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Talent

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Dean wakes with his eyes closed. Warmth spreads like honey on his face. They left the window open, he thinks, the curtains gaping. And now he’s turned eastwards. Perfectly angled to catch the sunrise and a cool breeze. He grins into it. Stretches like a spoiled housecat. Allows himself this blind indulgence before he has to rouse himself fully. Before he has to start everything all over again. Not bad, he thinks. A bed and a breeze and a boy beside him. Not bad.

He rolls on to his back. Sighs. Eyes still closed. He feels the mattress dip and stir. Creak. His little partner’s up, then. He waits for his voice. Or a finger poking his cheek. Maybe slipped into his hair. He might behave himself for once and let him rest. Dean doubts it. Doesn’t mind.

Then a familiar weight gently descends on his hips.

Ah. Not behaving himself then.

The weight settles. Wriggles slightly. Then it strokes. Up. Over its target.

“Jer?”

Mm?” He drags it out. Raises it. Teases. A low, slow sweep of his hips.

“Whadaya doin’, pal?”

“Nothin’.” He moves his hips again. “Just wakin’ you up.”

Dean chuckles. “I’m up, Jer.”

“Not all of you.” He grinds down. Just a little. Enough to make Dean grunt. Regret it. Jerry giggles. “Just helping, that’s all.”

Dean heaves a sigh and opens his eyes. Looks up at his mischievous partner, who bites his bottom lip and grins. He’s lit by the sun. Wide awake and beaming. Every bit the innocent babe, if it weren’t for the tent in his boxers. “Hi, bubbe,” he whispers.

“Hi.” He pats his thigh. Gestures with his head. “Mind gettin’ off me?”

“Sure, bubbe, I’ll get you off.” Pushes his hips.

“Jer—” He groans. “N-not what I said.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, bubbe, what did you say?”

“You heard what I—” A grunt. Teeth snag his top lip. He pushes his head back into the pillow. Jesus, Mary.

Jerry giggles. It tinkles like gold dust, like silver bells. Settles like feathers around his head. Only this boy could be so sweet, so innocent in such a position.

Dean’s eyes close.

“Nice?” Whispering. Birds twittering somewhere. And Jerry using his hands now, tracing circles on Dean’s belly. Setting skin to rippling gooseflesh. Holding firm and gentle on his sides for leverage. Rubbing slow and heavy with his hips, drawing groans from wells so deep Dean hardly knew he had them. For once he wore pyjama pants to bed, and now he feels long fingers tugging gently at the drawstring.

Ah. He drags himself back to reality. Stop it now, Dino.

“Jer.” He’s straining. Not only his throat. “Jerry, whadaya doin’?”

He raises his eyebrows. But he’s stopped. Unsure. Dean hates the way he looks now but it has to be done. “You don’t know?”

Dean chuckles. He touches Jerry’s side. Rubs it comfortingly. “All right, lemme rephrase it. Why are you doing this?”

He brightens. An easy question. Like a proud schoolboy, he says, “Oh! Well, last night you… You made me feel so good.” Eyes dropped now. Colour in his cheeks. “I wanted to – you know. Do something nice for you.”

Last night. He won’t remember it. Can’t. It’s too much now. “Ah.” He takes Jerry’s hand. “Well, that was…” He shrugs. “That was last night. This is today.” He squeezes those elegant fingers. “Forget about it.”

Jerry offers a sad smile. Sad and hopeful. So young. “I don’t wanna forget it.”

God I wish you would. “It’s all right, Jer.”

He tilts his head. Takes back his hand. Rubs thoughtfully the waistband of Dean’s pants. Then – no warning or joking or sweet request for permission – he rests his palm where Dean’s quietly hardening.

Dean hisses.

The palm pushes. Rubs. Experimental, almost. Though Dean wonders how many times a person has to do this before it ceases to be an experiment. And doesn’t really want an answer where Jerry’s concerned.

He can’t. Can’t let this go further now. He could have Jerry again, the way he did last night. He was talking so much, giggling. Teasing. Pushing, Dean knows now. The kid’s not stupid. He knew what he was doing. And Dean was on top and touching and not knowing now exactly what he did. But it was done - done with only fingers, tongue - and then they were silent and sleeping.

The kid thanked him in the dark.

“How’d you get so good at this?” he hears himself ask.

Jerry laughs. “Years of practice, boy.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. But I’m a good student, ask any of my teachers.”

Teachers. Jesus, help me.

“You ace all those practicals?”

Giggling. “Oh, sure.” His thumb slides along the opening of Dean’s fly. “Of course, my real talent lies in the oral.”

Dean throws back his head and laughs. It breaks the spell a little. Not so hot or heavy now. Light and easy. Like a game. Two friends playing. Fooling around. And Dean can put a stop to that. “That so?”

“Mm-hm!” He beams. Proud. “Lemme show you.”

“Well now, Jer, I don’t know about that.”

Jerry’s gaze drops. One finger traces Dean through his pants. “You let me before.” He looks up again, a little cowed. Shy. “Remember?”

No. He tries to smile. Yes, but don’t make me remember. He wants to be cruel. Tell him not to talk about that, you know I don’t want to talk about that. Instead, he gets his friend to shuffle back so he can sit and try to look him in the eye.

“I wish you wouldn’t say that, Jer.”

He flinches. He’s sitting with his legs splayed. Like a child. “Say what?”

“If we… do things, Jer, it's not because I'm letting you. All right? It’s because I want you to.”

He seems to grow at least a foot at that. Chest puffed and proud. Eyes filling and threatening. Dean can’t see him cry. Not now.

He rolls him back into the sheets.