Fic: Silent in Flames 2/2
Jan. 30th, 2007 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Silent in Flames
Authors: [info]nilchance and [info]beanside
Rating: NC:17
Pairing: Dean/Andrew (OMC)
Disclaimer: We don't own them. Used without permission.
A/N: This is a prequel to OBS, a little more of Andrew and Dean's relationship, with love to Mona on her bday.
“Hey.” Andrew had turned at some point, was watching him through half-lidded eyes. He had the soft note in his voice, the one that Dean would’ve smacked him for if he wasn’t feeling boneless. “We’ve got some time if you need to crash.”
“No. I’m good for it.”
“M’kay.” Andrew reached out, his fingertips light and cool on Dean’s forehead. Andrew touched a lot, absently. Pastor Jim’s influence. And hell, it was weird to know someone's history like that. “Your hair’s getting long there, hippie.”
That time, Dean smacked his hand off and sat up. “Says the guy with the floppy hair. What, your church too cheap to spring for a big boy haircut?”
“Fuck you,” Andrew said, without any particular heat. He was grinning, actually, the one that crinkled up his eyes. The one that reminded Dean of-
Dean shoved that thought right the fuck back in the coffin where it belonged. Salted it, burned it, and left it for purified. “Because I can probably find a bowl and some scissors.”
“And I repeat: fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you-“
“You kiss your pastor with that mouth?”
“Fuuuuck you,” Andrew sang cheerfully, and scrambled off the bed. “I’m making you dinner, Winchester, so don’t give me any static. We just screwed and you’re too damn skinny and arena food sucks. So shut it before you even start.”
Dean opened his mouth to bitch, but couldn’t figure out what to complain about first. “There’s so much wrong with you. You know that, right?”
“Love you too, peanut.”
“I’m not skinny, dude.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I could probably bench press you.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not skinny.” Andrew poked his stomach before wandering into the kitchen.
After a long moment, Dean followed. “What can I do?” he asked, stopping at the sink to wash his hands.
“Cut up the peppers and onions?” Andrew asked, gesturing towards the cutting board on the breakfast bar. “I’m just making stir fry, if that’s okay?”
“Sounds like fucking heaven.” Dean slid onto a stool, and picked up the knife, slicing into a pepper. “Jesus, Drew, you ever sharpen this?”
“Dean, you’re cutting a pepper. It doesn’t require a straight razor.”
“Dad would kill you if he saw this. All his bitching about keeping knives sharp, because you’re more-“
“-likely to slice your own hand off with a dull blade, and it’ll hurt more,” Andrew recited.
Dean threw him a smirk and went over to his jacket. “I’ll do the rest of them tomorrow, after I get the kit,” he muttered, grabbing his pocket knife with the whetstone on the sheath.
Andrew shook his head and pulled the chicken out of the fridge from where it had been marinating. “Dude. So fucked up.”
Dean just grinned, drawing the blade across the stone until he was satisfied with the edge. “Aside from the parish from hell, how’ve things been?”
Andrew shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess. Got bumped up to second in charge of the parish, which is okay. Means I don’t have to take every goddamned inconvenient funeral we’ve got.”
“Sounds good.” Dean hesitated for a moment. “How’s the Philly dating scene treating you?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay casual.
“Dean,” Andrew muttered, giving him a look that could have flash frozen fire.
“I know. None of my business.” Dean sat aside the whetstone and made short work of the pepper. “I just—“
“Don’t,” Andrew growled.
Dean swallowed hard, turning his attention to the onion. “Whatever. Sorry.”
“S’okay.” Andrew swirled oil around the pan and tossed in the chicken. “How’ve things been for you, douchebag brother aside?”
“Eh. Rough few months. You read about the whole identity theft flap about six months ago? Really fucked Dad and I over.” Dean popped a piece of pepper in his mouth, chewing slowly. “Took a few months before we figured out how to beat it. Lost my PO box in Wyoming in the process. So, y’know, don’t send anything there.”
“Got it. You should have called. I could have-“
“Wasn’t that bad, dude. Just meant I had to sleep in the car off and on, or at places that didn’t require a credit card to stay.”
Which didn’t include many places anyone would actually want to stay in. Including the one place where there had been fleas living in his sheets, and Dean had ended up sleeping in the car.
From the look Andrew gave him, his Winchester-to-English translator was still online. Damn. “Still.”
“Eh, it’s all good. I was making enough with hustling to make ends meet.” Dean looked down uncomfortably as those damned piercing blue eyes turned on him.
Sometimes, he swore Andrew could see everything with that look. All the nights he’d spent in the car, the pool he’d hustled, starving and desperate, street fights when it got rough, fighting dirty to take home the measly cash. Other things, deals made in back alleys and dimly lit rooms that Dean tried not to think about.
“Done with the veggies?”
“Yeah.” Dean handed them over, pretending that he didn’t see the sympathy in Andrew’s eyes. “But we’re back on track now, so it’s all good. I’ll even buy you that first round of beers tonight—even if I didn’t beg.”
Andrew flashed him a grin. “Well, after I saw your freaking hipbones sticking out, I figured it was my duty as a good Christian to finish up quickly so I could feed you.”
Dean snorted, coming to his feet and stepping in behind Andrew in the tight kitchen. “Mmhmm.”
“Dean, I’m going to hit you with the spoon in a minute,” Andrew warned.
Ignoring him, Dean looped his arms around Andrew’s waist, bending to press a kiss to his neck.
Andrew relaxed against him, turning his head to capture Dean’s lips. “I like cooking, and I hate cooking for just one person,” he murmured. “Now, would you rather have rice or noodles with it?”
Dean gave him a blank look. “Um?”
“Go into the cupboard to your left, top shelf, and grab either the rice in a bag or the noodles, whichever. Then, toss them into the pot of boiling water.”
Finding the noodles first, Dean opened the package, letting the twisted noodles fall into the water. “Looks like ramen.”
“It is. Same kind of noodles, better additives. I’m supposed to lay off the unnatural shit.”
“There’s Cheetos in here, you freak.”
