Genre: J2 RPS, AU
Pairing: Jensen/Jared although – Heh! You know major league teams have 25-man rosters, right?
Rating: PG-13 (NC-17 for later episodes)
Warnings: Language, Baseball, Schmoop, Angst, Boy-Sexin’
Word Count: 1,962
Disclaimer: Fiction not fact. All these beautiful guys belong to themselves. Jensen and Jared belong to each other. Only the words are mine. No copyright infringement intended for the use of the MLB teams/players/logos. This is for fun, not profit.
A/N: First off, I apologize in advance for the locker room humour, and the boys' potty-mouths. Lol. Chapter Title from John Fogerty’s classic baseball song, ‘Centerfield’. Read, review, enjoy! Comments = Love!
“Nice ass, Ackles.”
The soap in Jensen’s hand went flying from his fingers as he whirled around in the communal shower, the bar travelling in a graceful arc straight into Jared’s outstretched, waiting palm. The big lug just grinned at him and tossed it back.
“I hate you,” Jensen mumbled. Jared’s grin widened to shit-eating proportions.
“Aww, you must be a grower,” he crooned sympathetically. “I’m a show-er.”
“Jared!” Jensen resolutely did not look at anything Jared could be showing, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the other man’s face in incredulity.
“Hey!” Outfield-prospect Aldis Hodge yelled from one showerhead away from Jensen. “What about mine?”
Jared blushed to the roots of his stupid floppy hair and Jensen snorted. “Er...”
Hodge smirked. “What? You can look at white dick, but you can’t look at black dick?”
“Shut up, dude,” Jared mumbled, looking mightily embarrassed. Jensen sniggered at his discomfort as Jared turned on the shower next to him.
“What’s going on here?” Pitching prospect Chris Pine sauntered in, dropped his towel and moseyed under the shower next to Hodge.
“Jared was telling Jensen that he has a pretty dick,” Hodge smilingly supplied, as he soaped under his ‘pits.
Pine sagely nodded in agreement after twisting his body around Hodge’s to take a look-see for himself, just as the team closer and resident grouch, David Boreanaz, took the shower across from Jensen, giving them an assessing glance before looking back at Hodge.
“Jared has a pretty dick, or Jensen has a pretty dick?”
“Jensen. Jensen, for sure.”
“Quinto!” Jensen sputtered, and flipped infield prospect Zach Quinto the bird, while Boreanaz said, “Yeah, not bad, Ackles. Not bad at all.”
Jared bristled next to him. “Hey!”
“What?” Boreanaz asked with a smug, smug smirk. “You feelin’ sad ‘cause yours isn’t as pretty, or you jealous ‘cause you think only you get to look at his dick?”
“Damn right!” Jared exclaimed, realized what he had just said and then groused good-naturedly. “You find your own pretty dick.”
Jensen rolled his eyes at his friend and smirked himself when their new pitcher, John Francis Daley strode in, taking the shower next to Boreanaz. Speaking of whom... Jensen just stared as the older man took one look at the new guy, his new protégé, and snapped his mouth shut, turning back to face the wall. Jensen shook his head as if to clear it. So it was true; rumour ‘round the dugout had it that Big Bad Boreanaz was intimidated by the new kid. If Jensen actually made the roster, this was going to be one interesting season.
Hodge huffed from next to Jared. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: Jared said Jensen had a pretty dick...”
“Really?” Mike Rosenbaum asked as he stuck his head into the shower room to look at Jensen. “Let’s see it, man.”
“Fuck off, Rosie.”
“So anyway... I told Jared to check out my dick but he wouldn’t. Now I’m all broken up and shit.”
“Aww, don’t worry, baby,” Pine thumped Hodge on the back, the resultant wet smack resounding through the tiled room as a bunch of them laughed. “I think your dick’s real nice.”
“Seconded,” Quinto smirked over his shoulder.
If you could tell Hodge was blushing, you probably would see it right about now. “Thanks, guys. And don’t feel bad, Jensen. We can’t all be show-ers. Law of averages, dude.” Jensen just glared at him.
Mike chuckled as Tom – fucking Tom Welling! Jensen had yet to get over how cool that was – came up behind Mike and slung an arm over his shoulder. Mike leaned back into his friend’s chest, and Jensen’s eyebrow quirked at that... well, it wasn’t unlike how he and Jared were... except that he and Jared didn’t stand about like that wrapped only in towels. Tom smiled at them. “What’s going on?”
“Comparing cocks, man,” Mike, helpful as always, told him.
“Yeah? Where are the rulers then?”
“No rulers, Tommy,” Mike jabbed him with an elbow. “We don’t want Jensen to feel bad now, do we?”
Jensen showered off the last of the soap from his body and wrapped his fluffy white towel around his waist. “You know what? You’re all dicks. And you can all fuck right the fuck off.”
Jared grabbed his towel too. “Except for me, right?” He asked Jensen. “‘Cause I’m adorable.”
“No. I’m adorable. You’re annoying. And you started this shit, so that makes you the biggest dick of all.” There was pin-drop silence for about three seconds before all the men roared with laughter, Jensen included.
Jared wrapped his arm around his shoulders, yanked him close and ruffled his wet hair. “Aww shucks, Jen. Thanks, man.”
“Shut up, Jared...”
“That means a lot coming from you...”
“The hell is going on here?” Their fully dressed (and thank God for that), perpetually pissed off batting coach, Jim Beaver, yelled as he walked in, took one look around and rolled his eyes. “Goddamn, there are way too many dicks in here.”
