it's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow...

The One Where it's Christmas

2008-04-05T12:09:41Z

Title: The One Where it's Christmas
'Verse: anywhere_road
Author: Sophie / razorxrosary
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Andy/Ash
Rating: This part: NC-17. Verse: NC-17.
Word count: ~4686
Warnings and Disclaimer: Please see the anywhere_road community user info.
Summary: "If he has to spend Christmas Day in the local A&E, he tells himself, he will personally flush that little baggie of emergency weed that Ash thinks he doesn’t know about down the toilet." Andy and Ash's first Christmas on the road.

Author notes: I'm only, what, four months too late with this? Originally written based on a prompt kat_lair gave me back in November. Chronologically, this occurs after 'The One with the Broken Van and a Blow Job', which is referenced here. Betaed, as always, by the exquisite virtualinsomnia.

The One Where It's Christmas

“Wow”, Ash crows. “That was sweet.”

Andy privately thinks that spending Christmas Eve chasing a water horse in New Orleans is as far from ‘sweet’ as it’s possible to get. Especially since most of their time is spent jumping on the thing whenever it breaks the surface, only to wind up getting dragged down into the murky, muddy water. And especially when it begins to lighten into Christmas Day as they limp home, Ash leaning heavily on Andy’s shoulder and both of them stinking of bog water.

Ash allows a moment of respectful silence before he whoops and throws a hand in the air.

“Are you—” Andy manages to avoid a particularly nasty pothole, but only barely. The two of them sway to the side like a pair of drunks. “Are you throwing the horns? Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” Ash asks, his wide grin never faltering. “We wasted that thing, man.” He whoops again, loudly, right in Andy’s ear.

“You’re fucked up,” Andy tells him, although he can’t help but grin, even if it’s more of a grimace. “It’s your leg. You’re probably in shock.” He tries not to think about it, but his mind is running through the possibilities. He’s a smart guy; he knows roughly how many ways a leg can fracture and what it’ll take to get it repaired.

If he has to spend Christmas Day in the local A&E, he tells himself, he will personally flush that little baggie of emergency weed that Ash thinks he doesn’t know about down the toilet.

“If I have to take your sorry ass to the hospital, I am going to flush your emergency weed down the toilet,” he tells Ash.

“What emergency weed?” Ash says, and oh, he’s good. He almost sounds convincing.

“It’s hard to keep secrets from somebody when you’re with them twenty-four seven,” Andy says dryly. He ignores the fresh stab of guilt that provides. He’ll tell Ash that his powers are changing, he tells himself. Soon.

Ash must have noticed Andy’s change in mood, because when he speaks next, he sounds slightly more sober. “Come on,” he says, with slurred concern. “It’s Christmas.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed. What with you almost dying in a lake, and then probably breaking your leg, so I have to drag you to hospital when everybody knows hospitals are packed this time of year because of all the drunk uncles tripping over shit.” Andy reminds himself that he’s not getting hysterical. He’s not. He just doesn’t have a strong enough stomach for this sort of thing. That’s all it is, really.

“Okay, first, that thing was a My Little Pony, so give me some credit. Second, I know what a broken bone feels like, and this ain't it,” says Ash. “Also? That was a reservoir, not a lake.”

“It’s a huge body of water, and you almost drowned in it,” Andy repeats, stubbornly. He spots the van through the trees and is so relieved that he may actually break down and cry.

Ash grumbles. He’s starting to look very pale. “Y’know, for a stoner, you’re one hell of a buzzkill.”

“Yeah, well.” Andy fishes the keys out of his pocket one-handed and allows himself a small moment of relief that they didn’t fall into the lake. Reservoir. Whatever. “Somebody’s got to look after your stupid ass.”

He settles Ash into the back of the van, wincing every time Ash draws in a hissed breath, trying not to move too suddenly and knock into anything. He’s uncomfortably aware of how handsy he gets when Ash is hurt; he can’t seem to let go of him for more than a second. He tries very hard not to think about how Ash’s leg might look, but the image of skin stretched and distended around a splinter of bone makes nausea rise in his throat—

“Dude,” Ash says, with a grimace. “Not that I don’t appreciate the love? But you smell like a toilet.”

***

By the time they get back to the hotel, Ash’s ankle has turned into an impressively muddy sunset of red and purple, but, as far as either of them can tell, it’s not actually broken.

“Maybe I should look on the internet,” suggests Andy. “I’m sure Wikipedia has a page.”

Ash gives Andy a look which is made no less terrifying by the fact that he is currently sprawled across the bed with one pant leg bunched around his knee. “Remind me again. What was it we said about you using my laptop?”

“That I shouldn’t, because either it would kill me, or you would?” Andy says. “Which I’d kind of like to see you try, what with your broken leg and all.”

“It’s not broken, would you quit fussin’ over it?”

Andy goes instantly and contritely silent. He can’t stop the worry that wells up inside him, though, any more than he can stop his fingers knotting in his sleeves, an old habit that he has yet to break. He bites his lip to the point of pain, but he can’t quite stop himself—

“It’s just… what if you’re hurt? And we didn’t know about it? What if you—”

“I’m fine,” Ash says firmly. “The only thing bothering me right now all this lake shit in my hair.”

The smallest of smiles touches Andy’s eyes. “It’s really not healthy to be that obsessed with something,” he says. “What are you, Samson?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; you’ve got green in yours.”

Andy immediately raises both hands to his head.

“All I want now is a shower,” says Ash. He gets up, testing his weight on his injured foot with a wince. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Andy takes an aborted movement forward, but he chooses to ignore it. “Then I’m going to sleep for a week.”

Ash takes a hesitant, limping step in the direction of the bathroom, and hisses a breath through his teeth as pain lances through his leg. He wobbles dangerously, and Andy twitches, as if he’s about to try and catch him.

“Are you—” Andy’s hands flutter uncertainly. “Can you manage?”

Ash stares at him for a moment. “Man, you did not just offer to shower with me.”

“What?” says Andy. His eyes go wide. “No! Of course not!”

“You sure? Because it sounded like you did.”

Andy can feel himself blushing. “I just don’t want you to fall over and crack your head open, s’all,” he says, in the general direction of the floor. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t offering anything, I just—”

He hears the sound of Ash moving, the rustling of fabric, and looks up in time to see Ash pulling his shirt over his head. Andy’s face heats up instantly. He can feel the back of his ears burning and his mouth has gone suspiciously dry. When he swallows, his tongue makes a metallic clicking sound, like a gun being cocked.

“W—what are you doing?” he asks.

Ash gives him a look, as if it should be obvious. “I’m getting ready to shower, man. You coming?”

“You’re not—” Andy is momentarily distracted by Ash’s hips; his mind flashes back to that time in Nevada, those delicate rises of bone beneath his fingertips. “It’s not going to be, you know, weird?” he finishes, lamely.