“I said supposed to,” Andrew shot back, rolling his eyes as Dean made the sign of the cross into his cabinet before closing it. After a few minutes, Andrew scooped the now soft noodles out and tossed them into the stir fry. “It’s almost done. Grab a beer and have a seat.”
“Do you want one?”
“I’ll just drink off of yours,” Andrew grinned.
“Oh, you think?”
“Yup.” Andrew slid two plates of food onto the breakfast bar and turned off the burners, coming around to sit on the stool next to Dean. “Eat up.”
Dean looked at the pair of wooden sticks on his plate. “Andrew, you’d better have a fork around.”
Andrew grinned, picking up his chopsticks. “Nope. C’mon, baby. Live a little.”
Sighing, Dean picked up the chopsticks, trying to mimic Andrew. “Like this?”
“Not quite. Like this.” Andrew showed him how to lay the chopsticks in his hand and picked up a piece of chicken, offering it to Dean with a grin.
“Does that make you my harem boy? Will you peel my grapes?” Dean teased.
Andrew eyed him sourly. “You’re not still stuck on that whole “I Dream of Jeanie” fantasy, are you?”
Dean adjusted his chopsticks, and picked up a mouthful of food. “You’d be cute in the pants,” he laughed. “Except for the hairy legs.”
“Love me, love my leg hair, bitch.” Andrew stabbed at a piece of chicken, slightly more viciously than necessary, and pointed sternly at Dean with it. “And don’t act like I wasn’t going to let you bargain for it.”
If Andrew could tie him up. Yeah. Hell, no. In no conceivable reality, ever, hell no. For a guy with such a sweet choirboy face, Andrew could be a sadistic motherfucker. Besides which, Dean got the feeling that the second he caved, Dad would be calling. Man had radar or something.
Not that it wasn’t kind of tempting.
Dean closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the tendons stretch in his neck. Things with Andrew were never simple. Hadn’t been since the day they’d kissed.
He’d been fifteen, recovering from a broken leg at Jim’s for the summer. Horny like only a teenager could be, getting used to the thoughts that he was having about other men—the same kind he had about women. One night, he’d blurted it to Andrew, a soft, nervous confession that he kinda thought he might maybe be bisexual.
He’d expected Andrew to laugh, or maybe recoil. Instead, he’d sucked in a hard breath, like Dean had punched him. When Dean had been about to lose his mind, he’d softly murmured that it was okay. Andrew didn’t much like girls at all. The soft confession had made Dean shudder, imagining touching Andrew like that, even if he wasn’t really sure what that entailed. Andrew had leaned up, pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips.
Then there was the year he’d turned eighteen, when Andrew had nearly died.
Andrew had always had migraines, but Dean had never realized the possibilities of complications until he’d gotten the shaky call from Jim that he was unconsious after seizing during mass.
He’d come running, heart in his throat, and been forced to two inevitable conclusions. He loved Andrew. Really loved him. And Andrew wasn’t quite human. Jim had gently steered him to the understanding that Andrew was fey, in a mostly human body. It never had made sense to Dean. He’d avoided Andrew for the next two years, not that hard when he was working jobs all over the country. Then, Sam had left, and Andrew had graduated—a semester late because of his leave of absence, and Dean had caved.
Now, it had settled into something comfortable.
Comfortable for you, his brain reminded him. You use him.
Andrew had never made a secret of the fact that he wanted Dean with him full time, or that he’d make due with what he could get.
Dean hated himself a little for taking advantage of that, but deep down he knew that he needed Andrew more than Andrew needed him. He needed that little bit of normal, needed the reminder of why he did this.
“Dean?”
“Mmm?”
“You okay, man?” Andrew’s fingers brushed over Dean’s forehead.
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“Stop the presses,” Andrew teased, brushing his lips over Dean’s. “C’mon, lets go grab a cab.”
The sun was sliding below the horizon as they pulled up to the arena, the crowd gathering. Andrew led him through the parking lot, pausing to talk to someone he obviously knew. Dean saw a flash of money change hands, followed by the familiar crinkle of plastic.
“Drew,” Dean murmured.
“It’s a couple joints, settle down. Which of us was the choir boy?”
“I just…I don’t get drugs.”
“You’ve never done any,” Andrew muttered.
“I tried pot. Gave me a headache.” Dean shifted, feeling…ignorant and somehow, patently uncool. Only two people in the world could do this to him. Andrew, and Sam, and there was a connection he never wanted to think about. Never. Ever.
Andrew smiled, looping his arm around Dean’s waist. “It usually does the first time.” He seemed to consider it for a moment, then sighed. “I’ve been using it with the migraines. It helps the pain, cuts down on the nausea.”
“Have they been bad again?” Dean felt a stirring of unease in his stomach, remembering Andrew in the hospital bed, the waxy cast of his skin under the harsh lights.
“Not that bad. Just now and then.” Andrew stroked his fingers over the small of Dean’s back. “The pot just keeps me more functional than some of the pills do.”
He was lying, Dean realized, a clench of fear hitting him. They were worse. “Okay. I’ll stop riding your ass about it.” Dean got into line and smiled down at Andrew. “Thanks. For inviting me. I needed a break.”
“You almost always do.” Andrew leaned into Dean, shivering a little as the wind blew. It had been drizzling all day, and the wind was bitter, surprisingly so for mid October.
Finally, they were inside, Andrew leading him to their seats with a smirk. Dean’s eyes widened as they kept walking down, closer to the stage. Finally, they stopped, less than fifteen feet from the edge of it, in the first row of seats. “Holy shit.”
“I told you they were good seats,” Andrew grinned. “Now go fetch me a beer, bitch.”
By the time Dean got back, the lights were dimming, Godsmack taking the stage with a vengeance.
Dean felt the muscles in his back loosen somehow, relaxing as the music poured over him, vibrating the soles of his boots. Andrew was pressed against him, bouncing with the music, singing and howling at the top of his lungs. It was… cute. Halfway through the set, he pulled one of the joints out, lit it and took a deep hit.
Dean wrinkled his nose a little, but looped his arm around Andrew anyway. He jumped a little when Andrew’s hand slid around his neck, pulling him down for a slow kiss. And fuck, how did Dean always forget that Andrew’s kisses were this devastating until he was caught up in one?
