The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)
Title: The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)
'Verse:
anywhere_road .
Author: Sophie /
razorxrosary
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Andy/Ash
Rating: This part: NC-17. Verse: NC-17.
Word count: ~2181
Warnings and Disclaimer: Please see the
anywhere_road community user info.
Summary: The van breaks down in the middle of nowhere. Porn ensues.
Author notes: Huge thanks to
virtualinsomnia for the beta. This would never have been written if not for
kat_lair . She is the wind beneath my wings, etc. The fic itself occurs slightly down the road from The One With The Plan (and Body Shots), and may refer in passing to events which have yet to actually happen. I'm not trying to be deliberately difficult, I promise.
The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)
Andy wakes up in the middle of nowhere, his face pressed wetly against the passenger side window, and every inch of his skin burning with the heat. For a long, blurry moment, he can smell fabric and the underlying scent of pot and wonders if Ash has started lighting up again, until he realises that somebody has balled his discarded over-shirt underneath his head. Probably Ash. The last thing Andy remembers, vaguely, is being somewhere between Arizona and California, the window vibrating against the side of his face, and the lights of the other cars appearing like fireflies in the gloom. Now, the van is silent, and the air is bright and hot, a beam of sunlight shining directly into his eyes.
He struggles upright, blinking against the harsh light and trying vainly to identify his surroundings. There's not much to go on. On either side of the van the scrubland stretches into vague, sunburned hills-the desert wasteland is harsh and anonymous, exactly the same as the miles and miles of wasteland before and behind it.
A loud thunk from the front of the van draws Andy's attention, and he glances up sharply, his hand making an aborted twitch for the gun under the seat. He relaxes almost immediately. The bonnet of the van has been popped, obscuring most of the view, but Andy can see the familiar shape of Ash's legs protruding from behind it.
He opens the door, and the heat hits him like a bag of bricks, a tangible, forceful thing. He gasps and staggers, choking a little, the impulse to draw air fighting with the incredible pressure against his face, and for one horrible moment he's breathless and dizzy with it. Eventually, the need to breathe wins out, and he draws a hot, harsh lungful. He can feel the sweat springing out along his already damp hairline, and he winces.
From behind the bonnet, there's a loud clang and an even louder declaration of "fuck!" Despite himself, Andy grins, like a schoolgirl with a crush, and he moves towards the source of the voice. His feet kick up tiny, ghostly clouds of dust as he goes.
Ash is bent over the chalky black guts of the engine, shirtless and glistening with sweat and engine grease. He's discarded his shirt with a casual confidence that makes Andy feel a spike of jealous want, and Andy can already see where his skin is burning, turning the colour of honey, just a little pink. His hair, still short from where he had cut it, gleams golden in the summer sun. Andy's whole body flickers with sudden want-the need to press his hands against the spiky strands, feel the ripple of Ash's muscles against his tongue, taste the salt of his skin…
Andy's mouth is abruptly dry. He swallows thickly. "W-what's up?"
"Your van's busted, man," Ash replies, but he doesn't sound particularly unhappy about it. On the contrary, he grins at Andy with a particular gleam in his eye, like the one he gets in the midst of a hunt, when the stakes are high and there's a problem to be solved. "Spark plug's gone."
"Gone?" Andy parrots, feeling a thin thread of worry through his hazy arousal - after all, they're in the middle of nowhere, and his van is one of the few material possessions he actually wants to keep. "Can you fix it?"
Ash raises his head over the engine, and gives him The Look.
"Okayyy, stupid question." Andy mentally backtracks a little. "Where are we, anyway?"
"This?" Ash grins, wide and really happy, and it's like the sun against Andy's skin- hot, making his pulse flutter a little. "Bat country."
Andy stops, and stares for a moment, nonplussed. "Nevada?"
"The very same."
"Wow." Andy turns in a slow circle, not that there's much to see. "Of all the places to break down, huh? You realise if they stop and search our van, then we're screwed, right?"
