![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
last01standingTitle: Five For Fighting (11/12)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam centered with an epic supporting cast
Notes:...I'm a Capitals fan? I'm sorry if you are not one.
Summary: For the Winchester brothers hockey was always something apart from hunting until one season it suddenly wasn’t.
For those of you not familiar with hockey, you can read a quick primer on game basics here
one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | epilogue
Five For Fighting
CHAPTER 11: The Devil's Doubleheader
They lost spectacularly.
It was the most lop-sided game Dean had ever taken part in. And that included the year him and Sammy played together for their high school team when even Dean had gotten his chance to skate on the power play. He’d been on the right side of things that year.
The Rage was on the wrong side this game. The Rage always seemed to be on the wrong side of blowouts. The bitter taste of defeat was all too familiar in Dean’s mouth.
The Rage had looked disjointed the whole night. There was no continuity to their offense. Their defense was just overmatched. The Penguins, who had topped the league even before their star became the Devil’s meat suit, where just better than them.
Ben especially had a hard time, his inexperience at the position shining through at every turn. Finally, midway through the second when the Rage was already down three, Ellen started to shuffle the pairings, coupling Sam with Ben and Harry with Dean. It didn’t help. Dean just felt wrong looking over to find Harry at his side instead of his brother and both Sam and Ben had the same unfortunate tendency to jump into the offensive zone, leaving Castiel facing the odd man rush.
Even without the apocalypse looming over his head, the locker room would have been sour. Ellen bitched them out for a good twenty minutes before stalking out.
There was a long uncomfortable silences that only broke when Tricks cracked a some smart-ass remark. He giggled at himself but no one else join him. “Come on, guys! What’s your problem?”
“What’s your problem!?” Bobby echoed. “What is your problem, son? You’ve got more talent then almost any of the people in this room and yet, you’re making jokes as you end the year as a third line winger on the worst team in hockey. What would it take to make you wake up, boy?”
“Most days?” joked Tricks. “A candy bar does it just fine.”
“Christ, boy! If Braeden had half your skill he’d be leading the league in scoring. And God forbid you put that kind of talent into a Winchester. Or hell, your kind of size into Shirley or Gallagher.”
“Exactly what are you trying to say here, old man?”
“You’ve been on seven different teams in the past five seasons. You ever stop to think of why?”
Tricks stared at Bobby, speechless for the first time since Dean had met him. Bobby nodded once and announced, “I’m going to go take my shower.”
The room was silent for a long moment. Only Chuck Shirley moved, a pen and a pad of paper suddenly materializing in his hands, jotting down notes in some kind of short hand that Dean couldn’t make heads or tails of. “What the hell are you doing, Chuck?” Sam demanded.
Chuck looked up sheepishly. “I’m taking notes. I really need to get this down.”
“This is going to sound like a stupid question, but what the hell are you taking notes?”
“I’m working on something,” Chuck admitted. “It’s going to be like Ball Four only for hockey.”
“Put it away, Chuck,” Hendriksen ordered.
The rest of the post game passed in silence.
***
Tuesday was Tampa Bay. An overtime game that ended as Tricks blasted a slap shot past the goaltender for his second goal of a five point night.
“You should have given him that kick way sooner, Bobby,” Dean commented as they made their way onto the bus back to the airport.
“Wouldn’t have worked sooner.”
“I’m just glad it worked now.”
***
Washington at home. A Thursday night dogfight of a game. Gordon managed to goad one of the defensemen into a scuffle that got them both thrown out for the rest of the night. But despite playing short a defenseman, Washington had the upper hand for the entire night.
Dean kept seeing flashes of potential. A crisp pass that got Andy off behind the defense. A combination play that would have made the highlight reel if the final pass was on net.
It hadn’t ever been skill that the Rage was missing. It was coherency. They could do all the pieces right but never in sequence.
Mostly on the strength of Hendriksen and Tricks playing out of their mind, they were in the game through two periods. But in the third, they got caught on a bad line change and the floodgates opened. They ended the game with a four-two loss.
***
Then, all of a suddenly. It was their last game of the season. With the apocalypse looming, quite possibly the last game of their lives.
The Pittsburg Penguins had not lost a game in three weeks, had not lost a game since two games before the Devil took possession of Sidney Crosby. Castiel informed Dean that this could well be his last chance at the Devil. Said that they could beat them in the regular season or someone would have to win a series off them in the playoffs.
Dean took a deep breath. He hadn’t been this worried about a game in a long time.