Smoke passed between their mouths. Dean stiffened, felt his grip tighten on Andrew’s arm. Wait, can’t protect you, I-
Andrew’s lips moved against his, murmuring soft words that were lost under the pounding throb of the bass. His body was pliant against Dean’s, his hands stroking slow down the line of Dean’s back.
Dean breathed in.
The taste was the same, dizzying, reminding him of a lingering ache behind his eyes and the sharp swat Dad had given him upside the head when he smelled it on Dean’s clothes. Then it was over, no worse than a cigarette or a few hours in a smoky bar. Blinking, Dean raised his head and gave Andrew a ‘your ass is paying for that later’ smile.
Andrew smirked. And Dean was okay. He was great, clear-headed, sharp.
The second kiss came at the end of Godsmack’s set. It was harder than the first, slicker, Andrew’s body pressed all up on Dean’s so he was left grabbing blindly at the railing. He took the hit without thinking about it, let the smoke bleed down his throat as Andrew bit at his mouth and hummed his satisfaction.
When the lights came on, they were eight kinds of fucked up. Dean blinked, then looked at Andrew sideways. He got the back of his neck stroked, and a sweet smile. “Th’fuck?”
“Relax,” Andrew purred.
Dean nodded stupidly, feeling the languor stealing through his veins, a comforting lassitude. After a few moments, the initial dizziness passed, and he smiled down at Andrew. “S’not too bad,” Dean murmured.
“That’s what I was telling you, asshole.” Andrew leaned into him, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s jacket, purring soft and low.
Andrew was good, Dean had to admit. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when to press, and when to pull back.
Metallica was awesome, playing to the crowd, giving them everything from the first album to the newest. Live, some of the new songs weren’t nearly as bad, and the old songs just kicked ass.
By the time “Enter Sandman finished out the show, Dean would have sworn that his heart had been replaced by the thrum of the bass guitar. Or that might have been the three more times that Andrew had shotgunned him, leaving him pliant and horny.
The cab ride back to Andrew’s apartment seemed to take forever. He couldn’t keep himself from touching, little stolen stokes over Andrew’s chest, his cheek. Dean’s fingers tangled into the baby soft blonde hair, pulling him down for a slow, sloppy kiss.
Somehow, Andrew pried him out of the car and got him up the stairs, Dean guessed. All he knew is that they were in Andrew’s bedroom, and clothes were evaporating from his body. Or maybe that was the pot?
Before he knew it, they were both naked, Andrew standing before him, blue eyes stormy. “Jesus,” he whispered, brushing his lips over Dean’s collarbone.
Dean purred, leaning into Andrew a little, pressing him back onto the bed. “Fucking beautiful,” Dean muttered, fingers curling around Andrew’s hipbones, stroking over soft skin.
Andrew grinned, sweet and devastating. “Looked in the mirror lately, sweetheart?”
Dean arched back as Andrew’s tongue traced a hot line down his throat.
“Still game to let me finger you, baby?” Andrew asked softly, voice tight and nervous.
Dean flashed him a slow smile. “Sure. Why not?”
Dean let himself be rolled onto his stomach, purring a little as Andrew stroked his fingertips down Dean’s spine. “God, Dean. Wanted this so long.”
Sharp teeth nipped at the small of his back, and Dean arched a little, shivering. God, Andrew knew him way too well. Dangerous; he never meant to let anyone this close, not even Sam, but here they were anyway.
Andrew's hands touched his thighs, nudging him until he shifted his legs open wider. Andrew growled, petting his hips, his legs, his ass. It was nice, arousal a low hum in the background of Dean's thoughts. Folding his arms, Dean rested his forehead on them and lifted his hips into Andrew's touches. "We were doing something," Dean said pointedly.
"Yeah, yeah. We've got all night, you know." Andrew's mouth brushed lower, from the small of his back to the first swell of his ass. Andrew kissed him there, and some part of Dean noted that he ought to tease Andrew later. Any chance of remembering to mock him got jerked out of Dean's mind as Andrew bit where he'd kissed, sucking at him, marking. Dean groaned, pressing back into Andrew, shivering as Andrew took that moment to cup Dean's hips in those long damned fingers.
There was something very wrong with this, with letting Andrew hold him in place, with Andrew's hands cradling him while Andrew's mouth eased over his skin. Dean felt pinned, surrounded, swallowed up by Andrew's scent and touch and voice. Where there should've been panic, there was peace.
Crooning soft nonsense against him, Andrew settled down between Dean's legs. "All night," Andrew murmured, nuzzling against him. And then he kissed lower.
Dean had one second to realize, to tense. Then Andrew's mouth was on him, on his ass, and Dean had nowhere else to go.
"Andrew, what--Oh. Oh," Dean whispered, shuddering as his tongue teased circles around his entrance. It should have disgusted him, should have made him try to get away, but, oh. Oh fuck. It felt way too good. Almost too much, with Andrew's soft voice murmuring, the gentle purr, and that tongue burning him alive. Should be illegal to be that good.
Dimly, Dean realized that the gentle high was sliding away, head clearing, the fog burned away by the heat of Andrew's mouth.
With the pleasure curling at the base of his spine, it took a moment for him to realize that Andrew had slid a spit-slick finger into him, fucking it in and out gently. Felt...okay. Weird, but okay. Kinda good, even.
"Mmmm...You ready, baby?"
"For what?" Dean asked, startled to hear the hoarse, fucked out sound of his voice.
"This," Andrew said.
Dean felt the lone finger curl, twisting a little, and he started to open his mouth. Then, sparks exploded behind his eyes, as Andrew touched something that made white-hot pleasure streak up his spine, threatening to blow his head off.
There was a noise, Dean thought distantly, a weird, keening noise, almost like a strangled banshee. It took another moment for him to realize that it was coming from his throat. I'm never going to live this down, he thought distantly, then Andrew curled his finger again, and thought was pretty much beyond Dean.
"Fuck, what are you doing to me?" Dean managed.