“Only if you let it,” Ash says. He’s already limping towards the bathroom, wriggling his jeans off as he goes and—

Oh. If possible, Andy’s blush gets even hotter. He looks hurriedly at the wallpaper.

“Way I see it,” Ash’s voice drifts back to him, the sound amplified oddly by the tiles in the bathroom, “the sooner we both get cleaned up, the sooner we can start the celebrations.”

***

Andy allows himself the appropriate amount of time for freaking out. After all, it’s not like they’ve ever talked about this thing between them. They’d sucked each other off on a deserted road in the middle of Nevada and an hour later it was as if nothing had happened. Ash had slapped Andy’s thigh in a companionable fashion before pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes and falling asleep against the window. Whatever is happening between them, Ash still treats it like a casual hook-up between friends—and therein lies the problem. Andy’s tried to kid himself, really he has, but he’s getting too attached. When he’d turned around that one time and saw a zombie pulling Ash’s head back by his hair, Andy had responded with a surge of power stronger than anything he’d ever felt before. The sudden rush of fury, the vicious snarl of mine, was surely proof, more than anything, of how he felt about Ash.

They were more than just friends, now. They were partners. They spent days in each other’s space. Andy knew Ash well enough to know that he got all languid and loose-limbed after sex. He knew that Ash could technically drive, especially now that he’d cut back on the weed, but he preferred to curl up in the passenger seat and sleep. He knew that Ash hated his bacon crispy. He could even tell the rare times when Ash was about to get angry from the subtle shift in his body language. Generally, when he knew that much about a person, they were no longer a casual thing for him.

He was too invested. That was the problem.

“Yo, Andy,” Ash’s distant shout breaks through his thoughts. “You coming or not?”

Andy’s fingertips hesitate at the hem of his t-shirt, his lip caught between his teeth. For a split second, he considers saying no. In his head, the images flash together into one dizzying blur: the taste of Ash beneath his tongue, the sound he makes when Andy swallows around his cock, the image of him disappearing under the water with several hundred pounds of angry water monster. The fear is still bitter in his mouth.

Carefully, Andy peels his shirt over his head.

***

Ash is already in the shower by the time Andy reaches the bathroom. The steam rolls in carpets over the top of the curtain, and Andy can hear Ash singing something, a song he faintly recognises from the drive here. He reaches out to hook the curtain back and hesitates—

The decision is taken out of his hands when Ash jerks it open, blinking through the water streaming down his face. “Are you just going to stand there or—”

He trails off as he realises that Andy is still wearing his boxers and is looping his hands nervously over his wrists, like he wishes he could have sleeves to twist them into. Ash raises an eyebrow, and Andy ducks his head, unable to stop the embarrassment stuttering onto his face.

“Whatever, dude, come on.” Ash curls a hand around Andy’s arm and tugs him forward. “I’m about to fall on my ass in here.”

The shower really isn’t big enough for both of them to stand under the spray, but this doesn’t seem to dissuade Ash. He manhandles Andy’s unresisting body against him until they’re pressed closer than strictly decent, their legs tangled and their chests brushing with every breath. The first wave of water scalds Andy’s skin and he yelps and twists. The moment brings him closer to Ash, and for a moment he’s caught between the two, unsure of which he wants to jerk away from.

“Remind me why you thought this was a good idea?” he half-yells.

“Hey, this was all you,” says Ash. His hand is still curled around Andy’s wrist. With his other hand, he tugs on Andy’s boxers. “What’s with these?”

Andy is momentarily thankful that the water is streaming in his eyes, because he just knows his automatic reaction would be to look down at where Ash is naked. At least now he has an excuse to keep his eyes closed, as he scrubs his free hand through his hair. “Some of us don’t spend our whole life walking around naked,” he says.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” says Ash.

“Being arrested for public indecency?” says Andy, with a grin. “I can live without it.”

There’s a short pause, in which Andy washes his hair and tries very hard not to pay attention to the fact that Ash’s thigh is pressing against him in a decidedly intimate fashion. He wonders vaguely why it’s taking Ash so long to formulate a response—

“Andy,” says Ash. Then again. “Andy.”

The desperate, shivering note in Ash’s voice makes Andy open his eyes. For a moment, he’s distracted by the way the water makes Ash’s eyelashes clump together, smoky and dark. Ash’s hand is still curled around his wrist, and now his grip tightens minutely.

“Andy,” Ash says again, but softer. There’s no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

“What,” whispers Andy, and it’s not quite a question.

They’re drifting closer almost without realising it, tiny, inevitable movements, like the alignment of the planets, like the opening of a flower. Andy can’t hear the crash of the water over the pulse in his ears.

“What’re you doing?” he says, softly, his voice peaking on an odd note.

Maybe Ash senses that Andy’s resolve is weakening, or maybe it’s his own that he’s worried about, because he leans forward on a sharp inhale and captures Andy’s mouth. The heat rolls through Andy like thunder, a flash flood of desire, and he can’t stop his free hand from coming up to clutch at Ash’s short hair. Ash kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, deep, sucking kisses that steal their breath away, that make Andy curl into the curve of Ash’s body.

When Ash hauls his mouth away, he’s audibly gasping for air. “Andy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy murmurs, allowing Ash to crowd him back against the wall. He has to let go of Andy’s wrist to do it, and Andy automatically crosses them together just behind Ash’s neck. “Just… c’mon.”

This time he’s ready for Ash to crush their mouths together, open and wet, the sting of impact soothed by the slickness of Ash’s tongue. He makes a high, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and Ash responds by pressing him against the tiles, a barely-audible growl rising in his throat. It sends a thrill through Andy’s whole body. He doesn’t consider himself submissive, but something about the possessive curl of Ash’s hands still makes his breath come a bit quicker.

The new position means that Andy can feel where Ash’s dick is stiffening against his stomach. His own erection is already growing, arousal sparking through his blood.

Ash pulls away slowly, but Andy still tightens his hands against the back of his neck.

“Andy,” Ash says, practically moans it. “Need your mouth, dude. Don’t hold out on me.”

“Okay,” Andy breathes, “okay, yeah,” but the pressure on his shoulder increases minutely as Ash pushes him down, and he goes with it, sinks to his knees in one long, graceful slide.

Andy has done this before, but it doesn’t make it any less hot when he curls a hand around the base of Ash’s cock, and Ash’s whole body trembles. Despite the water all around them, Andy’s mouth feels suddenly dry. He scrapes his tongue across his lips and startles when Ash’s hand curls around the back of his neck. Not pushing, just resting there, but the idea that Ash might press him down is an intriguing one.

