Sam/Andy, "Against The World"
Title: Against The World
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Andy
Rating: R
Words: 463
A/N: For thevinegarworks .
Summary: It's just the two of them now.
It’s just the two of them now, two of Azazel’s “special children”. A hunter turned demon and a goofy psychic who can make anyone do anything using only his mind (except Sam) - a powerful and deadly ability for a spiky-haired, big brown eyed kid who doesn’t look a day over twenty one.
He can’t control Sam and Sam has no power over him, except maybe he does, but he never tries and neither does Andy.
The world is falling apart around them, dark and smoke and burning and screaming and death. He doesn’t really care. They can fix it, together, they can do anything, they have all the power they could ever dream of, could need, could want.
And he’s perfectly alright with that, with this.
He’s pinned to a wall (somewhere, some random motel room, because Sam’s never been able to kick that habit even though Dean’s dead and long gone), shoulder blades pressed uncomfortably against the smooth surface, hands fisted and tugging in long brown hair. His legs are tight around a lean waist, heels locked together at Sam’s back. Sam growls, bites hard at his jaw, shoves another finger inside and Andy groans at the delicious burn, says, “Come on, fuck,” tries to get more friction.
Sam grins, not a nice grin. It’s dark and twisted, wicked, primal, everything that’s wrong but Andy frankly doesn’t give a shit, just needneedneeds more. Craves more. Can’t live without this-
“Slut,” Sam hisses, slow, dirty, licking a path up Andy’s neck and snaring an earlobe in his teeth.
“Fucking tease,” he grits out, yanks more at Sam’s hair. Moremoremorepleasegodyessssss....
Then Sam moves, shifts back, just enough to pull the jeans from Andy’s ankles. “Begging for it, are you?” His eyes glitter, all black now, always. Andy’s lids close as he shudders. Sam slams into him with the force of a freight train and Andy’s brain shorts out.
His head hits the wall with each thrust but it doesn’t hurt, he’s too busy chanting, “More, Sam, Jesus-”
He almost passes out when Sam hits that spot inside him. The sharp cry makes Sam grin again and he changes his angle slightly, moving harder and faster, blurry and gorgeous and just like that, Andy explodes, white-hot pain and pleasure mingling into an orgasm that leaves him limp and drained, floating down to Earth in little pieces as Sam follows with a muffled curse and bruising kiss to Andy’s lips.
Sam holds him up with strong legs and arms rippling with muscles that are almost large enough to be ridiculous but not quite. “Okay,” he says, or asks, and Andy nods, letting his head loll to the side.
“Jus’ you and me, now on,” Sam mutters the words into his ear.
That works for Andy.