“That’s what I said,” Jensen quipped.
“Shut it, smart ass! And all of y’all stragglers get done and get gone. Team meeting in the rec room in an hour. And pants are mandatory, idjits!”
Blue Jays Manager Eric Kripke was the last one to walk into the team meeting, but he was still five minutes early. He rolled his eyes at the distinctly unhappy faces around the room. “What?”
“These two morons switched out all the coffee for tea,” Beaver spat, not amused and pointing to their new infield prospects, Ackles and Padalecki, both of whom were standing there with steaming Starbucks cups in their hands and idiotic grins on their faces. “And the catering crew seems to have been mysteriously given the rest of the day off and there’s no one here to make coffee. Hell, we don’t even have instant! Assholes.” Kripke sighed. Well, at least the guys were bonding, he thought, as he called everyone to attention.
“All right, fellas, listen up,” his veteran eyes scanned the faces in the room; some older, unworried; others youthful, hopeful, maybe even a little scared. The new kids were like his kids. He always felt their anxieties; now, it was time to allay some of their fears. “If you’re here, you made it to our 40-man roster. Congratulations!”
The established Jays smirked knowingly as the new guys whooped out loud, slapping backs and high-fiving each other before quieting down, realizing there was another cut coming. Kripke noticed though; he could see it in their young faces.
“Enjoy this time, boys,” he imparted with the wisdom he had gained over the years, “because this time, right now? You get to play ball for the fun of it. Sure, there’s pressure to make the active roster, but y’all are all here because we saw something in you. Something a little special that we want a piece of. So show us what you got. Show us that you care about this team. Ain’t no secret that the Jays are going through a real rough patch right now, but we have hope,” he grinned at Rosenbaum and Welling, sitting together, inseparable now since Welling’s arrival, “we have raw talent,” he spared a glance at Ackles and Padalecki, joined at the hip as usual, and Beach and Daley, sitting at opposite ends of the room, “we have seasoned veterans,” he looked to Boreanaz, their starter, Lou Diamond Phillips and their Designated Hitter, Christian Kane, “and we have our rookie draft picks,” he nodded encouragingly at the two young pitchers the team had picked up in the off-season, Cory Montieth and Mark Salling. “We’ve got the recipe, we’ve got the ingredients. Now we need to get in that kitchen and start heating things up.” The guys murmured their assent as the coaches thumped their fists on the bar to voice their support.
Kripke waved a hand to call for silence. “Whatever you learnt about being on a team before... I want you to forget about it. Forget everything. We are the Toronto Blue Jays. We are The Team, not just a team. We stick together; on the field, in the dugout, in the locker room. That isn’t to say we cover shit up. We care about each other. You have differences, sort ‘em out, or come to me if you can’t. Don’t bring it to the ball park. You ever hear about any of our guys in scandals? No! Why? Because we don’t stand for shit like that. We have zero tolerance for stupidity; zero tolerance, gentlemen. No drugs, no steroids, no shit. We are about the Game. This game that we have all sacrificed so much for. Yeah, so right now, we suck on the field, but off the field, the Jays have a stellar reputation and I aim to keep it that way. On the field, we’re making changes,” Kripke paused and drew in a deep breath. “I have a good feeling about this year. The coaching staff and I have some difficult decisions to make, but we’ll do what it takes to make sure we’re taking the best possible team back to Toronto in April. If you get in, yes, it will be because you’re talented. But it will also mean that it’s because you care about your teammates and you care about playing for the Jays organization. We’re looking for loyalty, too; that’s just as important as the talent, because that’s what helps us out when the going gets tough; that’s what keeps us together, that’s when guys turn it up a notch and try harder,” Kripke took the time to carefully scan the room, making sure to look each man there in the eyes. “Now, get out there and show us that Blue Jay blood running through your veins!”
The team broke into cheers, some more raucous than others, Boreanaz and Carlson amongst the quiet ones. He needed to have a little chat with them, he figured; David was getting a little too disillusioned for his liking. Then he nodded at Jim Beaver, who pulled out two plaques from behind the bar counter.
“All right, keep it together boys. We’ve got our first pre-season game against the Yankees in a few days and I want you guys to focus,” then he grinned, looking at their two new prospective infielders. “But before y’all head out, I just wanted to say on behalf of the team: congratulations to Jensen and Jared for winning this year’s Prettiest Dick and Biggest Dick awards!” There was a load roar of laughter as Jared sprayed out the coffee in his mouth and Jensen blushed like a goddamn girl as he slapped his palm against his face. Kripke smirked at Jim. “Respectively, of course.”
Mayhem doubled over and snorted, “As if there was any doubt...,” and then laughed harder when Mike – he was team captain, after all – grabbed the plaques and officiously presented it to the stunned men. Kripke chuckled. They did this every year and it just never got old. He was about to leave the room when the pumped up team subsided, but then turned at the last minute, smirking at their two pranksters. “Ackles, Padalecki. Five laps around the ball park, boys... after you go get us all coffee. I suggest you grab a pen and start writing orders down. I want a Venti Cinnamon Dolce Latte with whipped cream, and if you forget the cinnamon sprinkles on the top, I’ll make it ten laps. Take the other new kids with you, you’re gonna need more hands than you’ve got!” He hummed as he strolled out, the coaches following him out.
After they had made their own coffee orders, of course.