It’s not the same as last time. Ash is just as hot under his hands, but slippery with water instead of sweat, and the shower beneath his knees is uncomfortable and harsh. Andy is still dimly aware of the water running, can see it collecting in rivulets on Ash’s hips. He follows the path of the droplets with his eyes, down to Ash’s feet, where the bruise stands out starkly against the whiteness—

He doesn’t wait for Ash to push him, this time. He’s not that cruel. Instead, he can’t help but lean forward and lick, collecting the taste of water, skin and salt from the head of Ash’s cock. He tastes sharper than last time, without the musk of sweat, but it’s just as addictive. Andy takes the head into his mouth, sucking gently, his eyes slipping shut of their own volition and Ash’s fingertips tightening imperceptibly against the back of his neck.

Even if it had been in him to take it slow, the weight of Ash’s cock on his tongue carries some kind of urgency with it. He can’t help but curl his hands around Ash’s ass, drawing him further into his mouth.

Ash murmurs something, and then laughs—Andy can’t hear what he said above the rush of the shower and the pulse of his own blood, but he feels the vibration of it.

The hand in his hair moves slowly, petting the curve of his ear before moving down his cheek, to where his mouth is stretched around Ash’s cock. At the feel of fingertips stroking along the puffy seam of his lips, Andy shivers and whines low in his throat, his own hands clenching against Ash’s skin. He can feel Ash’s answering shudder, the way his hips stutter, like he can’t quite avoid thrusting.

Go on, Andy wants to say. I can handle it. Instead, he sucks harder, no longer in the mood for slow, his tongue lapping frantically and awkwardly at whatever flesh he can reach. His mouth is starting to ache, and he’s sure he’ll have bruises on his knees, but he doesn’t care. His whole world narrows down to Ash’s cock in his mouth, the weight of it, the taste of it. The sense-memory is almost overwhelming, like heat settling against his skin.

He is able to predict the exact moment when Ash comes, from the way Ash’s fingertips press into the edge of his mouth, the way he curls over Andy with a sound like pain. He pulls back just enough to be able to swallow, his tongue still licking, but gentler now.

He draws back slowly, Ash’s hands still heavy on his face, licking stray come from his lips. His mouth feels slick and swollen, and his tongue is dry, but he doesn’t mind as much when he can still taste Ash in his throat.

“Jesus, Andy,” Ash moans, and then he’s sliding to the floor and Andy barely has time to feel alarmed before Ash is kneeling in front of him, one hand still curled across his cheek.

“That good, huh?” Andy says, in a voice that’s been scraped raw.

In answer, Ash leans forwards and licks into Andy’s mouth in a strangely gentle gesture. His tongue chases his own taste across Andy’s mouth, slow and sweet. Andy realises that he’s still stiff in his shorts and lowers his hand to rub at the head of his erection with his palm. He’s surprised when Ash’s hand curls around his wrist, stopping his progress.

“I can do better,” Ash says, with a grin. “But you might have to lie down for it.”

“In the shower?” Andy tries to laugh, but he can’t stop the bolt of liquid heat that shoots through him at the thought.

Ash looks smug, like he knows exactly what Andy is thinking. “I was thinking in bed.”

Andy’s knees crack audibly when he stands up, and he almost loses his balance when Ash uses him to climb to his feet. Ash doesn’t seem concerned by the way Andy is trying to lock his kneecaps in place; instead, he turns the water off and hooks the curtain back. The sudden chill makes Andy flinch, but it’s more out of shock than anything genuinely unpleasant, although the sudden change makes him realise how clammy his boxers are.

Ash doesn’t ask for help getting out; instead, he just grips Andy’s shoulder and uses him.

“You might want to take these off,” Ash says, as he picks up a towel and begins drying himself off. He snaps the waistband of Andy’s boxers, and Andy twitches at the sting. “If you get the bed wet, you’ll have to sleep in it. Them’s the rules.”

Obediently, Andy goes to do just that, and stops. He is suddenly very aware of the way Ash is watching him, the way simply whipping his boxers off would be the most un-erotic thing he could do in this situation, like the lead-in to bad porn. The blush rises in his cheeks, and that same confusing arousal slips through him. He simply stares at Ash, feeling like a deer in the headlights, mouth curled open around some sort of excuse, a joke, anything.

Ash merely rolls his eyes and steps forward, one hand tilting Andy’s head up as he kisses him again.

Just like that, the temperature starts rising again. Andy allows himself to melt into the kiss as it becomes deep and dirty, and he’s dimly aware of Ash’s hands skating down his body, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. The air is cool when it hits his skin, but he barely even notices; he’s too busy helping Ash push his boxers the rest of the way down.

“Go,” Ash murmurs, between sweeps of his tongue. “Go lie on the bed, Andy.”

He does, but he can’t seem to let go of Ash. They make an awkward couple, Ash not quite able to walk without a limp, and Andy unable to stop himself from rubbing against Ash’s hip.

The bed hits the back of Andy’s legs and he overbalances, ends up sitting down, tugging Ash with him. Still, they don’t let go of each other. Andy shuffles backwards as best he can, his grip on Ash’s arm ensuring that Ash comes with him. He’s fairly sure that he’d be happy if they just carried on making out like this, long and languid, but then Ash is pulling back, and there’s a new purpose to him as he trails open-mouthed kisses along Ash’s throat.

“Just you wait,” he’s saying, his voice vibrating across Andy’s skin as he nips at Andy’s throat, his collarbones. “Gonna be so good. Fuck.”

Andy wants to point out that he’s a little bit too far-gone for foreplay, but evidently that’s not what Ash has in mind. He doesn’t tease, he just keeps going straight down, until he’s lying between Andy’s legs, his hands resting on Andy’s hips. He’s looking at Andy’s cock in a way that might make him self-conscious, if he weren’t so turned-on.

“Dude,” Andy whines, “I don’t care what you do, just do something.”

He catches sight of Ash’s slow, sly smile, in the moments before Ash leans forwards and closes his mouth over the head of Andy’s cock.

Andy would love to watch, he would, but the first touch of wet heat makes him groan and fall back against the bed like all his strings have been cut. He briefly considers putting his hands on Ash’s head, but he’s not sure of his ability not to push, and he doesn’t want to do anything to stop this. Instead, he curls his hands into the sheets, until his knuckles feel like they might burst.

This is familiar, but Andy never gets over the feel of Ash’s mouth sliding around him, and he never really stops getting off on the intimacy of it. Ash is good at this, which is no surprise. He knows exactly how much to suck and what to do with his tongue, in order to make Andy whimper and arch and clutch uselessly at whatever’s near.

Ash pulls up slowly, tongue flirting with the length, the ridge under the head, and Andy makes the kind of girly, helpless sound that he’ll deny until his dying day.

He startles when Ash’s thumb brushes against his balls, and when that thumb starts venturing lower, he almost hyperventilates. He can feel the sweat beading along his body, the pleasure of it drawing tighter and tighter, along with the anticipation.

