last01standing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
last01standing) wrote2009-10-26 10:42 pm
last01standing) wrote2009-10-26 10:42 pm
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SPN fanfic--Five For Fighting [1/12, the hockey!AU]
Title: Five For Fighting (1/12)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam centered with an epic supporting cast
Notes: Will be updated sporatically due to nano.
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 1: The Lawrence Rage
The locker room of the Lawrence Rage was quiet when Dean Winchester walked in. It was a hazard of any new expansion team. They were the cast offs. The best players around that their own team failed to protect plus a half dozen from the farm club, a few of them still in the zit-speckled throws of puberty.
He walked slowly past through the room and threw his bag in the locker. There was a jersey ready for him. D. Winchester. Still #67 just like it was back in Boston. He pulled out his skates and started to lace them up. His brother, Sam came into the room a few seconds later and pulled his skates out of the locker next to him. “This should be interesting.”
“Honestly,” Dean hissed. “The only good thing to come out of this is you and me back on the ice together.”
“Look at Winchester talking like he would have gotten a chance it hadn’t been for the Rage,” Gordon Walker said, coming into the room. Dean winced. He’d had more than a few run-ins with the big rig from the Avalanche over the years.
“The ACL’s healed up fine,” Sam snapped. “He’s been rehabbing all summer, right Dean?”
If by rehabbing you meant hunting demons like the Winchesters did every off season, then yes, rehab went freaking great. He bared his teeth in Gordon’s direction. “It’s like I’m back from the dead.”
The team started filtering in slowly after that. Dean had known most of them before the draft. There was Bobby, the veteran who’d been playing as long as Dean could remember, center Victor Hendriksen from Washington who was the one real get of the expansion draft, Andy and Chuck the two scrawniest forwards he’d ever seen and a trio of kids straight out of the AHL who weren’t even be drinking age yet.
But they’d made the team. They were all on the roster for opening night, which means this is his new family for the next six months. He starts pulling on his pads, flexing his left knee absently. A few lockers over, Adam and Lucas were talking animatedly about their first NHL game. The were handling it better than Dean had. His first game in the NHL had been six years ago with the Boston Bruins and he’d spent most of the pregame puking up his nerves in the bathroom. Sam had come straight out of college hockey at Stanford and out onto the ice with the LA Kings. They’d always spent the off season back in Lawrence with their dad on his hunts. They probably would have been hunting full time if it wasn’t for the pesky need of cash flow.
Then again, Dean would have been playing hockey even if it wasn’t for the cash needs. He couldn’t imagine life without it. Sam always used to tease him that his one relaxation from the violence of hunting was one of the more violent sports around.
“Full moon tonight,” Sam remarked absently to him.
“Dude, priorities. Season opener tonight.” He pulled on the white away sweater, the navy-blue A for assistant captain smiling up at him from his left shoulder. “Opening night for the entire franchise.” He lowered his voice. “We deal with the werewolf post-game.”
Ellen Harvelle came in a few minutes after they finished dressing, the first and only female coach in the NHL. She’d grown up around the ice though. Her husband Bill had been one of the unsung starts of the league and she knew the game backwards and forward. The team respected her and more then a few of them actively feared her. “Gentlemen,” she said. “You’ve had your preseason. Tonight is no different. I want the Singer line and the Winchesters out to start. Play hockey. Same game different place. You’ve all been here before.”
Adam and Lucas both looked a little green but the rest of the guys were nodding. Hendriksen, center of the consensus first line didn’t even blink at them giving Bobby’s line the start for the game. Bobby was well past his prime, at a whopping 45 years, he was by a decade the oldest man in the locker room. But he’d been playing since Dean was in diapers and was the craftiest forward in the league.
Dean laced up his skates and grabbed his helmet. He caught sight of Ash in the corner, flipping his mullet back behind his neck. “Gentlemen, rock and roll.”
***
The Lawrence Rage, in the time honored tradition of new expansion teams were getting their faces kicked in. Three-one after two. The one goal was Victor Hendriksen on a second period power play.
