on the bleachers, flanked by two mothers from the overprotection brigade.
“Come on, Sammy. Let’s go.”
They were staying just a few blocks away from the park. It was a small one-story house, a cheerful yellow color with a white picket fence out front. It was comfortable and cozy, a lot better than the crappy motels they usually stayed at. Here there was a yard to play in, and the boys each had their own room, and it felt like maybe it could be home. But of course it wasn’t.
When they got to the house, Dad already had the car packed up. Apparently they were in a hurry.
“How was the game, Dean?”
“We lost.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Dean was awesome, Dad! He hit the ball so far! And I cheered louder than anybody!”
“That’s great, Sammy. Listen, I need you kids ready to go in a half hour. Dean, go change your clothes and make sure I haven’t forgotten any of the machetes in your room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean obediently went into the house and put on the clothes that had been laid out for him. One of Dad’s old shirts and a raggedy pair of jeans. He folded his baseball uniform into a neat pile and placed it carefully on top of the bureau. He knew he couldn’t take it with him. They only took what they needed. But this was the first year he had gotten to play real baseball. On a team. With uniforms that had numbers on the back and everything. He was number two. He chose it for Mom. And for Sammy.
He picked up his cap fondly, running his fingers over the raised C. He had been so happy to play for the Cubs. He liked the Cubs a lot. He sort of understood how it felt to be cursed. He hoped they won the World Series someday. Just like he hoped, well, that didn’t matter. He put the hat on, checked under the mattress for any forgotten weaponry, and left the room without looking back.
A few minutes later, Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, breathing in the familiar scent of the leather seats. Sam was already back there, staring out the window.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s your favorite baseball player?”
“I dunno, Sammy.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you want to stay here?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“Dean?”
“What.”
“You’re my favorite baseball player.”
Dean grinned, despite himself. “Thanks, Sammy. You’re my favorite annoying little brother.”
Sam giggled and went back to staring out the window. Dad got in the car a few minutes later and they drove away, leaving the cheerful yellow house and Dean’s baseball uniform behind them.
Author: lisabird / Fats Domino
Recipient: meredevachon
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: 1,014 words. Based vaguely on the prompt, “Wee!chesters with the boys being boys.” I’m not sure this is exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it!
Summary: It’s the last of the ninth inning. Two outs. Down by a run. And an eleven-year-old Dean Winchester comes to the plate.
Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Tying runner at first base.
“Winchester. You’re up.”
Dean, who was already wearing his helmet and clutching his bat in anticipation, got up from the bench and walked toward the plate with what he thought must be a swagger. He knocked the non-existent dirt from his cleats and tried to look determined. He glanced over at the bleachers, hoping to see that Dad had showed up. But there was just Sammy, surrounded by the regular group of other kids’ mothers who always took it upon themselves to watch over the wayward babe. Somebody must have bought him a snow cone because his mouth was all blue. He caught Dean’s eye and waved enthusiastically. Dean gave a nod in response.
Stepping into the batter’s box, Dean surveyed the field. The outfielders were shading him to pull and, quite frankly, playing far too shallow. He felt almost insulted that they were underestimating his power so badly. I mean, come on. He was practically Ryne Sandberg here. He had the most homeruns on his team so far. Granted, it was only the third week of the season, but still. You’d think these jerks would show him some respect.
The first pitch was up and in and hard, which Dean took for a ball. This belly-itcher was obviously trying to intimidate him. After all the things he had seen over the last seven years, Dean thought it was highly unlikely he could be intimidated by some twelve-year-old punk with a mediocre fastball. Bring it on, he thought.
The second pitch was again up and in and hard, but this time Dean was hacking. He pulled the ball way foul, almost taking out the concession stand guy.
The third pitch was low and away, something a little off-speed. Dean swung and missed and cursed out loud, mad at himself for not seeing that one coming. This earned him a few sharp words from the homeplate umpire. You weren’t allowed to swear in little league.
The fourth pitch was supposed to be up and in and hard, but the pitcher left it out over the plate. Dean took advantage of this and sent the ball soaring toward the outfield. Resisting the temptation to stand and admire his work, he flung his bat to the side and sprinted out of the box. He saw the right fielder scrambling backward towards the fence and thought, I told you so.
Dean rounded first hard and was almost to second base when he heard the unmistakable smack of a baseball hitting leather. He whipped his head around to see the right fielder jogging in from the fence with a big smile on his face. He was cradling the baseball in his glove.
Dean stopped short, disappointment flooding over him. He knew it was only a game and there were far more important things in life (like saving people and hunting things) but somehow that really didn’t make him feel any better. He took off his batting gloves and tucked his helmet under his arm and made his way back to the dugout. At least Dad wasn’t here to see him fail. Again.
“Good game, Winchester. We’ll get ‘em next time.”
The coach was talking to him. Dean felt himself nod and forced a smile on his face. Next time. Right.
Sam was waiting for him on the bleachers, flanked by two mothers from the overprotection brigade.
“Come on, Sammy. Let’s go.”
They were staying just a few blocks away from the park. It was a small one-story house, a cheerful yellow color with a white picket fence out front. It was comfortable and cozy, a lot better than the crappy motels they usually stayed at. Here there was a yard to play in, and the boys each had their own room, and it felt like maybe it could be home. But of course it wasn’t.
When they got to the house, Dad already had the car packed up. Apparently they were in a hurry.
“How was the game, Dean?”
“We lost.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Dean was awesome, Dad! He hit the ball so far! And I cheered louder than anybody!”
“That’s great, Sammy. Listen, I need you kids ready to go in a half hour. Dean, go change your clothes and make sure I haven’t forgotten any of the machetes in your room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean obediently went into the house and put on the clothes that had been laid out for him. One of Dad’s old shirts and a raggedy pair of jeans. He folded his baseball uniform into a neat pile and placed it carefully on top of the bureau. He knew he couldn’t take it with him. They only took what they needed. But this was the first year he had gotten to play real baseball. On a team. With uniforms that had numbers on the back and everything. He was number two. He chose it for Mom. And for Sammy.
He picked up his cap fondly, running his fingers over the raised C. He had been so happy to play for the Cubs. He liked the Cubs a lot. He sort of understood how it felt to be cursed. He hoped they won the World Series someday. Just like he hoped, well, that didn’t matter. He put the hat on, checked under the mattress for any forgotten weaponry, and left the room without looking back.
A few minutes later, Dean climbed into the backseat of the Impala, breathing in the familiar scent of the leather seats. Sam was already back there, staring out the window.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s your favorite baseball player?”
“I dunno, Sammy.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you want to stay here?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“Dean?”
“What.”
“You’re my favorite baseball player.”
Dean grinned, despite himself. “Thanks, Sammy. You’re my favorite annoying little brother.”
Sam giggled and went back to staring out the window. Dad got in the car a few minutes later and they drove away, leaving the cheerful yellow house and Dean’s baseball uniform behind them.