The locker room was odd affair. They were already out of the post-season while Pittsburg had clenched the conference. They had nothing to play for except pride.
And between Chuck’s scribbling, Castiel’s chronic confusion and the worst record in the National Hockey League, Dean didn’t think the had a hell of a lot of that left.
Before the game, Ellen came into the locker room, standing up on one of the benches so she could be seen. She cleared her throat. “Listen, I know most of you have checked out for the season. Recordwise, we’re one of the worst teams in the league. We’re sure as hell not making the playoffs. You might think we’ve got nothing left to play for. Well, I’m changing that. This last games, you’re playing for your jobs. I want to see your heart right now. When I put the team together for next year, I’m sure as hell going to look at what you did right here. I’m going to remember how hard you played when the big picture said you’d already lost. Today is where you find out who you are as a player. Today is where we find out where we are as a team. It’s about pride, guys.” She shuffled her feet, meetings each player’s eye in turn. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
***
It felt like they were a different team.
Dean felt like he was twenty again. His knee felt good as new, he was seeing the puck, his hits were all coming hard. Beside him, Sam had found that balance in being an offensive defenseman. After ten minutes, Ellen had juggled the lines so that the Trickster was up top with Hendriksen and Singer. Andy and Chuck were picking the team apart with passing. Gordon and Jake were finishing all their hits.
The defense was holding fast. Castiel’s catching glove was quick.
No one scored.
It wasn’t for lack of opportunities on either side. Sam had missed a lay-up on a one two pass. Ben, sprawling to the ice had just managed to break up a breakaway the other way.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Ellen told them at intermission. “This is the best hockey you’ve played all season. We can win this one.”
Dean was starting to believe it. Starting to feel it running through the uncharacteristically large crowd. More then half the shirts were the black and gold of the Penguins but the low roar was building up, a chant of, Let’s go, RAGE. The roar he’d heard in his days with the Boston Bruins. The one that screamed, this team is alive and this arena is alive.
The scoreless game held until early in the third period when a few odd deflections off a shot on a Pittsburg power play ends with Crosby tapping the puck into a wide open net.
He could see frustration under Castiel’s mask. That surprised him more than the goal itself. Castiel never let anything like that show, never lowered himself to human emotions. But there it was.
Over the next few minutes, it dawned on him.
They were going to lose this game.
They were always going to lose this game.
Dean started breaking things down. He’d had a coach tell him this once, back when he was just starting high school hockey. The team in Michigan that year had been a chronically awful program.
Don’t worry about the big picture. Win the little battles.
Beat Crosby to the puck. Don’t let the offense get in behind you. Put all passes on a stick. Play fundamental.
The game started to wind down. The score remained 1-0. Sam started jumping up on offense every time he could. Ellen dropped her checking line completely out of the rotation, trying to get their must needed goal.
But Pittsburg was better then them. Pittsburg was better then them even if they weren’t aided by Hellfire.
Dean started trying to pick a fight.
It wasn’t something he liked to do. It was something that went against everything his dad had taught him as a kid and starting fights wasn’t something he was good at.
But push come to shove, he and Sam were probably the best fighters in the league. Most of the league didn’t know it because they never dropped the gloves.
He purposely got careless with the hits, running hard into every Penguin he saw, putting a little something extra in hits on Crosby.
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam hissed to him at the media break.
“If we can’t beat the team. Maybe beating Crosby in a fight would be enough.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to challenge the Devil to a fist fight? Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”
“What else are we supposed to do?”
“The game’s not over yet, Dean.”
Only thirty seconds later, Evangi Malkin put in a goal from the weak side that somehow squirted past the near post. A minute over that, Dean threw a crushing hit and found himself a second later with gloves dropped squaring off against Matt Cooke.
Cooke, not Crosby.
He let Cooke throw the first punch, making it damn clear that he wasn’t the one that started this. Then, quickly and efficiently, he beat him down. The referees broke up the fight swiftly, Cooke dripping blood. The Rage fans in the arena gave Dean a standing ovation as he left the ice, headed to the locker room. There were only ninety seconds remaining in the game, in their season and the two goal lead was probably not something they’d come back from.
Dean felt sick to his stomach.
He heard the horn go off in the distance and that was it. Game over.
***
The first time in years Dean hadn’t been involved in the Stanley cup playoff. A former LA King, Sam had never been to a post season.