"Just touching, sweetheart," Andrew crooned. "Feels good, doesn't it. You like that." He twisted his finger again, and Dean heard an embarrassingly high pitched whimper slide from his mouth. "God, Dean. So fucking hot. Could do this forever, just watch you arch. So responsive. Knew you'd be like this. So hot and tight."
A little burn started, and Dean realized that Andrew had added a second finger. The burn twined into the white-hot pleasure, made something ache deep in his stomach. The words slid out almost before he'd thought them. "Fuck me, Drew."
Andrew froze for a moment. "Dean?"
"You heard me."
"Dude, you're stoned-"
"No, I'm not. Trust me, I'd know," Dean muttered.
"You don't have to do this," Andrew said, voice tight.
"Are you going to argue with me over it, or are you going to fuck me?" Dean glanced back, surprised by the naked emotion on Andrew's face. "Drew," he said, softer. "I want this. Want you."
"Oh." Andrew swallowed hard, absently petting Dean's back. "Okay. Okay. Yeah. Um. Yeah." He slid his fingers out and went to the dresser, pulling a small bottle out of the drawer.
A moment later, he was back, sliding those two fingers in again, this time coated with cool lube. Dean yelped a little, tried to pull away, but Andrew followed, other hand soothing him with a light touch, sliding under him to stroke his aching cock. "So hard for me," Andrew purred. "Never thought... Jesus, you're beautiful."
Dean ducked his head, pressing back on Andrew's fingers, trying to hurry this up. "Too much talking, not enough fucking, dude."
Andrew nipped the curve of his ass, a little flash of pain that made him fuck back harder, moaning low and needy. "Do the letters STFU ring a bell, baby?"
"Screw you," Dean muttered, breaking off in a gasp as Andrew bent his fingers, pressing hard.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Andrew said. "Going to find out what you like, what makes you shake. What makes you come so hard that you can't even scream. Wanted this for so long, to touch you like this, have you for myself for just a while."
Dean bit his lip, stilling the words that wanted to come out; traitourous words, words that would get him in trouble.
"Can't wait to be inside you," Andrew said, voice dropping to a low growl. "Going to fuck you so good. Make you scream, make you beg."
"Dream on," Dean muttered. "Not begging."
"Mmm. You sure about that?" Andrew twisted his fingers again, a third sliding in with a little burn, curving to rub just right.
Dean scrabbled at the sheets, back bowing.
"I bet that I can make you beg, sweetheart," Andrew said, voice low and silky. It seemed to wrap around Dean, slithering down his spine. "Hold you just like this, finger fuck you until you're so close. And then, I'm going to stop and start all over. How long are you going to hold out, do you think? How long before you're begging for my cock?"
Jesus, Dean thought. If he kept using that voice, it wouldn't take much.
Without waiting for an answer, Andrew scissored his fingers, rocking them gently, fucking Dean slow and easy.
It was torture, the pleasure riding the edge of pain, coiling tighter and tighter, until Dean thought he'd lose his mind. Just when it felt like he'd be able to pull it through, Andrew slowed, touches becoming lighter, letting him settle for a few minutes until he'd start over again.
And through it all, Andrew kept talking. That low purr hit Dean like a physical touch, soothed him, drove him higher, drove him insane, until Dean almost could feel it, like Andrew's voice was a phantom limb, stroking him, coiling deep inside where nothing should touch.
Dean realized that he was making incoherent noises, moans and whimpers, nearly sobbing when Andrew's touches slowed. "Please," he ground out, voice hoarse. "Please," Dean finally gritted out. "Now."
A low chuckle nearly brought him over the edge by itself. "Close enough." Andrew slid behind him, fingers sliding out, and Dean whimpered again. "Going to make you feel so good." He nudged Dean onto his back, spreading Dean's thighs to wrap around Andrew's narrow hips. "Want to see you, watch you take my cock."
Dean tightened his thighs until Andrew grunted. "You can see from that position."
Andrew's mouth twitched. "I want to see your face," he elaborated. When he shifted, Dean felt him nudging against the back of his thigh. Andrew hissed softly. "God, Dean, look at me. I want to see your eyes."
This was wrong. It was stupid. It broke every damn rule Dean had for safe engagement.
As Andrew pressed against him, Dean didn't close his eyes, and tried not to notice that they were both shaking.
The first slide home was... right. It felt amazing, pleasure and pain twining as Andrew settled against him. Andrew's other hand cupped his cheek, blue eyes wide with something approaching wonder.
Dean growled, arching against Andrew, fingers tangling in silky blond hair. He tugged, trying to drag Andrew's face down to his throat.
Andrew made a soft noise, biting his lip, and didn't let Dean move him. "Goddamn," he gritted, "so tight."
He started to move, hitching up Dean's hips, and the pleasure wrenched higher. Andrew didn't go slow, just held on and fucked Dean like he'd leave a permanent imprint. Maybe he would, Dean thought wildly, arching as though he could take Andrew deeper. Maybe there'd be marks, scars where Andrew had been.
It didn't take him long. Andrew had teased him too much for Dean to hold out. Within moments, he was arching, coming with a choked off cry that he'd deny making. The release burned down his spine, tightening impossibly every time Andrew pushed inside him again until Dean howled, nails digging into Andrew's shoulders.
"God, yeah," Andrew growled, thrusting harder, putting his weight behind each move. "Gonna--oh shit, Dean," he gasped, slamming in one last time, shuddering and groaning.
Dean felt a warm rush, and shivered. God, that was intimacy beyond what he'd expected. He'd just let Andrew come in his ass. He really couldn't go back from that.
Warmth rushed over him, wrapping him in a tight cocoon. He should've pulled back, made some sort of smart ass comment, but he couldn't. His voice felt locked in his chest, trapped behind the tightness in his throat.
Andrew stroked him, crooning bits of nonsense. Dean felt warm, heavy, and... safe. Loved.
The thought should have disturbed him, but with the smell of sex heavy in the air, Dean couldn't quite remember why. Instead, he let Andrew pull him close, let his eyes close and the warmth and comfort pull him down into sleep.
