Dean blew on his frozen fingers, his knees complaining as he crouched down behind the plate. He squeezed his hand, flapping his glove toward the pitcher's mound. "All right, kid. Let's see what you got."

The words had barely crossed his lips before the baseball thumped into his glove, stinging his hand. A grin pulled at his mouth. "Ball."

"What?" The shrill reply echoed across the empty field. "No way, Dad. It crossed right over the plate!"

Dean pushed himself to standing and tossed the ball back to his son. He gave the boy a mock frown, glancing down at the dirt-dusted plate in consideration. "Well..." He glanced up at Lee, taking in his wide, dark eyes and nervous fingers rubbing together at his side. Dean's mouth twitched. "I guess you've got a better eye than me."

Lee gave a triumphant, "Hah!" He spun the ball between his fingers and went back to the mound, using his foot to scuff some of the dirt off the rubber. "I've been working on my slider," he called over his shoulder.

"Good," Dean said, crouching down behind the plate again. "Let's see it."

Lee was halfway through his windup when a shrill series of beeps issued from Dean's back pocket. He stumbled off the mound, cold fingers unable to hold the ball. It rolled to a pitiful stop halfway between the mound and the plate. Both father and son stared at it for a long moment.

He stood slowly, slipping his hand from the old, worn glove. Lee lowered his head, kicking at the dirt before he began to plod toward the ball. Dean met him there and bent down to pick it up.

He spun the ball between his fingers, a brief flash of images and feelings playing in his mind's eye. Other boys teasing Lee for his eyes. Lee's worry over the fact that he was shorter than most of the other boys in his class. Lee spending hours on the mound, the baseball's laces rubbing stinging blisters over his fingers. His annoyance over the fact that—despite his hard work and good scores—the teacher never praised him like she did the other kids.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean offered his son the ball. He had made it a rule the day Lee was born not to pry into his son's life. Lee would tell him when he was ready. By necessity, he was an extremely independent ten-year-old.

"I thought you said we had the whole day," Lee muttered, holding out his gloved hand, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes.

"I thought we did too, kiddo." Dean crouched down, tilting his head so he could peer into Lee's face. His teeth were sunk into his bottom lip, his disappointment etched across his features. Dean didn't say anything else.

Finally, Lee whispered, "I guess something pretty bad happened."

Relief and pride rushed through Dean and he squeezed Lee's shoulder affectionately. "I guess so." He stood straight, draping an arm around his son's thin shoulders. "Come on, I'll drop you off when I pick up Uncle Ray."

"I need to get my homework," Lee reminded him. "And my bag."

Dean nodded absently. What had happened now? He prayed that another body hadn't been found, but a heavy feeling in his gut told him that's exactly why the captain had reached out to him on one of his few off days.

They walked silently to Dean's Dodge Coronet, Lee thumping the ball into his glove disconsolately. Suppressing a sigh, Dean slid into the driver's seat, frowning when Lee opened the backdoor, shoving his baseball bag in before he crawled into the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

Cranking the engine, he pulled away from the baseball field, guilt eating at his insides every time he looked in the rearview mirror. Lee kept his ball cap pulled low over his eyes and leaned against the door, the bright afternoon sunlight playing in the black curls of his hair. Maybe Dean could scrape enough together by October to take him to a World Series game. He'd heard the Yankees—Lee's favorite team—had a decent chance of going all the way this year.

Maybe that would make up for the fact that he was gone so much.

The drive was silent all the way to their modest house off Parker Road. Dean put the car in park and followed Lee up to the door. Once inside, Lee made a beeline to his room, still not speaking. Cursing silently, Dean went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. The rotary spun with a gentle ticking sound as he dialed the precinct.

He gave the operator his badge number, leaning against the wall as he waited for the captain to pick up. When he did, his voice was short and rushed. "Chantry?"

"Yes, sir. What's—"

"Get Pham and get your asses down to 22nd and Arapahoe. Now."

"Captain, what's—"

"Another body, Chantry. Light a fire under it."

"Yes"—there was a click as the captain hung up—"sir." Dean heaved a sigh, putting the phone back on the receiver before he went into his room and quickly changed into a grey suit. He was still knotting his tie when he came back out into the kitchen.

He found Lee sitting at the table, chin in his hands, staring at the toaster. Dean stopped beside the counter, debating with himself, the images he had seen ingrained in Lee's baseball playing in his mind again.

The toaster popped, making him flinch as Lee hopped up from the table. He plucked his Pop-Tarts from the toaster, laying them quickly on a waiting napkin. Dean frowned. "That's your lunch?"

Lee glanced up. "No. Aunt Netta will make lunch. This is a snack."

On one level, Dean thought he should probably suggest a healthier snack. On the other, he knew letting extra Pop-Tarts slide was poor recompense for a ruined day. Besides, Netta would stuff him with vegetables at dinner anyway. Lee was watching him, like he knew Dean wanted to say something.

Almost daring him to.

Dean ruffled Lee's thick, black hair, earning a muffled sound of protest. "Come on. You can eat in the car. Do you have all your stuff?"

"Mm." Lee gave a short nod, shouldering a well-worn duffle stuffed with pajamas, extra clothes, an extra toothbrush and whatever comics he was reading this week.

Maybe he should try to get Lee to read actual books.

"All your homework?" Lee nodded and Dean eyed him suspiciously. "Even math?"