There wasn’t much they could do. Dean found himself at the practice facility almost every day because he didn’t know what else to do. Usually he had the hunt to distract him during the off season, but the supernatural world was all but silent, waiting for the result of the NHL playoffs.
They took out a few ghosts in the area. Simple salt and burns because there was nothing bigger right now.
The Penguins swept Florida in the first round of the playoffs, winning their ninth, tenth and eleventh games in a row. The Devils bowed out early to Canadians, a fact that Dean would have been more worried about if they were still all possessed by angels. The second seeded Capitals trounced Senators.
Andy, Ben and Adam joined them to watch the second round opener between the Penguins and the Bruins. The series was more evenly matched then the last one. Dean was proud of them. He wasn’t a Bruin anymore but he still had his old jersey tucked up in his room and couldn’t help but rooting for the city he’d called home for more then four years.
“You are serving alcohol tonight, right Dean?” Andy joked, looking at Adam and Ben, neither of whom had hit their second decade yet.
“I had my first beer when I was twelve,” Dean said. “Of course I’m serving alcohol.”
They got plastered that night, falling asleep before the game was even over. Sam and Jess leaning on one another on the couch. Ben and Adam, slumped limply on the floor. Adam curled up in their armchair.
Dean wasn’t asleep. He’d woken up just past eight to a familiar flutter of wings. “Cas?” he called. “Cas! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. I thought you would have flown the coop after the season ended.”
“I have not been reassigned,” Castiel said. “I admit I am at a loss as to why. All of my brothers in similarly useless posts have been relocated so they could help with the fight.”
Dean stopped for a moment, as a thought made its way through his skull, skirting past his hangover headache. “Hold. You said the people who couldn’t help where they were got reassigned. So you’re saying we can still do something.”
“That is indeed my supposition.”
A smile snaked across Dean’s face.
***
“What’s got you so happy, Dean?” Jess asked as she staggered from the living room into the kitchen, rubbing at her neck.
Dean poured her a cup of coffee and handed her a pair of Advil. “Cas is still here.”
Jess took a hesitant sip of the coffee and downed both Advil in one swallow. “Why?”
“Because there’s still something we can do to stop this.”
“And what’s that, Dean?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “Jess, I’m going to need tickets to the Stanley Cup.”
***
In the end, the Bruins took one game off of the Penguins. The third game of the series. Dean woke up in the morning, having blown off the game because of a boo-hag hunt in Louisiana. When he saw the score, he felt a funny little balloon of hope in his chest. But a visit from Castiel confirmed that it would have been insufficient at this point. The only way to stop them was to knock them out of the playoffs entirely.
Only a team didn’t win or lose on the virtue of one player, no matter how good they were. That was the Devil’s mistake in choosing the NHL as a venue for the apocalypse. There were five skaters on the ice at any time and five on the other team and the deeper they got into the playoffs, the more they all wanted it.
“Sabotage, Dean?” Sam asked.
“Between Jo and Jess, we can get into pretty much whatever building we need. So we sabotage. Maybe even try and get a hands on one of those bad luck charms Toronto early in that season. We put laxatives in the Gatorade. Nothing that’s going to hurt anyone. Just enough to put them off their game.”
“And we do this for how long?”
“However long it takes!”
“I dunno, Dean. It seems a little bit amoral.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Dean growled. “Don’t you think it freaking hurts me to even think about this? But I’m not seeing a hell of a lot of choices here.”
Sam swallowed heavily. “And what if Lucifer finds us?”
Dean shrugged. “Then I guess we die.”
***
Eastern conference finals: Capitals and Penguins, the NHL’s favorite match-up. Victor Hendriksen’s old team was headed by two-time league MVP Alexander Ovechkin, a Russian big rig who loved to put the puck in and into the net.
“Penguins in seven,” Sam commented offhandedly as they clicked glasses and sat down on the couch.
“I’d pick the Caps if it weren’t for Devil power,” Dean said, taking a sip of his own. “But you’re going to have a rough time finding someone to pick against Lucifer.”
“Lucifer or not, I bet Ovechkin outscores him.”
“I’ll take that action.”
***
The series was close. Closer then any of the others had been. Closer then Dean had expected. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Before Lucifer had landed, the Capitals had headed the conference.
It was three-two Capitals through five games, the Penguins facing elimination in the sea of red of Verizon center.
The Winchesters made it a point not to watch the game. It was a full moon and there was a werewolf who’d been gutting cattle and the occasional farmer in a town in Tennessee. They got back just past midnight to ESPN’s rehashing of the Penguin’s 4-2 victory.