Just before the darkness took him, Dean heard Andrew whisper, "You and me, baby. All the way down."
Authors: [info]nilchance and [info]beanside
Rating: NC:17
Pairing: Dean/Andrew (OMC)
Disclaimer: We don't own them. Used without permission.
A/N: This is a prequel to OBS, a little more of Andrew and Dean's relationship, with love to Mona on her bday.
“Hey.” Andrew had turned at some point, was watching him through half-lidded eyes. He had the soft note in his voice, the one that Dean would’ve smacked him for if he wasn’t feeling boneless. “We’ve got some time if you need to crash.”
“No. I’m good for it.”
“M’kay.” Andrew reached out, his fingertips light and cool on Dean’s forehead. Andrew touched a lot, absently. Pastor Jim’s influence. And hell, it was weird to know someone's history like that. “Your hair’s getting long there, hippie.”
That time, Dean smacked his hand off and sat up. “Says the guy with the floppy hair. What, your church too cheap to spring for a big boy haircut?”
“Fuck you,” Andrew said, without any particular heat. He was grinning, actually, the one that crinkled up his eyes. The one that reminded Dean of-
Dean shoved that thought right the fuck back in the coffin where it belonged. Salted it, burned it, and left it for purified. “Because I can probably find a bowl and some scissors.”
“And I repeat: fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you-“
“You kiss your pastor with that mouth?”
“Fuuuuck you,” Andrew sang cheerfully, and scrambled off the bed. “I’m making you dinner, Winchester, so don’t give me any static. We just screwed and you’re too damn skinny and arena food sucks. So shut it before you even start.”
Dean opened his mouth to bitch, but couldn’t figure out what to complain about first. “There’s so much wrong with you. You know that, right?”
“Love you too, peanut.”
“I’m not skinny, dude.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I could probably bench press you.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not skinny.” Andrew poked his stomach before wandering into the kitchen.
After a long moment, Dean followed. “What can I do?” he asked, stopping at the sink to wash his hands.
“Cut up the peppers and onions?” Andrew asked, gesturing towards the cutting board on the breakfast bar. “I’m just making stir fry, if that’s okay?”
“Sounds like fucking heaven.” Dean slid onto a stool, and picked up the knife, slicing into a pepper. “Jesus, Drew, you ever sharpen this?”
“Dean, you’re cutting a pepper. It doesn’t require a straight razor.”
“Dad would kill you if he saw this. All his bitching about keeping knives sharp, because you’re more-“
“-likely to slice your own hand off with a dull blade, and it’ll hurt more,” Andrew recited.
Dean threw him a smirk and went over to his jacket. “I’ll do the rest of them tomorrow, after I get the kit,” he muttered, grabbing his pocket knife with the whetstone on the sheath.
Andrew shook his head and pulled the chicken out of the fridge from where it had been marinating. “Dude. So fucked up.”
Dean just grinned, drawing the blade across the stone until he was satisfied with the edge. “Aside from the parish from hell, how’ve things been?”
Andrew shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess. Got bumped up to second in charge of the parish, which is okay. Means I don’t have to take every goddamned inconvenient funeral we’ve got.”
“Sounds good.” Dean hesitated for a moment. “How’s the Philly dating scene treating you?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay casual.
“Dean,” Andrew muttered, giving him a look that could have flash frozen fire.
“I know. None of my business.” Dean sat aside the whetstone and made short work of the pepper. “I just—“
“Don’t,” Andrew growled.
Dean swallowed hard, turning his attention to the onion. “Whatever. Sorry.”
“S’okay.” Andrew swirled oil around the pan and tossed in the chicken. “How’ve things been for you, douchebag brother aside?”
“Eh. Rough few months. You read about the whole identity theft flap about six months ago? Really fucked Dad and I over.” Dean popped a piece of pepper in his mouth, chewing slowly. “Took a few months before we figured out how to beat it. Lost my PO box in Wyoming in the process. So, y’know, don’t send anything there.”
“Got it. You should have called. I could have-“
“Wasn’t that bad, dude. Just meant I had to sleep in the car off and on, or at places that didn’t require a credit card to stay.”
Which didn’t include many places anyone would actually want to stay in. Including the one place where there had been fleas living in his sheets, and Dean had ended up sleeping in the car.
From the look Andrew gave him, his Winchester-to-English translator was still online. Damn. “Still.”
“Eh, it’s all good. I was making enough with hustling to make ends meet.” Dean looked down uncomfortably as those damned piercing blue eyes turned on him.
Sometimes, he swore Andrew could see everything with that look. All the nights he’d spent in the car, the pool he’d hustled, starving and desperate, street fights when it got rough, fighting dirty to take home the measly cash. Other things, deals made in back alleys and dimly lit rooms that Dean tried not to think about.
“Done with the veggies?”
“Yeah.” Dean handed them over, pretending that he didn’t see the sympathy in Andrew’s eyes. “But we’re back on track now, so it’s all good. I’ll even buy you that first round of beers tonight—even if I didn’t beg.”
Andrew flashed him a grin. “Well, after I saw your freaking hipbones sticking out, I figured it was my duty as a good Christian to finish up quickly so I could feed you.”
Dean snorted, coming to his feet and stepping in behind Andrew in the tight kitchen. “Mmhmm.”
“Dean, I’m going to hit you with the spoon in a minute,” Andrew warned.
Ignoring him, Dean looped his arms around Andrew’s waist, bending to press a kiss to his neck.
Andrew relaxed against him, turning his head to capture Dean’s lips. “I like cooking, and I hate cooking for just one person,” he murmured. “Now, would you rather have rice or noodles with it?”
Dean gave him a blank look. “Um?”
“Go into the cupboard to your left, top shelf, and grab either the rice in a bag or the noodles, whichever. Then, toss them into the pot of boiling water.”
Finding the noodles first, Dean opened the package, letting the twisted noodles fall into the water. “Looks like ramen.”
“It is. Same kind of noodles, better additives. I’m supposed to lay off the unnatural shit.”
“There’s Cheetos in here, you freak.”