When Ash presses his thumb, lightly but firmly, against Andy’s hole, Andy makes a startled sound and comes, his whole body curling off the bed.

***

“Hey, Andy.” Something strikes the side of his bed, and Andy startles awake with a sound suspiciously like ‘gnuh?’. He is vaguely aware of an Ash-shaped blur moving away from his bed, in the general direction of the bathroom.

“What—” he throws his arms over his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Nearly five, dude.” Ash sounds garbled—it takes Andy a second to realise he’s brushing his teeth. There’s a moment of unintelligible syllables, and then the sound of spitting.

“What?” Andy says, brilliantly.

“I said, you passed out pretty quickly after I blew you this morning.” Ash doesn’t sound exactly displeased about it. “I threw a blanket over you. Dude, you were out of it.”

The mortification rises in Andy’s face, but it’s a familiar feeling. He shucks off the sheets, and realises, with even more embarrassment, that he’s still extremely naked. “Yeah, well you try spending your whole night taking care of the asshole that broke his leg,” he calls, whilst hunting for a pair of boxers.

“If that’s how you ‘take care’ of people, you’d have made an awesome doctor,” says Ash.

Andy decides just not to answer. He slips his boxers on, listening idly to the sound of Ash limping back into the room, the sound of him rummaging around in his own bag. Outside, the world is a dull grey colour, as gloomy and uninviting as it was that morning.

He jumps when something lands on his bed.

It’s a plain brown paper bag, neatly folded and entirely unassuming. Andy looks up at Ash quizzically, but Ash has already turned away and is hunting for something else.

“Ash—”

“Merry Christmas,” says Ash, somewhat indistinctly.

Andy stares at the package, as if he expects it to sprout legs and bite him. When it does nothing of the sort, he hesitantly picks it up and peers inside.

He recognises the little plastic baggie instantly. Next to it, coiled neatly, is some sort of pendant necklace. He pulls it out carefully, allowing the charm to come free and swing in the air. The silver disc seems to wink at him, etched with engravings that Andy recognises as some sort of protection symbol, although he can’t place the exact meaning.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“Dude,” Ash gives him a look that patently says ‘you’re an idiot’. “Give me a little credit, I used to be the go-to guy for hunters.”

Andy grins. “You ordered it from the internet, didn’t you?”

Ash shrugs unapologetically. “Hey, if you don’t want it—”

“Hey, no take-backs!” says Andy, hooking the amulet around his neck before Ash can come over and reclaim it. It’s a solid weight against his chest and, despite the chill of the metal, it’s somehow comforting. “It’s… thank you.” He can’t stop reaching up to grip the amulet, even though it makes him feel like a total girl. “I feel kind of bad, I didn’t get you anything.”

“You can buy me dinner sometime,” mutters Ash, looking awkward.

“Or,” Andy pulls the baggie of weed out. “I could share this with you. I mean, it’s not like we’re going anywhere until your foot heals again, right?”

It only takes a moment for the grin to creep across Ash’s face, and Andy can’t help but return it.

***

Much later, when they’re sprawled across Ash’s bed, the weed having been consumed and Andy dozing against Ash’s stomach, he realises something.

“Dude, it’s still Christmas.”

Ash’s hands are petting lightly through Andy’s hair and, when he laughs, Andy can feel it vibrating through his whole body. “Way to go, genius,” Ash says. His voice sounds good, lazy and sated.

“This is totally the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

“And ain’t that a sad thought.”

Andy rubs a thumb over his amulet and smiles. “Merry Christmas, Ash,” he whispers.

He’s already starting to doze off when he hears Ash reply.

“Merry Christmas, Andy.”

end.

The One With The Scratches (but Absolutely, Definitely, Positively No Talking)

2008-01-28T18:23:50Z

Title: The One With The Scratches (but Absolutely, Definitely, Positively No Talking)
'Verse: anywhere_road
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Andy/Ash
Rating: This part: PG-13. Verse: NC-17.
Word count: ~1400
Warnings and Disclaimer: Please see the anywhere_road community user info.
Summary: Ash really had thought it would be a straightforward “fuck-buddies on the road killing evil” kind of thing, but Andy keeps getting this weird look in his eyes whenever Ash makes a lewd joke or suggestion – not to mention the fact that they are sort of real friends now, which he’d failed to factor into the equation – so Ash has stopped talking about it and Andy… Well, Andy never has, not even once.

Author notes: Originally written as a get-well-soon present to razorxrosary , my partner in crime and all things awesome. We're still in love with Andy and Ash so it looks like the 'Verse is here to stay. Better hang on to your crack pipes, folks. Beta by the amazing virtualinsomnia.

The One With The Scratches (but Absolutely, Definitely, Positively No Talking)

Andy sits on the edge of the bathtub, scowling. What’s left of his shirt is lying on the floor in a small sad pile of rags. He toes it absently with his bare foot and glares at Ash. “It was my favourite tee, you know?”

“I know,” Ash says, fingers tightening on the plastic bottle of disinfectant. “Mine too.”

And it had been. Just not for the reasons Andy thinks. Sure Ash had borrowed the t-shirt on several occasions and worn it almost constantly in Utah (it was frankly disturbing how few people smiled at the slogan Baby Jesus Says: Nuke the Gay Whales! and how many had given him a grim nod of acknowledgement), but mainly he had just enjoyed the way it clung to Andy’s back, the unmended tear at the hem revealing a glimpse of skin at every turn.

But he can’t exactly say any of that, now can he?

Because while they still enjoy an occasional drunken tumble in the sack, it’s strictly not talked about. Ash really had thought it would be a straightforward “fuck-buddies on the road killing evil” kind of thing, but Andy keeps getting this weird look in his eyes whenever Ash makes a lewd joke or suggestion – not to mention the fact that they are sort of real friends now, which he’d failed to factor into the equation – so Ash has stopped talking about it and Andy… Well, Andy never has, not even once. Though he still lets Ash slip an arm around him when they’re staggering home from a bar, lets Ash press him against the door and plant clumsy open-mouthed kisses along the line of his throat, lets Ash dip his fingers—

“Dude! Snap out it!” Andy’s waving his arms gingerly, in an effort to get Ash’s attention with as little discomfort to himself as possible. “You okay, man?” He looks about ready to get up and find out the answer for himself.

Ash holds out a hand in front of him, gesturing for Andy to stay where he is. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He turns around and starts rummaging for cotton wool and bandages. “That demon sure was a persistent bitch, even if it picked the most ridiculous hiding place ever. I’m just tired.”

He pulls the tatty Wal-Mart bag out triumphantly and fishes the supplies out of their make-do First Aid kit. “Tired and stoned.” Affecting an absentminded grin he shakes the roll of bandages at Andy, all the while avoiding his gaze.