Dean cleared out his nostrils and glanced up at the clock. Eight minutes to play. He leveled his gaze back onto the ice only to see Gordon Walker take a cheep shot at LeCavalier. “Damn it, Gordo,” Ellen muttered even before the referee came up with the penalty. “Winchester, Winchester, Campbell and Braeden. Keep this one sown up.”
The penalty kill probably didn’t matter, but it felt important somehow like a stand to salvage the game. Rubeson back in the net tapped each post in turn and exhaled deeply.
It was the kind of penalty kill that gave you hope for the season. The kind with Ben Braeden sprawling down on the ice to block a shot and Sam icing it a few times while Jake poured on the pressure to tie it up in the Lightning defensive zone. The kind of power play with Sam intercepting a pass for a shorthanded chance while Dean threw every hit he could to keep the Lightning on the glass and away from the goal.
By the time Gordon’s two minutes were up, the Rage had some life back in them and the Winchesters give the blue line to Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler as the forth line of Carey, Braeden and Miller poured on the pressure.
Ash netted a cheap goal late on a lucky deflection in a scrum in front of the net with about a minute to go and Ellen calls for Rubeson to come to the bet. The Hendriksen’s line was out with the Winchesters manning the point position as Andy Gallagher comes rushing on to give the Rage a six on five with the Rubeson’s net yawning empty. Gallagher was lightning fast with the puck and works magic in the face-off circle but when it came right down to it, Gallagher was also the smallest player in the league. It should be Gordon up there by all rights but Gordon was in the doghouse for the penalty a few minutes before and hadn’t seen the ice since.
Dean caught a pass back from Reidy and unloaded a slap shot on goal that hit the net minder square in the chest. The rebound ricochets off behind the net where Gallagher beats his man to it only to get rocked back into the boards as the puck squirts out to the defenseman who wastes no time in lobbing a clear up past the blue lines and into the empty Rage net.
They left the ice a few seconds later tired but relieved because the first game’s the hardest with any new group but they were going to be fine.
***
The locker room was more alive after the game, free of the pregame nerves and after the coach left the chatter started. “I can’t believe we not only have the two smallest guys in the league,” groused Joe Jobeson who, after a series of increasingly ridiculous pranks in training camp had been dubbed, ‘the Trickster,’ “but we have them playing on the same line.”
“Hey, Gretsky was pretty much the smallest guy in the league,” Andy protested.
“Andy,” Sam said, standing up for emphasis. “Please say you did not just compare yourself to Wayne Gretsky.”
Andy looked up at him, eyes widening. “No, I uh, compared Chuck to Gretsky?”
Sam shook his head. “I’m going to tell Jake to let them hit you next game.”
Dean laughed up until Bobby Singer smacked him on the back of the head and said, “In case you idjits didn’t remember we lost tonight. I’m in no mood to be celebrating.”
***
It was about an hour and a half after the game when the Winchesters finally got away from the arena after the game. Curfew was two AM and they had the bus down to Miami for the game with the Panthers. Then another travel day and a Saturday matinee in Carolina before finally making their way to Lawrence for their home opener against the Atlanta Thrashers.
“You know,” Dean commented as he drew his gun out of his waistband. “I’m thinking about getting my skates made with a silver blade. Knowing our luck, some wolf is going to hulk out on us when we’re on the penalty kill.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Sam snapped. “Hockey’s not hunting.”
Dean shrugged. “About the same amount of blood in the end.”
***
Sam only just managed to pump two silver rounds into it before it mauled Dean. He ended up with blood splattering the front of his shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “This was new.”
“Could have been worse,” Sam said. “Could have been your practice sweats.”
“Oh, I learned my lesson in Boston. Never ever doing that again.” He hesitated. “We burying the corpse or we just leaving it here?”
Sam shrugged. “We’ve already blow curfew.”
“Grave digging it is,” Dean said. He grabbed the werewolf’s arms as Sam took hold of the legs. “I missed the brotherly bonding time. This just wasn’t the same without you.”
“Oh, screw you Dean,” Sam muttered. “There was a reason I stuck to ghosts in LA. One of these days someone’s going to find us coming out of a graveyard and put a name to a face.”