“I said supposed to,” Andrew shot back, rolling his eyes as Dean made the sign of the cross into his cabinet before closing it. After a few minutes, Andrew scooped the now soft noodles out and tossed them into the stir fry. “It’s almost done. Grab a beer and have a seat.”
“Do you want one?”
“I’ll just drink off of yours,” Andrew grinned.
“Oh, you think?”
“Yup.” Andrew slid two plates of food onto the breakfast bar and turned off the burners, coming around to sit on the stool next to Dean. “Eat up.”
Dean looked at the pair of wooden sticks on his plate. “Andrew, you’d better have a fork around.”
Andrew grinned, picking up his chopsticks. “Nope. C’mon, baby. Live a little.”
Sighing, Dean picked up the chopsticks, trying to mimic Andrew. “Like this?”
“Not quite. Like this.” Andrew showed him how to lay the chopsticks in his hand and picked up a piece of chicken, offering it to Dean with a grin.
“Does that make you my harem boy? Will you peel my grapes?” Dean teased.
Andrew eyed him sourly. “You’re not still stuck on that whole “I Dream of Jeanie” fantasy, are you?”
Dean adjusted his chopsticks, and picked up a mouthful of food. “You’d be cute in the pants,” he laughed. “Except for the hairy legs.”
“Love me, love my leg hair, bitch.” Andrew stabbed at a piece of chicken, slightly more viciously than necessary, and pointed sternly at Dean with it. “And don’t act like I wasn’t going to let you bargain for it.”
If Andrew could tie him up. Yeah. Hell, no. In no conceivable reality, ever, hell no. For a guy with such a sweet choirboy face, Andrew could be a sadistic motherfucker. Besides which, Dean got the feeling that the second he caved, Dad would be calling. Man had radar or something.
Not that it wasn’t kind of tempting.
Dean closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the tendons stretch in his neck. Things with Andrew were never simple. Hadn’t been since the day they’d kissed.
He’d been fifteen, recovering from a broken leg at Jim’s for the summer. Horny like only a teenager could be, getting used to the thoughts that he was having about other men—the same kind he had about women. One night, he’d blurted it to Andrew, a soft, nervous confession that he kinda thought he might maybe be bisexual.
He’d expected Andrew to laugh, or maybe recoil. Instead, he’d sucked in a hard breath, like Dean had punched him. When Dean had been about to lose his mind, he’d softly murmured that it was okay. Andrew didn’t much like girls at all. The soft confession had made Dean shudder, imagining touching Andrew like that, even if he wasn’t really sure what that entailed. Andrew had leaned up, pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips.
Then there was the year he’d turned eighteen, when Andrew had nearly died.
Andrew had always had migraines, but Dean had never realized the possibilities of complications until he’d gotten the shaky call from Jim that he was unconsious after seizing during mass.
He’d come running, heart in his throat, and been forced to two inevitable conclusions. He loved Andrew. Really loved him. And Andrew wasn’t quite human. Jim had gently steered him to the understanding that Andrew was fey, in a mostly human body. It never had made sense to Dean. He’d avoided Andrew for the next two years, not that hard when he was working jobs all over the country. Then, Sam had left, and Andrew had graduated—a semester late because of his leave of absence, and Dean had caved.
Now, it had settled into something comfortable.
Comfortable for you, his brain reminded him. You use him.
Andrew had never made a secret of the fact that he wanted Dean with him full time, or that he’d make due with what he could get.
Dean hated himself a little for taking advantage of that, but deep down he knew that he needed Andrew more than Andrew needed him. He needed that little bit of normal, needed the reminder of why he did this.
“Dean?”
“Mmm?”
“You okay, man?” Andrew’s fingers brushed over Dean’s forehead.
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“Stop the presses,” Andrew teased, brushing his lips over Dean’s. “C’mon, lets go grab a cab.”
The sun was sliding below the horizon as they pulled up to the arena, the crowd gathering. Andrew led him through the parking lot, pausing to talk to someone he obviously knew. Dean saw a flash of money change hands, followed by the familiar crinkle of plastic.
“Drew,” Dean murmured.
“It’s a couple joints, settle down. Which of us was the choir boy?”
“I just…I don’t get drugs.”
“You’ve never done any,” Andrew muttered.
“I tried pot. Gave me a headache.” Dean shifted, feeling…ignorant and somehow, patently uncool. Only two people in the world could do this to him. Andrew, and Sam, and there was a connection he never wanted to think about. Never. Ever.
Andrew smiled, looping his arm around Dean’s waist. “It usually does the first time.” He seemed to consider it for a moment, then sighed. “I’ve been using it with the migraines. It helps the pain, cuts down on the nausea.”
“Have they been bad again?” Dean felt a stirring of unease in his stomach, remembering Andrew in the hospital bed, the waxy cast of his skin under the harsh lights.
“Not that bad. Just now and then.” Andrew stroked his fingers over the small of Dean’s back. “The pot just keeps me more functional than some of the pills do.”
He was lying, Dean realized, a clench of fear hitting him. They were worse. “Okay. I’ll stop riding your ass about it.” Dean got into line and smiled down at Andrew. “Thanks. For inviting me. I needed a break.”
“You almost always do.” Andrew leaned into Dean, shivering a little as the wind blew. It had been drizzling all day, and the wind was bitter, surprisingly so for mid October.
Finally, they were inside, Andrew leading him to their seats with a smirk. Dean’s eyes widened as they kept walking down, closer to the stage. Finally, they stopped, less than fifteen feet from the edge of it, in the first row of seats. “Holy shit.”
“I told you they were good seats,” Andrew grinned. “Now go fetch me a beer, bitch.”
By the time Dean got back, the lights were dimming, Godsmack taking the stage with a vengeance.
Dean felt the muscles in his back loosen somehow, relaxing as the music poured over him, vibrating the soles of his boots. Andrew was pressed against him, bouncing with the music, singing and howling at the top of his lungs. It was… cute. Halfway through the set, he pulled one of the joints out, lit it and took a deep hit.
Dean wrinkled his nose a little, but looped his arm around Andrew anyway. He jumped a little when Andrew’s hand slid around his neck, pulling him down for a slow kiss. And fuck, how did Dean always forget that Andrew’s kisses were this devastating until he was caught up in one?