That last bit is a lie. Ash doesn’t risk getting high before a hunt anymore, not after that thing with the zombies that they are also not talking about, and Andy knows it. Thankfully, he lets it pass.

“Yeah, whatever. As long as you saved me some.” Andy slaps his denim-clad thigh like he’s summoning a dog and fidgets impatiently. “Now can we please get these scratches cleaned before I develop some viral form of infernal septicaemia? The only thing that could make this evening any worse is blood poisoning.”

Ash steps closer, kneeling by the tub, and finally allows himself to look.

It’s pretty bad.

Red lines zigzag across Andy’s chest, down his arms, and even over his back, where the demon spawn had jumped, spitting and yowling, when they walked in the door. That had been their first clue that Mrs. Brannigan’s sweet little Tipsy was not feeling quite herself. That and the levitating cat bowl that had almost taken off both their heads, hurdling across the room like a miniature missile.

The skin around the claw marks is puffy and livid pink in colour, flakes of dried-up blood clinging to Andy’s sparse chest-hair like some sort of obscene snow.

It’s pretty bad, but it could be worse. The thought makes Ash nauseous and he fervently wishes he was high, or at least drunk, because no way is he fit to deal with this shit stone cold sober.

He pours some of the antiseptic liquid onto a sloppy ball of cotton wool and swallows thickly, eyes on the task at hand. No need for Andy to see what a pathetic sissy his partner actually is.

“Dude,” he says in his best Dr. Badass voice. “I hope your tetanus shot is up to date.”

Andy makes a low sound of agreement that turns into a sharp yelp at the first touch of disinfectant to the broken skin. They both freeze for a millisecond and then Ash grits his teeth and gets on with it, telling Andy to shut up before the neighbours call the cops because that’s Ash’s last good batch of Mary Jane hidden away between his neatly folded underwear and he would like to see Andy try to score any more in this asswipe of a town in the middle of nowhere.

The butterfly bandages prove laughably inadequate so finally Ash just slathers antiseptic cream all over Andy’s torso and wraps three rolls of dressing around his ribcage until he looks like an unfinished mummy. By the time they’re done Andy’s head is drooping and he’s in serious danger of sliding into the tub.

“Oh no way man.” Ash grabs the younger man by the arm and pulls him to his feet. “I reek of cat piss and worse, dude. It may be sponge baths for a while for you…” and wow, but is he not going to think about that right now. If ever. “…but I’m planning on a long luxurious shower.”

Andy mutters a dispirited “up yours” around a yawn as they shuffle to the main room, listing from side to side like sailors. Ash sits him down on one of the beds, snatches up his bath kit (organic henna shampoo and all natural products only, thank you very much; it takes care and effort to look this good), and closes the bathroom door behind him. He cranks up the shower on full, shrugs out of his clothes and steps under the scalding spray. Ash lathers up with grim determination and tells himself firmly that Andy is a grown man who does not need tucking in, for God’s sake, and while he’s at it he should perhaps look down just to make sure his balls are still where they’re supposed to be and not in Andy’s back pocket.

Humming some early Pearl Jam under his breath works a treat, and he manages not to think about anything but the hot water and the cold beer waiting for him for the rest of the shower, all the way into clean boxers and back to the bedroom.

He pauses half-way between the mini-fridge and the beds, indecision making his muscles twitch uncomfortably. Andy’s fast asleep, spread out across all available space as usual, arms flung out above his head, left leg bent to the side at the knee. He’s making tiny snuffling sounds which will transform into fully-fledged snores in another minute or so.

They’ve been togeth— on the road, together on the road, for five months now, and it’s ever so subtly ironic that what it boils down to is Ash standing half-naked in the middle of a cheap motel room, aching with all the things he knows about Andy; the way he likes his eggs (sunny side up, lots of pepper), how he reads Kierkegaard in original Danish just because he can, what he looks like first thing in the morning and the last thing at night and every goddamn hour in between.

The way he bites his bottom lip (or Ash’s, whichever is the closest) when he comes. The way he tastes like sea-salt and freedom just before, and like the two of them after.

Ash doesn’t feel like a beer anymore. He sure as hell doesn’t feel like taking anymore of these shitty second grade assignments from other hunters. First thing tomorrow morning he’s going to call Dean “this case needs someone of your aptitude Ash; it would be a weight off Sam’s shoulders” Winchester and tell him exactly where he can shove the next demonically possessed feline he comes across.

Running a hand through his wet hair (short now, thanks to those zombies they were never ever going to mention again), Ash curses himself for a fool, flips the light switch off and crawls under the covers with Andy. They can not talk about it for the next fucking week for all he cares, but he’s cold and Andy’s warm and the bag with the loaded handgun is closer to this bed anyway.

Sleep comes quickly, before doubts.

Fin.

The One With The Thing That is Possibly a Horta (but Possibly Also a Rancor)

2007-12-09T14:33:06Z

Title: The One With The Thing That is Possibly a Horta (but Possibly Also a Rancor)
'Verse: anywhere_road  .
Author: Sophie / razorxrosary
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Andy/Ash
Rating: This part: PG-13. Verse: NC-17.
Word count: ~1094
Warnings and Disclaimer: Please see the anywhere_road  community user info.
Summary: Andy is going to die in his van with a redneck stoner who is actually some kind of computer genius, both of them gored to death by something that vaguely resembles a pig left to melt in the sun.

Author notes: Huge thanks to virtualinsomnia  for the amazing beta, and kat_lair  for regular pokings of a motivational variety. For your reference: the Rancor is from Star Wars, and the Horta is from Star Trek. Chronologically, this occurs after 'The One with the Plan (And Body Shots)'.

"Damn," yelps Andy. He then adds for good measure, "What the hell?"

From somewhere outside the van there's a terrific roar of fury from something that's both very big, and very, very angry. (Really, Andy doesn't blame it, because being shot in the back with rock salt would make anybody angry. Particularly if the shooter had actually been aiming for your head). As if to reinforce the level of the creature's irritation, the van jerks suddenly on its wheels, and the door buckles inward with a loud, hollow bang. Andy manfully tries to act like he isn't pressing back into Ash's shoulder and gouging strips out of the floor with his nails-- there's another loud roar from outside, and he gives up on the pretence and huddles back against Ash until he feels the solid reassurance of bone against his shoulder. Pressed this close, Andy half-imagines he can hear the rapid thunder of Ash's heart beating in time with his own.

"What is that thing?"

"I dunno," Ash cranes his head around to examine his ankle with his usual fleeting interest. "Whatever it is, it's got teeth."

