This is gonna be a looooooooooooong story... And, at the moment, the rating is Teen, but I have it set to M, because in a little bit, it's gonna be stuff that I'd get sued for for exhibiting it to teenagers... :3
Title: A Romance To Be Kindled
Summary: Since they were four, Dean and Jimmy have been best friends. But when Dean suddenly feels an attraction to Jimmy, their friendship will be changed forever.
Characters: (Per Chapter) Dean Winchester, Jimmy Novak
Pairing: Dean W./Jimmy Novak
Rating: M (NC-17) for the following: (Per Chapter) Mild Language
Since they were four, Dean Winchester and Jimmy Novak had always been best friends. They'd lived on the same street for eleven years, three houses apart from one another. Dean had memorized the number of steps he had to take to get to Jimmy's: 47. It grew less every year as Dean's legs lengthened. The two had been attached at the hip ever since Jimmy moved onto that street and crashed his four-wheeled bike into the oak tree in front of Dean's house. Dean couldn't remember a happy moment that didn't involve Jimmy. There was the time when they were seven, Jimmy was staying the night at Dean's. They snuck out in full-black costumes and ding-dong-ditched until 3:30. The next morning, everyone in Lawrence was talking about two gremlins knocking and running. Then there was the time in the 7th-grade play, when the two boys had a scene together. Dean had forgotten his lines out of nervousness, so Jimmy had to mouth them to him and try to perform sign language while saying Dean's cue line. Then, in 10th grade, they'd thrown a bucket of yellow paint on a rival high-school's wall, and gotten chased for seventeen blocks by an enraged football player who had a strange resemblance to a charging rhino. Eventually, Jimmy had run out of breath (it's what happens when you're cracking up and sprinting your legs off at the same time), and gotten decked by the football player. Dean ended up kicking the guy in the package, helping Jimmy run for ten blocks, and then holding Jimmy's head still so he could ice the wound.
The list went on.
All through the eleven years, neither of them had ever been angry at the other, felt betrayed at one point or another, or felt alone. Never in the eleven years.
Jimmy Novak scrambled out of the antique car, simultaneously checking his watch and fumbling with his textbooks. Dean Winchester exited the Impala more slowly and collectively, gently shutting the door and strolling onto the curb. Jimmy kicked the door closed with his foot, rattling the car dangerously and earning a shout from Dean.
"Dude, don't kick the car!"
Jimmy hopped onto the sidewalk and began jogging towards the building while shouting behind him: "I won't kick the car if you get me here on time tommorow!"
Dean scoffed and yelled after him, "It's not my fault you can't get wheels of your own!"
When no reply came, Dean again yelled, "And if/when you do get a car, if it's one of those douche-baggy jeeps you've had your eye on, I'm gonna kill ya!"
Jimmy, now far ahead of Dean, whipped his head around and gave Dean his signature "death-glare" before shouldering the door open and wriggling inside.
To anyone who didn't know them, it would've looked like a quarrel, but to Dean and Jimmy's friends, it was all in good fun.
And it was, really.
Every morning, Dean drove Jimmy to their highschool, made him late, and engaged in a "fight" with him. Every morning, Jimmy would catch a ride with Dean, become late, and "fight" with Dean. It was their daily routine for weekdays.
Jimmy was a year younger than Dean, but he'd been born in the summer, so he was in Dean's class. He wouldn't be able to get his license for another year, meaning that the torture of explaining to the teachers over and over, "Dean Winchester drove me", was a routine as well.
Luckily, most of his teachers knew Dean by reputation and let Jimmy get away with it.
Jimmy pushed his way past a throng of freshmen girls gossiping in the hallways and down a flight of stairs to get to his locker. Hastily, he dropped the textbooks he'd been carrying (narrowly missing his foot), and twisted the combination lock to 42. The minute bell rang as he muttered "42-20-36", trying to remember the combination after the weekend.