Smoke passed between their mouths. Dean stiffened, felt his grip tighten on Andrew’s arm. Wait, can’t protect you, I-
Andrew’s lips moved against his, murmuring soft words that were lost under the pounding throb of the bass. His body was pliant against Dean’s, his hands stroking slow down the line of Dean’s back.
Dean breathed in.
The taste was the same, dizzying, reminding him of a lingering ache behind his eyes and the sharp swat Dad had given him upside the head when he smelled it on Dean’s clothes. Then it was over, no worse than a cigarette or a few hours in a smoky bar. Blinking, Dean raised his head and gave Andrew a ‘your ass is paying for that later’ smile.
Andrew smirked. And Dean was okay. He was great, clear-headed, sharp.
The second kiss came at the end of Godsmack’s set. It was harder than the first, slicker, Andrew’s body pressed all up on Dean’s so he was left grabbing blindly at the railing. He took the hit without thinking about it, let the smoke bleed down his throat as Andrew bit at his mouth and hummed his satisfaction.
When the lights came on, they were eight kinds of fucked up. Dean blinked, then looked at Andrew sideways. He got the back of his neck stroked, and a sweet smile. “Th’fuck?”
“Relax,” Andrew purred.
Dean nodded stupidly, feeling the languor stealing through his veins, a comforting lassitude. After a few moments, the initial dizziness passed, and he smiled down at Andrew. “S’not too bad,” Dean murmured.
“That’s what I was telling you, asshole.” Andrew leaned into him, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s jacket, purring soft and low.
Andrew was good, Dean had to admit. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when to press, and when to pull back.
Metallica was awesome, playing to the crowd, giving them everything from the first album to the newest. Live, some of the new songs weren’t nearly as bad, and the old songs just kicked ass.
By the time “Enter Sandman finished out the show, Dean would have sworn that his heart had been replaced by the thrum of the bass guitar. Or that might have been the three more times that Andrew had shotgunned him, leaving him pliant and horny.
The cab ride back to Andrew’s apartment seemed to take forever. He couldn’t keep himself from touching, little stolen stokes over Andrew’s chest, his cheek. Dean’s fingers tangled into the baby soft blonde hair, pulling him down for a slow, sloppy kiss.
Somehow, Andrew pried him out of the car and got him up the stairs, Dean guessed. All he knew is that they were in Andrew’s bedroom, and clothes were evaporating from his body. Or maybe that was the pot?
Before he knew it, they were both naked, Andrew standing before him, blue eyes stormy. “Jesus,” he whispered, brushing his lips over Dean’s collarbone.
Dean purred, leaning into Andrew a little, pressing him back onto the bed. “Fucking beautiful,” Dean muttered, fingers curling around Andrew’s hipbones, stroking over soft skin.
Andrew grinned, sweet and devastating. “Looked in the mirror lately, sweetheart?”
Dean arched back as Andrew’s tongue traced a hot line down his throat.
“Still game to let me finger you, baby?” Andrew asked softly, voice tight and nervous.
Dean flashed him a slow smile. “Sure. Why not?”
Dean let himself be rolled onto his stomach, purring a little as Andrew stroked his fingertips down Dean’s spine. “God, Dean. Wanted this so long.”
Sharp teeth nipped at the small of his back, and Dean arched a little, shivering. God, Andrew knew him way too well. Dangerous; he never meant to let anyone this close, not even Sam, but here they were anyway.
Andrew's hands touched his thighs, nudging him until he shifted his legs open wider. Andrew growled, petting his hips, his legs, his ass. It was nice, arousal a low hum in the background of Dean's thoughts. Folding his arms, Dean rested his forehead on them and lifted his hips into Andrew's touches. "We were doing something," Dean said pointedly.
"Yeah, yeah. We've got all night, you know." Andrew's mouth brushed lower, from the small of his back to the first swell of his ass. Andrew kissed him there, and some part of Dean noted that he ought to tease Andrew later. Any chance of remembering to mock him got jerked out of Dean's mind as Andrew bit where he'd kissed, sucking at him, marking. Dean groaned, pressing back into Andrew, shivering as Andrew took that moment to cup Dean's hips in those long damned fingers.
There was something very wrong with this, with letting Andrew hold him in place, with Andrew's hands cradling him while Andrew's mouth eased over his skin. Dean felt pinned, surrounded, swallowed up by Andrew's scent and touch and voice. Where there should've been panic, there was peace.
Crooning soft nonsense against him, Andrew settled down between Dean's legs. "All night," Andrew murmured, nuzzling against him. And then he kissed lower.
Dean had one second to realize, to tense. Then Andrew's mouth was on him, on his ass, and Dean had nowhere else to go.
"Andrew, what--Oh. Oh," Dean whispered, shuddering as his tongue teased circles around his entrance. It should have disgusted him, should have made him try to get away, but, oh. Oh fuck. It felt way too good. Almost too much, with Andrew's soft voice murmuring, the gentle purr, and that tongue burning him alive. Should be illegal to be that good.
Dimly, Dean realized that the gentle high was sliding away, head clearing, the fog burned away by the heat of Andrew's mouth.
With the pleasure curling at the base of his spine, it took a moment for him to realize that Andrew had slid a spit-slick finger into him, fucking it in and out gently. Felt...okay. Weird, but okay. Kinda good, even.
"Mmmm...You ready, baby?"
"For what?" Dean asked, startled to hear the hoarse, fucked out sound of his voice.
"This," Andrew said.
Dean felt the lone finger curl, twisting a little, and he started to open his mouth. Then, sparks exploded behind his eyes, as Andrew touched something that made white-hot pleasure streak up his spine, threatening to blow his head off.
There was a noise, Dean thought distantly, a weird, keening noise, almost like a strangled banshee. It took another moment for him to realize that it was coming from his throat. I'm never going to live this down, he thought distantly, then Andrew curled his finger again, and thought was pretty much beyond Dean.
"Fuck, what are you doing to me?" Dean managed.