Dean shook his head, and grinned over at his brother. “Don’t you just love hockey season?”
| two |
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam centered with an epic supporting cast
Notes: Will be updated sporatically due to nano.
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 1: The Lawrence Rage
The locker room of the Lawrence Rage was quiet when Dean Winchester walked in. It was a hazard of any new expansion team. They were the cast offs. The best players around that their own team failed to protect plus a half dozen from the farm club, a few of them still in the zit-speckled throws of puberty.
He walked slowly past through the room and threw his bag in the locker. There was a jersey ready for him. D. Winchester. Still #67 just like it was back in Boston. He pulled out his skates and started to lace them up. His brother, Sam came into the room a few seconds later and pulled his skates out of the locker next to him. “This should be interesting.”
“Honestly,” Dean hissed. “The only good thing to come out of this is you and me back on the ice together.”
“Look at Winchester talking like he would have gotten a chance it hadn’t been for the Rage,” Gordon Walker said, coming into the room. Dean winced. He’d had more than a few run-ins with the big rig from the Avalanche over the years.
“The ACL’s healed up fine,” Sam snapped. “He’s been rehabbing all summer, right Dean?”
If by rehabbing you meant hunting demons like the Winchesters did every off season, then yes, rehab went freaking great. He bared his teeth in Gordon’s direction. “It’s like I’m back from the dead.”
The team started filtering in slowly after that. Dean had known most of them before the draft. There was Bobby, the veteran who’d been playing as long as Dean could remember, center Victor Hendriksen from Washington who was the one real get of the expansion draft, Andy and Chuck the two scrawniest forwards he’d ever seen and a trio of kids straight out of the AHL who weren’t even be drinking age yet.
But they’d made the team. They were all on the roster for opening night, which means this is his new family for the next six months. He starts pulling on his pads, flexing his left knee absently. A few lockers over, Adam and Lucas were talking animatedly about their first NHL game. The were handling it better than Dean had. His first game in the NHL had been six years ago with the Boston Bruins and he’d spent most of the pregame puking up his nerves in the bathroom. Sam had come straight out of college hockey at Stanford and out onto the ice with the LA Kings. They’d always spent the off season back in Lawrence with their dad on his hunts. They probably would have been hunting full time if it wasn’t for the pesky need of cash flow.
Then again, Dean would have been playing hockey even if it wasn’t for the cash needs. He couldn’t imagine life without it. Sam always used to tease him that his one relaxation from the violence of hunting was one of the more violent sports around.
“Full moon tonight,” Sam remarked absently to him.
“Dude, priorities. Season opener tonight.” He pulled on the white away sweater, the navy-blue A for assistant captain smiling up at him from his left shoulder. “Opening night for the entire franchise.” He lowered his voice. “We deal with the werewolf post-game.”
Ellen Harvelle came in a few minutes after they finished dressing, the first and only female coach in the NHL. She’d grown up around the ice though. Her husband Bill had been one of the unsung starts of the league and she knew the game backwards and forward. The team respected her and more then a few of them actively feared her. “Gentlemen,” she said. “You’ve had your preseason. Tonight is no different. I want the Singer line and the Winchesters out to start. Play hockey. Same game different place. You’ve all been here before.”
Adam and Lucas both looked a little green but the rest of the guys were nodding. Hendriksen, center of the consensus first line didn’t even blink at them giving Bobby’s line the start for the game. Bobby was well past his prime, at a whopping 45 years, he was by a decade the oldest man in the locker room. But he’d been playing since Dean was in diapers and was the craftiest forward in the league.
Dean laced up his skates and grabbed his helmet. He caught sight of Ash in the corner, flipping his mullet back behind his neck. “Gentlemen, rock and roll.”
The Lawrence Rage, in the time honored tradition of new expansion teams were getting their faces kicked in. Three-one after two. The one goal was Victor Hendriksen on a second period power play.
Dean cleared out his nostrils and glanced up at the clock. Eight minutes to play. He leveled his gaze back onto the ice only to see Gordon Walker take a cheep shot at LeCavalier. “Damn it, Gordo,” Ellen muttered even before the referee came up with the penalty. “Winchester, Winchester, Campbell and Braeden. Keep this one sown up.”