"It bit you?" Despite himself, Andy jerks away from Ash like he's particularly leprous - which, in Andy's defence, he could be. "Dude, it looked like week-old rotting food; what if it's poisonous? Or infectious? Oh man." He flings a hand dramatically to his forehead, and his shirtsleeve slaps him in the eye. "This is so fucked up. Why did I let you talk me into this?"

"S'far as I remember, there wasn't a lot of talking involved," Ash leers.

Andy glares at him. He learned very early on that Ash will have sex in any and every location and situation; the more dangerous and the more open, the better. Which explains how Ellen managed to walk in on them that one time, sprawled out shirtless across the bar, with their pants undone and tequila everywhere, and-- yeah, not going there, not ever again. Really, he should be used to this sort of thing. Maybe even find it funny, endearing, a nice little quirk. Unfortunately, the prospect of his impending demise does little for Andy's sense of patience and humour.

As if on cue, there's another thundering roar from outside, and the van shudders. Andy abandons all pretence of courage, and digs his fingers into Ash's shoulder hard enough to bruise. Ash, for his part, seems not to notice.

"Besides, that thing totally looks like a Rancor," he adds, after some level of deep thought. "With tusks. Maybe a Horta. Totally a Horta. Also with tusks."

The dent in the door gets bigger. Andy laughs, feeling more than a little hysterical, which was the same way he felt when he found out that he had an evil twin, or when he first realised his powers. His life is apparently all about that kind of crazy, clichéd shit. Now he's going to die in his van with a redneck stoner who is actually some kind of computer genius, both of them gored to death by something that vaguely resembles a pig left to melt in the sun. They'll probably be found weeks later, smeared across the side of the road. (Part of Andy takes savage pleasure in the idea that Ellen will verbally, perhaps even physically, browbeat the Winchester boys for letting Andy and Ash handle a mysterious creature all by themselves, thus getting themselves tragically killed. Maybe Dean will even stop laughing long enough to listen to her).

On reflection, it's probably high time Andy accepted his life of evil twins, psychic powers, and angry road kill.

Nonetheless, that day is not today. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and huddles against Ash's side as unobtrusively as possible. "We're about to be killed by… by…" he begins, in a strained voice, unconsciously searching for a comparison to out-do Ash's. "We're about to be killed by that thing from Alien!"

"Sigourney Weaver?"

"You're an ass."

This time, Ash has the good grace not to leer. Instead, he starts glancing around the van, still talking in that incredibly calm tone of voice, as if this were nothing more than a casual chat about famous sci-fi movies. "Seriously. Sigourney Weaver with tusks? That is one lady I would not want to cross. Did you see that shit with the flamethrower?"

"What if it lays eggs. Like, in our stomachs? Christ. What if we get chest bursters?" Andy mimes something bursting free from his ribcage, with limited success. "Do we even know the eating habits of this thing? I mean, what if it takes us back to its lair? Maybe it'll keep us alive for days and days…"

"Quit freaking out," Ash advises him, rifling through one of the many piles of junk in the back of the van with quick, clever fingers.

"Quit freaking out? Quit freaking out?" Andy parrots, shrieking. "It's your fault we're in this mess. If you'd shot this thing in the head like you were supposed to-"

"Hey, you try shooting something that ugly in the face. What's this?" Ash holds up a small, black, rectangular object.

"It's a taser. It fires electricity."

"I know what a taser does, dumbass." Ash says, archly. "May I remind you who's the resident genius here?"

"Well, considering we're both about to be killed by three-hundred pounds of angry pork rinds, I'd say neither of us," Andy snaps. The van rocks again, tilting crazily on two wheels for one dizzying moment before crashing painfully back down to earth. "Oh man. Oh man, oh man, oh man…" he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it."

There's a short, pregnant pause, broken only by the muffled snarling sound from outside the van and the occasional sound of concaved metal.

"How many of these we got?" Ash asks.

"How many of what?" Andy replies, muffled by his own hands.

"These. Tasers."

"A couple-- wait" Andy stops and glances up over the safety of his hands, eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. " Why?"

"Because--" comes the swiftly muffled reply, as Ash digs the other taser out from underneath a pile of books and blankets and tosses it in the general direction of Andy's head, "-- we are going waste this motherfucker with electricity."

Andy looks from Ash's grinning face, to the taser in his hand, to the ever-growing dent in the door of his van, and wonders vaguely if he's going to cry. "Oh, please tell me you're joking."

the end...?

Drabbles: Denim, Sun

2007-10-21T18:28:40Z

These were written for moth2fic’s birthday and not advertised beyond my own LJ. Those of you watching our little community: consider these a thank you for sticking around.

Supernatural anywhere_road ‘Verse – Andy/Ash – PG-13

Denim

“You had no choice.” Ash tries to make his voice firm, but it cracks despite his best effort. Just because he believes in what he’s saying, doesn’t mean he likes it much.

Andy refuses to meet his eyes and a part of him is horribly, nauseatingly grateful.

God, he can’t do this now. It’s too soon. Ash needs a day or two for himself, just to fucking remember how to be more than a passenger in his own body.

“No choice,” Ash repeats, even quieter this time. Andy hunches further away, fingers picking at the frayed tear of his jeans.

Supernatural anywhere_road ‘Verse – Andy/Ash – PG

Sun

There is a small golden patch of dried grass between the crumbling concrete boulders. Ash lies down, itchy with sweat and dirt. On the other side of the embankment the interstate sings drowsily.

Andy drops to ground, cross-legged and smiling. He lays a hand on Ash’s stomach, thumb dipping into his bellybutton.

They’re worn thin from too many days on the road, weeks and months bleeding into an endless highway. But even exhausted and stripped bare the two of them just fit, all rough edges and slow friction.

The air shimmers with heat and Ash arches up, easy and unhurried.

The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)

2007-09-26T17:13:02Z

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.

The One With The Plan (and Body Shots)

2007-08-15T20:02:33Z

Welcome to

Title: The One With The Plan (and Body Shots)
Verse: anywhere_road
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Andy/Ash
Rating: This part: R. Verse: NC-17.
Word count: ~1650
Warnings and Disclaimer: Please see the anywhere_road community user info.
Summary: This is the beginning. Well, one of them.

Author notes: We’re finally getting this show on the road (haha, get it?) after months of gleeful planning. Thank you to virtualinsomnia for excellent beta. Dedicated to my darling partner in crime razorxrosary – you and me babes, we’re gonna take over the world.

The One With The Plan (and Body Shots)

“Axl Rose had style, man.” Ash punches the numbers into the jukebox and waits until the sweet guitar riff of Paradise City filters out of the speakers before turning around. “Do you think I would look good in a kilt?”

Andy looks over blurrily and waves a non-committal hand in the direction of Ash’s bare legs. He’s slumped against the pool table like a wet rag, one hand wrapped around a shot glass, the other rolling the cue ball back and forth with the intense concentration of the truly wasted. The boy just can’t hold his Tequila, and repeated practice sessions over the last month or so have done nothing to improve his constitution.