***
They decided to watch game seven in the comfort of their home. Jess, Ben and Andy, forcing their way in to help the Winchesters pack up all their supplies for the Stanley Cup finals.
Detroit had finished off San Jose in six games, awaiting the winner of this series to set the finals. Castiel showed up at the door about ten minutes before game time, knocking for once in his life instead of just teleporting himself in. “Cas?”
“I have heard you are attempting to prepare. I would like to assist you in any way I can.”
“Sure thing, Cas. But if you’re going to be here, you need to take off the tie. We’re just watching the game.”
Castiel looked baffled so Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged him into the house. Ben and Andy both grunted their greetings as Jess handed him a beer.
Something happened before the game though. Something that had Andy standing up to call, “Sam, Dean. Get in here!”
“What?”
“There was this light thing,” Ben said. “I don’t know what it was, but it definitely didn’t look like a camera flare.”
Sam shook his head. “The one time I wish we had Tivo...”
“Michael,” said Castiel and all eyes turned to him. “Can you not see it?”
“You’re saying Michael’s picked his meat suit? Why not do that six games ago?”
“It is entirely possible he was only now told yes.”
“Who is it?” Jess asked.
Castiel extended his finger somberly and pointed it at number eight in the red sweater.
Andy chocked on his beer. “You’re kidding me, right? Alex Ovechkin? Hasn’t he been suspended like twice in the past few years because of dirty hits?”
Jess snorted. “Well, Dean was apparently one of the other contenders so being a saint obviously isn’t a requirement.”
“I don’t know about you,” Ben said, “but if the world depended on the outcome of a hockey game, I’d sure as hell take Ovechkin over Dean.”
“Ouch, that hurts guys,” Dean trailed off for a moment as he thought about it. “No, I’d take him too.”
“I do not understand,” Castiel rumbled.
“Alex Ovechkin’s been the scoring leader in something like the past three seasons,” Sam explained. “He scored a hat trick off you earlier this year. How are you in this league and not know Ovechkin?”
Castiel opened his mouth as if to respond but Dean pushed him down to the sofa. “Just watch.”
***
If the world survived it, this was the kind of game that would turn into a classic. Two teams more or less evenly matched, fighting tooth and nail for every puck, every pass and every hit. Fluery and Varlamov on opposite sides of the ice each made a few heart stopping saves.
Dean found himself caught up more in the game then in the apocalyptic battle. He had no particular love for either team but he loved good hockey and always had.
The best thing about the game was who score and how. The fourth line center on the Capitals slung a shot in front of the net that bounced off a defensemen’s skate and into the net. The Penguins call-up that replaced Jordan Staal scored his first NHL goal to tie it up.
In the second period, the teams traded power play goals coming within a minute of one another. The two star plays in the celestial battle seemed uncharacteristically invisible. As if their very presence cancelled one another out, leaving both of them powerless.
The announcers commented on it, speculating on the reasons that were well known in the Winchester household.
With thirteen seconds left, both teams and the fans whipped into the frenzy when the game the apocalypse ended in a messy scrum in front of the net. A rebound clanked off the crossbar and dropped in front of the net. Three different players from different teams all digging for it and then suddenly, the puck was in the back of the net, the red light blaring against the silence of the Penguins faithful.
At the center of the messy Washington celebration was Brooks Laich, grinning from ear to ear as his teammates congratulated him.
A few seconds later, the horn sounded and it was all over.
The Winchester household erupted into cheers, the six of them, including the baffled Castiel pulled into a celebratory hug, the same that they might have seen on the ice at the end of a Rage game.
On screen, the Capitals and Penguins lined up to shake hands. Crosby and Ovechkin eyed each other for a brief moment before their hands touched. Suddenly there was a flash of white light emanating from both players.
The picture went white and then black.
And Dean, smiling ear to ear, knew it was over.
| twelve |
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam centered with an epic supporting cast
Notes:...I'm a Capitals fan? I'm sorry if you are not one.
Summary: For the Winchester brothers hockey was always something apart from hunting until one season it suddenly wasn’t.
For those of you not familiar with hockey, you can read a quick primer on game basics here
CHAPTER 11: The Devil's Doubleheader
They lost spectacularly.
It was the most lop-sided game Dean had ever taken part in. And that included the year him and Sammy played together for their high school team when even Dean had gotten his chance to skate on the power play. He’d been on the right side of things that year.