The penalty kill probably didn’t matter, but it felt important somehow like a stand to salvage the game. Rubeson back in the net tapped each post in turn and exhaled deeply.
It was the kind of penalty kill that gave you hope for the season. The kind with Ben Braeden sprawling down on the ice to block a shot and Sam icing it a few times while Jake poured on the pressure to tie it up in the Lightning defensive zone. The kind of power play with Sam intercepting a pass for a shorthanded chance while Dean threw every hit he could to keep the Lightning on the glass and away from the goal.
By the time Gordon’s two minutes were up, the Rage had some life back in them and the Winchesters give the blue line to Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler as the forth line of Carey, Braeden and Miller poured on the pressure.
Ash netted a cheap goal late on a lucky deflection in a scrum in front of the net with about a minute to go and Ellen calls for Rubeson to come to the bet. The Hendriksen’s line was out with the Winchesters manning the point position as Andy Gallagher comes rushing on to give the Rage a six on five with the Rubeson’s net yawning empty. Gallagher was lightning fast with the puck and works magic in the face-off circle but when it came right down to it, Gallagher was also the smallest player in the league. It should be Gordon up there by all rights but Gordon was in the doghouse for the penalty a few minutes before and hadn’t seen the ice since.
Dean caught a pass back from Reidy and unloaded a slap shot on goal that hit the net minder square in the chest. The rebound ricochets off behind the net where Gallagher beats his man to it only to get rocked back into the boards as the puck squirts out to the defenseman who wastes no time in lobbing a clear up past the blue lines and into the empty Rage net.
They left the ice a few seconds later tired but relieved because the first game’s the hardest with any new group but they were going to be fine.
The locker room was more alive after the game, free of the pregame nerves and after the coach left the chatter started. “I can’t believe we not only have the two smallest guys in the league,” groused Joe Jobeson who, after a series of increasingly ridiculous pranks in training camp had been dubbed, ‘the Trickster,’ “but we have them playing on the same line.”
“Hey, Gretsky was pretty much the smallest guy in the league,” Andy protested.
“Andy,” Sam said, standing up for emphasis. “Please say you did not just compare yourself to Wayne Gretsky.”
Andy looked up at him, eyes widening. “No, I uh, compared Chuck to Gretsky?”
Sam shook his head. “I’m going to tell Jake to let them hit you next game.”
Dean laughed up until Bobby Singer smacked him on the back of the head and said, “In case you idjits didn’t remember we lost tonight. I’m in no mood to be celebrating.”
It was about an hour and a half after the game when the Winchesters finally got away from the arena after the game. Curfew was two AM and they had the bus down to Miami for the game with the Panthers. Then another travel day and a Saturday matinee in Carolina before finally making their way to Lawrence for their home opener against the Atlanta Thrashers.
“You know,” Dean commented as he drew his gun out of his waistband. “I’m thinking about getting my skates made with a silver blade. Knowing our luck, some wolf is going to hulk out on us when we’re on the penalty kill.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Sam snapped. “Hockey’s not hunting.”
Dean shrugged. “About the same amount of blood in the end.”
Sam only just managed to pump two silver rounds into it before it mauled Dean. He ended up with blood splattering the front of his shirt.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “This was new.”
“Could have been worse,” Sam said. “Could have been your practice sweats.”
“Oh, I learned my lesson in Boston. Never ever doing that again.” He hesitated. “We burying the corpse or we just leaving it here?”
Sam shrugged. “We’ve already blow curfew.”
“Grave digging it is,” Dean said. He grabbed the werewolf’s arms as Sam took hold of the legs. “I missed the brotherly bonding time. This just wasn’t the same without you.”
“Oh, screw you Dean,” Sam muttered. “There was a reason I stuck to ghosts in LA. One of these days someone’s going to find us coming out of a graveyard and put a name to a face.”
Dean shook his head, and grinned over at his brother. “Don’t you just love hockey season?”
| two |