I managed to do a little more writing. Since I've been writing a lot of het and gen recently, I thought I'd try some slash - some very mild baby slash, actually, with two fourteen-year-old boys. You all know Sam Winchester, and the other boy is my OMC Pete Crawford, who first showed up in "The Taming of the You-Know-Who" and then in the Rapture drabbles. It's been a while, so I'll explain: The Winchesters moved to a town called Rapture. Sam had a crush on a girl named Jaime, whom he finally asked to Homecoming, only to realize that they had nothing in common, and that the person who really meant something to him was his best friend, Pete.
Indian summer, Dad had said, smiling like the words could make him forget how sticky it was even inside the house. Sam sweated through target practice and then rode into town with Dean.
Pete showed up on his bike ten minutes later and Dean, climbing into his coveralls, gave them both a go on, scram kind of friendly nod.
"Here," Pete said, handing over a skateboard.
"I don't-" Sam started.
"Hold the back of the seat," Pete said, "and we'll go."
They were flying, going so fast, wind whipping their hair and drying their sweat. Sam laughed and held on.
"What flavor do you want?"
Sam stared at the box in Pete's hand. That bright yellow box with the cartoon dragon and the four dancing popsicles was totally familiar; that was the same brand Dean used to buy him when he was sick and his throat felt like he'd swallowed an entire beach of sand and grit.
"Whatever," he said. "Cherry."
"Those taste like cough syrup to me," Pete said with a shrug, handing it over.
Small stores wouldn't sell a kid Dean's age cough syrup, so he'd made do with cheap popsicles. "Not to me," Sam said, looking away.
"Flavor" + "Zombie"
Pete's house had a front porch near the driveway and a back porch that felt like a secret clubhouse because it was so quiet. They sat on the back porch with their popsicles. Sam slurped at his ferociously, not wanting any sticky juice to trickle down his hand. He finished first, and stuck the stick in the closest flowerpot.
He turned to Pete and laughed. "You look like a zombie," he said, knowing they at least weren't real.
Pete swallowed his last bite, pushed his stick down in the dirt next to Sam's, and made his hands into zombie claws.
He leaned in. His green mouth was getting so close.
Sam closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of sugar and lime, and pushed forward. Their mouths collided, teeth banging together, but it didn't matter because Pete's mouth tasted sweet with syrup and somehow dark too, like a cave with a secret pool in it, a cave where you could go to be alone and think your thoughts, and then Pete's hand came up and pushed at his hair, and Sam let him do that because he knew Pete wouldn't have gotten popsicle juice on his hands either. They kissed.
The heat held for the rest of the weekend, covering everything in a shimmering haze. Sam hated waking up early, but if he did his run any later than six, he'd be nothing but a puddle on the sidewalk before he got more than a block away.
Cleaning the weapons in the relative cool of the living room was better than doing the obstacle course for his afternoon session. Dad actually came and sat with him and they worked for a while, the sounds of knives on whetstones setting new rhythms for the Beatles songs Dad sang along to sometimes.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.