The Rage was on the wrong side this game. The Rage always seemed to be on the wrong side of blowouts. The bitter taste of defeat was all too familiar in Dean’s mouth.
The Rage had looked disjointed the whole night. There was no continuity to their offense. Their defense was just overmatched. The Penguins, who had topped the league even before their star became the Devil’s meat suit, where just better than them.
Ben especially had a hard time, his inexperience at the position shining through at every turn. Finally, midway through the second when the Rage was already down three, Ellen started to shuffle the pairings, coupling Sam with Ben and Harry with Dean. It didn’t help. Dean just felt wrong looking over to find Harry at his side instead of his brother and both Sam and Ben had the same unfortunate tendency to jump into the offensive zone, leaving Castiel facing the odd man rush.
Even without the apocalypse looming over his head, the locker room would have been sour. Ellen bitched them out for a good twenty minutes before stalking out.
There was a long uncomfortable silences that only broke when Tricks cracked a some smart-ass remark. He giggled at himself but no one else join him. “Come on, guys! What’s your problem?”
“What’s your problem!?” Bobby echoed. “What is your problem, son? You’ve got more talent then almost any of the people in this room and yet, you’re making jokes as you end the year as a third line winger on the worst team in hockey. What would it take to make you wake up, boy?”
“Most days?” joked Tricks. “A candy bar does it just fine.”
“Christ, boy! If Braeden had half your skill he’d be leading the league in scoring. And God forbid you put that kind of talent into a Winchester. Or hell, your kind of size into Shirley or Gallagher.”
“Exactly what are you trying to say here, old man?”
“You’ve been on seven different teams in the past five seasons. You ever stop to think of why?”
Tricks stared at Bobby, speechless for the first time since Dean had met him. Bobby nodded once and announced, “I’m going to go take my shower.”
The room was silent for a long moment. Only Chuck Shirley moved, a pen and a pad of paper suddenly materializing in his hands, jotting down notes in some kind of short hand that Dean couldn’t make heads or tails of. “What the hell are you doing, Chuck?” Sam demanded.
Chuck looked up sheepishly. “I’m taking notes. I really need to get this down.”
“This is going to sound like a stupid question, but what the hell are you taking notes?”
“I’m working on something,” Chuck admitted. “It’s going to be like Ball Four only for hockey.”
“Put it away, Chuck,” Hendriksen ordered.
The rest of the post game passed in silence.
Tuesday was Tampa Bay. An overtime game that ended as Tricks blasted a slap shot past the goaltender for his second goal of a five point night.
“You should have given him that kick way sooner, Bobby,” Dean commented as they made their way onto the bus back to the airport.
“Wouldn’t have worked sooner.”
“I’m just glad it worked now.”
Washington at home. A Thursday night dogfight of a game. Gordon managed to goad one of the defensemen into a scuffle that got them both thrown out for the rest of the night. But despite playing short a defenseman, Washington had the upper hand for the entire night.
Dean kept seeing flashes of potential. A crisp pass that got Andy off behind the defense. A combination play that would have made the highlight reel if the final pass was on net.
It hadn’t ever been skill that the Rage was missing. It was coherency. They could do all the pieces right but never in sequence.
Mostly on the strength of Hendriksen and Tricks playing out of their mind, they were in the game through two periods. But in the third, they got caught on a bad line change and the floodgates opened. They ended the game with a four-two loss.
Then, all of a suddenly. It was their last game of the season. With the apocalypse looming, quite possibly the last game of their lives.
The Pittsburg Penguins had not lost a game in three weeks, had not lost a game since two games before the Devil took possession of Sidney Crosby. Castiel informed Dean that this could well be his last chance at the Devil. Said that they could beat them in the regular season or someone would have to win a series off them in the playoffs.
Dean took a deep breath. He hadn’t been this worried about a game in a long time.
The locker room was odd affair. They were already out of the post-season while Pittsburg had clenched the conference. They had nothing to play for except pride.
And between Chuck’s scribbling, Castiel’s chronic confusion and the worst record in the National Hockey League, Dean didn’t think the had a hell of a lot of that left.
Before the game, Ellen came into the locker room, standing up on one of the benches so she could be seen. She cleared her throat. “Listen, I know most of you have checked out for the season. Recordwise, we’re one of the worst teams in the league. We’re sure as hell not making the playoffs. You might think we’ve got nothing left to play for. Well, I’m changing that. This last games, you’re playing for your jobs. I want to see your heart right now. When I put the team together for next year, I’m sure as hell going to look at what you did right here. I’m going to remember how hard you played when the big picture said you’d already lost. Today is where you find out who you are as a player. Today is where we find out where we are as a team. It’s about pride, guys.” She shuffled her feet, meetings each player’s eye in turn. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
It felt like they were a different team.