"Just touching, sweetheart," Andrew crooned. "Feels good, doesn't it. You like that." He twisted his finger again, and Dean heard an embarrassingly high pitched whimper slide from his mouth. "God, Dean. So fucking hot. Could do this forever, just watch you arch. So responsive. Knew you'd be like this. So hot and tight."
A little burn started, and Dean realized that Andrew had added a second finger. The burn twined into the white-hot pleasure, made something ache deep in his stomach. The words slid out almost before he'd thought them. "Fuck me, Drew."
Andrew froze for a moment. "Dean?"
"You heard me."
"Dude, you're stoned-"
"No, I'm not. Trust me, I'd know," Dean muttered.
"You don't have to do this," Andrew said, voice tight.
"Are you going to argue with me over it, or are you going to fuck me?" Dean glanced back, surprised by the naked emotion on Andrew's face. "Drew," he said, softer. "I want this. Want you."
"Oh." Andrew swallowed hard, absently petting Dean's back. "Okay. Okay. Yeah. Um. Yeah." He slid his fingers out and went to the dresser, pulling a small bottle out of the drawer.
A moment later, he was back, sliding those two fingers in again, this time coated with cool lube. Dean yelped a little, tried to pull away, but Andrew followed, other hand soothing him with a light touch, sliding under him to stroke his aching cock. "So hard for me," Andrew purred. "Never thought... Jesus, you're beautiful."
Dean ducked his head, pressing back on Andrew's fingers, trying to hurry this up. "Too much talking, not enough fucking, dude."
Andrew nipped the curve of his ass, a little flash of pain that made him fuck back harder, moaning low and needy. "Do the letters STFU ring a bell, baby?"
"Screw you," Dean muttered, breaking off in a gasp as Andrew bent his fingers, pressing hard.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Andrew said. "Going to find out what you like, what makes you shake. What makes you come so hard that you can't even scream. Wanted this for so long, to touch you like this, have you for myself for just a while."
Dean bit his lip, stilling the words that wanted to come out; traitourous words, words that would get him in trouble.
"Can't wait to be inside you," Andrew said, voice dropping to a low growl. "Going to fuck you so good. Make you scream, make you beg."
"Dream on," Dean muttered. "Not begging."
"Mmm. You sure about that?" Andrew twisted his fingers again, a third sliding in with a little burn, curving to rub just right.
Dean scrabbled at the sheets, back bowing.
"I bet that I can make you beg, sweetheart," Andrew said, voice low and silky. It seemed to wrap around Dean, slithering down his spine. "Hold you just like this, finger fuck you until you're so close. And then, I'm going to stop and start all over. How long are you going to hold out, do you think? How long before you're begging for my cock?"
Jesus, Dean thought. If he kept using that voice, it wouldn't take much.
Without waiting for an answer, Andrew scissored his fingers, rocking them gently, fucking Dean slow and easy.
It was torture, the pleasure riding the edge of pain, coiling tighter and tighter, until Dean thought he'd lose his mind. Just when it felt like he'd be able to pull it through, Andrew slowed, touches becoming lighter, letting him settle for a few minutes until he'd start over again.
And through it all, Andrew kept talking. That low purr hit Dean like a physical touch, soothed him, drove him higher, drove him insane, until Dean almost could feel it, like Andrew's voice was a phantom limb, stroking him, coiling deep inside where nothing should touch.
Dean realized that he was making incoherent noises, moans and whimpers, nearly sobbing when Andrew's touches slowed. "Please," he ground out, voice hoarse. "Please," Dean finally gritted out. "Now."
A low chuckle nearly brought him over the edge by itself. "Close enough." Andrew slid behind him, fingers sliding out, and Dean whimpered again. "Going to make you feel so good." He nudged Dean onto his back, spreading Dean's thighs to wrap around Andrew's narrow hips. "Want to see you, watch you take my cock."
Dean tightened his thighs until Andrew grunted. "You can see from that position."
Andrew's mouth twitched. "I want to see your face," he elaborated. When he shifted, Dean felt him nudging against the back of his thigh. Andrew hissed softly. "God, Dean, look at me. I want to see your eyes."
This was wrong. It was stupid. It broke every damn rule Dean had for safe engagement.
As Andrew pressed against him, Dean didn't close his eyes, and tried not to notice that they were both shaking.
The first slide home was... right. It felt amazing, pleasure and pain twining as Andrew settled against him. Andrew's other hand cupped his cheek, blue eyes wide with something approaching wonder.
Dean growled, arching against Andrew, fingers tangling in silky blond hair. He tugged, trying to drag Andrew's face down to his throat.
Andrew made a soft noise, biting his lip, and didn't let Dean move him. "Goddamn," he gritted, "so tight."
He started to move, hitching up Dean's hips, and the pleasure wrenched higher. Andrew didn't go slow, just held on and fucked Dean like he'd leave a permanent imprint. Maybe he would, Dean thought wildly, arching as though he could take Andrew deeper. Maybe there'd be marks, scars where Andrew had been.
It didn't take him long. Andrew had teased him too much for Dean to hold out. Within moments, he was arching, coming with a choked off cry that he'd deny making. The release burned down his spine, tightening impossibly every time Andrew pushed inside him again until Dean howled, nails digging into Andrew's shoulders.
"God, yeah," Andrew growled, thrusting harder, putting his weight behind each move. "Gonna--oh shit, Dean," he gasped, slamming in one last time, shuddering and groaning.
Dean felt a warm rush, and shivered. God, that was intimacy beyond what he'd expected. He'd just let Andrew come in his ass. He really couldn't go back from that.
Warmth rushed over him, wrapping him in a tight cocoon. He should've pulled back, made some sort of smart ass comment, but he couldn't. His voice felt locked in his chest, trapped behind the tightness in his throat.
Andrew stroked him, crooning bits of nonsense. Dean felt warm, heavy, and... safe. Loved.
The thought should have disturbed him, but with the smell of sex heavy in the air, Dean couldn't quite remember why. Instead, he let Andrew pull him close, let his eyes close and the warmth and comfort pull him down into sleep.
Just before the darkness took him, Dean heard Andrew whisper, "You and me, baby. All the way down."