But what else is Ash supposed to do? He’s never encountered a problem that can’t be solved with alcohol and some quality weed. His web-monkey skills are less than useful for someone who’s been practically driven out of town by his former girlfriend, and there’s only so much moping around he can stand.

Well, that’s not exactly right. Ash had been quite happy to lie on the sofa with Andy, both of them dressed in ratty old bathrobes, eating pop-tarts and watching X-Files reruns, but Ellen had finally lost her patience, dragged them off (his ear was still smarting) and told them in no uncertain terms to shower and get dressed.

Of course, for Ash getting dressed meant a clean pair of boxers and an over-sized knitted jumper that hung to mid-thigh, sleeves constantly trailing the keyboard or, in a recent case, his cereal bowl. Andy had dug old jeans from somewhere, worn and barely holding on, clinging to his skinny hips with what must be nothing but the sheer force of Andy’s freaky mind-control. Not that Ash has looked.

Well, that’s a total lie. He weaves over, not entirely sober himself, plucks the glass out of Andy’s hand and downs the contents in one go. Of course, sometimes lies are necessary (like when dodging the IRS or denying knowledge of missing beer), but most times they’re nothing but weak attempts at self-delusion. Ash is of the mind that if you want to distort reality there are far better ways of doing it than telling lies, most of them involving creative use of his home-made chemistry set.

Anyway. He swirls a finger in the bottom of the tequila glass and pops it into his mouth, licking the sticky liquid off meticulously. The truth is, Ash has done nothing but look ever since the Winchesters dropped the kid on the Roadhouse doorstep like some sort of lost puppy, full of emo woe and psychic skills that left the Amazing Kreskin eating his dust.

Andy seems to be staring at Ash’s Danger Mouse boxers with revolted fascination. Ash shrugs mentally; he can work with that. He lets his eyes skim down the other man’s t-shirt clad chest, the faded silver lettering spelling “Forever Jung”. At least the guy has good taste.

And that, frankly, is the one saving grace about this whole thing. That and the fact that Andy seems like a genuinely cool dude, or he would be if he’d get over his existentialist angst. But not to worry, because Ash has a Plan. It’s a plan involving high adventure, Andy’s kickass psychedelic van, the arsenal of modified guns Ash has been secreting away for years now and, hopefully, orgasms. And alcohol. Quite a bit of it.

“Aren’t you, like, cold, man?” Andy slurs, hand dropping to finger the thin cloth of Ash’s boxers.

Ash shivers, clearing his throat. “Nah, I’m hot-blooded by nature,” he says, filling their glasses to the brim.

Andy tips his drink back, hic-upping brokenly. “Dude!” His face breaks into a wide grin, the first Ash remembers seeing since his arrival. “I think I just swallowed the worm!”

It’s really hard not to take an opening like that to its natural conclusion, but Ash swallows the lewd comeback down, instead punching Andy’s arm in a friendly manner. “That’s m’boy!”

Andy reaches around him for the bottle that’s sitting precariously on one of the bar stools, managing to pin Ash against the edge of the pool table in the process. The flare of heat that rushes through him leaves Ash dizzy and shaken because it isn’t part of the Plan, and maybe, in retrospect, he should’ve gone a little easier on the booze, but it’s Tequila and shunning that would’ve been like breaking a long-term relationship.

“‘s all gone,” Andy pouts, holding the bottle upside down. His eyes are soft and unfocused, brimming with the unfairness of the situation, and fuck if his left hip isn’t still pressed against Ash’s, the cold metal of buttons searing right through two layers of clothing.

Ash inhales sharply, and considers forgetting all about Doing Something With His Life and just pulling Andy closer, sliding his hands into the shadowy gap between the too-short tee and the too-loose jeans, and— but no. It’s more of an effort than he wants to admit to tear his gaze away and straighten from the instinctive sprawl his body had assumed at the first brush of skin. Andy is his ticket out of here. He’s going to have to suck it up and stick with the Plan.

“Lemme fix that,” he murmurs and pushes off, walking behind the counter to retrieve a new bottle. It’s the only way to get Andy to agree, and Ash wants this chance of Something More so badly he can taste it. But he can’t do it alone, and he doesn’t want to do it with some stranger – he promptly ignores the fact that he’s known Andy for all of five weeks – and because it’ll be worth it in the end.

Andy is sitting on the pool table, a goofy smile on his face and his legs swinging. He seems happy to be forgetting everything for the time being, and Ash feels almost bad for conning him out of the relative safety and comfort of the Roadhouse. But it ain’t right, not engaging with the world the way Andy does. The Roadhouse should only ever be a way station, but Ash’s little break has gone over by about three years, and it’s time to move the fuck on.

He sloshes the amber liquid suggestively, ambling back over. In the background, the jukebox switches records; the faint whirr-click soon followed by the mellow chords of Hotel California which roll out like tumbleweeds into the dusky air of the bar. By the time Ash arrives at his destination between the careless V of Andy’s legs, they’re both humming along to the song and everything feels slow and surreal.

“Whatcha doin’?” Andy’s voice is quiet and rougher than it has any right to be.

Ash bites his lips. The Plan, he thinks. Stick to the Plan. “Body shots.” It’s not a question, but apparently it doesn’t have to be, because Andy grins, sloppy and relaxed.

“Dude!” he laughs, yanking Ash closer by his jumper and craning his neck to the side, clearly familiar with the mechanics. “Yeah, man. Let’s do it.” And Ash has absolutely no choice but to lean in, because it’s the Plan, and because Andy’s skin is right there, clean and sleek under his tongue as he licks a long swipe from the edge of one slender shoulder up to the curl of an earlobe.

Then there’s a salt shaker in his hand, and Andy must’ve put it there because Ash can’t remember having one before. White crystals scatter everywhere, over the floor and the pool table and the two of them; finding their intended target more by accident than by design. Andy giggles, and Ash’s mind goes tiffany-twisted, fingers numb as he grabs the lime wedge from the nearby bowl and pushes the fruit right between Andy’s lips, wet and slick and obediently open.

Ash is drunk, but he’s not as drunk as Andy, so when he plants his palm flat against Andy’s chest and shoves, the guy goes down nice and easy like a mouthful of good whiskey. His t-shirt is already riding up, pale stomach stretched taut between the twin curves of bone.

Ash breathes in, fast and shallow, because jesus fuck, he’s too drunk, too something, for this to work properly, but it’s the Plan and he’s got to do it now, before he passes out or— “So,” he says, as casually as he can manage, pouring Tequila into the low dip of Andy’s bellybutton. “Ever been on a road trip?”