Dean felt like he was twenty again. His knee felt good as new, he was seeing the puck, his hits were all coming hard. Beside him, Sam had found that balance in being an offensive defenseman. After ten minutes, Ellen had juggled the lines so that the Trickster was up top with Hendriksen and Singer. Andy and Chuck were picking the team apart with passing. Gordon and Jake were finishing all their hits.
The defense was holding fast. Castiel’s catching glove was quick.
No one scored.
It wasn’t for lack of opportunities on either side. Sam had missed a lay-up on a one two pass. Ben, sprawling to the ice had just managed to break up a breakaway the other way.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Ellen told them at intermission. “This is the best hockey you’ve played all season. We can win this one.”
Dean was starting to believe it. Starting to feel it running through the uncharacteristically large crowd. More then half the shirts were the black and gold of the Penguins but the low roar was building up, a chant of, Let’s go, RAGE. The roar he’d heard in his days with the Boston Bruins. The one that screamed, this team is alive and this arena is alive.
The scoreless game held until early in the third period when a few odd deflections off a shot on a Pittsburg power play ends with Crosby tapping the puck into a wide open net.
He could see frustration under Castiel’s mask. That surprised him more than the goal itself. Castiel never let anything like that show, never lowered himself to human emotions. But there it was.
Over the next few minutes, it dawned on him.
They were going to lose this game.
They were always going to lose this game.
Dean started breaking things down. He’d had a coach tell him this once, back when he was just starting high school hockey. The team in Michigan that year had been a chronically awful program.
Don’t worry about the big picture. Win the little battles.
Beat Crosby to the puck. Don’t let the offense get in behind you. Put all passes on a stick. Play fundamental.
The game started to wind down. The score remained 1-0. Sam started jumping up on offense every time he could. Ellen dropped her checking line completely out of the rotation, trying to get their must needed goal.
But Pittsburg was better then them. Pittsburg was better then them even if they weren’t aided by Hellfire.
Dean started trying to pick a fight.
It wasn’t something he liked to do. It was something that went against everything his dad had taught him as a kid and starting fights wasn’t something he was good at.
But push come to shove, he and Sam were probably the best fighters in the league. Most of the league didn’t know it because they never dropped the gloves.
He purposely got careless with the hits, running hard into every Penguin he saw, putting a little something extra in hits on Crosby.
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam hissed to him at the media break.
“If we can’t beat the team. Maybe beating Crosby in a fight would be enough.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to challenge the Devil to a fist fight? Do you have any idea how stupid that is?”
“What else are we supposed to do?”
“The game’s not over yet, Dean.”
Only thirty seconds later, Evangi Malkin put in a goal from the weak side that somehow squirted past the near post. A minute over that, Dean threw a crushing hit and found himself a second later with gloves dropped squaring off against Matt Cooke.
Cooke, not Crosby.
He let Cooke throw the first punch, making it damn clear that he wasn’t the one that started this. Then, quickly and efficiently, he beat him down. The referees broke up the fight swiftly, Cooke dripping blood. The Rage fans in the arena gave Dean a standing ovation as he left the ice, headed to the locker room. There were only ninety seconds remaining in the game, in their season and the two goal lead was probably not something they’d come back from.
Dean felt sick to his stomach.
He heard the horn go off in the distance and that was it. Game over.
The first time in years Dean hadn’t been involved in the Stanley cup playoff. A former LA King, Sam had never been to a post season.
There wasn’t much they could do. Dean found himself at the practice facility almost every day because he didn’t know what else to do. Usually he had the hunt to distract him during the off season, but the supernatural world was all but silent, waiting for the result of the NHL playoffs.
They took out a few ghosts in the area. Simple salt and burns because there was nothing bigger right now.
The Penguins swept Florida in the first round of the playoffs, winning their ninth, tenth and eleventh games in a row. The Devils bowed out early to Canadians, a fact that Dean would have been more worried about if they were still all possessed by angels. The second seeded Capitals trounced Senators.
Andy, Ben and Adam joined them to watch the second round opener between the Penguins and the Bruins. The series was more evenly matched then the last one. Dean was proud of them. He wasn’t a Bruin anymore but he still had his old jersey tucked up in his room and couldn’t help but rooting for the city he’d called home for more then four years.