"Hey, Sherlock," came Dean's voice as he swatted Jimmy's unsteady hand away from the lock after he'd gotten the combo wrong for the third time. Dean cleared his throat and curled his hand into a fist before banging on the locker door twice, in the center. He then pulled the lock up, and the door swung open. A piece of paper tumbled out, along with a stinking gym sock (Dean's) as Jimmy stared at the locker. He locked eye with Dean and stage-whispered, "Why the heck haven't you ever told me I could do that!"
"Because you'd steal something."
Jimmy paused in the middle of stuffing the textbooks back into the locker to stare increduously at Dean. "This is my locker."
"Insurance swindle."
"I don't think so." Jimmy growled as he shoved the wadded-up sock into Dean's hand. "Wash that. And it's twin. Wherever it is."
"Probably in your lunchbag."
Another death glare. Jimmy pulled out a Spanish book and began running to class, when the minute bell rang. He skidded to a halt and swiveled to look at Dean who was still standing in front of the locker, watching him go. He did the classic "What the Heck?" move, involving the flailing of his arms, the near dropping of a text book, and the classic "orgasm-without-the-pleasure" face, then skidded into his spanish class down the hall.
Dean chuckled as he watched him go, bid a "hello, ladies" to an attractive pair of junior girls, then casually strolled upstairs to his literature class.
The day was suicidal-tendecy-inducing slow, and when the last bell rang, Dean knocked over at least ten other kids trying to get out of the thrice-damned school. Once he managed to fight his way through the mosh-pit of kids, Dean leaned against the Impala, waiting for Jimmy. It took a while for Jimmy to appear, and when he did, he was breathless and red-faced.
"Whaddya do, trap some girl in the supply closet?" Dean inquired as Jimmy slid into the car. Another death glare. That had to be some sort of record...
"No. No; I was talking to Mr. Sandoval. Math teacher."
"Uh. Didya trap him in the supply closet?" Dean snickered as he leaned over to gently sniff Jimmy. The younger boy jerked away and failed to hide a suppressed smile as Dean chuckled again and geared the Impala out of the parking lot. They reached 23rd street and were waiting at a red light when Dean looked over at Jimmy. His head was leaning on the leather seat, eyes closed, lips slightly parted in a relaxed expression of serenity. His hair was sitting in a tangled mass on his head, some of beaded with the tell-tale white specks of hair gel. A small trickle of sweat was amassed at Jimmy's hairline from the hot September weather. Dean found himself leaning closer, almost subconciously towards Jimmy, just watching. And he didn't even know the reason why. What would Jimmy do if Dean licked that small droplet of sweat? Would he laugh? Leave? Not that there were many places to go to in traffic. Or would he be mad? Or maybe he'd-
BEEEP.
The sudden car horn brought Dean roughly boomerang-ing back to his seat. The light had turned, evidently. Jimmy's eyes flickered open as Dean gunned the accelerator (maybe a bit more enthusiastic than he had to be, but...) and went screeching down 23rd street. There was silence for a minute; only the heavy rock tunes of Warrant keeping the quiet non-awkward.
"Oh hey," Jimmy said, and Dean resisted the urge to look over at him. "Are we picking up Sam?"
"What?"
Jimmy sighed and leaned over to turn down "Uncle Tom's Cabin". "I said, are we picking up Sam?"
"Uh."
"You know, Sam? Your skinny little- well not little- brother? Look's like a puppy? He's in 6th grade? I though you knew him. Shaggy brown-"
"I got it." Dean interrupted. "Sorry. I'm just really tired."
"Mm-hmm," Jimmy answered after a moment of silence. Dean's eyes were focused on the road, but he could feel the piercing blue eyes of his companion on his face. Dean found himself breaking out into a light sweat, and he hastily wiped away the dampness gathering on his forehead. What the Hell was happening to him?
Hm. This was a bit shorter than I intended it to be, but... c'est la vie.
+Luvs and cookies+