"Yes, Dad," Lee said, exasperation seeping into his voice. He pushed Dean toward the door. He dug his heels in a little, stifling a smile as Lee grunted with the effort of trying to hustle his six-three father out the door.

A satisfied "hah!" came from him when he finally managed to push Dean out the door. He shut and locked it behind them.

Dean blinked innocently. "Forget something?"

"Dad! No." Lee stalked toward the car. "Come on, already." He drew to a sudden halt just in front of the Dodge, his spine stiffening. He made a low growling sound and turned on his heel. "Pop-Tarts."

Unlocking the door for him, Dean offered a grin. It was met by a fish-eyed stare that said Lee was not amused as he darted back into the kitchen. He picked up his snack and marched back to the car, duffel thumping lightly against his leg. Dean sighed, closing and locking the door.

The drive to his partner's house was passed in excruciating silence, not even broken by music. Lee had given him a dirty look from the passenger's seat when he'd reached toward the radio, so Dean had dropped his hand. He'd slid several discreet glances in his son's direction, but Lee had remained stonily indifferent, staring out the window as he devoured the Pop-Tarts.

Finally, when they were a few streets away, Dean said, "I'm sorry, Lee. I really thought I had the day today."

Lee's shoulders hunched, like he was bracing for a hit. He crumpled up the napkin, careful not to let crumbs spill onto the leather seat. 

"Next time, I won't bring the beeper. I'll just tell 'em I forgot it." 

Lee's eyes flicked toward him, before darting away just as quickly. After a long moment, he muttered, "You can't do that. What if someone really needs your help?" Lee shifted in his seat. "Plus your stupid captain already doesn't like you."

That wasn't strictly true. Captain Danes had more of a problem with his Vietnamese partner and the fact that Dean had never played along with his subtle efforts to sideline Ray. But Lee didn't need anything about that situation explained to him.

He knew about it better than Dean did.

"People do need my help," Dean conceded. "But none of them are more important to me than you, Lee."

That got him another sideways glance.

"Swear," Dean said, slowing to twenty-five as they turned onto a residential street. He risked turning his head to look at his son full on. "Lee, you can tell me anything you need to. I'm always on your side, kid."

There was silence. Then, in a small voice, Lee asked, "Always?"

"Always." Dean held out his hand, pinky finger extended. Lee's hesitation broke his heart, but eventually he wrapped his smaller pinky around Dean's. Dean consciously pressed against the flood of information attempting to flow up his arm to his brain.

Lee pulled away first, grabbing the strap of his bag as they came up to Ray's house. The other detective stood on the porch, talking to his tiny wife. Netta barely came up to Dean's chest, but he'd never met a fiercer woman. Both of them waved as Dean put the car in park, Lee hopping out almost before Dean was at a full stop.

"Hey!" he shouted, but Lee was already halfway up the walk.

Dean stepped out of the car, staring a hole in the back of his son's head. Lee sprang up the steps, giving Ray a high-five and Netta a quick kiss on the cheek before he scurried into the house, calling for the Pham's oldest daughter and his best friend. Dean heaved a sigh, strolling up the walkway.

"You know the drill, Dean," Netta said, her calm expression belied by the light sheen of worry over her brown eyes.

"Come on, Netta," Ray scoffed. "He couldn't tie his shoelaces by himself."

Netta ignored her husband, watching Dean with a steady gaze.

"I'll watch his back, Netta," Dean promised—as he always did, despite the heaviness that promise left on his soul. "Always."

Ray rolled his eyes—though he was careful that his wife's back was to him. 

Dean cracked a smile and gestured toward the screen door. "He hasn't eaten lunch yet. And don't let him practice much more today. He'll ruin his shoulder. Long division's giving him fits and he gets mad about it. Sorry for any resulting attitude. He's been gettin' shin splints lately, so an ice pack on his legs before bed would be appreciated."

"Growing," Netta said knowingly, eyeing Dean's tall frame. "He'll shoot up like a bean stalk soon enough."

"Are you gonna let me pay you for—"

"No," Netta cut him off. "Lee's practically one of my own, Dean. You don't charge family."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, then sighed in defeat. He got a subtle thumbs-up from Ray, who slipped by his wife, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll call you before nine," he promised. Netta caught his wrist and Dean turned away to give them a little privacy.

A slap on the back startled him. Ray nodded toward the car, hands in his pockets, tanned face grim. "Same as the others?" he asked, pitching his voice low as they began to walk toward the Dodge.

Dean shrugged. "I reckon so. Cap said another body." He made a face. "Then he told me where to go and hung up, so I don't really know what to expect."

"Great," Ray said, reaching for the door handle. "We'd better get a move on, then."

The screen door slammed behind them.

"Dad!" 

The shrill voice made Dean turn, just to let out a startled "oomph!" as Lee barreled into him. He immediately dropped to a knee, wrapping his son in a tight hug. Lee's hair was soft against his cheek, and he shut his eyes, wondering not for the first time if he should quit his job as a detective and find something more family-friendly.

Something more single-parent friendly.

"Call before Aunt Netta makes me go to bed," he said in a thick voice. 

"You got it," Dean said, cupping the back of Lee's head. Lee clung to him for a moment more, then pushed away and ran back to the house where Netta was waiting.

Dean got slowly to his feet and slid into the driver's seat.

Ray patted his shoulder. "Come on, Chantry. Let's go to work."