"All the more reason to fix this up real quick." Ash straightens with a wince and swipes the back of his hand over his forehead, unthinkingly smearing engine oil over his skin. "Man, it's hot."
Andy is momentarily distracted by the golden sheen of Ash's skin, and when he laughs, it's high and distracted. "You think?"
Ash smiles but doesn't reply, and Andy watches patiently as he draws a battered cigarette packet and a lighter out of his pocket. The movement drags his jeans further down his slim hips, and Andy finds himself staring at the twin rises of Ash's hipbones, the thin trail of golden-coloured hair that disappears beneath the fabric. The need to reach out, to touch and hold, is so great that Andy's palms itch with it. He starts fidgeting, nervous, folding his hands over themselves, wishing fervently for a long shirt to twist his fingertips into.
If Ash notices, he doesn't say anything-he merely leans carefully against the front of the van and lights his cigarette with practised movements. He exhales a ragged plume into the air with something like irritation, and Andy winces in sympathy. He knows how much Ash misses smoking weed, as much as he says otherwise. After what happened the last time…
"How can you even wear all that stuff?" says Ash, suddenly.
Andy blinks at him, nonplussed. "What stuff?"
"That." Ash nods pointedly at Andy's t-shirt, soaked through with sweat. "I've had heatstroke before, man, and I'm telling you, it's a real bitch."
"It's only a t-shirt," Andy points out.
Ash looks at him for a long time, quiet and considering. Andy looks back, waiting for Ash to voice whatever's on his mind, like he always does. The bugs buzz aimlessly around his head, the heat and the scrutiny making him feel itchy and uncomfortable. Despite himself, Andy's gaze slips and slides down the gleaming plane of Ash's chest, drawn again to his hips, the low-hanging waist of his jeans…
"C'mere," Ash's muffled voice drags Andy from his reverie, and when he looks up, Ash is holding both his hands out, the cigarette smoking faintly between his clenched lips. Andy stares at him blankly, and Ash waves his hands, irritable. "C'mere a sec."
Dutifully, Andy goes to him, and is surprised when Ash's hands - and those clever thief's fingers - snag on the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up, up, up. He squawks in indignation, raising his arms on instinct when the material snags beneath his armpits. Ash pulls the shirt off in one smooth glide, and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder.
"There," he says, indistinct around the cigarette. "Much better."
It's only then that Andy realises he's standing in between Ash's spread legs, close enough he can feel the intense heat of Ash's skin. He inhales shakily, overwhelmed by a sudden roll of warmth and want, and the smell of cigarette smoke floods his lungs.
"Um…" Andy swallows thickly, but his voice is shot through. "Thanks".
"Welcome," Ash says, but he sounds distant, preoccupied, and his gaze is firmly fixed on Andy's newly-revealed chest. His eyes are deep, dark.
The air between them vibrates with heat, with tension and cigarette smoke. Andy finds himself leaning into Ash without being able to stop it, his heart hammering, fingers drifting instinctively towards Ash's hips.
The first touch of their mouths is a shock, a revelation, making Andy gasp in a sharply-drawn breath and back off, just for the briefest of moments. Then he's back, coaxing Ash's mouth open with his tongue, and feeling Ash's startled inhale. The inside of Ash's mouth is just as scorching as the desert, gritty with smoke, and Andy makes a low sound of almost-pain, both hands surging forward to grasp Ash's hips. There's a moment, and then Ash's hand is on the side of Andy's face, and they're kissing like drowning men, open-mouthed and just this side of sloppy.
Somehow, between the wet and the heat and the desperation, the soft press of Ash's fingertips against his face, Andy forgets about how they weren't going to do this anymore, about how painfully sober they both are. His mind keeps going back to that first image: Ash, covered in sweat and grease, muscles glittering gold in the desert light, soft-edged and smooth. Something flutters in his belly, a hit of something warm and intoxicating, thrilling him right to the core.