Andy’s puzzled mumble turns high-pitched as Ash tips his head to the side, bending down to suck the salt off naked skin, tongue lingering over the pulse point.

“Ever thought about hunting? About using your skills for something more than free drinks?” He gets the questions out, smooth and rehearsed. “Ever wondered what’s out there? Behind the next turn of the road, beyond the horizon?” It’s cheesy as anything, but it doesn’t matter; not when Ash can feel the muscles of Andy’s stomach twitch against his lips at every word, can smell the alcohol, thick and blood warm. Above him Andy is making noises like dying, hands tangling in Ash’s hair, pulling him down, down, until he can taste it.

“Ever wanted to,” he watches the surface of the Tequila ripple from his breath, curls his fists around frayed denim and the swell of hips, “make a difference?”

Andy moans something that sounds like an agreement and bucks up violently, and suddenly Ash’s mouth is full of desert – cactus and sweat and noon sun, and he drinks it all up, all the way to where road and sky blend together and the brakes come off.

The arch of Andy’s back is illegal in every state and probably even in Mexico. Ash lifts a knee onto the table, and then he’s climbing, crawling up Andy’s body, drunk and more desperate than he ever expected to be. He has a split second to register that they’re both hard before the world goes hazy and golden around the edges, the fruit reduced to tangy sweet pulp between their teeth.

“Say yes, Andy,” Ash licks lime juice off every available surface, tongue scraping stubble. “Say yes.” But Andy says his name instead; Ash, Ash, like it’s some kind of an answer.

And maybe it is, Ash thinks, his mouth dropping to Andy’s, body suddenly heavy like a dream. Maybe it is.

Fin.

Anywhere Road Story Indexes

2007-06-10T20:36:51Z

Anywhere Road Story Indexes

Fics in this Verse are not posted in chronological order. Anywhere Road is a collection of interconnected stories, documenting the adventures of Andy and Ash from various POVs, events, time periods, etc.

However, to accommodate our readership and prevent undue confusion, are the two Story Indexes below. The first lists the fics in the order they were posted. The second one lists them in chronological order, showing where individual stories fit in the overall timeline of the Verse.

Anywhere Road Story Index - Posting Order

The One With The Plan (and Body Shots)

The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)

Denim - Drabble

Sun - Drabble

The One With The Thing That is Possibly a Horta (but Possibly Also a Rancor)

The One With The Scratches (but Absolutely, Definitely, Positively No Talking)

The One Where It's Christmas

Anywhere Road Story Index - Chronological Order

The One With The Plan (and Body Shots)

The One With The Thing That is Possibly a Horta (but Possibly Also a Rancor)

The One With The Scratches (but Absolutely, Definitely, Positively No Talking)

The One With The Broken Van (and A Blow Job)

The One Where It's Christmas

Denim - Drabble

Sun - Drabble

Anywhere Road Verse FAQs

2007-06-10T20:22:51Z

Anywhere Road Verse FAQs

Q: What’s it all about?
A: See the Community Profile for a brief synopsis of the Verse.

Q: How did it all happen?
A: A few months ago, after seeing the episode 2x05 “Simon Says”, razorxrosary had what can only be seen as a divine stroke of inspiration, and stayed up until half two in the morning writing a “slightly-drunken Andy/Ash humping on a pool table” fic. And that could have been it, if not for the fact that she then openly admitted to both the fic and the “elaborate sorta-au” constructed to make this scenario possible. Upon seeing evidence of such ~~madness~~ genius kat_lair felt compelled to a) mash the keyboard with glee and b) blurt out a cracked-up idea about how the boys should take up hunting as well as humping on a pool table (though that is important). It soon became obvious that all attempts to resist engaging with the AU-Verse we’d half-accidentally created were doomed to failure, and so Anywhere Road was born.

Q: Who’s writing it?
A: That would be us: razorxrosary and kat_lair. The actual fics tend to be written individually, and all instalments are clearly marked with the author’s name. As a general rule, razorxrosary writes Andy’s POV, while kat_lair writes Ash’s POV. However, we regularly exchange ideas, urge each other on, and plan the general direction of the Verse and the main plot points together. Therefore the lines sometimes blur, and co-authored pieces are likely to occur in the future.

Q: Where will you post the fics?
A: All Anywhere Road fics will be posted in this community, which was created solely for that purpose. We will advertise new fics on some of the Supernatural fic communities, but you are also welcome to friend us to keep up with the Verse.

Q: How often will you update?
A: We simply don’t know. At the moment we have quite a few fics ready or in WIP status, so there will be semi-regular updates for a good while. The main thing about Anywhere Road Verse for us is to have fun, which is why we won’t commit ourselves to strict deadlines.

Q: I’m confused, where does the story begin?
A: We are not writing or posting fics in chronological order. This is mainly because of the above mentioned point about having fun. We want to play, to dip our authorial toes into any particular event, time period, or POV that we feel like. Anywhere Road Verse keeps expanding in all directions; it’s like that curious looking piece of shrubbery in the corner of your garden that grows left, right, up, down, and all over everything else, but that you don’t have the heart to cut because the flowers are sort of pretty, if a bit lopsided.

Q: That’s ridiculous, I can’t handle such non-linearity. I need order and regimen, isn’t there anything you can do?
A: The Anywhere Road Story Indexes list the fics both by posting order and by chronological order, so you can see where a particular instalment fits in the overall timeline.

Q: Okay, but why Andy and Ash? They’re only minor characters, created mainly for comic relief.
A: Why not Andy and Ash? The fact that they are minor characters gives us a wonderfully blank slate to fill and lots of room to play around. We both feel that in the show Andy and Ash had a lot of potential that, sadly, was never fulfilled.

Q: That’s right, weren’t both Andy and Ash killed in the Season 2 finale?
A: Lalalalalaaa, we can’t hear you… The events of "All Hell Breaks Loose 1 & 2" will be incorporated into the Verse, with some creative adjustments.

Q: Supernatural is all about the Winchester brothers, why aren’t you writing about them?
A: We are. Dean and Sam, along with other familiar faces, have regular cameos in the Verse. In addition to Anywhere Road, we both write other Supernatural fanfic, most of it about the Winchesters. To be honest, compared to that, writing about Andy and Ash is like a holiday. Those interested in authors’ other works should consult their personal journals.

Q: Can anyone play in the Anywhere Road Verse?
A: We can’t stop you, but we’d prefer it if you didn’t. At the moment we are quite enamoured with and feeling possessive of the Verse, no matter how illogical or hypocritical that approach might be in the context of fanfic.

Q: I want to ask/send you questions/feedback/criticism/suggestions/pictures of pretty men. What should I do?
A: We welcome all of the above. Please either comment here, on the relevant post, or e-mail us at anywhere_road at hotmail dot com. All comments/e-mails will be answered as soon as possible.