“You are serving alcohol tonight, right Dean?” Andy joked, looking at Adam and Ben, neither of whom had hit their second decade yet.
“I had my first beer when I was twelve,” Dean said. “Of course I’m serving alcohol.”
They got plastered that night, falling asleep before the game was even over. Sam and Jess leaning on one another on the couch. Ben and Adam, slumped limply on the floor. Adam curled up in their armchair.
Dean wasn’t asleep. He’d woken up just past eight to a familiar flutter of wings. “Cas?” he called. “Cas! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. I thought you would have flown the coop after the season ended.”
“I have not been reassigned,” Castiel said. “I admit I am at a loss as to why. All of my brothers in similarly useless posts have been relocated so they could help with the fight.”
Dean stopped for a moment, as a thought made its way through his skull, skirting past his hangover headache. “Hold. You said the people who couldn’t help where they were got reassigned. So you’re saying we can still do something.”
“That is indeed my supposition.”
A smile snaked across Dean’s face.
“What’s got you so happy, Dean?” Jess asked as she staggered from the living room into the kitchen, rubbing at her neck.
Dean poured her a cup of coffee and handed her a pair of Advil. “Cas is still here.”
Jess took a hesitant sip of the coffee and downed both Advil in one swallow. “Why?”
“Because there’s still something we can do to stop this.”
“And what’s that, Dean?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “Jess, I’m going to need tickets to the Stanley Cup.”
In the end, the Bruins took one game off of the Penguins. The third game of the series. Dean woke up in the morning, having blown off the game because of a boo-hag hunt in Louisiana. When he saw the score, he felt a funny little balloon of hope in his chest. But a visit from Castiel confirmed that it would have been insufficient at this point. The only way to stop them was to knock them out of the playoffs entirely.
Only a team didn’t win or lose on the virtue of one player, no matter how good they were. That was the Devil’s mistake in choosing the NHL as a venue for the apocalypse. There were five skaters on the ice at any time and five on the other team and the deeper they got into the playoffs, the more they all wanted it.
“Sabotage, Dean?” Sam asked.
“Between Jo and Jess, we can get into pretty much whatever building we need. So we sabotage. Maybe even try and get a hands on one of those bad luck charms Toronto early in that season. We put laxatives in the Gatorade. Nothing that’s going to hurt anyone. Just enough to put them off their game.”
“And we do this for how long?”
“However long it takes!”
“I dunno, Dean. It seems a little bit amoral.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Dean growled. “Don’t you think it freaking hurts me to even think about this? But I’m not seeing a hell of a lot of choices here.”
Sam swallowed heavily. “And what if Lucifer finds us?”
Dean shrugged. “Then I guess we die.”
Eastern conference finals: Capitals and Penguins, the NHL’s favorite match-up. Victor Hendriksen’s old team was headed by two-time league MVP Alexander Ovechkin, a Russian big rig who loved to put the puck in and into the net.
“Penguins in seven,” Sam commented offhandedly as they clicked glasses and sat down on the couch.
“I’d pick the Caps if it weren’t for Devil power,” Dean said, taking a sip of his own. “But you’re going to have a rough time finding someone to pick against Lucifer.”
“Lucifer or not, I bet Ovechkin outscores him.”
“I’ll take that action.”
The series was close. Closer then any of the others had been. Closer then Dean had expected. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Before Lucifer had landed, the Capitals had headed the conference.
It was three-two Capitals through five games, the Penguins facing elimination in the sea of red of Verizon center.
The Winchesters made it a point not to watch the game. It was a full moon and there was a werewolf who’d been gutting cattle and the occasional farmer in a town in Tennessee. They got back just past midnight to ESPN’s rehashing of the Penguin’s 4-2 victory.
They decided to watch game seven in the comfort of their home. Jess, Ben and Andy, forcing their way in to help the Winchesters pack up all their supplies for the Stanley Cup finals.
Detroit had finished off San Jose in six games, awaiting the winner of this series to set the finals. Castiel showed up at the door about ten minutes before game time, knocking for once in his life instead of just teleporting himself in. “Cas?”
“I have heard you are attempting to prepare. I would like to assist you in any way I can.”
“Sure thing, Cas. But if you’re going to be here, you need to take off the tie. We’re just watching the game.”
Castiel looked baffled so Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged him into the house. Ben and Andy both grunted their greetings as Jess handed him a beer.