Ash's hair is still soft and short under his hands, and Andy makes a noise in his throat; a bitten-off whimper. The heat curls around them both, drugging and dizzying, pressed wetly against slick skin and the spaces between them.
"I want--" he murmurs, a little desperately, breathing the words against Ash's spit-wet mouth. "I need to... god. Can-- can I?"
He doesn't wait for the answer before he sinks to his knees, the dust rising around him in a pale cloud. He feels dizzy, drunk on heat and desire. His hands are shaking so badly that he almost fumbles getting Ash's jeans open, his fingertips slipping on the button. His fingers slip and slide down to Ash's hips, where muscle cuts across the bone, his fingers peeling the jeans down his sweat-slicked legs.
Ash is going commando, and his cock springs free against his belly, flushed dark and rising. Andy practically whimpers with the force of want in his belly, the sound bubbling up around an inopportune laugh. He rests his forehead against one of Ash's hips, smiling to himself.
"Hey!" Ash complains. "It was hot."
"I didn't say anything," Andy says innocently, although he can't keep the amusement out of his voice, any more than he can resist the temptation to touch. He curls his hand around the shaft with something like awe, and the flesh is hot beneath his palm, as hot as the air against his skin.
Ash hisses through his teeth, sharp and surprised. When he speaks, his voice is shot through with warmth and desire. "Andy. C'mon, man."
Andy grins up at him slyly. "What?" he asks, his mouth so close to Ash's cock that his breath flutters across the heated skin.
"Quit playing around," Ash all but growls.
As if to reinforce this point, Ash's hand lands on the back of Andy's neck, palm still burning from the heat of the van. He presses down with it, firmly, more of a demand than an act of control, but Andy feels the force of it all the way to his toes.
He takes pity, and allows Ash to pull him down and forward. He closes his mouth around Ash's cock without preamble or finesse, and Ash groans with relief.
Andy closes his eyes, concentrates on the feel of flesh on his tongue. Ash tastes like skin and salt, like tequila, desert, sweat and heat. Andy briefly considers drawing it out, teasing him, but Ash's hand presses flush against the back of his neck, in unspoken warning. Andy falls into a rhythm of hot, sloppy suction, taking his time, but not teasing either. He's too far gone to be delicate about it, and it's spit and heat and the slow pulse of his tongue against the underside. Ash makes a sound like he's dying, fingertips tightening against the back of Andy's neck, his thumb pressing lazily into the thrum of Andy's pulse. Andy wonders if he'll be wearing Ash's fingerprints tomorrow, and the thought makes him suck harder, quick and sharp. Ash's fingertips tighten and relax against his neck, in time to the rhythm of Andy's mouth.
"'attaboy," he murmurs, his voice low and fucked-out, somewhere high above Andy's head. It's as potent and dizzying as the heat, and Andy picks up the pace, strokes with his tongue just a little.
"Fuck..." Ash breathes, and then he's moving, tiny little thrusts of his hips, like he can't quite control it. Andy goes with it; he shifts his weight and presses an arm to Ash's sternum, not to hold him down, just to control his movements. He can feel the sun beating down on his back, burning the pale skin, but in this moment, he hardly cares.
Ash's movements get more and more erratic, until he's arching up against Andy's hands, with a bitten-off sound that might be a curse or Andy's name. Andy swallows on reflex, and stays there until Ash's hand starts pulling at him, with the intention of prying him off.
He moves away obediently, with the faintest pang of regret. Sits back on his heels at Ash's feet, and swipes at his face with the back of his hand. His mouth still tingles, feeling puffy and overused. He swallows thickly, and presses his palm to the back of his neck, feeling the beginnings of sunburn against his skin.
Ash is staring down at Andy with an unreadable expression, and Andy suddenly hopes Ash isn't about to leave him here, in the middle of the desert. He sucks his tongue a little, and searches for the appropriate thing to say: except, what do you say, in this situation?
"So," he says, slowly. "Um. You were saying?"
end.