Something happened before the game though. Something that had Andy standing up to call, “Sam, Dean. Get in here!”
“What?”
“There was this light thing,” Ben said. “I don’t know what it was, but it definitely didn’t look like a camera flare.”
Sam shook his head. “The one time I wish we had Tivo...”
“Michael,” said Castiel and all eyes turned to him. “Can you not see it?”
“You’re saying Michael’s picked his meat suit? Why not do that six games ago?”
“It is entirely possible he was only now told yes.”
“Who is it?” Jess asked.
Castiel extended his finger somberly and pointed it at number eight in the red sweater.
Andy chocked on his beer. “You’re kidding me, right? Alex Ovechkin? Hasn’t he been suspended like twice in the past few years because of dirty hits?”
Jess snorted. “Well, Dean was apparently one of the other contenders so being a saint obviously isn’t a requirement.”
“I don’t know about you,” Ben said, “but if the world depended on the outcome of a hockey game, I’d sure as hell take Ovechkin over Dean.”
“Ouch, that hurts guys,” Dean trailed off for a moment as he thought about it. “No, I’d take him too.”
“I do not understand,” Castiel rumbled.
“Alex Ovechkin’s been the scoring leader in something like the past three seasons,” Sam explained. “He scored a hat trick off you earlier this year. How are you in this league and not know Ovechkin?”
Castiel opened his mouth as if to respond but Dean pushed him down to the sofa. “Just watch.”
If the world survived it, this was the kind of game that would turn into a classic. Two teams more or less evenly matched, fighting tooth and nail for every puck, every pass and every hit. Fluery and Varlamov on opposite sides of the ice each made a few heart stopping saves.
Dean found himself caught up more in the game then in the apocalyptic battle. He had no particular love for either team but he loved good hockey and always had.
The best thing about the game was who score and how. The fourth line center on the Capitals slung a shot in front of the net that bounced off a defensemen’s skate and into the net. The Penguins call-up that replaced Jordan Staal scored his first NHL goal to tie it up.
In the second period, the teams traded power play goals coming within a minute of one another. The two star plays in the celestial battle seemed uncharacteristically invisible. As if their very presence cancelled one another out, leaving both of them powerless.
The announcers commented on it, speculating on the reasons that were well known in the Winchester household.
With thirteen seconds left, both teams and the fans whipped into the frenzy when the game the apocalypse ended in a messy scrum in front of the net. A rebound clanked off the crossbar and dropped in front of the net. Three different players from different teams all digging for it and then suddenly, the puck was in the back of the net, the red light blaring against the silence of the Penguins faithful.
At the center of the messy Washington celebration was Brooks Laich, grinning from ear to ear as his teammates congratulated him.
A few seconds later, the horn sounded and it was all over.
The Winchester household erupted into cheers, the six of them, including the baffled Castiel pulled into a celebratory hug, the same that they might have seen on the ice at the end of a Rage game.
On screen, the Capitals and Penguins lined up to shake hands. Crosby and Ovechkin eyed each other for a brief moment before their hands touched. Suddenly there was a flash of white light emanating from both players.
The picture went white and then black.
And Dean, smiling ear to ear, knew it was over.
| twelve |
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/2/10 03:15 (UTC)(no subject)
1/2/10 04:20 (UTC)(no subject)
13/10/11 06:40 (UTC)Oh man I was so afraid you were gonna have Ovechkin save the world and I would be disappointed forever. I mean, I would NEVER take Ovechkin over Crosby. *waves Penguins flag*
Also I saw Fleury's name and did a mental cheer because I love him, and also MALKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN. I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU. /fangirls Pens
Seriously this is like the greatest thing of my life. EVER.
(no subject)
14/10/11 00:31 (UTC)EYECANDYCHECKING LINE CENTER AND FAILED TO RESIGN MY SNARKY AND AWESOME SCRAPPY GUY.God help me, but I'm all right with Malkin. He's kind of unbearably adorable when he talks. I still remember this one interview where he said, 'I don't like Philly. When we go there, popcorn lands on my head'
(no subject)
14/10/11 00:42 (UTC)(no subject)
14/10/11 00:49 (UTC)The small/big tags go >small< and at the end, the same thing with /small. Only you reverse the greater than and less than signs. you can do the same with big.
(no subject)
14/10/11 00:50 (UTC)You get to be my guinea pig
(no subject)
14/10/11 00:58 (UTC)(no subject)
14/10/11 01:12 (UTC)